“And I have no say at all in the matter, is that it?” he said. “I’ll never have money of my own except what you dole out to me, right? Everything in the bank account is yours to control forever, right?”
She lit another cigarette from the pack she kept in her bathrobe pocket and said, “As you well know, Dewey, before I ever laid eyes on you, Hugo and me had built up a tidy nest egg. And as you also know, the money you’ve brought in-because of my talents, I might add-is commingled with that other money. So I think you should be grateful for all of that instead of being whiny and petty and childish.”
Her “talents”? He wanted to tell her she was nothing but a hacker and a forger and a thief. He wanted to tell her it was his innovative ideas in finding and working runners that brought in the money she craved and hoarded. He wanted to tell her that her “talents” were a dime a dozen and if he put his mind to it, he could find fifty hackers at the cyber café who would be more productive partners. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he hated her guts like he’d never hated anyone in his life. But he didn’t tell her any of it.
Dewey heaved an enormous sigh and said, “I don’t even know how much we have in our account, Eunice. I don’t know how many accounts the money is in. I don’t know where the account or accounts are. And I’m your husband. How do you think all of that makes me feel? As a human being.”
“It’s just another concern that you don’t have to deal with,” Eunice said. “You should feel relieved that this human being takes care of important matters. That’s how you should feel, Dewey.”
Suddenly he cried, “You’ve taken my balls, Eunice! I have to live week after week, day after day, as a man without balls!”
She took a big puff on her cigarette, inhaled, and said, “Stop by Hollywood Prop Supply. You might find some you could rent.” Then she blew the smoke into the room, turned, and closed the door.
Dewey Gleason knew then that he could bring himself to kill her if he could first discover a way to access the account or accounts. And he believed he’d never have a single conscience attack afterward. He was so emotionally drained that he did fall asleep for an hour despite her. When he woke up, he had to become Jakob Kessler for his meeting with Creole and Jerzy.
At roll call late that afternoon, Sergeant Lee Murillo and Sergeant Miriam Hermann were both sitting at the table in front of the room. After she read the crimes, Sergeant Hermann said, “The detectives on the sex desk at West Bureau got a call from an alert officer at North Hollywood desk about a mall incident last night. A young, curly-haired Latino who fits the description of the guy that attacked the two women here in Hollywood made a try for a woman putting groceries in her car. He attempted to give her a ten-dollar bill that he claimed he found near her car. She didn’t buy into it, and he really freaked and started screaming as she drove off. If he’s our guy, he seems to be getting more out of control with each encounter. Be supercareful with any young Latinos who fit the description we gave you. A fifty-one-fifty with a box cutter should be taken very seriously, and this one’s out there stalking.”
Dana Vaughn said, “Was the woman middle-aged, blonde, and a bit overweight?”
Sergeant Hermann said, “I don’t know. It doesn’t say in the note I got.”
“Both of ours were,” Dana said. “I checked with the officer who took the report on the woman who got beat up.”
“That’s a good question. I’ll call North Hollywood and get back to you with the woman’s description,” Sergeant Hermann said. “There might be a specific MO being established here.”
R.T. Dibney guffawed and said loudly, “If the woman’s middle-aged, you can bet she’s overweight, and she’s probably blonde. All the middle-aged women I date or been married to are overweight, and all of them become bottle blondes sooner or later. It’s the easiest way to hide the gray.”
Dana Vaughn saw Mindy Ling cast a withering look at her partner for shooting off his mouth, and Mindy said, “From the looks of your sideburns and stash, R.T., you learned a few coloring tricks from your multitude of lady friends.”
Everyone had a chuckle, until Sergeant Murillo said, “Okay, if we’re all through with beauty tips by R.T. Dibney, let’s go to work.”
Of course, each of them touched the Oracle’s picture before filing out the door.
Jerzy was even more unhappy than usual when he showed up in the parking lot by the cyber café and entered the donut shop, where Tristan was sitting at a table in the back.
“Get your sugar fix,” Tristan said, nibbling on a chocolate donut covered with multicolored sprinkles. “Go ahead and load up. I’m buyin’.”
Jerzy sat down without ordering and said, “I let you talk me into some crazy shit, but this takes the cake.”
“Forget the cake. Have a donut,” Tristan said, pointing to the plate in front of him piled with five assorted donuts. “This is gonna take a high energy level from both of us.”
“I wish I had some smoke to sprinkle on the donuts,” Jerzy muttered.
“Did you get the equipment?”
Jerzy automatically lowered his voice when he said, “Yeah, we’re tooled up, and I ain’t real happy about it.”
Tristan lowered his own voice and said, “Where are they?”
“In the trunk of my car at the bottom of a box of birdseed and dog food that my old lady wants for the fuckin’ zoo she keeps in her house.”
“You can rent her a bigger house if this gag goes like I think it will. What’d you get?”
“An old snub-nosed revolver,” Jerzy said. “Couldn’t get my hands on a semiautomatic.”
“Don’t matter, dawg, it’s only a prop,” Tristan said. “It ain’t loaded, is it?”
“Of course it’s fuckin’ loaded. It ain’t that much of a prop.”
“I think you should leave it in the trunk. Maybe it was a bad idea anyways. We don’t need no gun.”
“You said you wanna scare the guy.”
“Not that much,” Tristan said. “Did you get the other… tool?”
Impatiently Jerzy said, “Yeah, the buck knife was no problem. Every biker I know carries one in his saddlebag. I think I know why it had to be a buck knife.”
“Readin’ my mind again?” Tristan said.
“You figure that O.J. Simpson diced the white bitch and her boyfriend with a buck knife, right? And O.J.’s a national hero to you and all your tribe, am I right?”
“Fuck you, peckerwood,” Tristan said. “It’s a scary-lookin’ knife, that’s why. We ain’t into force. Fear is our weapon. And the element of surprise. We’re only gonna scare him, not shoot him, and not cut him.”
“Element of surprise,” Jerzy snorted. “Okay, break it down, mastermind. You got me breathin’ hard.”
“When Kessler shows up, I start talkin’ shit for a minute and you jist make sure you’re between him and the door. You understand how important that is, right?”
With his mouth full of donut, Jerzy rolled his eyes and said, “No I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
Tristan thought, For once we agree, you fuckin’ redneck. But he said, “Anyways, you gotta be the immovable object that the man can feel breathin’ on him every second I’m talkin’ to him. I’m gonna tell him what we know and what we want and what we’re gonna do if he don’t cooperate.”
“And you’re one hundred percent convinced he ain’t gonna call our bluff and tell us to go ahead and rat him out?”
“Look at us,” Tristan said. “We ain’t got a Ben Franklin between us. He knows we got nothin’ to lose. But Kessler and his geek got a whole lot to lose. You jist stand there like a statue and let me work it. He’s gonna get so scared of my story that if you give him a peek at the buck knife, he’ll mess his drawers.”
“Okay, but if I get tired of listenin’ to your shit, and if it ain’t havin’ the desired effect, I reserve the right to do it my way.”
“And what might that be, wood?”
“You’ll see.”
“Puttin’ your hand
s on the man is a last resort,” Tristan said quickly. “And then only to make him sit down. We don’t need no violence. He’s jist a pussy playin’ dress-up. He’ll take it if you piss on his shoes. No need to tune him up.”
“Maybe,” Jerzy said, shoving a whole donut in his mouth, the powdered sugar turning his lips white.
As they were preparing to leave, a black-and-white pulled into one of the open spaces by the cyber café. Aaron Sloane and Sheila Montez got out and headed toward the donut shop.
Sheila speed-dialed a cell number and said, “Gotta make a quick call.”
When she walked several paces away for privacy, Aaron felt the familiar pain. He was having a hard time with his emotions these days: sadness, jealousy, even despair. Yet, for all he knew, she was only calling her parents to set up a family dinner. He knew she came from a large Mexican family in Pacoima. It could just be that. But whenever she made a private call, he found himself imagining the worst: a yuppie stockbroker or maybe a lawyer in a perfectly tailored Hugo Boss suit, sitting at his desk in Century City with a cell phone in one hand, a bottle of Evian in the other, making plans with Sheila for a couple of days and nights on Catalina Island.
The captivated cop tried but couldn’t come close to feigning insouciance until Sheila closed her cell and said, “I’ll have coffee. You aren’t gonna catch me eating one of those lumps of grease they call donuts.”
“They’re really good when you’re hungry as I am,” Aaron said. “I haven’t had a thing all day except a bowl of cereal. These donuts really stick to your ribs.”
“They stick to your thighs,” Sheila said. “And to your butt. I think they’re made of cellulite. I’ll just have coffee and watch you harm your body.”
“You don’t have to worry about your body,” Aaron said with that same lovelorn look he continually tried to repress.
Sheila didn’t reply, but Aaron caught a glimmer of a smile in response to his compliment as they walked across the parking lot toward the donut shop, which all cops knew was frequented by hustlers and dopers from the nearby cyber café.
Tristan was giving last-minute, animated instructions to Jerzy while getting into the Chevy Caprice, when Aaron took a look at them and said to Sheila, “We can use a couple of shakes for our recap. Let’s see if these dudes have one good driver’s license between them, and maybe even a registration.”
“Nobody’d steal a car that crappy,” Sheila said, but she moved to the passenger side of the Chevy when Aaron approached the driver.
“Turn off the engine, sir,” Aaron said, startling Tristan, who hadn’t seen him coming.
“Somethin’ wrong, Officer?” Tristan said, very grateful that the Polack had left the gun in his own car. But then he thought of the buck knife. He didn’t need this shit right now.
“Your right taillight is broken,” Aaron said. “I’d like to see your license and registration.”
“Sure, Officer,” Tristan said, glancing at Jerzy, who had that not-again expression going on. Tristan feared it might piss off the cops.
From past experience and urban legend about the LAPD, Tristan always opened the glove box very carefully, giving the cop on the passenger side a good look before reaching his hand inside for the registration.
“Here it is, Officer,” Tristan said.
Aaron didn’t like the looks of the sullen, fat white guy and was about to ask them to get out of the car, when Tristan smiled obligingly and said, “You’re welcome to run a make on us if you want. But Officer Vaughn already done it, day before yesterday.”
Aaron was mildly surprised. “How did you meet Officer Vaughn?”
Tristan reached inside his wallet and removed the folded copy of his traffic citation, handed it to Aaron, and said, “She gave me this traffic ticket and she checked out both of us for warrants and such. And she also told me to get the taillight fixed.”
Aaron looked at the citation and then glanced at Sheila, who shrugged. Aaron said, “So why didn’t you get the taillight fixed?”
“My daddy died,” Tristan said. “I been tendin’ to funeral arrangements. I’ll go straight to a Chevy dealer and get it fixed tomorrow, Officer. So help me God.”
Aaron handed the documents back to Tristan, again looked across the roof at Sheila, who gave a chin tilt, and said to Tristan, “Drive carefully.”
When the Chevy was motoring away, Aaron said to Sheila, “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s one slick-talking dude.”
“The donuts in this joint wouldn’t melt if you hit them with a blowtorch,” Sheila said. “Are you really gonna eat one of them?”
“Two,” Aaron said. “Glazed and cream-filled, with extra sprinkles.”
Tristan hadn’t driven his Chevy two blocks before Jerzy said, “I don’t like the way our luck’s goin’. We’re runnin’ up against too many cops these days.”
“We been in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all,” Tristan said. “We gotta be more careful where we go until this whole deal shakes out.”
Jerzy was quiet then, thinking about the risk they were about to take, and finally he said, “You know how cops give people’s descriptions over their radio, like ‘male white,’ or ‘male Hispanic,’ or ‘male black’? That kind of cop shit?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “What about it?”
“Know what I heard a cop say to another one there at the cyber café when they were roustin’ some of your south L.A. cousins?”
Tristan sighed and said, “No, but you’re gonna tell me, I’m sure of that.”
“Instead of sayin’ ‘male black,’ he said, ‘male usual.’ Ain’t that a giggle?”
FOURTEEN
Hollywood Nate was having women troubles, and by now Dana Vaughn was growing accustomed to her role as adviser. The latest problem involved a secretary of a casting agent who, Nate was “almost positive,” might cast him in a made-for-cable pilot for a cop show being shot on a soundstage in the San Fernando Valley.
Dana, who was driving, interrupted him to say, “Nate, the Valley is the porn capital of the universe. Have you checked out this production company?”
“This is a legit indie production,” Nate said. “They’re making it on a shoestring, but they’re trying to hire a good features director.”
“Whadda they want you to do?”
“They need a cop technical adviser, but the secretary told me I’m being considered for a scene that runs for five script pages. That’s a significant part.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Her name’s Sharon. She’s okay, but way alpha. My ex-wife was a man-eater too, and I just wanna run the other way when I meet another one like that.”
“So what?” Dana said. “You’re trying to get a job, not trying to get laid. Or am I wrong about that part?”
“No, you’re right, but she has other ideas.”
Dana stopped at Melrose and La Brea in the middle of a rush-hour traffic snarl, with people driving home from work in all directions, and she said, “Are you telling me that Hollywood Nate, the most talked-about male in the women’s locker room except for George Clooney, isn’t willing to take one for his acting career?”
“I must be getting old,” he said. “These days I have to feel something for the women I sleep with.”
When the light changed, Dana proceeded cautiously across La Brea, trying to get around a beer truck, and said, “Would you be mortified if I shared with one or two of the other girls that Hollywood Nate has at last got in touch with his inner child? Who’s turned out to be that nice boy his mother always mistakenly thought he was when she glowed at his bar mitzvah?”
“Don’t even think about doing it. You’re my partner and sworn to secrecy.”
“Okay, so what’re you gonna do about this?”
“I was hoping you’d have some advice,” Nate said. “I’m not sure she could kill the job if she got really pissed off, but I think she could make it tough. I’m expecting a call any day now with a contract offer from her b
oss.”
“How old is she?”
“About your age,” Nate said.
“Okay, I see your dilemma,” Dana said. “Who in the hell would go to bed with a woman my age, right?”
“That’s not what I meant, partner,” Nate said. “You’re a bona fide Betty. In fact, if I hadn’t been forced to finally become a grown-up after the Oracle was no longer here to protect me, I’da tried leaving my house key in your ticket book.”
“My life,” Dana said melodramatically. “Always bad timing.”
“Come on, help me out,” Nate pleaded.
Dana considered it for a moment and said, “Okay, it’s gonna be hard for a dreamboat like you to manage, but you’re just gonna have to get less attractive to her.”
“Don’t expect fanny burps,” Nate said.
“Worse than that,” Dana said. “You gotta start subtly criticizing her makeup. Like maybe she uses too much or too little. Or maybe you don’t think the color of her lipstick is quite right for her. And if you really wanna end her lust, start inviting her to the gym to work out with you. Tell her it’s a good way to burn off the cottage cheese that clings to the thighs of women her age. Within a week she’ll hate your guts.”
Hollywood Nate thought it over and said, “I don’t wanna be that snarky.”
“Then leave off the cottage cheese part.”
They were interrupted by a call that had just been given to 6-X-66.
“We can mosey over there as backup,” Dana said. “If I’m all through being your shiksa auntie.”
After their coffee and donut fix, the partners in 6-X-66 had been chatting pleasantly, until Sheila Montez started talking about a cop she’d met in grappling school last year.
“There we were,” she said to Aaron Sloane, who was now driving east on Melrose Avenue, “supposedly learning street fighting. How to protect ourselves when we’re on the ground, battling for our lives. He wasn’t a big guy at all. More like my size. And after lying on top of each other for five days-you know, wrapping legs around each other-the sexual tension started building. On the last day of class, he says to me, ‘Wanna go have a drink?’ ”
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