Hollywood Moon (2009)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 03

  The first drag queen he encountered on the Santa Monica track, aka the fruit loop, was a mixed-race addict. The dragon, wearing a short gold dress and platforms, looked at him through the window and said, So whatchoo lookin' for, dope or pussy?

  What've you got? Harris Triplett said, figuring if a good drug bust came his way, he shouldn't say no. He started sniffling and acting twitchy, his version of an addict, but he was far too hale and hearty to pull it off.

  You look like you could use some black, the dragon said with a knowing smile.

  Yeah, he said, figuring that black was tar heroin.

  Well, I ain't got no black, the dragon said. Maybe I can get some liquid, though. I know somebody with a vial. That's sixty doses. You got that kind of sugar?

  Yeah, I'll take it, Harris Triplett said, figuring that liquid was LSD or PCP.

  The dragon let out a raspy chuckle and said, You switched up on me to the other dope way too fast, baby. That means you're a cop. But you're a cute little puppy. Come back when you're a big dog.

  The dragon laughed again and walked away.

  The next streetwalker he encountered was a tall white transsexual, well known to the vice unit who'd arrested her in the past. And now that she was post-op, she could not be booked into a male facility. The tranny stopped on the sidewalk, holding back her shoulder-length natural-red hair and bent forward to look inside the car.

  This is a pool car, she said, and you're a cop.

  What? Harris Triplett said. Me, a cop? I'm a Marine from Twenty-nine Palms.

  Kiss me if you're not a cop, the tranny said.

  Harris Triplett hesitated and said, I don't even kiss my wife.

  You only got one key in the ignition, sweetie, the tranny said before turning to walk away. You should always use a key ring with at least a house key on it. I wish you weren't a cop. You're cute as a button.

  Harris Triplett was starting to think that he was cute enough to clean up the streets of Hollywood single-handed if he just knew his ass from lamb chops. He put the vice unit's Mercury key on his own key ring and hoped he could manage to pop at least one hooker before his three-night loan to the vice unit ended.

  He got on the rover to ask for permission from his cover team to try the Sunset Boulevard track, and permission was granted. And that did the trick. The first streetwalker he spotted on Sunset Boulevard was neither a dragon nor a tranny. She had real double-X chromosomes, and she appeared to be very young. And as it turned out, she was only fifteen years old. She was full-figured, bulging out of her little black dress, and wore her white-blonde hair in a bob, with blood-red gloss on her plump lips that made her look like a child playing dress-up.

  She was only slightly more experienced than Harris Triplett at this game, and she smiled brightly when she saw his dewy grin, smooth, chiseled features, and short chestnut hair.

  Hi! she said.

  Hi, Harris Triplett said. What's up tonight?

  Whatcha looking for?

  Whatcha got? he said.

  Do you have, like, a hundred bucks to spend? she said.

  On what? he said.

  I don't wanna, like, make you mad or anything, she said, but I been told that I shouldn't negotiate until we get where we're going.

  So where we going?

  My apartment. It's just up the street. I'll walk and you can follow me.

  How do I know you aren't taking me someplace where I'll get mugged?

  There's a whole lot going on up in my apartment house, but it ain't got nothing to do with mugging, she said.

  Harris Triplett didn't have enough for his violation yet, since she hadn't defined negotiate by offering sex for money, so he said, Okay, start walking. I'll be right behind you.

  When the girl had walked half a block north on the dark and quiet residential street, Harris picked up the rover and talked to his cover team, making the vice cops in charge of his security wish he'd been wired.

  After some intense conversation between two teams of vice cops, the senior officer came on the radio and said, Okay, Harris, we think we know where she's taking you. Go ahead and walk to the door with her, but try to get the violation outside. And take your gun. If she spots it and you lose the arrest, that's fine, it's only a misdemeanor. The second you get your violation, scratch your head. We'll be on the street, watching you through glasses.

  Whispering into the radio, Harris Triplett said, What if she won't talk unless I go inside?

  There was more uncertain conversation among the vice cops, and then the voice came back on and said, Step inside if you have to, but for no more than one minute. If you don't get the offer that quick, open the door and walk away. If something goes wrong in there, yell loud, or throw something through the window if you have to. Sixty seconds after you close that door, you better come out, or we're coming in like the cavalry. Understand?

  Harris Triplett parked the Mercury and watched the young hooker ascending the outside stairway of the two-story apartment building already known to cops at Hollywood Station as Middle Earth because, as the vice cops put it, we can't always figure out the species that inhabits the place.

  The cover team parked their UC car half a block south, just as 6-X-76 happened to be passing on patrol. When Hollywood Nate Weiss and Dana Vaughn spotted two guys moving fast along the sidewalk, Dana hit them with the spotlight, and one of the guys held up his LAPD badge and waved them to the curb.

  Vice, Hollywood Nate said and pulled to the curb beside them.

  The younger of the two vice cops, a Latino in a cut-off sweatshirt, khakis, and tennis shoes, said, Stick around till we see what we've got here, okay?

  Dana informed Communications that 6-X-76 was code 6, meaning out for investigation, and they followed the vice cops to the apartment building where Harris Triplett had passed through an unsecured walkway.

  Because his security team was so hesitant about his entering the apartment, Harris Triplett was more than a little nervous as he climbed the stairs, his Glock tucked under his shirt inside his waistband. The young hooker had opened the door and stood on the outside landing in the wash of light from inside, smiling encouragement to her young trick who was ascending apprehensively.

  Everybody's nervous about coming in, she said. Don't worry, there's nobody here but you and me and one itsy-bitsy spider that lives under the kitchen sink.

  When he got to the open door and peered inside a neat and tidy little one-bedroom apartment, he said, What am I going to get for my hundred dollars?

  She smiled bigger and said, Let's go inside. I been taught not to talk till we're relaxed and friendly.

  Harris stepped gingerly inside, ready to go for his gun at the slightest provocation, and he started counting in his head to sixty.

  You're so nervous, it makes you more cute, she said. Anybody ever tell you that?

  You have no idea, he said, counting: fourteen, fifteen, sixteenf_U

  I just feel like kissing you, and I never kiss my dates, she said.

  I'm not really into kissing, he said. Twenty-eight, twenty-ninef_U

  What if I kissed your cock? she said. Would you be into that?

  Well, that's a different story, he said. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-threef_U

  She put her hand on his groin and said, I think I'll fuck you till you beg me to stop. But first let's see the hundred dollars, darling.

  Fifty-two, fifty-threef_U , he said aloud now, alarming the girl, especially when he jerked open the door and started scratching his scalp with both hands like he had a head full of lice.

  And suddenly they both heard a loud and terrible scream from the apartment next door, and the cover team, who also heard it, along with 6-X-76, came running fast, taking the stairs two at a time.

  The hooker yelled, What's going on? and Harris Triplett was half in and half out of the doorway, pointing frantically to the next apartment, where they heard a cry for help.

  The older vice cop, a burly white guy with a shaved head and a clamp-on hoop earring, ban
ged on that door and yelled, Police! Open up!

  They could hear several frantic voices inside, but no one came to the door. The older vice cop drew his pistol, stepped back, and kicked it open.

  The four cops rushed inside, and the older vice cop yelled to three terrified men, Everybody freeze!

  The older vice cop and Hollywood Nate ran along a hallway to the sound of moaning. The master bedroom was well lit and occupied by one naked man with lank gray hair and a gray mustache over a blue upper lip. He lay prone on the king-size bed and moaned, gasping for breath. Alongside the man, half hidden in the sheets, was a bloody object that looked to Nate like a totem of some sort.

  Call an RA, the vice cop said, and Nate drew the rover from his belt and requested a rescue ambulance.

  Nate hurried back down the hallway to the large living room just in time to see Dana Vaughn come out of a bathroom with a bath towel while the Latino vice cop guarded three men, two of them already handcuffed together. The third man, a naked senior citizen with sad, baggy eyes, his body frail and fish-belly white, stood next to the fake fireplace with his hands in the air, sporting a tent-pole erection that would not subside given the number of potency pills he'd ingested with his martinis. His crimson countenance attested to the pills more than to his current embarrassment.

  Dana said, Cover that object, sir.

  When she threw the towel at him, it landed right on his erection, and Nate said, Damn, partner, it must take a lot of practice to do that.

  Dana figured everybody at Hollywood Station would hear about the towel toss, given Nate's big mouth.

  After advising the guests of their Miranda rights, the Latino vice cop said, Write some FI's on these guys till we find out what's what. I gotta go check on our little operator.

  He went next door, where Harris Triplett had placed the young hooker under arrest and handcuffed her while she cried her eyes out and tried in vain to convince him that she was not a juvenile and not a runaway.

  Finally the girl said, Okay, okay, you'll find out anyways. My name's Muriel Travers and I ran away from Canton, Ohio, two months ago.

  And how old're you? the Latino vice cop asked.

  Sixteen, she said, dabbing at her tears with a tissue. In four weeks.

  While the vice cop went back next door to inform his partner that they had a juvie to deal with, Harris Triplett became filled with compassion for the weeping teenager, and he said gently, I'm sorry, Muriel. I know how you must feel, but when you get home to your family, this Hollywood experience will seem like a bad dream. Do you want me to call your folks for you? Is there anything I can do to help you?

  Yeah, she said, you could take out your gun and blow your fucking head off, you narc cocksucker.

  Meanwhile, in the next apartment, Hollywood Nate had himself a look at the decor. There were large framed photos of nude men wrestling and playing volleyball, and the resident was into Barbie dolls and Disney collections, which was not uncommon in Hollywood. On the fake fireplace hearth, a Mickey Mouse stuffed toy was riding a glass penis.

  The two middle-aged men sitting quietly on the sofa in the large living room, handcuffed together, kept looking anxiously at the hallway leading to the master bedroom. One was a balding fat guy with Jack Sparrow facial hair, wearing an orange wife beater, board shorts, and flip-flops, and anxiously crushing a blond wig in his hands, apparently part of his beach boy getup for this 1960s party. The other guest was a bit younger than the others, with a fringe of mousy hair, and teeth coated in porcelain veneer as white as a toilet bowl. He was dressed like a cheerleader in a letterman sweater, chinos, and saddle shoes. Both men were blitzed but sobering up from fright.

  The cheerleader said, Officers, we're not doing anything illegal here. We're having a harmless nostalgia party. We don't even use drugs, except for the strawberry martinis. Maybe we had too many. Then he pointed to the naked old guy with the erection and said, Roger was down in the pool having a moonlight swim just before you arrived, and hadn't dressed yet.

  Must be awful hard water down there, Nate observed.

  Dana said, There's a guy in the bedroom who might dispute how harmless your nostalgia party is.

  When they could hear the whoop and whine of the ambulance siren, the older vice cop left the man in the bedroom to enter the living room and whispered to Dana, I think the guy's in big trouble. His ass is torn up, and he's got a couple vials of heart medication on the nightstand next to him. I think he's had a heart attack.

  Check out the beach boy, Dana whispered. There's blood spatter on his shorts.

  Uncuff him and bring him in the master bedroom, the vice cop said. I need to talk to him privately.

  In the next few minutes, the paramedics arrived with their gurney and carried the stricken man out of the apartment, where they encountered a detective in a wrinkled suit and a horrible necktie. It was Compassionate Charlie Gilford, waiting at the foot of the stairs until the gurney got past. Only his instinct for the bizarre would get him out of the squad room when there were summer reruns of his favorite reality shows, but when he heard the watch commander talking about this one, he figured it might be worth a peek.

  The detective entered and checked out the living room and then walked to the master bedroom with the older vice cop.

  This is what spoiled the party, the vice cop said, gloved-up and holding a twelve-inch bloodstained Barbie doll, with her one arm extended and the other broken off.

  Her ponytail's a mess, said Compassionate Charlie. Let's hear it.

  Back in the living room, where Hollywood Nate and Dana Vaughn watched the partygoers, Dana said sotto to Nate, If there was a Hollywood moon tonight, we'd win the pizza.

  When Compassionate Charlie returned from the bedroom, he beckoned Nate and Dana into the hallway away from the others, where he quietly explained things.

  Seems like the over-age beach boy shoved a Barbie doll up the host's ass to liven up the party and get a few giggles from the others, Charlie explained. With the host's permission, he says. Except when the rubber band that held Barbie's little arms in place busted loose, they popped straight out, and her fingers are sharp. So, suddenly the guy on the bed doesn't love Barbie no more and doesn't find the joke very funny and he starts screaming. But the beach boy, who says he drank seven martinis, claims he got confused and thought it was a pleasure scream, not a pain scream, until the guy started clutching his chest and gulping like he's underwater and grabbing for his heart medication. After a pause, he added, I imagine his love canal's gonna need to be resurfaced big time.

  Are we booking anybody here? Nate asked, looking queasy.

  The guy was turning blue when I saw him last, Charlie continued. And with his heart condition and all, he might just croak. So, even though this won't go anywhere, I'm gonna call this a mandated sexual assault case for now, and I'm gonna advise booking the Brian Wilson look-alike until somebody can interview the host tomorrow. If he lives.

  How about the others? Dana asked.

  Let them walk, but we'll need a good crime report and transportation for the beach boy.

  What's the booking charge? Nate asked.

  Compassionate Charlie grinned and said, How about assault with a deadly Barbie?

  Nate and Dana went back to the living room, thinking that things couldn't get much stranger, until the diminutive man called Roger let out a yelp, lost his wraparound towel, and scared the crap out of everybody. A purple oscillating object flew across the floor and stopped when it struck Nate's shoe, causing him to leap away like it was radioactive.

  Sorry, Roger said, picking up his towel. I'm sorry to alarm you, but I held it in as long as I could.

  What the hell is that? Nate demanded.

  It's a vibrating egg. I didn't want you to know it was there. I'm so embarrassed.

  The detective ran into the living room and said, Who yelled?

  Hollywood Nate, looking a bit pale, pointed to Roger, who was holding the towel in front of him, and Nate said, That dude shot me
in the foot with an egg he had tucked up his ass!

  The detective shrugged and said, So, chill. This is Hollywood, for chrissake.

  What? Nate said. You think it's an everyday thing when a guy lays an egg on your goddamn shoe?

  Backing her partner, Dana said, Yeah, Charlie, wouldn't you find it a teeny bit weird if someone fired a rectal egg at you?

  Compassionate Charlie stroked his chin as though mulling over something momentous. And before exiting, he sucked his teeth and said, I think it all depends on the size of the egg he laid. Are we talking pigeon or ostrich?

  When Malcolm Rojas left Mel's Drive-In that evening, he was excited about the money he was going to make. He considered quitting his job in the warehouse even before working a single day for Bernie Graham, but then he thought he'd better wait and see. It was still too early to go to bed, so instead of driving home, he parked on a side street near Hollywood High School and impulsively dialed the number of Naomi Teller.

  Her cell phone rang several times, and when he was about to give up, she said in a small voice, Hello.

  Can you guess who this is? Malcolm said.

  No, she said, stifling a giggle because she knew who it was.

  Do you have so many boyfriends you can't guess? he said.

  Maybe, she said, even though she'd never had a real boyfriend.

  Take a guess, he said.

  She said, Josh.

  No, it's not Josh, Malcolm said, and he sounded so disappointed, she laughed and said, I'm just kidding. I know it's you, Clark.

  Malcolm was happy again and said, I'd sure like to take you for a ride in my Mustang sometime.

  You have a Mustang?

  It's an old one, Malcolm said, but it runs good. We could go to the beach.

  I'd like that, she said, but my mom'd go all spaz if I went to the beach with a guy as old as you.

  How old do you think I am?

  Twenty-one maybe, she said. You sound older than you look.

  I'm nineteen, he said. Is that better?