Hollywood Moon (2009)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 03

  Wooka, dude! Flotsam said. Now you're rockin'!

  So by and by I'm sort of eager for, like, harmless foreplay, given that our GPS location is not totally secluded. And then I find out why no thong bikini.

  Why is that?

  She just had butt implants, and the incisions ain't healed up enough.

  Flabbergasted, Flotsam said, You mean that booty ain't the babe's?

  No, it belongs to Dr. Strangelove or whoever the fuck gave it to her, Jetsam said.

  Then what? Flotsam said, fearing the worst.

  I'm all heading upstairs on those magnificent mammaries, and she goes, Cease and desist, surfer boy!'

  Don't tell me the bimbo decided to play Our Lady of Malibu?

  No, the problem was, her saline or silicone or whatever they used to construct her implants was all leaking. And she's suing the plastic surgeon and can't stand to have them touched, let alone fondled.

  I gotta feeling this is gonna get worse, Flotsam said, getting sympathy pangs and gingerly feeling his own breasts.

  Roger that, Jetsam said. Because by now I'm scared to touch any more of her below her chin for fear of what I might find that ain't really hers. Or like, maybe some part of her will fall off in my hand! And now she's all laying there with her eyes shut, and I'm, like, confused, sort of. So I say to myself, Go for it. And I pounce like a panther, and she is the recipient of one of those mega-long, steamy-hot, summertime movie kisses that the women in the chick flicks all swoon over.

  I never could see that part of the game, Flotsam said with a shrug.

  Me neither, Jetsam said, but I locked on because her lips are, like, Scarlett Johanssonf_"huge. Think of two all-meat tire tubes pressed together. And bro, I kissed and I nibbled and I licked with the darting tongue of a cobra! And then I started some sinister sucking on her lower lip with mucho enthusiasmo. But when I got no applause, no response, no nothing, I go, Don't you like this?' And she goes, Like what?' And I go, That ain't no casual kiddie kiss you just got, wahini. That was cooleoleol kissing designed to propel a lucky chickie to an advanced state of beach blanket bliss.'

  And what did she say to that, dude? Flotsam asked. Though I'm almost scared to hear the answer.

  Jetsam shook his head slowly and said, She tells me that her lips are so plumped with implants gone bad, she didn't feel a thing. And that when she gets through with her lawsuit, her plastic surgeon's gonna be dressing as Alvin the Chipmunk and posing for tourists in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre. Jetsam sighed then and added, Bro, I ain't got my mind in the game tonight. I am like, way, way woefully noodled.

  They rode for a while in silence, and finally it was Flotsam who said somberly, Dude, we all know that Mother Nature is a pitiless cunt.

  A heartless bitch, bro, Jetsam concurred.

  Waxing philosophical, Flotsam added, But when a person chooses a surgical body shop to rebuild their own chassis, it's, like, bound to wreak collateral damage on innocent bystanders like you. Only one thing we can say about Spare-parts Suzie and your tale of terrible despair.

  Flotsam paused and looked toward Jetsam, who took the cue. And they uttered the station mantra in unison: Thisf_U isf_U fuckingf_U Hollywood!

  Dewey got to the duplex/office just after 6 P. M. He hadn't had any jobs for the Mexicans in the last few days, so the place was unoccupied. He unlocked the door and had to sit there and wait twenty minutes before Creole and Jerzy showed up with a disappointingly small bag of mail.

  That's all you have? he said in his German accent when they entered, looking almost as tired as he was.

  Yeah, but it's good stuff, Mr. Kessler, Tristan said, even though he didn't know what the hell they'd grabbed from the curbside mailboxes that afternoon.

  It isn't even sorted, their boss said.

  We been busy lately, Tristan said. All we had time to do was toss the junk mail. I took a quick look and I know you'll be happy with some of the stuff we got for you.

  Since Jakob Kessler never used obscenities, Dewey didn't tell them what he was thinking when he withdrew $100 from his wallet and grudgingly handed it over. And now I would like to go home, he said.

  So would we, Mr. Kessler, Tristan said as he quickly left the apartment, with his partner shuffling along behind him.

  They were in Tristan's old Chevy Caprice half a block away and spotted their employer exit the apartment, set the dead bolt, and walk to his car as though his feet were killing him, as indeed they were with those three-inch lifts in his shoes.

  There was still plenty of daylight left by the time they were three cars behind him on Sunset Boulevard, and Jerzy said to Tristan, I don't know what the fuck this superspy shit is gonna do for us.

  I don't either, Tristan said. But I got real good instincts, wood.

  They almost lost his car when, after turning north on Cahuenga, their target turned quickly west on Franklin Avenue. Tristan caught the red light and slammed on his brakes too late. They were in the middle of the intersection, initially blocked from a left turn by swift moving southbound traffic. Tristan made it all stop for him by making a reckless left turn that got brakes screeching and horns honking.

  Fuck! Tristan said. We lost him.

  After barely escaping a head-on, Tristan was driving westbound on Franklin, when he encountered a stalled car half a block ahead. A dozen other cars were trapped behind it in traffic, their employer's car among them.

  We got him! Tristan said, getting into the queue of cars that were waiting for the stalled car to move. Three Latinos who looked like gardeners got out of the car and pushed it to the curb.

  Tristan drove past the traffic snarl just in time to see Jakob Kessler's car pull into a wide driveway, and when the gate opened, it continued under the upscale apartment building into the parking garage.

  And that was when he heard a horn tooting behind him and looked up to see a light bar flashing.

  Shit! he said and pulled over.

  A moment later he was looking into the face of Dana Vaughn, while Hollywood Nate walked up on the passenger side of the car.

  License and registration, please, Dana said to Tristan.

  Did I do something wrong, Officer? Tristan asked, deciding whether to show his real license or the bogus license he'd used to rent the van.

  Nothing except blow a red light and make a left turn against oncoming traffic that almost caused a head-on collision as well as a couple rear-enders. You were very lucky.

  Tristan decided not to fuck with this bitch, so he gave her his legitimate driver's license and reached into the glove box for his registration. That's when Hollywood Nate made his presence known by coming right up to Jerzy and peering over his shoulder into the glove compartment as Tristan removed the registration and handed it to Dana.

  It'll be a few minutes, Mr. Hawkins, Dana said. Returning to the car, she checked on Tristan for wants and warrants, ready to write the citation for the red light and the left turn.

  Hollywood Nate was looking at the tatted-out, surly-looking fat guy in the passenger seat, trying to decide whether to bother getting these two out of the car for a little more intensive investigation.

  Then he saw the driver with the dreads turn to him with a pained expression and say, Officer, I'm real sorry about what I done back there. I'm sure your partner is checking to see if I got any traffic warrants, but I don't. I'm really a safe driver, but my father died yesterday and I was thinkin' about Daddy andf_U well, it's not an excuse, but that's what happened. I wonder if you could gimme a break and only write me for just one thing instead of two?

  Nate leaned down and looked at Tristan's Mr. Sincerity expression and said, Tell you what, have your friend drive.

  Good idea, Tristan said, nudging Jerzy.

  Okay by me, Jerzy said.

  Nate said, I'll tell my partner about it. Then to Jerzy, And as long as you're gonna do the driving, let's just make sure your license is up to date.

  Jerzy shook his head in disgust as he pulled his wallet from the back pocket
of his jeans and gave Hollywood Nate his legitimate driver's license.

  You wouldn't have any tickets out there that you haven't paid, would you? Nate said, looking at the unpronounceable name and the photo on the license.

  I'm sure you're gonna check to see, Jerzy said in resignation.

  After Nate had walked back to the black-and-white to have Dana run the passenger for wants and warrants along with the driver, Jerzy said to Tristan, Well, a lotta fuckin' good that done you.

  You ain't got no traffic warrants out there, do you? Tristan said.

  Jerzy said, I did have, but I cleared it up last month. Cost me over four hundred bucks. Otherwise my ass'd be in the Hollywood jail tonight thanks to you and this dumb fuckin' Mission Impossible shit you got me into.

  When Dana and Hollywood Nate were back on either side of the car, Dana said, My partner told me about your recent tragedy, so I only cited you for failing to stop for the red light. And you'd better get your right taillight fixed. Sign here.

  After Tristan scrawled his name on the citation, Dana tore off his copy, handed it to him, and said, Now you can switch seats.

  Both cops took a good look at Tristan and Jerzy when they got out of the car, walked around the front of it, and traded places. Jerzy was inked, but not sleeved-out with jailhouse tatts. Their movements and gaits did not indicate recent booze or drug use, so Nate gave Dana a your-call gesture.

  Our sympathies to your family, Dana said to Tristan and then winked at Nate before walking back to their shop.

  While Jerzy was driving away, Tristan said, We got the crib scoped out, even if it did cost me a traffic ticket.

  Do the rest of your spy chase on your own time, Jerzy said. And by the way, neither of those cops believed for one minute about old Daddy. They used that to get my license and check me out for warrants, thanks to your big mouth.

  A little more inconvenience for you got me only one violation to pay for instead of two, Tristan said. It was worth it, wood.

  Where is your old man, by the way? Jerzy asked. Alive or dead?

  I never met him, Tristan said.

  Does your momma know which one he was? Jerzy asked.

  Don't woof on my momma, Tristan warned.

  That evening, shortly after most of the midwatch teams were getting ready for code 7, an eighteen-year-old Marine from Camp Pendleton was having a conversation with a street prostitute on the Santa Monica Boulevard track. That was a street normally used for unusual sexual encounters. There were always older gay men cruising in cars, looking for younger men walking. And the women, or those who appeared to be women, were usually transsexuals, either pre-op or post-op, or drag queensf_"some of who were obviously menf_"and a few others who could pass.

  Whenever potential tricks would ask gender questions before closing the deal, the trannies and dragons would almost always say, I'm a woman trapped in a man's body to reassure the tricks that it wasn't really the same as a gay experience. A few of the dragons looked quite plausible, and even quite attractive, as women.

  The Marine, whose name was Timothy Ronald Thatcher, had managed to hook up with one of the latter. The dragon was a slender, green-eyed, caramel blonde whose street name was Melissa Price. But in a prior life in a suburb of Denver, he was Samuel Allen Danforth, nicknamed Sad because of his initials and because of his loneliness as a bullied gay boy. In his high school yearbook, he'd said he was going to Hollywood for a new and happy life where he would never be Sad again.

  It was later learned by police that Melissa Price was lively and chatty and well liked by the other hookers who worked the Santa Monica track. Melissa had a tiny two-room apartment in Thai Town, where all tricks were taken. Friendly competitors of Melissa Price later told homicide investigators that after striking an acceptable deal with a john, Melissa would say, Okay, darling, your Price is right, and she's all yours. Melissa Price, aka Samuel Allen Danforth, had been selling sex for a little over two months before meeting Timothy Ronald Thatcher, who was seven months younger.

  Timothy Thatcher had come to Hollywood early in the evening with two other Marines, who were old enough to drink in the nightclubs on Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards. Young Timothy had asked to borrow the ten-year-old Dodge sedan belonging to one of the older Marines, saying he was going out onto the boulevard to get me a hot woman.

  The owner of the Dodge later told police that as a joke on him they suggested that Timothy Thatcher try cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, thinking he would notice that the hookers on the street had shaving bumps. One of the two older Marines later told police that he believed that Timothy Thatcher was probably a virgin and was trying to prove something to his senior companions.

  Under subsequent intense questioning by military investigators, both older Marines stuck to their story and swore that they didn't know there was an M9 USMC-issue, semi automatic pistol in the car. They claimed that PFC Timothy Thatcher must have put it there as protection for his first trip to Los Angeles. LAPD investigators believed that one of the older Marines, who had easy access to the sidearm, probably brought the pistol along, but their suspicions could never be proven.

  The last witness to have seen Melissa Price, aka Samuel Allen Danforth, alive was a tranny with an eggplant-colored shag who'd been working the same block when Melissa got into the Dodge sedan. In fact, Melissa Price waved at the tranny with an OK sign that Melissa always gave after catching a trick who was cute or rich. In this case the trick certainly was not rich.

  It was later debated whether Timothy Thatcher was overcome by remorse after his tryst with Melissa Danforth, or whether he truly did not know until it was too late that Melissa Price was not a female, but in the end it didn't matter much. Just before 8 P. M., the landlady of the small apartment building in Thai Town heard terrible screams and glass breaking and heavy objects striking walls in the little two-room apartment. And then a gunshot, followed by another, terrified every tenant in the building, and several calls were made to the police.

  Timothy Thatcher did something extraordinary. He dialed his mother in Billings, Montana, on his cell, and when she answered, he said to her through tears, Mom, I shot somebody! I didn't mean to do it, but when I found out this person was not a girl, I lost it!

  The Marine talked to his shocked and terrified mother for one minute and fifty seconds, telling her that he was somewhere in Hollywood, and ended with, Tell Dad and Billy and Mary Lou that I love them all. After that, he ran down the stairs and out to the street.

  Six-X-Sixty-six was on the way to code 7 at Sheila and Aaron's favorite Vietnamese restaurant for tofu bun vegetarian salad and 360 Degree Beef. They were only a few blocks from Thai Town when the code 3 shots fired call was given to a unit from Watch 3.

  Let's jump this one, Sheila said, and she switched on the light bar long enough to get around boulevard traffic, then stomped on the accelerator. They arrived at the scene before the designated unit, just in time to be almost T-boned by the Dodge sedan driven by the escaping Marine.

  Hang on! Sheila said to Aaron. Gotta burn a U-ee!

  The black-and-white Crown Vic made a smoking, tire-scorching U-turn, and the pursuit was on.

  An electronic tone sounded, followed by the announcement from a female RTO to all units that always set hearts racing: Six-X-ray-Sixty-six is in pursuit!

  Timothy Thatcher, who did not know the area, drove in utter panic west on Hollywood Boulevard and then south on Western Avenue where he lightly sideswiped a Ford Explorer in the intersection, breaking his own right headlight, then headed west again on Sunset Boulevard where he encountered lanes clogged by nighttime Hollywood traffic. He made a squealing turn south on Van Ness that nearly lifted two wheels, skidded sideways, righted the car, and sped to Melrose Avenue where he turned west once again, brakes screaming. Unit 6-X-66 was sometimes as close as five car lengths behind, and Aaron broadcast the street names they were passing as well as the license number of the vehicle driven by a white male. And as in all LAPD pursuits in the most car-strangled
city in North America, there were moments when it was maddeningly slow.

  Then they heard someone on the tactical frequency say, Airship up!

  The Marine blew past Paramount Studios and made a tire-ripping right turn onto Gower Street, where he saw two black-and-whites coming at him from the north. The lead car belonged to the surfer cops, who'd switched on the light bar upon seeing him. That made a northbound Lincoln Navigator in front of Timothy Thatcher slam on the brakes, causing the Marine to crash into the SUV, giving the lone male driver of the Navigator a slight whiplash and all but demolishing the Dodge.

  The Marine limped out of the car and ran north on the sidewalk away from Sheila Montez and Aaron Sloane but right at Flotsam and Jetsam and the Watch 3 team, who'd double-parked beside them.

  Timothy Thatcher speed-dialed his mother once again, and when the panic-stricken woman answered, he said, I love you, Mom. I love you!

  The mother of Timothy Thatcher later said that she got hysterical when she heard police officers shouting, Get down! Down on the street! And then the cell phone clicked off.

  Johnny Lanier and his partner, Harris Triplett, had leaped from their car faster than the surfer cops, and the chunky black cop had a Remington shotgun at port arms as he raced forward. When he got behind Flotsam and Jetsam's car, Johnny Lanier aimed the shotgun over the roof, while a spotlight from one of the later responders lit the Marine.

  Flotsam yelled to Jetsam, Johnny's benching up with a tube! Get the fuck outta the kill zone!

  Then Jetsam shouted again to Timothy Thatcher, Get down on your belly, goddamnit! Get down!

  And only then did all cops present see the M9 pistol that had been tucked inside the Marine's belt in the small of his back. PFC Timothy Ronald Thatcher swiftly drew that pistol and pointed it in the general direction of Johnny Lanier and his shotgun, only ten feet from the Marine. It was over in an instant: a roar, a flame, a fireball in the darkness, and a massive round of double-aught buckshot crashed into the Marine's throat and lower face, blasting chunks of bone and flesh all over the sidewalk beside the Hollywood Cemetery.