Hollywood Moon (2009)

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Hollywood Moon (2009) Page 17

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 03


  The senior sergeant Miriam Hermann was the first supervisor to arrive. By then, several other units were on the scene, trying to get traffic moving on the street. Johnny Lanier had returned the shotgun to their shop and was standing quietly with the surfer cops when the sergeant got there.

  She had a few words with Sheila Montez and Aaron Sloane and walked over to Johnny Lanier's young partner to say, Triplett, you and Lanier go to the station and I'll be there as soon as I can. You've got a long night of report writing ahead of you and lotsa face time with FID. The DA's rollout guys will be there as well.

  There was nothing we coulda done, Sergeant! the rookie said, his voice quivering. He didn't give us a choice!

  I know, son, Miriam said, patting the young man on the shoulder. Just get yourselves to the station now.

  The magazine from the pistol was found on the floor of the Dodge, along with a live round that the Marine had ejected from the chamber. Timothy Thatcher apparently had wanted to make sure that no one else would die with him and Melissa Price that night.

  It took thirty minutes for the mother of Timothy Thatcher to get through to the watch commander's office at Hollywood Station.

  Sergeant Lee Murillo later said he would never forget that phone call, not as long as he lived.

  The woman, becalmed by grief and from fearing the very worst, simply said to him, Sergeant, I am the mother of Timothy Thatcher, who phoned me to say he'd shot someone tonight. I know that your officers caught up with him.

  Sergeant Murillo was speechless for a moment, then stammered, Ma'am, I, uh, I really don't have any details about thef_U the event. May I please have your number? Someone will call you as soon as we know something. Right now I just don'tf_U I don't have f_"

  Her voice was controlled and implacable when she interrupted him to say, Please, Sergeant, I must know one thing, and I won't trouble you further. Did your officers kill my son?

  After notifying the on-call homicide team to get on this suicide-by-cop ASAP, Detective Charlie Gilford grabbed his coat and car keys. If one thing could get the night-watch D2 out of the squad room, it was anything macabre or gory. Charlie Gilford sped directly to the scene of the officer-involved shooting to take a quick cell-phone photo of what was left of PFC Timothy Thatcher, whose face he described as looking like a beef enchilada with way too much cheese and salsa.

  Then he proceeded to the little apartment in Thai Town, where uniformed officers were protecting the scene until the detectives, criminalists, and body snatchers arrived. He stepped inside to take a peek at Melissa Price, aka Samuel Allen Danforth, lying on the floor, shot once in the chest and once in the face. The latter round caused grotesque damage to the left orbit but nothing like the trauma inflicted on Timothy Thatcher by the Remington shotgun at close range. The detective snapped another camera-phone photo and returned to the office, satisfied that he'd seen everything worth looking at.

  By the time the first homicide detectives had arrived back at Hollywood Station from both scenes, they found that Compassionate Charlie Gilford had downloaded the grisly photos of both young men and had printed out and taped the images to the homicide team's computer. Below he had typed, Sometimes it just don't turn out like that pup tent romp on Brokeback Mountain.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  WHILE AT HIS JOB the next morning, Malcolm Rojas decided to call the man he knew as Bernie Graham and ask him once and for all about that job. The man had been unreliable so far and had not called him last evening as promised. Malcolm had not slept well, his thoughts returning again and again to that woman who'd nearly gotten him caught. Every time he thought of the experience, anger welled. They were all alike and he hated them. But when he looked at his swollen left hand and the abrasions on his knuckles, the anger was mixed with stabs of fear and even shame. When she'd started screaming, he'd been terrified and hadn't known what to do. He should've slashed her throat with the box cutter to shut her up, and now he wished that he had.

  Then he forced himself to think of Naomi, that tender, young girl with the shy smile who really liked him. Would she grow up to be one of them? Somehow he didn't think so. She had natural blonde hair, not like theirs, and she was sweet and kind, not like them. Her number was in his cell phone, and several times he'd been tempted to call her and see if she wanted to hang out. He thought he just might do that, but first he needed money. What he cleared from his job as warehouse helper was pitiful, now that he had to give his mother a third of his take-home pay. As soon as he made some real money, he'd call Naomi and take her to the beach in his Mustang. The car needed tires, but soon he'd have the money to buy tires, and lots else.

  He dialed Bernie Graham, got his voice mail, and said, Mr. Graham, this is Clark, the guy you met at Pablo's Tacos. I wanna talk to you about the job. Please call me.

  After leaving his cell number, he resumed slashing open the tape on one side of the boxes, removing the merchandise, and slashing the tape on the other side to flatten the boxes for recycling. When he worked up a sweat, the intensity of his feelings became manageable.

  Dewey got to sleep in late that morning, only because Eunice had an appointment with her gynecologist for a regular checkup. She'd tried to get him out of bed at seven thirty even though he had no morning meetings with runners, and of course that started the bickering.

  Before she left the apartment at 8 A. M. Eunice had popped her head into his bedroom once again and said, Dewey, if I call here in thirty minutes and you don't answer, I'll know you went back to sleep.

  Can't I sleep in for once, Eunice? Dewey whined. For once in my fucking life?

  No! she yelled. You gotta go to the bank and write a check on the deposit I made from that rental gag. One measly rental check is all we get from that account because you couldn't manage to hook up with a housebreaker who was dumber than you. That means, Dewey, now you gotta open another account at another bank, unless you wanna risk using the same one and hope the renters haven't yet figured things out and called their bank. So get your ass outta bed!

  Gimme a break, Eunice! he'd moaned with his pillow over his head. That voice! She sounded like an old parrot with bronchitis. One fucking break, one time. That's all I ask.

  I don't get a break, she snapped. I gotta work from the crack of dawn till midnight sometimes. Why're you so special?

  Speaking of cracks, Dewey said wearily, are you having your annual pap smear?

  Yeah, why?

  Tell your doctor to say hello to your gizmo for me, Dewey said. She sees it more often than I do.

  Asshole! Eunice said, slamming the door behind her.

  But at least she hadn't called to check on him. The 9:15 A. M. call on the Bernie Graham cell phone was what woke him. He picked it up but did not recognize the number before saying, Bernie Graham speaking.

  He heard a youthful voice say, Mr. Graham, this is Clark, from Pablo's?

  Clark? he said, pausing until his head cleared. Oh, yeah. Clark.

  I left a message for you. You said you'd call, and I thought maybe you lost my number.

  Sorry, Clark, Dewey said. I'm very busy. Look, why don't I meet you today after you get off work? How about you come to the donut shop next to the cyber cafAc on Santa Monica Boulevard at quarter after five? Know where it is?

  I'll be there, Mr. Graham, Malcolm said.

  After Dewey made his date with the kid, he lay there staring at the ceiling. He was losing his nerve and he knew it. So far he'd been very lucky. He'd felt confident that the trouble he went through, juggling his identities to keep his runners in the dark, was worth it, despite Eunice's constant belittling.

  The incessant opening and closing of bank accounts with bogus IDs, and depositing bogus checks as well as legitimate checks from gags they'd pulledf_"all of that was bad enough. But having to be present for merchandise deliveries that Eunice ordered online or on the phone was nerve-racking. Yesterday, for example. Look how exposed and vulnerable he'd been on that porch in Los Feliz, but she didn't care. She was confid
ent, cocky, even, because she was never out on the streets dealing with vermin, any one of whom might be cutting a secret deal with the cops to nail their employer: Jakob Kessler or Ambrose Willis or Bernie Graham.

  He felt sure that none of the runners could direct the cops to a Dewey Gleason if they became police snitches. Even his car had been bought and registered under a bogus name at a bogus address, so if a runner gave the cops his license number, it wouldn't help them. No, it was those times when he had to be there to do the pickups and collecting that were making him old before his time. What if the college kid at the Pacific Dining Car had been popped at an Indian casino by security officers and had flipped? What if cops had been concealed out there in the parking lot, watching them when the kid had given back to him the bogus cards and other ID, along with his share from the casinos?

  He'd been totally exposed that night for a very small payoff, but trying to explain that to Eunice was like talking to her ugly little bull terrier that keeled over dead last year, probably from a lifetime of breathing secondhand smoke. Dewey figured that's how he'd check out one of these days, gasping for breath and expiring in agony. One thing for sure, though, if he was ever diagnosed with a lung disease, he was going to lace her Whoppers and fries with potassium cyanide. There was no way that bitch was going to live after she'd killed him with exposure to those fucking death sticks.

  When Dewey Gleason as Bernie Graham left his apartment that morning, he had another unpleasant task to perform. He had to meet his receiver at the storage lockers to complete the transaction he'd made telephonically for the merchandise that he'd put in storage the day before. What Dewey hated most about this aspect of his business was that he was especially terrified of the people involved in fencing the goods. The man who called himself Hatch was no exception.

  Dewey had first encountered him at the cyber cafAc, where he'd met most of his business associates. Hatch was clearly an ex-convict, the jailhouse body art attesting to that. He was a tall white man, bald, gimlet-eyed, and ripped, probably from pumping iron in a prison yard. He always wore a tight T-shirt, greasy jeans, and metal-studded boots. From watching prison documentaries, Dewey figured him for the Aryan Brotherhood. His facial art consisted of a spider on his forehead and tattooed drops that ran from the corners of his mouth down to his jaw line, like blood dripping from fangs. Under his lower lip was a thick soul patch. Dewey imagined that Hatch was short for Hatchet and that he'd probably earned the sobriquet.

  The fact that Hatch appeared alone at their meetings was somehow more frightening than if he'd had an equally scary partner. Hatch would always show up on time in a black van. After Dewey got him admitted into the storage facility and the deal was consummated, Dewey would help carry the merchandise to Hatch's van. Being alone with him filled Dewey with dread and foreboding. As soon as his van was loaded, it would be easy for Hatch to cut Dewey's throat and clean out whatever merchandise he could carry alone. Dewey wondered how long his body would lie there in the padlocked room before the stench alerted other tenants.

  When he drove over the hill to the San Fernando Valley and the storage facility in Reseda, Dewey found the black van parked on the street in front. Hatch sat behind the wheel, wearing mirror sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. Just the sight of him got Dewey's bowels rumbling. Dewey punched his driver's license number into the gate code and the gate opened. He waved at the woman in the office and pointed back to the black van with an OK sign. She nodded, and after going through the ritual of showing an ID to this woman whom he'd never seen before, Dewey, followed by Hatch's van, motored to the rear of the yard.

  After parking, Dewey unlocked the storage room padlock and said, Morning, Hatch.

  Bernie, Hatch said, nodding at him and flipping his cigarette butt onto the pavement in front of the double storeroom.

  Dewey made a mental note to pick up that butt after Hatch was gone. They kept a clean storage facility here and Dewey didn't want any complaints about his guests. For an instant Dewey thought, Yes, I'll pick it up after he's gone. If I'm still alive. Then he told himself to get a grip. He'd dealt with Hatch and others like him for the past several years and he was still breathing. That brought it home to him yet again: Dewey Gleason was losing his nerve. He had to get out of this business.

  Do you have everything I ordered? Hatch asked.

  Everything, Dewey said. And I've got a few video cams I can sell you. Got them last month. Top of the line.

  Sure, Hatch said, grinning. As long as you let me take them on consignment.

  Dewey hadn't thought of Hatch as a tweaker, but the bastard had gaps in his grille. Crack maybe. Or maybe he got them knocked out in a prison rumble. The consignment remark was obviously meant as a joke, since nobody in their world did anything but cash business.

  Dewey forced an obligatory guffaw and said, Maybe next time. Just let me know in advance what you might need.

  After Hatch took a perfunctory look at the merchandise and checked the invoice sheets, he said, Let's load.

  When they got the plasma TV and the home entertainment center into Hatch's van, he gave Dewey the agreed-upon price of $3,100 and said, I can use as much of this quality as you can deliver.

  At the rock-bottom prices I charge, I'm sure you could, Dewey said, trying to smile, much relieved when Hatch got into the van and drove away.

  After he picked up Hatch's cigarette butt, holding it by the ash end in case Hatch had a communicable disease, Dewey padlocked the storage room, got into his car, and drove away. He never saw the old Chevy Caprice parked on the street, a Chevy that had followed him from his apartment to the storage facility and was still shadowing him all the way back to Hollywood.

  When Dewey pulled the Honda into the underground parking garage at his apartment on Franklin Avenue, Tristan Hawkins parked as fast as he could, got out of his Chevy, and sprinted to the security gate in front of the building. Tristan tried to stay concealed as much as possible behind a hibiscus plant beside the gate, and he watched his quarry emerge from the parking garage onto a common patio. He saw his man stop at a soft drinks machine, where he bought a can of soda, and climb the exterior stairway to the third floor, where he entered what looked to be the last apartment on the east side of the apartment building. For the first time, Tristan was seeing his boss in a different disguise, but he'd have known him anywhere.

  Tristan went to the gate phone, chose an apartment number on the digital directory, beginning with number one, indicating the first floor, and began punching in the code next to the apartment numbers, most of which were no doubt occupied by tenants who were at work. It took three tries before he reached someone who was at home at that time of day.

  Her voice was an elderly croak when she said, Hello? and Tristan knew she'd be no problem.

  In Los Angeles, apartment dwellers came and went and seldom knew who was living next door, so he knew he could pull a name out of the air. Hellooo, UPS, he said. I've been trying to reach Mr. Brandon in apartment number one-twenty.

  This isn't number one-twenty, the old woman said.

  I know, ma'am, Tristan said, concentrating on keeping all traces of street from his diction. I delivered a parcel there a few minutes ago just as he was leavin' for his job, and I stopped at the drinks machine for a Coke. And darn it, I left my keys on the table beside the machine. I'm locked outta my truck.

  Why're you bothering me with this? the old woman said, and for a moment he thought it wasn't going to work.

  I tried six other numbers but there's nobody home. Look, would you mind walkin' to the machine and gettin' my keys and bringin' them to the gate?

  Wellf_U , she hesitated.

  Or better yet, ma'am, if you would please buzz me in, I'll get the keys myself. Please. I'm gonna get in trouble with my boss!

  Well, all right, she said. But you should be more careful next time.

  Thank you! he said, hearing the electronic tone and the click of the lock.

  Tristan hurried through the unlocked gate, sc
aled the outside staircase, taking the steps two at a time, and walked briskly to the last apartment on the east end of the third floor. It was number 313. He descended the stairs even faster, went back to the directory, scrolled the digital directory, and rang number 313.

  Hello, a familiar voice answered.

  Tristan recognized Jakob Kessler minus the German accent, hung up the phone without a word, returned to his car, and called his boss on his cell phone.

  The phone rang several times before Dewey could get out of the bathroom, his trousers at half-mast, and check the taped-on label on his GoPhone to see which of his characters the call was for.

  Jakob Kessler, he said, after getting the cells sorted.

  Mr. Kessler, it's Creole, Tristan said. Do you have any jobs for Jerzy and me?

  Not for the rest of the week, Creole, Dewey said. I shall call you on Monday.

  Mr. Kessler, Tristan said. I have somethin' to talk to you about. Can we meet somewheres this afternoon?

  What is it about, Creole?

  Nothin' I can talk about on the phone, Tristan said. You're gonna be real glad to hear about it.

  Dewey thought about his meeting with Clark, but there was no way to fit Creole in before that meeting, because Clark was expecting Bernie Graham, not Jakob Kessler, and a costume change was too much.

  I cannot do it today.

  Okay, Mr. Kessler, Tristan said. How 'bout tomorrow?

  I shall call you, Creole.

  After closing his cell, Tristan mulled it over and thought, We're meeting today, Mr. Kessler, or whoever the fuck you are.

  He got on his cell and speed-dialed Jerzy. He knew, by the way Jerzy answered, the dumb Polack had been woken up by the call, probably after smoking crystal or crack last night.

  Get some clothes on, wood, Jerzy said. We got us some important work today.

  Where you at? Jerzy said through a yawn.

 

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