Hollywood Moon

EIGHT

THE NEXT MORNING, Malcolm Rojas got out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, holding his throat and swallowing hard, feigning illness so he could avoid going to his job at the home improvement center.

His mother was frying eggs for him, and his orange juice was on the kitchen table. She looked at him and said, “Sore throat?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I can’t go to work. I’ll have to call in sick.”

“Oh, sweetie,” his mother said. “Are you sure you’re too sick? You have a good job, and I’d hate to see you lose it. And today you’ll get overtime pay.”

“A good job,” he said. “Slicing boxes open on a Sunday? Unpacking merchandise I can’t afford to buy? A good job.”

He sat at the table and took a sip of the orange juice.

“If you’d only gone on to City College like I -”

“Like you what?”

He couldn’t stand it when her voice got shrill and whiny. He couldn’t stand the sight of her in that shapeless nightgown with her tits hanging down and her fat ass sticking out, and that bleached frizzy hair in pins and two pink curlers, like somebody in a movie fifty years old.

“I was gonna say, if you’d gone on to a community college last year, it woulda been better than any entry-level job you could get at that mall. Your mother told you that.”

The thing he hated most was when she referred to herself as “your mother,” often accompanied by the stroking of his hair, which, thankfully, she hadn’t done in months.

“First you say I shoulda went to college -”

“Gone, sweetie,” she interrupted. “Shoulda gone to college.”

“Okay!” he said. “Gone, gone, gone! How could I pay your damn room and board if I’da gone to college?”

“You wouldn’t have had to,” his mother said, putting the plate in front of him. “I woulda supported you for as long as you stayed in school.”

He felt it coming again. The anger. He started to cut the fried eggs and take a bite, but his hands began shaking.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Why is it your money? When Dad got killed, why did the lawsuit money go to you? Why not to both of us?”

“You were a boy, Malcolm,” she said.

“I’m not now,” he said. “I’m almost twenty. Why do you get the money and all I get is -”

“Room and board,” she said, still with that country accent from her Oklahoma roots. “Which you should be glad to pay for, unless you wanna go to college or even a trade school.”

Then her face softened and she stood behind him and, to his chagrin, reached over to actually stroke his hair, as though she’d read his thoughts and was taunting him. His breath caught. He could hardly believe it, and he said, “What’re you doing?”

“You’re still a boy,” she said, stroking.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not, sweetie?” she said. “You have your father’s lovely curls, and you’re still your mother’s darling little -”

Malcolm Rojas swept his breakfast off the table, sending the plate crashing to the floor. When he leaped to his feet, as though to hit her, she gasped and backed up to the sink.

“Malcolm!” she cried. “Have you gone crazy?”

He stood trembling, then turned and ran to his bedroom and slammed the door. Malcolm pulled on his jeans and a clean white T-shirt and didn’t bother to call his boss before running out the door and down the stairs of the apartment building.

The last thing he heard from his mother was sobbing and her shrill voice calling after him, “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Please! Let’s talk about it!”

When he got to the carports, he jumped in his Mustang, backed out, and started driving aimlessly. Ten minutes later he was heading west on Sunset Boulevard, roaring past the morning traffic clogged in the eastbound lanes, heading toward the ocean without knowing why. He pulled over long enough to calm himself and to phone the boss’s number, and he was glad to get voice mail and not the man. Malcolm wanted to explain how sorry he was that he had a fever and a sore throat, but he lost his nerve.

He put the cell phone away, reached into the glove compartment to remove the box cutter, and put it in the pocket of his jeans, deciding to go to his job.

That Sunday afternoon at roll call, the midwatch was down to four cars, with several cops off-duty. Sergeant Lee Murillo read the crimes and gave the usual admonitions and warnings about failure to complete the crushing load of forms that the consent decree entailed. Then he had to listen to the usual responses. These included some rational comments about the civilian firm that was getting richer from the audits, as well as some about the federal judge who would decide when the LAPD was in compliance. Then the heat started to rise, and of course the sergeant pretended not to hear the irrational suggestions delivered in stage whispers from one cop to another as to what the overseers should do with their audits, and what the federal judge should do with the consent decree, and what the judge’s mother should have done with him, and which parts of him should be fed to the family cat. He knew that cop defensive humor was the equivalent of smacking someone in the face with a cream pie full of maggots, so he let it go.

Recalling some of the morale-lifting techniques of their late beloved senior sergeant, he ended roll call by saying, “There’s nearly a Hollywood moon tonight.” He gestured toward the framed photo hanging beside the door and said, “For you new people, a Hollywood moon is what the Oracle called a full moon, and tonight we’re getting close. The team with the weirdest call gets an extra-large pizza with the works, compliments of Sergeant Hermann and my good self. Of course, we’ll share the pizza with the winners. Too much of that stuff is not healthy for you.”

“We had a weird one last night, Sarge,” Johnny Lanier said. “A woman called us because her elderly father swallowed eight triple-A batteries.”

“That’s not so weird,” said R.T. Dibney. “Poor old geezer probably just wanted to keep on going and going and going.”

“Does it count for weird if we catch another stalker breaking into some house in the Hollywood Hills just to take a dump in a celebrity’s toilet?” another wanted to know.

“Sorry, that’s almost a cliché,” Sergeant Murillo said.

Just before leaving, R.T. Dibney lifted the spirits of several of the male officers when he announced to the assembly that a rape report he’d taken the prior evening from a hooker on Sunset Boulevard contained a statement that the rapist had a “huge penis.”

“The dude musta been real proud of his cruel tool,” R.T. Dibney explained to all. “He took several photos of it to show off to the girls on the boulevard. And after he refused to pay and the hooker got lumped up, she grabbed the photos and ran. I got one of them here. Wanna see the big schvantz?”

That generated some interest, and several cops, females included, gathered around R.T. Dibney to have a look. It resulted in high fives and cries of “Yes!” from very relieved male cops who measured up. However, any urologist could’ve told them that the big schvantz was actually in the normal-to-small range. Like theirs.

At 5 P.M. that afternoon, Dewey Gleason, who was once again Ambrose Willis, was too occupied to remember the kid he’d met at Pablo’s Tacos. He was busy being a Realtor. Half the morning and all afternoon, he’d been checking on a dozen foreclosure addresses that Eunice had downloaded. These and thousands like them had been damaging the local economy for months.

The runners he’d chosen for this job were unsavory. He’d needed a professional lock-picking burglar but settled for a pair of lowlife housebreaking tweakers whom he intended to dump as soon as possible. They were waiting in a battered old Plymouth parked at the curb in front of a modest house on Oakwood, in southeast Hollywood. Dewey couldn’t remember their names, but it didn’t matter. When he parked his car and got out, both thirty-something tweakers-one an inked-up Latino with a lip stud, and the other a sleazed-out, nearly toothless, shaky white guy with the sweats-got out of their car to meet him. The white guy gave Dewey a dozen keys.

“Afternoon, Mr. Willis,” he said.

“Afternoon,” Dewey said. “How many houses did you get done?”

“All six,” the tweaker said, scratching his ribs, his neck, trying to reach his back.

Dewey gave him a look, and the tweaker smiled apologetically, showing the gaps in his grille, and said, “I’m jonesing. No sense lying to you. I need some ice pretty bad. Real bad, in fact.”

“Let’s see your work,” Dewey said, heading for the door with the tweakers at his heels.

The sweaty tweaker pointed out the key to this house and Dewey tried it in the lock. It worked perfectly and he pushed the door open.

“We changed the front-door lock on all six houses, no problem,” the tweaker said. “Can we get paid now?”

Dewey said, “How did you get in to change the locks?”

“Four had an unlocked window. One had a back door that you could slip with a credit card. One had the back door hanging wide open.”

“Careless,” Dewey said, shaking his head. “Everyone’s so careless these days.”

“Our pay, Mr. Willis,” the sweaty tweaker repeated, and Dewey could almost smell the addiction on him.

Dewey opened his wallet and gave the tweaker $150.

“What’s this?” the tweaker said. “We finished the jobs, changed the locks, and bought you extra keys.”

“That’s what we agreed on, one Franklin and one Grant per house,” Dewey said.

“We did six houses,” the tweaker said.

“So you say,” Dewey replied. “As soon as I inspect them, you’ll get the balance.”

The Latino spoke for the first time. “So we say, man.”

He said it so softly that Dewey was unnerved. Spittle was dripping over the guy’s lip stud, and his eyes had narrowed.

“I’ll meet you at Pablo’s Tacos in three hours,” Dewey said. “After I inspect the others.”

“You ain’t going nowhere with our money,” the Latino said.

This guy didn’t seem to Dewey like the spun-out tweakers he occasionally had to deal with. This guy seemed calm and focused and very serious. “Whadda you say about this?” Dewey said to the sweaty tweaker. “We’ve done business in the past. Whadda you say?”

“I gotta go along with my partner,” the white tweaker said. “I got the joneses real bad. I can’t wait three hours to buy me some crystal.”

Dewey took another look at the Latino, who never blinked those slitted black eyes, and Dewey took seven more $100 bills and one $50 bill from his wallet. “I’m trusting you two,” he said lamely.

“You can trust us, Mr. Willis,” the sweaty tweaker said, snatching the money from Dewey’s hand. “You got more jobs for me, just drive by the taco stand any morning after nine. I’ll be there, looking for work. By the way, the keys were fifty bucks extra.”

Dewey was furious, but he reluctantly gave the tweaker another $50 bill, and as they slouched away from the house, whispering to each other, he had a sudden stab of panic. What if they decided to kill him to take what was left in his wallet? What if that’s what they were whispering about? Dewey was ready to run as fast as he could if they turned and came back at him. He was enormously relieved when they got in their car and drove off.

Dewey quickly locked the door, went to his car to retrieve a “For Rent” sign attached to a wooden stake, a roll of tape, a ball of string with brightly colored pennants attached, and a hammer. The sign said “Brad Simpson Real Estate,” along with one of Dewey’s cell numbers on it. He strung the pennants across the front porch posts and pounded the stake into the desiccated front yard.

Dewey drove to the next house on his list, desperately hoping that the tweaker had not lied to him. But he had. The second set of keys did not work, and he was positive that when he drove to the other four houses, they would still have the original locks in place. Fucking lying tweakers! He hated them all. He hated this work. He hated thinking what Eunice was going to say when she found out he’d been fleeced.

Eunice, ever the anal planner, had made Dewey place the ads in the PennySaver and on craigslist from a computer that he’d rented for an hour at the 24/7 cyber café, where lots of drug dealers and hookers did business online. And because he was nearly computer-hopeless, she’d written detailed instructions for him on how to do it. Eunice later told him she’d quickly received several phone calls from eager prospective tenants who’d jumped at the rental price, so Dewey knew she’d now be impatiently waiting for his call, no doubt on her forty-eighth cigarette of the day.

“Good to go” was all he said when she answered.

She said, “I got several prospects dying to be the first one to see the places. I’ll send a client to destination number one at six thirty.”

“Jesus Christ!” Dewey said. “I’ve had a long day. I’ll meet them tomorrow.”

“People gotta work for a living,” Eunice said testily. “You’ll close the first deal this evening and then wait for number two. I’ll have another good prospect there by seven thirty. The rest you can do tomorrow. Understand?”

He didn’t have the nerve to face a broadside right this minute, so he said, “They’re not all done yet.”

“So?” she said. “Get somebody else to do them if the guys you picked won’t do the job. What’s the problem?”

He was silent for a moment and decided on a partial confession. “They made me pay them in advance for the others. I paid them for the whole job.”

The line was dead for at least ten seconds before she said, “Made you? Made you? How?”

“They made me. That’s all I can say right now.” Then he lost his nerve again and lied. “But they’re gonna go back and finish the jobs. They promised.”

“Goddamn it!” Eunice said. “You accepted the promise of a fucking burglar? You’ll never see them again!”

“I told you they made me!” he said, and now his voice had jumped a few frets and he hated her more for causing it. “It’s gonna be okay!”

“How come nobody ever made Hugo do anything he didn’t wanna do?” she said. “Tell me that!”

“They made him go to jail, didn’t they?” Dewey yelled before clicking off.

It was all Dewey could do to keep from smashing that phone on the sidewalk in front of house number one. He went to his car, put the Brad Simpson Real Estate cards in his shirt pocket, and waited for the first good prospect to arrive for the appointment. Then he heard the chirp from one of the four cell phones he was carrying.

Malcolm Rojas was a half hour late in dialing the number of the man he knew as Bernie Graham. When he got his man on the line, Malcolm said, “I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Graham. I’ve been real busy.”

“Who is this?” Dewey said.

“Clark. You know, from Pablo’s? You gave me your number?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dewey said. “Did you decide you wanted a job?”

“In the late afternoons and evenings,” Malcolm said, “after I leave my regular job.”

“Gimme your number,” Dewey said. “I’m busy right now, but I’ll phone you later.”

After giving his cell number to his prospective employer, Malcolm put the cell phone in his pocket and it clicked against the box cutter. He was on a residential street a few miles from that apartment with underground parking, on the other side of Hollywood. He wondered why he’d driven over here and why he was watching the women leaving the shopping center. He’d been sitting here in his car for more than an hour. He tried to concentrate on other things, such as the job he might be getting with Bernie Graham. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be making real money, not the shitty wage he was getting from the home improvement center for unpacking boxes.

Thinking of that made him look at his hand. Just before leaving work, he had sliced a tiny laceration near the base of his thumb with his box cutter while opening a crate containing power drills. It was small, but deep enough to sting. The boss had given him the first-aid kit, and he’d sprayed and patched the wound.

Then Malcolm felt it coming again. It always began in his belly and worked its way up until he felt that his face was on fire. His head would throb with it. In comic books, anger was often drawn in red, but his wasn’t red. His was darker, black maybe. He felt almost smothered by dark vapors that made it hard to catch his breath. He could taste his rage, and it tasted like the blood on his hand. It scared him but he was excited by it.

Malcolm had seen dozens of women leave the shopping center and go to their cars, but this was the one he wanted. She drove an old gray Volvo sedan, and she was alone. He followed her, careful to keep a car between them like in the movies, and that part was thrilling. He knew that nothing was going to happen. He was only playing a game, a stalking game. She wasn’t going to pull into an underground parking garage like the last one. It couldn’t happen like that again. He was just fooling around, just passing the time until his anger subsided and he could go home.

Malcolm followed her onto a residential street six blocks east of the Wilshire Country Club. She lived in a bungalow, the type he’d seen in movies about old Hollywood. It was white stucco with a Spanish-tile roof. There was a tiny yard in front and there were lots of other small houses nearby. He parked half a block down the street, leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his head, and closed his eyes. He was just waiting to grow calm again. He needed a good night’s sleep, he thought. Soon he was dozing fitfully.

The first “clients” arrived a few minutes before 6:30 P.M., and Dewey, with his best Realtor’s smile, met them on the front porch, holding the door wide open. They were a young Latino couple, he with a pronounced accent, she with a slight accent and a baby in her stomach. Dewey figured they were no older than twenty, and they were shy.

The husband had the look of a gardener. He wore a khaki shirt and frayed jeans, and there was dirt under his nails. His naturally dark skin showed a decided tan line across his forehead, where his hat was usually worn.

Dewey held out his hand and said, “Welcome, folks! I’m Brad Simpson. Here’s my card.”

The young man shook his hand, and his wife spoke for them, saying, “We’re the Valencias. We spoke to a lady in your office.”

“Yes,” Dewey said. “That was my secretary, Ethel. We’ve had so many inquiries in the last hour. She’s called me on my cell four times. This one is going to be rented quickly. Come on inside.”

Dewey saw their disappointment at the condition of the foreclosed house, and he said, “The last tenants were pretty awful. We haven’t had time to clean the place. Also, we’re going to paint the living room and the bathroom. Did my secretary tell you there’s a little powder room just off the kitchen? We’re going to wallpaper that as well as the kitchen. Everything will be done before you move in, if you decide to take the place.”

They listened politely and then walked through the small rooms, until the wife said, “This could work for us, but we have one more house to look at.”

Dewey said quickly, “How much did my secretary tell you the rent would be?”

“Twenty-four hundred a month,” the young woman said.

“It’ll go before the evening’s over,” Dewey said. “In fact, I have an appointment with a prospective tenant in”-he glanced at his watch-“thirty-five minutes.” He looked at them thoughtfully and said, “You know what? I’d like you two to have this place. It’d be a nice street for your baby to grow up on. Gosh darn it, you remind me of how it was when my wife and me were starting out. I’m gonna take it upon myself to trim three-no, make it four hundred dollars off the rent. I know the owner won’t give me any trouble when I tell him the place is not in good condition. He lives in Oregon and never comes to L.A., so I pretty much have total control over his property management. And I’ll waive the security deposit. You write me a check for the first and last month and it’s yours. You can move in on the first of the month, when the place will look fresh as a daisy, I guarantee you. Paint, wallpaper, plumbing repaired, the works.”

Dewey smiled large and studied them while they talked quietly but enthusiastically in Spanish, and then the wife took a checkbook from her purse and said, “We accept and we thank you! Shall I make out the check to Brad Simpson Real Estate?”

“That’ll be fine,” Dewey said, thinking that four Clevelands would be a nice deposit to the account he’d just opened at the bank as Brad Simpson.

He filled out the rental agreement as fast as he could, figuring that the next “client” would probably also be arriving early for their appointment. After he said good-bye to the couple, he only had to wait ten minutes until the next appointment arrived.

This was a black couple, a bit unusual in that there were not many black people living in Hollywood. Every other ethnic group was more than proportionately represented, especially the growing Latino and Asian populations. These two were only slightly older than the last couple.

Dewey’s professional smile broadened, and he extended a business card, saying, “Folks, you’re just in time. The last appointment said they’re coming to my office in the morning and will probably take the place, but until I get their first and last month’s check, it’s still open. My name is Brad Simpson and I’m very pleased to meet you!”

When the couple was looking at the kitchen, Dewey had a flashback to the last time he did the rental gag. On the first of February, six moving vans had arrived at the cottage he’d rented in mid-Hollywood. The street was blocked by the trucks, disputes raged, and the police were called. He happened to be driving by on his way to another “rental” and had to take a detour because of the traffic jam.

Malcolm Rojas could hardly wait until dark. He’d been watching the cottage for an hour. Dusky light blasted through the Hollywood smog, and the cottage where the woman had entered gave off a burnished glow. That light excited Malcolm. He was excited by everything around him, and even though the anger had not abated, he couldn’t say for sure which emotion was stronger, anger or excitement.

No one else had entered the bungalow, no children, no husband, nobody. It was such a small house that he figured she lived there alone. Somehow that made him angrier. That bitch got a little house of her own, and he had to share an apartment with his mother, like a helpless child.

She had unlocked the front door and had carried her shopping bags inside but had not returned to the door. Maybe it wasn’t locked now. Regardless, he was going in. If he had to, he’d ask her if his friend lived there. Who? Thomas, that was it. He’d ask if Thomas lived there. But if the door was unlocked, he was not going to ask anything. He was that angry and that excited. He reached into his pocket and stroked the box cutter.

She never heard him enter. She was in the kitchen, thawing a small steak in the micro when she heard him bump into a kitchen chair. When he rushed her from behind, he clamped his hand over her mouth, showed her the box cutter, and said, “If you scream even once, I’ll cut your throat.”

When he had her down on the kitchen floor, she began sobbing, her eyes on the box cutter that he held to her face.

She kept repeating, “Please don’t! Don’t hurt me! I’ll give you money! Take the money from my purse! Take my car! Please don’t hurt me!”

The bitch! She looked even older up close. He thought she was at least forty-five years old, maybe older. He looked at the roots of her strawberry blonde hair and could see gray. So she was maybe fifty years old. Look at her fat thighs! He pulled at her underwear, ripping it away from her while she said, “Please don’t hurt me!”

“Shut up!” he said. “First you’re going to suck me off, you fat old bitch!”

There was no doubt which team would win the Almost-a-Hollywood-Moon contest and get an extra-large pizza with the works from Sergeant Murillo for handling the weirdest incident, not after 6-X-66 got a call to the memorial park that night. One of the employees had returned to pick up a set of keys she’d inadvertently left on her desk, and she’d seen a door to the mortuary slightly ajar. She’d put in a 9-1-1 call on her cell and then informed the guard at the exit gate.

The cemetery was huge and far from 6-X-66’s beat. And since the message from communications came in on their computer as “See the woman, open door,” it didn’t excite anybody, and no other cars responded to back them up.

“Watch three’s got way more cars than we do,” Aaron Sloane, the driver, said to Sheila Montez. “Where are they? Why do we have to roll all the way up here?”

“The lazy bastards gotta run to Seven-Eleven for a caffeine pick-me-up three times a night before they can even start thinking like cops,” Sheila said irritably.

Aaron figured it was her monthly cycle making her cranky, but he’d been a cop long enough to know that absolutely the worst thing you could ever say to a woman officer who seemed to be in a bad mood was “Is it your time?”

Diplomatically, he said, “Maybe we could stop for a cup after we handle this call. You look a little… down tonight.”

She glanced at him, looked back at the streets, and said, “I’m fine.” Then, because he was not just any partner but the one who’d witnessed the Montez meltdown at the side of a dead baby’s crib, she opened up a bit. She said, “It’s just that you can’t depend on anybody anymore.”

Aaron hesitated and said, “Boyfriend trouble?”

That made her turn toward him and say, “If there is anything that nearly seven years of police work have taught me, it’s that everybody lies, and you should never under any circumstances get involved with another cop.”

He was crestfallen. “I thought you said you’d learned your lesson after your bad marriage to the sergeant from Mission Division. Have you been… dating another cop?”

“Who said anything about dating?” Sheila replied, and his heartbeat advanced ten beats per minute. “The Pope will samba at Saint Peter’s before I ever date one again. But I was dumb enough to be one of three investors in a twenty-eight-foot powerboat. Don’t ask me how or why. It happened right after I lost… lost the baby, and my divorce was final and… I don’t know, I think I went crazy. Now my fellow investors-cops, of course-are bickering. And we’re selling the boat, and I stand to lose almost eight thousand.”

“Whoa!” Aaron said. “I’m sorry, Sheila. Is there anything I can do?”

“Are you independently wealthy, Aaron?” she said with that little sloe-eyed glance of hers that made his heart rate advance five more beats per minute.

He had gone from thinking that Sheila Montez was a very hot-looking woman to thinking she was drop-dead gorgeous. It was getting very hard for him to hide his feelings. “No,” he said, “but I’d lend you whatever money I could.”

She snapped out of it, smiled, and said, “I know you would, partner. You’re probably the only cop I’d ever get involved with.”

Then Aaron’s heart rate increased another five beats, until she added, “In a business deal.”

Aaron turned his face toward her and said, “I guess if I ever get married, it shouldn’t be to another cop, should it?”

“Why do you ever have to get married?” she said. “Look around you. Just about all the married people at Hollywood Station are two-and three-time losers.”

“I don’t know,” he said, trying to keep it casual, when it was anything but. “It gets lonely living alone, and it gets tiresome dating people that I don’t even wanna be with. Don’t you feel like that sometimes?”

She didn’t answer him and didn’t seem to notice his moonstruck look as they drove east on the cemetery road, his normal sixty-two-beats-a-minute heart rate approaching three digits. They met a security guard at the entrance who directed them to the mortuary. The guard was a sixty-ish wisp of a guy who looked as though he didn’t want to be entering open doors in mortuaries after dark or, for that matter, at any other time.

Aaron cut the headlights when they were well down the road from the mortuary, and the black-and-white glided in and stopped a short distance away. Aaron and Sheila got out, leaving the doors ajar, and walked quietly to the side entrance of the mortuary, not expecting to find anything but a door left open by a careless employee. What’s to steal in a mortuary?

After they were inside, Sheila was the first to hear them: male voices. She held up a hand, and both cops froze, drew their pistols, and listened.

“Yours is an ugly pig!” one voice said.

“Fuck you,” the other said, giggling. “Yours is a hundred years old!”

“No!” Sheila whispered, looking wide-eyed at Aaron, her shocked expression saying, It can’t be!

He nodded with a grimace, his expression saying, Yes, it can.

Aaron led the way into the mortuary, quietly creeping down a carpeted hallway to a room lit by lamps, where loved ones had been embalmed that day and cosmetic work had begun. There were two female corpses and one male corpse in the room, each on its own table. On top of the elderly female corpses were two Hollywood tweakers, both naked, both tatted out, both sharing a jar of Vaseline and a glass pipe full of crystal meth. They were side by side, having pushed the tables together for buddy bonding, and had gotten into the mortician’s makeup box. One corpse had grotesque kewpie lips, while the other had eye shadow so thick she looked masked.

The scrawnier of the two white men said, “You got too much eye paint on her. She looks like a fucking raccoon!”

“Don’t get me started on your shitty work!” the other said. “The fucking Joker looks more natural than yours.” Then he turned his face to the corpse he’d mounted and said, “Goddamn it, bitch, can’t you move a little bit? I feel like I’m fucking my ex-wife!”

Both meth-crazed tweakers were laughing hysterically when Sheila Montez switched on the overhead light and said quietly, “Please give me an excuse to kill both of you.”

By the time they got the tweakers dressed and handcuffed and the night-watch detective and the watch commander were notified, two night-watch units had arrived and impounded the tweakers’ car, which they found parked on the north side of the memorial park. When 6-X-66 finally got to Hollywood Station, they put one prisoner in a holding tank, a little room with a bench and a big shatterproof window. They walked their other prisoner into the detective squad room, where Compassionate Charlie Gilford was watching Showbiz Tonight on his own little TV, which he kept in a desk drawer.

The detective switched off his TV, stretched, yawned, and stood up. His rumpled Men’s Wearhouse suit coat hung on the chair behind him, and for a few seconds, Sheila Montez had to gawk at the detective’s incredible necktie, decorated with what were apparently meant to be some sort of cubist embellishments. Compassionate Charlie, who liked to go bargain shopping for Tijuana imports on Alvarado Street, had bought it from a Mexican street vendor who kept pointing to the design, saying, “Diego Rivera!” Except that it looked like something Diego Rivera might have sketched on a tablecloth during a bout of d.t.’s.

“Okay, so what’s the big deal about this?” Charlie said to Aaron, while Sheila took the tweaker into an interview room.

“Didn’t the watch commander talk to you about it?” Aaron said.

“Is this the cemetery deal?” Charlie said, cranky from being pulled away for more paperwork.

“It sure is,” Aaron said.

The detective walked into the interview room, looked at the tweaker who sat in the chair nodding off, sniffed the air, and walked back out.

“That dude reeks,” Charlie said. “What am I smelling?”

“Formaldehyde,” Sheila Montez said, lip curling.

Sergeant Lee Murillo entered the detective squad room then and said to Aaron and Sheila, “Well, there’s no doubt about it. You two get the Almost-a-Hollywood-Moon award. One extra-large pizza with the works.”

Charlie Gilford glanced quizzically at the sergeant and said, “For what?”

Sergeant Murillo said, “For handling the weirdest call of the night.” Then the detective looked at Aaron Sloane and said, “Were those two hemorrhoids boning male corpses or female corpses?”

“Female corpses,” Aaron said.

“Well, shit!” Compassionate Charlie Gilford scoffed. “You call that weird?” Then he repeated the mantra heard every day around the police station in that unique part of the world: “This is fucking Hollywood!”