The Glitter Dome

by Joseph Wambaugh

  He was really a swell guy, all in all. He smoked real Cuban cigars and gave Buckmore Phipps one when the cops left him to secure his broken door.

  Except that it wasn’t his door. It wasn’t his shop. As far as the detectives could piece it together, after entering through the broken rear roor of the Batbite Specialty Shop, he eventually tunneled through the wall into the neighboring jewelry store, and made off with $275,000 in watches, rings and necklaces.

  When the real owner of the Batbite Specialty Shop showed up at the police station along with the jewelry store proprietor, both screaming and yelling about the mentality of cops, and when Buckmore Phipps and Gibson Hand were called code-two into the detective bureau with their worthless business card belonging to a pretty good tunnel man, the street monsters figured out right away that Jukebox Johnson had been in cahoots with Harvey H. Fairchild. It was all the detectives could do to keep the two street monsters from breaking into Jukebox Johnson’s cell and lynching the little traitor on the spot, except that he had already been writted out of jail by a lawyer who said he was retained by one Jules P. Laidlaw, a fat pink guy with lots of jewelry and a groovy silk suit.

  So it was woe to the boulevard denizens for the next few weeks while Buckmore Phipps and Gibson Hand worked at exorcising the memory of their Waterloo at the hands of Jukebox Johnson and a future corpse who called himself Harvey H. Fairchild and Jules P. Laidlaw. During those humiliating days Buckmore Phipps broke two molars grinding his teeth in frustration, and Gibson Hand accidentally snapped a police nightstick in two, whacking a telephone pole. There was scarcely a word passed between the two street monsters on their fruitless manhunt. Instead of asking each other whether one wanted to drive or write reports, Buckmore Phipps or Gibson Hand would turn a rabid face toward another rabid face and say: “How about today you write and I fight.”

  So, knowing that Buckmore Phipps and Gibson Hand were cutting a swath across Hollywood not seen since the Hillside Strangler manhunt (like rogue elephants they foraged through every addict haunt and hole-in-the-wall for the needle-scarred carcass of Jukebox Johnson), the little junkie decided it was time to take a Greyhound with part of his score from Harvey H. Fairchild’s tunnel job, and head on back to Little Rock for a permanent family reunion. Jukebox Johnson knew full well that life was harder for ex-disc-jockey, junkie burglars in Little Rock, but he also knew that as far as he was concerned, Buckmore Phipps and Gibson Hand just weren’t about to be taking any prisoners.

  6

  Just Plain Bill

  “I’ve thrown more freaking passes the last two days than Roger Staubach threw in his whole career,” the Ferret moaned.

  “Then take a little off them,” the Weasel complained. “My ribs look like I just fought ten rounds with Larry Holmes.”

  “I start lobbing the ball to you and I’ll lose control and bust another window. That’s all we need. Screw it, let’s take a break.”

  So the two narcs, dressed today in sweat shirts and jeans and tennis shoes instead of leather jackets and boots, took their football and retreated half a block down Oxford Avenue to the green Toyota where they kept their other props.

  They’d been street football jocks the last two days while watching a certain house south of Los Feliz Boulevard. Two days before that they were gardeners, after having been lucky enough to find a house on the street with the residents on vacation. The Ferret mowed the lawn seven times. The Weasel dug up all the crabgrass, pruned the roses, snipped back the ivy, and when they’d run out of things to do, started all over again. It gave them a splendid vantage point from which to observe the house in question, but after two days of overzealous gardening there wasn’t enough left for a hungry snail. They packed up their gardening tools after it looked like a horde of locusts had hit the yard. Then they started playing the endless game of catch football.

  The resident of the house under surveillance was, according to a usually reliable snitch named Sox Wilson, dealing chunks of hash as big as cucumbers, and had bragged that this very week he was going to wheel his silver Mercedes 450SL out of his garage and make a fresh buy from his Asian connection on the waterfronts of San Pedro.

  The county recorder’s office showed the property deed to belong to a Randolph Waterman, who had leased the house to a vacationing couple, who had subleased the property, apparently to the hash dealer or one of his friends. The narcs couldn’t find out the name of the dealer except that everyone called him Bill.

  “Bill what, for chrissake?” the Weasel demanded of Sox Wilson.

  “I dunno, I dunno, Weasel,” Sox Wilson whined. “If I’m lyin, I’m flyin.”

  “If you’re lyin, you’re fryin,” the Weasel corrected him.

  “If you’re lyin, you’re dyin,” the Ferret corrected them both, cleaning his fingernails with his stiletto.

  “They call him Bill,” Sox Wilson pleaded. “Just plain Bill.”

  It wasn’t that a hash bust was worth mowing blisters on your hands, or facing heat exhaustion from throwing footballs all day, but Captain Woofer happened to live on this street, and when he heard that dope was being dealt there (Weasel’s dumb mistake in telling him) he ordered the two narcs to crawl out of all their leather, look as respectable as they were capable of looking without cutting their beards and ponytails, and get that son of a bitch who dared to sully the street where the captain had resided for twenty-three years. It was almost the only investigation going on at present that Captain Woofer gave a damn about except the one involving Nigel St. Claire. The Weasel and the Ferret expected to get their balls whacked good if they didn’t nail Just Plain Bill in the next few days.

  There was another investigation going on which concerned Captain Woofer more than Just Plain Bill and Nigel St. Claire put together. It was an ultra-secret investigation being conducted by Internal Affairs Division. The fact was that someone was trying to drive Captain Woofer bonzo. It had been going on for over three months. Although neither Captain Woofer nor the Internal Affairs headhunters had been able to put it together, it all began the morning after a local television showing of Gaslight, where Charles Boyer tried to drive Ingrid Bergman bonzo and nearly succeeded.

  As all policemen learn: Life imitates not art but melodrama.

  During the month of February, when the captain and his wife, Sybil, went for a weekend fishing trip in San Diego, someone listed their home with a local realtor for such a ridiculously low price that it was sold before the Woofers returned from the holiday. The listing party’s description could have fit a thousand sleazeballs from the boulevard. Captain Woofer looked at over five hundred mug shots of known confidence men to no avail. The Woofers got sick and tired of realtors showing up with prospective buyers for the next two weeks, and finally put a Not For Sale sign in the front yard. The transaction was nullified and the whole incident was dismissed by bunco detectives as an obvious prank.

  The investigation was revived and Internal Affairs Division was brought into the picture when, three weeks later, the license number of Captain Woofer’s family car was plugged into the statewide computer as a stolen vehicle containing armed and dangerous occupants. It wasn’t a damn bit funny when Sybil Woofer and her best friend, Mrs. Commander Peterson, were jacked-up by two cops with shotguns and ordered out of the “stolen” station wagon in front of the Hermès store in Beverly Hills.

  While the two women screamed and cried, with their hands planted firmly on top of their coiffured blue hair, a crowd of ogling Arabs, Iranians, Texans and other wogs quickly gathered and shook their heads and spoke to each other in their exotic tongues about the anarchy in California where female desperadoes disguised themselves to look like window-shoppers from Van Nuys.

  The most despicable incident had occurred one week before Al Mackey and Martin Welborn were given the Nigel St. Claire case. It happened when Captain Woofer, echoing Deputy Chief Julian Francis’ call for better police relations with the swelling tide of ethnic minorities in Los Angeles, mentioned to the squad-room full of bore
d detectives that he too had always been kind to Negroes. Which caused the Weasel and Ferret to exchange knowing looks. Within a week, two things happened: First, someone forged Captain Woofer’s signature on a payroll deduction card requesting that five percent of Captain Woofer’s police salary be deducted and sent as a charitable contribution to the United Negro College Fund. Second, an ad appeared the following Monday in the classifieds of Los Angeles’ largest underground newspaper. It said: “Male, white, 59 years old, pipesmoker, neat, obedient, always kind to Negroes, seeks young virile Negro with whom to be kind. Willing to pay handsomely if pipestem exceeds seven inches.” The deplorable ad listed Captain Woofer’s home telephone number, which began ringing every three and a half minutes, erasing any doubt in the minds of the headhunters from Internal Affairs Division that the swine who was trying (with some success) to drive Captain Woofer bonzo had to be an insider. The girl who took the ad from the cash customer was unable to provide any kind of helpful description. The man who placed the ad had worn a scuba diving mask and a wet suit when he strolled into the office.

  When the incredulous headhunters asked if she didn’t think the man’s costume was a bit unusual, the girl said, “Where the fuck you think this is—Wahoo, Nebraska? This is Hollywood, U.S.A.!”

  It began to look like the vicious attacks on Captain Woofer had run their course when yet another incident occurred, this one the most direct and personal, literally under Captain Woofer’s stopped-up nose. It had to be someone very close, someone who knew that Captain Woofer had a corker of a head cold that week. His adenoids were mushrooming, his eyes watering, his nose was absolutely useless, and two bottles of spray hadn’t unclogged it. Captain Woofer had been leaning back in his swivel chair, his sore tail planted in his rubber ring, legs up to relieve the inflammation, squirting drops in his nostrils. Nothing worked. He had caught the cold by sitting in his rhododendrons all night watching the house of the mysterious neighbor on Oxford Avenue.

  He was suffering and miserable when he ordered the Weasel and Ferret to get that son of a bitch of a dope dealer, and left no doubt that he would whack their balls if they failed. It made them downright hostile. And not toward Just Plain Bill, the alleged hash dealer.

  The very afternoon that the Weasel and the Ferret were working the stakeout on Oxford Avenue, Captain Woofer strolled out of his office into the squadroom, made a strange statement to his troops, and keeled over into the lap of poor old Cal Greenberg.

  The paramedics were called and Captain Woofer was rushed to the receiving hospital, where there was a physician on duty who did not have the sniffles and could detect a powerful odor on Captain Woofer’s breath. That, coupled with the fact that his distended pupils looked like black dimes, caused the physician to put in a call to the police department which resulted in Captain Woofer’s being the suspect in an investigation by Internal Affairs Division.

  The headhunters, who had not watched Gaslight, were nevertheless able to absolve Captain Woofer of any charge of misconduct. It was apparent that he was the victim of yet another attempt to drive him bonzo. And it had temporarily succeeded.

  They discovered that Captain Woofer’s beloved briar had been tampered with, probably when Captain Woofer went to the toilet to make his futile morning attempt, and undoubtedly by someone who knew that Captain Woofer had the habit of leaving his pipe on the towel tray in the restroom, along with his coat and gunbelt. The gun stayed on the floor beside the toilet. What with all the raids against him these days he didn’t feel safe anywhere.

  It seemed likely that someone had crept into the men’s rest-room and unloaded Captain Woofer’s tamped and loaded briar, reloading it with very high grade hashish or Thai stick, according to the crime lab. Then a layer of tobacco was spread over the potent pipe which was tamped and replaced. With Captain Woofer’s head cold, he smelled nothing. With his sniffer out of commission it was difficult to taste anything, but he did think upon reflection that the smoke seemed extra harsh. After he’d smoked half a pipe load, Captain Woofer felt that something was wrong. Still, he smoked. Then he stood up unsteadily and strolled out of the squadroom, and made a singularly bizarre announcement, even for him.

  Before he keeled over into poor old Cal Greenberg’s lap he pointed to a sixty-year-old clerk typist named Gladys Bruckmeyer who was just trying to do her time and get her pension and retire to a mobile home in Apple Valley. Captain Woofer aimed an accusing finger at her and, his voice full of righteous indignation, cried: “YOU! IT’S YOUR FAULT, GLADYS BRUCKMEYER!”

  Gladys Bruckmeyer snapped out of her Apple Valley reverie so fast she tore her pantyhose jumping up. And, as the senior clerk typist wondered what mistake she could have possibly made on Captain Woofer’s progress reports to spur this kind of rage, he repeated it: “IT’S YOUR FAULT, GLADYS BRUCKMEYER!”

  The entire squadroom, of course, grew deathly still. Detectives hung up on callers in midsentence. Pencil lead broke in mid-stroke. It was a frozen tableau unique in the history of Hollywood Detectives.

  Then Captain Woofer, still puffing on the pipe, in the presence of nearly the entire squadroom of astonished detectives (two were off throwing footballs with peculiar smiles on their faces this morning) unequivocally accused Gladys Bruckmeyer and challenged her to deny it.

  And in her shock and fear of losing her pension and never living in Apple Valley, Gladys Bruckmeyer became disoriented and confused.

  “WELL?” Captain Woofer thundered at the top of his ragged lungs, “DO YOU DENY LETTING THE CATERPILLARS CONQUER THE KINGDOM?”

  Just before Captain Woofer did his nose dive into poor old Cal Greenberg’s lap, Gladys Bruckmeyer tearfully admitted that she couldn’t deny it.

  “But can’t you give me another chance, Captain?” she sobbed. “I’ve already got my mobile home picked out!”

  While the Weasel decided to pop a can of beer and take it laid-back and easy, because this hash dealer, if he was a hash dealer, was never going to make a move, and while the Ferret prowled around what was left of the yard on Oxford Avenue, morosely throwing his stiletto into an olive tree, the only piece of vegetation they hadn’t demolished, Just Plain Bill made his move.

  If the Weasel hadn’t reached into the back seat of the green Toyota for the beer, he might never have noticed the little silver Mercedes wheeling out of the driveway and turning north toward Fern Dell Park. Before the Weasel got the Toyota fired up and pointed in the right direction the Mercedes was already out of sight. The happy Ferret leaped into the nark ark as the Weasel yelled, “Let’s get on it!” and careened toward the park.

  The two narcs thus began a tail which ultimately resulted in the Weasel and the Ferret helping to coach the Los Angeles Lakers toward a world basketball championship. And only incidentally resulted in yet another break in the Nigel St. Claire murder case.

  The thirteen hours with Just Plain Bill almost ended before it all began. The Mercedes made a right, and yet another right on Franklin Avenue, heading back to the Oxford address like a homing pigeon. But before reaching Oxford, the Mercedes made a fancy U-turn on Franklin Avenue and then another, almost running smack into the green Toyota, causing the Weasel to yell: “Eat the floormat! The asshole’s looking for a tail!”

  Then, with the Ferret down on the floor of the Toyota, the Weasel turned east on Franklin Avenue, certain that Just Plain Bill had not seen the Toyota and, if he had, would have seen only one head in the car rather than the ever more suspicious two-man tailing team.

  They only had to wait thirty minutes. The silver Mercedes pulled out of the Oxford driveway a second time. The driver seemed more satisfied that there was no one watching the house and he made a southbound turn, passing the Toyota, which was jammed parallel between two neighborhood cars, and both narcs ate the floormat until the Mercedes turned west on Franklin. Then they roared after him, taking Just Plain Bill more seriously.

  “This sucker’s for real,” the Ferret observed. “Why didn’t we believe Sox Wilson this time? We should
have two more cars on this tail.”

  “Why did I open my big mouth to Woofer about the doper on his street?”

  “Why don’t those unknown suspects have a little more imagination next time and come up with a surefire scheme to get Woofer in the ding ward at the Veterans’ Hospital before he knocks our dicks down? I got a bad feeling this is gonna be an all-nighter.”

  “I got a bad feeling I ain’t gonna meet whatzerface with the four nipples at The Glitter Dome tonight.”

  “Shit, neither one of us is gonna be touching pee pees tonight and … FOUR NIPPLES?”

  Just then the Mercedes gunned it on the yellow and busted the light on Gower Street.

  “Son of a bitch! He’s still hinky about a tail!”

  The Weasel slid the Toyota over to the eastbound lane, causing a laundry truck to jam on his brakes, turned south, jumping the curb in a service station, crossed the sidewalk, and after two other cars were behind the Mercedes, risked getting back into the westbound lane to continue following. If they had run the stoplight behind the watchful driver, it would have been all over. The Ferret’s pulse was kicking in at 130 beats a minute, and he glanced repeatedly at the bulging green eyes of the bearded Weasel with his death grip on the steering wheel.

  “Goddamn, Ferret, watch the fucking road! We’re gonna lose him. Shit, where is he? We lost him!”

  Both narcs swiveled every which way, squinting down side streets against the smoggy rays of the setting sun that made every pale car look silver.