Hollywood Moon (2009)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 03

  Dewey felt his heart banging and his bowels rumbling when he heard the grinding of gears as a white delivery van began crawling up the steep residential street. This kind of anxiety wasn't worth it anymore. By the time he paid expenses and sold the merchandise to his usual receiver, he figured he'd be lucky to net $1,500 from this whole gag. One thing was certain: If men with badges leaped from the van after Dewey took delivery, he was going to offer a deal the moment they Mirandized him. He was going to ask the detectives to phone the DA's office, and in exchange for a promise of a plea bargain, he was going to give up Eunice and every runner they'd ever used. He would do all this right after he crapped his pants at the sight of them.

  The Latino driver parked the delivery van in front of the house and got out with a clipboard. He quickly came up the walkway, seeing Dewey standing at the front door with a set of keys in his hand. Another trucker, this one a younger black man, got out of the van on the passenger side.

  Are you Mr. Harold Phillips? the Latino said, looking again at the name on the delivery form.

  Losing his German accent, Dewey said, You caught me just in time. I'd gotten tired of waiting for you and was leaving.

  Sorry, the driver said. We got hit with a couple of extra stops we hadn't planned for.

  It's okay, Dewey said. You're here now.

  Dewey signed Harold Phillips to the trucker's invoice, and the driver said, One more signature.

  Of course, Dewey said, signing the second invoice.

  Then both men walked back to the truck and opened the rear doors. No men with badges jumped out. Dewey looked both ways on the street but still didn't see Creole and Jerzy. The delivery team was carrying a Sony forty-six-inch HDTV up the three steps, when Dewey said, Just leave everything on the front porch. Then for their benefit, Dewey spoke into his cell phone to an imaginary installer, and said, Roger? Are you and Slim on the way now? A pause and then, See you in fifteen. Everything's here.

  The front porch? the Latino said. Don't you want this stuff inside the house?

  I've got my geeks coming. They're gonna set up the plasma in the den, a Sony in the living room, and the other in my bedroom. Just haul everything to the porch and they'll bring it in as needed. Easier for them, easier for you.

  The Latino shrugged and both men returned to the truck. It took four trips up the long walkway before everything was on the porch, including another Sony and a Pioneer sixty-inch plasma HDTV. Then the Latino hesitated, as though something wasn't quite right here. He said, Why don't you let us f_"

  Dewey distracted him with a $20 bill, saying, Thanks, guys. Stop and get yourselves a sandwich on me.

  Both deliverymen smiled and thanked Dewey, then hurried back to the truck and were gone. Within seconds Dewey saw his runners driving down from somewhere near the top of the hill. They parked and got out quickly.

  You had me worried, Dewey said. I couldn't see your car.

  You're not supposed to see our car, boss, Tristan said. That's the idea.

  Let's get to work, Dewey said. Our window of opportunity is closing.

  After having loaded the merchandise into the rented van, Tristan and Jerzy were following their employer's car to the storage facility in Reseda, when Tristan said, When we got to that house, did you notice somethin' funny about Kessler?

  Jerzy, who'd been dozing in the passenger seat, said, Naw, he looked like the same butt-tight Nazi he always looks like.

  He was way nervous, man, Tristan said.

  Why not? Jerzy said. The fucker jist raided somebody's credit-card account for several grand and had some sweet fuckin' electronics delivered to the sucker's crib. Didn't you feel your asshole wink every time a car drove up the street?

  Tristan said, Yeah, but when he was nervous, he didn't sound so much like Schwarzenegger. In fact, he sounded like a regular old citizen of the U. S. of A.

  What's your point, dude? Jerzy said.

  That made me check him out a little closer, and I don't think his hair looked the same. His forehead looked higher.

  So, maybe the old fuck wears a rug, Jerzy said.

  He didn't look so old today neither, Tristan said.

  So he got a good night's sleep.

  I think he wears a disguise when we're with him.

  Jerzy said, I don't give a fuck if he decides to dress up like Wonder Woman and hustle tourists on Hollywood Boulevard. Jist so he pays us for the jobs.

  It might be worth our while to find out who he is.

  For what?

  You never know. How about we follow him home and see where it's at?

  In this fuckin' van?

  Just leave it to me, Tristan said.

  A ten-foot-high chain-link fence enclosed the storage facility, with wire strung across the top of it. The runners watched their boss stop outside and punch in an access code to open the car gate. They followed him in and waited while he stopped and presented his ID to a woman in an office adjacent to the storage rooms. After he returned to his car, they followed him to the rear of the facility, where he waved them to a parking area.

  While they were unloading the van, their boss unlocked a double-size storage room and began shoving aside other crates and boxes to make room for the new merchandise. It only took a few minutes to carry it inside, and while his two employees were surveying the other stacks of crates to see what they might contain, their employer began counting currency he'd removed from his wallet.

  Two hundred for each of you and one hundred for the van rental, he said.

  We got somethin' more for you, Mr. Kessler, Tristan said, glancing at his partner, who looked perplexed.

  And what might that be, Creole?

  Some very good mail. We worked the hills yesterday and did some Dumpster-diving outside a law firm on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Since I didn't order that service, how much are you expecting me to pay?

  Real cheap. A hundred takes all of it.

  They waited while their boss pondered before he said, All right, let's have a look at it.

  It's not here. It's in my car, Tristan said. Can we meet you back at the office late this afternoon?

  Dewey hadn't planned on going there, and Eunice still hadn't worked the last batch of mail they'd received, but the price was right, so he said, All right, meet me there at six o'clock.

  We'll see you there at six, Tristan said.

  When they were driving out the gate of the storage facility, Jerzy said to Tristan, Now, what's this all about? We ain't got no new mail for him.

  We will have, Tristan said. We're gonna make a quick run through the Hollywood Hills and grab what we can.

  Fuck you! Jerzy said. What, for a lousy Franklin we're gonna risk our ass again?

  Trust me, wood, Tristan said. After we sell him the mail, we're gonna tail him right to his crib. And that's gonna pay off in robo-bucks. I may jist take me a trip back to New Orleans to meet my cousins. My momma and me left there when I was five years old and came to L. A.

  Jerzy mulled it for a moment. He hated to admit it, but this little nigger was smarter than he thought. Finally he said, Whadda people in New Orleans do in their spare time besides drown?

  There was one crime that Sergeant Murillo read at roll call that got everyone's attention. After he went over the information concerning yesterday's attack on a woman who lived in the southeast corner of Hollywood Division, he said, Of course, this has to be the same box cutter suspect. The victim in this one gave a description that matched, but she didn't see the guy as an Arab. She thought he looked Hispanic, but she couldn't say for sure. The box cutter nails it.

  Dana said, Sergeant, is this victim middle-aged? And do you happen to know if she's a blonde?

  Hollywood Nate jerked a thumb in the direction of the surfer team sitting on his right and said, These days, who isn't blond?

  Everyone had a chuckle except Flotsam and Jetsam. Then Sergeant Murillo said, I don't know if she's blonde. You might check with the sex crimes detail at West Bureau. It might be me
aningful or maybe not. He might go after a brunette next time. One thing for sure, though, with a guy like him there will be a next time. He clocked her bad but didn't rape her.

  He didn't cut her? Dana said.

  He dropped the box cutter during the struggle, Sergeant Murillo said. She was lucky. After he was through punching and kicking her, he picked up the weapon and fled. This attack was a lot more violent than his first try, and the victim's in the hospital. I'm guessing we'll see a gathering storm of violence with this guy. Both times he struck in the evening, the same time that you're nice and fresh and ready to rock. It'd be terrific if one of you midwatch units were to stop a likely guy on a shake and come up with a box knife. If you do, I'll buy you pizza for a week. Hell, make it two weeks.

  Maybe we've got a shot, Dana said. Same approximate time of attack. He's gotta be a local guy.

  Sergeant Murillo said, If you get him, I will also write you a fabulous attaboy, Dana. Or in your case, an attagirl. And it'll be so effusive that Napoleon's letters to Josephine will sound like mash notes in comparison. Now let's hit the bricks.

  Napoleon Harris is a good middle linebacker, but I didn't know he's a letter writer, did you? R. T. Dibney said to Mindy Ling. And who the hell's Josephine anyways?

  As always, after everyone gathered their gear, they touched the picture frame of the Oracle for luck before they left the roll call room.

  Chapter TEN

  DEWEY GLEASON WANTED to hook up with the new kid, Clark, before day's end, but that would've meant a costume change. He couldn't do that now because he had to go back to the duplex/office in east Hollywood to meet Creole and Jerzy and buy the new batch of mail that Creole claimed was so excellent. Eunice estimated that only five percent of the mail they bought from runners had any value whatsoever, and less than two percent had identity information that could make significant money for them. Still, she demanded lots of it and bitched if he paid too much to get it. Dewey knew he couldn't win with her, no matter what.

  If it were up to Dewey, he'd just drive around with a laptop and pick up computer signals. He'd talked to lots of identity thieves at the cyber cafAc, tweakers and crackheads mostly, who were doing just that. Then they'd go online and log in on the target's Internet service provider to access his computer and retrieve information they needed. Since there were so many businesses these days offering free Internet access, they could later log in on one of those ISPs to surf the Web and buy merchandise with stolen card numbers. Most people didn't bother to change their security codes with their ISPs, so it seemed to Dewey that it only made sense to update the way they were operating.

  But would Eunice permit this safer and more sensible approach to their business? Of course not. It was too slow and uncertain for her. And she repeatedly said he wasn't capable of handling anything technical and could barely use a computer well enough to send e-mail. She preferred that Dewey do things the old-fashioned way, the way Hugo had done it, so she could get her retirement fund faster, and never mind the risks he had to take to get it done.

  Eunice had lately set a target of $1,000,000 tax-free, after which they would quit the game and go to San Francisco, even though she knew that Dewey hated the city. He recalled an incident back when they were still sleeping in the same room. He was singing in the shower and changed the lyric of an old standard. He'd crooned, Hate San Francisco, it's cold and it's damp, that's why the lady is a tramp!

  Then he'd dried off, grinned at Eunice, who was lying in bed, smoking, and said to her, That's the way Rodgers and Hart shoulda written the song. That's the way I sang it when I did little theater in Santa Barbara. That was a great gig. Santa Barbara's really a nice town.

  Eunice had snuffed out her cigarette and said, You wanna stay in this hot smog belt after we earn the retirement fund? It's fine with me. Because Momma left her heart in San Francisco and can very easily leave your ass in Hollywood. Let's hear you sing that one, Tony Bennett.

  It was an erection killer and the beginning of what he was certain would be an attempt by her to squeeze him out of the big payoff when the target was reached. Moreover, Dewey no longer believed he could stay out of jail long enough to accomplish her goal. He felt like the bomber pilots in the old war movies who had to fly during daylight hours over Germany, knowing that survival odds were getting longer with each mission flown. He was now ready to settle for far less than a million bucks, especially if he could ever devise a scheme where it went to him.

  In the locker room prior to roll call, Jetsam resisted all attempts from his partner to find out what had transpired at Malibu Beach the morning before with the waitress from IHOP. While Sergeant Murillo was reading the crimes to the watch, Flotsam was relentlessly chattering in his partner's ear to no effect.

  Come on, dude, Flotsam whispered. Something musta happened out there on the foamy for you to go all lock-jawed. Dial me in!

  Sergeant Murillo looked up from the reports at Flotsam and said, Would you mind discussing surf reports later. We've got a roll call to get through here.

  It wasn't until they'd been out on patrol for thirty minutes that Jetsam relented and said, Okay, bro, you carried the load when I went home early two nights ago, so I guess I oughtta tell you what went down with the IHOP hottie yesterday.

  Go, dude! Flotsam said. I got my ears on.

  Okay, bro, but I gotta tell ya, I'm noodled. I been beat down and rag-dolled and launched by kamikaze waves in my time, but it ain't nothing compared to how that salty sister cranked me. And taking last night off didn't revive me.

  Are we talking chocka coolaphonic nectar sex? Flotsam asked excitedly.

  No, bro, she showed up with a Barney in a sausage sling! Jetsam said.

  What? Flotsam cried, almost rear-ending a car in front of him on Highland Avenue.

  She tells me he's her cousin, out here on summer break from college in Kansas or Missouri or some fucking place where there ain't no ocean. And she apologizes and says she had no choice but to bring him, and would I, like, teach him some basic surfing maneuvers.

  It was almost too grotesque for Flotsam to contemplate. A shoobie in a Speedo? And she expected a real Kahuna to be seen on the same beach with him?

  Roger that, Jetsam said. A DayGlo green Speedo.

  Dude, Flotsam said with genuine sympathy. I feel ya.

  First thing I did was I took that Benny aside and I go, Bro, you try to go out there amongst a horde of surf rats wearing that DayGlo banana hammock, and they just might banzai you with their boards and send you home to Iowa or wherever you come from in wires and plaster casts.' I ask him if he didn't bring some board trunks to wear on the beach and he tells me everybody wears Speedos where he comes from. And I go, Peachy, bro, but this ain't the Piney Woods YMCA swimming pool, or summer fun at Lake Suck-a-hot-one. This is Malibu-fucking-California!'

  I can't adjust the focus here, Flotsam said. That slammin' server from IHOP told us she surfs twice a month. She oughtta know the minimum fucking dress code for admittance.

  Maybe you just shouldn't trust someone who wears rings on her index fingers, Jetsam said. And this dorky cousin of hers, he don't understand basic English. He blanks about half the time I'm talking to him. So I take our breakfast bunny aside and I go, Okay, I'll put your cousin out on a board and slip him into a nice gentle chubbie that don't have much of a break, but if them surf Nazis out there start looking at him with a kill-the-hodad death ray, I'm towing him back to sandy safety.

  So did you? Flotsam asked.

  Yeah, I put him on the old log I keep in my truck and I rolled him around in the foamy. He tried standing up a few times, and he's all splashing and squealing and I'm thinking to myself, Why me? I drive to Oxnard twice a month to visit my mother and to Pacoima to visit the old man. And I send checks to both my ex-wives, mostly on time, even though the kid I thought was mine turned out to have the DNA of my ex-wife's dentist, who drilled into a lot more than her root canals. And I still stop and play Frisbee with my former girlfriend's dog, even though I
can't say hello to my former girlfriend without getting spit at. So I, like, try to live a decent life, bro. What I wanna know is, why does God treat me like a butt crumb?

  Dude, Flotsam said, sometimes it just seems like God takes a day off to go to the track or something.

  Anyways, when I think it can't get no bleaker, the squid manages to stand halfway up on a mini-bump and he starts screaming, Cowabunga! Cowabunga!'

  I'm speechless, dude! Flotsam said. Were you soooooo tempted to throw a choke hold on him?

  Bro, I was, like, half a heartbeat from C-clamping his scrawny neck and letting him drift on down to San Pedro. But I see this pair of water monkeys paddling their boards right at us and I'm all, like, Okay, crusher, you and me're about to get spiked by a pair of seriously ugly sado creeps, so let's push the off button.'

  You are truly lucky to be alive, dude, Flotsam said. Bobbing on the briny unarmed with some spazzed-out hodad yelling, Cowabunga.' Next time get a Navy SEALs killing knife and Velcro it to your ankle.

  There ain't gonna be no next time, Jetsam said, After we cruised on back to the IHOP honey, we find her all stretched out on these humongous beach towels under a big umbrella. But now she's all stripped down from her shorts and jersey into a sort of, like, old-school bikini.

  What, no thong? Flotsam said. That ain't right, dude.

  The retro bikini ain't the half of it, Jetsam said. So we, like, sit there, and the cousin's all fired because he thinks he's ready now to star in The Endless Summer, Part Four, and then I catch a break, or so I think. The cousin says he's gotta be bumping on home, and I almost stand up and cheer. Turns out they came in two cars, and after, like, another eternity of surf questions, he bounces. The last thing he yells at me is, Farewell, O great wave rider! Farewell!' And at last I'm alone with my bodacious babelini.

  Oh, man! Flotsam said. This is the good part!

  Just wait, Jetsam said. She like, knew she owed me big time for what she put me through with cousin Horace, or whatever the fuck his name is, and she could see I'm all stoked from looking at her voluptuaries. And my inner slut is now totally in charge. And pretty soon I'm all sprawled there on the towel under the umbrella kissing her shoulder like somebody on the Lifetime channel.