Hollywood Crows, page 5
“What’d you tell them?” the rocker asked anxiously.
“I told them that I know they’re just doing their jobs but that there could be serious repercussions for stalking famous people.”
“I understand they gotta make a living,” the rocker said.
“I reassured them that you understand. That celebrities like you need them and they need you. A reciprocal arrangement, so to speak.”
“Yeah, exactly,” the rocker said. “Just so they don’t start a fire. That’s all we’re worried about.”
“They promised me that there’d be no smoking up there in the future unless it was done in their van with cigarettes extinguished in the ashtray.”
“They had a van?” the rocker said with a little smile.
“Yes, sir,” Bix said. “They come prepared for someone like you.” Then he added, “And your lady, of course.”
The rocker’s smile widened and he said, “Yeah, because of the pap, she’s afraid to get in the Jacuzzi without wearing something.”
“The price of fame,” Bix said, nodding sympathetically.
“Well, thanks, Officers,” the rocker said. “Anything I can do for you, let me know. We played a gig one time for the Highway Patrol.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Bix said. “We’d be thrilled to hear you play.”
When they were driving back down toward Sunset Boulevard, Bix said to Ronnie, “We get a lot of those. I never tell them the truth. They’re miserable enough in their failed lives without finding out that there’s no paparazzi. That nobody gives a shit anymore.”
Hollywood Nate was supposed to be doing similar CRO work that day, but he took a drive up into the Hollywood Hills on his own, to a neighborhood farther east. On an impulse, he cruised up to Mt. Olympus, sipping a cup of Starbucks latte as he remembered the young woman with butterscotch hair. He hadn’t been able to forget her since the day he wrote down her license plate number at Farmers Market.
Nate parked a block from her home on her very winding street. It was obvious that on her side of the street, there was a good city view. He told himself that he wasn’t going to sit there long, only long enough to finish the latte.
Hollywood Nate couldn’t understand why he was there in the first place. That is, until he remembered the way she’d moved. Like an athlete, or a dancer, maybe. And the way her hair itself had danced when she’d turned abruptly. He couldn’t forget that either. In fact, he was ashamed of himself for doing this, but as long as nobody would ever know, what the hell. He just wanted to see her one more time, to see if she measured up to the image in his memory.
Then Nate thought, What am I, a high-school kid? And he tossed the empty cup on the floor of the car, started the engine, and was just about to head back down, when the garage door opened and the red Beemer backed out. The car turned and drove down the hill with Hollywood Nate Weiss following behind, but far enough to be out of mirror range.
Nate’s heart started pumping faster and he knew it wasn’t the caffeine. He’d never done anything like this before, had never had the memory of a beautiful woman affect him in this way. Hollywood Nate Weiss had never had to pursue any woman, not in his entire life. And it made him think, I’ve turned into a goddamn stalker! Now Nate was experiencing something altogether unique for him. Not just shame, but a trace of self-loathing had entered his consciousness.
He said aloud, “Fuck this!” and was about to abandon this silliness when they were a few blocks from Hollywood Boulevard. But then he saw her car rolling through a boulevard stop without so much as a tap on the brake pedal.
Suddenly, Nate Weiss was no longer in charge. Something took him over. It was like he was watching himself on a movie screen. Without completely willing it, Nate stepped on the accelerator and got close behind her, turning on the light bar and tooting his horn until she glanced at her rearview mirror, pulled over, and parked.
When he got to her driver’s-side window, she looked at him with amber eyes that matched her hair and said, “Ditzy Margot didn’t come to a complete stop back there, did she?”
Her cotton jersey that stretched tight over her cleavage was a raspberry shade. Her skirt was eggshell white and was halfway up her suntanned thighs. Those thighs! She was an athlete or a dancer, he just knew it.
Nate’s hand trembled when he took her driver’s license, and his voice was unsteady when he said, “Yes, ma’am, you ran the stop sign without even trying to stop. Your brake lights didn’t glow at all.”
“Damn!” she said. “I’ve got so much on my mind. I’m sorry.”
He read the driver’s license: Margot Aziz, date of birth 4-13-77. She was six years younger than Nate, yet he felt like a schoolboy again. Stalling for time in order to pull himself together, he said, “Could I see your registration, ma’am?”
She reached into the glove box for the leather packet containing the owner’s manuals, removed the registration and insurance card, handed them to Nate, and said, “Please don’t call me ma’am, Officer. I recently turned thirty, as you see, and I’m feeling ancient. Call me Margot.”
Her lipstick was a creamy raspberry to match her jersey, and her perfect teeth were probably whiter than nature intended. Nate blurted, “I won’t call you ma’am if you don’t call me Officer. My name is Nate Weiss.”
She had him and she knew it. The smile widened and she said, “Do you patrol this area all the time, Nate?”
“Actually, I’m what the other cops call a Crow. I work the Community Relations Office. I don’t do regular patrol.”
“You don’t look like a crow,” Margot Aziz said. “More like an eagle, I would say.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed, but his face felt hot. He said, “Yeah, I do have a bit of a beak, don’t I?”
“No, my husband has a beak,” she said. “Your nose is barely aquiline. It’s very strong and manly. Actually, quite…beautiful.”
He wasn’t even aware that he’d handed her back her license and registration. “Well,” he said, “drive carefully.”
Before he could turn to leave, she said, “Nate, what does a Crow do?”
He said, “We deal with quality-of-life issues so that the officers on patrol don’t have to. You know, stuff like chronic-noise complaints, graffiti, homeless encampments up near where you live. Stuff like that.”
“Homeless encampments!” she cried, like calling a winning Bingo. “This is an amazing coincidence because I was going to call Hollywood Station about that very thing. I can see them from my patio. They make noise up there and they light campfires. It’s terrible. How lucky to run into you like this. Sometime I’d like you to come by my house and let me point them out. Maybe you can do something about it.”
“Sure!” Nate said. “Absolutely. When, today?”
“Not today, Nate,” she said quickly. “Can I have your phone number?”
“Of course,” Nate said, reaching for his business cards. “I can come and talk to you-and to your husband-anytime up to eight P.M., when I usually go home.”
“My husband and I are separated, in the middle of a divorce,” Margot Aziz said. “You’ll just be talking to me when you come.”
Nate Weiss couldn’t give her the card fast enough. He had ordered a custom-made business card with the Hollywood sign across the front of it, alongside an LAPD badge. And under that was his name, serial number, and the city phone number he’d been assigned by the CRO sergeant.
He hesitated for only a few seconds, then wrote his private cell number on the back of the card and said to Margot Aziz, “It might be better for you to call me on my cell. Sometimes we don’t pick up the calls on our city line right away, but I always pick up my private cell.”
“Good,” she said. “Let’s keep it personal, Nate.” And she showed that gleaming smile again, then turned her head to look for eastbound traffic. Her amazing hair caught another sunbeam and danced for Nate Weiss. And she drove away.
A few minutes after he was back in his car, Nate thought, That Hills bunny just flirted her way out of a ticket that I was never going to write in the first place, and I feel like a chump. Separated from her husband? She’ll show that card to him tonight over dinner and they’ll both have a laugh. On Nate Weiss!
Then he thought about her surname, Aziz. Some kind of Middle East name. She was married to an Arab, maybe. It didn’t feel good for a Jewish cop to think of this fantastic woman married to a rich Arab. Nate Weiss wondered how that might have happened.
After leaving Hollywood Nate, Margot Aziz drove to a nightclub called the Leopard Lounge on Sunset Boulevard. It was a strip club but topless only, so liquor could be sold. Her estranged husband also owned a totally nude strip club, but in that one, no alcoholic beverages were allowed by the state. In that nightclub, Ali Aziz had to make money from hugely overpriced soft drinks, minimums, and cover charges. He spent most of his time in the Leopard Lounge but frequently drove to the other club to pick up the cash from his manager.
Margot had made a phone call to be sure that Ali would not be at the Leopard Lounge at this time of day, and she avoided the Mexican employees preparing for the early-evening business, heading for the dressing room. It was not a typical strip club with dim lights and dark colors. Not like Ali’s totally nude nightclub, which had faux-leather banquettes, faux-granite columns, and faux-walnut soffits. That one was claustrophobic, with nude prints in gilded frames that Ali thought would provoke fantasies and erections. Margot had been in that kind of strip club often enough.
She’d designed the Leopard Lounge interior herself, despite her husband’s complaints about how much money she was spending. This one featured woven-leather chairs surrounding the stage, with terra-cotta walls and a sandy tile pattern cutting through chocolate brown carpeting that Ali had insisted on because he’d gotten it cheap. This club had a more open feeling, more inviting to female patrons. At least that was Margot’s intent when she did the interior design.
She opened the dressing-room door without knocking, and a lovely Amerasian, twenty-five years old, wearing a terry robe and sitting at the makeup table applying eyeliner, looked up.
“What time’s he coming back, Jasmine?” Margot asked.
She walked up behind the young woman and swept Jasmine’s long black hair onto one of her surgically enhanced breasts, whose nipples and areolas were rouged. Then she massaged the dancer’s neck and shoulders, kissing the right shoulder lightly.
“About seven, seven-thirty,” Jasmine said, placing her delicate fingers over Margot’s. “Not so hard,” she said. “I strained my shoulder on that goddamn pole last night.” Then she asked, “Have any luck with your friend? Will he be visiting again soon?”
“Not as soon as I’d like,” Margot said, stopping the shoulder rub and sitting on a chair next to the makeup table. “He gets attacks of remorse. I think I can pull him out of it, but how soon, I can’t say.”
“Shit!” Jasmine said.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Margot said. “I had a lucky break today.”
“Yeah, what kinda break?” Jasmine said listlessly.
“A cop stopped me for a ticket,” Margot said. “Of course he didn’t write it. A handsome, horny cop with no wedding ring on his finger.”
“So what? It’s not too hard for someone like you to talk a cop out of a ticket. I’ve done it myself.”
“There was something about this one,” Margot said. “I think it could work with him.”
“A substitute?”
“If a second-stringer is needed,” Margot said. “But let’s not give up on our number-one draft pick. He’s perfect.”
“Did today’s cop try to make a date?”
“I have his cell number,” Margot said. “If we need it.”
“Tell me something about your husband that I gotta know,” Jasmine said.
“What’s that?”
“Does that fucking Arab asshole ever get enough blow jobs?”
FOUR
WATCH 5 HIT THE STREETS with a bang that evening. The bang came from a twelve-year cop with a sporty blonde haircut, rosy dumpling cheeks, and just a hint of makeup, whose Sam Browne belt was rumored to be a size 44. Gert Von Braun had recently transferred to Hollywood from Central Division, where she’d been in an officer-involved shooting that cops refer to as a “good” shooting. Gert had encountered an armed bandit running out of a skid row liquor store, loot and gun in hand, at the same moment that Gert, working alone in a report car, was pulling up in front. Steering with her left hand, Gert had fired one-handed through the open passenger window and hit the parolee-at-large with four out of five rounds, killing him instantly, thus making herself a celebrity gunslinger at Central Station.
But Gert was sick of all the skid row derelicts and the smells associated with them: urine and feces, vomit and blood. And, worst of all, the unbearably sweet, sickly smell of decaying flesh from corpses that had lain dead under bridges and in cardboard shelters. Some had been there for so long that even the flies covering them were dead. At least those corpses didn’t smell. And the living weren’t much better off, derelicts with their legs and feet covered with clumps of maggots that were eating them alive while the wretches ate whatever they could beg at the back doors of downtown eateries.
The watch commanders were always calling for acid washes at Central Station. They had an air-deodorizing machine going most of the time and burned incense sticks in the report room. Cops would come on duty, sniff the air, and say, “Is it a three- or four-stick day?”
Finally, Gert Von Braun had decided that Central Division smelled like one huge tennis shoe and she couldn’t get the odor out of her uniforms or her nostrils. Hollywood Station was closer to her home in the Valley and smelled much better, even though she knew it was a lot weirder than Central. She’d asked for a transfer and had gotten it.
Coppers at Hollywood Station noticed that Gert carried everything but a rocket launcher in her war bag, which was not actually a bag but a huge black suitcase on wheels. And the cops at Hollywood Station discovered quickly that Gert had “ETS,” which was what they called explosive temper syndrome, especially when she’d come puffing out of the station into the parking lot, red faced in the summer heat, dragging her load while her partner lagged behind with a beanbag shotgun as well as the Remington 870 one-shot-and-you-rot model.
It wasn’t a good time to start hacking on her, but nobody ever said the surfer cops were founts of wisdom. They always referred to big war bags on wheels as “wimpy bags for airline employees.” Jetsam nodded toward her nylon suitcase, winked at Flotsam, and said to Gert, “Excuse me, miss, but is our flight on time?”
Taking the cue, Flotsam said, “Can we have a beverage before takeoff? And extra peanuts?”
Gert Von Braun, who was only five foot six but outweighed Jetsam, if not the much larger Flotsam, said, “Shove your peanuts up your ass, you surfboard squids.”
“Oh, that’s scandalous,” Flotsam whispered to Jetsam.
“I’m so appalled,” Jetsam whispered back to Flotsam.
Still giving the surfer cops the stink eye, Gert hefted her equipment into the trunk of her shop, closed the lid, and began testing her Portable Officer Data Device System, which she’d checked out at the kit room.
The PODD, pronounced “pod” by the cops, was one of the instruments of torture encouraged by the monitors of the federal consent decree. It was a handheld instrument resembling a large BlackBerry. In it were the FDRs, or field data reports, which LAPD officers had to fill out for every contact with a suspect that was not the result of a radio call, that is, any stop of a suspect initiated by an officer. On it they had to list the gender, descent, and age of a suspect, and the reason for the stop, also indicating whether there was a pat-down or a more complete search of the suspect’s person or car.
The purpose of the FDR was to monitor whether or not cops were engaging in racial profiling, but like everything else connected with the federal consent decree, it discouraged proactive police work. With the mountains of paperwork they already had to endure in order to please their monitoring masters, this one was cumbersome and insulting, and it encouraged otherwise honest cops to dishonestly “balance out” their legitimate suspect stops of blacks and Latinos by creating nonexistent Asians or white Anglos. And it just generally pissed off everybody connected with it and resulted in yet more cops being taken off the streets to deal with the PODD information.
And at that moment nobody was more pissed off than Officer Gert Von Braun, who checked her PODD and placed it on the deck lid of her shop, trying to ignore the surfer team who were watching her and chortling. Because she was mad at the surfers, and at the PODD, and at herself for transferring to Hollywood Station, her mind had been elsewhere when she loaded the magazine tube of her shotgun. The loading protocol was designed to make the gun “patrol ready,” that is, four in the magazine and none in the chamber, with the safety on until the gun is ready to be taken from the car and used. Then a final round was to be taken from the butt cuff to top off the magazine.
Probably because she was so hot and distracted by the smirking surfers, and had such a famously short fuse in the first place, she forgot that she’d just loaded the magazine. And she decided to test the action as she usually did before loading any rounds into the gun. Of course, that racked a live round into the chamber, with the safety off.
Gert realized at once what she’d done, and cursing the surfers under her breath for dissing her, she was about to unchamber the round after placing her cell phone beside the PODD on the deck lid of the car.
“Dude, I think we better get our wheels up,” Flotsam said to his partner. “Gert has locked in on us with lips drawn, fangs bared, and a shotgun in her paws.”
“Bro, that swamp donkey can shoot with either hand,” Jetsam agreed, eyeing Gert’s Distinguished Expert shooting medal on her left pocket flap over her extra-large bosom. “And her heart pumps Freon to her veins.”
Still glaring at the surfer cops, and trying to think up some crack she could make about their dumb-looking, bleached-out spiky hair, Gert saw that the PODD had bumped the cell phone and it was sliding clear off the deck lid of the car.
“I told them that I know they’re just doing their jobs but that there could be serious repercussions for stalking famous people.”
“I understand they gotta make a living,” the rocker said.
“I reassured them that you understand. That celebrities like you need them and they need you. A reciprocal arrangement, so to speak.”
“Yeah, exactly,” the rocker said. “Just so they don’t start a fire. That’s all we’re worried about.”
“They promised me that there’d be no smoking up there in the future unless it was done in their van with cigarettes extinguished in the ashtray.”
“They had a van?” the rocker said with a little smile.
“Yes, sir,” Bix said. “They come prepared for someone like you.” Then he added, “And your lady, of course.”
The rocker’s smile widened and he said, “Yeah, because of the pap, she’s afraid to get in the Jacuzzi without wearing something.”
“The price of fame,” Bix said, nodding sympathetically.
“Well, thanks, Officers,” the rocker said. “Anything I can do for you, let me know. We played a gig one time for the Highway Patrol.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Bix said. “We’d be thrilled to hear you play.”
When they were driving back down toward Sunset Boulevard, Bix said to Ronnie, “We get a lot of those. I never tell them the truth. They’re miserable enough in their failed lives without finding out that there’s no paparazzi. That nobody gives a shit anymore.”
Hollywood Nate was supposed to be doing similar CRO work that day, but he took a drive up into the Hollywood Hills on his own, to a neighborhood farther east. On an impulse, he cruised up to Mt. Olympus, sipping a cup of Starbucks latte as he remembered the young woman with butterscotch hair. He hadn’t been able to forget her since the day he wrote down her license plate number at Farmers Market.
Nate parked a block from her home on her very winding street. It was obvious that on her side of the street, there was a good city view. He told himself that he wasn’t going to sit there long, only long enough to finish the latte.
Hollywood Nate couldn’t understand why he was there in the first place. That is, until he remembered the way she’d moved. Like an athlete, or a dancer, maybe. And the way her hair itself had danced when she’d turned abruptly. He couldn’t forget that either. In fact, he was ashamed of himself for doing this, but as long as nobody would ever know, what the hell. He just wanted to see her one more time, to see if she measured up to the image in his memory.
Then Nate thought, What am I, a high-school kid? And he tossed the empty cup on the floor of the car, started the engine, and was just about to head back down, when the garage door opened and the red Beemer backed out. The car turned and drove down the hill with Hollywood Nate Weiss following behind, but far enough to be out of mirror range.
Nate’s heart started pumping faster and he knew it wasn’t the caffeine. He’d never done anything like this before, had never had the memory of a beautiful woman affect him in this way. Hollywood Nate Weiss had never had to pursue any woman, not in his entire life. And it made him think, I’ve turned into a goddamn stalker! Now Nate was experiencing something altogether unique for him. Not just shame, but a trace of self-loathing had entered his consciousness.
He said aloud, “Fuck this!” and was about to abandon this silliness when they were a few blocks from Hollywood Boulevard. But then he saw her car rolling through a boulevard stop without so much as a tap on the brake pedal.
Suddenly, Nate Weiss was no longer in charge. Something took him over. It was like he was watching himself on a movie screen. Without completely willing it, Nate stepped on the accelerator and got close behind her, turning on the light bar and tooting his horn until she glanced at her rearview mirror, pulled over, and parked.
When he got to her driver’s-side window, she looked at him with amber eyes that matched her hair and said, “Ditzy Margot didn’t come to a complete stop back there, did she?”
Her cotton jersey that stretched tight over her cleavage was a raspberry shade. Her skirt was eggshell white and was halfway up her suntanned thighs. Those thighs! She was an athlete or a dancer, he just knew it.
Nate’s hand trembled when he took her driver’s license, and his voice was unsteady when he said, “Yes, ma’am, you ran the stop sign without even trying to stop. Your brake lights didn’t glow at all.”
“Damn!” she said. “I’ve got so much on my mind. I’m sorry.”
He read the driver’s license: Margot Aziz, date of birth 4-13-77. She was six years younger than Nate, yet he felt like a schoolboy again. Stalling for time in order to pull himself together, he said, “Could I see your registration, ma’am?”
She reached into the glove box for the leather packet containing the owner’s manuals, removed the registration and insurance card, handed them to Nate, and said, “Please don’t call me ma’am, Officer. I recently turned thirty, as you see, and I’m feeling ancient. Call me Margot.”
Her lipstick was a creamy raspberry to match her jersey, and her perfect teeth were probably whiter than nature intended. Nate blurted, “I won’t call you ma’am if you don’t call me Officer. My name is Nate Weiss.”
She had him and she knew it. The smile widened and she said, “Do you patrol this area all the time, Nate?”
“Actually, I’m what the other cops call a Crow. I work the Community Relations Office. I don’t do regular patrol.”
“You don’t look like a crow,” Margot Aziz said. “More like an eagle, I would say.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed, but his face felt hot. He said, “Yeah, I do have a bit of a beak, don’t I?”
“No, my husband has a beak,” she said. “Your nose is barely aquiline. It’s very strong and manly. Actually, quite…beautiful.”
He wasn’t even aware that he’d handed her back her license and registration. “Well,” he said, “drive carefully.”
Before he could turn to leave, she said, “Nate, what does a Crow do?”
He said, “We deal with quality-of-life issues so that the officers on patrol don’t have to. You know, stuff like chronic-noise complaints, graffiti, homeless encampments up near where you live. Stuff like that.”
“Homeless encampments!” she cried, like calling a winning Bingo. “This is an amazing coincidence because I was going to call Hollywood Station about that very thing. I can see them from my patio. They make noise up there and they light campfires. It’s terrible. How lucky to run into you like this. Sometime I’d like you to come by my house and let me point them out. Maybe you can do something about it.”
“Sure!” Nate said. “Absolutely. When, today?”
“Not today, Nate,” she said quickly. “Can I have your phone number?”
“Of course,” Nate said, reaching for his business cards. “I can come and talk to you-and to your husband-anytime up to eight P.M., when I usually go home.”
“My husband and I are separated, in the middle of a divorce,” Margot Aziz said. “You’ll just be talking to me when you come.”
Nate Weiss couldn’t give her the card fast enough. He had ordered a custom-made business card with the Hollywood sign across the front of it, alongside an LAPD badge. And under that was his name, serial number, and the city phone number he’d been assigned by the CRO sergeant.
He hesitated for only a few seconds, then wrote his private cell number on the back of the card and said to Margot Aziz, “It might be better for you to call me on my cell. Sometimes we don’t pick up the calls on our city line right away, but I always pick up my private cell.”
“Good,” she said. “Let’s keep it personal, Nate.” And she showed that gleaming smile again, then turned her head to look for eastbound traffic. Her amazing hair caught another sunbeam and danced for Nate Weiss. And she drove away.
A few minutes after he was back in his car, Nate thought, That Hills bunny just flirted her way out of a ticket that I was never going to write in the first place, and I feel like a chump. Separated from her husband? She’ll show that card to him tonight over dinner and they’ll both have a laugh. On Nate Weiss!
Then he thought about her surname, Aziz. Some kind of Middle East name. She was married to an Arab, maybe. It didn’t feel good for a Jewish cop to think of this fantastic woman married to a rich Arab. Nate Weiss wondered how that might have happened.
After leaving Hollywood Nate, Margot Aziz drove to a nightclub called the Leopard Lounge on Sunset Boulevard. It was a strip club but topless only, so liquor could be sold. Her estranged husband also owned a totally nude strip club, but in that one, no alcoholic beverages were allowed by the state. In that nightclub, Ali Aziz had to make money from hugely overpriced soft drinks, minimums, and cover charges. He spent most of his time in the Leopard Lounge but frequently drove to the other club to pick up the cash from his manager.
Margot had made a phone call to be sure that Ali would not be at the Leopard Lounge at this time of day, and she avoided the Mexican employees preparing for the early-evening business, heading for the dressing room. It was not a typical strip club with dim lights and dark colors. Not like Ali’s totally nude nightclub, which had faux-leather banquettes, faux-granite columns, and faux-walnut soffits. That one was claustrophobic, with nude prints in gilded frames that Ali thought would provoke fantasies and erections. Margot had been in that kind of strip club often enough.
She’d designed the Leopard Lounge interior herself, despite her husband’s complaints about how much money she was spending. This one featured woven-leather chairs surrounding the stage, with terra-cotta walls and a sandy tile pattern cutting through chocolate brown carpeting that Ali had insisted on because he’d gotten it cheap. This club had a more open feeling, more inviting to female patrons. At least that was Margot’s intent when she did the interior design.
She opened the dressing-room door without knocking, and a lovely Amerasian, twenty-five years old, wearing a terry robe and sitting at the makeup table applying eyeliner, looked up.
“What time’s he coming back, Jasmine?” Margot asked.
She walked up behind the young woman and swept Jasmine’s long black hair onto one of her surgically enhanced breasts, whose nipples and areolas were rouged. Then she massaged the dancer’s neck and shoulders, kissing the right shoulder lightly.
“About seven, seven-thirty,” Jasmine said, placing her delicate fingers over Margot’s. “Not so hard,” she said. “I strained my shoulder on that goddamn pole last night.” Then she asked, “Have any luck with your friend? Will he be visiting again soon?”
“Not as soon as I’d like,” Margot said, stopping the shoulder rub and sitting on a chair next to the makeup table. “He gets attacks of remorse. I think I can pull him out of it, but how soon, I can’t say.”
“Shit!” Jasmine said.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Margot said. “I had a lucky break today.”
“Yeah, what kinda break?” Jasmine said listlessly.
“A cop stopped me for a ticket,” Margot said. “Of course he didn’t write it. A handsome, horny cop with no wedding ring on his finger.”
“So what? It’s not too hard for someone like you to talk a cop out of a ticket. I’ve done it myself.”
“There was something about this one,” Margot said. “I think it could work with him.”
“A substitute?”
“If a second-stringer is needed,” Margot said. “But let’s not give up on our number-one draft pick. He’s perfect.”
“Did today’s cop try to make a date?”
“I have his cell number,” Margot said. “If we need it.”
“Tell me something about your husband that I gotta know,” Jasmine said.
“What’s that?”
“Does that fucking Arab asshole ever get enough blow jobs?”
FOUR
WATCH 5 HIT THE STREETS with a bang that evening. The bang came from a twelve-year cop with a sporty blonde haircut, rosy dumpling cheeks, and just a hint of makeup, whose Sam Browne belt was rumored to be a size 44. Gert Von Braun had recently transferred to Hollywood from Central Division, where she’d been in an officer-involved shooting that cops refer to as a “good” shooting. Gert had encountered an armed bandit running out of a skid row liquor store, loot and gun in hand, at the same moment that Gert, working alone in a report car, was pulling up in front. Steering with her left hand, Gert had fired one-handed through the open passenger window and hit the parolee-at-large with four out of five rounds, killing him instantly, thus making herself a celebrity gunslinger at Central Station.
But Gert was sick of all the skid row derelicts and the smells associated with them: urine and feces, vomit and blood. And, worst of all, the unbearably sweet, sickly smell of decaying flesh from corpses that had lain dead under bridges and in cardboard shelters. Some had been there for so long that even the flies covering them were dead. At least those corpses didn’t smell. And the living weren’t much better off, derelicts with their legs and feet covered with clumps of maggots that were eating them alive while the wretches ate whatever they could beg at the back doors of downtown eateries.
The watch commanders were always calling for acid washes at Central Station. They had an air-deodorizing machine going most of the time and burned incense sticks in the report room. Cops would come on duty, sniff the air, and say, “Is it a three- or four-stick day?”
Finally, Gert Von Braun had decided that Central Division smelled like one huge tennis shoe and she couldn’t get the odor out of her uniforms or her nostrils. Hollywood Station was closer to her home in the Valley and smelled much better, even though she knew it was a lot weirder than Central. She’d asked for a transfer and had gotten it.
Coppers at Hollywood Station noticed that Gert carried everything but a rocket launcher in her war bag, which was not actually a bag but a huge black suitcase on wheels. And the cops at Hollywood Station discovered quickly that Gert had “ETS,” which was what they called explosive temper syndrome, especially when she’d come puffing out of the station into the parking lot, red faced in the summer heat, dragging her load while her partner lagged behind with a beanbag shotgun as well as the Remington 870 one-shot-and-you-rot model.
It wasn’t a good time to start hacking on her, but nobody ever said the surfer cops were founts of wisdom. They always referred to big war bags on wheels as “wimpy bags for airline employees.” Jetsam nodded toward her nylon suitcase, winked at Flotsam, and said to Gert, “Excuse me, miss, but is our flight on time?”
Taking the cue, Flotsam said, “Can we have a beverage before takeoff? And extra peanuts?”
Gert Von Braun, who was only five foot six but outweighed Jetsam, if not the much larger Flotsam, said, “Shove your peanuts up your ass, you surfboard squids.”
“Oh, that’s scandalous,” Flotsam whispered to Jetsam.
“I’m so appalled,” Jetsam whispered back to Flotsam.
Still giving the surfer cops the stink eye, Gert hefted her equipment into the trunk of her shop, closed the lid, and began testing her Portable Officer Data Device System, which she’d checked out at the kit room.
The PODD, pronounced “pod” by the cops, was one of the instruments of torture encouraged by the monitors of the federal consent decree. It was a handheld instrument resembling a large BlackBerry. In it were the FDRs, or field data reports, which LAPD officers had to fill out for every contact with a suspect that was not the result of a radio call, that is, any stop of a suspect initiated by an officer. On it they had to list the gender, descent, and age of a suspect, and the reason for the stop, also indicating whether there was a pat-down or a more complete search of the suspect’s person or car.
The purpose of the FDR was to monitor whether or not cops were engaging in racial profiling, but like everything else connected with the federal consent decree, it discouraged proactive police work. With the mountains of paperwork they already had to endure in order to please their monitoring masters, this one was cumbersome and insulting, and it encouraged otherwise honest cops to dishonestly “balance out” their legitimate suspect stops of blacks and Latinos by creating nonexistent Asians or white Anglos. And it just generally pissed off everybody connected with it and resulted in yet more cops being taken off the streets to deal with the PODD information.
And at that moment nobody was more pissed off than Officer Gert Von Braun, who checked her PODD and placed it on the deck lid of her shop, trying to ignore the surfer team who were watching her and chortling. Because she was mad at the surfers, and at the PODD, and at herself for transferring to Hollywood Station, her mind had been elsewhere when she loaded the magazine tube of her shotgun. The loading protocol was designed to make the gun “patrol ready,” that is, four in the magazine and none in the chamber, with the safety on until the gun is ready to be taken from the car and used. Then a final round was to be taken from the butt cuff to top off the magazine.
Probably because she was so hot and distracted by the smirking surfers, and had such a famously short fuse in the first place, she forgot that she’d just loaded the magazine. And she decided to test the action as she usually did before loading any rounds into the gun. Of course, that racked a live round into the chamber, with the safety off.
Gert realized at once what she’d done, and cursing the surfers under her breath for dissing her, she was about to unchamber the round after placing her cell phone beside the PODD on the deck lid of the car.
“Dude, I think we better get our wheels up,” Flotsam said to his partner. “Gert has locked in on us with lips drawn, fangs bared, and a shotgun in her paws.”
“Bro, that swamp donkey can shoot with either hand,” Jetsam agreed, eyeing Gert’s Distinguished Expert shooting medal on her left pocket flap over her extra-large bosom. “And her heart pumps Freon to her veins.”
Still glaring at the surfer cops, and trying to think up some crack she could make about their dumb-looking, bleached-out spiky hair, Gert saw that the PODD had bumped the cell phone and it was sliding clear off the deck lid of the car.
