Hollywood Hills hs-4

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “All right. Always use my mobile number,” Nigel said. He wrote his number on a notepad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to her.

  Megan said, “And remember, someone will deliver me here and wait for me when I come for the money. My companion will be a hired driver, and he will not know anything about our arrangement. But if I don’t walk out of here in fifteen minutes, he will make a nine-one-one call and present the arriving police with a letter that I’ve written. You will be in way more trouble than you are in now if something bad happens to me when I come to this place of business.”

  Nigel emitted a bark of a laugh for the first time and said, “You are truly a very bright girl, Valerie. Believe me, nothing is going to happen to you.”

  “I used to be a bright girl,” she said. “And I’m trying to be a bright girl again. That’s why I’m here.”

  Nigel took a hard look again at her undernourished body, nervous hand movements, and agitated watery eyes, and he said, “Drugs?”

  She nodded and said, “You’re a smart person, too, Mr. Wickland.”

  “Not half as smart as you, Valerie,” Nigel said. “I should hope that I won’t see you some time in the future when your drug money runs out. It would be a big mistake on your part to come at me again.”

  “Believe it or not, Mr. Wickland,” she said, “I’ll be using a big chunk of the money to get out of this state and go to a rehab and get clean. And learn how to stay clean.”

  “And the rest of the money?”

  “I’m giving it to my mother.”

  Nigel laughed heartily and said, “Good lord! You’re so convincing that I can almost believe that, too, Valerie.”

  “Good-bye for now, Mr. Wickland,” Megan said. She stood and opened the office door, walking briskly to the street door and out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

  After Megan left the Wickland Gallery, Nigel dialed the cell phone of Alec Townsend, the manager of his bank, a personal friend who also frequented the gay bars of west Hollywood.

  When he reached the bank manager, he said, “Alec, Nigel Wickland here. Listen carefully. I need to loot my savings account and my commercial account. I must have one hundred thousand dollars as soon as possible. I have a chance to purchase a painting of immense value, but it’s a bit dodgy because its provenance is unknown to the seller. Someone else will get it if I don’t grab it at once. This investment will produce a windfall profit.”

  He listened to the bank manager’s warnings and protests and said, “Alec, I am not being scammed and I am not being extorted. This is a chance of a lifetime. I want the money in hundred-dollar bills by tomorrow.”

  After a moment of listening, he said in frustration, “I don’t care about your currency transaction reports or your goddamn deposit-demand account. It’s my money. And I stand to reap a return of one thousand percent in a few months. Can your fucking bank do that for me?”

  He listened again and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry. But Alec, it is my money to risk as I see fit. Can you pull strings and have it for me by the day after tomorrow at the latest? In hundred-dollar bills. I’ll owe you, my friend. Please help me.”

  When Megan Burke left the Wickland Gallery with the envelope in her purse, she had to walk two blocks until a very cautious and supremely nervous Jonas Claymore had the courage to pull the VW bug to the curb beside her.

  She jumped in and said, “Go, Jonas.”

  He almost sideswiped a gleaming Rolls-Royce parked on Wilshire Boulevard and she said, “Watch where you’re driving.”

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes, I got it.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “When we get home.”

  “Now, bitch!” he said.

  She looked at him but said nothing. Then she turned the rearview mirror and looked at herself.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m trying to see who I am,” she said.

  “What the fuck you talking about?”

  “I should say that I’m trying to see who I’ve become. Sitting here with a loser like you who can’t utter a complete sentence without using words like bitch. In fact, someone who can’t utter a complete sentence period.”

  “Me, a loser?” he said. “I jist got you six fucking grand. Me, a loser? Gimme that money!”

  “It’s in my purse and you’ll have it when we get to the apartment,” she said firmly. “Now drive me home.”

  “It ain’t your home, it’s my home,” he reminded her. “And first I’m stopping at Pablo’s Taco Shop and you’re gonna give me some of that bank and I’m gonna buy some OCs. And then I’m going home and I’m chasing the dragon, and if you don’t like it, move the fuck out. But first gimme what you got in your purse.”

  Jonas was driving as fast as the rush-hour traffic allowed, and he kept glaring at her, but Megan was past anger, past all intense feelings. She had never been so tired in her life. She reached into her purse, withdrew the envelope, opened it, and handed him five hundred-dollar bills.

  “Go ahead, stop at Pablo’s,” she said. “Get yourself busted. Get me arrested, too. That’d be about what I’d expect from you.”

  “What you can expect from me is a bunch of good ideas, and this is only the start of it. When we get home, the first thing we do is get rid of those paintings.”

  Megan looked at him and said, “What do you mean, get rid of them?”

  “We got paid for our work, so why do we need to take any more chances with them? I’ll give them to Wilbur for some ox. He can unload them at a swap meet.”

  “No!” Megan said. “I gave the man my word.”

  Jonas looked at her and said, “Your word? What’s this, something you picked up in Sunday school? Your word?”

  “It’s a bargain,” Megan said. “We made a bargain with the man and we took his money.”

  “So now you’re running the show, huh? Well, news flash, girlfriend. That ain’t gonna fly. I’m the man. I’m the quarterback and I’ll call the signals. You reading me?”

  She was silent. Then she sighed and said, “Yes, you’re easy to read. You’re a comic book. You’re what I deserve for riding the ox.”

  Feeling gravely insulted, Jonas said, “When we get back to the apartment, maybe I’ll give you what you got coming and let you take your fucking cat and your clothes and get the fuck out.”

  “And what do I have coming?”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “Think hard,” she said. “I faced the man and got the money. I deserve a fifty-fifty split.”

  She heard him cackle like a movie witch, and he said, “I been saying you’re all smoked out. Your brain’s more shriveled than your puny tits.”

  “What split do you have in mind, Jonas?” she demanded. “I walked in there and got the money.”

  “Okay, I’ll be big about it,” he said. “An eighty-twenty split. The eighty is for the brains.”

  “I see” was all Megan said.

  They spoke no more until they arrived in Hollywood at Pablo’s Taco Shop on Santa Monica Boulevard, where he drove into the parking lot at twilight.

  “Please take me home, Jonas,” Megan begged. “We can’t afford to get busted now. There might be some narks watching this place. Everybody knows it’s a hangout for dealers. Please take me home first.”

  He parked at the far end of the little strip mall and said, “I ain’t scared of five-oh. I can smooth-talk any of them. Anyways, I ain’t got time to drop you. I want those green beans now, and you do, too.”

  “I’m not smoking ox with you anymore, Jonas,” she said. “Or anything else.”

  “Hah!” he said. “Let’s see what you do when that beautiful snowbird starts to cook.”

  “All right, get me some perks or norcos,” she said. “Anything to get me past the joneses. But I’m not smoking ox with you.”

  “We’ll see,” he said with a smirk, and left her sitting in the car. He walked ten yards, stopped, and came back. He reached
through the open window and took the keys from the ignition, saying with a wicked little grin, “Can’t leave you here with my keys and my bank. The temptation might be too much for you.”

  He got out but left his cell phone in the ashtray, where he always kept it while driving.

  He was gone only for a moment when she saw the black-and-white wheeling into the parking lot.

  Six-X-Seventy-six had just cleared from roll call, and Viv Daley and Georgie Adams thought it was time for a cruise through the strip mall on a routine check for tweakers and other drug users who did business at the taco shop.

  Megan Burke grabbed Jonas’s cell phone, opened the door of the VW bug, got out, and walked east on Santa Monica Boulevard as fast as she could. When she was a safe distance away, she stopped and watched the parking lot to see what was going to happen.

  Jonas Claymore had to use his hand to shield his eyes from the late rays of the sun. The dying fireball was giving Hollywood a last blast of its power before settling into the Pacific. Jonas peered into an old Mazda and found a dude he’d done business with on a few occasions. What was his name? Earl, that was it.

  He was a scrawny little rat-faced tweaker with what everyone said looked like terminal acne. His face was a flaming pus ball, and it was sickening to score from him, but he had pharmacy connections and was usually good for norcos and perks and sometimes OCs.

  The Mazda’s windows were open and Earl was eating one of Pablo’s lard-fried tacos filled with what Jonas thought was probably horsemeat.

  “Earl, whazzup?” Jonas said.

  Earl looked at Jonas, recognized him, and said, “I’m living the dream, dude.”

  “I need ox,” Jonas said. “I’ll take four if you got ’em. And I need a few norcos or perks for my bitch. I’ll give you two Franklins.”

  “Bite it,” Earl said, ferociously chewing the taco, grease the color of dishwater running down his chin and dripping onto his cutoff sweatshirt.

  “Okay, dawg, I ain’t got time to fuck around,” Jonas said. “I’ll give you three Franklins for the four OCs and maybe a dozen norcos or perks.”

  Earl held up four fingers and took another bite from the taco.

  “Aw, fuck it!” Jonas said, tossing four hundred-dollar bills onto the Mazda seat, which Earl snatched up so fast, Jonas hardly saw his little hand move.

  “Go get a Coke,” Earl said. “I’ll see you inside.”

  Jonas did as he was told, wondering vaguely where Earl’s drugs were stashed. They could be concealed inside the car’s headliner, or taped under the dash, or hidden under the spare tire, or even up Earl’s ass. He hated to think about that, but he was so desperate, he pushed all questions from his mind and ordered a soda at the counter.

  He sat at a table near a Mexican family with a bawling baby and waited. Earl entered after a few minutes and went to the counter, where he removed several paper napkins from the dispenser. He wiped his greasy face with the napkins and when he got to his mouth he spit a tied-off condom into the napkins, dropping the crumpled mess onto Jonas’s table before exiting.

  Jonas stuffed the wad of napkins into his pocket, put the soda cup in the trash container, and sauntered out, trying to walk casually to his car.

  Georgie Adams was driving the black-and-white, and he said to Viv, “Hey, sis, isn’t that the guy we stopped a few days ago? The one who said he was heading for a job in the Hills with his crying wife?”

  Viv Daley looked at him and said, “Yeah, the one with the sick baby.”

  “Told you they looked like tweakers,” Georgie said.

  “Let’s jam him,” Viv said.

  Jonas had reached his VW bug and was looking around, wondering where the hell Megan went, when the black-and-white stopped, blocking his exit, and he saw two cops get out. He recognized the tall woman cop as the one he’d talked out of a ticket, and he said to himself, Do not panic. You did it before and you can do it again. But he didn’t like the dark, sinister look of the shorter cop with her.

  Viv said to Georgie, “There it is. The over-the-shoulder look.”

  “Hi, Officer!” Jonas said to Viv. “I remember you from the other day.”

  “And I remember you,” Viv said. “How’s your sick baby?”

  “Getting better every day,” Jonas said. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Where’s your wife?” Georgie asked.

  “I was just looking for her. She musta went across the street to buy a doughnut. I’ll tell her I saw you.”

  He started to step to his car, but Viv said, “What’s that bulge in your pocket?”

  “Bulge?” he said. “Nothing.”

  “It could be a weapon. It could be drugs,” Georgie said. “Did you know tweakers hang out here and do deals?”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Jonas said, aware that his jaw was trembling but unable to stop it. Then he said, “Oh. I almost forgot. It’s a bunch of napkins in my pocket. I ate a taco in there.”

  “How much did the taco cost you?” Viv said.

  “I didn’t pay much attention,” Jonas said.

  Georgie said to Viv, “This dude’s like a dog. Eye contact makes him jumpy.”

  “Why didn’t you throw your napkins in the trash can?” Viv asked.

  Jonas said, “I… I brought them to wipe off the windshield. I got a big bug splatter on the glass.”

  “Go ahead,” Viv said. “Wipe your windshield.”

  “Later,” Jonas said. “I don’t wanna waste your time.”

  “No problem,” Georgie said. “Wipe your windshield. You gotta have good visibility when you drive on these busy Hollywood streets.”

  “Maybe I’ll wipe it later,” Jonas said. “It’s my windshield, ain’t it?”

  Georgie looked at Viv and said, “More contempt of cop from the baseball-cap-turned-backward set.”

  Jonas said, “All I meant is, what’s wrong with a couple dead bugs on the glass?”

  Georgie said, “Don’t make me use my uppercase voice, dude. You’re wasting my minutes.”

  Jonas reached into his pocket and both cops looked like they might shoot him if he moved too fast. In fact, he heard the male cop say, “Take your napkins out real slow. We’re the nervous type.”

  Jonas removed the big wad of greasy paper napkins with the condom in the middle of it and started rubbing the crumpled napkins across his windshield.

  “Wouldn’t it work better if you unfolded that wad?” Viv said.

  Jonas turned to answer her and the greasy condom fell out of the wad of napkins and landed on the hood of the VW bug, then slid down onto the asphalt by the zip-up black boot of Georgie Adams, who said, “Uh-oh. What are they serving in their tacos these days?”

  Viv said, “Turn around.” And when Jonas did, she handcuffed his hands behind his back.

  “You searched me without my permission,” he said.

  “We didn’t search you at all,” Viv said.

  “This ain’t fair!” Jonas wailed.

  Viv said, “Dude, your GPS is off. A fair is where you eat candy apples and get your pocket picked. This is a different place.”

  “Can’t you just warn me again?” Jonas whined.

  “Yeah,” Georgie said. “I’m warning you that those OCs will turn your brain to meat loaf. Now shut the fuck up while I read you your rights.”

  After seeing Jonas Claymore being handcuffed, Megan Burke entered a 7-Eleven store and bought cat food and vegetable juice in order to break one of the hundred-dollar bills. The Pakistani proprietor asked if she had a smaller denomination and she apologized but said that she did not. Instead of using Jonas’s cell to call a taxi, she asked the Pakistani to do it and tipped him $5 for his trouble. It was the first time in months that she’d had enough money to tip anyone and it was a good feeling.

  An Eritrean taxi driver drove her to Jonas’s apartment in Thai Town and she tipped him another $5, and used the key that Jonas kept hidden behind the exterior wall sconce to open the door. The calico cat ran to her, and Megan put h
er groceries down and picked her up, hugging the purring feline to her face.

  “You’re going to Oregon, Cuddles,” Megan said. “I think you’ll like it there.”

  Then she called the only dependable drug dealer she knew, even though he often came on to her when Jonas wasn’t with her. He was a revolting street creature who always reeked of body odor and onions, but she needed him badly now.

  Megan called on Jonas’s cell and he answered as always on the second ring. She said, “Wilbur, it’s Megan. We need norcos and perks. Twenty of each. As fast as you can get here. We’ll pay twenty-five bucks extra for home delivery.”

  Wilbur said, “No OCs?”

  It took all the willpower she had to say, “Not this time.”

  “What’s wrong?” he said. “Ain’t Jonas with you no more?”

  She said quickly, “Yeah, he’s sick in bed.”

  “Why don’t you drive over to my place?” Wilbur said. “Save the twenty-five. I got some beautiful leaf you might like. Makes you feel gooooood.”

  “I can’t leave Jonas,” Megan said with a shudder of disgust. “Could you hurry, please?”

  When she closed the cell, she vowed that the business would be conducted outside the apartment, no matter how much Wilbur liked privacy. She would not let him slither inside, where he’d discover that Jonas was not at home.

  She bent down to pet the cat again and said, “Cuddles, we just have to survive the next two days somehow. And then we’re going home at last.”

  She called the airline that had brought her to Los Angeles from Oregon, and while she was inquiring as to ticket prices, Cuddles leaped onto the kitchen table, putting her face against Megan’s and purring in her ear. Megan thought that Cuddles was trying to tell her that she wasn’t in this thing all alone.

  When 6-X-76 brought Jonas Claymore into the station and was putting him in the holding tank, Hollywood Nate passed them on his way to the report room. He glanced at Jonas through the heavy viewing window of the holding tank and stopped.

  “Hey, Gypsy,” he said to Georgie Adams, pointing at Jonas, who was sitting on the bench in the little room. “What’d he do?”

  “Bunch of pills,” Georgie said. “Ox, perks, that kinda shit. Do you know the dude?”