A Night At Colombo’s

A Frightening Fantasy About One Of My Favorite Places in LA

By Emerald Elaine Johnson

Los Angeles is home to countless grand, chic establishments with awarded chefs and intricately detailed interior design schemes that call to the finer things in life. Down below, it hides a darker, more demented underbelly of the past, haunted with hints of long lost relevance and sparkle. Murderers, desperation… and shrimp scampi. Suddenly, I was hungry. I hit the road from Pasadena into Eagle Rock, and let my eyes flutter a bit whilst crossing the Colorado Bridge. I felt a sharp stab in my side, felt nothing of it, and kept going. I wanted to find myself in a little trouble tonight. Suddenly, a figure appeared on top of the rail, jolting me out of my haze. Without hesitation, it jumped. I screamed, almost swerving off the bridge, before telling myself I’d made it up. As I composed myself, Roy Orbison sang Shadaroba over my hatchback’s dusty radio speakers. I replayed the jump in my head over and over as I gazed towards the hills. I really needed a drink.

The term spirit, used in an alchemistic way, makes drinking alcohol feel like an ancient ritual and not a coping mechanism. My unease felt like a monster that could only be tamed by vodka. My guts churned and I parked at an ancient Italian restaurant called Colombo’s. I entered the doorway, tipped my head at the homely Russian hostess, and walked past charming midcentury nautical paintings while passing families eating chicken alfredo and overcooked pizza. I like watching people eat - it feels private, perverted even. There’s a primal quality to seeing people tear bread and demolish steaks with their sharp, sturdy teeth. I saw half drunk martinis and heard forks clinking and took a deep breath. Something smelled off, just for a moment, like expired deli meat.

A glass shattered on the going and the sound echoed through the building. Time stood still until a timid busser came and picked everything up. I continued to the bar, wooden and lacquered and full of memories, and was greeted by a no-nonsense woman in her sixties with box dyed cleopatra-black hair and blue eyeshadow that bled into her deep crow’s feet.

I ordered a lemon drop, which is, indisputably, a gift from Heaven. Someday I’d like to man up and enjoy a proper martini, but life is too short to suffer through savory hand sanitizer. I let the first ounces of the drink hit my mouth, letting the sugar rim exfoliate my overly lined lips. I looked around to see who I could spy on. My eyes pulled towards a man sitting at the end of the bar. He had fluffy hair, grander on the sides than the top, and a black button up shirt, buttoned all the way up. He stared down at a book. I tightened my eyes looking for a title, but the tattered leather binding was far too worn to see. He was drinking a glass of deep red wine, taking moments to sniff its aroma before slugging down another sip. I picked up my cocktail slowly and carefully, hoping to exude seductive energy. The man looked up from his book briefly, then looked down again. I’d need to work for his curiosity.

I sat down next to him, leaving a stool between us to be polite. He looked over and I noticed that his eyes were light brown, like they’d been left in the sun for too long. I smiled at him, then down at my drink. He coughed and fidgeted for a moment before taking a deep breath. I looked back over. He looked up and stared me dead in the eyes.

“Who sent you?”

I stammered, assuming he was playing a game with me.

“My intuition sent me,” I said, licking my drink. “I wanted to know what you’re reading.”

He covered the book with his hand, suddenly on the defense. He picked up his drink and took a large gulp. I could tell the wine was loaded with earthy, almost bloody tannins.

“I don’t think you want to go there…”

His words made my ears tingle.

“I think I do,” I said. “Show me everything.”

The man reached out his hand, which was soft, pale, and as I discovered, very clammy. “Your choice. I’m John, by the way.”

“Helen.”

I’m not afraid of a little cat and mouse, so I confidently finished my drink and let the warm glow of vodka course through my body. John got up and motioned for me to follow him. I happily obliged.

“I’ll show you where they make everything.”

He must be a regular, I thought. We left the bar, where the flameheaded barkeep shot me a look of dread before turning away. John took me down a dark hallway that led to a set of stairs. I looked around and saw that the charming antique paintings of boats and Italian landscapes had turned into portraits of archangels and flames. For a moment, I wondered if something bad was going to happen, but that was usually how I felt when I met a man. We continued down the stairs. I figured there was some sort of marvelous kitchen or speakeasy style bar below us, then secretly hoped it was sex club. John looked back at me and said, “Lots of muscles, huh?”

“Thanks for noticing. Where are you taking me? Do you work here?”

John put his finger to his thin lips and made a “shhh” sound. Just then, I heard a loud noise that sounded like a garbage disposal and flinched. John gripped my hand and pulled me close, as if I was going to run away. As we hit the bottom of the staircase, I looked over and saw a few large tubs and a walk-in refrigerator.

“Is this a storage basement?” I asked, my titillation wearing thin.

“This is how the sausage gets made,” he said, as he pushed me to the ground. I turned my head and realized that I was in a secret basement. I started to shake while he turned his head up and shouted, “I got one for ya!” pinning me harder to the ground. “Let me go!”

I struggled to get loose as he held me down to the ground. He started to whistle a song I’d never heard before. The red lighting shone on me and I began screaming and kicking, wishing I was upstairs sipping another Lemon Drop. Suddenly, a book fell out of John’s pocket. ‘Death Can Be Beautiful’ by Alfred Hitchcock. My heart raced as a short, plump man wearing a butcher’s uniform appeared above us. His cherubic face distracted me for a brief moment from the gigantic knife in his hand.

“Won’t get much out of her,” he said earnestly, “was she even eating up there?” “No, this one is a lush. Her insides are probably pickled in some way.”

I realized that I’d been hunted by John. I kicked him in the groin and he jumped off of me . I crawled from under him, heading back towards the stairs. The small man ran over and tackled me, slapping my face. He lifted up his knife and stabbed me straight through my shoulder. I screamed and felt a tickle in my urinary tract and wondered if I’d release all of my body fluids after I died. My life flashed before my eyes while he stood over me, inspecting my body. His teeth were crusted with brown plaque but perfectly straight.

“Show her, John. They taste better when they’re in shock.”

My eyes widened and tears flowed out, but I was paralysed. The cherub guided my face over to a refrigerator where John was opening the door. John entered the unit, suspending the action ever so quickly, then returned with a filled cart. There were bus tubs filled with dismembered body parts and a large container that had a head in it. I screamed and closed my eyes. John started whispering in my ear.

“Tu Dormis, Tu Dormis, Tu Dormis. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

John’s hands pried my eyes open one last time. Shaking, I made eye contact with the head.

“That’s Kevin. He was the worst waiter I’ve ever met.”

I screamed as loud as I could, making eye contact with the detached head, before feeling the penetrating stab of lethal metal slice into me one last time. Everything went black.

“Thanks John. She went down easier than the last one. We almost had to 86 the Bolognese.” “Anytime, my lord. Can’t have starving demons running about.”

“Wanna grab a drink later?”

The two entities, both condemned to a life of demonic servitude and parmesan cheese, shook hands before John headed back upstairs. John turned around and looked at my dead body, where the cherub was dragging me to the butcher block.

“This business is killing me. I should have run an occult bookstore or something.”

“They’ll always need to eat, John.”

Diners around the restaurant took large, savory bites of pasta and soup and meatballs, nourishing their souls with warm food and company. The servers stood by, as if chained, waiting to see which one of them would be sacrificed. The full moon blared in the sky, illuminating the restaurant. It was another lovely night at Columbo’s, just like each night has been, for the last sixty five years.

Emerald Johnson grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in an affluent Northern California University town. She fell in love with writing at an early age but was swayed into the world of hospitality after moving to San Francisco. Now a Pasadena resident, she loves walks along the Arroyo, writing about eccentric, complicated women, and matinees at the Academy Museum. You can find her work on Substack @snacksjohnson.