Hollywood Station (2006)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 01

  Flotsam drove two blocks west of the pandemonium and said, "Wanna get out and go hunting for a while? You never know."

  "Fucking A," Jetsam said, and they got out of their car with flashlights extinguished and walked through a residential alley behind family homes and apartment buildings.

  They could hear voices on the street to their right, where other cops were searching, and Flotsam said, "Maybe we better turn our flashlights on before somebody caps one off at us."

  Then a voice yelled, "There he is! Hey, there he is!"

  They ran toward the voice and saw a young cop with ginger hair and pink complexion sitting astride an eight-foot block wall dividing an apartment complex from the alley.

  He saw them, or rather, he saw two shadow figures in blue uniforms, and said, "Up there! He's in that tree!"

  Flotsam shined his light high into an old olive tree, and sure enough, there was a young Latino up there in an oversize white T-shirt, baggy khakis, and a head bandana.

  The young cop yelled, "Climb down now!" And he pointed his nine at the guy with one hand while with his other hand he shined his light on the treetop.

  Flotsam and Jetsam got closer, and the guy in the tree looked down at the young cop straddling the wall and said, "Fuck you. Come up and get me."

  Flotsam turned to Jetsam and said, "Tweaked. He's fried on crystal."

  "Ain't everybody?" Jetsam said.

  The young cop, who had "probationer" written all over him, pulled out his rover but before keying it said, "What's our location? Do you guys know the address here?"

  "Naw," Jetsam said. "We work Van Nuys Division."

  Now, that was weird, Flotsam thought. Why would his partner tell the boot that they worked Van Nuys instead of telling the truth?

  Then the young cop said, "Watch him, will you? I gotta run out to the street and get the address."

  "Just go out front and start yelling," Jetsam said. "There's coppers all over the block."

  Flotsam also found it strange that Jetsam had turned his flashlight off and was standing in deep shadow under a second tree. Almost as though he didn't want the kid to be able to see him clearly. But why? That they had driven a short distance out of their division wasn't a big deal.

  After the rookie ran out onto the street in front, Jetsam said, "Fucking boot doesn't know what to do about a thief in a tree."

  They stood looking up at the guy who squinted down at their light beams, and Flotsam said, "What would you do besides wait for backup?"

  Jetsam looked up and yelled, "Hey asshole, climb down here."

  The car thief said, "I'm staying here."

  "How would you like me to blow you outta that tree?" Jetsam shouted, aiming his .40 caliber Glock at him. "I feel like shooting somebody tonight."

  "You won't shoot," the kid said. "I'm a minor. And all I did was joyride."

  Now Jetsam was really torqued. And not for the first time he noticed that the young cop had left his Remington beanbag shotgun with the bright green fore and aft stocks propped against the wall.

  "Check this out, partner," he said to Flotsam. "That probey grabbed a beanbag gun instead of the real thing. Now he's probably looking for a chain saw to cut the fucking tree down."

  Touching his pepper spray canister, Flotsam said, "Wish he was closer, dude. A little act-right spray would do wonders for him." Then Flotsam looked at Jetsam and Jetsam looked at Flotsam and Flotsam said, "No. I know what you're thinking, but no. Stay real, man!"

  But Jetsam said in a quiet voice, "That boot never saw our faces, bro. There's coppers all over the neighborhood."

  "No," Flotsam said. "A beanbag gun is not to be used for compliance purposes. This ain't pit bull polo, dude."

  "I wonder if it would induce some compliance here."

  Flotsam said, "I don't wanna know."

  But Jetsam, who had never shot anyone with a beanbag or anything else, reached into his pocket, put on a pair of latex gloves so as to not leave latent prints, picked up the shotgun, pointed it up into the tree, and said, "Hey vato, get your ass down here right now or I'll let one go and blow you outta that tree."

  The muzzle of the gun looked big enough to hold a popsicle, but it didn't scare the car thief, who said, "You and your puto partner can just kiss my -"

  And the muzzle flash and explosion shocked Flotsam more than the kid, who let out a shriek when the beanbag struck him in the belly.

  "Ow ow ow, you pussy!" the kid yelled. "You shot me, you pussy! Owwwwwww!"

  So Jetsam let go with another round, and this time Flotsam ran to the street in front of the apartment complex and saw no less than five shadow figures yelling and running their way while the kid howled even louder and started climbing down.

  "Let's get the fuck outta here!" Flotsam said, after running back to Jetsam and grabbing him by the arm.

  "He's coming down, bro," Jetsam said with a dazed expression.

  "Toss that tube!" Flotsam said, and Jetsam dropped the shotgun on the grass and scurried after his partner.

  Both cops ran back down the alley through the darkness toward their car, and neither spoke until Flotsam said, "Man, there'll be IA investigators all over this one, you crazy fucker! You ain't even allowed to shoot white guys like that!"

  Still running, and gradually realizing that he'd just violated a whole lot of Department regulations, if not the penal code itself, Jetsam said, "The homie never saw us, bro. The lights were always in his eyes. The little boot copper didn't see our faces neither. Shit, he was so excited he couldn't ID his own dick. Anyways, this is North Hollywood Division. We don't work here."

  "The best-laid plans of mice and rats," Flotsam said. Then he had a panicky thought. "Did you go code six?" he said, referring to the safety rule of informing communications of their location when leaving the car. "I can't remember."

  Jetsam also panicked for a moment, then said, "No, I'm sure I didn't. Nobody knows we're here in North Hollywood."

  "Let's get the fuck back to our beat!" Flotsam said when they reached their car, unlocked it, and got inside.

  He drove with lights out until they were blocks from the scene and heard the PSR voice say "All units, code four. Suspect in custody. Code four."

  They didn't talk at all until they were safely back cruising Hollywood Boulevard. Then Jetsam said, "Let's get code seven. Our adventure's made me real hungry all of a sudden. And bro, your shit's kinda weak lately. We gotta jack you up somehow. Why don'tcha get one of those healthy reduced-fat burritos swimming in sour cream and guacamole." Then he added, "It musta been those two shots I gave that homie, but I feel mega-happy now."

  And Flotsam could only gape when Jetsam suddenly began to sing the U2 hit: "Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaad."

  "You're scary, dude," Flotsam said. "You're as scary as a doctor putting on one rubber glove."

  Jetsam kept on singing: "Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad."

  Flotsam kept driving toward Sunset Boulevard and finally said, "I wanna take you up to the Director's Chair first night we're off together. Have a few beers. Shoot some pool or darts."

  "Okay, I got nothing better to do, but I never been fond of the joint. Don't you wanna go someplace where there ain't so many cops?"

  Flotsam said, "I love a bar with a sign that says `No shirt, no shoes, no badge, no service.' Besides, there's always a few badge bunnies around that'll pork any copper, even you."

  Jetsam said, "Thank you, Dr. Ruth. Why're you so concerned with my sex life all of a sudden?"

  Flotsam said, "It's me I'm thinking about, dude. You gotta take your mind off your ex and her lawyer and that hose monster that dumped you. Either that or in order to protect my career and pension I gotta go find that Northeast detective she's snogging."

  "What for?"

  "To cap him. We can't go on like this. You hearing me, dude?"

  Cosmo Betrossian had always denied that he was even loosely associated with the so-called Russian Mafia. The federal and local authorities called e
verybody from the former USSR and eastern Europe "Russian Mafia." That is, everyone Cosmo knew, because everyone Cosmo knew was involved in illegal activity of one sort or another. The designations didn't make any sense to Cosmo, who, even though he had grown up in Soviet Armenia and spoke some bastardized Russian, was no more a Russian than George Bush was. He figured that American cops were just full of shit as far as eastern European immigrants were concerned.

  But because of their obsession with Russian Mafia, he had to be careful when he had any business dealing with Dmitri, the owner of the Gulag, a nightclub on Western Avenue that wasn't in the best part of town but had a well-lit, well-guarded parking lot. Young people from all over the west side, even Beverly Hills and Brentwood, were not afraid to drive east to Little Siberia, as some called it.

  The Gulag's food was good and they poured generous drinks and Dmitri gave them the recorded familiar rock sounds they wanted, which kept the dance floor jammed until closing time. And on the occasional "Russian Night" Dmitri advertised live entertainment: Russian dancers, balalaikas, violins, and a beautiful singer from Moscow. It brought Dmitri a very wealthy clientele who had emigrated to Los Angeles from all over the former USSR, whether or not they were into legitimate business or smuggling or money laundering. But this night was not going to be one of the Russian nights.

  A week had passed since the robbery, and Cosmo felt confident going to Dmitri. The police were even less of a worry. Nobody he knew had even been questioned. Early in the evening, he drove to the Gulag, entered, and went to the bar. He knew the bartender whom the Americans called "Georgie" because he was from the Republic of Georgia, and asked to see Dmitri. The bartender poured him a shot of ouzo and Cosmo waited for the bartender to deal with two cocktail waitresses at the service bar who were giving the bartender more happy hour drink orders than he could handle.

  The nightclub was typical for Hollywood in that there was an area set aside for private parties. In the Gulag the private area was upstairs, with plush green sofas lining walls papered in garish streaks of color-somebody's idea of "edgy," that favorite clich, of Hollywood scenesters, the other being "vibe." The Gulag was edgy. The Gulag vibed mysterious.

  On this evening, the jock was just setting up and he spun some soft-rock standards for the end of the extended happy hour. There were two guys repairing some strobes and spots before the crowd arrived and bodies got writhing in the dance-floor pit. Busboys and waiters were wiping off tables and chairs and dusting the seats in the cuddle-puddle booths on the raised level for those customers who tipped the manager Andrei.

  After ten minutes, Cosmo was directed upstairs into Dmitri's surprisingly spartan office where he found the club owner at his desk, slippered feet up, smoking a cigarette in a silver holder, and watching S&M porn on his computer screen. Everybody said that Dmitri indulged in all kinds of exotic sex. He was forty-one years old, not tall, had a slight build, soft hands, and bloodshot blue eyes, and was wearing a chestnut hair weave. He looked unexceptional and harmless in a white linen shirt and chinos, but Cosmo was very scared of him. He had heard things about Dmitri and his friends.

  The club owner knew that Cosmo's Russian was extremely poor and Dmitri adored current American slang, so he had always spoken English to Cosmo. Without getting up he said, "Here comes a happen-ink guy! A guy who always has it go-ink on! Hello, Cosmo!"

  He reached out with one of those soft hands and slapped palms with Cosmo, who said, "Dmitri, thank you for this talk. Thank you, brother."

  "You got some-think I need?"

  "Yes, my brother," Cosmo said, sitting in the client chair in front of the desk.

  "Not credit-card information, I hope. In gen-yural I am not into credit cards no more, Cosmo. I am moving into other directions."

  "No, brother," Cosmo said. "I have brought for you something to show." And with that he produced a single diamond, one of the larger stones from the jewelry store robbery, and put it gingerly on the desk.

  Dmitri lowered his feet onto the floor and looked at the stone. He smiled at Cosmo and said, "I do not know diamonds. But I have a friend who knows. Do you have more?"

  "Yes," Cosmo said. "Much more. Many rings and earrings too. All very beautiful stones."

  Dmitri looked impressed. "You are grow-ink in America!" he said. "No more business with addicts?"

  "Addicts do not have diamonds," Cosmo said. "I think you shall buy all my diamonds and sell for big profit, my brother."

  "It is possible that I should be een-wolved with you again, Cosmo," Dmitri said, smiling. "You are perhaps now a big man in America."

  "I wish to bring every diamond soon. I wish to sell for only thirty-five thousands. The news lady on TV say the diamonds worth maybe two, three hundred thousands."

  "The hand grenade!" Dmitri said with a grin. "So it was you! But thirty-five thousand? You must bring me high-quality stones for thirty-five thousand."

  "Okay, brother," Cosmo said. "I shall bring."

  "I need perhaps one month to make my deal and to get so much cash for you," Dmitri said. "And to make sure that police do not arrest you in meantime."

  "I am very sad to hear that," Cosmo said, sweat popping on his forehead. "I must get money now."

  Dmitri shrugged and said, "You may take your treasure to somebody else, Cosmo. No problem."

  Cosmo had nobody else for something like this, and he knew that Dmitri was aware of it.

  "Okay," Cosmo said. "I wait. Please call me when you have money."

  "Now that you are grow-ink into a businessman," Dmitri said as Cosmo bowed slightly and prepared to leave, "you should shave between the eyebrows. Americans like two eyebrows, not one."

  On the night that Jetsam fired two shots of happy with no shot of sad, another shooting would take place, this one in Hollywood Division, that would provoke several shots of sad for two of the officers involved.

  The code 3 call was given to 6-A-65 of Watch 3, directing them to a residential street on the west side of Hollywood, an area that seldom was the source of such calls. Half the cars on the midwatch rolled on it when the PSR said the words "Man with a gun."

  The assigned car, thanks to lights and siren, got there seconds before the others, but two of the midwatch units roared in before the officers of 6-A-65 were out of the car. One of the midwatch units was driven by Mag Takara. Her partner, Benny Brewster, jumped out with a shotgun, and then another car from Watch 3 arrived. Eight cops, four with shotguns, approached the house from which the call had emanated. The porch lights were out, and the street was quite dark. The decision whether to approach the porch did not have to be made. The front door to the house swung open, and the cops at the scene could scarcely believe what they were seeing.

  A thirty-eight-year-old man, later identified as Roland Tarkington, owner of the house, stepped out onto the porch. It would be learned that his father had once owned large chunks of commercial property in Hollywood but had lost it all in bad investments, leaving his only child, Roland, the house and sufficient money to exist. Roland was waving a document in one hand and had the other hand behind his back.

  In the glare of half a dozen flashlight beams plus a spotlight trained on him by the closest black-and-white, Roland spoke not a word but held up the paper as though it were a white flag of surrender. He struggled down the concrete steps from his porch and advanced toward the cops.

  The thing that had the cops amazed was Roland Tarkington's size. He would be measured the next day during a postmortem at five feet six inches. His weight would be listed on the death report as just over 540 pounds. The shadow of Roland Tarkington thrown onto the walk behind him was vast.

  After Benny Brewster shouted, "Let's see the other hand!" there was a cacophony of voices:

  "Show us your other hand!"

  "Both hands in the air, goddamnit!"

  "Get down on the sidewalk!"

  "Watch that fucking hand! Watch his hand!"

  A probationary cop from Watch 3 left his training officer and crept a
long the driveway forty feet from the standoff as the obese man stopped, still silently waving the white paper. The probationer was in a position to see behind Roland Tarkington's back and yelled, "He's got a gun!"

  As though on cue, another Hollywood performance ended when Roland Tarkington showed them what he was hiding, suddenly aiming what looked like a .9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol at the closest cop.

  And he was hit by two shotgun blasts fired by separate officers from Watch 3 and five rounds from pistols fired by two other Watch 3 officers. Roland Tarkington, despite his great bulk, was lit up by bright orange muzzle blasts, lifted off his feet, and thrown down on his back, where he bled out, dying within seconds, his heart literally shredded. Another five police pistol rounds that missed had riddled the front of the house as Roland Tarkington fell.

  Neighbors then poured out of their homes, and voices were yelling, and at least two women across the street were wailing and crying. The Oracle, who arrived just as the rounds exploded in the night, picked up the blood-spattered paper lying on the grass beside the dead man. Roland Tarkington's gun turned out to be a realistically designed water pistol.

  The second cop to have fired his shotgun said, "What's it say, Sarge?"

  The Oracle read aloud: "`I offer my humble apologies to the fine officers of the LAPD. This was the only way I could summon the courage to end my life of misery. I ask that my remains be cremated. I would not want anyone to have to carry my body to our family plot at Forest Lawn Cemetery. Thank you. Roland G. Tarkington.'"

  None of the midwatch units had been in a position to fire, and Mag said to Benny, "Let's get outta here, partner. This is bad shit."

  When they were back at their car putting the shotgun into the locked rack, Mag heard two cops talking to the Oracle.

  One said, "Goddamnit! Goddamn this bastard! Why didn't he take poison? Goddamn him!"

  The Oracle said to the cop, "Get in your car and get back to the station, son. FID will be arriving soon."

  Another voice said to the Oracle, "I'm not a fucking executioner! Why did he do this to me? Why?"