Hollywood Hills

TWENTY-EIGHT

The second year of the Obama presidency saw big changes at the Los Angeles Police Department. The Eastern chief had resigned and moved back to New York to take a top job with the private security firm that had been overseeing the federal consent decree under which the LAPD had suffered for so many years. Some said that his connection to that security firm had been a conflict of interests, but the fact was, he was gone for good.

The new chief was not an outsider, far from it. He was second-generation LAPD. His father had been a deputy chief. His son and daughter were both LAPD officers, and his wife was retired from the L.A. Sheriff’s Department. Even his sister was a retired cop. They didn’t come more insider than this one. He inherited the tough job of being chief in the great recession that had just about bankrupted the state of California, and the city of Los Angeles right along with it. There had to be lots of maneuvering of personnel, including sending a large number of officers from the elite Metropolitan Division back to patrol.

But there was at least one officer going from patrol back to Metro. One quiet evening on patrol, Snuffy Salcedo said to Hollywood Nate, “I went downtown and talked to a few people and I’m gonna be taken back as a security aide to the new chief.”

“Is it my deodorant?” Nate said. “What brought this about?”

“Don’t get me wrong, partner,” Snuffy said. “I’ve really enjoyed working here at Hollywood Station, and it hasn’t been too awful having you as a partner.”

“I’ll put that in my diary,” Nate said.

Snuffy said, “But I think for the next few years, till I pull the pin and say adios, I should take it easy. And the new chief ain’t nothing like Mister. So I see myself driving for him for three more years and then I’ll retire and spend the rest of my life cutting grass and trimming trees like a typical Mexican gardener, except it’ll be my grass and my trees.”

“Was it stuff like the rumble at Goth House that made you wanna leave Hollywood?” Nate asked.

“Naw,” Snuffy said. “It was fun tuning up Rolf Thunder, sort of. I even got a new and better nose out of it. It’s just that patrol needs people who have real thick skin. Young people. So they can look at stuff like that baby in Little Armenia and go home and say, That’s not my tragedy. That’s somebody else’s tragedy. That has nothing to do with me. When you get old like me, the skin thins out and bleeds.”

“Who’s gonna bring me homemade enchiladas then?” Nate said. “Tell me that.”

“You’ll find some other Mexican whose mother can cook,” Snuffy said.

Nate said, “On this sad occasion I’d like to devote a few minutes to my own future. Would you mind if I stop by a house in the Hollywood Hills? I gotta see a director about making me a star.”

“Anything you wanna do,” Snuffy Salcedo said. “I’m just a short-timer along for the ride.”

Nate drove up Mulholland Drive to the vicinity of the crash that had cost Jetsam his foot and Jonas Claymore his life. He stopped at the gate of a particularly large estate and pressed the button.

A man’s voice answered and Nate said, “This is Officer Nate Weiss. I’d like to see Mr. Ressler if he’s there.”

The male voice spoke to someone and came back, saying, “Come in.”

Nate and Snuffy Salcedo entered the gate, driving over the faux-cobblestone driveway, then circled around the fountain and parked next to the front door.

“Just be a minute,” Nate said and got out.

“Take your time,” Snuffy said. “I’ll have a siesta.”

Raleigh Dibble opened the door and said, “Good to see you again, Officer Weiss. Mrs. Brueger is in the great room.”

Nate found her in silk pajamas and a matching peignoir, sitting on a lounge with a glass of wine beside her and a copy of Cosmopolitan in her lap. The music coming from surrounding speakers was Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood,” one of Nate’s favorite background melodies for any movie that promised glamour and sophistication.

“My, my, Nathan,” she said. “You’re even more handsome in uniform.”

“Evening, Mrs. Brueger,” Nate said.

She said, “It’s Leona, remember? Can Raleigh get you anything to drink? Coffee, maybe?”

“No, thanks,” Nate said. “My partner’s waiting.”

“Bring him in,” Leona Brueger said. “Or her.”

“Can’t stay but a minute,” Nate said. “The reason I’m here is that I’ve called Mr. Ressler half a dozen times in the last few months and only hooked up with him once. He said he’d be starting to prep his movie in February, but here it is March and I haven’t heard anything. He hasn’t returned my calls lately. You said you might be able to help me get this job and, well, here I am. Hopes and dreams, remember?”

Leona took another sip of wine and said, “Oh, Nathan, I’m so glad I’m not an actor. The truth of it is, after we got back from Europe, things went from bad to worse for poor Rudy. His investors pulled the plug on him and the project died, but he doesn’t want to admit it to anyone. That’s probably why he’s dodging your calls. He’s scratching and clawing and trying to stay afloat, but the fact of the matter is, his career is circling the drain. He’s drifting into irrelevancy, and in Hollywood that’s Hell’s last circle. A living death. I’m sure you know that the irrelevant are Hollywood’s zombies.”

Nate was silent for a moment and said, “I see.”

“Aren’t you used to it yet, Nathan?” Leona Brueger asked. “The rejection?”

“I should be,” Nate said.

The phone buzzed and Nate heard Raleigh Dibble answer it in the butler’s pantry, and then Raleigh entered the great room.

He said, “Mr. Brueger needs his heating pad and perhaps a back rub. I’ll be in the cottage, Mrs. Brueger.”

“Fine, Raleigh,” Leona said.

After Raleigh was gone, she said to Nate, “My brother-in-law had a stroke last year but he’s doing pretty well for a codger his age. I think he’d be dead without Raleigh. I can’t imagine a more dedicated caregiver, not to mention that he’s a fine butler and a divine chef. I’m so lucky to have him. I’ll never let him go.”

“Give my regards to Mr. Ressler, please,” Nate said and turned to leave.

“Oh, he’s gone the way of all second-raters,” Leona said boozily. “He was only going to marry me for my money, which was okay with me until his limited charm ran out in Tuscany. I’ve decided not to move to Napa. I’ll just drink wine and forget about making it. I think this house in the Hollywood Hills is a good place to grow old in. What do you think, Nathan?”

“It’s a beautiful home,” Nate said.

“Money is an answer,” she said. “How soothing money is when we can’t attain our real dreams. Thousands of failed actors will never know that because they’ll never see enough of it.”

“That sounds like me you’re talking about,” Nate said. “If I was a method actor, I’d think of a grapefruit or something else I hate and start crying now.”

“Why don’t you visit me from time to time, Nathan?” she said. “Who knows? I might meet another director. Maybe even a first-rate director who could actually promote you. Maybe I can help you keep your dream alive. Would you like that?”

He was silent for a moment and remembered what this fire-proof aging woman had said to him when they’d first met: that in Hollywood everything is for sale if you know how to shop. Then Nate said, “Somehow I don’t think I’m ever gonna see my name on the curb at one of the studios. Thank you anyway,… Mrs. Brueger. I gotta get back to my beat now.”

Leona Brueger gave him a long look, and then with a sigh of resignation and sadness she said, “Bye-bye, gorgeous.”

Snuffy Salcedo was gone from Hollywood Station on the next transfer. And Hollywood Nate found himself teamed with Flotsam again during the new deployment period.

On their first night together in early March, Nate said, “How’s your partner?”

Flotsam said, “Dude, my li’l pard’s not only ready to come back to the Job, he’s ready to try out his new foot at Malibu. I am totally amped. We been going to the beach for months and I think he’s ready to go for it. I know for sure he’s ready to do police work, but surfing, that’s another story. But if anybody can do it, he can.”

At 8 P.M., a call was given to 6-X-46 to see the woman at a souvenir shop on Hollywood Boulevard. It seemed that the Wedgie Bandit was back. He’d slipped into the store with a clutch of customers, and when an attractive young woman was bent over a shelf examining some Hollywood memorabilia, he sidled up behind her, grabbed her underwear, and gave her a world-class wedgie.

Nate said to Flotsam, “Hey, I’ve had some thoughts about the Wedgie Bandit and where he lives in relation to the library. You know that apartment building on Franklin near Ivar? The white one? Let’s just post up over there and see who we find running home in a hurry.”

Hollywood Nate was heading for Franklin Avenue when Flotsam said, “Dude, the Wedgie Bandit’s a series offender. He likes to do a few jobs at one time. Maybe we should check the subway station. There’s lotsa potential victims down there.”

“I like my idea,” Nate said. “Let’s first check out the apartment building on Franklin.”

Flotsam said, “Maybe he headed for Grauman’s. All those tourists looking at Batman and Spider-Man? They’d never notice that little freakazoid sneaking up behind them.”

The urgency in the surfer cop’s voice puzzled Nate for a moment, but then he remembered the hospital conversation and he got it. Nate said, “Maybe you’re right. My idea is dumb. Let’s cruise on over to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The Wedgie Bandit’s probably there right now going after big game. Maybe the Green Lantern or even Darth Vader if he can get under Darth’s cape.”

Flotsam grinned in relief when Nate turned away from the apartment building on Franklin Avenue and headed west. He said gratefully, “Dude, until my li’l pard gets back, I gotta teach you some vocabulary so we can, like, communicate as equals, okay? Now to start with, a fibro is a surfboard.”

“Fibro,” Nate said. “Got it.”

“Getting tubed is when you’re inside the wave, right? So it might apply to certain things in life.”

“Roger that,” Nate said. “Getting tubed.”

“A goat-boater is one of those donks that kayaks into our surf. So that’s a pushy dude.”

Nate said, “Never goat-boat the kahunas. How am I doing?”

“You’re boglius, dude,” Flotsam said. “That means you are one coolaphonic copper and it is rad to be sharing your shop for a while.”

Nate said wistfully, “And I guess being a coolaphonic copper is even better than being a movie star the way you see things.”

“That is rightous, dude. So, are you, like, finally coming around to that conclusion in your own life? Has the old acting bug been sorta swatted?”

“No way,” said Nate. “It’s just been on hiatus. I’m still determined to grow old and die in the Motion Picture and Television Country House. You can come see me when I’m there and feed me Jell-O shots. Just check my diaper if you bring fastidious people with you, and pour some premium vodka in my sippy cup when the nurses aren’t looking.”

“Whatever happened to your movie connection up in the Hollywood Hills? Where we dropped the business card on the butler that time?”

“Didn’t work out,” Hollywood Nate said. “I’ve seen Sunset Boulevard too many times.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Joe Gillis always ends up facedown in the swimming pool.”

“He shoulda went to the beach,” Flotsam said, “where they got lifeguards.”

“Speaking of old movies,” Nate said, “we’d better head for Grauman’s Chinese Theatre right this minute before we’re too late.”

“Go for it,” Flotsam said. “It’d be way wack and totally bleak if little kids witnessed the dude giving a humungous wedgie to Batman.”

“And can you even imagine the shock and awe on the Walk of Fame,” Hollywood Nate added, “if that fiend had the gall to give a wedgie to, let’s say, Marilyn Monroe? Oh, the horror! Would it be scenery chewing to drive there code three?”