Hollywood Moon (2009)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 03

  There was nobody hanging around Pablo's that he'd seen or dealt with in the past. Pablo's mostly did a takeout business, but there were a few small tables inside, so he decided to sit and wait for a pot dealer to arrive. He needed something to make him feel more in charge of his emotions. He was still troubled about what had happened in the parking garagef_"troubled, but also more excited than he'd ever been in his entire life.

  He'd wanted to come in that bitch's mouth, that's what he'd wanted to do, but he'd been too scared. There had been too many cars passing by, and he'd feared that at any minute one of the other residents would drive in. Then he might've had to fight for his life. How would that have been? With only a box cutter against a grown man? That's how Malcolm Rojas saw himself in such an encounter. Fighting for survival against a grown man.

  But he didn't think he'd ever need to do that again. He'd never again let the anger rule him. He'd masturbate or smoke a blunt and everything would be okay.

  Yet he'd brought his box cutter from the home improvement store again today. Why did he do that? He didn't want to think about it now. He just wanted a taste, only something to take the edge off. And if his mother bitched about him smoking it, maybe he'd tell her to go dive in her bottle of Jim Beam and shut the fuck up. Malcolm ordered a cup of coffee and sat down at one of the little tables inside to watch and wait for a dealer to show.

  Dewey Gleason had been Bernie Graham all day. Bernie Graham was no challenge at all and in fact was a bit boring to his creator. Bernie was an L. A. guy, born and raised, and as Dewey saw him, Bernie had come from money, the son of a successful plastic surgeon who catered to a glamorous Westside trade. Bernie had an MBA from USC and had been a highly successful investment adviser, but he had suffered through two bad marriages with a gambling problem that necessitated his foray into illegal activity.

  Dewey felt he had to establish this plausible backstory when dealing with college kids. They asked questions that the likes of Creole and Jerzy would never ask. The college boys were paranoid about getting caught and mentioned their parents a lot, and Dewey had to share fictional background information to reassure them. Or rather, paternalistic Bernie Graham had to.

  At least Bernie Graham didn't need to be imposing, so Dewey didn't have to wear the shoes with lifts and suffer from ankle pain for two days, as he did when he was Jakob Kessler. Nor did he need the contact lenses, because Bernie Graham seldom needed to intimidate anybody. And Bernie Graham didn't have to be an older man, so Dewey could lose the gray wig. About all he'd done for Bernie Graham was use a rinse in his hair to make it a few shades darker and apply a stick-on mustache along with trendy eyeglasses.

  His Bernie Graham character always dressed wellf_"thanks to Nordstrom's no-questions-asked return policyf_"usually in a blazer and chinos. Dewey had considered creating a small but noticeable scar across Bernie's forehead that a college kid would undoubtedly describe for the cops if the kid was ever arrested. Ultimately, he'd decided that the scar would be overkill, but he affected a right-legged limp that he claimed was the result of a skiing accident on Mammoth Mountain, where he'd gone with fraternity brothers.

  Meeting college kids wasn't hard to do. The previous year, Dewey had cultivated one who'd been working part-time at a Starbucks in West L. A., and he'd parlayed that meeting into several others with students who were cash-strapped. Soon he knew a dozen kids he could nurture and train. To begin with, he'd simply buy their debit cards and their PINs. The card-selling student would have to be in good standing with his bank. Dewey could almost always buy the card for $300 or less, but sometimes the more assertive kids chiseled another $100 out of him.

  Then Dewey as Bernie Graham would use a deposit runner unknown to the first kid to deposit several of Eunice's counterfeit checks into the account of the kid who'd sold him the card. The deposit runner would have good bogus ID created by Eunice, so that any photo taken by a bank security camera would not match the student who'd sold Dewey the card. Then a third student, one who Dewey called his bucks-up runner, not known by either of the first two, would be hired to travel to San Diego County, or out to the Palm Springs area, where there were some very big Indian casinos. That student, with another of Eunice's bogus IDs, would gamble a little, and through a clever phone call to override the card's daily limit, he would loot the debit account until it was dry. Any security video taken at the casinos would likewise not match the legitimate owner of the debit card, nor the one who'd deposited the bogus checks.

  When the bank finally contacted the original student, the kid would say, Oh, my gosh, my debit card isn't in my wallet! And I had my PIN number taped to it! Oh, my gosh!

  When the bank tried telling the kid that he owed the bank payback for the thousands they'd lost, the kid would recite lines fed by Bernie Graham: But I didn't even know it was missing until you called me!

  The security at Indian casinos was generally lax, and none of Bernie's runners had gotten arrested so far. The security people at the casinos were concerned with customers cheating the house, not with cheating the banks. They'd look diligently for elaborate devices designed to beat the slot machines, but ATM scams were of little concern to them, and, most important, there were no close-up cameras at the ATM machines in the casinos, which made them desirable targets.

  Dewey Gleason's favorite line as a closer to a new college kid was, Look, the banks take the hits, so the Injuns don't give a shit. You think the banks can't afford to lose a few thousand here and there? Who needs it more, you or Bank of America?

  Dewey had no doubt that every one of the students skimmed some of the cash they were supposed to be returning to their mentor. Most of them would say something like, Mr. Graham, there was a guy eyeballing me, so I had to gamble more than I wanted to. But I didn't lose too much.

  But what they ended up giving him made the whole gag surprisingly profitable. The college kids didn't want to lose this new and fascinating source of income, so they were careful not to kill the golden goose. It made Eunice happy, but Dewey complained that he'd ended up being nothing more than a coach and collector. There was no challenge for a man who'd spent most of his adult life chasing casting agents and reading for uninterested TV producers and auditioning for parts he never got. At least with Jakob Kessler he got to give a real performance, and it was exhilarating, especially when he turned those pale contact lenses on someone like Creole and talked about greed. That's when he felt he was doing what he was born to do. He was giving a great performance every time, no matter what that jealous bitch had to say about it.

  His last stop late that afternoon was in West Hollywood, but after a long day spent collecting, Dewey got a phone call on one of the eight GoPhones he kept on his person and in his briefcase.

  Eunice, who could never resist belittling him, said, Hello. Am I speaking with the tall and fearsome Jakob Kessler or gimpy little Bernie Graham?

  How do I hate thee? Dewey replied. Let me count the ways.

  What? she said. You're breaking up.

  Get to the fucking point, Ethel, he said, using her GoPhone name. Whadda you want?

  Stop by the Mexican joint after you're all done, she said, which they both knew to mean Pablo's Tacos, the notorious Santa Monica Boulevard meeting place for tweakers, crackheads, and others with illicit goods to sell. Look for a black guy who calls himself John. He's supposed to show up at around eight fifteen with the goods I talked to you about on Monday.

  Eunice had never shut her fucking mouth on Monday or any other day, and most of what she'd said had passed him by. She had one idea after another, one job after another for him to do, while she just sat there in the apartment and created, and smoked herself into an early grave. The last part would be just fine with him if it could happen sooner. Monday? Which gag was that? Finally, he had to admit the truth and take what she'd surely dump on him.

  He said, Okay, Ethel, I don't remember what you told me on fucking Monday, okay?

  You don't remember. Why doesn't that surprise me? she sai
d. Why do I knock myself out for you?

  Please let me knock you out sometime, he said, slamming on the brakes after almost blowing the light at Cahuenga and Sunset because she had him so upset.

  The guy with the goods from his office? Sweet Jesus! Do I have to spell it out for you on the goddamn phone?

  Then he remembered. A Nigerian night janitor who was acquainted with one of Dewey's Mexican runners claimed to have access to his company's checks, and he'd suggested that some checks could temporarily disappear from the office, no problem. His company employed several hundred Latino workers, and Eunice intended to make duplicates of the paychecks and then have the janitor return the originals to the check file. She was curious to see how many could be cashed by Dewey's Mexicans with bogus IDs she supplied before the company and the company's bank discovered that some paychecks were being cashed twice.

  Okay, Ethel, I'm all dialed-in now, Dewey said after he remembered her instructions regarding the Nigerian. I'll go by the joint and look for some black dude, which might include half the people I see in the parking lot, what with so many silverbacks coming up to Hollywood from South L. A. every goddamn night. Do you have a better description?

  Your runner said he's forty, fat, and nervous, remember? Then she said, No, of course you don't remember. Offer one Franklin to him and see how it goes from there.

  This is just great, Dewey said. Somebody walks into that parking lot looking suspicious and the first cop cruising by will be on him like maggots on the horse meat they sell in that joint. And of course, being a black foreigner from his fucked-up country, he'll be an hour late.

  Ignoring his complaints, Eunice said, And after you finish with that job, stop and get me a Whopper with fries. No, make it two Whoppers. I'm hungry.

  Then she clicked off, and Dewey threw the phone on the seat beside him, muttering all the way to West Hollywood, for what he'd previously thought would be the last stop of the day.

  Dewey was leery about dealing with a Nigerian. They had their own scams and didn't work well with outsiders. Dewey thought that by now everyone with the brain of a chicken would be onto the big Nigerian eBay scams, such as the one where an item, like a golf cart, would be listed for sale by a legitimate US seller. The Nigerians would send a check to the seller made out for five times the asking price of the item. Many honest but gullible sellers would send the item and the balance of the huge check to the Nigerian, who the seller figured was just not attuned to our American way. Of course, the seller's check would be legitimate but the Nigerian's original check would be bogus.

  Dewey had seen a notice on the online classifieds site craigslist from a seller who'd been stung. He'd posted a message saying that his item was not for sale to any Nigerian. Dewey figured he should be cautious when dealing with the Nigerian tonight and would look and listen very carefully to determine if the sheet of checks was legitimate.

  He was lucky to find a parking space for his Honda Civic just off the Sunset Strip, and he spotted his depositor runner sitting outside at a sidewalk table, where he could sip a $5 cup of coffee and pretend that he was going to amount to something in the world as soon as he got his degree in anthropology or whatever useless fucking thing he was studying. Dewey hadn't met one yet who he thought would end up as anything but a valet parking attendant or a busboy at some Wolfgang Puck restaurant, if he got lucky.

  This one was a smallish kid, and of course he was wearing wraparound shades, cargo pants, and a baseball cap pulled low, as if he were someone who didn't want to be recognized by the adoring public. Dewey wondered where he got the T-shirt with the Warner Bros. logo on the back. That, the cargoes and retro sneakers, and the inability to get out of his car without a bottle of designer water said, I am employed in some capacity at the studio! Dewey Gleason was sick to death of doing business with these pathetic little fucks.

  When Dewey took the chair across the table, the kid smiled nervously and said, Hi, Mr. Graham. I'm ready to go to work.

  Dewey, ever cautious, removed the envelope he was carrying inside the pocket of his summer blazer, holding it by the corner between the tip of his thumb and forefinger, and slid it across the table.

  Everything is there, Michael, he said quietly after glancing to his right at a young woman with a leopard headband who might have overheard them if she hadn't been jabbering on her cell phone.

  Mitchell, the student corrected.

  Yes, Mitchell, Dewey agreed. You'll find two checks each for three banks. The debit cards and the driver's licenses are in the name of Seymour Belmont, Josh Davidson, and Ralph Tanazzi. Instructions are very clear. Make sure you carry the correct ID and debit card for each bank and then deposit the checks as though you do it every day. The PIN number is taped on the card for you.

  I'm sorta blonde, Mitchell said, concerned. I don't look like a Ralph Tanazzi.

  You look like the photo ID, Dewey said. That's all you have to worry about.

  I hope the pictures on the driver's licenses turned out okay, Mitchell said. That guy in the camera shop you sent me to was drunk.

  He did a good job, Dewey said. Don't sweat it.

  And myf_U pay?

  Is in the envelope, Dewey said. Three hundred dollars for walking into three banks. A couple hours of your time, driving included.

  You said four hundred dollars, Mr. Graham, Mitchell said.

  Did I? said Dewey disingenuously. He withdrew his wallet from the pocket of his blazer, removed a $100 bill, and put it on the table, saying, My mistake.

  An Asian waiter approached and said to Dewey, Sir, what can I get you?

  You'll buy me a coffee, won't you, Mitchell? Dewey said.

  Happily the kid replied, Of course, Mr. Graham. And how about a croissant?

  Later, while driving to Pablo's Tacos, Dewey had to admit that Eunice had some impressive talents she'd learned from her first husband, Hugo. She could legally shop on the Internet and buy whatever she needed. Legitimate companies sold her magnetic ink and high-end printers with different color inks, as well as other card-altering devices. Dewey was amazed the first time he watched her redo a mag number and slide a new mag strip in place of the old one.

  She had very valuable information that she sometimes kept in the virtual storage she got when buying new computers. She claimed that the cops were able to get links to Internet sites, but that was all, and that Dewey, who was nearly computer-illiterate, should stop worrying and leave the thinking to her. Of course, a deprecating crack or two would top off any admonishment she directed his way.

  Eunice kept much of her information in a Yahoo account, including names, credit-card numbers, and Social Security numbers, so that she could just log in and bring up the information as needed. Sometimes she went to Office Depot to buy Mips VersaChecks with computer programs, along with plenty of check stock. With that she could produce her own checks, account numbers, and routing numbers. She believed it was risky and didn't like to do it too often, but Eunice had never spent a day in jail, except for a DUI, and Dewey had been jailed only twice, for traffic warrants back when he was a struggling actor, before meeting Eunice.

  When Dewey parked in the little strip mall and walked inside Pablo's Tacos, he saw no black man who was forty, fat, and nervous. The people at the tables were a Latino couple with two small children, all of them eating tacos and refried beans, and a young Latino guy sitting by himself, drinking coffee.

  Dewey ordered a taco he didn't really want and a Coke. Then he sat at the table next to the young man, who was no older than Dewey's college kids. In fact, this boy could very well be in college. He was a good-looking, slender young guy with great curly hair, wearing a red T-shirt, clean jeans, and Adidas running shoes. He had no tatts, earrings, or face jewelry, but being at Pablo's Tacos in an apparently expectant mode might mean that he had a drug issue and could use some fast and easy bucks.

  While waiting for the Nigerian, Dewey figured he might as well work the kid and see what was what. Dewey nibbled at the taco and felt th
e heat instantly. He grabbed his Coke, took a couple of gulps, and said, Damn, they didn't warn me about the jalapeAnos!

  Malcolm Rojas said, You have to tell them no heat.

  I can't eat this, Dewey said, dropping the taco onto the paper plate.

  Take it back to the counter, Malcolm said. They'll give you another.

  I'm not hungry anyway, Dewey said with an affable smile, but thanks for the tip.

  Malcolm looked at him curiously. In Hollywood, when a middle-aged white stranger started being friendly, Malcolm figured he was probably gay. This guy looked straight enough, but you never knew, especially on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Dewey said to Malcolm, I'm looking for ambitious young college students who're interested in some very profitable part-time work. Would you be a student by any chance?

  Malcolm, who hadn't taken a single course even at a community college since graduating from high school, now figured the guy for some kind of pervert and said guardedly, What kind of work?

  Just some easy jobs to help with tuition and books, with a lot of money left over.

  Even more curious now, Malcolm lied and said, I'm only a part-time student at City College. Does that work for you?

  Certainly, Dewey said. If I told you that you could make between five hundred and a thousand dollars working just a couple of days a week, would you be interested?

  Now Malcolm was sure the guy was a perv. He said, I don't do fuck films, man.

  Dewey chuckled and said, You wouldn't make such easy money in such a short time doing fuck films. He broke off a piece of the fried taco shell and said, Are you willing to work with cards?

  How do you mean? Malcolm asked.

  Do you have a debit card?

  No, Malcolm said.

  How old're you?

  Nineteen, Malcolm said truthfully.

  That's fine, Dewey said. You can pass for twenty-one, no problem.

  Whadda you mean, pass'?