Hollywood Moon

THIRTEEN

TRISTAN HAWKINS HADN’T SLEPT well and had experienced strange and troubling dreams for most of the night. He’d smoked a blunt before going to bed in his east Hollywood hotel-apartment, where he’d lived alone since the first of the year. The smoke hadn’t really mellowed him, and it came back on him later, resulting in sleeplessness and nightmares. Somehow the tropical colors that the landlord favored, along with the rank, humid cooking smells from the Cubans next door, reminded him of a whorehouse in Haiti, an unpleasant memory from his short stint as a steward on a cruise liner when he was eighteen years old. It was a good job, but he’d gotten fired for stealing $20 from one of the cabins being tended by another steward.

Tristan had been wide awake since daybreak and lay there staring at the mildew stains on the plasterboard walls. After their surveillance of Kessler the night before, he’d completely lost control of Jerzy, and he was peeved every time he thought of how the dumb peckerwood threatened to throw him out of his own car unless Tristan let him go “back home to his woman.” And what was his home anyway? Just a shitty little two-bedroom house in Frogtown that Jerzy shared with a woman who was uglier than Shrek, and her four miserable brats.

If he had someone else he could use to help execute the vague plan he was formulating, he’d drop Jerzy in the time it took to make the call to tell him that his bitch looked like she belonged on WrestleMania, and that he’d take a bath in a tub of bleach if he had to sleep with that old hose bag. But he couldn’t do that, and they were scheduled to meet Kessler at 5 P.M. back at the pest-infested duplex/office, where Tristan was supposed to tell him about the interesting new idea he had. The fact that he had no ideas at all wasn’t of concern; it was how to handle Kessler after they informed the man that they were his new partners. The fact was, a little muscle might be needed to quiet Kessler down, and that was the main reason he needed the big Polack.

Kessler had been a letdown in any case. Tristan hadn’t made $1,000 total in the weeks he’d been a runner, so even if the plan didn’t work, he had very little to lose. His scheme was going to involve fast-talking and finesse, and that required his talents. Still, he wished he had one more ace to play. That’s why he decided to return to Kessler’s apartment today when he was certain the man would be away from it.

At 10 A.M., Tristan Hawkins was at a T-shirt shop on Hollywood Boulevard, where a non-English-speaking Guatemalan embroidered “Department of Water and Power” across a baseball cap that Tristan bought at the shop. For another $25 the Guatemalan stitched the same lettering across the pocket of the gray work shirt that Tristan had brought with him.

Just before noon, Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was sitting in his car in the parking lot of an electronics supply house in the San Fernando Valley, working a pair of runners who were purchasing three wireless $1,799 Dell computers with bogus checks that Eunice had printed, along with altered ID that Tristan had stolen on one of his forays to the Gym-and-Swim.

His Jakob Kessler cell chimed, and he picked up and said in his German accent, “Jakob Kessler speaking.”

“It’s Creole, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said.

“Yes, Creole, what is it?”

“I just wanted you to know we might be a couple minutes late for our five-o’clock meet.”

Sounding annoyed, Dewey asked, “What is the problem, Creole?”

“I’m workin’ a deal this afternoon for you, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said. “If it goes like I think it will, I’ll have some good stuff for you.”

What time, then?”

“Five thirty?”

“All right, five thirty sharp.”

“We’ll be there,” Tristan said. “By the way, where are you now?”

Suspiciously, Dewey said, “Why do you want to know?”

“We could meet you in the next hour if you’re anywheres near Hollywood.”

“No, I am not near Hollywood. I shall see you at five thirty.”

When he snapped shut his cell phone, Tristan smiled. He thought he could hear traffic in the background and was certain that the man was not at his apartment on Franklin Avenue. But twenty minutes later, Tristan was.

He was wearing the Water and Power baseball cap with his dreads tucked under, as well as the newly embroidered work shirt. And he had a clipboard in his hand with official-looking documents attached to it. He rang the gate phone of the old woman he’d conned last time.

He recognized the same raspy voice when she said, “Hello, who is it?”

“Department of Water and Power,” Tristan said. “We’re replacin’ meters and need access, please.”

The old woman said, “Call the manager. She’s in number one-three-two.”

“I know that,” Tristan said, “but there’s no answer. I’m just goin’ down the list, and you’re the first one to answer.”

“Oh, all right,” the old woman said. “Are you going to have to come into my apartment?”

“No, ma’am,” Tristan said. “We’ll only need access to the meters.”

The gate buzzer sounded, and the lock clicked open. Tristan entered, climbed the familiar stairway, and was standing at the door of the last apartment on the left, number 313.

He rang and waited twenty seconds before ringing again, and he felt sure that someone was looking at him through the brass peephole.

The door opened a few inches, and Eunice said, “Yes?”

He saw bloodshot blue eyes and gray-blonde tangles of hair, and she reeked of tobacco smoke.

“Department of Water and Power, ma’am,” Tristan said with his most winning smile and taking great care with his diction and grammar. “Have you experienced a power surge today?”

“No,” Eunice said. “Why?”

“We’re havin’ trouble with the load on this street,” Tristan said. “People have reported computers crashin’ for no apparent reason, and we’re checkin’ with every resident we can. Do you have a computer?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Would you please turn it on and see if it’s okay?”

“My computers are working fine,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive,” she said.

“Okay, then, sorry to have bothered you.”

When he walked away, he was excited. She had more than one computer. His hunch had been correct. She worked out of Kessler’s crib. This woman was either a hired hand or his bitch, but for sure she was also his geek. Yes!

Dewey Gleason as Ambrose Willis was angry at himself after he paid off his shopping runner, a young aspiring actor, full-time parking valet, and part-time thief. The kid had talked Dewey into waiting for him outside Chateau Marmont by claiming that within one hour, he could enter the hotel and talk a wealthy female vacationer into buying him a drink in the bar, where he would collect all the information from her credit card without her knowledge. He claimed that he’d even obtain her driver’s license information and checkbook account number. Dewey, who felt sleep-deprived, remained in his car, eventually snoozing. After an hour, he awoke and entered the hotel bar but found no sign of his runner. He figured the bragging little sociopath had probably hooked up with a rich vacationer of either gender and was up in the room fulfilling their Hollywood fantasies.

Thinking of that handsome, young aspiring actor made him remember that he was to meet the other good-looking kid at the office. However, it would be difficult, now that he had to be Jakob Kessler with Tristan and Jerzy, and he would have little time to turn into Bernie Graham. It was at moments like these that he wondered if the elaborate disguises were worth it. But if not, it would mean that Eunice was right again, and that was too hard for Dewey to accept. He decided to leave the hotel and go straight home, become Jakob Kessler, and gather the things he’d need to turn Kessler into Bernie Graham. Then he got on the cell and rang the kid he knew as Clark.

Malcolm was on his lunch break when the cell rang.

“Clark,” Dewey said, “this is Bernie Graham.”

“I hope you’re not gonna change our appointment again, Mr. Graham. I need the work now. I can’t wait any longer.”

“I just need to push it back an hour,” Dewey said. “Meet me at the address I gave you at six o’clock instead of at five. I’ll put you to work tonight, and you can start earning some spending money right away.”

“Six o’clock,” Malcolm said. “At the office.”

“Right, but like I told you, it’s not really an office. It’s an apartment that we use for meetings and other things.”

“See you at six, Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said. “For sure, right?”

“For sure, Clark,” Dewey said.

Dewey drove straight home and found Eunice in a fouler mood than usual. He’d been hoping to lie down for another one-hour nap, but now he knew it would be impossible. She wasn’t even happy when he told her that in the trunk of his car he had three laptops that he was going to deliver next Tuesday for $1,100 cash.

Eunice was wearing her favorite pink bathrobe and pajamas but no makeup, and it was 2:30 in the afternoon. “Nothing’s going right today,” she grumbled, moving the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other with her tongue and teeth while her fingers flew over the keyboard of computer number three.

“What’s wrong?”

“ ‘What’s wrong?’ the man asks,” Eunice said to the ceiling. “I’m stuck in this room working myself into an early grave while you’re out all day doing God knows what and bringing home chump change. That’s what’s wrong.”

“Jesus, Eunice!” Dewey said. “It’s getting harder and harder to do business. There’s stuff all over the papers and TV these days about identity theft, and everyone’s being more cautious. And please don’t tell me how Hugo woulda had no trouble, because I’m telling you that Hugo never had to run up against the shit I’m facing.”

She looked at him and said, “Go in your bedroom and kill Ambrose Willis. You look even sillier than when you’re doing the old Jew, Jakob whatsisname.”

“Jakob Kessler. He’s an Austrian. I don’t know if he’s a Jew. I never asked him.”

“He sounds like a Jew to me every time I hear the phony accent.”

“Aw, shit!” Dewey said. “Just one little break sometime, Eunice. If you ever give me one fucking break, I’ll probably have a stroke and die on the spot.”

“I should be so lucky,” she said.

He went into his bedroom, slammed the door, and fell down on the bed, a bit alarmed by how his heart was thudding irregularly. Something had to be done. He was nearing the end of the line with her one way or the other. He desperately needed a nap, but he groaned to his feet and laid out his Jakob Kessler wardrobe and wig, along with the casual clothing of Bernie Graham that he’d take with him in an overnight bag. He knew that a quick change in the duplex/office would be tricky, but he didn’t think that a kid like Clark would pay a lot of attention to details.

The door to his bedroom was opened abruptly by Eunice, who didn’t know how to knock and had no intention of learning.

“Dewey,” she said. “We should maybe think about moving to another place.”

“Oh, Christ!” he said. “We haven’t been living here that long, Eunice. It’s such a hassle to move everything.”

“A guy from Water and Power was here today. They been having problems around here with power surges.”

“So? You have surge protectors.”

“And I try hard to have everything properly stored and backed up, but you never know. He said some computers had crashed, and it’s got me worried.”

Trying to sound as blasé as possible, he said, “Just so our bank account information is always accessible. You never know when people in our business might have to make a very fast withdrawal or transfer of funds.”

Her watery blue eyes narrowed, and she said, “Don’t worry about the bank account, Dewey. It’s safe.”

As expected, she said the bank account, not our bank account. And she didn’t use the plural this time. With as much sincerity as he could muster, he said, “Eunice, we’re not getting any younger. In case a serious illness or accident happened to you, how would I access the funds? Let’s say if they were needed for your medical care. Do you realize I have no idea where the funds are or what I could do to help you?”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me, Dewey,” she said, expressionless. “Worry about your own health and well-being.”

He was tired and under such strain that he said impetuously, “You act as though it’s your money and not mine too. I’ve worked my ass off for you for nine long years, Eunice.”

“Correction,” she said. “We’ve been married for nine very long years. But for the first two and a half years, I supported you completely while you haunted the offices of second-rate casting agents. Back when you spent more time at Dan Tana’s and the Formosa Café than the goddamn waiters and bartenders because you think screenwriters and moguls still hang out there. You live in the past, Dewey. You’re about as up-to-the-minute as a spinning wheel. Old Hollywood is dead. But I spoiled you and let you have your way, hoping you’d outgrow it. Does this sound familiar? Am I opening the gate to Memory Lane?”

“I was working every minute in those days, Eunice,” he said, feeling his resolve leaking away. “I filled legal pads full of script notes every moment I spent at Dan Tana’s. I met some important people there and at the Formosa, and I got a few acting gigs out of it. I could’ve gotten more if you’d stood by me with patience and encouragement.”

“You never needed encouragement, Dewey, you needed a mommy,” she said. “Well, sonny boy, I got real tired of being your mommy. And now, six and a half years later, you still haven’t learned the business like you should have. You still got your movie star dreams, and if I wasn’t completely in charge of our affairs, we’d be broke. There are certain things for which you have a minor talent, but money management isn’t one of them. It’s much better this way, and that’s how it’s gonna stay, Dewey.”

“And I have no say at all in the matter, is that it?” he said. “I’ll never have money of my own except what you dole out to me, right? Everything in the bank account is yours to control forever, right?”

She lit another cigarette from the pack she kept in her bathrobe pocket and said, “As you well know, Dewey, before I ever laid eyes on you, Hugo and me had built up a tidy nest egg. And as you also know, the money you’ve brought in-because of my talents, I might add-is commingled with that other money. So I think you should be grateful for all of that instead of being whiny and petty and childish.”

Her “talents”? He wanted to tell her she was nothing but a hacker and a forger and a thief. He wanted to tell her it was his innovative ideas in finding and working runners that brought in the money she craved and hoarded. He wanted to tell her that her “talents” were a dime a dozen and if he put his mind to it, he could find fifty hackers at the cyber café who would be more productive partners. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he hated her guts like he’d never hated anyone in his life. But he didn’t tell her any of it.

Dewey heaved an enormous sigh and said, “I don’t even know how much we have in our account, Eunice. I don’t know how many accounts the money is in. I don’t know where the account or accounts are. And I’m your husband. How do you think all of that makes me feel? As a human being.”

“It’s just another concern that you don’t have to deal with,” Eunice said. “You should feel relieved that this human being takes care of important matters. That’s how you should feel, Dewey.”

Suddenly he cried, “You’ve taken my balls, Eunice! I have to live week after week, day after day, as a man without balls!”

She took a big puff on her cigarette, inhaled, and said, “Stop by Hollywood Prop Supply. You might find some you could rent.” Then she blew the smoke into the room, turned, and closed the door.

Dewey Gleason knew then that he could bring himself to kill her if he could first discover a way to access the account or accounts. And he believed he’d never have a single conscience attack afterward. He was so emotionally drained that he did fall asleep for an hour despite her. When he woke up, he had to become Jakob Kessler for his meeting with Creole and Jerzy.

At roll call late that afternoon, Sergeant Lee Murillo and Sergeant Miriam Hermann were both sitting at the table in front of the room. After she read the crimes, Sergeant Hermann said, “The detectives on the sex desk at West Bureau got a call from an alert officer at North Hollywood desk about a mall incident last night. A young, curly-haired Latino who fits the description of the guy that attacked the two women here in Hollywood made a try for a woman putting groceries in her car. He attempted to give her a ten-dollar bill that he claimed he found near her car. She didn’t buy into it, and he really freaked and started screaming as she drove off. If he’s our guy, he seems to be getting more out of control with each encounter. Be supercareful with any young Latinos who fit the description we gave you. A fifty-one-fifty with a box cutter should be taken very seriously, and this one’s out there stalking.”

Dana Vaughn said, “Was the woman middle-aged, blonde, and a bit overweight?”

Sergeant Hermann said, “I don’t know. It doesn’t say in the note I got.”

“Both of ours were,” Dana said. “I checked with the officer who took the report on the woman who got beat up.”

“That’s a good question. I’ll call North Hollywood and get back to you with the woman’s description,” Sergeant Hermann said. “There might be a specific MO being established here.”

R.T. Dibney guffawed and said loudly, “If the woman’s middle-aged, you can bet she’s overweight, and she’s probably blonde. All the middle-aged women I date or been married to are overweight, and all of them become bottle blondes sooner or later. It’s the easiest way to hide the gray.”

Dana Vaughn saw Mindy Ling cast a withering look at her partner for shooting off his mouth, and Mindy said, “From the looks of your sideburns and stash, R.T., you learned a few coloring tricks from your multitude of lady friends.”

Everyone had a chuckle, until Sergeant Murillo said, “Okay, if we’re all through with beauty tips by R.T. Dibney, let’s go to work.”

Of course, each of them touched the Oracle’s picture before filing out the door.

Jerzy was even more unhappy than usual when he showed up in the parking lot by the cyber café and entered the donut shop, where Tristan was sitting at a table in the back.

“Get your sugar fix,” Tristan said, nibbling on a chocolate donut covered with multicolored sprinkles. “Go ahead and load up. I’m buyin’.”

Jerzy sat down without ordering and said, “I let you talk me into some crazy shit, but this takes the cake.”

“Forget the cake. Have a donut,” Tristan said, pointing to the plate in front of him piled with five assorted donuts. “This is gonna take a high energy level from both of us.”

“I wish I had some smoke to sprinkle on the donuts,” Jerzy muttered.

“Did you get the equipment?”

Jerzy automatically lowered his voice when he said, “Yeah, we’re tooled up, and I ain’t real happy about it.”

Tristan lowered his own voice and said, “Where are they?”

“In the trunk of my car at the bottom of a box of birdseed and dog food that my old lady wants for the fuckin’ zoo she keeps in her house.”

“You can rent her a bigger house if this gag goes like I think it will. What’d you get?”

“An old snub-nosed revolver,” Jerzy said. “Couldn’t get my hands on a semiautomatic.”

“Don’t matter, dawg, it’s only a prop,” Tristan said. “It ain’t loaded, is it?”

“Of course it’s fuckin’ loaded. It ain’t that much of a prop.”

“I think you should leave it in the trunk. Maybe it was a bad idea anyways. We don’t need no gun.”

“You said you wanna scare the guy.”

“Not that much,” Tristan said. “Did you get the other… tool?”

Impatiently Jerzy said, “Yeah, the buck knife was no problem. Every biker I know carries one in his saddlebag. I think I know why it had to be a buck knife.”

“Readin’ my mind again?” Tristan said.

“You figure that O.J. Simpson diced the white bitch and her boyfriend with a buck knife, right? And O.J.’s a national hero to you and all your tribe, am I right?”

“Fuck you, peckerwood,” Tristan said. “It’s a scary-lookin’ knife, that’s why. We ain’t into force. Fear is our weapon. And the element of surprise. We’re only gonna scare him, not shoot him, and not cut him.”

“Element of surprise,” Jerzy snorted. “Okay, break it down, mastermind. You got me breathin’ hard.”

“When Kessler shows up, I start talkin’ shit for a minute and you jist make sure you’re between him and the door. You understand how important that is, right?”

With his mouth full of donut, Jerzy rolled his eyes and said, “No I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

Tristan thought, For once we agree, you fuckin’ redneck. But he said, “Anyways, you gotta be the immovable object that the man can feel breathin’ on him every second I’m talkin’ to him. I’m gonna tell him what we know and what we want and what we’re gonna do if he don’t cooperate.”

“And you’re one hundred percent convinced he ain’t gonna call our bluff and tell us to go ahead and rat him out?”

“Look at us,” Tristan said. “We ain’t got a Ben Franklin between us. He knows we got nothin’ to lose. But Kessler and his geek got a whole lot to lose. You jist stand there like a statue and let me work it. He’s gonna get so scared of my story that if you give him a peek at the buck knife, he’ll mess his drawers.”

“Okay, but if I get tired of listenin’ to your shit, and if it ain’t havin’ the desired effect, I reserve the right to do it my way.”

“And what might that be, wood?”

“You’ll see.”

“Puttin’ your hands on the man is a last resort,” Tristan said quickly. “And then only to make him sit down. We don’t need no violence. He’s jist a pussy playin’ dress-up. He’ll take it if you piss on his shoes. No need to tune him up.”

“Maybe,” Jerzy said, shoving a whole donut in his mouth, the powdered sugar turning his lips white.

As they were preparing to leave, a black-and-white pulled into one of the open spaces by the cyber café. Aaron Sloane and Sheila Montez got out and headed toward the donut shop.

Sheila speed-dialed a cell number and said, “Gotta make a quick call.”

When she walked several paces away for privacy, Aaron felt the familiar pain. He was having a hard time with his emotions these days: sadness, jealousy, even despair. Yet, for all he knew, she was only calling her parents to set up a family dinner. He knew she came from a large Mexican family in Pacoima. It could just be that. But whenever she made a private call, he found himself imagining the worst: a yuppie stockbroker or maybe a lawyer in a perfectly tailored Hugo Boss suit, sitting at his desk in Century City with a cell phone in one hand, a bottle of Evian in the other, making plans with Sheila for a couple of days and nights on Catalina Island.

The captivated cop tried but couldn’t come close to feigning insouciance until Sheila closed her cell and said, “I’ll have coffee. You aren’t gonna catch me eating one of those lumps of grease they call donuts.”

“They’re really good when you’re hungry as I am,” Aaron said. “I haven’t had a thing all day except a bowl of cereal. These donuts really stick to your ribs.”

“They stick to your thighs,” Sheila said. “And to your butt. I think they’re made of cellulite. I’ll just have coffee and watch you harm your body.”

“You don’t have to worry about your body,” Aaron said with that same lovelorn look he continually tried to repress.

Sheila didn’t reply, but Aaron caught a glimmer of a smile in response to his compliment as they walked across the parking lot toward the donut shop, which all cops knew was frequented by hustlers and dopers from the nearby cyber café.

Tristan was giving last-minute, animated instructions to Jerzy while getting into the Chevy Caprice, when Aaron took a look at them and said to Sheila, “We can use a couple of shakes for our recap. Let’s see if these dudes have one good driver’s license between them, and maybe even a registration.”

“Nobody’d steal a car that crappy,” Sheila said, but she moved to the passenger side of the Chevy when Aaron approached the driver.

“Turn off the engine, sir,” Aaron said, startling Tristan, who hadn’t seen him coming.

“Somethin’ wrong, Officer?” Tristan said, very grateful that the Polack had left the gun in his own car. But then he thought of the buck knife. He didn’t need this shit right now.

“Your right taillight is broken,” Aaron said. “I’d like to see your license and registration.”

“Sure, Officer,” Tristan said, glancing at Jerzy, who had that not-again expression going on. Tristan feared it might piss off the cops.

From past experience and urban legend about the LAPD, Tristan always opened the glove box very carefully, giving the cop on the passenger side a good look before reaching his hand inside for the registration.

“Here it is, Officer,” Tristan said.

Aaron didn’t like the looks of the sullen, fat white guy and was about to ask them to get out of the car, when Tristan smiled obligingly and said, “You’re welcome to run a make on us if you want. But Officer Vaughn already done it, day before yesterday.”

Aaron was mildly surprised. “How did you meet Officer Vaughn?”

Tristan reached inside his wallet and removed the folded copy of his traffic citation, handed it to Aaron, and said, “She gave me this traffic ticket and she checked out both of us for warrants and such. And she also told me to get the taillight fixed.”

Aaron looked at the citation and then glanced at Sheila, who shrugged. Aaron said, “So why didn’t you get the taillight fixed?”

“My daddy died,” Tristan said. “I been tendin’ to funeral arrangements. I’ll go straight to a Chevy dealer and get it fixed tomorrow, Officer. So help me God.”

Aaron handed the documents back to Tristan, again looked across the roof at Sheila, who gave a chin tilt, and said to Tristan, “Drive carefully.”

When the Chevy was motoring away, Aaron said to Sheila, “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s one slick-talking dude.”

“The donuts in this joint wouldn’t melt if you hit them with a blowtorch,” Sheila said. “Are you really gonna eat one of them?”

“Two,” Aaron said. “Glazed and cream-filled, with extra sprinkles.”

Tristan hadn’t driven his Chevy two blocks before Jerzy said, “I don’t like the way our luck’s goin’. We’re runnin’ up against too many cops these days.”

“We been in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all,” Tristan said. “We gotta be more careful where we go until this whole deal shakes out.”

Jerzy was quiet then, thinking about the risk they were about to take, and finally he said, “You know how cops give people’s descriptions over their radio, like ‘male white,’ or ‘male Hispanic,’ or ‘male black’? That kind of cop shit?”

“Yeah,” Tristan said. “What about it?”

“Know what I heard a cop say to another one there at the cyber café when they were roustin’ some of your south L.A. cousins?”

Tristan sighed and said, “No, but you’re gonna tell me, I’m sure of that.”

“Instead of sayin’ ‘male black,’ he said, ‘male usual.’ Ain’t that a giggle?”