Flotsam was stunned, but before he could speak, Sergeant Murillo said, “Excuse me, Mr. Brown, let me take a few minutes with the officer to hear his side of this. While you’re waiting, would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I certainly would, Sergeant,” Bootsie Brown said. “And how ’bout a donut or somethin’? That food in jail ain’t fit for a cock-a-roach.”
Sergeant Murillo gave Flotsam a meaningful don’t-ask-questions look and said to Jetsam, “Officer, would you please get Mr. Brown a coffee and a snack from the machine?”
“What?” Jetsam said, flabbergasted.
“Just do it,” Sergeant Murillo said. “I’ll explain later.”
While Jetsam grumbled and bought Bootsie Brown his refreshments, Sergeant Murillo took Flotsam out in the hall and said, “He wants to make a one-twenty-eight on you. Says you called him a name when you arrested him.”
“What’s that grave robber doing here, Sarge?” Flotsam said. “Him and another homeless guy tried to cash a dead man’s check.”
“Yeah, I know all about that,” Sergeant Murillo said. “I’ve read the reports and I’m doing my best to talk him out of the personnel complaint. We’ve got enough paperwork to do around here.”
“But what’s he doing outta jail?”
“The DA refused to issue a complaint. Two old bums trying to get drunk and give their dead buddy an Irish wake? Nobody wanted to take that one before a jury.”
“Well, I never insulted the old bastard, not even once,” Flotsam said. “And now we gotta buy him coffee and a Twinkie? This is bullshit, Sarge!”
“I’ll reimburse you for the snack. Let’s just get through this, shall we? He says you called him ‘frogative,’ whatever that is.”
“What’s ‘frogative’?”
“I don’t know, but he thinks it’s a ten-dollar word that means he looks like a frog.”
“Sarge, I appreciate what you’re doing here, but I feel like I gotta call the Protective League and get lawyered-up! I never called that old bastard anything!”
“Okay, stay real,” Sergeant Murillo said. “Do you remember him saying he was going to sue you?”
“I guess so. Hell, half the people we pop say that.”
“And what did you say to him after that? Try to remember your exact words.”
The tall cop’s brow furrowed and he looked up at the ceiling while his supervisor waited, and then he broke into a huge grin. “Holy shit, Sarge!” Flotsam said. “Frogative!”
Three minutes later, while Bootsie Brown was contentedly munching on a Toll House cookie and sipping coffee, Sergeant Murillo and Flotsam reentered the sergeants’ room.
“Mr. Brown,” Sergeant Murillo said, “how’s the coffee?”
“Not bad, but the cookie’s stale. How ’bout a Ding Dong?”
“Let’s talk first, Mr. Brown,” Sergeant Murillo said. “Do you remember telling these officers you were going to sue them for false arrest?”
Bootsie Brown paused with the cookie halfway to his lips and said, “I mighta. It was a humbug arrest. That’s why they let me and Axel outta jail in forty-eight hours. We was jist tryin’ to have a Irish wake for good old Coleman.”
“And what did this officer say to you when you threatened to sue him?”
“He called me that name.”
“What name is that?”
“He said I was frogative.”
“Officer,” Sergeant Murillo said to Flotsam. “Please tell Mr. Brown what you said to him when he threatened to sue you and your partner for false arrest.”
“I said, ‘Your prerogative.’ ”
“Frogative, progative, it’s all uppity bullshit!” Bootsie Brown said to Sergeant Murillo. “He wants to insult somebody, he oughtta have the guts to use normal words and call me a asshole or somethin’.”
“You can go back to work,” Sergeant Murillo said to the surfer cops. Then to the transient, he said, “Mr. Brown, I’m going to explain to you how things work around here.”
“Does this mean I ain’t gettin’ a Ding Dong?” asked Bootsie Brown.
THIRTEEN
Tristan Hawkins hadn’t slept well and had experienced strange and troubling dreams for most of the night. He’d smoked a blunt before going to bed in his east Hollywood hotel-apartment, where he’d lived alone since the first of the year. The smoke hadn’t really mellowed him, and it came back on him later, resulting in sleeplessness and nightmares. Somehow the tropical colors that the landlord favored, along with the rank, humid cooking smells from the Cubans next door, reminded him of a whorehouse in Haiti, an unpleasant memory from his short stint as a steward on a cruise liner when he was eighteen years old. It was a good job, but he’d gotten fired for stealing $20 from one of the cabins being tended by another steward.
Tristan had been wide awake since daybreak and lay there staring at the mildew stains on the plasterboard walls. After their surveillance of Kessler the night before, he’d completely lost control of Jerzy, and he was peeved every time he thought of how the dumb peckerwood threatened to throw him out of his own car unless Tristan let him go “back home to his woman.” And what was his home anyway? Just a shitty little two-bedroom house in Frogtown that Jerzy shared with a woman who was uglier than Shrek, and her four miserable brats.
If he had someone else he could use to help execute the vague plan he was formulating, he’d drop Jerzy in the time it took to make the call to tell him that his bitch looked like she belonged on WrestleMania, and that he’d take a bath in a tub of bleach if he had to sleep with that old hose bag. But he couldn’t do that, and they were scheduled to meet Kessler at 5 P.M. back at the pest-infested duplex/office, where Tristan was supposed to tell him about the interesting new idea he had. The fact that he had no ideas at all wasn’t of concern; it was how to handle Kessler after they informed the man that they were his new partners. The fact was, a little muscle might be needed to quiet Kessler down, and that was the main reason he needed the big Polack.
Kessler had been a letdown in any case. Tristan hadn’t made $1,000 total in the weeks he’d been a runner, so even if the plan didn’t work, he had very little to lose. His scheme was going to involve fast-talking and finesse, and that required his talents. Still, he wished he had one more ace to play. That’s why he decided to return to Kessler’s apartment today when he was certain the man would be away from it.
At 10 A.M., Tristan Hawkins was at a T-shirt shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where a non-English-speaking Guatemalan embroidered “Department of Water and Power” across a baseball cap that Tristan bought at the shop. For another $25 the Guatemalan stitched the same lettering across the pocket of the gray work shirt that Tristan had brought with him.
Just before noon, Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was sitting in his car in the parking lot of an electronics supply house in the San Fernando Valley, working a pair of runners who were purchasing three wireless $1,799 Dell computers with bogus checks that Eunice had printed, along with altered ID that Tristan had stolen on one of his forays to the Gym-and-Swim.
His Jakob Kessler cell chimed, and he picked up and said in his German accent, “Jakob Kessler speaking.”
“It’s Creole, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said.
“Yes, Creole, what is it?”
“I just wanted you to know we might be a couple minutes late for our five-o’clock meet.”
Sounding annoyed, Dewey asked, “What is the problem, Creole?”
“I’m workin’ a deal this afternoon for you, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said. “If it goes like I think it will, I’ll have some good stuff for you.”
What time, then?”
“Five thirty?”
“All right, five thirty sharp.”
“We’ll be there,” Tristan said. “By the way, where are you now?”
Suspiciously, Dewey said, “Why do you want to know?”
“We could meet you in the next hour if you’re anywheres near Hollywood.”
“No, I am not near Hollywood. I shall
see you at five thirty.”
When he snapped shut his cell phone, Tristan smiled. He thought he could hear traffic in the background and was certain that the man was not at his apartment on Franklin Avenue. But twenty minutes later, Tristan was.
He was wearing the Water and Power baseball cap with his dreads tucked under, as well as the newly embroidered work shirt. And he had a clipboard in his hand with official-looking documents attached to it. He rang the gate phone of the old woman he’d conned last time.
He recognized the same raspy voice when she said, “Hello, who is it?”
“Department of Water and Power,” Tristan said. “We’re replacin’ meters and need access, please.”
The old woman said, “Call the manager. She’s in number one-three-two.”
“I know that,” Tristan said, “but there’s no answer. I’m just goin’ down the list, and you’re the first one to answer.”
“Oh, all right,” the old woman said. “Are you going to have to come into my apartment?”
“No, ma’am,” Tristan said. “We’ll only need access to the meters.”
The gate buzzer sounded, and the lock clicked open. Tristan entered, climbed the familiar stairway, and was standing at the door of the last apartment on the left, number 313.
He rang and waited twenty seconds before ringing again, and he felt sure that someone was looking at him through the brass peephole.
The door opened a few inches, and Eunice said, “Yes?”
He saw bloodshot blue eyes and gray-blonde tangles of hair, and she reeked of tobacco smoke.
“Department of Water and Power, ma’am,” Tristan said with his most winning smile and taking great care with his diction and grammar. “Have you experienced a power surge today?”
“No,” Eunice said. “Why?”
“We’re havin’ trouble with the load on this street,” Tristan said. “People have reported computers crashin’ for no apparent reason, and we’re checkin’ with every resident we can. Do you have a computer?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Would you please turn it on and see if it’s okay?”
“My computers are working fine,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive,” she said.
“Okay, then, sorry to have bothered you.”
When he walked away, he was excited. She had more than one computer. His hunch had been correct. She worked out of Kessler’s crib. This woman was either a hired hand or his bitch, but for sure she was also his geek. Yes!
Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was angry at himself after he paid off his shopping runner, a young aspiring actor, full-time parking valet, and part-time thief. The kid had talked Dewey into waiting for him outside Chateau Marmont by claiming that within one hour, he could enter the hotel and talk a wealthy female vacationer into buying him a drink in the bar, where he would collect all the information from her credit card without her knowledge. He claimed that he’d even obtain her driver’s license information and checkbook account number. Dewey, who felt sleep-deprived, remained in his car, eventually snoozing. After an hour, he awoke and entered the hotel bar but found no sign of his runner. He figured the bragging little sociopath had probably hooked up with a rich vacationer of either gender and was up in the room fulfilling their Hollywood fantasies.
Thinking of that handsome, young aspiring actor made him remember that he was to meet the other good-looking kid at the office. However, it would be difficult, now that he had to be Jakob Kessler with Tristan and Jerzy, and he would have little time to turn into Bernie Graham. It was at moments like these that he wondered if the elaborate disguises were worth it. But if not, it would mean that Eunice was right again, and that was too hard for Dewey to accept. He decided to leave the hotel and go straight home, become Jakob Kessler, and gather the things he’d need to turn Kessler into Bernie Graham. Then he got on the cell and rang the kid he knew as Clark.
Malcolm was on his lunch break when the cell rang.
“Clark,” Dewey said, “this is Bernie Graham.”
“I hope you’re not gonna change our appointment again, Mr. Graham. I need the work now. I can’t wait any longer.”
“I just need to push it back an hour,” Dewey said. “Meet me at the address I gave you at six o’clock instead of at five. I’ll put you to work tonight, and you can start earning some spending money right away.”
“Six o’clock,” Malcolm said. “At the office.”
“Right, but like I told you, it’s not really an office. It’s an apartment that we use for meetings and other things.”
“See you at six, Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said. “For sure, right?”
“For sure, Clark,” Dewey said.
Dewey drove straight home and found Eunice in a fouler mood than usual. He’d been hoping to lie down for another one-hour nap, but now he knew it would be impossible. She wasn’t even happy when he told her that in the trunk of his car he had three laptops that he was going to deliver next Tuesday for $1,100 cash.
Eunice was wearing her favorite pink bathrobe and pajamas but no makeup, and it was 2:30 in the afternoon. “Nothing’s going right today,” she grumbled, moving the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue and teeth while her fingers flew over the keyboard of computer number three.
“What’s wrong?”
“ ‘What’s wrong?’ the man asks,” Eunice said to the ceiling. “I’m stuck in this room working myself into an early grave while you’re out all day doing God knows what and bringing home chump change. That’s what’s wrong.”
“Jesus, Eunice!” Dewey said. “It’s getting harder and harder to do business. There’s stuff all over the papers and TV these days about identity theft, and everyone’s being more cautious. And please don’t tell me how Hugo woulda had no trouble, because I’m telling you that Hugo never had to run up against the shit I’m facing.”
She looked at him and said, “Go in your bedroom and kill Ambrose Willis. You look even sillier than when you’re doing the old Jew, Jakob whatsisname.”
“Jakob Kessler. He’s an Austrian. I don’t know if he’s a Jew. I never asked him.”
“He sounds like a Jew to me every time I hear the phony accent.”
“Aw, shit!” Dewey said. “Just one little break sometime, Eunice. If you ever give me one fucking break, I’ll probably have a stroke and die on the spot.”
“I should be so lucky,” she said.
He went into his bedroom, slammed the door, and fell down on the bed, a bit alarmed by how his heart was thudding irregularly. Something had to be done. He was nearing the end of the line with her one way or the other. He desperately needed a nap, but he groaned to his feet and laid out his Jakob Kessler wardrobe and wig, along with the casual clothing of Bernie Graham that he’d take with him in an overnight bag. He knew that a quick change in the duplex/office would be tricky, but he didn’t think that a kid like Clark would pay a lot of attention to details.
The door to his bedroom was opened abruptly by Eunice, who didn’t know how to knock and had no intention of learning.
“Dewey,” she said. “We should maybe think about moving to another place.”
“Oh, Christ!” he said. “We haven’t been living here that long, Eunice. It’s such a hassle to move everything.”
“A guy from Water and Power was here today. They been having problems around here with power surges.”
“So? You have surge protectors.”
“And I try hard to have everything properly stored and backed up, but you never know. He said some computers had crashed, and it’s got me worried.”
Trying to sound as blasé as possible, he said, “Just so our bank account information is always accessible. You never know when people in our business might have to make a very fast withdrawal or transfer of funds.”
Her watery blue eyes narrowed, and she said, “Don’t worry about the bank account, Dewey. It’s safe.”
As expected, s
he said the bank account, not our bank account. And she didn’t use the plural this time. With as much sincerity as he could muster, he said, “Eunice, we’re not getting any younger. In case a serious illness or accident happened to you, how would I access the funds? Let’s say if they were needed for your medical care. Do you realize I have no idea where the funds are or what I could do to help you?”
“Nothing’s gonna happen to me, Dewey,” she said, expressionless. “Worry about your own health and well-being.”
He was tired and under such strain that he said impetuously, “You act as though it’s your money and not mine too. I’ve worked my ass off for you for nine long years, Eunice.”
“Correction,” she said. “We’ve been married for nine very long years. But for the first two and a half years, I supported you completely while you haunted the offices of second-rate casting agents. Back when you spent more time at Dan Tana’s and the Formosa Café than the goddamn waiters and bartenders because you think screenwriters and moguls still hang out there. You live in the past, Dewey. You’re about as up-to-the-minute as a spinning wheel. Old Hollywood is dead. But I spoiled you and let you have your way, hoping you’d outgrow it. Does this sound familiar? Am I opening the gate to Memory Lane?”
“I was working every minute in those days, Eunice,” he said, feeling his resolve leaking away. “I filled legal pads full of script notes every moment I spent at Dan Tana’s. I met some important people there and at the Formosa, and I got a few acting gigs out of it. I could’ve gotten more if you’d stood by me with patience and encouragement.”
“You never needed encouragement, Dewey, you needed a mommy,” she said. “Well, sonny boy, I got real tired of being your mommy. And now, six and a half years later, you still haven’t learned the business like you should have. You still got your movie star dreams, and if I wasn’t completely in charge of our affairs, we’d be broke. There are certain things for which you have a minor talent, but money management isn’t one of them. It’s much better this way, and that’s how it’s gonna stay, Dewey.”
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