Hollywood Crows

TWELVE

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY AFTERNOON, an extraordinary photo was taken by Officer Tony Silva in Laurel Canyon. A drunken porn producer in a Ferrari, coming from an all-day shoot at his studio on Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley, swerved head-on into a pair of eucalyptus trees, doing damage to the front end of his car but not activating the air bag.

The Crow had just dealt with another in the endless complaints about peeping paparazzi from one of the second-rate actors who lived in a rented house in the hills, when he came upon the accident, which a nearby resident had called in. However, Tony Silva was the second cop to arrive, the first being Officer F.X. Mulroney.

The LAPD motorcycle was parked twenty feet behind the Ferrari, whose engine was still running, and the driver, who would later blow an astonishing.37 on the Breathalyzer, was casting panicky looks over his left shoulder. The porn producer was concentrating on what he thought was the road in front of him but was really open space between the two trees, where his car was wedged and immobile.

With his decades of experience in such matters, F.X. Mulroney immediately understood that as far as this motorist was concerned, he was still negotiating the curves on the canyon road, no doubt with double vision. And by the time Tony Silva got out of the CRO’s Ford Explorer, F.X. Mulroney had already been at it for a while and was short of breath from his “pursuit” of the Ferrari.

Tony Silva later said that with a video camera he could have had himself a huge hit on the Internet, but all he had was his cell-phone camera. The grainy still photos he shot were of F.X. Mulroney, in full motor cop regalia, running in place beside the Ferrari, his black boots pumping up and down while he shouted, “Pull over! Pull that fucking car over!” to the porn producer, who was gunning the engine and looking back, desperate to speed away from the relentless motor cop who, as in a dream-or in his case, a nightmare-seemed to be pursuing him on foot!

“I don’t wanna have to shoot ya!” F.X. Mulroney yelled. “Pull to the curb and turn off your engine!” Then, as always, F.X. Mulroney went totally over the top and yelled, “Watch out for the woman and baby! Pull right! Pull right!”

For a moment the high-performance engine revved to full rpm, the wheels turning sharply, and this allowed the car to climb a foot or so up the trunk of the larger of the eucalyptus trees, tires smoking, engine roaring. But then it settled back down, coughing, sputtering, and dying when the engine finally blew.

F.X. Mulroney noticed Officer Tony Silva for the first time then, but he couldn’t speak. He had to bend forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath after such a long “chase.” Then F.X. stood tall, removed his mirrored aviator sunglasses, and said to the camera, “Am I glad this asshole finally pulled over. I was just about outta gas.”

The porn producer looked up at the old motor cop standing beside his car. And with eyes at half-mast, he opened the door and said, “My compliments, Officer. I thought I lost you a couple times, but you caught me fair and square.”

Ronnie felt that Bix Ramstead had seemed different for most of the day. He was uneasy, agitated, nervous. They’d spent several hours knocking on doors, dealing with the myriad calls from the constant complainers who were so well known at the Community Relations Office. It was tedious work, and on past occasions Bix had seemed temperamentally perfect for the assignment. But not today. He wasn’t as patient as usual. His practiced responses didn’t seem as sincere. He looked at his watch when people were pouring out their troubles, most of which the cops could do nothing about. The fact was, the callers were lonely and wanted attention from officialdom, but all they had were the Crows from Hollywood South.

On the last call they did together, Ronnie and Bix were standing in the kitchen of an eighty-year-old white-stucco bungalow, listening to the complaint of an elderly Salvadoran immigrant whose children hadn’t been to visit her in three months. Her English was good enough that they came to understand that her life was being made miserable by her next-door neighbor’s frequent yard sales, which attracted a bad element who threw trash on her property and urinated in her driveway in broad daylight.

When she stopped long enough to answer the phone in her bedroom, Bix went to the sink and helped himself to a glass of water. In the corner of the kitchen he spotted a mouse in a glue trap. The mouse, firmly stuck by its belly, feet, and legs, looked up with eyes both frightened and sad, as though the creature knew it was hopeless.

Ronnie heard Bix Ramstead say to the mouse, “Sorry, buddy, I’d help you if I could, but I can’t even help myself.”

When the Salvadoran woman returned to the kitchen, she picked up the trap and drowned the rodent in a bucket of water on the back porch. Then she continued reciting her many complaints about her neighbors.

After completing that visit, Bix said, “Let’s go back to the office and get another car. I think we should split up and deal with as many calls as we can for the rest of the day. We’ve gotta get our backlog caught up.”

Ronnie agreed but couldn’t help wondering what Bix had meant when he’d spoken those words to a doomed mouse.

In recent years, Alvarado Street in Rampart Division had come to resemble a commercial thoroughfare in Tijuana. Most of the shops and businesses displayed goods that spilled out onto the pavement, and those sidewalks were mobbed by Spanish-speaking pedestrians at all hours of the day and most of the evening. The sights and sounds and smells were all from beyond the imaginary line that marks the southern boundary of the United States of America.

There was a particular farmacia in that neighborhood that had been frequented by Ali Aziz since 9/11, when he had had to give up his trips to Tijuana. Prior to that catastrophe, he’d found it well worth a drive across the international border for all the prescription diet drugs, tranquilizers, and stimulants required by his dancers. But after 9/11, he got sick of being directed to the secondary inspection area every time he was coming back and subjected to interrogations and searches the moment he answered the question “Where were you born?”

On the last occasion, the prescription drugs he’d bought in Tijuana were confiscated by a U.S. Customs officer who rightly doubted the legitimacy of Ali’s prescriptions issued on the spot by Tijuana doctors who worked with the farmacias. After that, Ali talked with his Mexican employees and was directed to the Alvarado Street pharmacy owned and operated by Jaime Salgando, who would sell anything without a prescription to Ali Aziz for three times what a legitimate pharmacy would charge. Prescriptions required expensive office visits to physicians by his entire stable of dancers, and Ali did not want to pay for those, especially when they wouldn’t prescribe large enough quantities of the drugs that the dancers needed.

So far, Ali had never been turned down by Jaime Salgando, but today would be a test of the pharmacist’s loyalty, and of his greed. Ali had with him a single capsule, something he had stolen from the medicine cabinet in his former Mt. Olympus home. That theft had occurred on the day that he had removed all of his clothes and personal property under the humiliating scrutiny of a security guard hired by Margot to see that he took only what they had agreed upon through their respective lawyers.

When the guard was not watching, Ali had impulsively removed a single magenta-and-turquoise 50-milligram capsule from Margot’s vial of sleeping aids. This was shortly after he’d read a news account in an Arabic-language newspaper about a rich Egyptian who had been arrested for trying to poison his elder brother by doctoring his sleeping medication. The prescription drug was the only one that Margot had ever used for occasional insomnia, and it was prescribed by her doctor in West Los Angeles. Ali had never known her to take more than a single capsule once or twice a week, usually on nights when she claimed to be under stress. The vial held thirty capsules, and she would replace it about every four months.

He had been very frightened the day he’d opened that medicine cabinet and shaken out one capsule and slipped it into his pocket. But having that capsule all these months had somehow bolstered his confidence and quelled his frustration and outrage with the American system of justice and with American women who knew how to manipulate the system. Having that capsule made him feel less impotent while he was being ground down by that baffling legal machinery. The capsule told him that he had the power to end it should things ever become intolerable. If she ever made him fear for the safety of his son.

There were a dozen Latino people in the small pharmacy when Ali entered. A young woman working at the forward cash register said something to him in Spanish and smiled. Ali did not understand but smiled and pointed to the lone pharmacist at the rear of the store. Ali was glad to see that there were only two customers waiting for prescriptions. He took a seat in a chair surrounded by shelves full of vitamin bottles and herbal cures and waited. When the second woman had paid for her prescription, he stepped to the counter and smiled at Jaime Salgando, a balding, sixty-year-old Mexican with drooping eyelids, a thin pebble gray mustache, and an air of total confidence.

With barely a trace of a Spanish accent, the pharmacist grinned and said, “Ali! Where have you been hiding?”

“Hello, brother Jaime,” Ali said with an insincere grin of his own.

They shook hands and Jaime said, “What’s the problem? You need more Viagra to keep up with all your gorgeous employees who fight to take you to bed?”

“God willing,” Ali said, maintaining the grin.

“I think I have everything you might need,” Jaime Salgando said. “How can I help you, my friend?”

Ali gave him a list of the usual meds: diet pills for Tex and anti-anxiety for Jasmine. And because Margot always had her prescriptions filled at a pharmacy near her doctor’s office, her needs were unknown to the pharmacist, so Ali asked for a specific 50-milligram sleep aid, supposedly for Goldie.

When Ali handed the list to Jaime Salgando, the pharmacist said, “Goldie has switched to a different medication?”

Ali shrugged and said, “I pay no attention. You got that one?”

“Yes,” said the pharmacist. “And how are you keeping, Ali? Your health is good?”

“Very good,” Ali said.

As the pharmacist worked, Ali said, “How is business, brother?”

“Not as good as yours, Ali,” Jaime said. “And my employees do not look like your employees.”

Twice Jaime had enjoyed dates with Tex, compliments of Ali Aziz for pharmaceutical services rendered. Ali said, “Tex is missing you. When shall you come back to see her, Jaime?”

The pharmacist sighed and said, “Next time I must double up on Viagra. One tablet is not enough when I am with that girl.”

Ali forced a laugh that was more nervous than he wished it to be and said, “You tell me when, brother. She is there for you.”

“At my age that is very nice to know,” Jaime said.

When Jaime Salgando was finished with Ali’s entire order, Ali paid him and said, “Jaime, I got a terrible problem and I need more help.”

“That is what I am here for,” Jaime said.

“I need a capsule of poison. Fifty milligrams.”

“What for?” the astonished pharmacist said.

“I got to kill a dog. I must put poison in the meat.”

“What dog?”

“My Russian neighbor on Mount Olympus is very rich. He is a very bad gangster. He got this big dog. Fifty kilos. The dog is a killer. Last week the killer dog almost got my Nicky. My son! The housekeeper carried Nicky inside the house just in time. I went to this Russian. He tells me go to hell.”

“Did you call Animal Control? Or the police?”

“No, I am afraid of this Russian. He is a very dangerous man. All my neighbors are afraid of the Russian and his dog. All neighbors talk. We say we shall poison this Russian dog. Next time the dog gets out, we give it poison. The Russian must never know who done it.”

“I don’t know, Ali,” Jaime said. “This is not a good idea.”

“You read about the Russians in Los Angeles who kidnap and murder the people for money? He is a connection to them. He is a dangerous man. His house is for sale now. He shall be moving away, god willing. We are all scared of him, but right now we are more scared of his dog. Please help us.”

“This is a crime.”

“Everything is a crime in this goddamn country,” said Ali.

“Yes, but this is different. My drugs are to help, not to kill.”

“One of my neighbor gave the idea. We put the poison capsule into the meatball. I do not care what kind of poison.”

“Why did you say fifty milligrams?”

“My neighbor thinks we need fifty milligrams of stuff they put into pest poison to kill this big dog. And fast, so the dog don’t suffer. We have no wish to be cruel people.”

“I think your neighbor might be talking about strychnine,” said the pharmacist. “When I was a boy working on a ranch in Mexico, we used to bait coyotes and kill them, but with less strychnine than fifty milligrams. Far less.”

“The Russian dog is big like two, maybe three coyotes,” Ali said.

“I don’t know about this,” Jaime Salgando said.

Ali was ready for him. He put five $100 bills on the counter and said, “Please, brother, for me. I’ll make the date for you with Tex and Goldie. Both at the same time. You shall never forget the date. You need lots of Viagra for this one!”

Ali felt his chin tremble, but he fought to keep the sly smile in place as Jaime Salgando mulled it over.

Then the pharmacist said, “I’ll have to get what you need from a supplier I know. I’ll drop it at your club on Thursday evening at six o’clock.”

“That is good, brother,” Ali said. “But please make sure, one capsule that we can stick inside the little meatball. I see this Russian many times feed him little Russian meatballs from his hand.”

“I’ll tell my friend what is needed for the bait,” the pharmacist said.

“When you want the three-way date, brother?”

“On Saturday evening,” the pharmacist said. Then he added, “Nobody must ever know about any of this, Ali.”

“No,” Ali said. “Nobody must ever know, or this Russian shall kill me! And thank you, brother, thank you. You have save the life of my son!”

“I’ll see you on Thursday with your order,” Jaime said. “At the Leopard Lounge.”

Affecting a lighthearted farewell, Ali said, “Yes, my brother! And Tex shall wear her cowboy hat and cowboy boot for you on Saturday night, I promise!”

When Ali got to his car, he tore open the paper bag and was relieved to see that Goldie’s sleep aids were identical to the turquoise-and-magenta capsule in his pocket. It had cost him $200 just to be sure that the manufacturer of Margot’s sleep aids had not changed the colors or size of the capsule in recent months. He might have to put a few extra capsules of the sleep aid in her vial so that things didn’t happen too soon. He wanted her to die when he was ready, and not before.

On his drive from Alvarado Street back to Hollywood, Ali began to fret about Jaime Salgando. But the closer he got to Hollywood, the more his fears seemed irrational. If three months from now Margot were to die, why wouldn’t it be considered a suicide over her affair with that new boyfriend, whoever he was? Or, if murder was suspected, why wouldn’t the new boyfriend be the object of the inquiry? Who knows what intrigues the boyfriend may have been plotting with Margot. The police might surmise that she had threatened to leave the boyfriend and he was punishing her. Her pig boyfriend would be the target of the police investigation, not Ali Aziz.

Even the most fearful scenario did not hold up when he looked at it with courage and reason: that Jaime Salgando might have a terrible attack of Christian conscience and inform the police that on one hot summer day he had supplied Ali Aziz with 50 milligrams of poison, ostensibly to kill a dog. But that was the silliest fear of all. If Jaime did such a thing, what would happen to his license, his business, his life? Jaime was a man who had taken money from Ali for years, unlawfully dispensing drugs for dancers at the Leopard Lounge. Jaime, the loving father and grandfather who had bedded a number of those dancers to whom he was unlawfully providing drugs. And how could Jaime ever prove that he gave Ali Aziz a 50-milligram capsule of poison? No, Jaime Salgando had committed too many crimes behind the counter at his farmacia. Jaime was the least of the worries of Ali Aziz.

His main concern would be to gain legal custody of Nicky when Margot was found dead. Ali knew that her family, those insignificant people in Barstow, California, would fight for custody in order to have control over their grandson, the heir to Margot’s fortune. Or rather, Margot’s half of Ali’s fortune, the wealth that the bitch had stolen from him through all her trickery. And truth be told, he would let them have everything she had stolen from him-all of it-if only they would not initiate any custody fight for Nicky. All that Ali Aziz wanted was his son.

When Ali got to the Leopard Lounge that afternoon, he went to his office, locking the door behind him. He sat at his desk, turned on the desk lamp, dried his hands, and drank a shot of Jack to steady them. Ali found it absolutely astonishing how, despite his fear, the thought of soon possessing that deadly capsule made him feel extremely powerful. He would have the power of life and death. With the unexpected gifts of drugs that he would be giving to his dancers, he felt entitled to special blow jobs with no complaints. Ali decided to call one of the girls into his office. And he wouldn’t be needing Viagra. Not today.

Ronnie and Bix Ramstead’s ten-hour duty tour-excluding the half hour for a meal break referred to as code 7-was to end at eight that evening. But when Ronnie signed out, Bix still hadn’t returned. She’d called him on his cell twice but couldn’t reach him. She was so worried that she was about to mention it to the sergeant prior to his leaving for a meeting with the Graffiti Committee. Then her cell rang.

“It’s me,” Bix said when she answered.

“I was getting concerned,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got tied up.”

Ronnie thought she detected a slight slurring of speech but hoped she was wrong. She said, “You coming in now?”

Bix said, “Check me out, will you? I’ll be back later to turn the car in.”

Now she was sure of it. She said, “Why don’t I come where you are? We could get a bite to eat.”

“No, I’m gonna grab a burger with a cop I know from my North Hollywood days. Just check me out. I’ll be back soon.”

And that’s how it was left. If it had been anyone other than Bix Ramstead, Ronnie Sinclair, being so new to the Community Relations Office, would not have complied. She thought about talking to one of the other Crows about it, but she did not. Ronnie liked Bix as much as any cop she’d ever known at Hollywood Station. She was feeling very nervous and worried when she checked out both Bix and herself that evening. Ronnie knew she’d have a restless night, worrying about the possibility of Bix Ramstead and his LAPD car getting involved in a DUI collision.

There was trouble in Southeast Hollywood that evening involving more than fifty Filipino and Mexican men. They had gathered in a warehouse that closed its doors for the day at 6 P.M. but whose back door had been left unlocked by an employee who’d made secretive arrangements with all the other sporting men who worked in the warehouse. One of the storage bays had been roped off, and tattooed workers in company shirts or wife beaters were drinking beer and tequila as they gathered around a fighting pit made of plywood that had been temporarily nailed in place to provide an arena for the grisly spectacle about to take place.

Several trucks arrived and very soon steel cages were being carried into the warehouse and stacked against the wall. Each of twelve cages contained a fighting cock, and every bird was squawking in terror from the commotion. Mexican music was blaring from an old boom box, and voices of drinking men shouted bets to one another in Spanish, Tagalog, and Spanglish prior to prepping the birds for the bloody fights to the death, scheduled to begin at 8:30 P.M.

It might have gone off as planned except for one young Mexican forklift operator named Raul, who had made the mistake of telling his wife, Carolina, a Mexican American girl born and raised in East L.A., that he would be busy that evening and would be coming home late.

“Busy doing what?” she said.

“I cannot tell you,” he said.

“Whadda you mean you can’t tell me?” she said.

“I swore a secret,” he said.

“You better unswear it, dude,” she said. “I wanna know where you’re going.”

It was always like this. The forklift operator had wished a thousand times that he’d married a real Mexican girl. These brown coconuts, milky white on the inside, were nothing but nagging gringas with Hispanic names.

“I have made a promise to my friends,” he said.

“I think maybe you’re gonna be visiting your old squeeze,” she said. “That bitch Rosa with the big chi-chis. Well, you can forget about coming home afterwards.”

He sat down on the kitchen chair and hung his head and surrendered as he always did and told her the truth. “We are having a bird fight at the warehouse.”

“A bird fight?” Carolina said. “You mean you’re making roosters kill each other? Like that kinda bird fight?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am only going to bet twenty dollars. No more.”

“You ain’t betting shit,” she said. “Because you ain’t going to no bird fight. It’s against the law in this state, in case you didn’t know.”

“All my friends will be there, Carolina!” he pleaded.

“You go out this door and I’ll call the cops about the bird fight,” she said. “It’s cruel and disgusting!”

Her husband went into the bedroom and slammed the door. Ten minutes later, while he was in there pouting, his wife picked up the phone and quietly dialed 9-1-1.

One hour before the 8:30 P.M. cockfight was about to commence, a hastily gathered raiding party had been put together by the assistant watch commander at Hollywood Station. Three patrol units from Watch 3, and two from Watch 5, were assigned to the raid, accompanied by the two teams of vice cops who were available on short notice. A pair of Animal Control employees were to be dispatched to meet the LAPD officers thirty minutes after the raid began, in order to impound the fighting cocks. Everyone was expecting to be writing a lot of citations and maybe booking the event organizers. The animal cruelty code section carried a $20,000 fine and/or one year in county jail.

The Watch 5 midwatch officers tasked were Cat Song and Gil Ponce, along with Dan Applewhite and Gert Von Braun. Most of the cops thought it might be an interesting assignment. There hadn’t been many cockfighting raids conducted in the heart of the city, and none of the cops had ever seen a fighting bird.

On their way to the staging area parking lot, from where they would converge on the warehouse, Gert Von Braun made a startling confession to Dan Applewhite.

“As far as big birds’re concerned, I look at them like they’re nothing but snakes with wings. Thinking of those roosters is creeping me out.”

Doomsday Dan was stunned. He didn’t think Gert Von Braun was afraid of anything. At that moment, she stopped being this intimidating mass of angry female cop and seemed like nothing more than a sweet and vulnerable girl!

He was absolutely tender when he said, “Don’t worry, Gert. If anything should go wrong with the killer birds, I’ll be there for you. One summer when I was a kid in Chino, I worked on a chicken farm, culling eggs. I’m a rooster wrangler, is what I am. You just get my back and deal with the drunk Mexicans and Filipinos, I’ll do the rest.”

“Oh, yeah,” she scoffed, “I can just see you there with your pepper spray, telling an insane rooster with knife blades on its feet, ‘Okay, birdbrain, bring it!’ Sure, you will. My hero.”

When they arrived at the staging area, the cops turned off their headlights and got out to talk to one another. It was then that they learned of an awful turn of events: The vice sergeant who was supposed to lead the raid was unavailable and had been replaced by a patrol sergeant from the midwatch.

“Chickenlips Treakle!” Cat Song moaned when she got the word.

“Appropriate choice, considering the nature of the event,” young Gil Ponce noted.

“He’ll find a way to fuck it up totally,” Gert Von Braun said. “If a rooster fight can get any more fucked up than they are to begin with.”

“I hear that,” Doomsday Dan concurred. “Treakle in command makes me wanna have a sudden back attack.”

And to make matters worse, Sergeant Treakle, shining his new mini-flashlight beam on the raiding party until he spotted his Watch 5 officers, approached Dan Applewhite and said, “I’ll be riding in with you and Von Braun.”

“Sergeant, don’t you wanna drive your own car in case we need extra shops to transport prisoners?” Gert said.

“No, Von Braun,” he said curtly. “I want you to drop me fifty yards from the warehouse for a very quick reconnoiter before I give the go command on my rover.”

Sergeant Treakle was especially nervous. He kept obsessively rubbing lip balm across his mouth, but he turned his back when he did it. Like he was sniffing coke.

Dan Applewhite whispered to Gert, “Why’s he need ChapStick? He’s got no lips!”

A bearded Latino vice cop, wearing an Ace Hardware work shirt and kneeless jeans, spoke up then, saying, “Wouldn’t it be better if I do the reconnoiter, Sergeant? Your uniform is a tad conspicuous.”

“Thanks for the input,” Sergeant Treakle said icily. “I’ll manage.”

“Okay,” the vice cop said, “but I hope this caper don’t get ‘fowled’ up.” He looked around at the other silent cops and said, “‘Fowled’ up? F-o-w-l?”

The others groaned or guffawed, and Sergeant Treakle made a mental note to find out the name of this smart-ass vice cop. He looked at his watch and said, “Applewhite and Von Braun, let’s roll!”

“Let’s roll?” the vice cop said after Sergeant Treakle was gone. “Christ almighty. That fucking attack gerbil thinks he’s on United flight ninety-three!”

Another midwatch unit, one that had not been assigned to the raid, happened by at that moment after hearing the radio communication setting up the rendezvous. Jetsam was driving, and Flotsam, who had had a very strenuous morning at Malibu, was riding shotgun and nursing an injured shoulder. He was relating the entire tale to his partner.

“Dude, I was ripping on that juicy when I got shut down,” Flotsam informed him.

“A total wipeout inside the barrel?” Jetsam said.

“I got pitchpoled, dude. The nose went vertical and I went horizontal, and the board snapped the leash and catapulted straight up in the air. And I’m talking my U-boat. See, I’d pulled the old longboard from my quiver this morning, and there I was, waiting for nine feet of glass to come down on me like a mortar round!”

“Shit, why is there radical surf every time I gotta go to the dentist or something?” Jetsam said.

“The worst part of it is, I swallowed maybe half a gallon of foamy and I’m all coughing and gagging, and what happens? This totally awesome dudette in a white thong bikini comes up and she says, ‘Are you okay?’ I look at her and I see the most excellent Betty I’ve ever seen at Malibu. Remember the salty sister we seen at that midnight rager last month? The one that was jumping over the fire pit topless with a tequila bottle in each hand? That one?”

“Are you telling me this one was as cooleo as that one?”

“Mint, dude. Totally prime.”

“Did you get her number?”

“Dude, I could hardly breathe. I’m all gasping. I’m all choking. Then I’m, like, feeling the IHOP waffles come chugging up my throat.”

“Oh, no!” Jetsam said. “You barked the dog?”

“I lunched it,” Flotsam said, nodding. “Barfola.”

“Don’t tell me more!” Jetsam cried but wanted to hear it all.

Flotsam said, “Dude, I blew chunks all over her. She screamed and jumped in the surf to wash off the spooge and I never saw her again. I was soooo bleak.”

“Bro,” Jetsam said softly. “That is, like, one of the saddest stories I ever heard.”

Cat Song and Gil Ponce were the last team to leave the staging area parking lot, when 6-X-46 drove up, flashing headlights at them.

Jetsam pulled close to the other car, facing the opposite direction, and said, “The game’s afoot, huh?”

“Yeah, and we gotta go now,” Cat said. “Treakle’s in charge.”

“Aw, shit,” Jetsam said. “Sorry for you.”

Flotsam looked at the cageless old black-and-white parked in the lot and said, “Which supervisor belongs to that piece of shit?”

“Chickenlips,” Cat said. “He’s on a sneak-and-peek mission, checking out the target. We can’t talk. Gotta go.”

“Catch you later,” Jetsam said while Cat drove away, following the caravan of police units ready to swoop into the warehouse parking lot.

Flotsam massaged his aching shoulder while Jetsam switched from the Hollywood base frequency to the tactical frequency just in time to hear Sergeant Treakle’s high-pitched radio voice.

“All units converge on target!” Sergeant Treakle said, spraying saliva on his rover. “Converge, converge, converge!”

“He gets pretty excited about a bunch of chickens, don’t he?” Jetsam said.

“I bet that dude’s got women’s tits,” Flotsam said. “Let’s go get a burrito.”

While the surfer cops were sitting in their car on Sunset Boulevard enjoying some Tex-Mex, one of the cars that was checked out to the Community Relations Office drove up the hill to Mt. Olympus and into the driveway of Margot Aziz. The driver got out of the car but didn’t close the door. He tried to will himself to get back into the car but could not. Then he closed the car door quietly, walked to the front door of the house, and rang the bell. He heard footsteps on the inside marble foyer and knew she was looking through the brass-enclosed peephole.

When the door opened, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him repeatedly on the mouth, cheeks, and neck as he tried to push her away. Her eyes were bright and wet in the moonlight streaming down, drops clinging to her eyelashes. He felt wetness on her cheekbones, and could taste it when she kissed him, and he wondered why her tears were not salty.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t show up,” she said. “I was afraid you’d never come again. I left four messages on your cell today.”

“You’ve gotta stop doing that, Margot,” said Bix Ramstead. “My partner might pick up my calls sometime.”

“But I haven’t seen you in twenty-nine days and twenty-nine nights!” She pulled him forward into the foyer and closed the door. She wanted to smell his breath for alcohol, but he kept pulling back when she tried to kiss him again.

“I can’t stay, Margot,” he said. “I’ve got a police car here. I’ve gotta get it back to the station.”

“Do it and hurry back,” she said. “I’ll make some supper for you.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I just stopped by to tell you that you gotta stop calling me. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Trouble, Bix?” she said. “Trouble? I’m the one in trouble. I’m crazy in love with you. I can’t sleep, I can’t think. We have something, Bix, and you can’t throw it away. I’m almost free of Ali now. Then I’m all yours. Me and everything I have!”

“I can’t. I’ve been going crazy too. Thinking of you. Thinking of my family. I’m no good for you. We’re no good for each other.”

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” she said, and then she put her face against his badge and held him hard with both arms.

“I gotta go,” he said again, but he wasn’t pulling away from her now.

“I’ve tried to be patient,” she said. “The only thing that’s held me together is knowing that your family went to your in-laws’ for a visit. You see, I’ve marked my calendar, Bix. You’re all I think about. I’m selfish. I want you here with me every night while they’re gone. I want the chance to convince you how right we are for each other.”

“I can’t think straight tonight,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve gotta get the car back to the station.”

She released him and he looked at her. Then he kissed her, and for certain she smelled the booze on his breath.

“Tomorrow, darling,” Margot said, smiling hopefully. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

When Bix Ramstead backed out of the driveway and turned back down the hill, he didn’t see the Mustang parked a block farther up. Hollywood Nate had waited since Friday for her call that never came. He too had had a few drinks that evening after getting off duty. And impetuously, he had driven up to Mt. Olympus, intending to knock on her door. Intending to find out just what the hell was going on in that woman’s head. But as Nate had approached her driveway, he’d seen a police vehicle. He’d driven past the driveway, turned around, parked, and waited.

Nate didn’t have to tail him very long to be sure that the driver was Bix Ramstead. He was tempted to follow Bix to the station for a friendly face-off, to compare notes on Margot Aziz. But he decided that he’d better wait until he was completely sober before trying something like that.

After finishing their burritos, Jetsam and Flotsam drove back in the direction of the cockfight raid instead of toward their beat.

“Where you going, dude?” Flotsam said.

“To take a look at the big chicken caper.”

“Why?”

“You ever seen a fighting rooster?”

“No, and I got no desire.”

“Might be educational.”

By the time they pulled into the warehouse parking lot, everything was under control. All of the Mexican and Filipino spectators were inside being questioned and having FI cards filled out on them. Everyone was being checked for wants and warrants, and a few were being cited. There was nobody outside the building except Gil Ponce, standing by a stack of metal cages containing the fighting cocks, which were still squawking furiously and pecking at the steel confining them.

Jetsam drove up to the young cop and said, “What’s going down in there, dude?”

“Nothing now,” Gil said. “Just FI-ing everybody and running them for warrants. Gonna book a few. You shoulda been here when we first arrived. One of the organizers of this thing tried to get away, but Gert threw a body block that knocked him flat.”

“Yeah, she would,” Flotsam said.

Then a lithe figure came through the darkness, carrying a steel crate. When she got close, they saw it was Cat Song.

“That rat dog bastard,” she said to the surfer cops. “Treakle’s making us carry the birds out here instead of waiting for Animal Control to do it. He wants to lock up the warehouse and go brag to the watch commander about his great chicken raid and leave us to babysit the birds until Animal Control arrives. I’ve got feathers and chicken shit on my uniform!”

She stacked the cage on top of two others and the fighting cocks made a louder racket at the new arrival.

“How many birds you got?” Jetsam asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Ten, twelve. Haven’t counted them.” Then she turned to Gil Ponce and said, “Come on, sonny, I’m not carrying these things all by myself.”

When they walked back inside the warehouse, Jetsam glanced at Flotsam, who looked like he was about to start whining about his shoulder again.

Jetsam turned out the headlights, jumped out of the black-and-white, and opened the back door on Flotsam’s side.

“What’re you doing, dude?” Flotsam asked.

He watched in amazement when Jetsam grabbed the top crate and swung it into the backseat of their shop, saying, “You had a bad day at Malibu, bro. I’m trying to cheer you up.”

“Just whadda you got on your desktop?” Flotsam said anxiously.

“Now, bro, don’t suck the cool outta this situation,” Jetsam said, closing the door and getting behind the wheel.

“What situation?” Flotsam wanted to know, and soon found out.

Jetsam drove, lights out, and wheeled into the parking lot, where a lone black-and-white was parked in the darkness. And he said, “You still carry that Slim Jim in your war bag?”

“Dude, this is totally uncool,” Flotsam said.

Jetsam got out of the car and said, “Bro, this is fate at work. Look at that old cageless black-and-white sitting there waiting for us. Don’t bitch out on me. This is our destiny!”

“Stay real, dude!” Flotsam said, but nevertheless he was fascinated watching Jetsam get gloved up and slide the Slim Jim inside the car window until he unlocked the door.

“Go to sleep, chicken,” Jetsam said to the caged bird when he transferred the cage through the rear door of Sergeant Treakle’s car. But when he opened the rooster’s cage, he got his finger pecked.

“Ow!” he said. “This ungrateful chicken bit me. And I was starting to like him ’cause he looks so much like Keith Richards.”

“This ain’t cool, is all I got to say,” Flotsam said. But actually he thought it was pretty cool. If they didn’t get caught.

When Jetsam closed and locked Sergeant Treakle’s shop and they drove away looking for a likely Dumpster in which to toss the empty cage, Flotsam said, “Do you think the boot might panic and dime us when that heel-clicking, no-lips little Nazi starts trying to figure out who boosted the chicken?”

“I ain’t sure if Ponce’s still a probie,” Jetsam said. “He might own his pink slip by now. Anyways, Cat Song would shove one of those Korean metal chopsticks in his eyeball if he tries to put us behind the grassy knoll. We’re gravy, bro.”

Sergeant Treakle was pleased as punch with the raid when all was said and done. Citations were written to three men who had been drinking in the parking lot when the cops swooped in. Five were arrested for public drunkenness or for outstanding traffic warrants. None were cited for being spectators at the cockfight because it hadn’t started yet. The two organizers were arrested and booked at Hollywood Station on the animal cruelty charge.

After Animal Control arrived and took custody of the birds, Sergeant Treakle made sure that the warehouse was secured and the burglar alarm set. He was meticulous and proud of the job they’d done. And because he was riding with Gert Von Braun and Dan Applewhite, they had to wait until the bitter end. They were hungry and cranky, and both had soiled uniforms from helping to haul the fighting cocks out of the warehouse.

When everyone was gone or driving away except the two midwatch units, Sergeant Treakle said, “Now, Von Braun, I have a treat for you and Applewhite.”

“What’s that?” Gert said doubtfully.

“I’m inviting you to take code seven with me. I’m treating. You name the eating spot.”

With the odor of the frantic birds and the chicken shit still in her nostrils, Gert Von Braun said sourly, “Oh, goody. Let’s go to KFC, Sergeant Treakle. I want wings and a drumstick.”

Gil Ponce suppressed his giggle when he saw that their supervisor was glowering.

“On second thought, you and Applewhite can clear,” Sergeant Treakle said with a frosty glance at Gert. Turning to Cat he said, “Song, you and Ponce can drive me to my car.”

Gert mouthed the words Sorry, Cat when she and Dan Applewhite walked to their car.

“Thanks, partner,” Dan said to Gert. “Treakle gives me heartburn so bad I feel like I need a bottle of antacid in my holster with an IV drip attached.”

Sergeant Treakle got into the backseat of Cat and Gil’s shop and they drove quickly to the parking lot staging area without conversation. Upon getting out of their black-and-white, he said, “Stay here till I get it started. The electrical system in that old car is dicey.”

Cat sighed and put the car in park and shook her head at Gil, and they waited. As it turned out, she was eternally glad they did or they might have missed it.

The exhausted bird was down on the floor in the back, apparently asleep, when Sergeant Treakle unlocked the driver’s door and got in, thinking the odor of those horrid birds just wouldn’t go away. The bird apparently stayed asleep when Sergeant Treakle pulled the door closed. The bird didn’t budge when Sergeant Treakle started the engine. But when Sergeant Treakle tooted his horn to signal to 6-X-32 that they could go ahead and clear, the fighting cock exploded in a whirring tornado of claws, horrifying screeches, and flapping wings!

Gil Ponce heard strange sounds, and he picked up the spotlight and shined it on Sergeant Treakle’s car. Then he said, “Cat! Sergeant Treakle’s being attacked!”

“What?” Cat Song said, slamming on the brakes.

Then they both gaped, frozen for an instant, as the enraged rooster raked the back of Sergeant Treakle with sharp claws and pecked at his skull, all the time beating powerful wings and screaming like a cat.

But as loud as the fighting cock shrieked, he wasn’t shrieking half as loudly as Sergeant Jason Treakle, who fell gurgling from the car onto his face. Cat Song ran to the car and poked her baton at the furious bird, driving it back until she could close the door again.

“Oh, my god!” Gil Ponce said. “Sergeant Treakle, are you injured?”

But Sergeant Treakle couldn’t talk. He was making fearful strangling sounds and trying desperately just to breathe.

“Call for an RA!” Cat said to Gil Ponce. “And get that Animal Control truck back here! And then bring me a bag! He’s hyperventilating!”

“A bag?” Gil Ponce said. “Where’ll I get a bag?”

“Forget the bag! Just make the calls!”

“Okay!” Gil said, running to their car.

When he came back, Gil found Cat propping their supervisor upright, easing him gingerly against the door of his shop. He yelped when his wounded back touched metal, and Cat told him to ignore the pain and try to breathe normally.

“Is Sergeant Treakle gonna be okay?” Gil Ponce asked.

“I think so,” Cat Song said. “But he had quite a shock, and he got beat up pretty bad. And he’s just covered with chicken shit.”

By the time the paramedics arrived and treated the wounds on Sergeant Treakle’s head, neck, and back, the team from Animal Control had showed up as well. Cat opened the car door for them, then jumped back. But they captured the now docile bird without incident and caged it in the back of their van. The lieutenant was on a day off and the acting watch commander was called to the scene. He happened to be the oldest patrol sergeant at Hollywood Station and was well aware of young Sergeant Treakle’s methods and reputation.

Cat was standing near enough to overhear the senior sergeant say to Sergeant Treakle, “Maybe we should keep this outrageous prank quiet. It’s just the kind of story that little L.A. Times prick who covers the LAPD would love to get on a local headline. The Department would look silly, and so would you.”

“Me look silly?” Sergeant Treakle said. “I didn’t do anything to deserve this! I’d like Internal Affairs to interrogate every officer who was out here and put them all on the polygraph!”

That touched a nerve with the elder supervisor, who had been around long enough to know how unreliable the polygraph is, especially with the overdeveloped superegos of those who make up the police service. He knew that a sociopath’s poly chart is essentially flat lines, but a cop’s looks like a witch’s hat if you so much as ask him if he’s jerked off anytime in the last decade.

“I know you don’t deserve this,” the old sergeant said soothingly. “Nobody deserves this. But everyone who reads the Times would laugh at us. Laugh at you. If we launch an investigation, it would leak in a heartbeat. Right now, nobody knows about this except Song and Ponce and the paramedics. I’ll talk to all of them.” When he said it, he turned toward Cat, who pretended to be writing in the log.

“They shouldn’t get away with this!” said Sergeant Treakle.

“But we can’t go off half-cocked,” replied the old sergeant.

“Half-cocked,” said Gil Ponce, giggling, until Sergeant Treakle scowled at him.

“But I know in my gut who did it!” Sergeant Treakle said.

“Who’s that?”

“That smart-ass vice cop. The Hispanic guy with the beard. I just know it was him.”

“Look, Treakle,” the old sergeant said. “Do you want your family and friends to read a headline that says-”

“Okay, I get it!” Sergeant Treakle said, finding the headline possibilities unbearable to contemplate. “But I know it was that vice cop.”

“Maybe you should ask the captain for a transfer to some other division,” the old sergeant said. “Get a fresh start somewhere else. Does that sound okay?”

“I can’t wait,” Sergeant Treakle agreed. Then, for the first time, he was heard to utter an obscenity. He sat and pondered for a moment and said, “Fucking Hollywood!”

Sergeant Treakle refused to be transported for further medical treatment at Cedars-Sinai when Cat Song said they might need to wear biohazard outfits to clean him up. And he drove the cageless shop back to the station on his own-feathers, chicken shit, and all.

The senior sergeant then spoke with Cat and young Gil Ponce about the need to keep the incident quiet for the good of Hollywood Station. And they indicated that they understood the gravity of a situation where a prank caused injury and terror to the junior supervisor-who would likely be transferring out of the division ASAP. They assured the senior sergeant that they wouldn’t breathe a word of it.

Before an hour had passed, Cat Song had phoned Ronnie Sinclair at home, text-messaged Gert Von Braun, and managed to reach Hollywood Nate on his cell phone, knowing how much he loathed Sergeant Treakle. Everyone thanked her effusively for sharing and promised they wouldn’t breathe a word of it.

Gil Ponce, being one of the officers who had declined an invitation to participate in Bible study with Sergeant Treakle, whispered all the details to Doomsday Dan in the locker room at end-of-watch-with a theological question attached. The young cop wondered if it was possible that in the first instant of being suddenly enveloped in great dark wings and hearing unearthly screeching in his ears, Sergeant Treakle may have smelled sulfur and believed that he’d been seized by the Antichrist himself!

“It’s heartwarming to think so,” the older cop replied. Then he added, “The Oracle always said that doing good police work was the most fun we’d ever have. Well, there’s a pair of anonymous coppers out there who did some great police work tonight. I hope they remembered the Oracle.”