Hollywood Moon (2009)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 03

  If I gave you a debit card, a PIN number, and good ID with your picture on it, but with a bogus name, would you be willing to use it to draw out money at certain places that're very safe? Or would you be willing to go on a fun shopping trip and buy all kinds of great things with a credit card that has someone else's name on it?

  I don't know, Malcolm said. I got a job. I never done anything with debit cards or credit cards.

  I'll bet your job pays minimum wage, Dewey said.

  A bit offended, Malcolm said, It's a living.

  There was something about this young man. He had a straightforward sincerity about him that Dewey seldom found in young people these days. Something told him that he could use this forthright young Latino to great advantage. He drew a business card from his wallet with the name Bernie Graham on it along with the number of one of his GoPhones, and slid it across the table to Malcolm.

  Think about a shopping trip as a starter, Dewey said. Buying great merchandise is what it amounts to. You'd buy things at places I send you to, and you'd deliver the items to a place that I select. Call me tomorrow at five P. M. if you're interested. If I don't hear from you, I'll figure it's a no-go.

  I work till five, Malcolm said. Can I call you at five thirty?

  Certainly, Dewey said, confident that he'd hooked his fish. I'm Bernie Graham. What's your name?

  You can call me Clark, said Malcolm, standing up to leave. Clark Jones.

  I hope to hear from you, Clark Jones, said Dewey as the young man exited the taco shop.

  Six-X-Thirty-two was driven by Flotsam, whose partner had gotten permission from Sergeant Murillo to go home early after telling the supervisor that his dog had disappeared from the yard and his landlady was in a panic. It was a lie hastily dreamed up by the surfer cop after his waitress du jour at IHOP agreed to go surfing with him the next morning at Malibu but only if the surfer cop could get to the beach by 8 A. M. Because Watch 5 didn't end until 0400 hours, Jetsam had been in a tizzy, worrying about sleep deprivation that might make him less than magnificent the next day. So he concocted the dog story for Sergeant Murillo, even though the only pet he had was a turtle.

  Flotsam, who of course was privy to his partner's scheme, asked the sergeant what he should do for the remainder of the watch, and it turned out that P1 rookie Harris Triplett's usual field training officer was on a special day off. The probationer had been assigned to assist the desk officer that night, just to give him something to do, so Sergeant Murillo decided to let him work with Flotsam for the remainder of the watch. The sergeant would ordinarily have been reluctant to put even a last-phase probationer like Harris Triplett with either of the surfer cops, but being down to five cars on the midwatch, he thought he'd take a chance.

  Young Harris Triplett found himself riding the rest of the watch with Flotsam, and they happened to be cruising past Pablo's Tacos when Malcolm Rojas was walking away from the strip mall. Malcolm didn't interest Flotsam at all. What interested Flotsam was a portly black man driving an old Toyota who'd managed to find a parking place in the mall and who emerged from his car with a small paper-wrapped parcel in his hand, which he tucked under his jacket before approaching the entry door.

  First thing, dude, Flotsam said. That year Toyota you can start with a screwdriver or a pair of scissors. Anything will turn the ignition on. So we're suspicious right away that the car could be hot, right?

  Yes, sir, said the unsuspicious boot.

  And we know from long experience that Pablo's is a place where tweakers, baseheads, and every other kind of doper hangs out and does deals, right?

  Yes, sir, said the rookie, who had no long experience about anything but who agreed with everything a P2 or P3 said.

  Don't call me sir.' It makes me feel like a shoobie.

  A what?

  A lame-oh that wears socks and sandals on the beach.

  Oh, Harris said.

  Sometimes they bring their baloney sandwiches in a shoe box. Shoobie, get it? Way wack.

  I see, Harris said.

  So okay, for a dude in a place like this to be sticking a small package under his coat, that, like, sets off all kinds of alarms on our blue radar, don't it?

  Yes, sir, Harris said, with conviction this time.

  Goddamnit!

  Sorry, sorry!

  Flotsam said, Something about the way that dude dresses says to me he's an immigrant. It's like all these Armenian gangsters? Unibrows in Armani Exchange and Members Only jackets, right? You know they ain't from around here.

  Got it.

  Look at that dude's shoes. Are they plastic or what? And those pants pulled up to his chest bone? And a white dress shirt and horse-blanket coat? He's from somewheres else too.

  Got it, Harris said.

  What if this black guy turns out to be Puerto Rican or Dominican? Flotsam said. I heard you can speak Spanish, right?

  Yes, the rookie said. Then he hesitated and added, Well, I get a two-point-seventy-five-percent pay bump for speaking Spanish. I minored in Spanish at Cal State L. A., but I'm not so good at the reading and writing.

  We won't have to write to the guy, Flotsam said.

  To be honest, I sort of speak Spanglish.

  Close enough, Flotsam said. Let's go hear his story, whatever language it's in.

  Flotsam parked the car in the red zone in front of the strip mall, and both cops collected their batons and entered the parking lot.

  The Nigerian and Dewey Gleason made eye contact the moment the man entered the taco shop. Dewey was about to speak, when he spotted two uniformed copsf_"one a tall blond with gelled hair, and a younger athletic-looking partnerf_"walking fast across the parking lot. His instincts told him to avert his gaze from the Nigerian's and to get the hell out of there ASAP.

  Sure enough, the cops entered and the tall cop said to the Nigerian, Sir, we'd like you to step outside for a minute.

  What for? the Nigerian said in accented English, eyes widening.

  Flotsam said, We need to have a few words, sir. Then more firmly, Step outside, please.

  Reluctantly, the Nigerian walked outside with the cops, and after the glass door swung shut, Dewey Gleason rose and dumped his uneaten taco plate into a trash receptacle. He exited in time to see the cops walking the man toward an old Toyota at the far side of the parking lot. Dewey saw a parcel drop from under the man's checked sport coat and fall onto the asphalt. The younger cop picked it up and the Nigerian acted as though he'd never seen it before.

  Dewey slowed when passing the trio, and he could see that the package had torn open and several sheets of checks had spilled onto the ground. The dumb shit had only needed to bring one sheet of checks for Eunice to duplicate! Dewey quickened his pace, not bothering with the Bernie Graham limp and not looking back. He wasn't sure, but when he reached the street, he thought he could hear the sound of handcuff ratchets chattering closed. It was a sound that chilled his blood.

  Chapter SEVEN

  MALCOLM ROJAS COULD HEAR his mother in the living room watching TV when he finally got home. That's all she did when she wasn't at work. He could hear the ice cubes tinkling in her glass of Jim Beam. She was laughing at some dumb show she was watching and might be half drunk by now. He thought he'd call in sick tomorrow. He hated working on weekends. The card belonging to that guy Bernie Graham was on his mind. He decided to make an appointment with the man and hear more about the debit cards and the real money he could make. It scared him to think about it, but it also excited him.

  Excitement. That made him think once again of the woman in the apartment garage. Of how she'd been down on his lap. Of how he'd owned her. She'd promised she'd do whatever he wanted if he didn't hurt her with the box cutter. For a second he remembered that he hadn't done what he'd wanted to do with her, something he'd never done in his life. He'd wanted to come in her mouth, that fat old bitch. And he didn't, couldn't. He pushed it from his mind. He listened to his mother laughing again, but he didn't want to let her make him angry. He began to
listen to heavy metal on his iPod.

  Music made him start thinking about that girl Naomi. He almost called her but changed his mind. He wanted to see her again and promised himself that he would. He even liked the retainer on her teeth. It made her lookf_U what was the word? Vulnerable, that was it. She looked so vulnerable. Naomi didn't seem to go with heavy metal, so he turned off the iPod. He wondered what she'd do if he kissed her and tried to touch her small breasts. He began getting an erection.

  Then he heard his mother laughing again. He started to become angry, despite himself. He tried to think of Naomi again, but he could not. He pictured that fat bitch in the parking garage and thought of what he'd wanted to do to her, and that made him remember his failure. His fury grew powerful and he put his pillow over his head and tried to will himself to sleep.

  It took him an hour, and when he awoke he was sweat-drenched. He could recall bits and pieces of a recurring dream. He was younger in the dream, and he was in bed withf_U he couldn't say who. He smelled the booze on her, and she kept stroking his body, starting with his hair, until her hands slid down his hips. She was murmuring Rubenf_U my sweet Ruben. The dream was always like that. He awoke with an erection, and even after he masturbated, he could not go back to sleep for hours. The rage wouldn't let him.

  Because the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth Street near downtown was open 24/7, Dewey Gleason chose it instead of Musso & Frank on Hollywood Boulevard, which was much closer to home. He preferred the city's oldest eateries, where little had changed since the likes of Gable and Tracy and Raymond Chandler had dined there. It was 1 A. M., and he was fatigued, waiting in the clubby little bar for the college kid, after having delivered two Whoppers to Eunice and changed his disguise. He loved old drinking spots like this, all mahogany, brass, and faux leather, offering timeless reassurance. He sat sipping a Manhattan, his first drink at the end of a very long day. There were three other men having cocktails, along with a bickering couple at the other end of the bar, no doubt having just come from somewhere that had gotten them juiced enough to fight it out in public.

  What was the kid's name? Christ, he'd dealt with four of them since he'd hit the streets this morning and they'd begun to look and sound alike. When contact was just getting started with these kids, they were all positively thrumming with nervous energy, and not a little fear. Eventually they became laconic and lazy and even insolent when the greed set in. That's when Dewey had to dump them and look for a new set of faces, new college boys eager to sell their debit cards.

  He asked himself again, What was the kid's fucking name? One time last month when Dewey was this exhausted and it was this late, he'd almost forgotten his own name, or rather the name of the character he was playing. Now, at 1 A. M. in the Pacific Dining Car, he had to think for a moment and touch the eyeglasses he was wearing. They belonged to Ambrose Willis, who in his past fictional life had been a lecturer in business management at an Ivy League university. Dewey was always vague about which university until he was sure it was not one with which the kid had familiarity. Ambrose Willis wore an auburn toupee and had a large mole on his left cheek near his mouth.

  It reminded Dewey that when he was applying it earlier that evening, Eunice had slouched into the bathroom in her tatty pink robe, the one with cigarette burns on the front. Her frizz of coppery blonde hair was so grown out at the roots that she looked like a clown in a fright wig, and he'd noticed that she was starting to get two chins.

  With the perennial cigarette dangling, Eunice looked at him working on his makeup and said, That's quite a mole. It reminds me of that movie on TV the other night, Dangerous Liaisons.

  John Malkovich didn't have a mole in that movie, said Dewey, who was a lifelong movie buff.

  Eunice said, I was thinking of the whores in the French court. That's what you remind me of with that spot of shit on your face.

  Get in the fucking moment! he told himself. Christ, what's that kid's name? He was just so damn tired.

  Evening, Mr. Willis, the young man said and took a stool next to him at the bar.

  He was a lanky kid, an inch or so over six feet, as most of them were. Dewey wondered how it happened that this generation was a couple of inches taller than his. About half of his college runners were emos, with heavy hair flopping onto their foreheads so it bounced in time to the tunes of Morrissey, which they seemed to favor. This kid looked more metrosexual in a white linen dress shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, a lavender T-shirt showing, and designer jeans he couldn't have afforded without working for Dewey.

  What'll you have? Dewey said, and then it came to him and he added, Stuart.

  Stuart, who had plenty of bogus ID attesting to his being of age, said, The same thing you're having.

  Without being asked, Stuart put a bogus driver's license on the bar, which the bartender examined before making another Manhattan.

  When the drink was in front of them, Dewey said, Let's go to a table and chat.

  After they got settled, Dewey said, Would you like something to eat? How about a nice steak? They serve good food here at any hour of the night or day.

  I had a big supper, Stuart said, sipping his Manhattan. From his frowning response, Dewey was sure the Manhattan was a first for him.

  This place looks like a train car from the outside, Stuart said. Like you're getting on a train.

  It's been too long since you've reported, Dewey said. I think you have something for me, do you not?

  That's the problem, Mr. Willis, Stuart said.

  Whatf_U problem? Dewey said, the bonhomie gone. Screw the steak. He began eye-fucking the kid behind those steel frames.

  Don't get excited, Mr. Willis, Stuart said. I have money for you.

  Then we don't have a problem, do we? Dewey said.

  I just don't have it all. I had to gamble more than I intended to. Have you spent much time in those casinos, Mr. Willis?

  Unblinking, Yes, I've been in all of them.

  Well, there was this big Indian guy in the second casino, the one just outside Palm Springs? I think he was a security officer. He started following me after I withdrew the first bunch of money with my debit card. I was pretty sure he was watching, so I put way more in the slots than I wanted to. See what I mean?

  Oh, yes, I see what you mean, Dewey said. It's perfectly clear to me.

  Okay, to start with, I followed your instructions, Mr. Willis. When I arrived, I got the five-hundred-dollar limit from the account, and then at one minute after midnight, I got another five hundred. And then I went back to the motel and went to bed. The next day, I went to the second casino and used the second card. You were right about the casinos. I don't think there was a camera at the ATM machines like in the machines around here.

  Only the general cameras surveying the wide areas, Dewey said. Nothing for you to worry about.

  Then I went to the third casino and used the third card, the kid said. I just felt a lot better doing it like that instead of using all three debit cards in one casino. You were right about that too.

  Smart boy, Dewey said. Get to the point.

  Stuart took another sip from his cocktail and said, I only played the slot machines to make it look good. I was actually thinking about playing something else in order to make it look even better.

  I told you, only slots, Dewey said. And very few of those.

  Right, so I maybe spent an extra two, two-fifty, in the slots that I didn't wanna spend.

  Dewey was silent for a moment, knowing this was a lie, and said, You spent over two hundred dollars of my money in slot machines? I don't suppose you won anything in any of the three casinos, did you, Stuart?

  No, Stuart said. Are you sure those machines aren't rigged?

  No, they're not, Dewey said, controlling his anger. Where's my money?

  In the trunk of my car in an envelope.

  Let's go get it, Dewey said.

  When they got to the parking lot, Stuart opened the trunk of his Mazda and removed a large envelop
e, saying, Everything is accounted for, just like you said, Mr. Willis. In the three casinos for the three days, I took out forty-five hundred dollars altogether. I spent two hundred for gas. I know it sounds like a lot, but my car needs a tune-up. I spent three hundred dollars for the three nights in a motel and only two hundred dollars for meals I was too tense to eat. I gambled two-fifty in the slots in the casinos. That left me with three thousand five hundred fifty. I deducted my thirty percent from the balance and had a few incidentals, including a new tire, and that came to four hundred fifty-five dollars. There's twenty-five hundred for you, Mr. Willis. It came out a nice round number, and the cards are in the envelope with the money.

  Nice round number, Dewey said. It always comes out a nice round number. And I wonder why so many of you young men claim that you had to gamble so much more than you were told to gamble? Is that because you are afflicted by compulsive gambling disorder or by inherent greed?

  I swear to God, Mr. Willis f_", the kid said, but Dewey put up a hand to silence him.

  Myf_U organization went to a lot of expense to set this whole thing up, Dewey said. It hardly seems worthwhile now, Stuart.

  I worked three days for that money, Mr. Willis, Stuart said, when you consider the driving time.

  How long do you think my organization spent setting it up?

  Maybe I could do another part of the work next time, Stuart said. Maybe I could make the deposits for you. Somebody has to put checks into the debit accounts. Why not me?

  Ambitious, Dewey said. You're an ambitious lad, Stuart. Well, it's getting late and I have to report to the boss of our organization. I hope he's not unhappy with your work. If he is, you'll be hearing fromf_U somebody.

  Mr. Willis, the kid said, I worked hard and did the best I could. I wouldn't cheat you!

  Of course not, Dewey said. Go home and get some sleep. We'll be in touch.

  After Stuart was clear of the parking lot, Dewey went to his car, started it up, and began the drive home to Hollywood. The $2,500 wasn't bad, considering he had two more kids like Stuart to collect from before the month ended. The organization bossf_"that smoke-reeking, foul-tempered bitchf_"was someone he could almost live with, as long as the calendar month netted them at least $10,000 after expenses. Any less than that and she was so horrible, it was all he could do to keep from packing up and running away for good. Maybe then he'd have a chance of living a normal life span instead of dying of emphysema or lung cancer. And he would do it too, except that Eunice had sole access to the so-called retirement account.