Hollywood Tough ss-3

by Stephen Cannell

  "Well, something sorta happened at the end, while I was getting out of there."

  "What?" She had turned to face him now, staring at him in the driver's seat of the Acura, face lit only by passing freeway signs.

  "I want to know. Please, Shane, Nora is very important to me."

  "Well, on my way out, I was going through the pool house and some guests were in there smoking Cohibas."

  "Oh, my God. You didn't bust them for having contraband cigars?"

  "Do I look like a drooling idiot?"

  "Okay, go on."

  "They didn't know I was there, then some guy asked Farrell if he was getting Nora to sign a prenup. And Farrell said he didn't have to… that he'd had two wives already, and when he got tired of them, they both conveniently died of food poisoning."

  She sat there and looked at him. He didn't have the nerve to return her gaze, so he kept his eyes front and center, carefully navigating the transition onto the 110.

  "That's it?" Alexa asked.

  "Yep. That's it. Except when he saw me standing in the back of the room, he got all froggy. Told me it was just a joke, not to get my handcuffs out."

  "That's what it was, a joke. He hasn't had any ex-wives. He's never been married before."

  "You sure?"

  "That's what Nora said."

  "Well, then we've got nothing to worry about." "Honey, it was just a joke."

  "A bad joke. It didn't go over too well, even with his Cohiba-smoking buddies."

  "Shane, don't mess around and start looking into this…"

  "Think I got too much spare time on my hands?" She didn't answer, but she was scowling.

  "No. Come on… It just hit me kinda funny is all. But I'm going back on duty in two days and I've put in for Special Crimes, so if I get it, I'm gonna be real busy. No time to go digging up bodies in Farrell's backyard."

  "It was just a joke. Say it. Say: Alexa, it was just a joke."

  "I thought it was a murder confession, but I get easily confused… so you're probably right."

  "Say it."

  " `Alexa, it was just a joke.' "

  "And you'll forget it?" she asked. "Promise."

  "Already forgotten," he answered.

  When they got home, Chooch was in his room. He heard the garage door close and came out carrying a sheaf of papers with a pencil between his teeth.

  "Geez, I'm glad you guys are back. I gotta get this essay out by Friday. It's a first draft for my college application essay, and I need a copy editor."

  Looking at Chooch standing in the living room of their little Venice canal house, Shane couldn't help but feel a flash of extreme parental pride. The boy had been a surprise, coming along late in his life. The fifteen-year-old arrived as a houseguest two years ago, sent by an old lover and police informant named Sandy Sandoval. Sandy had told Shane that her Hispanic son was getting into trouble, and had been hanging with some EME gangbangers in the Valley. She said the teenager needed a male role model and she had picked Shane for the job. But Sandy was killed during the Molar case-died in Shane's arms and her last sentence revealed to Shane that Chooch was his son. A love child he'd never known he'd had. The Molar case turned into a huge police corruption scandal involving Shane's old partner. Alexa had been part of the case, which ended in a gunfight up in Lake Arrowhead.

  After Shane and Alexa had healed from the wounds inflicted during that shootout, they took Chooch in. A blood test confirmed that Sandy was telling the truth. Shane was Chooch's father. A relationship that had started out as troubled had blossomed into one that Shane treasured as much as the one he now shared with Alexa. He looked at his son, who was six foot three, with Sandy's Hispanic good looks and Shane's deep sense of honor and thought: a handsome, athletic specimen with the heart and head of a champion.

  Chooch was a junior at Harvard Westlake prep school in the Valley and he'd already been contacted by Joe Paterno, with the offer of a football scholarship to Penn State. They wanted to switch him from quarterback to strong safety, but Chooch wanted to keep his old position, so he was still talking to coaches at three other universities.

  "Listen, Alexa, could you take a look at this college essay and tell me what you think?" Chooch asked. Harvard Westlake had students do a first draft in their junior year. These all-important essays had to be completed and sent by Christmas of their senior year.

  "I'll do it," Shane volunteered. But when Chooch looked over at him, he seemed puzzled, and hesitant.

  "Alexa's a better speller," he hedged.

  "Don't you want me to read it?" Shane asked, feeling hurt.

  "Maybe later," he said, and handed the paper to Alexa.

  Shane was not going to beg. He got a beer, then went out back to sit on one of the metal lawn chairs and look at the windblown waters of the Venice canal. The moon was hanging low on the horizon. The water rippled in its silver glow. He never tired of the view.

  Venice, California, had been plopped down one block from the ocean in 1928, designed by an architectural dreamer named Abbott Kinney, and fashioned after a scaled-down version of Venice, Italy. The canal blocks had fallen into a state of disrepair in the seventies, but there was an old-world charm to them, as if a dreamer's vision might still be able to catch hold in this high-tech microchip world and cling to life, refusing to be banished, no matter how out of place and ill conceived. The four canal blocks of Venice, where Shane lived, were the remnants of that kind of stubborn dream. Corny plastic gondolas growing moss at the waterlines floated at docks; Old World bridges arched over narrow seawater channels only three feet deep.

  The Venice canals squatted in defiance, just a stone's throw away from strip malls and steel-and-glass medical buildings. It took a stubborn heart to be so different and unrepentant.

  Shane was sitting there, pondering Venice and his day the death of Kevin Cordell and the rediscovery of Nicky Marcella. He was also trying with all his heart to live up to his promise to Alexi and not think about Farrell's bad joke.

  Then she came out and sat on the chair next to him. She seemed pensive.

  "What's wrong? You okay?"

  "Yeah.. It's just Chooch's essay," she said.

  "Really? What's it about?"

  "You'll have to get him to tell you."

  Now Shane was a little angry. Why were they hiding it from him? But he was determined not to pester her or Chooch about it. If they didn't want to share it with him, so be it. He was still staring out at the rippling water when she spoke.

  "Listen, baby, I was a little taken aback when you said you were putting in for Special Crimes."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. That unit reports to me, and it gets some pretty hairy assignments. I was sort of hoping to make a case for your going to Internal Affairs. You know, the sixth floor at Parker Center has a thing for ex-IAD advocates. It's the fast track to the top of the department. I could get you a shot down there."

  Shane kept his eyes fixed on the canal, watching a mallard duck glide across the surface, thinking, right now, that he was just like that duck: his emotions paddling like crazy beneath the water, but on the surface, calm, showing nothing. He didn't want Internal Affairs, even though he knew Alexa was right about it being the quick way into administration, but he didn't want that either. He wasn't cut out to be a manager. He was a street cop, a field man.

  "I… I think my cowboy days aren't quite behind me yet," he finally said.

  "I know…" She leaned over, took his hand and squeezed it. "That's what I'm so worried about. It's your decision, of course, but maybe the time has come to stop playing cops and robbers."

  He looked over at her and' smiled. "Is that what I'm doing? Playing cops and robbers? I thought I was policing the city, defending the innocent, prdtecting and serving."

  "Okay. You want the real reason?"

  "Might help."

  "I'm worried about your safety. When you get into the field, you take too many chances. You expose yourself. You're not too risk-adverse. You've already
got more holes in you than a shooting range cutout. I couldn't stand to lose you."

  He didn't answer her, but her concern touched him. He took her hand and led her into their bedroom. They could hear Chooch's radio playing rap. Shane took Alexa into his arms and they embraced at the foot of the bed. As he kissed his beautiful wife, Shane felt a longing surge over him. They pulled their clothes off and found each other under the cool sheets. The air conditioner in the window clattered, spilling cold air across them. Some ducks started quacking in the canal outside as Shane and his wife wrapped themselves around each other.

  "Forget what I just said," she whispered. "I was being selfish. You go to Special Crimes if that's what you want."

  "Honey, I won't let anything happen to this family. I promise."

  They made love. He entered her and slowly they both came to climax, clutching each other, moaning in ecstasy until finally, in love and passion, they achieved total unity. In the midst of sexual climax, they completely lost their sense of self and merged into one.

  When it was over and they were lying in each other's arms, Shane could feel her steady breathing, feel the warmth, the softened curves of her.

  She suddenly separated and faced him. "You promise?" she said.

  He didn't know for a minute what she was talking about. Then he realized they were back on Farrell. "Oh, that? Yeah, sure," he said, and kissed her. They lay facing each other, smiling in each other's arms.

  But dammit, he thought, she hadn't seen the look in Farrell Champion's eyes.

  Chapter 4

  PLAY ALL

  Sometimes Shane didn't realize how much he missed police work until he got back inside a station house. There was something mesmerizing about it-a heartbeat… a sense of teamwork… a frenzy of activity. Even the smell. Loser sweat and Lysol. Around it all, wrapping it like sandwich paper, was the knowledge that it was also inevitable. Police work, like humanity, kept marching on, day in and day out. Good guys, bad guys; crime, punishment; life, death-all of it playing against the clock and refereed by stern-faced jurists in black robes. At the beginning of each watch, the shift commander yelled "Play ball."

  Cops and criminals were locked in a deadly game together. There was a strange sort of camaraderie that came from the fact that they all knew the rules and sometimes paid the ultimate price. It was a big rough game of shirts and skins. They would hit low, bust teeth, even kill each other, but after the game, sitting in the station house, booking the losers and bandaging up their wounds, there was still that strong sense of being in it together. It was roller-ball with guns. The winners on both sides became legends. The losers populated boot hill or the penal system. Everybody talked the talk.

  As Shane walked through the double doors of the Hollywood Division station house, he was suddenly reintroduced to all of this. He could feel the beat almost as if it were coming from the linoleum, shooting through the soles of his shoes, heating the nerve endings in his feet, surging up through him, lighting his eyes and putting a new spring in his step. He was back on the field running toward the bench, the cheers raining down from the stands.

  He continued into the Homicide Division and heard half a dozen shouted "Hi ya, Shane" greetings. He headed down the familiar line of desks, slapping backs and trading insults with his old homicide team.

  "Did you get hemorrhoids, Scully, or is that just Chief Filosiani's head sticking outta your ass?" Sergeant "Swede" Peterson joked. It was no secret that the new chief, Tony Filosiani, known on the job as the Day-Glo Dago, had taken a real liking to Shane since the Viking case.

  Captain Haley came out of his office and the two of them smiled at each other.

  "Shane, don't talk to these morons. I don't want your newly enhanced status in police work to be tarnished by proximity to lazy dirtbags."

  Catcalls and hoots… Grinning, Shane followed Haley into his office and sat opposite his desk while the captain worked the dial on his safe, opened it, then plucked out Scully's badge case.

  "I understand you're going back on the job on Monday, so I might as well give you this stuff now." He put Shane's badge and I. D. on the desk, then unlocked his drawer, took out Shane's service revolver, and laid it next to his shield.

  "I'm glad you healed up good, repassed the physical, and the head check," Haley said. "Congratulations on the Medal of Valor."

  "Yeah, that's why I'm here. Gotta win medals."

  "I know it's bullshit, but it's good bullshit. Enjoy it." "Some good people died during the Viking case," Shane said sadly. "Tremaine Lane had his skin peeled off, tied to a fence in Colombia. Where's his medal?"

  "He was a sheriff's deputy, ask them."

  They sat there looking at each other, then Haley grunted.

  "

  "You're right," he finally acknowledged. "Good point.

  Another pause, then Haley stood. "I already sent your jacket to the Personnel Division, including my last fitness report, which was a rave by the way."

  "Thanks, Skipper," Shane said.

  "Good to have you back on the team. Anything else I can do for you?"

  Then Shane remembered Nicky Marcella's request. "Yeah, Cap… one thing. It's a favor for an old C. I. of mine. Guy used to give me some good felony bait."

  "Yeah?" There was a warning in the way Haley said that one word. Cops didn't like doing favors for civilians, even confidential informants.

  He told the captain what Nicky wanted-how he had a star-maker part for Carol White, but couldn't find her.

  "Movies?" Haley said. "We gonna give this girl her big break?"

  "Something like that. Only you're not supposed to say `movies,' you're supposed to say 'film.' "

  "How 'bout we say 'bullshit'?"

  "Really." Shane grinned as Haley sat back down, turned to his computer, and started pushing keys.

  Haley finished inputting her name, keyed it to the Traffic Division, and waited while the computer searched.

  "Nothing in DMV registrations or traffic," he said. "Maybe she doesn't have a car."

  "Well, while we're at it, try the main arrest computer downtown. If she's a friend of my old C. I., she might have something pending in the courts."

  Haley raised an eyebrow but turned back to the computer.

  Shane was looking at Bud Haley's back. The captain was a fit, gray-haired man, probably in his late fifties, but he looked much younger. He had smile lines around his eyes and mouth, reminding Shane more of a friendly scoutmaster than a cop. All of a sudden, the screen lit up. There were at least twenty entries on the arrest log.

  "Hello, hello," Haley said. "Carol White's been busy."

  Shane came around the desk and looked over his shoulder.

  "Pavement princess," Haley said. "She's been down six times for prostitution in the last six months… two stretches in Sybil Brand-short jolts-first a month, then eighteen weeks. Let's see… We also have a pandering on film beef from two years back, so she was doing some porno loops for somebody. This your actress?"

  "I don't know, maybe it's another girl."

  "Carolyn White. She hooks under the name Crystal Glass." He leaned back reflectively. "Pretty good street name, but my favorite's still a girl we kept busting in North Hollywood, named Lotta Pussy." Haley hit a button and Carol's yellow sheet started printing out on the laser jet across the office. Then the captain went to the last arrest report and pulled it up on his screen. "Last place of business is a motel down in Rampart called the Ho-Tell Motel. Her pimp's named Paul 'Black' Mills. His arrest record is probably a list of female assault charges that got dropped before court." As he spoke, he was punching up Paul Mills on the computer, and soon, two pages of withdrawn complaints popped up on the screen. "And the beat goes on," Haley sighed. "Carol White tested positive for drugs, six out of six arrests, so this girl's probably not gonna be at next year's Academy Awards. She's headed for a viewing room at Forest Lawn instead."

  Shane walked across the office, picked up the yellow sheet, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
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  "Anything else?" Haley asked.

  "Yeah, can you punch up Farrell Champion?" Shane asked. His heart was beating hard in his chest. It surprised him that he would fire all of his own adrenal jets at the idea of a computer run on Farrell Champion. He immediately knew that it was because he was breaking his promise to Alexa, but his gut told him there was something wrong there.

  "The movie guy?" Haley was saying. "The big-time Oscar-winning producer?"

  "He hasn't won an Oscar, just been nominated." "Right… and he's the one who wants to hire this strawberry, this Carol White person, and make her a star?" "No, it's an unrelated matter."

  "Jesus, Shane…" But for some reason Haley spun his chair around and started punching in Farrell Champion's name, probably because he was just as interested as Shane in knowing what kind of trouble the famous celebrity producer might have gotten himself into.

  The screen came back empty.

  "Clean as Crisco," Haley said, and swiveled around to look up at Shane. "Anybody else? How 'bout Tiger Woods or Minnie Mouse?"

  Shane had been thinking about asking for a run on Nicky Marcella, but decided he'd worn out his welcome. He'd do it himself Monday after he went back on duty. He smiled, then picked up his gun and badge.

  "Thanks for the good fitness rep, Skipper."

  "You earned it," Haley said.

  Shane was quickly out the door of the captain's office. He stopped at an empty homicide desk, picked up a phone, and dialed an LAPD extension. A woman's voice answered the phone. "Records and Identification Division."

  "Is Lee Fineburg around?" Shane asked.

  "Fineburg. That's Records Services Section, Special Duties. One moment please. I'll switch you."

  In a few seconds he heard Lee Fineburg's voice. "Lee? It's Shane Scully."*

  "Shane, you is da man." Fineburg's voice grinned over the line. Shane pictured the skinny geek who was also the LAPD racquetball champion. "I need a quick favor, and it has to stay covered."