The Last Statue

Chapter 5

Lonnie, Buzz & Eggs: My best friends from the old neighborhood, had been in it since the early 60s. Veiled rumors of Bad Shit in the parks; Untermeyer, Van Cortlant, Pelham Bay…the marshes near Orchard Beach…a burnt-out church in Westchester…

It had been going on in the area since at least the early fifties. Early on, it was mostly just dealing drugs, weapons, and kiddie sex, centered around devil-cult doggie-snuff blood-guzzling, drug & sex ritual, with members & clients among the powerful & prominent; lotsa doctors, attorneys, judges, City & State govt. officials, personnel from certain DA’s offices…and at least one former assistant US attorney.

Supposedly founded by an emigrating physician from Germany via Britain, who initiated, or meta-programmed the original 22 Disciples of Hell, in the Yonkers-Westchester area.

Later branches would include The Children, of which my old school chums were members. As years passed, I would hear about the disposal of small, child or dog body-sized packages, and the murder of a teacher from their school, as well as another member of the group, also a fellow student, named William Wright.

I’d known these guys since I was maybe 7 or 8 years old, when my family lived in the north-east Bronx, over on Buhre Ave. The whole Children thing seemed way over the top to me, but looking back on it all, I’d have to sorrowfully admit that my reaction to all this seems well short of the revulsion that any trace of ethics, compassion or basic human values would demand. Not much of an excuse, but I’d like to think that it was the erosion sustained by continual application of meth, smack, coke, angel dust, and bad acid. It’s my best bet.
So I’d do some dealing out of the Candlelight Inn, the West End, and The Angry Squire, while majoring in film at Columbia, specializing in editing & film development and processing. Definitely a cult-connected crowd hanging out in these places, which had its perks in social latitude. You could be a proletarian stoner, and possibly, depending on your proximity to sex & dope, find yourself in a social context, partying with the likes of Roy Cohn, or Andrew Crispo, (if that’s your idea of a good deal) or in attendance at unusual social gatherings at a gargoyle festooned 5th Ave Hardinburgh building, with sumptuous Peter Marino-like dŽcor…

Two flirty fishing Orbis Tertius chicks, from Brooklyn Polytech & the Platt Institute respectively, network an invite for yours truly, to a party at Roy Radin’s Long Island mansion, where it is incumbent on me to make the acquaintance of one Father Gerard aka Daddy G, an elder in the Temple of ZAL, an associate of Radin, who as chance would have it, takes the opportunity to brace me with a proposition. Namely; would I by chance be interested in filming some “shows”? Maybe do a little editing, putting together some “promotional films”?

Meanwhile, the party rages on, as S&M leather Nazi whip girls, bend handcuffed over chairs, for the delectation of rutting bikers, while certain wispy silk-suited members of The Art Crowd make the effort to reach out to today’s young folks. In one particular case, a young tousle-headed lad, perched languidly on the knee of a prominent (and newsworthy) gallery owner. A sick-fuck menagerie for sure. What would Nick Carraway say? I wondered…if he thought the crowd hanging out at Gatsby’s was repugnant, what would he make of this cruel orgy? No green light at the end of this pier…

Roy Radin; the original show-biz kid, was the son of a show-girl and a saloon owner. Tutored, bizarrely enough, by Orson Welles, Radin became a millionaire by the age of twenty-five, from producing benefit shows for police unions. Peddling an endless cavalcade of schlockmeisters the caliber of oh, say George Jessel, Red Buttons, Milton Berle, Eddie Fisher, Joey Bishop, etc…while scooping a cool 75% off the top from benefit proceeds, careful to distribute the windfall in all the right places, bolstered by drinks on the house, and an endless avalanche of coke, which tends to go nicely with whatever kinky fantasy you never quite got around to: S&M, kiddie-sex, necro-sex, rape-sex, snuff-sex…anything you please…not to mention a priceless collection of quality, hi-res, 8×10 glossies for your treasured memories…ah, but then there’s the movies… Needless to say, when it came to the law enforcement community, Radin was a very well-connected, and very well-protected dude.

Lonnie, since having an overdose-Near Death Experience back in the mid-’60s, (which was more than anybody else could claim) had achieved a certain cachet within the group, which parlayed into a leadership position in the hierarchy of The Children. But by 1970, ZAL had arrived, raising the stakes to a whole other level, absorbing and restructuring the entire organization, bumping Lonnie back down to acolyte grade.

Only one way up from there…

He was gonna have to kill somebody.

Plenty of encouragement in that direction, since Lonnie was by now hanging out at the Carr residence as a second home. Things always having been sketchy with his own people; he’d glommed on to the Carrs as his adoptive model of the ideal American family, idolizing Mike & John as real together dudes, even made an awkward pass at their sister Wheat, but…particularly fawning over Michael, much to Michael’s smirking amusement, at the stridently homophobic Lonnie’s unawareness that Mike was gay. Even when the others weren’t home, you might see Lonnie over there bullshitting and knocking back bourbon shots with old Sam Carr. Mike & John were flabbergasted, nobody but nobody hung out with Sam. M&J both hated him intensely, Lonnie, of course, oblivious to the seething tension under the Carr roof.

Daddy G took an interest in assisting Lonnie’s re-ascent through the Children hierarchy, fronting for Buzz & Lonnie to set up a dealing-pad known as ‘The Clinic’ in Brooklyn Heights, securing a job for Buzz at St. John’s, conveniently located right next to Untermeyer Park. Many cult members had hospital jobs, working some pharmaceutical import scam. Now known as Brother Gino within the Children hierarchy, Lonnie was soon helping Daddy G make the rounds. Father Gerard operated a series of drop-boxes and safe-houses from New Jersey to Manhattan, up to Westchester-White Plains, through Long Island out to Montauk; moving weapons, drugs, porn & “specialty” prostitutes, with rapid, undetected efficiency.

Now, Daddy G was an old-school cultnik, up from Boston where he’d been part of Mel Lyman’s Fort Hill commune, even writing a few articles for ‘The Avatar’; that rag they published to bamboozle fresh meat. Gerard was the interface between Omega, ZAL, and the local branches (The Children, The 22-Disciples etc.) with connections in Orbis Tertius, and an international appliance religion, that served, more or less unwittingly as logistical umbrellas for the staging of various Omega projects to be realized by ZAL and the various offshoots.

My ongoing sustaining obsession during this period, was to scam some sort of independent feature-length production deal; a lunatic fringe, lo-budge, atmospheric film, like ‘Carnival of Souls’ or something, shot in Untermeyer Park, which gets a bad rap as “satanic” or “dark” architecture, when it’s really more beautifully surreal & eerie than “evil”, although I can see how that misapprehension could arise. Soon enough I’d observe in my editorial frame, aspects of human behavior that would personify whole new levels of meaning for the “E” word.
Brought along slowly at first, starting with various genres of porn, then Radin’s ongoing attempt to commission staged ritual demonic invocations, which become increasingly malevolent in tone & practice, gradually revealed in a progression that viewed in retrospect, seems to have an uncanny correlation to the rising trajectory of my personal drug intake…

Soon-raw footage from the “apocalypse trials”; a ZAL inspired, organized presentation of public violence: arson, rape, murder & more, from Manhattan to Long Island to Westchester, with an extended radius many miles beyond, imbued with deep onion-like layers of motive & meaning…scrutinized and edited by disconnected speed-ball glazed orbs, incapable of any kind of self-reflection, ethical awareness, or emotional reaction…yet still the images come-a cornucopia of organized death: doggie-snuff in Brooklyn Heights, Houston, Santa Cruz, and Southern California …ritual axe-murders in San Francisco and Santa Cruz (these particular items, also appear in the private collection of a very famous-some would say, the most famous artist in New York) vampire-leech murders in Brooklyn & Bayou St. John in New Orleans…Fun & games with a famous Italian fashion designer and his swanky entourage…interesting late-night tours of selected Manhattan funeral parlors…somewhat less-than-edifying activities at the aptly titled “Nursery”…plenty of footage coming up on Roy Cohn’s leaky, creaky boat the ‘Intrepid’: interesting goings-on in a fortified compound near Gavelston, where host Shearn Mooly caters to some rather peculiar preferences…more creepy swamp shenanigans from Don “Everglade” Meterick, with impressive contributions from Charles Rogers, and Gary Kirstein…

As images increase in grotesque intensity, so does my consumption of conscience-muting opiates, a vicious cycle which means selling more junk to pay that tab, which means dealing with more junkies, which is deadly dull-all say the same bullshit the same way, over & over every day, so when you come across one who not only doesn’t fit that profile, but seems to be some sort of street-mutant Neal Cassidy, talking a mile-a-minute rings around anyone you ever heard-outrageous bullshit that actually seems to be true… you perk up & take notice.

Daddy G. ran a string of college-age hookers from the Auto Pub, in the General Motors building, partially organized & supervised by Lucy, who’d been retired from the stable as a bit over the hill, and maybe too ethnic for the breezy white-collar Manhattan crowd. So, at some point, this guy at the Auto Pub braces Lucy, (who looks like she’d know) about the availability of recreational opiates, Daddy G being off somewhere, intersecting his appointments at his drop-boxes, with visits to a series of bars, tapering down finally, to some real low dives, where lately, he has been known to unceremoniously hit the deck & stay down for the count. That, when he’s not weaving around in his El Dorado, guzzling Bacardi pints from a paper sack.

A call or two is made, and soon I’m at the Pub, making the acquaintance of one Kenny Wisdom-a very loquacious smart-ass, with bullshit that won’t quit, taking urban legend and name-dropping to a fine art.

He organized the feeding of the hungry in Panhandle park, during the psychedelic San Fran ’60s, either by serving surplus-food soup, or by dividing the fishes & loaves, depending on when and how he was telling the story…getting high with Dr, John & Jerry Garcia, having had cosmic junkie sex with Janis Joplin and Tuesday Weld (on separate occasions of course, I think…) Mime troupe actor, thug, jewel thief, safecracker, author, absurdist activist, ontological guerilla, your best friend, your worst nightmare, and the working girl’s dream.

It was clear upon meeting Kenny Wisdom, that when his series is finally cancelled, and they start to roll the credits on his life; that there is going to be a bit of a hole in a lot of people’s lives (and arms), along with a lot of scorch-marks on a lot of wallets, purses, and bank accounts. But it stands to reason (if any), that you can’t stand this close to a comet without getting a little charred…

Later, at Benny’s coffee shop: first of a series of Veronica Lueken sightings…”I know who is doing the killing…Yes! I’ve seen their faces! I know their plans-and so do you…their lust for death & virgin blood…I know of the 22 disciples & their master…and know ye this: the Lord will surely curse thee, just as he cursed the barren fig-tree, to deliver ye to an abject eternity of unbecoming…REPEX! REPEX! REPEX!”

I’d heard of Lueken before. She did these harangues at the fairgrounds, where she’d rant & rave, and channel the “Lady of Bayside”, which, even though this was all just about the kookiest dingbat quackery you could imagine, always brought in a huge crowd, with some sort of paramilitary off-duty police escort…generous donations accepted…The local word being, that every now and then she would just go off on a rant in public somewhere; a supermarket, a bus stop, and coffee shops in particular. Hadn’t seen it up close & personal before, though I must say she certainly exceeded my expectations, staring right bug-eyed at me the whole time, never wavering in her stare…

Lueken’s tirade still ringing in my ears, while working the editing room at Radin’s ersatz commercial production facility, part of some front umbrella tax write-off scam. Too dull to be of interest to any reasonable person, no questions asked-no answers given…if the walls had ears & the ears could talk…Today’s topic of interest: a couple of reels taken at a meeting in White Plains, with members of ZAL leadership being hosted by local Children from Westchester & Brooklyn Heights, Father Gerard being the senior liaison officer in charge, leading the discussion of the “Apocalypse Trials”; a planned display of organized, yet random-seeming, ultra-violence, conducted according to a stellar timetable, tracing secrets in the sky, invoking a tidal-wave of fear, and paralyzing a giant metropolis.

Daddy G giving the local Disciples his usual pep-talk before the arrival of the Brit ZAL contingent: “They’ve got your action covered before they even come through the door. They’ve come to raise the stakes-go you one better. Remember: This is your game. You make the rules. Come to the Now. Rely on ethics. Be true to Source. Play a good clean game.”

I can see Brother Gino, Eggs, and probably about another 4 or 5 people I know, including Suzette Rodriguez & Josie Solano, a couple of real live-wire go-getters from Westchester, that I understood to be the objects of the twisted affections of Lonnie & Buzz respectively. It was clear that L&B were in way over their heads with these chicks from Valhalla, who were both well traveled in the race to extreme experience.

So, this is the impetus behind the 44. Bulldog shootings & killings…the taunting letters to the papers…headline soup: SON OF ZODIAC…SAM THE RIPPER…or some combination thereof, might as well write your own…

“So, whaddayuh say, huh? I wouldn’t call so soon, but…it’s kind of urgent y’know?” I understood the urgency all too well. Unscheduled pleas of desperation, pretty much defines the kind of urgency I’d always tried to compartmentalize out of my personal life, and it’s always that one exception that’ll knock over your hypo-tray. Kenny Wisdom was the only counter-culture urban legend among my clientele, though I suspected him of probably owing mucho moolah to a whole string of dealers, banking on weakened memories, and offers to “settle” for dimes-on-the-dollar…

“I don’t know man, I’m a little light myself, gotta stock up, I could get back to you in about an hour, hour & a half…” I offer graciously.

“Nah…hey, I’m right down the street-be right there…” Click. Goddammit! exactly what I don’t need-I should never have filed him on the short-list acceptable for deals at my apartment. I hope there’s an entertaining story at least…

“Look, ya gotta stay at our table & be cool, some of these guys are pretty business-like, and they don’t like surprises or new faces,” I endeavor to explain, as we stride into the Angry Squire. We’d done up the last of my stash back at the apartment, whereupon Wisdom had launched into various anecdotes about the Haight, New Mexico, and some songs that he was supposedly writing with The Band, or at least one of the guys in it.

I could see Lonnie, Daddy G, Buzz, Rockman, Suzette, and Josie…plus some guy at the end of the booth with his back turned in my direction. A bit more action than usual, it being freezing-ass fucking cold on the one hand, it being almost Candlemas ‘77 on the other.

It doesn’t even occur to me, till I’m standing directly in front of them, that Wisdom is right behind me, mindlessly propelled by the speedballs consumed prior to arrival. I motion to Lonnie for sidebar privacy; maybe step outside so we can cut a deal. I can tell by that ‘what the fuck?’ look on his face, that he’s less than thrilled with my unexpected entourage, but that seems a moot point now that Wisdom seems to be scrutinizing the unknown guest in the booth, with wildly disproportionate interest…

Kind of a beefy dude, actually somewhere between beefy & buff; a gymnasium build, with sandy colored, style-cut hair and mustache; somewhere between off-duty, ex-jarhead cop, and Village People…Wisdom stares fixated. Just as I’m thinking that last speedball has fried him to a crisp, Kenny addresses the beefy dude:

“Hey man, don’t I know you from somewhere? Maybe out on the Coast…”

“No I don’t think so, you must be thinking of someone else.”

“Yeah…out in LA or San Francisco…maybe both…”

“Like I told you pal,” Maybe a bit of a pulsating neck vein here, a tensing of voice…Everyone else at the table frozen in place, breath on hold, waiting to see what’s next, “I’m sure we’ve never met,” this last annunciated through clenched teeth with a gritty finality, showing admirable restraint comparable to Klaus Kinski replying to Lee Van Cleef’s request for a light in ‘For a Few Dollars More’.

“My mistake buddy,” Wisdom squinting, drawing hard on his smoke, staring right through Beefy Guy. “So, I wonder how Gibby & Cassie are doing? I’m sure you wouldn’t know…as you say: I must have been thinking of someone else…” Turns with a dismissive shrug, leaving Beefy Dude with a twitching neck, and everybody else with goggle eyes, and open mouths; Lonnie being the first to recover, slipping out of the booth while Daddy G loudly orders another round-anything for a distraction at this point. Kenny Wisdom has left the building…

Outside, Lonnie detonates: “What the fuck was THAT? Do you know who this guy IS!?”

“Well, he looked just like some chump jarhead to me, was I impertinent?” This coy rejoinder sets Lonnie off for a good eight minutes of bad static about security breaches-blah-blah etc. etc. He was right of course, Wisdom was way out of line in the context of Brooklyn Heights heroin-deal protocol.

“Look, you can’t fuck around with this guy, he’s very heavy shit, out here to do a favor for some friends. They’ll be mighty unhappy if something were to fuck this up…”

Lonnie had finally calmed down, at least as much as he ever does, and had completed our transaction. Now, back at the pad, having sampled the goods, and found them satisfactory, first-rate in fact; I await Wisdom’s explanation for such an egregious breach of etiquette…

“Yeah, Yeah…I know, sorry if I made it awkward for you back there, but I’ve definitely seen that guy before, his name was Scharlach then, wonder what it is now? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in the Bay Area, but I definitely know that I saw him in LA, hanging out at Cass Elliot’s house…and Abigail Folger’s; which was right across the street. I knew Gibby and her mother Inez, from these Free Clinic benefits, and various food-drives-they were quite generous with donations, and sometimes more. I know Gibby did volunteer work out in some really bleak neighborhoods, not just slumming either. Living with Frykowski though, now that was slumming.”
“Never was big on the Mamas & Papas, some good tunes, but trying to come on so “hip”, when really just glitzy LA-showbiz “pop aristocrats”-same old shit…But Cassie was different. She wasn’t really pretending to be anything she wasn’t. She embodied that whole Vegas show-biz thing, which she was really good at, like Bobby Darrin or Sinatra, but also had this other under-the-counter-culture kind of vibe running the spectrum from oh-so mellow LA folk-pop stoners, to a much heavier, leather-biker, S&M, whips and chains type-crowd, and that’s where I saw Scharlach and his pals hanging out. These shrill little dickheads were so full of themselves, riding that first wave of coke as it was breaking into the culture at large, after first trickling down through the rock elite.”
“Paul Krassner knew Cass pretty well, and he told me she had dinner with Roman Polanski, Sharon Tate, and RFK the night of the assassination. So, when I last see Scharlach, he’s with Gibby & Cass. Few years go by, and now Gibby’s dead, Cassie’s dead, Sharon’s dead, and RFK’s dead, and here’s this guy, still in good health it looks like, and I’m just wondering, what’s his secret? Obviously a survivor, we should all live so long, eh?”

Some questions you just let hang, the strategy being, I suppose, that if left hanging long enough, the question in question will just go away, and in this case, it seemed to work very effectively; in fact, I’d almost forgotten the upshot of all that contagious death, until a couple of months later, watching the rushes from the “Apocalypse Trials”, known as such by most of the “insiders”, but once having analyzed and assimilated the desperately insipid and moronic press coverage, along with massive police incompetence and corruption, shaped & manipulated the highly diverting, and apparently, infinitely entertaining “Son of Sam” scenario.
Right there in the frame, our old buddy Scharlach, dishing it out on the streets of Forest Hills & elsewhere, blowing people away right in their cars…I can see Sisman & his little crew, filming the proceedings, unaware of Omega operatives with the high-tech gear a little further back, everyone safely assuming that once out of range of Sisman’s lens, that it’s out of the frame and therefore off-the-record, promoting a sense of “spontaneity” otherwise difficult to achieve. The usual suspects in my editorial frame of reference: Sisman, Platzman, Rockman, and this Australian guy named Ken, who was definitely on Lonnie’s shit-list, due to his close proximity to Suzette & Josie. When not brooding about Ken from Australia, Lonnie obsessed about Buzz putting the moves on his beloved Suzette, who we might also note, was shaping up to be a full-service participant in the festivities.

The creeping realization now starting, finally, to seep through the coca-opiate haze, the faint stirring awareness of the ethical/spiritual implications of what I’m seeing in the view-frame, plus the irrefutable fact, that viewing these images must be very hazardous to one’s health.

Alternatives considered, escape looms inevitable…

“Alright, you know the rules…you break it you bought it,” announces Wisdom, as the car comes to a standstill at the bottom of the shallow ravine.

“Did you see those guys in the El Camino? Shit! They were trying to kill us!” blurts Danko, his nose still frosted from refreshments consumed just prior to being run off the road.

“Of course they were trying to kill us…why the fuck else would they drive like that? But the only thing that got killed is this deer, and rules are rules; if we’re gonna drive around honking speed-balls off the glove-compartment door, we have to take whatever we run over, and distribute it to the multitude, wherever they are…”

“Better hike back on in to Plano’s, and call Ernie…tell him we need a tow and a lift,” says Wisdom examining the axle & wheel wells of Danko’s canary-yellow Cadillac, “Looks pretty good, just get a hoist on out of here, and I think it’ll roll just fine…”

Wisdom had called that morning, seeking the inevitable; then, as an afterthought: “Hey man, you want to go for a road-trip up to Bearsville? Been writing some songs with Rick Danko, we’re gonna check-out some rough-mixes, maybe shoot some pool, have a few drinks…” I’d assumed I was being recruited as designated-driver, but not a whole lot going on this weekend anyway; and though I was pretty annoyed about the scene he pulled at the Angry Squire, I still had to admit he was right about Scharlach. We met up with Danko at some Greenwich Village drug-den, proceeding from there in Danko’s Caddy, which vaguely resembled a giant banana with fins.
About 3 or 4 blocks with Danko at the wheel was enough to cancel the designated-driver theory, as it became obvious that these guys were bouncing off the walls already, functioning on some kind of bat-radar, and sixth-sense (if any), narrowly avoiding a series of automotive disasters, part Neal Cassidy, part Mr. Magoo, breaking the rustic tedium of long upstate excursion by snorting speed-balls off the glove-compartment door, and swilling brandy from a pint bottle.

Finally, high in the Catskills, pit-stop for a case of beer…crickets & frogs serenade the murmuring creek, rarified air blows through whispering pines…At the listening party, Wisdom & Danko barking along with the tracks; something like: “I’ll get high, high, high, drinking coffee till I die!”-you could tell by the grinding intensity, that a whole lot more than caffeine was fueling these tunes. Then, a lengthy billiards-fest with the engineers & technicians on duty at the log cabin-like recording facility, Danko doing a loud pantomime hustle, all in good fun…after many beers, and a blizzard of Peruvian perk-up powder, some difficulty in staying upright myself…and then, we must be on our way…Wisdom driving, until we stop at the same store for the obligatory homebound six-pack. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice an El Camino in the parking lot. Meanwhile, Danko insisting that he’s totally OK to drive…Wisdom shrugs, handing over the keys, “It’s your hearse pal…”

Which, after being towed out of the ravine, brings us to Ernie’s gingerbread house, on a patch of thickly forested land, accessed by a winding dirt road, and a small covered bridge. Ernie, who one suspects, was born with a gray beard, ponytail, and overalls, is obviously a fixture in the area, a junk-art sculptor, goes way back with Wisdom, and especially Danko, who insists: “I swear man, these guys in the El Camino, ran us right off the highway, into that gulch…”

“At least it’s a better story than the last moose you tenderized on that pass out near Woodstock.” observes Ernie.

“Ah man… that was Richard driving…”

“Yeah, yeah…your imaginary friend Richard, who does all those naughty things we all know we shouldn’t do…” Ernie counters, with an exaggerated theatrical wink. Ernie’s sculptures, and self-stylized, rolled-roof gingerbread cottage, with extended wine-bottle reinforced, architectural constructs, that filter the light like stained-glass, exude a mysterious elfin presence from this little creek-side grotto. “Would this by any chance, be a black El Camino, with a crooked trailer-hitch on the back, and a hole in the rear window?”

I’d noticed the shattered panel in the rear window, and the disjointed trailer-hitch at the store parking lot earlier, though there was no way to register any of this during our little highway altercation.

“So, you know these guys or what?” It seems only proper to ask.

“I know I’ve seen ‘em hanging around the last couple days…word is, they’re up here from Pound Ridge. Buzz up and down the creek is, they encountered the Whizzer, out at the junction, just a few yards from his house, knocked him into the creek-bed, scraped & muddied, but basically OK, but you never-ever want to piss-off the Whizzer.”

“The Whizzer?”

“Well, that’s what everybody calls him, stern but fair, just a little scary. The Whizzer is a holdover from the old, mythical, weird America…ain’t much left of that-as you move through some of the more rural areas upstate, you’ll get a little glimpse here & there, but the Whizzer, he’s sittin’ close to the main-vein of that elusive world…”