Hollywood Moon

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Eunice heard Dewey say, “Okay, I can’t move! You don’t need the gun, Creole! Take the merchandise! Take our money! You can have the goddamn car too!”

  Then she heard a smacking sound, like fist striking flesh, and Dewey cried out in pain. And she heard a thud against the metal wall of the storage room and then a low moan from Dewey.

  His voice was guttural and choked when he said, “Go ahead and hit me if it makes you feel better, Jerzy. But for God’s sake, don’t hurt my wife!”

  To Tristan Hawkins, the man looked like some fucking radio actor in one of those old movies about people performing to a microphone. He was cooking way too much ham here, so Tristan decided to take control.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Tristan said. “I’m sick of hearin’ you.”

  Unable to surrender the stage, Dewey moaned again and said in a stage whisper, “Okay, I’ll be quiet, but please, please, don’t hurt her! That’s all I ask!”

  Then Eunice heard footsteps and knew that one of them had gone out and closed the door behind him. She started crying and had trouble stifling her sobs even when Tristan said, “Lady, you better turn off the faucet, or I’ll tape your mouth shut.”

  The next sound Eunice heard was the van pulling up to the storage room. Then the door creaked open and footsteps came near her and she was lifted by the man with the big hands and dragged along the floor. She heard the van door slide open, and the man grunted as he lifted her onto the floor of the van and rolled her to the back of the cargo space.

  Then Dewey moaned aloud and said, “Ohhh, my ribs. They hurt!” as he pounded the floor of the van and made sounds that he thought indicated he was also being manhandled.

  Tristan was getting really concerned now. He was sure that Bernie’s performance was way over the top, so he jumped into the passenger seat of the van, reached behind him, and grabbed Dewey’s shoulder, saying into the man’s face, “I want… you… to… shut… the… fuck… up. And, dawg, this ain’t a woof, it’s a warnin’. You feel me?”

  Dewey seemed to get the message and was silent after the van door was shut. Jerzy got in, dropped it into gear, and drove to the exit gate. Sam didn’t even look out but hit a button and the car gate swung open.

  Tristan saw the Polack turn around and grin, his meth-stained donkey teeth glinting in the bluish glow from the security lights. Then they were out onto the street and heading to Frogtown.

  * * *

  The sex crimes detective at West Bureau called from home to Hollywood Station at the same time that Dana Vaughn and Hollywood Nate were enjoying their celebratory pizza with Sergeant Murillo and Sergeant Hermann in the lunchroom.

  Dana took her call in the watch commander’s office and was talking to D2 Flo Johnson, whom she knew from her days working narcotics.

  “That’s terrific work, Dana,” the detective said. “I’ll run it by my D-three. I think this might be worth some Saturday overtime for my team. I can write a brief search warrant, and after I get a judge to sign it, I’ll fax it to Clark Jones’s cell provider. Then we’ll be in business.”

  “You don’t wanna get on it now?” Dana said, disappointed. “It’s kind of personal. In addition to attacking the women, he dumped one of our Hollywood coppers into a swimming pool. You know about that?”

  “I did hear something about that,” Flo Johnson said, “but we should wait till tomorrow, when we’re more prepared. If we can’t reach the guy at his billing address, we’ll need to use Major Crimes Division to triangulate from the cell towers. I can’t get all this going tonight.”

  “What if he figures the girl may have dimed him and he dumps his cell?”

  “Let’s hope he’s home at his billing address on a Saturday. That’d make it easy.”

  “We’d like to be there,” Dana said. “If you don’t already have him by tomorrow night, will you call us? We’re Six-X-Seventy-six.”

  “Tell you what,” the detective said. “We’ll be on this tomorrow, and if we don’t have the guy in custody by… What time do you clear from roll call?”

  “Eighteen hundred.”

  “If we’ve got nothing by eighteen hundred, you can come with us to where we’ll be setting up on the billing address. That’s assuming he’s a local boy.”

  “I think he is,” Dana said.

  “Deal,” said Flo Johnson. “I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow.”

  “Roger that,” Dana said. “And thanks for keeping us in the loop.”

  “I’m the one who owes you the thanks,” the detective said.

  Dana reentered the lunchroom with a smile, until she saw only Sergeant Murillo and Hollywood Nate picking at the remains of the crust.

  “Damn, you guys ate all the pizza!” Dana said.

  Hollywood Nate pointed toward the empty chair and to the doorway, indicating that the departed Sergeant Hermann was to blame.

  “Don’t look at me, Dana. I ordered the super-large,” Sergeant Murillo said apologetically. “You can be sure I’ll be writing you that glowing attagirl as soon as the guy gets popped. In the meantime, can I buy you a burrito?”

  Malcolm Rojas had gone to bed very early and was watching TV, as was his mother in the living room, a wine bottle beside her chair. He’d been reliving in his mind this very exciting day, especially the dinner at a real Hollywood restaurant. His rage at Naomi Teller had faded to an annoyance. She wasn’t worthy of his anger. When he made a lot of money with Bernie Graham and bought a new car, he might drive by her house sometime and toot the horn. Then she’d see what she’d missed by being a little bitch.

  He was dropping off to sleep when something occurred to him. Naomi had his cell number! Suddenly he was wide awake. He wanted to call her right now. Maybe he could say he was sorry for getting angry on the phone. And maybe she would tell him about the broken window, and of course he would deny knowing anything about it. Or knowing anything about a cop being pushed into a neighbor’s swimming pool.

  Then he calmed himself by trying to use logic. What if she did mention him to the cops as possibly being the rock thrower? They couldn’t prove anything. And they sure couldn’t prove that he shoved the cop into the pool. And even if they could, how serious a crime was that for someone who’d never been arrested in his whole life? A broken window? Back in Boyle Heights, people broke other people’s windows every day.

  And cops had a lot worse things happen to them back there than getting pushed into a swimming pool. Even now he had to laugh whenever he relived that amazing moment. Thinking of how he’d been brave enough to do it, as noiseless as a spider, and elude all of them and escape unseen like a ghost. It was incredibly thrilling. He masturbated again and then went to sleep.

  Jerzy parked the van beside the steps leading to the upstairs apartment. This part of Frogtown was quiet, although it was widely known that gunshots fired by gang members could often be heard on quiet evenings in this part of Los Angeles. There was an unusual hum of cicadas in the air, making one wonder where they were coming from. There was sparse vegetation around the old commercial buildings, and the nearest house was a block away, but the hum was surprisingly strong.

  Tristan got out and, using his flashlight, ran up the outside staircase and unlocked the door. He came back down and walked out to the street, looked both ways, and then slid open the side door of the van. He pointed at Dewey to begin emoting.

  If Dewey hadn’t been so nervous, so downright scared, he would’ve objected to Tristan’s assuming the role of director. But now Dewey began striking and kicking the wall of the van before he hopped out, moaning as though his body were being roughly dragged. For good measure he cried out when his feet hit the pavement, as though a vulnerable part of his body had made contact with the ground.

  “Turn it down!” Tristan whispered. The man was over the top again.

  Eunice had stopped crying halfway to Frogtown, and she hadn’t uttered a sound since, except for her very heavy breathing. Jerzy dragged her out onto the sidewalk, and with Tristan lifting her legs, th
ey carried her up the staircase, both men straining and puffing before reaching the open door.

  When they got her inside, Tristan switched on the overhead ceiling bulb and they hoisted her onto the bed, dropping her on her side.

  “Woman, you better call NutriSystem,” Jerzy muttered. “My fuckin’ back is broke.”

  Jerzy made considerable noise descending the stairs while Tristan stayed watching Eunice. Jerzy and Dewey clumped back up the steps, Jerzy panting as loud as he could, and Dewey moaning as though in agony. Dewey flopped down on the floor beside the bed, Eunice’s back to him, and continued groaning while the two kidnappers walked to the door.

  Jerzy said, “We’ll be right back, and if either of you moves, you’ll suffer for it, believe me.”

  Then they went out, closed the door, and stood right outside on the porch.

  Eunice’s breathing was so loud, it sounded like snoring, and Dewey said, “Eunice! Can you hear me?”

  She didn’t answer, and he sat up from his reclining position and said, “Eunice! Are you conscious?”

  “Yes,” she said in a feeble voice, “but I can hardly breathe.”

  “What is it?” he said. “Why can’t you breathe?”

  “I think it’s an asthma attack,” she said.

  “You don’t have asthma,” he said.

  “Or emphysema,” she said. “I been having… having lotsa trouble with my lungs lately.”

  “Oh, God!” Dewey cried. Her breathing sounded like a hacksaw cutting through steel—like the steel bars of a jail cell! What if she stopped breathing? What if she had to be rushed to an ER? All this for nothing? Everything screwed because she had to smoke eighty fucking cigarettes a day for the past thirty years? He said, “We gotta get you outta here!”

  Her sawlike breathing was a little less raspy now, and she said, “How… how do you plan to do it, Dewey? I can’t move. Can you?”

  “No,” he said, “but we gotta think of something.”

  After several seconds she said, “How… how did those goddamn… thugs get in our storage room, Dewey?”

  He said, “I hate to admit it, but… well, they outsmarted me. I led Creole and Jerzy there today, like I usually do. They followed me in their rented van to pick up Hatch’s delivery. But when we got there, Creole said that Hatch just phoned him and called it off till later, not sure how many laptops he wanted. I left them there at the storage room to wait for Hatch’s decision.”

  “You… you left them there?” she said, the extra stress making her breathing more difficult again.

  “I didn’t wanna sit there waiting with them. You and me were going out to dinner, and I wanted to go home and freshen up. So, yes, I left them there, Eunice. They called me later and said an emergency came up and they had to make a run somewhere and they’d keep me posted. How could I know it was a lie and they were gonna hide in there and pull this shit?”

  “What?… what’re they pulling, Dewey?” Eunice asked. “Maybe you can tell me, because I’m pretty confused by all this.”

  “I don’t know, Eunice,” Dewey said. “I guess they saw through my Jakob Kessler act. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Then he remembered his bogus pain and said, “God, he hurt me, Eunice! I think I’m bleeding from my ear.”

  After another long silence, she said in more measured tones, “Why did the one you called Creole have Hatch’s cell number? Do you delegate your responsibility to runners now?”

  She was sounding stronger and asking the right questions, and Dewey felt his confidence waning. He stalled by groaning in pain some more. When he finished emoting, he said, “Not usually. But today was a special day. I gave Creole Hatch’s cell number and I called Hatch and said Creole would be handling the transaction tonight. I did it so we could have a nice long peaceful evening away from all this… this awful fucking business we do. Okay, so they outsmarted me. I admit it and I’m gonna pay the price for it, not you.”

  “Whadda you mean, you’re gonna pay the price?”

  “Whatever they want, I’m gonna refuse them unless they take you outta here and drop you unharmed somewhere. I’ll let them keep me here and I’ll pay the price. Whatever happens, you’ll be safe.” After a few seconds he said, “God, I ache all over!”

  She was quiet again, and he could almost hear her thinking. It worried him. He wished she’d start crying again. Then they heard heavy footsteps and the door opened.

  Tristan and Jerzy entered, and Dewey nodded at them and said, “For chrissake, tell us what this is all about. Whadda you want from us?”

  “We want money, of course,” Jerzy said.

  “I always treated you right,” Dewey said. “Did I ever fail to pay you for your work?”

  “You paid us shit,” Jerzy said. “But now you’re gonna make up for it. And we want more than you got in your wallet.”

  “How much do you want?” Dewey said.

  “About five hundred thousand should do it,” Tristan said.

  Dewey looked at his watch. He’d rehearsed this moment several times in his head, and he’d decided that the period of silence should last a full ten seconds. After that pause he said, “Have you been doing acid? Or too much crystal?”

  Then Dewey pointed at Jerzy and closed his fist, making a gesture of punching his left palm. Jerzy nodded and smacked his left palm with his big right fist and Dewey grunted and moaned again and said, “Please, Jerzy… please don’t hit me again!”

  Tristan thought that both Jerzy and the man were getting into their roles with way too much gusto, so he tried to pull them back by saying, “Okay, dawg, shut it down.”

  Dewey’s moans were punctuated with gasps and even a few whimpers until Tristan said, “Let’s be businessmen here. Turns out we figured out the whole game you been runnin’ with old Ethel here, and we figure we own you now and we’re gonna steal a lotta the money that you stole from other folks all these years. And we think about five hundred thousand is reasonable. We decided we’re gonna keep one of you, and the other one is gonna get the money from wherever you keep it, and then everything’s cool and you won’t see us no more. And you can go back to business as usual.”

  Dewey spoke in what he thought was a painful whisper and said, “You’re fucking lunatics.”

  Jerzy said, “Okay, we tried being gentlemen. Now we’re gonna show you how the wolf eats the rabbit.”

  “What’re you doing?” Dewey said. “Ohhh, stop!” And then he let out a cry of pretend pain.

  Way over the top! Tristan thought. Next thing, somebody driving by might hear it and call the cops! He shook his head and mouthed the words “Too much!” at Dewey.

  Dewey quieted down to steady but subdued moaning punctuated by an occasional sob. He finally said, “Please… please don’t do that again. How much… much do you want? Five grand? Maybe… maybe Ethel could scrape up five thousand if you let her go. Please, Creole, let her go!”

  Dewey looked at Eunice lying there on her side, knees drawn up, blindfolded and silent, not whimpering, not even complaining. And he looked at Tristan, shook his head, and shrugged.

  Tristan took the cue and said, “Jerzy, how ’bout takin’ him down to the basement for some serious talk. Call me with good news when you get it.” Then he said, “Dude, I’m afraid I gotta leave you alone with Jerzy. He’ll take the gloves off and put some serious hurt on you, but you ain’t givin’ me no choice.”

  Jerzy and Dewey both began shuffling and grunting their way to the door and before it closed behind them, Dewey said, “Creole, at least take the tape off her. Have some compassion!”

  When they were outside, Dewey and Jerzy descended the staircase and went to the van, where they got inside and sat. Jerzy opened a can of beer and Dewey looked at his watch. It was 1:25 A.M.

  “We’ll give them twenty minutes,” he said to Jerzy, who was unresponsive.

  Dewey could smell days of body odor. He opened the door of the van, and Jerzy said, “Where you goin’?”

  “To take a leak.”<
br />
  “Well, don’t go far,” Jerzy said.

  “It’s my wife that’s your prisoner,” Dewey said. “Not me.”

  “That sorta depends how you look at it,” Jerzy said. “So piss here beside the van. I won’t peek at the little worm when you let him outta your pants.”

  Tristan said, “Look, lady, I don’t wanna see you or your old man get hurt bad, but you gotta understand, you ain’t leavin’ here till we get what we’re after. And my peckerwood partner, he’s a violent dude. Do you see that?”

  Still, Eunice did not reply. All Tristan heard was her breath rattling. It was making him nervous, and he said, “Do you have some kinda lung problem?”

  There was no answer, so he said, “Do you wanna go to the bathroom?”

  And at last Eunice spoke. She said, “Yes.”

  Tristan said, “Okay, what we’re gonna do here is, I’m gonna cut the tape off your ankles and your wrists. You’re gonna go in there and do what you gotta do, but do not touch the blindfold. If you do, I’m gonna whap you upside the head with a lead pipe I got in my belt, and then I’m gonna tape up your wrists and your ankles and your mouth. And you might jist suffocate. You understand?”

  Eunice nodded her head, and Tristan said, “Goddamnit, woman, say the words!”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “Okay,” Tristan said, and he took a penknife from his pocket and began sawing through the tape on her ankles. He left the tape sticking to each leg when he got through and said, “You can go ahead and move your feet if you want. Must be cramped up by now.” Then he began sawing through the tape on her wrists.

  She moaned in relief when she could move her hands to the front of her body, and she stripped the duct tape from each wrist and threw it behind her into the middle of the room.

  “Get up,” Tristan said, and he held on to Eunice’s right arm as she slid her legs across the bed until her feet were on the floor.

  “One of my heels is broken off,” she said.