Hollywood Station (2006)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 01

  "Another double-handcuff ceremony," he said to Viktor Chernenko. "Right now they're calling each other darling babycakes and little buttercup. In another six months they'll blow each other's brains out. That's the way it is in Hollywood."

  Viktor was especially happy, having learned that he'd been named Hollywood Station's Detective of the Quarter, and paid no attention to Compassionate Charlie's unromantic notions. He loved the sound of those terms of endearment.

  That evening before going home, he phoned his wife and said, "I am so joyful, my darling babycakes. Would it be pleasing if I picked up some Big Macs and strawberry ice cream for my little buttertub?"

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  WITH THE JULY Fourth holiday approaching, the Oracle thought he had midwatch well sorted. When Fausto and Budgie brought in a report for signature, he said, "Fausto, it's time we took code seven at that other new Mexican restaurant-what's it called?"

  "Hidalgo's," Fausto said.

  "I'm buying."

  "You hit the lottery?"

  "Time to celebrate. It's summer in Hollywood," the Oracle said. "I feel expansive in the summer."

  Fausto looked at the Oracle's ample belly and said, "I see what you mean."

  "You should talk," Budgie said to Fausto. Then turning to the Oracle she added, "I have him on a six-burrito diet. He's already had five this week so he only gets one tonight."

  "Give us a few minutes," Fausto said. "I gotta get a DR for a report."

  The Oracle was alone again when he started to feel pain in his upper stomach. That damn heartburn again. He was sweating for no reason and felt he needed some air. He walked out into the lobby, passing below the hanging photos of those slain officers whose names were outside on the Hollywood Station Walk of Fame.

  The Oracle looked up at the full moon, a "Hollywood moon," he always called it, and sucked in air through his nose, blowing it out his mouth. But he didn't feel better. There was suddenly a dull ache in his shoulder and his back.

  A woman was coming to the station to make a report on the theft of her son's bicycle when a loud motorcycle roared by and she saw the Oracle grab his chest and fall to the pavement.

  She ran into the station, screaming, "An officer's been shot!"

  Fausto almost knocked her down as he threw open the glass door and ran out, followed by Budgie and Mag Takara, who'd been working at the front desk.

  Fausto turned the Oracle over onto his back and said, "He hasn't been shot."

  Then he knelt beside him and started chest compressions. Budgie lifted the Oracle's chin, pinched off his nostrils and started breathing into his mouth as Mag called the rescue ambulance. Several officers ran out of the station and watched.

  "Come on, Merv!" Fausto said, counting compressions silently. "Come back to us!"

  The RA arrived quickly, but it didn't matter. Budgie and Mag were both crying when the paramedics loaded the Oracle into the ambulance. Fausto turned and pushed two night-watch cops out of his way and wandered alone into the darkness of the parking lot.

  One week later at roll call, the lieutenant said to the midwatch, "There will not be the usual police funeral for the Oracle. His will was very specific and stated that he'd made other arrangements."

  "He should get a star on the Walk," Flotsam said.

  The lieutenant said, "Well, that's for our Hollywood Division officers killed on duty."

  "He was killed on duty," Hollywood Nate said. "Forty-six years around here? That's what killed him."

  "How about a special star for the Oracle?" Mag Takara said.

  The lieutenant said, "I'll have to talk to the captain about this."

  "If anybody deserves a star," Benny Brewster said, "that man does."

  Jetsam said, "No funeral? We gotta do something, Lieutenant."

  B. M. Driscoll said, "The Oracle always said he was staying on the job till his ex-wife died so she couldn't get any of his pension. What about her? Did they have kids who might want a funeral?"

  Getting rattled, the lieutenant said, "It's out of my control. He'd made special arrangements, I've been told. He left everything he owned to the L. A. Police Memorial Foundation for scholarships. That's all I know."

  Fausto Gamboa stood up then, the first time he'd ever done such a thing at roll call in his thirty-four-year career. He said, "The Oracle didn't want any fuss made over him after he was gone. I know that for a fact. We talked about it one night many years ago when we were having a brew up at the Tree."

  B. M. Driscoll said, "But what's his ex-wife say about it?"

  "There is no ex-wife," Fausto said. "That was his excuse for being crazy enough to stay on the Job all this time. And if he'd lived, someday they woulda had to tear the badge off his chest to get rid of him. He wouldn'ta liked that at all. He was nearly sixty-nine years old and enjoyed his life and did some good and now he's gone end-of-watch."

  "Didn't he have . . . anybody?" Mag asked.

  "Sure he did," Fausto said. "He had you. He was married to the Job and you were his kids. You and others before you."

  The room was still then until Hollywood Nate said, "Isn't there . . . one little thing we can do for him? For his memory?"

  After a pause, Fausto said with a quivering voice, "Yeah, there is. Remember how he said the Job is fun? The Oracle always said that doing good police work is more fun than anything you'll ever do in your entire lives. Well, you just go out there tonight and have yourselves some fun."

  As soon as darkness fell on Hollywood, 6-X-76 went on a very special mission. A secret mission known to nobody else at Hollywood Station. They didn't speak as Budgie drove up into the Hollywood Hills to Mount Lee. When they got to their destination, she pulled up to a locked gate and stopped.

  Fausto unlocked the gate, saying, "I had to practically sign in blood to get this key from the park ranger."

  Budgie drove as far as they could on the fire road and then parked. There was no sound but cicadas whirring and a barely audible hum of traffic far below.

  Then Budgie and Fausto got out and she opened the trunk. Fausto reached into his war bag and lifted out the urn.

  Budgie led the way with her flashlight, but it was hardly needed under the light from a full moon. They walked along the path until they were at the base of the sign. It was four stories high and brilliantly lit.

  Budgie looked up at the giant H looming and said, "Be careful, Fausto. Why don't you let me do it?"

  "This is my job," Fausto said. "We were friends for more than thirty years."

  The ground by the H had fallen away, so they walked to the center, to the Y, where the ground was intact.

  The ladder was in place beside scaffolding, and when he had climbed halfway up, Budgie yelled, "That's high enough, Fausto!"

  But he kept going, puffing and panting, pausing twice until he was all the way to the top. And when he was there, he carefully opened the lid from the urn and turned it upside down, saying, "Semper cop, Merv. See you soon."

  And the Oracle's ashes blew away into the warm summer night, against the backdrop of HOLLYWOOD, four stories high, under magical white light supplied by an obliging Hollywood moon.

  When they were finished with their mission and Budgie had driven them back down to the streets of Hollywood, she broke the silence by saying, "I've been thinking about cooking a turkey dinner. How about coming over and meeting Katie? I want a photo op of you burping her. I'll buy a small bird for just you and me and my mom."

  "I'll check my schedule," Fausto said. "Maybe I can make time."

  Budgie said, "My dad's been dead for three years but Mom hasn't started dating yet, so it probably won't do you much good to hit on her."

  "Oh, sure," Fausto said. "Like I'd hit on an old lady."

  Budgie looked at him and said, "The old lady is nearly ten years younger than you are, pal."

  "Yeah?" said Fausto, cocking that right eyebrow. "So what's she look like?"

  "Well, Marty," Hollywood Nate said to his rookie partner. "We're going to do so
me good police work and have some fun tonight. You ready for that?"

  "Yes, sir," the young cop said.

  "Goddamnit, Marty," Nate said, "save that `sir' crap for your real training officer, who'll probably turn out to be one of those GI junkies who grew up watching TV war movies. Me, I watched Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly musicals. My name's Nate. Remember?"

  "Okay, Nate. Sorry."

  "By the way, you like movies?"

  "Yes, . . . Nate," Marty said.

  "Your old man wouldn't be rich by any chance, would he?"

  "Lord, no," Marty said.

  "Oh, well," said Nate. "My last rich partner didn't help my career anyway."

  There was a good crowd on the boulevard, and the young cop turned to Nate and said, "Sir-I mean, Nate, there's a fifty-one-fifty raising heck over there in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater."

  Without looking, Nate said, "What's he doing?"

  "Waving his arms around and yelling at people."

  "In Hollywood, that's just called communication," Nate said. "Nowadays it's hard to tell ordinary boulevard lunatics from people with headsets talking on cells." But then he glanced toward the famous theater, saw who it was, and said, "Uh-oh. That guy's a known troublemaker. Maybe we should talk to him."

  Nate pulled the car into a red zone and said to his partner, "Marty, on this one, you be contact and I'll be cover. I'm gonna stay by the car here and see how you handle him. Think you can deal with it?"

  "For sure, Nate," Marty said with enthusiasm, getting out of the car, collecting his baton, and putting on latex gloves.

  The wild man waving his arms saw the young cop coming his way and stopped yelling. He planted his feet and waited.

  Young Marty Shaw remembered from academy training that it's usually better to address mental cases in personal terms, so he turned around for a moment and said to Nate, "Do you remember his name, by chance?"

  "Not his full name," said Hollywood Nate. "But they call him Al. Untouchable Al."

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joseph Wambaugh, a former LAPD detective sergeant, is the New York Times bestselling author of sixteen prior works of fiction and nonfiction, many of which have been adapted for the big and small screen, including The Onion Field and The Choirboys. He is a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America and lives in Southern California.