Hollywood Hills

by Joseph Wambaugh

As they were nearing their destination, Nate said to Snuffy, "Do you get all nostalgic going back to Parker Center, where you spent all those years driving for those sixth-floor power freaks?"

  "Power freaks!" Pearl said.

  Snuffy said sotto to Nate in order to keep Pearl quiet, "Mister is the one I'll always remember. One of his favorite movies is North by Northwest. You know, the Hitchcock movie where Cary Grant and his chick get chased over the presidents' faces on Mount Rushmore?"

  Ever the movies buff, Nate whispered back at him, "Of course. That chick was Eva Marie Saint."

  Snuffy forgot to whisper and said, "Yeah, well, I think the reason Mister loves that movie is because he always saw his face up there. He imagined they were running across his eyebrows and jumping on his upper lip."

  "His upper lip!" Pearl said.

  "I wish she'd stop that," Nate said. "It's getting on my nerves." Snuffy said to Nate, "Lower her window halfway. I wanna try something."

  When the window beside Pearl came partly down, they were stopped at an intersection on east Sunset Boulevard in the Silver-lake district, where there was urban renewal going on, with younger people moving into apartments and lofts. Waiting to cross the street was an attractive woman talking to a guy in a Joseph Abboud suit who had that self-important, young professional look, water bottle and all.

  Snuffy said, "Pearl, do not call that man a yuppie dipshit."

  Pearl looked at the man, and when the light turned green and they were moving, she startled the couple by yelling, "Yuppie dipshit!"

  Snuffy whispered, "She'll say exactly what we tell her not to say. There's gotta be something we can do with this."

  As it turned out, there was. When they got to Parker Center and parked underneath, Snuffy felt a chill of remembrance. Here he was, back in the place where he'd worked for so many years. The criminal element referred to it as the Glass House because of the walls of windows on the north and south exposures. The faces of the various chiefs he had driven for and protected swam before his eyes. For a moment he struggled to remember something good about those recent years. His reverie was shattered and he could hardly believe it when the door leading from the building to the parking lot opened. Snuffy saw one of his old friends and fellow security aides. And who emerged behind the aide but the Man himself!

  As Nate pulled into a parking space, Snuffy said quietly, "It's Mister! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it's Mister!"

  The chief and his aide were both wearing uniforms on this day, and the security aide paused when the chief said something and looked at his watch.

  Snuffy whispered to Nate, "He's probably trying to remember how many stoplights there are between here and where they're going, and he's gonna decide exactly how long it should take them to get there."

  The chief and his aide had to pass right by the space where Nate had parked their shop, and Snuffy scooted down in his seat, concealing his face with his hand, pretending to write in his log.

  He whispered to Nate, "Partner, this is destiny." Then he turned toward the cage and said, "Pearl, pay attention to this. Do not call that man an egomaniac."

  When Mister and his aide were passing the car, Pearl stuck her face out and yelled, "Igloo maniac! Igloo maniac!"

  The chief of police flinched and glanced sharply to his right. He saw Pearl smiling beatifically through the open car window. He ignored her and kept on walking toward the SUV with the ominous tinted windows. His security aide opened the door for the chief and he got in.

  Hollywood Nate said sotto, "So that's your idea of get-back? Snuffy's revenge has come down to calling the chief of police a crazy Eskimo?"

  Snuffy Salcedo whispered back, "When you get right down to it, she mighta got it right. He's been giving the L. A. media and City Hall a major snow job for the past seven and a half years."

  When they got out of the car and entered the building, Snuffy said, "Anyways, Pearl did her best. On our way to the funny place, let's stop and buy her some ice cream."

  "Ice cream! Whoopdedoo!" Pearl cried, and yodeled merrily as she frolicked along the corridor and into the depressing basement office of the Mental Evaluation Unit, inside the doomed old building that for more than half a century lawbreakers had called the Glass House.

  Chapter Fifteen.

  MARTY BRUEGER SAID to Raleigh Dibble, "It's Thursday and I'm sick of sitting around here. If I'm gonna stroke out and die, I want it to be in Chasen's eating a big bowl of chili."

  Raleigh said, "Mr. Brueger, Chasen's has been closed for a very long time, don't you remember?"

  "Oh, shit, that's right," Marty Brueger said. "Oh, my mind."

  Raleigh was removing the breakfast tray from the table in the cottage and trying to keep his game face on, even though the old coot was starting to smell ripe. It took an effort for Raleigh not to turn away when he needed to take a breath. He also wanted to trim the tufts of hair sprouting from the geezer's ears.

  "Elizabeth Taylor loved Chasen's chili. I saw her there many times," Marty Brueger said.

  "Yes, I know," Raleigh said.

  "She was usually with her husband, Rex Harrison."

  "Richard Burton," Raleigh said.

  "What's he got to do with it?" Marty Brueger said.

  "She was married to him. Not to Rex Harrison."

  "Oh, shit!" Marty Brueger said. "Don't ever get as old as me, Raleigh. Take the gas pipe before you do. An old man's life is for shit!"

  "There, there, Mr. Brueger," Raleigh said. "Why don't you take a nice bath? It'll make you feel better."

  "All right. Then I wanna talk about going someplace. I'm sick of this fucking place."

  "Do you need help getting into the bath?" Raleigh asked.

  "Raleigh, the day I can't go into a walk-in shower and sit on a bench and turn on the water, that's the day I'll ask you to go out and buy me a gun."

  "Okay, Mr. Brueger," Raleigh said. "I'll give you an hour and then I'll come back and we'll talk about an outing. Maybe we could drive to the beach and look at the pretty girls. You said you used to like to do that. Or maybe we could go to the movies in Westwood. Or maybe--"

  Marty Brueger interrupted Raleigh with plaintive eyes that looked somehow touching through those Coke-bottle glasses. He said, "I can't even remember the last time I was able to get an erection. I should have had it carbon-dated."

  This time it was Megan Burke dragging Jonas Claymore out of bed. Jonas had done way too much Vicodin before going to sleep and he'd washed it all down with screw-top wine. He opened his eyes in utter disorientation when she shook him and said, "Jonas, wake up! You gotta get up right away."

  "What?" he said. "What?"

  She said, "Mr. Casper's on his way."

  Jonas raised himself on his elbows and said, "Who?"

  "Your landlord, that's who," Megan said. "He just phoned your cell and he wants his rent money. Twelve hundred dollars."

  Jonas yawned, sat up, and said, "It ain't no thing. Give it to him. You got it from your old lady, didn't you?"

  "Jonas, focus! I got two hundred from my mom, remember? And we spent half of it last night. Do you remember saying you wanted vike and vino?"

  "Oh, Christ," he said, vaguely remembering. "Is that all this fucking world's about? Greedy rich people keeping people like us as serfs and slaves?"

  "You have to talk to him," she said. "He says he'll shut off your water and have you evicted."

  "Like hell he will," Jonas said. "That little slumlord kike can't push us around."

  "Get dressed," Megan said, "and think of something."

  "Okay, that does it," Jonas said. "We're going up to the Hollywood Hills in earnest today. No more casing. This is the real thing. Where does Paris Hilton live these days? Anybody can walk into her crib and she won't even know it."

  While Jonas was trying to swallow a bite of scrambled egg with stale toast, Megan tried to tidy up the little apartment. She stacked the pizza boxes and paper plates on top of the fridge and piled the other debris in the kitchen sink, since
the trash can was full of soft-drink cans and candy wrappers.

  Then she hurried into their tiny bedroom, and Jonas said to her, "Where you going?"

  "To make the bed. In case he goes in there to check things out."

  "Get the fuck back here," Jonas said. "You think I'm gonna let that little hebe cocksucker walk into our bedroom? He's gonna talk to us from outside the door."

  "No, Jonas!" Megan said. "We have to invite him in. You need another rent extension, so you have to be nice to the man. You get more flies with honey, right?"

  "We got more than enough flies in this fucking place," Jonas said. "We don't need no more."

  He was making a halfhearted attempt at brushing his teeth in the bathroom when the knock came at the door. He heard Megan say, "Good morning, sir. Come in, please. I'm a friend of Jonas and I'm visiting for a couple of days."

  Jonas was shirtless and shoeless when he entered the living room in his last pair of jeans that still had the knees intact. He gave the landlord a sulky nod and said, "Good morning."

  Contrary to Jonas Claymore's description, Mickey Casper was not little. He was several inches shorter than his lanky young tenant, but he had impressive arms, a chest that stretched his cotton shirt, and veined hands that belonged on a larger man.

  He spoke with a very slight Israeli accent and said, "Jonas, I told you last time that I don't need this aggravation month after month. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

  Jonas said, "I got laid off from my job, Mr. Casper. Times are tough right now. We need you to be patient till I get another job."

  "This has been going on too long," the landlord said. "I'm giving you notice."

  "Now, wait a minute," Jonas said. "I got an interview today with the manager of a Starbucks. I'll be going to work on Monday if he likes me. And I know he'll like me. He said I'm just what he's looking for."

  "Which Starbucks ?" the landlord asked.

  "The one at Sunset and Cahuenga," Jonas said.

  "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 giving 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 cybercafe, a commercial enterprise where a hundred computers were operating 24/7. The cybercafe 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."

  Chapter 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.'"