Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

The guitarist who called himself Squirt was nowhere to be found in cyberspace, but the drummer, self-titled Mr. Sludge and the bass player, Brancusi, were easy to locate.

A year ago, Sludge, née Christian Bangsley, had been condemned on the “page of shame” Web site of a music zine called misterlittle : Hot Flash: ex-Chinawhiteboy sells out, peddles junk-slop, ends up cap-pig cancerous bigtiiime!!!!

During the three years since China’s murder, Bangsley had made significant lifestyle changes: moving to Sacramento, investing a “small inheritance,” and ending up the co-owner of a small chain of “family-style” restaurants called Hearth and Home. The zine noted Bangsley’s plans to “fester and postulate this tumor of phony-fuck normanrockwellism into a malignant metastasizing!!!franchise!!!. Sludge dludes (sic) himself that he’s cleeeen, now, but he’s sludgier than ever.”

Along with the tirade, misterlittle ran before-and-after photos, and the contrast was so remarkable that I questioned the truth of the story.

During his band days, Sludge had been a scrawny, angry-eyed nightcrawler.

Christian Bangsley was well fed and Beatle-mopped, in a white shirt and tie. These eyes sparkled with contentment.

I found Brancusi on his personal Web site. His real name- shockingly- was Paul Brancusi. Local; he worked as an animator for Haynes-Bernardo, a Burbank studio, one of the major players in kids’ TV.

Brancusi’s bio listed two years as an art major at Stanford, an equal amount of time spent as a member of China Whiteboy, then another year at CalArts, where he’d picked up skills in computer graphics and animation.

He worked on a morning show called The Lumpkins , described as “Edgy but kindly. Imaginary creatures live in a suburb that evokes some of the humor, nostalgia, and rib-tickling situations of a human neighborhood. But in Lumpkinville, imagination and fantasy reign supreme!”

Home and Hearth’s Sacramento corporate headquarters was listed. I called and asked to speak to Christian Bangsley.

The receptionist was cheerful- nourished by family-style food? “Mr. Bangsley’s in a meeting. May I help you?”

“I’m calling about an old friend of Mr. Bangsley. China Maranga.”

“Could you spell that, please?”

I did.

She said, “And what shall I tell Mr. Bangsley this is about?”

“A few years ago Mr. Bangsley played with Ms. Maranga in a band. China Whiteboy.”

“Oh, that. She’s dead, right?”

“Yes.”

“So what message should I give Mr. Bangsley?”

I rattled off my L.A. police consultantship and told her I wanted to ask Bangsley a few questions.

“I’ll be sure to tell him.”

I reached Paul Brancusi at his desk.

He said, “All this time, and finally something’s being done?”

“You don’t feel enough was done at the beginning?”

“The cops never found out who did it, right? The thing that bothered me was that they didn’t even want to talk to us. Even though we were close to China- closer than anyone, excepting maybe her father.”

“Not her mother?”

“Her mother’s dead,” he said. “Died a year before China. Her dad’s dead, too- you don’t know much about it, do you?”

“Just starting out. How about filling me in? I can drop by your office anytime today.”

“Let me get this straight: you’re what- a shrink?”

I gave him a longer explanation than the one I’d offered the Hearth and Home receptionist.

“Why now?” he said.

“China’s death might be related to another murder.”

“Really,” he said, stretching the word. “So now she matters. And I should talk to you because…”

“Because I am interested in talking to you.”

“What a thrill.”

“Just a brief talk, Mr. Brancusi.”

“When?”

“You name it.”

“In an hour,” he said. “I’ll be in front of the H-B building. I’m wearing a red shirt.”

Haynes-Bernardo Productions occupied a massive, free-form, pink-brick-and-blue-tile structure on the east side of Cahuenga Boulevard, just before Universal Studios, where Hollywood gives way to the Valley.

The building had no corners. No symmetry of any kind. Just curves and swoops and parabolic adventurism, set off by odd-shaped windows placed randomly. A cartoonist’s vision. Coco palms flanked a trapezoidal entry door the color of grape jelly, and a hundred feet of brick planter filled with struggling begonias ran along the front facade.

A man in an oversized red flannel shirt, baggy blue jeans, and grubby sneakers sat on the planter ledge, sucking on a cigarette.

As I approached him, he said, “You made good time,” without looking up.

“Motivation,” I said.

He studied me, and I returned the favor.

Paul Brancusi had changed less than Christian Bangsley. Still scrawny and sallow, he wore his hair long and uncombed, had tinted the natural dishwater color bronze.

His cigarette adhered to a chapped lower lip. A crusted cold sore was wedged below a hook nose. Blue-black iron cross tattoo on his right hand, stainless-steel stud in his left lobe. At least half a dozen healed-over pierces revealed themselves as tiny black dots on his nose, brow, and chin. Someone who’d never seen what he used to look like might have taken them for large pores.

John Lennon eyeglasses gave his eyes a faraway look, even as he checked me out.

He pulled out a pack of Rothman Filters and offered it to me.

“No, thanks.” I sat down next to him.

“Who else got murdered?” he said.

“Sorry, can’t give out details.”

“But you want me to talk to you.”

“You want China’s murder to be solved.”

“What I want and what’s going to happen don’t often coincide,” he said.

The faraway eyes had grown dour. His back rounded as if under a terrible weight. He had a look and a sound that I recognized. Years of accrued disappointment. I thought of him hunched at his drawing table, bringing The Lumpkins to life. Edgy but kindly. Rib-tickling situations.

Brancusi fished out a cigarette and chain-lit. His cheeks hollowed as he devoured the smoke. “What do you want to know?”

“First of all, do you have any theories about who killed China?”

“Sure,” he said. “Someone she pissed off. Which is about ten million people.”

“Challenged in the charm department.”

“China was a four-plus bitch. And guess what, you’re the first cop-type to ever ask me about her personality. What’s with those guys- retarded?”

“What did they ask?”

“Joe Dragnet stuff. The facts, just the facts. What time did she leave the studio, what did she do the last few days before, who was she doping with, who was she fucking. No attempt to really get into who she was .”

Smoke exited his nostrils and dissipated quickly in the smoggy air. “It was obvious they despised us and her, were blaming the whole lifestyle thing.”

“Do you think the lifestyle had anything to do with China’s death?”

“Who knows? Listen, I really don’t see the point of this.”

“Bear with me,” I said. “I need to get some context.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, from what I can tell things were looking up for the band. There was talk of a deal with a major label. That true?”

Brancusi sat up straighter, energized by nostalgia. “More than talk. We had a decent shot. Had just done a showcase at Madame Boo, where some of the better A & R guys were in the audience. We were great that night- really rocked. Next day, we were called for an interview with Mickey Gittleson- any idea who he was?”