Smooth Criminal
Summary:
It would seem that a new friendship is blossoming on the dark streets of LA. But who is this "Rick," and is he to be trusted?
Notes:
This is taking a ton of research to get right! But I'm having fun, so who cares? I need the distraction, because this week has been UGGGHGH! Right down to my Tumblr blog getting deleted.
I'm glad you're enjoying it! And before I forget: RIP to Lisa Marie Presley. It hadn't occurred to me that this story was to be made up of 90% deceased individuals. That shit sucks, man.
Chapter Text
Richard sat in a barrel chair in his room at the Cecil Hotel, watching the sun rise. He would soon retire to sleep. He lived his life opposite from societal norms, and this went far beyond his sleep schedule. Ever since he had arrived in LA three years ago, he had been fully embodying his given moniker of
Dedos, or “Fingers,” “Ricky the Thief.” He began his pattern of break-ins and robberies as a way to make money, not only to survive on, but to fuel his cocaine habit. Richard had tried many an illicit substance, but none did he adore more than “the devil’s dandruff.” He had only trafficked in petty crimes, until the fateful day he had stumbled upon the girl.
Something about Asians just really turned him on. Maybe it went back to the photographs Miguel had showed him. Maybe it had to do with their reputation for submissiveness. For whatever reason, he had this fetish, and therefore had chosen a little Asian girl to be his first victim. Luring her into a derelict cellar with the promise of a dollar bill, he had instead unleashed the full potential of his depravity upon her.
For several years now, Richard had admitted to himself that he was evil. It was the only way to explain what he was drawn towards. Normal people had sex for pleasure, considered the wants and needs of their companion. Richard only craved heinous, selfish acts upon an unwilling participant, typically intermingled with violence. What had begun as simply breaking and entering to steal valuables had festered further into abject depravity.
Not long after the little girl, he had entered the home of an older lady to look for jewelry, but instead had decided to kill her. The feeling of a blade entering a body and hitting bone and organs was almost as satisfying as intercourse, and often aroused him.
He found that even after a brush with the law (for grand theft auto), he couldn’t overcome this new, primal need to dominate and control. He went right back to it upon release, committing two murders in one night, and then another after an additional burglary. It was upon this night that he truly descended into madness, removing a woman’s eyes and keeping them, and attempting to fuck her dead body.
Attempted, he thought bitterly, remembering how he had struggled to get it up.
Through the red filter of the gathering sunlight, he stared off over the valley from his vantage point. This valley was his playground of dark delights. Its riches were his for the taking. Still, in a rare moment of self-reflection, he wished things could have been different. He wished he had been able to find a girl, have a proper relationship, lead an average life. But Satan had had other plans.
He went to the desk in his room, fetched an envelope. In it was the ten-dollar bill he had been gifted. He hadn’t felt it proper to spend it. It felt enchanted. That someone so famous—and moreover, so inexorably good—had passed him this note, it almost felt as if the righteous God was trying to win him back. He knew it wouldn’t work, yet still, he treasured the bill with a sense of awe.
Richard, in only his skivvies, then flopped into the bed, and within minutes was fast asleep.
While Richard slept, the man who had gifted him the seemingly magic tenner was just rising for the day. Truly, he had barely slept himself the night before, but rather than a night consumed by violence, his had been brimming with creativity. Michael’s mind was one that rarely settled, it had too much music in it. He had to be composing, dancing, or singing almost constantly; it was his reason to be. He had written once: “People ask me how I make music. I tell them I just step into it. It’s like stepping into a river and joining the flow.” In fact, he considered himself a conduit to the divine song of the universe.
The consequence of being such a musically talented genius was that Michael suffered from a substantial lack of social ability. He was very introverted, and this combined with the drawbacks of fame had only sent him further into his shell. His reticence and distrust of others produced a profound loneliness. There was also the matter that his interactions were predicated upon a distinctly childlike naivete. There were some in his life that derided this, whereas others found his innocence endearing.
As he had some level of self-awareness about how easily he could be taken advantage of (as evidenced by bad business deals and failed relationships of the past), he often sought advice from friends and family on what to do.
He regarded his mother, Katherine, as both a saint and the archetypical crone; she could do no wrong to him. Living within the same compound as his parents afforded him the ability to stop in and see them at random, and thus today he did.
His mother was a woman of small stature of mixed African American and Native American blood. Once stricken with polio, she walked with a bit of a limp. Seeing her son, she smiled warmly, looking up from the vase of flowers she was arranging. His father, whom he had quite a more strained relationship with, appeared to be on the phone with one of his many brothers, and stepped out of the room.
“Mother, I need to talk to you about something.”
He explained how Ricky, “the bum,” had been frequenting the strip outside the recording studio for many a night. To Michael, he seemed like a harmless vagrant; to Quincy and the others, there was some sinister quality about him that relegated him to villainy. Nevertheless, Michael was very adept at picking up signs of Peter Pan characters like himself—those who were haunted by their childhoods, having them shape their present. Katherine listened closely and calmly to her savant son, and then sighed.
“I know how you feel about doing good for those less fortunate—"
Michael quoted scripture: “Whoever is kind to the poor lends to the LORD, and he will reward them for what they have done.”
Katherine continued, “But you
have to use caution.”
Michael rolled his eyes defiantly at this. “
Mother,” he protested, “I know you’re not sayin’ the same thing to me. I get it, I get it, just keep a close eye, but honestly!”
He put his hands on his thin hips.
“What’s the worst he could be up to?”
Michael thought back on the conversation well into that night. Joseph had unexpectedly appeared yet again, phone returned to the cradle, and had been cross, as was customary.
“You ain’t handing out cash to no ragamuffins
again? Michael, you dumb as a box of rocks sometimes. They gon’ nickel and dime you to death. Maybe literally. What if I turn on the TV tomorrow morning and see you been shot and bled to death in some ghetto downtown?”
Joseph, despite having a sharp tongue, usually made good points. His tough love had propelled him and his brothers to their towering success. (Him especially, although the way he had been robbed his formative years in exchange he still resented.)
Perhaps tonight, he would do his best to challenge the homeless man and extract his true intentions. He dreaded the confrontation.
For his part, Richard had stayed out of trouble for a while. He hadn’t committed an act of violence since he had dragged that bitch from the car and shot her in the head. He had been habitually driving by the studio at dusk, cruising slow to see if the familiar limo and van had pulled in yet. Banging the meat of his palms against the steering wheel to the beat of a heavy metal cassette, he had anxiously anticipated the arrival of his new, famous “friend.” Were they friends? Or was he simply a pity case? He intended to find out the truth.
Thus, that night, there was an unintentional standoff straight out of a spaghetti western.
Pulling in slowly to park, Bill had been startled to see a man leaping out of a car towards the passenger seat of the van. The tires screeched, as did the horn. Michael’s slim chest was slapped roughly by the belt, causing him to peal out a shout. There then, glaring through the tinted glass, was the man of the hour.
Michael stole himself for something ugly, due to the severe look on Rick’s thin, brown face. But once he rolled down the window at Bill’s protest, a large, long-fingered hand darted up. An envelope was then dropped into Michael’s lap.
It was the ten-dollar bill.
Richard attempted to turn tail and run off into the night, when Michael called out to him.
“Hey!”
Richard froze in his tracks, and sheepishly glanced over his shoulder.
“Ricky, you take this back. I don’t need it. You gotta keep it.”
The rail-thin man in all black came stomping back over to the open window.
“
No mames wey!” Richard barked gruffly. “
Dime la neta!”
Michael furrowed his eyebrows to indicate confusion. Then, with his own brand of prickly stubbornness, he snatched up the envelope and tossed it back at Richard’s feet.
“You schmuck! I’m doin’ you a favor!”
Richard again stopped, and stared at the envelope, transfixed. Bill, nonplussed, decided then was the moment to properly pull out of the middle of the street and park. Once the car stilled, Michael again peered out the window to see Richard, now on the sidewalk, holding the envelope like a sacred object.
“You be careful out there, kid,” Bill remarked, his friendly brown eyes below the brim of his hat meeting Michael’s in the rearview mirror.
“I’ll be fine,” Michael answered dismissively, exiting the vehicle. He walked halfway to Richard with his hands in his coat pockets. It was then that Richard finally looked up and spoke.
“You’re serious about this.”
Michael, scoffing, said congenially, “Yeah, you idiot.”
Richard approached yet again, only this time, he was much less aggressive. Surprising everyone at the scene, he extended his hand, and the two young men shook on it.
“You too skinny, man,” Michael teased. “Getcha’self some meat on them bones.”
Tilting his head a little, Richard then smiled, and laughed. Michael did observe his rough teeth, but other than that, the man seemed perfectly safe and normal.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” he offered, “nobody would fucking believe me, anyway.”
Michael then laughed himself, his thin hand concealing his toothy grin. “Nah, you right, you right. But you livin’ somewhere? You’re not out on these streets every night, are you?”
A strange look passed through Richard’s eyes then. It was a sort of acknowledgement, a numbness, a dimming of light, a hint of reproach. But it was gone in an instant.
“I’ve got a place to stay. You done enough.”
“Well, all right. Guess I’ll see you around, Ricky.”
Bill protectively corralled Michael across the street and into the studio. Richard stood watch for a few minutes, waiting to see if the asshole music executive would appear. When it didn’t appear to be the case this evening, he went to his own vehicle, fired up the engine, and roared off into the cloak of night.
That was the last occasion that the two would see each other for a while. Michael had decided to take on a side project, working with Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas on what was to be an immersive experience. The album was nowhere near finished, but Michael was deeply inspired with the advancement of film-making technology. Lucasfilm was a pioneer in the early stages of digital film effects, and he wanted to be a part of something cutting edge. The details were still being hammered out, but if all went well, a space adventure starring Michael would begin filming that summer, and then be released exclusively to Disney theme parks.
On Richard’s part, there was to be a return to the bloodshed. Unbeknownst to Michael, his new acquaintance was ramping up for a reign of terror the likes of which Los Angeles had never seen.
