“There is no Starbucks at Sunset and Cahuenga. I know that area very well,” the landlord said.
Jonas stared at the man, trying to think of what to say, but the fucking headache was killing him. He couldn’t think.
Megan said, “Could you please just give him a couple of weeks, Mr. Casper?”
“I’m sorry,” the landlord said. “This has been going on too long. I’ve given you notice, Jonas.”
At that moment Jonas’s headache peaked and he exploded with, “Okay, you little kike bastard, but for now this is my residence. Get out.”
The landlord went pale around the mouth and started to speak but then changed his mind. He walked toward the door, but it wasn’t fast enough for Jonas Claymore. As the landlord stopped and was about to say something, Jonas gave him a little shove and said, “Get the fuck out now!”
The landlord reacted with a blow to Jonas’s solar plexus. It was a punch that only moved eight or ten inches but it was delivered with power and in exactly the spot where he was taught to hit when he’d done some boxing as a young man. Jonas sucked in a breath, started coughing, and went down on one knee and then flopped onto his back.
The landlord directed his fervent apology to Megan, saying, “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to respond like that, but you saw that he pushed me. It was instinct on my part. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t see him touch you at all, Mr. Casper,” Megan said. “I hope you didn’t crack his ribs or something.”
Then she knelt beside Jonas, who was mooing like a cow, and said, “Jonas, are you okay? Can you talk?”
Jonas just shook his head slowly and Megan said to the landlord, “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Casper. I’ll have to take him to Cedars ER. It could be very serious.”
“He shoved me! You must have seen it,” the landlord said. Then he added, “Look, Jonas, I’ll… I’ll give you another two weeks, okay? If you come up with the money then, we can see what’s what.”
“All right, Mr. Casper,” Megan said. “And now, if you’ll please go, I’ll get him to the ER to see if there’s been any damage done.”
After the landlord was gone, Jonas rolled over and said, “Fuck! I don’t know which hurts more now, my back or my gut.”
“That was impressive, Jonas,” Megan said.
“What impressive? What the fuck you talking about?”
“The way you goaded him,” she said. “The way you made him hit you.”
“Are you just stupid or what?” Jonas said, struggling to stand. “He sucker-punched me. That was no act. We’re gonna sue that fucking Jew and take everything he’s got. My guts’re destroyed. Help me up.”
“It’ll take a long time to sue him,” Megan said, “since you don’t even know a lawyer. And I don’t think this is the kind of case that lawyers are going to rush to handle. But meanwhile it bought us some time. If we’re ever to do what you’ve said we have to do, it’s now or never. We’ve got no ox, no perks, and no norcos. We’re screwed, Jonas. Life is just one long screwing for losers like us.”
His headache was thumping now. His brain felt swollen. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. It took him a moment to count how many times he had been knocked on his ass in this terrible month. Then it hit him: That stupid bitch just said we’re losers!
Marty Brueger had opted for a nostalgic visit to the Griffith Park Observatory that day, but when they got there, he didn’t care to go inside. He wanted to sit in the car and gaze at the building, with Raleigh wondering what was going on in the old coot’s head. Was he remembering some girl he took there ages ago? Was he thinking about those long-dead actors James Dean and Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo in Rebel Without a Cause, where this building was featured? Raleigh Dibble didn’t have the interest or energy to inquire. He kept thinking of what he could do with half a million dollars to change his situation in this world.
Then, just as impulsively as he had asked to be driven there, Marty Brueger said, “Okay, Raleigh, let’s go home. I need a nap.”
“Would you like to have lunch somewhere?” Raleigh asked.
“No, just stop at the liquor store and get me some more of that special Irish whiskey. Three bottles this time.”
After they had bought the whiskey and got back to the house, Raleigh made sure that the old man was tucked in with a tumbler of whiskey next to his dentures, and he said, “Have a nice sleep, Mr. Brueger. What would you like for supper?”
“Cyanide,” Marty Brueger said before closing his eyes. “Just pour it in the whiskey and don’t bother me till it’s over.”
That was the first time that Raleigh Dibble felt truly sorry for the old geezer. When he got back into the main house, his cell rang, and he looked at the number of the Wickland Gallery.
He felt a tightness in his throat when he said to Nigel Wickland, “Okay, what’s going on?”
“Progress has been fantastic,” Nigel said. “We’re going to do it tomorrow.”
Raleigh’s bowels began to rumble. Tomorrow! They were really going to do it. He’d been longing for this call, but now it terrified him. “What time?”
“When the old man’s napping. How about one o’clock?”
“Well… okay.”
“Why do you hesitate?”
Raleigh knew it was just nerves on his part, and he said, “No, it’s fine. But stay on your cell in case there’s a change for any reason.”
“Why would there be a change?”
“How the hell would I know?” Raleigh said. “Shit happens, Nigel. Just keep your cell handy, okay?”
“I told you not to use names, damn it,” Nigel Wickland said.
When Raleigh closed his cell, he muttered, “Arrogant fucking fairy.”
Then his bowels rumbled again and he ran to the bathroom.
Megan was even more exhausted and pain-racked than Jonas by the time they finished their work. It had been a day of endless cruising past celebrities’ addresses that they found online by using the rented computer at the cybercafé, a commercial enterprise where a hundred computers were operating 24/7. The cybercafé was a favorite haunt of identity thieves, hookers, drug dealers, and scam artists of all kinds. Jonas had insisted on spending a lot of time there these days, seeking out the addresses that he was convinced would bring them the fortune that the Bling Ring had had in their grasp but lost because of careless planning.
When they finally got back to their apartment, Megan said, “Jonas, I’m hurting bad. My elbows, my knees, everywhere.” And then she started that incessant coughing that was getting on his nerves.
“I’m the one that got suckered by that kike asshole,” Jonas retorted. “What’re you complaining about for chrissake?”
“I’m telling you, I’m in pain. I think I’ve got arthritis,” she said.
“Yeah, arthritis at twenty,” he said. “Sure.”
“I need something for the pain!”
“You’re jonesing,” he said. “I told you it’ll go away as soon as we can make some money to buy enough ox. As soon as we get it together, I’m sending you for a quick trip to rehab for a spin-dry.”
“Sending me to rehab?” she said. “We can’t afford rehab. Anyway, I never smoke as much as you do. Why don’t you go to rehab?”
“I don’t wanna talk about this every time you get sick,” Jonas said. “Just go fix supper, will ya? I gotta look at our star maps. I think tomorrow we’re gonna shoot for our first real target. We’re gonna get serious at last. I got four celebrity cribs picked out and we’re gonna get inside one of them. We need sleep so we can keep our heads clear.”
Speaking of his head made him realize that his headache was almost gone, so he thought he could maybe use a sleep inducer.
“We got any wine and watsons left?” he asked. “That should fix me up till tomorrow. Like my mom used to say, I’ll be right as rain then.”
“We had real rain in Oregon,” Meg said despondently. “This goddamn place is just a
glitzy desert.”
SIXTEEN
Sergeant Murillo liked to send the troops out on the streets in good spirits, so he invited humorous comments as soon as he finished reading the crimes and other roll call material. He said, “Has anything noteworthy happened lately that you would like to share?”
Flotsam said, “Yeah, Sarge, the other night we got a call from a drunk hooker on the Sunset track who made an ADW report against some dude that kicked her in the giz when she refused to boink him for twenty bucks. When we got her to the ER, the doctor examined her and said there was something weird about her labia. She thought he said Libya, and she goes, ‘I ain’t no terrorist. I’m an American.’ ”
That one got a few hoots and some thumbs-down from skeptics who didn’t believe it happened. And then Snuffy Salcedo said, “We pulled over a guy on Cahuenga last night for busting a light, and when I said he had a mutilated driver’s license, he said, ‘My license don’t mutilate for another year.’ ”
That one got more hoots and a few thumbs-up.
Before he dismissed them, Sergeant Murillo made an announcement that concerned Britney Small and Della Ravelle.
“Six-X-Forty-six,” he said, “I’d like you to stop by the library on Ivar and talk to the librarian about the Wedgie Bandit. He’s at it again.”
The veteran midwatch cops groaned at the news, and Sergeant Murillo said, “For you new people, the Wedgie Bandit is a white male, about thirty years old, five ten, one forty, brown and blue. He usually wears long-sleeved jerseys or sweatshirts, jeans, and tennis shoes. And he is an unparalleled menace to the safety and security of Hollywood’s citizens. It’s imperative that we get this villain off the street.”
Snuffy Salcedo said, “Wedgie Bandit? Why do they call him that?”
Sergeant Murillo said, deadpan, “He assaults any unsuspecting person he encounters with very forceful wedgies.”
“With wedgies?” Snuffy said.
“Do you know what a wedgie is, Officer Salcedo?” Sergeant Murillo asked. “It’s very unpleasant. How would you like someone to give you one?”
“I know they’re unpleasant, boss,” Snuffy said, “but why does he do it to strangers?”
Sergeant Murillo said, “That is the question that the watch commander wants answered, and the station captain, and the division captain, and the bureau commander. I wouldn’t be surprised if the chief of police wants to know his motive. When he’s caught, we’ll find out why he does it, but we can’t catch him. Six-X-Thirty-two almost caught him one time, I believe. I’m not sure what happened.”
Flotsam said, “Yeah, my little pard here chased him through Griffith Park, but the Wedgie Bandit left him panting on the grass with his tongue hanging out like one of them Frisbee-chasing border collies that scoot around there all day.”
“He runs like a cheetah,” Jetsam said defensively.
Sergeant Murillo said, “You all should be aware of how serial wedgies are committed. This fiend just walks up behind victims of either gender, even senior citizens, and grabs a handful of underwear from the back and pulls up as hard as he can. Then he beats feet and vanishes.”
Jetsam said, “I almost had that little booger eater till he ran right through a bunch of bird-watchers that’re always out there looking for the Painted Redstart, whatever the hell that is. One of the old babes was, like, taking a bunch of pictures with a telephoto lens and another one was chirping with a birdcall. And pretty soon both were sitting on the grass after he bowled them over. I’m only surprised he didn’t stop long enough to give one of them a wedgie.”
Flotsam said, “Sarge, remember the time the vice unit helped us out and put an undercover guy out there, and the bandit snuck up behind him and gave the UC cop a wedgie? And got away again!”
“Yes, he’s been imaginative and resourceful,” Sergeant Murillo said, still deadpan. “If a unit from Watch Five can jam him tonight, I will buy two large pizzas with the works for that team. Of course, with the price of two pizzas, I hope you’ll wait until about, oh, two thirty for me to buy them, when they’re older and cheaper, at an hour when only coppers will eat them.”
Hollywood Nate said to Britney Small of 6-X-46, “Be supercareful at the library, Britney. Make sure Della’s got your back at all times. It’d be a real feather in his cap to give a uniformed female copper a wedgie.”
Britney blushed and the troops hooted and whistled and were all ready to go out and do police work.
When Watch 5 cleared and was on the streets, there was a cyclist causing a disturbance on Santa Monica Boulevard. But this wasn’t any ordinary cyclist. He was unique even for this attention-getters Mecca. This cyclist kept cruising on the sidewalk past a beauty shop, honking a horn attached to his handlebars. He wasn’t satisfied until he got several women to go to the windows with their hair rolled in goop and tinfoil, with strands protruding in all directions. Then he’d ride no hands and wave at them.
The cyclist was reptile-thin, of indeterminate age, with his hair done in purple spikes, and as far as face metal went, there was nothing left to pierce. He had rings or studs through his nose, ears, eyebrows, lips, and tongue. He was inked on most of his upper body and had only a bit of bare flesh untatted from his knees down.
He wore flip-flops and violet short shorts decorated with sparkles. The proprietor of the beauty shop, a no-nonsense Cambodian woman, went outside several times and yelled, “You stop this! You go way! I call police!”
But that only made him emit a lunatic laugh and honk his horn and make another pass in front of the beauty shop window.
Finally one of the customers said, “I’m sick of this shit!”
She went outside, still wearing her black wraparound smock, and when the cyclist cruised by again, she shouted, “Hey, freako! Get outta here!”
All she got was the cry of a loon, and he sped right past her no hands as she yelled, “You asshole!”
Which turned out to be the apt epithet. She got a good look at him from the back, and when she ran inside to call the police, she said to the other women, “There’s no seat on the bike!”
Six-X-Seventy-six got the call about a “415 cyclist” at the beauty shop, and Viv Daley said to Georgie Adams, “The message doesn’t say how he’s disturbing the peace.”
“In Hollywood it could mean anything,” Georgie said. “Probably DUI and doing wheelies to impress the ladies while they’re getting their hair bleached. I’m glad you don’t go in for that highlights stuff, sis. It’s so lame and boring. I think half the people in Hollywood do it these days, even Flotsam and Jetsam.”
“Those surfer boys swear their golden streaks are from the sun and surf,” Viv said as she turned eastbound through the Sunset Boulevard early evening traffic.
“Yeah, right,” Georgie said.
“Where the hell does all this traffic come from?” Viv said.
“It can’t be explained,” Georgie said. “I think it’s immaculate congestion.”
When they arrived at the beauty shop, the outraged proprietress met them at the curb and pointed to the cyclist, who pedaled off in the opposite direction very fast upon seeing the black-and-white.
The Cambodian beautician tried to explain to them in broken English about the cyclist causing a disturbance, but “Look at ass!” was the best they could get from her.
Not knowing what that meant, 6-X-76 made a dodgy U-turn through the traffic and caught up with the cyclist. Viv beeped her horn and gestured for him to stop, and when he did, she pulled the Crown Vic to the curb beside him.
“What the hell was that woman trying to tell us?” Georgie said. “I don’t get it.”
They got out and approached the cyclist, who was still astride his bike with one foot on the sidewalk. Since he was wearing only the sparkled short shorts, there was no need for a pat down.
Georgie said to Viv, “The dude’s got enough face metal to trade at a junkyard for a ’sixty-eight Torino.”
“First of all,” Viv said to the cyclist, “you’re
riding a bike on the sidewalk. Secondly, you were beeping your horn and causing an unnecessary disturbance.” Then she took a closer look at him and said, “Get off the bike, sir.”
Obediently he swung his leg over the saddle, except there was no saddle. Georgie looked at the steel seat post and said, “What the hell?”
Viv said to the cyclist, “Turn around sir and face away from me.”
He smiled amiably and complied, and she got a rear view of him and said, “Don’t look, Gypsy. You’re too squeamish for this.”
But Georgie looked anyway and saw the opening in the shorts. After that he refused to look at either the man’s shorts or the metal seat post.
“You talk to him,” he said to Viv Daley. “I’m getting nauseous.”
“Sir,” Viv said to the cyclist, “where’s the seat that goes on this bike?”
“Wore it out,” he said.
“Why don’t you buy another one?”
“I got used to this,” he said. “It’s more comfortable. And I think it gives me greater control of the bike. Why? Is there any law against it?”
“You’re exposing yourself indecently,” she said.
“No, Officer,” he said. “I’m all covered, if you’ll notice. The hole in my shorts is only an inch and one eighth in diameter to fit snugly over the metal post. So you see, I’m not indecent at all.”
Viv said patiently, “If I don’t write you a ticket for riding on the sidewalk, will you promise me to go home and get yourself a bike seat and never ride like this again, even if it gives you greater control of your bike?”
His mouth turned down at the corners. No mean feat with all the lip rings and studs, and he sighed and said, “If you say so, Officer. I want to always obey the law.”
“Okay,” Viv said. “Walk your bike home, sew up your shorts, and buy a bike seat ASAP.”
When they got back in the car, Georgie Adams said, “We should get a pay bump for dealing with Hollywood weirdness.”
Viv said, “The next time you go for a bike ride…”
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