Hollywood Hills

by Joseph Wambaugh

  "A grandma ?" Hollywood Nate asked, and Snuffy nodded. "There's a big houseful of people in that little crib," Snuffy said.

  Before the surfer cops got to the front porch of the Salvadorans, a team from Watch 3 arrived to cover the back door. Just then, a detective car pulled up in front, and the night-watch detective, Compassionate Charlie Gilford, got out, wearing a food-stained tan cotton blazer and sucking his teeth, as usual. He was wanting an entry for his log in order to prove that he did leave the station from time to time to assist the bluesuits, and not just to grab a free meal at places where a plate of greasy fare was a full pop to coppers on the beat and half price to anyone else with a badge.

  Nate always thought that one of the great mysteries of Hollywood was how the lazy detective--who took the night-watch assignment only to avoid the real work of handling a daytime caseload--could always manage to find a new necktie that was even uglier than the last one he wore. The base color of this one was uncertain because of the swirl and patterns of garish clashing colors snaking over the entire tie, but it was a cinch to hide salsa stains. Nate figured that Charlie showed up only because he had heard the hotshot call, being a few blocks away leeching freebie tostadas by badging the boss at the local taco shop.

  When Compassionate Charlie was halfway between the car and the house, he saw that he'd arrived too soon. The uniformed coppers hadn't made entry and secured the situation yet, so he stayed where he was instead of walking into a potentially dangerous incident.

  Jetsam angled off at one side of the screen door and tapped on it with the muzzle of the Remington 870 shotgun. Flotsam held his Glock down by his right leg.

  "Police!" Jetsam yelled. "Anybody inside, step out now with your hands on your head!"

  The inside door opened slowly and seven Salvadoran children, most of them in T-shirts and shorts, emerged onto the porch with their hands on their heads. They ranged in age from about four to thirteen. Three of the youngest were crying and the older ones were plenty scared. The one who looked about thirteen had his hair buzzed down to the scalp and was already wearing wannabe gang rags: a plaid flannel shirt and a baggy pair of denim shorts that extended well below the knees and were hanging halfway off his butt. He was apparently trying to connect as a junior with one of the gangs in the area, possibly the Salvadoran's Mara Salvatrucha, aka MS-13, the largest gang in the world.

  "What happened in there?" Flotsam asked him.

  "My big brother got shot," said the boy in good English.

  "Who shot him?" Jetsam asked, his shotgun held at a ready angle across his chest.

  "I don't wanna say," the boy said.

  "Where is he?" Flotsam asked.

  "He ain't here," the boy said. "He got in his car and went to the hospital."

  "Where was he hit?" Flotsam asked, figuring it was probably a gang drive-by.

  "Here," the boy said, taking a hand down and touching his left buttock.

  "How old is he?" Flotsam asked.

  "Eighteen," said the kid. "Can I take my hands off my head now?"

  Flotsam nodded and said, "Which hospital did he go to?"

  "I dunno," the kid said. "He was really mad and swearing and everything, so he didn't wanna talk to nobody."

  "Is your mother home?" Flotsam asked.

  "No, she's at work."

  "Did one of you shoot him?" Jetsam asked.

  "None of us kids," the boy said.

  "Then who shot him?" Jetsam asked.

  This time the kid burst into tears and shook his head. "I can't tell you," he said, looking toward the bungalow.

  "Is the shooter in the house?" Flotsam asked, elevating the muzzle of his pistol, ready for anything.

  "Uh-huh," the kid said, and now he really started bawling.

  Hollywood Nate and Snuffy Salcedo, along with a second team from Watch 3, deployed near the front porch with their pistols drawn. Flotsam said to them, "The shooter's inside."

  Then Flotsam and Jetsam quickly gestured for all of the kids to move from the porch and onto the tiny patch of grass that passed for a lawn. Flotsam nodded to his partner, who nodded back, and Jetsam entered the bungalow quickly with the stock of the shotgun tucked against his hip, followed by Flotsam.

  Jetsam yelled, "Police officers! Step out of the bedroom with your hands on your head!"

  No answer, but they could hear the television going.

  Flotsam crouched, his pistol extended in both hands and moved out of the kill zone. He said, "Now, goddamnit! Come out now!" Still no answer.

  Jetsam advanced in a semicrouch. The gloom of twilight made it hard to see clearly into the darkened bedroom where the television was playing, but they could hear Spanish-speaking voices delivering their melodramatic lines with lots of intensity and plenty of volume. But that was all they heard.

  "Come out!" Flotsam ordered again.

  Jetsam, his back to the wall and still inching forward, craned his neck, and peering around the doorjamb, he found the shooter.

  She was sitting where she always sat, on a lumpy Barcalounger with her legs up, intently watching an old TV that sat on top of a chest of drawers. The antenna wire ran from the TV set to the window, where presumably it led to a roof antenna.

  A rusty old .32 caliber revolver was lying on a table beside her, next to a telephone.

  Jetsam said, "Bro, get in here and check this out!"

  Then he entered the tiny room, moving quickly to the table, and picked up the revolver, with Flotsam right behind him.

  She hardly looked at them but seemed to concentrate harder on the program, where a shirtless man on a tropical beach at night was kissing a voluptuous woman who sighed and said, "'Carlos, Carlos, mi amor!" He answered with, "'Isabel, mi vida!"

  "Dude," Flotsam said. "She's like, a hundred years old."

  As it turned out, he wasn't far off. At first glance, she seemed mummified. The ancient Salvadoran woman was the color of mocha coffee with curdled cream. Her hair, what there was of it, was a patch of colorless frizz. Her milky eyes were sunken deep within their sockets, and her eyelids looked like crumpled tissue paper. Her crusty lips hung open, baring blackened gums and a few amber teeth. She wore a faded cotton dress large enough for two of her, and fuzzy Donald Duck bedroom slippers. Her bare arms and legs were brittle sticks, and her crinkling flesh was parchment-dry and looked too delicate to withstand the slightest human touch.

  Jetsam said, "Bro, what we got here is the fiber oldster of Hollywood."

  "E Ingles?" Flotsam said to her. "EUHabla Ingles?"

  The old woman glanced at him with her milky eyes and shook her head and went back to watching television.

  "Get Snuffy in here," Jetsam yelled to the cops now milling around on the front porch.

  After a moment Snuffy Salcedo entered the bedroom, looked at the woman, and said to the surfer cops, "Are you kidding me?"

  Then he squatted beside the Barcalounger and talked to her. She answered softly in a surprisingly strong voice but never took her eyes off the television program while Snuffy delivered a series of questions.

  After she gave a few short answers to him, Snuffy said to Flotsam and Jetsam and Hollywood Nate, "Her name's Irma Beltran. She's the great-grandmother of the kids, and she thinks she's either ninety-eight or ninety-nine years old, she can't remember which. But she's having a big party here on her hundredth birthday and there's gonna be pupusas and curtido and tres leches birthday cake. And we're all invited."

  Flotsam and Jetsam looked at each other, and Jetsam said to Snuffy, "Ask her who shot the kid."

  "I already did."

  "Don't keep us in suspense, dude," Flotsam said.

  "She shot him," Snuffy said.

  "Maybe she's covering for somebody," Jetsam said hopefully. "Maybe for the kids' father?"

  "She's very definite," Snuffy said. "She shot him."

  "Ask her if it was an accident," Flotsam said. "I'll bet it was an accident."

  Snuffy spoke to her again and listened to her answer and said, "N
ope. She said she shot him on purpose." Then, enjoying the surfer cops' discomfort, Snuffy said, "Want me to read her the Miranda rights? A felony bust will look good on your recap."

  Ignoring the wisecrack, Jetsam said, "Ask her why she shot him."

  "I already did," said Snuffy. "She shot him because he wouldn't stop talking on the phone when she's trying to watch her favorite novela."

  After a moment of deliberation, Flotsam said, "So what're we gonna do with her?"

  "This is one shooter I ain't handcuffing," Jetsam said. "You touch her and she might crumble into pieces. Maybe into powder. You'll need a dustpan to pick her up. Maybe we better call a supervisor."

  "Aw, shit!" Flotsam said. "Ask her if maybe she was just sorta trying to scare him away from her telephone and cranked one off sorta in his general direction, and it sorta accidentally nailed him in the ass."

  Snuffy Salcedo spoke to her again and listened to her answer, and then turned to the other cops and said, "She says she always hits what she aims at. And would the big policeman please move away from the television set because she thinks Carlos is very handsome and this is a really good part."

  Flotsam stepped aside so Irma Beltran could see what Carlos was going to do now that he had Isabel lying helpless on the sand in a swoon from his blazing kisses. Isabel's right breast was partially exposed now and that even got Jetsam engrossed in the program.

  Then Flotsam said to his partner, "Keep your mind in the game, dude, and pay attention here. We got a Hollywood moon coming up tonight, so maybe she caught an early lunar vibe and this ain't all her fault. Think of a graceful way outta this so we don't gotta move her from that chair."

  Hollywood Nate said, "Just book the gun. The kid probably went to the ER at Hollywood Pres. By now he's chill. I bet he'll sign off that the old lady capped him by accident, or maybe you can suggest that he did it himself while practicing his quick draw. And you might remind him to stop using the phone when Granny Oakley's watching her soap operas."

  Just then, Compassionate Charlie Gilford sauntered into the crowded little bedroom, and said, "What's taking you guys so long?" When he saw Irma Beltran, he froze and said, "What the fuck's Norman Bates's momma doing here?"

  "She's the shooter," Flotsam said. "It was an accident, though. She thought the gun was the TV remote. It could happen to anyone."

  "Put her back in the fruit cellar!" Compassionate Charlie said with a shiver of distaste.

  "We think the victim's at Hollywood Pres," Flotsam said to the detective. "He's her great-grandson. Butt shot is all. No biggie." They were interrupted when a copper from Watch 3 came into the crowded room and said, "Breaking news. The oldest of the kids just told us his great-grandma's a hundred and three years old."

  Hollywood Nate said to the detective, "This might win the Hollywood moon award, Charlie. This has got to be the longevity record for local female shooters. A hundred and three!"

  Compassionate Charlie sucked his teeth for a few seconds, then shrugged and said, "So what? Something weirder will happen around here tonight." And then he added the mantra heard so frequently in that geographic police division: "This is fucking Hollywood."

  The detective took a notebook from his pocket to find the number for Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center, but when he walked to the table and reached for the telephone, both Flotsam and Jetsam scared the crap out of him when they yelled in unison, "Don't touch the phone!"

  Jonas Claymore wasn't affected by the full moon over Hollywood. He was in bed with a heating pad on his lower back, bitching even when Megan Burke came in with a watson for him that she'd scored along with two OCs in trade for the stolen TV set.

  "Is the pain as bad as yesterday?" she asked.

  "What the fuck do you think?" Jonas grumbled. "Christ, the heat ain't helping at all. Rub me down again with that hot gel, will ya? Oh, my fucking back. I'd like to go back there and toss that mutt a hamburger loaded with rat poison."

  "You should watch TV or something," Megan said, sick of his whining. "If you could just get yourself out of bed, you'd feel better."

  "Easy for you to say," Jonas said. "Make me something to eat, will ya?"

  "What do you want, Jonas?"

  "Oh, maybe prime rib with garlic mashed potatoes. Or a filet mignon with grilled onions. Whadda you mean, for chrissake?"

  Megan sighed and said, "I'll see if there's a can of tomato soup left. If there is, do you want crackers with it?"

  "Surprise me with your culinary art," Jonas said.

  "Maybe it was an omen," Megan said. "Being attacked by an animal on our first crime. Maybe we should stop while we can."

  Jonas said, "Didn't you kinda get a rush from snatching that TV from that house? I was hoping that maybe for a little while you could get into grabbing small stuff to trade for ox. I mean, just till we get on our feet. Then I was hoping you might be ready to try going into one of those big houses up in the Hollywood Hills."

  "I still think it's scary."

  "I told you from the jump, we won't do anything that ain't safe."

  She thought about it and said, "Okay, I guess maybe I'm in. Temporarily. Just till we're on our feet."

  "I'll be good to go in a couple of days," Jonas said. "Now, how about that food?"

  She was gone for fifteen minutes, and when she came back, she had a bowl of tomato soup and a few saltine crackers on a paper plate. Jonas picked up a cracker and it was so soggy it bent in his fingers.

  "Is it okay?" Megan asked when he tasted a spoonful. "Savory," Jonas said. "One of your better dinners, I'd have to say."

  Chapter Twelve.

  VIV DALEY AND Georgie Adams had been removed from the field after the shooting of Louis Dryden and would not be returned to field duty until a BSS shrink and the chief gave an okay, per LAPD policy. That left only two women working the midwatch on that night of the Hollywood moon. P3 Della Ravelle, a twenty-two-year cop, was the Field Training Officer for P1 Britney Small, who was born a year after her FTO had been appointed to the LAPD. They were working 6-X-46, and Della Ravelle was driving, with young Britney Small doing the report writing.

  Britney Small, who was in the last phase of her probation, was one of the most reticent and shy women that Della Ravelle had ever encountered in law enforcement. But her former FTO, a highly disciplined Korean American cop named Rupert Tong, had always given her glowing evaluations, so Della figured the probationer must've been assertive enough when she needed to be. Tong had transferred to a long-awaited detective assignment at Robbery-Homicide Division, and Della Ravelle was taking over Britney Small until the end of her eighteen-month probationary period, two months hence.

  Since Britney Small was so near the end of her probation and Della Ravelle was so laid-back, Della insisted that the boot not keep calling her ma'am. Britney had never stopped calling Rupert Tong sir until their last night together, when the former Navy SEAL said to her, "Be sure and let me know if you need anything or have any questions about something you've learned from me. You've got my cell number."

  It was only after Britney had said, "Thank you, sir, and good luck to you," that he'd smiled broadly and given her a farewell hug, saying, "You're a real copper already, Brit. You can call me Rupert anytime."

  Britney Small was so willowy that Della Ravelle called her "my bluesuit ballerina." The creamy-faced rookie loved working with this female FTO, telling her on their first night together that it was great to work with someone even older than her mom, for the wisdom it would bring.

  "Thanks for that," Della said, thinking what everyone past forty would think at such a moment--Older than her mom? Where did it all go? How the hell did this happen to me?

  Della Ravelle was forty-four years old, with smart hazel eyes and a friendly grin for everyone. She had to go to a hairdresser more often than she liked these days in order to keep her hair brown. "I'll dye till I die" was her motto. She was always struggling to lose ten pounds despite frequent workouts in the Hollywood Station weight room, where Hollywood
Nate pumped iron almost daily.

  She was twice married and twice divorced, with two sons aged nineteen and seventeen, who lived with her in her South Pasadena house. Zach and Jonathan were students, one at Pasadena City College and the other at South Pasadena High School. Della always thought it was nothing more than sheer luck that she had married slightly better the first time, back at a time when she'd wanted children. That marriage was to an IRS auditor who was diligent with his child support payments throughout the years, even though during their marriage he was so nitpicking and clueless that he almost drove her crazy. To him, police work was something that could be analyzed like the tax returns of the deadbeats he delighted in tormenting. He could never understand the emotional hazards of the Job, and the powerful bonds that developed among the blue brethren in Della's strange fraternity of the badge.

  The second husband was a worse mistake because he, too, was a cop, an alpha male, LAPD macho copper, mustache and all. They had battled from their honeymoon on, but thankfully the marriage was brief with no children. So now, with the days and nights of hiring babysitters behind her, Della Ravelle hoped to enjoy the six years she planned to remain on the Job before retiring at age fifty to a peaceful future where the size of the moon over Hollywood did not matter a whit.

  At 9 P. M. that night, she looked up while driving and said to Britney Small, "Wonder when it's gonna bring its wrath down on us."

  "What?" Britney asked.

  "The Hollywood moon," Della said. "We're due."

  So far, their watch had been routine, but the full-moon motorists were already feeling the effects of it. There had been three traffic collisions on the boulevards, and both Della and Britney had written traffic citations for moving violations. On their third call, they caught a "415 family dispute" on their dashboard computer, indicating the penal code section for disturbance of the peace. Such routine calls often escalated, so on the way to the call, Della said to her probationer, "About these routine four-fifteen family disputes, I want you to always keep in mind that you and me don't go hands-on with people until backup arrives. Don't be shy about using your rover to call for assistance or help if you have to."