by Connie Dial
“Good. Want to hear about your meeting last night?”
Marge groaned and finally looked up. “No, but I guess since you took mercy and let me celebrate my birthday away from Vince Milano, I should pretend to care. Did he ask about me?” She grinned and turned off the computer.
“He was a perfect gentleman and your name never came up.”
“Did he hit on you?” Marge asked and laughed when Josie grimaced. “Why not? You’re tall, dark and beautiful.”
“I’m also over thirteen years old which in his world is ancient.”
“What’d he want?”
Josie told her what happened at the meeting and everything she had learned about Peter Lange. The prospect of creating a cheat sheet for the club owners to obey the law didn’t appeal to Marge but she agreed to do it.
“Have you and Behan compared notes on this Hillary Dennis homicide?” Josie asked. With the murder happening in Lange’s house and his connection to Vince Milano, she wanted Marge’s resources involved.
“Kind of.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I asked if I could help and he told me to fuck off . . . in so many words.”
“What’s Avanti’s like?” Josie changed the subject. She’d deal with Behan when he returned.
“Basically, an old warehouse cesspool, but a very enticing, welldecorated septic tank. The music’s too loud; it’s too dark; crowd’s too young . . . got everything from alcohol to drugs and unprotected sex in dark corners. Your typical Vince Milano dive. We’re checking a couple of clubs tonight. Want to go with us? See for yourself.”
“How often are your people in there?”
“At least a couple times a week,” Marge said and sat back. “Wait, is that dirtbag complaining about us, again?”
“Actually no, he was one of the few that didn’t, but I was wondering if you might have citations that could tell us who Hillary went clubbing with. Do you remember seeing her at Avanti’s?”
“Probably not, but we can do a run on citations and FI’s.”
Josie knew the field interview cards were probably more valuable since officers really didn’t need a violation of law to make one. Sometimes it was just a suspicion, an intuitive nagging that made them jot down the information that put a particular person in a place at a certain time. On numerous occasions those FI’s identified a suspect when all other means had failed.
Josie wasn’t crazy about spending her Saturday night clubhopping, but it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do, so she agreed to tag along for a few hours.
“I’ll talk to Behan on Monday,” Josie said. “He’s got to work with you.”
“Thanks, I love sharing my day with Mr. Sunshine.”
“He’s getting married today. He should be pleasant for a few months.”
“He’s divorced again?”
“Hope so,” Josie said. “Wanna get something to eat when you’re done here?”
“No mad dash to get home . . . Is hubby out of town?” Marge asked.
“Don’t exactly know where he is. But I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”
Marge got up quickly and covered the computer. She was wearing tight Levi’s and a belt equipped with a brown leather holster containing a small .45 semi-auto. She took a long leather jacket from another chair and slipped it on to cover the gun, her badge and a small handcuff case on her belt.
“Let’s go across the street and get a glass of wine,” Marge said, gently pushing Josie toward the door. “I gotta hear all about this.”
They walked across Sunset to Nora’s, an upscale restaurant with a dingy bar that had great chili fries and a decent selection of beer and wine. After several minutes of insisting she didn’t want to talk about her marriage, Josie told her friend everything.
“Do you want him back?” Marge asked when Josie finished.
Josie hesitated, but not because she didn’t know the answer. She wanted Jake back, but was determined not to sound pathetic.
“We’ll see,” she said.
They were both hungry and ate large hamburgers and a couple of orders of chili fries washed down with glasses of Pinot. Marge didn’t give advice or pretend to understand what Josie was feeling. She allowed Josie to talk and share her thoughts because they were both old enough to know this wasn’t an intellectual problem that could be fixed with counseling or rational thinking. She listened, and at the right time changed the subject.
“You kill ‘Not So’ yet?” Marge asked, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her wine.
“You always know how to make me feel better.”
“Bastard needs to die.”
“No, he needs to irritate somebody else. I kind of feel sorry for him,” Josie said and wondered if she really meant that or if it was the wine talking.
“Why? He’s evil.”
“No,” Josie said, trying to sound serious. “You’ve got to be smart to be evil . . . he’s just nasty.”
“That’s our bureau, ‘Not So’ Bright and Art Perry . . . Nasty and Sneaky, two of the original department dwarfs.”
They nearly finished a bottle of wine while identifying the other five dwarfs—Jerky, Shaky, Slimy, Nerdy, and Dopey—within the department’s higher ranks. Josie realized this was the first hurts-to-breathe laugh she’d had in a long time. It revived her spirits. The wine, however, made her tired, and she excused herself after a couple of hours to take a nap on her office couch before the vice unit started its trek through the clubs.
Traffic in the administrative area was Saturday afternoon light. Most cops knew these office workers took weekends off, so one or two of the uniformed officers would use the empty desks to write reports or make personal calls in a quiet place. Josie closed the door to her office and turned off the lights. There wasn’t a window in the building, so the room darkened immediately. She lay down on the couch but couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were a mix of David and Jake, mostly Jake. She wondered how he was doing on his own. He’d seemed pretty pathetic the last time she saw him with his wrinkled suit and sauce-stained shirt. For days, she’d resisted the temptation to call his cell phone or leave a text message. It would be easier to talk to him in person, but she finally turned on the light and took her Blackberry out of her jacket. “Hi, hope you’re ok, love J,” was all she sent. That was enough. She curled up on the couch and fell asleep.
The pounding on her door woke her about three hours later.
“Ma’am, Lieutenant Bailey says it’s time for roll call,” a female voice shouted from the other side of the door.
“I’m coming,” she yelled back, surprised at not feeling any illeffects from the lunchtime wine fest. Actually, it was the best sleep she’d had in days, and she was completely refreshed. She checked her Blackberry, no messages.
On her way to roll call, Josie stopped in the locker room, washed her face, combed her hair and was ready to enjoy the night’s activities.
Marge organized about thirty officers to work the task force. They gathered in the roll call room and waited for their assignments. She’d borrowed six uniformed officers from patrol and Fricke and his partner had offered to assist. Josie knew the two hype officers frequently worked with vice since they shared a number of the same clientele.
Fricke stopped Josie as she entered the roll call room and explained that he and Frank hadn’t been able to locate Mouse, but would continue to look for her. He seemed distracted and excused himself after a few seconds. She watched him jostle for space on the back row bench, leaning against Butler until his partner was pressed against the wall. Their behavior and banter was normal again . . . as normal as they got, but Fricke wasn’t as chatty with her tonight as he usually was.
The other vice officers were in plainclothes, and were assigned to mingle among the crowds in the different clubs to spot violations. Josie sat in the back of the room and watched Marge go over the game plan for the evening. That night, they’d inspect six of the biggest night clubs in Hollywood. The plainclothes officers wou
ld go in groups of five to each of the locations. When Marge and the uniformed officers arrived they would start writing the citations and/or making arrests. It was a concise and simple plan. Marge understood the secret to a good strategy—don’t have too many moving parts because nothing ever goes according to plan; and when it turns to shit you’ve got to have confidence that you’ve picked the best people who can improvise and get the job done anyway. Some supervisors never understood that basic rule and were constantly frustrated.
“You can ride with me, Captain,” Marge said, after she’d dismissed the officers. “Nothing’s gonna happen till I get there.”
“Where’s Avanti’s on your list?” Josie asked.
“I figured we’d stop there close to the end, give them time to work themselves into a fucking frenzy of violations,” Marge said, grinning. “But, we can’t wait too long. Sometimes word gets out we’re working, and they clean up their shit before we get there.”
Their first stop was the club belonging to the woman who objected to the frequent vice checks. Her doorman, an overweight Samoan-looking young man in a polyester Hawaiian shirt, groaned when he saw Marge.
“Man, don’t you guys got nowhere else to go?” he whined, as they moved past him into the barely lit lobby.
The owner immediately appeared. She was ready to do battle until she noticed Josie standing next to Marge.
“Captain Corsino,” she said, sweetly. “I’m so pleased to see you. You’ve never been in my club. Let me show you around.”
Josie thanked her but instead asked the woman to join them as they did their working tour of the club. One by one the undercover officers stepped up to Marge and listed at least a dozen violations of everything from underage drinking to indecent exposure on the dance floor. The owner became very quiet and apologetic. She promised to have a meeting with her manager in the morning.
“I can’t believe how fucking civil she was,” Marge said, as she and Josie left the club. “That was bitchin’ sweet. Usually she’s mother-fucking and threatening us with lawsuits all the way to our cars.”
“I have that effect on people. It’s difficult to make a complaint if the person you’re supposed to complain to is standing there watching it happen.”
“Work with us every night. Look at all the paperwork you’d avoid.”
“Don’t I wish?”
Marge laughed. “Everybody knows you’re a frustrated street cop. Sneak out, make a few arrests, bust a few heads. It’ll feel good.”
Josie looked around to be certain none of the officers was close enough to hear. “Then who’d be there to keep Nasty and Sneaky off your back?”
They followed the same routine in three more clubs. When it was close to one a.m., Marge announced it was time to descend on Avanti’s. Josie had only seen Vince Milano’s club in the daylight. It was a drab warehouse. Tonight with the loud pounding music and a rainbow of neon lights, the place had been transformed into a gaudy warehouse. Hundreds of young adults milled around the front of the building where there was a huge lighted fountain; others stood in line waiting to get inside.
From the sidewalk, Josie felt the amplified music shake the ground like a rolling earthquake. Now she understood why David’s hearing was so bad. Before she and Marge could reach the door, Vince Milano was in front of them. He was several inches shorter than Josie had remembered, and with his substantial tummy and spindly legs, he resembled a cartoon tycoon in an expensive threepiece suit. His dyed dark hair was thinning, and he combed it over just enough to cover a tiny bald spot.
Milano, like all the previous club owners, was surprised to see Josie with the vice officers. He was nervous and obsequious, and couldn’t stop admiring everything about her. Finally, Josie explained it wasn’t a social visit and stepped aside to let Marge enlighten the little man about the reason for their call. His smile faded, but he remained cordial and led the way inside his club.
They were met by the undercover officers who detailed a number of violations and started writing the citations. The club was dark with flashes of light that gave it an eerie, broken film projector look. A gigantic disco ball hung from the ceiling and caught the light rays, sprinkling them over the dance floor like colorful confetti. While Marge talked with Milano and his manager, Josie wandered around the cavernous room. A number of the patrons looked to be in their teens, not old enough to drive. She wondered what sort of parent would allow a kid to come to a place like this, maybe even deliver them to the front door. The young girls’ clothes or lack of clothing resembled that worn by Hillary Dennis in her mother’s pictures. These kids were celebrity MTV clones with tattoos, body piercing, and hair dyed outrageous colors. She thought if their dance positions didn’t produce babies it would be a miracle. Lewd was a mild word for some of their gyrations, and they didn’t appear to be the least bit inhibited by the proximity of vice officers.
The pungent odor of marijuana was in the air but she didn’t see anyone smoking, which usually meant there was a secluded safe room somewhere in the building designated for that activity and drinking alcohol. Mirrors lined every wall of the room and couples took turns performing simulated sex acts in front of them. Not only was her head throbbing from the noise, but she’d seen enough to close the club.
For a few seconds, the smells, body heat, loud pulsating music, and fractured light flashes made her lightheaded. She stood in place and looked around trying to get her bearings. Several yards away from her, light flickered in a corner reflecting off the mirrors, and during those seconds Josie saw him. Cory Goldman had his back to her but he was easy to recognize in the mirror. He looked up when the light washed over him. He had his arm around a small blond woman. It happened so quickly, Josie couldn’t be certain, but she thought the woman might’ve been Mouse. The light flashed again and they were gone. She pushed through the crowd of gyrating teens to move closer, but it was hopeless. It was too dark and there were too many bodies.
Josie did manage to find the lobby where Marge had relocated with Milano. It was still too loud out there but tolerable. The owner had a fistful of citations and looked distraught. He wiggled from one foot to the other, and tried to explain how all this could be going on under his nose while he designed his DON’T DRINK—DON’t USE DRUGS posters. She took Marge by the arm and pulled her away from Milano, and told her what she’d seen in the club. It was Josie’s intention to shut down the place for the remainder of the night, and she wanted the vice officers to find Mouse and the councilman’s son.
“There’s a few thousand fucked-up, emotionally challenged, wild party animals in here, boss. You sure you wanna chase them out of the asylum onto the streets before they’ve had an opportunity to expend all that energy?” Marge said, with that raised eyebrow.
Josie didn’t. “Can your people find Mouse and Cory if I let this dump stay open? I want a tail on them.”
“Sure, describe him. All my guys know Mouse. Unfortunately, she knows most of us too.”
Josie went back and informed Milano how close he’d come to being shut down; and claimed if it hadn’t been for Marge’s intervention, she would’ve chained his doors for at least a week. So, he’d better get his act together and clean up his club.
Vince Milano was falling all over himself thanking Josie for not overruling her subordinate and closing Avanti’s. He swore he would personally supervise the enforcement of codes and license requirements, but he was forever indebted to her. Josie warned Milano this was his last chance to comply or she’d make certain he got a stiff fine and lost his club license. He kept trying to kiss her hand, but Josie insisted they just shake hands and call it a night. While she was lecturing Milano, Marge huddled with a few of her vice officers, then sent them back into the club.
By the time they wrapped up business at Avanti’s, it was too late to make the last couple of clubs. Josie was grateful. She was tired and out of condition for the grind of real police work. There was a time when she could stay up all night booking suspects, change her clothes
and go to court the next morning. She still could if she didn’t have to run the whole damn division, but that was another life.
The debriefing was at the twenty-four hour Denny’s restaurant on Sunset. Josie didn’t care about a post-game review, but she was starving. She ordered eggs and pancakes and listened to the young officers brag about what they’d done that night, as if they were the first to experience the adrenaline rush of putting themselves in harm’s way. When she thought about it, in a way they were.
They were grateful to her for coming along because they knew only a few commanding officers ever got involved in operations. This had been an opportunity to show their captain what they could do, and she let them know they’d done a good job. She finished eating, paid the bill and thanked them again before Marge drove her back to Hollywood station.
“You’re such a fucking frustrated street cop,” Marge said, shaking her head as Josie got out and walked to her car.
EIGHT
Late Sunday morning, Marge called Josie at home to report her officers had located Mouse and Cory Goldman in the crowd at Avanti’s shortly before it closed.
“Did I wake you up, boss?” Marge asked after a few seconds, and added before Josie could answer, “Wish I had more to tell you. They drank and talked at the club, then drove to an apartment building off Melrose.”
“Where are they now?” Josie asked, settling into the lounger in her den with the newspaper on her lap. She’d been dead tired when she finally got to bed early that morning, but couldn’t sleep; so she got up intending to read the Sunday paper and fell asleep in her chair until the phone rang.
“Still inside a first-floor apartment . . . if you want I’ll have my guys watch the little shit birds for a few days and let Behan know if there’s anything of interest.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Josie said. “Now hang up so I can read my Sunday paper in peace.”
“Not coming in today?”
“You wore me out last night. Unless there’s a call-out, I’ll see you Monday.”
