Hollywood Hills hs-4

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Go screw yourself, surf rat!” Della said.

  “No, wait,” Jetsam said. “I’m just saying, like, a woman of your… maturity, like, probably in her lifetime…”

  “Aw, shit,” Della said, and went over to Rolf Thunder, who was lying handcuffed in a fetal pose and going in and out of consciousness now. She knelt and loosened the constricting band and removed the penis pump and tossed it at Jetsam, saying, “Here, would you like to book this as evidence?”

  The surfer cop leaped aside like the thing was radioactive as the penis pump flew past him.

  Snuffy Salcedo was taken by ambulance to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where an ER doctor said that his nose would probably be “almost like new after surgery.” He was told he’d be kept overnight for observation and surgery in the morning.

  When 6-X-46 was alone in the women’s locker room at Hollywood Station, Della Ravelle helped Britney Small apply an ice pack to her right eye where she’d been slammed by Rolf Thunder’s elbow as he’d bolted into the coffin room to make his stand.

  “Keep the ice on it till the second-guessers get here,” Della said. “You’ve got a mouse growing already and it’s turning purple.”

  “I’m in better shape than any of the guys,” Britney said, touching the swelling gingerly.

  “This has been a learning experience for you, girlfriend,” Della said. “You see how male coppers are? They pride themselves on never putting out an officers-need-help call. Their machismo prevents even an assistance call. There’s just a whole lot of cowboy in them. If I’d been running that show, I would’ve backed off in the beginning and at least put out the code-two call the second Mr. Frankenstein made it clear he was gonna go the hard way. But with six of us there, no guy gunslinger would ever humble himself to do that. Well, girl, now you’ve seen some real whup-ass. And now you see that all the grappling holds and everything else you learned at the academy are worth shit out here in the real world when you come up against a walking reign of terror. I know you’re brave, but what good would bantamweight Britney Small have done in the midst of half a ton of raging beef crashing around that room? If you ever face something like that by yourself, just remember that you carry a forty-caliber Glock, and if your back’s to the wall, do not hesitate to pull and kill the bastard before he kills you. Don’t think about whether you’re justified by policy or by law. Remember the old copper saying: It’s a whole lot better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.”

  Because of the kind of violence inflicted, which could have included choke holds, baton strikes, and kicks, Force Investigation Division had been immediately called out to determine if all action was in policy. The five ambulatory cops spent the rest of the night being interviewed at Hollywood Station, where they tediously had to deconstruct the battle and justify each move they made.

  What they all wanted to say to FID was “When it comes to subduing a monster with no pain receptors, the Marquis of Queensberry’s just some tranny on Santa Monica Boulevard. So stop fucking with me!”

  Rolf Thunder, whose true name was Filmore McClain, was transported to the jail ward on the thirteenth floor at USCMC, the old county hospital, and later told investigators that it had all been worth it and he had no complaints. The institutionalized man said that he’d enjoyed his vacation in the free world for a while but that it had gotten too stressful. He said he had been trying to find a fun way to violate his parole and go back to prison, which was the only place he’d ever been really happy. It was where he could be taken care of and kick back and never have to make decisions and experience life the way he’d always known it since he was fifteen years old. Prison was security. Prison was home.

  The only positive note that the male cops took from the event at Goth House was that after the battle they all got a good look at the penis of the giant when he was strapped onto the gurney by paramedics.

  Della Ravelle noticed their satisfaction and later said to Britney Small, “Did you see the smug little smiles on the surfer cops and Hollywood Nate when Jumbo was on the gurney? What they’ll remember most about the war at Goth House is that their little willies are just as big as Goliath’s. They might even stop using male-enhancement products.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Raleigh’s sleep was fitful and fraught with strange dreams that he could not interpret. He awakened every hour or so until he gave up and rose at 5:30 A.M. He watched TV with his breakfast but couldn’t eat much. Then he took Marty Brueger’s breakfast on a tray to the cottage, but he found the old man still sleeping. He left the tray and walked back to the main house and tried to read the L.A. Times, but he could not concentrate.

  His thoughts kept returning to the months he’d spent in federal prison, where he’d met several inmates who had served very hard time in state penitentiaries. One of them told Raleigh that comparing Club Fed to state prison was like comparing hemorrhoids to colon cancer, and the inmate was a man who had suffered both.

  There was still time, Raleigh thought. He could pick up the phone and call Nigel Wickland, using both his given name and surname just to piss him off, and cancel the whole thing. After all, his life in the Brueger house was pretty good, and he’d never been a greedy man. Why should he risk arrest and trial and a sentence at one of the nightmare factories run by the state of California, where each hour of each terrible day his life would be put at risk? This was madness, this fantasy that had been sold to him by one of those “toffee-nosed poofs,” as his fellow workers in the London bistro used to call the upper-crust homos.

  He went to the butler’s pantry and got a notepad and pen and began making a list of all the ways in which this thing could go sideways. When he got to number six, he tore it to bits and then set fire to the paper scraps in the sink. He sat down again. Then the phone buzzed, and he picked it up, knowing it was the cottage line.

  “Yes, Mr. Brueger?” he said.

  Marty Brueger’s morning voice said, “I’m sick of this fucking place, Raleigh. With Lorena away, I feel like a prisoner in solitary confinement.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brueger,” Raleigh said. “Maybe we can take a drive later this morning? Is there somewhere you’d like to go? We can take any one of Mrs. Brueger’s cars. How about the big Mercedes? You could sit in back with a flask of whiskey and take in the sights and I’ll be your chauffeur.”

  “I was thinking about a longer drive,” Marty Brueger said. “I was thinking maybe you could take me to Palm Springs and I could look at all the old places I used to know when Sammy and me were young bucks.”

  And there it was! One of the ways things could go sideways, and it wasn’t even on his list. Palm Springs was three hours away. He couldn’t take the geezer to Palm Springs and be back by 1 P.M.

  “Mr. Brueger,” he said. “It’s still too hot in Palm Springs. In a couple of months it’ll be nice there and we can go and get a hotel for an overnighter. You could gamble in the Indian casinos. Maybe catch a show. But you don’t want to go to Palm Springs now.”

  “I’m lonesome,” Marty Brueger said. “Come on over and let’s talk about it. Or I can come up to the house.”

  “I’ll come to you, Mr. Brueger,” Raleigh said.

  He hung up and thought about this. Was it fate, destiny, or divine providence? Today of all days, something had made that old man decide he wanted to go to Palm Springs. Something or somebody was trying to help Raleigh out of the incredible scheme concocted by Nigel Wickland. All he had to do was call the man and tell him that Marty Brueger wanted to go to Palm Springs today, which was the truth. After that, he could tell an untruth and say that Marty Brueger had decided to move into the main house because he was lonely. And with Marty Brueger in the main house, it would effectively end Nigel Wickland’s plot to make a million dollars. Raleigh could save face with that pompous limey, as if he needed to, and the bad dreams would be over.

  Suddenly he felt like a free man. He felt wonderful. He sauntered down the walk to Marty’s cottage and literally stopped to smell the roses.
He knocked twice, as he always did. He entered and found Marty Brueger on the floor in the bathroom, wearing only urine-soaked underpants.

  “Mr. Brueger!” Raleigh ran to the old man, stripped off his underwear and carried him to his bed.

  Marty Brueger looked at him and said, “Wa-wa-wa…”

  “Are you trying to say my name, Mr. Brueger?” Raleigh said in panic. Then he muttered, “My god, it’s a stroke!”

  Raleigh Dibble picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  Megan Burke was shocked to be awakened by the smell of actual food. She opened her eyes and found Jonas sitting on the bed, fully dressed, with a glass of orange juice in a Styrofoam cup and an Egg McMuffin on a plate.

  He said, “I got up early. This is the first day of our new life as successful people. I went out and had breakfast and brought yours home. We gotta be healthy and strong today. Eat, baby, eat.”

  Megan rolled out of bed with her feet on the floor, stood up painfully, and lurched into the bathroom. Jonas went to the kitchen, and she could hear water running. When she finished in the bathroom, she saw the plate of Egg McMuffin on the kitchen table with the orange juice. And he was actually making the coffee, another first.

  “We ain’t doing drugs today, Megan,” he said. “We’re working and we ain’t coming home till we hit a target. We’re aiming for nothing but bull’s-eyes today. We’re finding a likely crib and we’re going in. Nothing can stop us.”

  Megan sat and sipped some orange juice and nibbled at the Egg McMuffin without interest. She thought, Right, I don’t get to do any drugs today, but look at him! She figured he’d had a taste of something, the way he was amped. It made her surly and resentful. She always got the short end because he was the man, or so he thought.

  “Come on, sweetie, take bigger bites,” he said. “And chew, chew, chew.”

  She had a momentary fantasy of picking up a kitchen knife and cutting his throat.

  Raleigh’s panic had subsided before the ambulance arrived, and after they’d loaded Marty Brueger in and taken him to Cedars-Sinai, he went into the main house and took a shower. He had the old man’s piss on his clothes and he wanted to stand under hot water for a long time. The paramedics had verified that it looked like a stroke, and they had wasted no time in getting their patient out of there, so now Raleigh was alone for the first time in Casa Brueger. He needed to think, but first he needed the shower.

  When he finally was out and had toweled off, Raleigh stood before the mirror and thought about all the things he had planned to do with his five hundred thousand tax-free dollars. He was going to be physically transformed, easily losing ten years from his appearance, thanks to the cosmetic magicians on the west side of Los Angeles. He had also planned to purchase a modest condo, his own home at long last. And there was the dream of hooking up with an older wealthy woman, like the kind he’d met through his catering business. And why not? He could cook and he knew food and wine. He could manage a house and he could drive. And he was, if he did say so himself, a presentable companion who could converse with anyone. But what was going to happen now that Marty Brueger had suffered a stroke? Was this yet another act of providence, or fate, or destiny? If so, what did it mean?

  Then again, if he did go forward with Nigel Wickland, it would make it all far easier and less stressful with Marty Brueger off the property and in the hospital, wouldn’t it? Things would be simpler and safer in many ways. But he didn’t dare keep the fact of Marty Brueger’s hospitalization from Marty’s sister-in-law, Leona Brueger. He had to phone Tuscany. That much was certain. But what would she say and do?

  Ten minutes later Raleigh made a call, but he did not phone Leona Brueger in Tuscany. He phoned Nigel Wickland’s cell phone.

  When Nigel answered, Raleigh said, “The old guy’s had a stroke. He’s at Cedars.”

  Nigel Wickland did not speak for several seconds and then said, “All right, that doesn’t change anything.”

  Raleigh said, “Doesn’t change anything? What if she decides to come home? He’s an old man in poor health. He might die at any time.”

  “She doesn’t care about him any more than she cared about his brother,” Nigel said. “Tell her it’s a stroke but downplay it. Let her know that you think he’ll be fine and that they should continue with their long holiday and you’ll let them know if something untoward happens.”

  Untoward, Raleigh thought. The supercilious asshole always had to use his boarding school vocabulary. “What if they still decide to come home right away?”

  “They won’t, I promise you,” Nigel said. “She’ll be happy if the old bastard dies. So calm yourself.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Raleigh said.

  “You’ll see me later,” Nigel said. “Nothing has changed.”

  When Raleigh finished the call, his bowels began rumbling again and he ran to the bathroom.

  An hour later, after more dithering, Raleigh called Tuscany and got Leona’s voice mail. He said, “Mrs. Brueger, it’s Raleigh Dibble. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”

  At 12:30 P.M., thirty minutes before Nigel Wickland was due to arrive at the Brueger house, Raleigh was stunned to hear a vehicle in the driveway. He ran to the main door, opened it, and saw the gardener’s truck parked on the faux-cobblestone driveway. The electric gate was wide open as was always the case when the crew was there tending to all greenery on the outside as well as the inside of the garden walls.

  Raleigh ran out and said to the first worker he saw, “What’re you doing here today?”

  The Mexican shrugged and said, “No Eeng-lish.”

  In utter frustration, Raleigh dashed around the property, looking for the boss, a burro of a man named Angel.

  When he found him he said, “Angel, what’re you doing here today?”

  “Mee-sus say to come today to reseed all the grass,” the gardener said. He took a pocket calendar from his back pocket and showed Raleigh that the date had been circled.

  “Oh, shit!” Raleigh said. “Can’t you do it some other day?”

  The gardener looked at his crew of five men, who were already pruning and trimming as well as scalping the lawn, and he said, “No, sir. Sorry. Thees ees the day I can be here.”

  Raleigh said, “Okay, please try to hurry.”

  He went out to the street, looking at his watch. He didn’t see the van from Wickland Gallery yet, so he hurried back to the house, picked up his cell phone, and dialed Nigel’s cell number.

  He got voice mail and felt like throwing the goddamn phone through the window. He ran back out to the street and trotted fifty yards down the winding road until he had to stop to catch his breath. He was standing there panting when he saw the cargo van make the turn in the road and climb the street toward him.

  Raleigh stepped into the middle of the road and waved his arms. The van came to a sudden stop and Nigel Wickland said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “The gardeners are here!” Raleigh said. “There’re Mexicans all over the place. I couldn’t stop them.”

  “You said the gardeners came on another day. Not today,” Nigel said.

  “I know, but this is something special that Mrs. Brueger set up. She didn’t tell me about it. It’s not my fault.”

  “Not his fault,” Nigel said, looking away.

  Raleigh said, “First Mr. Brueger has a stroke, and now this. Maybe fate’s trying to tell us something.”

  “Don’t you lose your nerve!” Nigel said. “I’ve planned this and spent a lot of money, and worked on this without proper sleep or rest. I’ve got two perfect pictures in this van that are identical to the originals. And we’re going through with it, Raleigh.”

  “With the gardeners here?”

  “How long will they be here?”

  “I don’t know. Usually only a few hours, but this is a special job.”

  “Shit!” Nigel said. “Did you phone Leona about her brother-in-law’s stroke?”

  “Yes, but I only got her vo
ice mail. I left a message for her to call me.”

  “Christ!” Nigel said. “Call me the minute you find out when the gardeners are leaving.”

  “I will,” Raleigh said. “If you’ll turn on your cell phone.”

  Nigel reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone, looked at it, and said, “Right.”

  Then he pulled into a neighbor’s driveway, turned around, and drove back down toward the flatland.

  Raleigh was surprised at how much satisfaction he’d gotten in demonstrating to Nigel Wickland that his cell had been turned off and he wasn’t so fucking perfect. He hurried back to the house, but the way the lawns were being scalped, it didn’t look like this would be a quick job. When he got inside the house, he checked the answering machine. He distinctly remembered giving Leona Brueger his cell number as well. He wondered if she’d lost it. He turned on the TV just for the noise it made.

  That lovely day in early autumn was the longest day in the life of Raleigh Dibble. Leona Brueger never called. At 4:50 P.M., the gardeners finished their work and Raleigh notified Nigel Wickland that they were gone. Then he went into the bathroom and threw up.

  Nigel Wickland rang the gate bell at 5:30 P.M., and Raleigh buzzed him into the Brueger compound. Raleigh walked outside and watched Nigel turn his cargo van all the way around and park it facing the gate.

  When Nigel got out of the van, Raleigh said to him, “What’s the three-sixty for? A quick getaway?”

  Nigel ignored that and said, “Help me with the material.”

  He was wearing white coveralls with “Wickland Gallery” embroidered over a breast pocket. He opened the side door and put his ring of keys on the van roof temporarily, in order to free up both hands. He picked up his toolbox and handed it to Raleigh. Then he removed the two photographs on poster board, each individually wrapped in a furniture mover’s blanket. He leaned them carefully against the garage door and went back to the van for a floodlight and a light stand.