Hollywood Moon hs-3

by Joseph Wambaugh

  After that, she’d pack up and be on the first flight to San Francisco, where she’d establish a bank account and have the $945,000 moved from the four Hollywood banks in which she’d made deposits over the years. She thought she’d wait until the real-estate market improved before selling the family home on Russian Hill. She wanted to finally own a condo, maybe near North Beach, with its nightlife and people having fun. It was about time she started enjoying herself after so many years of hard work.

  Eunice knew now that Dewey had actually bought into the many hints she’d dropped whenever he got frustrated, intimations that she’d hidden piles of money in a secret cache, like some Latin American drug lord. That was so like him. Limited talent, limited intellect, and limited imagination. Hugo could’ve eaten him alive. Eunice was actually smiling when she took the cell phone from her purse and dialed a number she’d been given last night.

  Malcolm had his box cutter in his hand and was slashing open a crate containing video games when his cell chimed. He’d been working extra hard all morning, trying to quell the anger that was still simmering.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Clark,” Eunice said. “It’s me, Ethel. Would you like a job today?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m at work right now.”

  “That’s okay,” Eunice said. “I’ll need the rest of the day to get ready. I’d like you to come to the apartment and help me do some work.”

  “I can’t get there till after six,” he said.

  “Can you make it earlier?”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “Will Mr. Graham be there?”

  “No, I’ll explain it to you when you arrive. You’re gonna be well paid for your labor.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there,” he said.

  After he clicked off, he noticed that his battery was getting low, so he turned off the cell until he could get to his car and charge it. When he was back slashing open boxes and crates, he didn’t really feel much better for at last getting a job from Bernie Graham. The tormenting memory of his mother’s touch had made this an uncommonly terrible day for Malcolm Rojas.

  There was some telephone debate that Saturday between the sex crimes team at West Bureau and their lieutenant after Dana Vaughn’s former colleague D2 Flo Johnson phoned the lieutenant at home to explain the entire case. The lieutenant had recently come from a staff meeting with West Bureau brass where once again complaints from self-styled “community leaders” concerning minority-group harassment had been discussed. As usual, things ended with dispiriting lectures about the federal consent decree and fears of allegations from black and Latino citizens.

  The lieutenant said, “Okay, the rock-throwing prowler generally fits the description of the guy that attacked the women, but there’re a lot of young Hispanics with curly hair that would also fit.”

  “How about the light blue T-shirt and jeans?” Flo Johnson said.

  The lieutenant replied, “Common clothing for young guys. And that girl Naomi isn’t even positive which day she met her guy.”

  “How about the damaged fists following the day when our guy attacked the second victim and put her in the hospital?”

  “That’s more… convincing,” the lieutenant said. “But we still have to be careful not to stir up any more complaints about minority-group harassment.”

  Flo Johnson sighed and said, “My maiden name was Trevino, Lieutenant. I’m second generation from Sonora, and this isn’t about annoying the Hispanic community. This is about a vicious rapist who’s gonna kill somebody sooner or later.”

  And so it went until someone with more rank and more spine listened to the detective and gave her the okay to proceed. D2 Flo Johnson went to the website that links cell numbers to their providers. Then she wrote a search warrant and faxed it to the district attorney’s weekend command post, which faxed it to an on-call judge at home, who signed it and faxed it back.

  The cell provider had given the name of Madge Rojas, with an address on Maplewood Avenue in east Hollywood. It was early afternoon when four detectives went to the Maplewood address, but they found nobody at home. After that, Flo Johnson and her partner sat in their car on Maplewood Avenue and sweated in ninety-degree heat. Her D3 back at the office contacted a D3 at Major Crimes Division and explained the urgency of the case, and he agreed to go up to a satellite link and wait for whoever possessed that number to turn on his cell phone.

  As this was going on, Madge Rojas enjoyed a matinee with popcorn and soda at a multiplex cinema while her son, Malcolm, worked his overtime shift on a busy Saturday at the home improvement center. Malcolm’s mother decided not to rush back to their apartment. He seldom came straight home from work anymore, especially on a weekend. She’d given up questioning him about where he went at night. He’d get so angry, he was starting to scare her. She made a mental note to contact one of the free clinics about psychological counseling for her son. Meanwhile, she thought there was no reason she couldn’t stay and see one of the other movies at the multiplex after this one. No reason at all.

  At 3 P.M., when Dana Vaughn was about to get a shower and start preparing for work, her cell chimed.

  “Dana? It’s Flo Johnson,” the detective said. “It’s been a real busy morning and afternoon. How come all the good stuff happens on weekends?”

  “Did you get him?” Dana asked, trying not to sound disappointed for not having been in on it.

  “Not yet,” the detective said. “The phone bill goes to a Madge Rojas at an address on Maplewood. Autotrac ran the name, and credit info indicates she lives with her nineteen-year-old son, Ruben Malcolm Rojas, who has no criminal record. We did get the license number of his Mustang, and I’ve already phoned the Hollywood watch commander to pass it on at roll call to Watch 3 and Watch 5. We’ll be waiting for the cell phone ping as soon as it’s turned on. I’ll personally ask your boss to let you help back us up if we ping it to a Hollywood location.”

  “Too cool!” Dana said. “I’ll wear a fresh uniform. I work with Hollywood Nate Weiss, and he’ll figure a way to get us some press coverage if we’re in on this one.”

  Flo Johnson chuckled and said, “A little extra color instead of our usual drab lipstick shows up better on TV.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ladies and gentlemen and those of you who do not fit either category, I have an announcement to make,” Sergeant Lee Murillo said by way of beginning roll call. “There is a real Hollywood moon tonight. And as you know, a full moon over Hollywood brings out the beast rather than the best in our citizens. The car that comes back with the weirdest encounter of the night will get an extra-large pizza with the works. And now to training material. Last time it was how to address our Hollywood citizens of various nationalities who speak many languages. This time it’s how to address our Hollywood citizens of various genders who speak our same language. For example, you must never address or refer to a transsexual as a tranny.”

  R.T. Dibney raised his hand and said, “Is it okay to call them trans-testicles?”

  After the guffaws died down, Sergeant Murillo said, “And you must not address or refer to drag queens as dragons.”

  “If they’re ugly, can we call them drag-goons?” Flotsam asked.

  Sergeant Murillo ignored him, saying, “And post-op transsexuals will be searched by female officers, pre-op by male officers. Booking in either the men’s or women’s jail will also depend upon their medical status and condition. And you will not refer to Santa Monica Boulevard as Sodom-Monica because of the number of male prostitutes there.”

  Jetsam said, “Boss, it’s way confusing out there. We need an organization chart to know how to talk to these people.”

  Flotsam pointed to young Harris Triplett, back from his loan to the vice unit, and said, “The last night Triplett was working for the vice unit, a deaf guy on Santa Monica Boulevard handed him a note that said, ‘Can I have a blow job?’ ”

  That actually got people interested, and Hollywood Nate said, “Did you bust the poor
guy, Harris?”

  Reluctantly the young cop said, “Uh-huh.”

  Then several of the saltier cops booed and chimed in with remarks like “Harris the Harsh!” and “Harris the Horrible!” and “Enemy of people with disabilities!”

  While everyone was jeering and having a rollicking good time, R.T. Dibney leaned over to Harris Triplett and said, “Kid, always be careful how much you drink if you do the Hollywood nightclub scene. You might get hammered and pick up with what you think is some smokin’ hot chick and wake up with a hairy scrotum across your nose.”

  Sergeant Murillo flapped his hands palms-down to get them quieted, then pointed to a license number and car description on the board behind him and said, “We do have some real police work to take care of tonight. Dana Vaughn has done some work that might result in the arrest of the box-cutter rapist who we think is Ruben Malcolm Rojas, Hispanic, nineteen, five eight, one forty-five, brown and brown. He lives with his mother on Maplewood, just west of Kingsley. West Bureau detectives, assisted by our gang units, are out there right now, waiting for cell phone pings that could very well track the guy right to your beat. Listen to the tac frequency and watch for that old red Mustang. I think it’d be just dandy if one of you midwatch units took him down. And remember, the Oracle said that doing good police work is the most fun you’ll ever have in your lives. So go out there under that Hollywood moon tonight and have yourselves some fun.”

  At the end of the forty-five-minute roll call session, everyone touched the picture of the Oracle for luck as usual, like parishioners dipping their fingers into a font of holy water, and headed downstairs to the kit room to line up for their nonlethal weapons. When Hollywood Nate was loading the war bags into the trunk of their shop in the parking lot, he heard the surfer cops jawing with intensity.

  “Did I or didn’t I?” Jetsam asked Flotsam.

  “Dude, I wasn’t watching, but it’s, like, something you always do, so I’d say you did it.”

  “Did what?” Dana Vaughn asked.

  “Touch the Oracle’s picture,” Flotsam said.

  “You were behind me, Dana,” Jetsam said. “Did I touch it?”

  “I was talking to Nate,” Dana said. “I didn’t see.”

  Hollywood Nate said, “I didn’t notice either.”

  “I better go back up and touch it,” Jetsam said.

  “Dude!” Flotsam said. “Ain’t that taking superstition a little too far?”

  Jetsam paused and looked as though he was about to get into the car, until Dana with a wink at Nate said to Jetsam, “It’s a tradition and it’s about luck. And tonight there’s a Hollywood moon. I wouldn’t tempt fate, honey.”

  That did it. He ran back inside Hollywood Station.

  When the taxi delivered Eunice to her apartment on Franklin, she was so sure that Dewey and his friends had fled that she didn’t ask the driver to accompany her inside. However, after entering, she did take a cursory look in every room before closing the door. It was only the irrational doper, Jerzy Szarpowicz, who worried her at all.

  The fact that they’d ransacked the place did not surprise Eunice. Her gag with the key was enough to make the morons conduct a frantic search. She removed the hard drive from each computer and then pulled three flattened cardboard boxes from under her bed, which she kept for this purpose. She put them together and began loading them with hard drives, files, credit cards, and forgery paraphernalia that littered her worktable. She planned to drop each box in one of several trash Dumpsters behind various commercial establishments on the way to the airport.

  She then sat down and wrote a letter to the apartment manager, describing how the sudden death of her father in Florida had made it necessary to leave immediately to care for her aging mother. She invited the manager to keep the security and deposit fees and to dispose of all property left behind as she saw fit, including clothing and personal items belonging to her husband. She broke into a smile when she wrote that part of it. After finishing the letter, there wasn’t much to do but pack as much as she needed, leaving older articles of clothing behind. San Francisco definitely required a whole new wardrobe anyway.

  After she showered and did her makeup, hiding the damage that Jerzy and his duct tape had done, she felt positively giddy. Wearing a new lace-trimmed bra and thong panties like those she’d bought for her dinner at Musso amp; Frank, Eunice went to the kitchen, lit a smoke, and poured herself a Bombay martini. She felt her excitement grow while waiting for Clark to arrive. She couldn’t decide what to wear for the trip. She felt free. She felt… young.

  “I wish I had the Polack here instead of you,” Tristan said to Dewey Gleason as they staggered from the storage room to the van, carrying a thirty-six-inch TV console that required two rest pauses before they could move the box fifty feet.

  “I might be able to pull my own weight if that son of a bitch hadn’t driven my ribs halfway to my backbone,” Dewey said, leaning on the box and panting.

  It was almost impossible to contemplate that the goods he had stored in this room were the sum of all he possessed in life. He was certain that Eunice was already leaving the Franklin Avenue address, now that her elaborate security was blown. He didn’t know for sure if she’d get out of Los Angeles or find another Dewey Gleason and set up at another location, but he believed she might’ve bought herself a gun by now and would shoot him dead if she ever set eyes on him again. Dewey had a passing thought that if he had a gun of his own, he might save her the trouble. He was alone. He was lost.

  “You ready, Bernie?” Tristan said. “We shoulda had this job done hours ago.”

  “I got pain shooting through me,” Dewey said.

  “You’re gonna have a bullet shootin’ through you if we don’t get back to the office before dark. The Polack ain’t a patient man.”

  “That actually sounds comforting,” Dewey said, picking up his end of the load with a moan that sounded like the lowing of a cow.

  Jerzy Szarpowicz was literally bouncing from wall to wall in the little duplex/office. He would stride across the room, turn his back to the wall, and push off toward the other wall. He was muttering aloud, mostly a string of incoherent obscenities, aimlessly directed at Bernie Graham’s woman, at Bernie Graham himself, at Creole, and at the Mexican at Pablo’s Tacos who wouldn’t front him a little crack or crystal after he’d done business with the greaseball for three years. The taxi rides had eaten up almost all his cash, and in fact, he was $1.45 light on the fare after he had the driver take him from Pablo’s parking lot to here. The taxi driver, one of those camel fuckers Jerzy despised so much, had started bitching about it until he got a good look at Jerzy’s snarling face and red-rimmed blazing eyes, and then he’d just dropped it in gear and sped away.

  Jerzy had been pacing with the buck knife in his hand, indulging in violent fantasies until he tired of that. Then he pulled the snub-nosed revolver from his jeans and passed the time by aiming it at the imaginary heads of those he hated. Two of those he hated interrupted him by driving up to the curb in the rented van and in the Honda just as the Hollywood moon began to rise.

  Tristan and Dewey each carried a box containing a laptop to the door, which was held open by Jerzy, who’d tucked his weapons inside the waistband of his jeans, under his T-shirt.

  “Where the fuck you been?” Jerzy growled.

  “Don’t start,” Tristan said. “I might as well’ve loaded the van by myself, all the help Bernie gave me. My ass is scrapin’ the ground.”

  “I need money right now,” Jerzy said to Dewey. “Call your fence and start sellin’ this shit.”

  “I have a call in to him,” Dewey said, “but I don’t think my receiver’s gonna run right over here this minute.”

  “Come on, dawg,” Tristan said to Jerzy. “Help me carry all those boxes inside. Bernie, you keep callin’ the guy till you reach him. Tell him this is like a big garage sale if he’s got plenty of cash.”

  Dewey sat down on a kitchen chair, cell phone in hand, and said
, “I’ll keep trying.”

  Jerzy looked like his central nervous system was short-circuited, and he seemed ready to start tearing the wallpaper off the walls. Dewey tried his best to avoid eye contact, but Jerzy said to him, “Bernie, if you don’t get me some money tonight, I’m gonna start rememberin’ how much I hated Jakob Kessler.”

  Dewey tried speed-dialing Hatch one more time while Tristan and Jerzy walked to the van under an unusually clear summer sky in a bright glow of moonlight.

  “Yeah, we got us a Hollywood moon up there, dude,” Flotsam said when he walked back to the shop with the license belonging to the driver of a Lexus hardtop convertible. “Did you see what that guy’s wearing?”

  Jetsam, who had walked up on the passenger side, flashing the beam from his mini-light onto the dash to let the driver know he was there, said, “I think I saw a coat and tie, right?”

  “You didn’t look low enough. He ain’t wearing pants. But he’s got nice wingtip shoes on and socks.”

  “Where’s his pants, bro?” Jetsam said as Flotsam put the ticket book and flashlight on the hood of the black-and-white and started writing.

  “On the seat beside him,” Flotsam said. “With his underwear. He was probably jerking off, and that’s why he was late on the red light.”

  “What did you say to him, bro?”

  “I asked to see his license.”

  “What did he say?”

  He said, ‘Yes, officer.’ ”

  “Is that, like, okay with you, bro? I mean, maybe he was flashing somebody in the lane next to him.”

  “That’s a seventy-thousand-dollar ride. If he wants to jizz all over it, that’s his business.”

  As Flotsam finished writing the ticket, Hollywood Nate and Dana Vaughn turned the corner onto Gower, dimmed the headlights, and pulled next to the surfer cops.

  “Keep looking for an old red Mustang with a Latino kid driving,” Dana said. “I just checked where they’re setting up and they don’t have him yet.”