Hollywood Moon

FIFTEEN

WHEN TRISTAN AND JERZY WERE BACK in the Chevy, heading to Pablo’s Tacos for Jerzy to buy a taste of crystal meth, Tristan said, “Dawg, that half a million ransom we’re gonna ask for means more than Bernie says it means.”

“So what’s it mean?” Jerzy asked.

“It means there’s a whole lotta money that the woman is in control of, and he don’t even know how much there is. He’s fishin’ to find out from her. He figures to game her for as much as half a million and only give us a measly forty grand. And another thing, I don’t believe his bullshit about a deal with some banker so he don’t have to wait ten days to draw out transferred funds. I think her money’s in cash someplace. She ain’t no different from dope dealers or anybody else on the game. She don’t want money where the state or the feds or the IRS can grab it if she gets busted. What we gotta do is figure out how to take the real money away from him after he gets his hands on it.”

Jerzy thought it over for a long while and said, “Damn, Creole, your daddy musta been a white man.”

Malcolm found the door partially open when he arrived. Still, he knocked on it and said, “Mr. Graham, you there?”

Dewey said, “Come in, Clark.”

Malcolm found Dewey still sitting in the chair where Tristan and Jerzy had left him. He was sweating and pale.

“Are you okay, Mr. Graham?” Malcolm asked.

“I had an accident,” Dewey said. “I fell. I think a rib is broken. Maybe more than one.”

Malcolm said, “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“No, I think I’ll be okay by tomorrow. But could you help me get up?”

“Sure,” Malcolm said, taking Dewey around the torso and lifting.

Dewey cried out in pain, and Malcolm said, “I better put you back down.”

“No!” Dewey said. “Just help me walk out to my car. And please carry my bag for me.”

Malcolm picked up the overnight bag and said, “You can’t drive a car, Mr. Graham. You better let me call you an ambulance.”

“Just help me, please,” Dewey said, putting his right arm around the young man’s neck, his left arm pressed close to his damaged ribs.

They weren’t halfway down the walkway before Dewey said, “You’re right. I can’t drive a car. I’ll give you fifty dollars to take me home in my car. I live on Franklin west of Cahuenga. I’ll have my secretary drive you back to get your car.”

“Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said before he helped Dewey into the passenger seat of the Honda, “you got a couple little bugs jumping all over your head. Can’t you feel them?”

“Oh, Christ!” Dewey whined. “I’m in too much pain to worry about fleas.”

When they got to Dewey’s security gate, he pointed to his remote and Malcolm pressed it and drove down below the apartment building into the parking garage.

“Put it in my space, number twelve,” Dewey said.

Climbing the stairs, one at a time, brought steady moans from Dewey punctuated by sharp cries when Malcolm moved too fast. After they struggled to the landing, Dewey was wishing he’d let the kid take him to the hospital. What if a rib punctured a lung or something? He wanted to plot some sort of revenge for what the slob did to him, but for now he only wanted to lie down in bed and remain immobile.

“Ring the bell, Clark,” Dewey said.

Malcolm pushed the button, and they waited. Dewey figured that Eunice was peering out through the peephole, so he said, “Come on, open the goddamn door. I’m hurt.”

The door cracked opened a bit, and Eunice peeked out, cigarette dangling, and said, “What the hell’s going on?”

“Open the door wide, for chrissake!” Dewey said. “I can’t walk without help.”

Eunice opened the door, stepping back, and she said to Malcolm, “I’ll take over. Wait outside.”

When Malcolm released his hold, Dewey’s knees buckled and he said, “Don’t let go of me, Clark! Take me to my bedroom. Hurry up.”

“He can’t come in here!” Eunice said.

“Just shut up and get outta the way,” Dewey said. “Come on, kid, walk me straight ahead to the hallway, and we’ll make a turn to the right.”

Malcolm looked in astonishment at the computer screens that were lit and full of names and numbers. Then he walked slowly to the hallway, holding Dewey upright.

“The second room, Clark,” Dewey said. “Just take me in there, and we’ll try to get my ass on the bed without ripping my guts out.”

Malcolm helped Dewey across the small bedroom to a double bed and helped him sit. “Easy, now,” Dewey said. “Don’t move fast. Just scoot me slow and easy, and let me lie down on my side. Then try to lift my legs up onto the bed without killing me.”

The young man followed directions, with Dewey groaning incessantly. When his legs were elevated onto the bed, Dewey said, “Now just flip me from my side onto my back. Gently. Very gently.”

When he was finally supine, Dewey said, “Okay, that’s better. Now step outside into the computer room and ask my… secretary to come in.”

A moment later, Eunice entered and closed the door, saying, “Well, now you really did it, Dewey. That boy just had a good look at our operation. Whadda we have to do to keep his mouth shut? Adopt him?”

“The kid doesn’t know anything, Eunice,” Dewey said, staring upward. “He just wants to make a buck.”

“The hell he doesn’t know anything,” she said. “He’s a new runner, isn’t he? What’s he supposed to think about the computers and the files? And oh, yeah, I have credit cards scattered all over the table, most of which are almost useless thanks to the poor quality of material you’re paying for these days. You just completely breached our security that I worked so hard to set up.”

“He’s a know-nothing kid,” Dewey said. “Kee-rist, Eunice!”

“He only knows you as Bernie Graham, right?”

“Yeah,” Dewey muttered. “And you’re my secretary, Ethel, okay?”

“You really did it now, Dewey,” she said, shaking her head.

“Okay, Eunice,” Dewey said. “Go out there and kill him. Asphyxiate him with cigarette smoke. But then you can dispose of his body all by yourself because I… am… fucking… hurt! Not that you give a shit!”

“So, what really happened to you, Dewey?”

“I got in a beef with one of the runners. A slob called Jerzy who’s not quite as big as a Humvee.”

“The old guy? He beat you up?”

“No, that’s Old Jerzy. I told you, he’s gone. I got beat up by New Jerzy.”

“Jesus Christ!” Eunice said. “Old Jerzy, New Jerzy, what the hell am I doing in this nutty fucking arrangement?”

“It was over a payment I owed him,” Dewey said with a sigh. “He wanted more. He’s a tweaker and he turned violent.”

“Tweakers again!” she said. “No matter how many times I say no tweakers, you still end up working with them. Is that kid in the other room a tweaker?”

“That kid is a baby,” Dewey said. “He’s a nice, polite boy who wants to make some extra change. If he hadn’t showed up, I woulda had to call an ambulance.”

“Okay, so if you really think you got broken ribs, then let him take you to the ER at Hollywood Pres. I don’t want paramedics coming in here to haul you out.”

“My ribs’re feeling a little better. I don’t think they’re broken. I just need a good night’s sleep.”

“So, what am I supposed to say to the kid?” Eunice asked. “Now that he’s in a position to extort us?”

“Say good-bye,” Dewey muttered, “after you drive him back to the office. And give him fifty bucks for his trouble.”

“We better be planning to move,” Eunice said before opening the door. “I hope you enjoy your nap, because I won’t sleep a wink tonight.” She made no effort to hide a little sneer, adding, “And Dewey, take off that stupid fucking mustache.”

When she closed the door, Dewey lay still, thinking maybe he could persuade Jerzy to make the kidnapping look extra real by giving Eunice a few of his special knuckle shots to her fat gut. Just to see how she liked it.

Twilight had come to Hollywood and brought with it the endless streams of traffic. When they got trapped by two signal sequences at a stoplight on Hollywood Boulevard, Eunice said to Malcolm Rojas, “You can call me Ethel. What’s your name?”

“Clark,” Malcolm said.

“We better not waste time,” Eunice said, “so I can hurry back and tend to the wounded. You may have noticed he doesn’t suffer in silence.”

Eunice drove and Malcolm sat quietly. Several times she found herself glancing over at him. He was a handsome kid, she had to admit that much. He was youthfully slender, with delicate features that made him look sensitive. She loved his curly hair and his heavy black lashes over those burning dark eyes. Yes, he was a really good-looking boy.

Finally she said, “Do you have a job, Clark?”

“Yes,” he said, “I work at a home improvement center in the warehouse.”

“Do you like the work?”

“No,” he said. “It’s boring. I’m hoping Mr. Graham can get me some work that’s more -”

“Exciting?”

“Not really exciting, but -”

“Challenging?”

“Yes, that’s it. Challenging.”

“Mr. Graham is good at finding challenging jobs for young people,” Eunice said. “Maybe he can accommodate you.”

Malcolm surprised her when he said, “How about you? How long have you been Mr. Graham’s secretary?”

“Nine years,” she said.

“Is he a nice boss to work for?”

She had to smile. This boy! She hadn’t been around anyone like him since, well, she couldn’t remember when. “He can be nice,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll be nice to you, because you’re nice.”

She looked over at him and he smiled shyly at the compliment. They rode quietly again, but she still found herself glancing over. At last she said, “You have such gorgeous color. I was wondering, are you Hispanic?”

“No,” he said quickly. “My mother was a Persian. Her family was wealthy but they had to get out of their country and come to America poor. She’s dead now. My father was a French chef who worked in some of the best restaurants in New York. He’s dead too.”

Eunice didn’t believe a word of it. Just another Mexican-American kid, she figured, but with a rich imagination. Touching. It was touching to be with him. She was feeling emotions she hadn’t felt in years. She was feeling like a girl!

When they got back to the duplex, Malcolm said, “That’s my car, the old Mustang.”

“A Mustang!” Eunice said. “My boyfriend had a Mustang when I was in high school.”

When she parked at the curb, she turned off the headlights. She had an uncontrollable urge to talk longer with this boy.

He started to get out, and she opened her purse and said, “Wait a minute. Don’t you want your money? Mr. Graham promised you fifty dollars, didn’t he?”

Malcolm said, “Yeah, but I can’t take money for helping a man who was injured. Anybody should do that for free. Just tell him I’ll be waiting for his call.”

“Wait a minute, Clark!” Eunice said, stunned. When was the last time she’d dealt with anybody who’d turned down money? She closed her purse and said, “What kind of burgers do you like? I’m gonna get me a Whopper. Wanna follow me? I’m buying.”

“Well…,” he said. “Maybe I should -”

“Come on. You gotta be hungry,” Eunice said. “I’m starved. We can talk about the business, if you like.”

That did it. He wanted to learn more about what Bernie Graham might expect from him and how much money he could make. He followed her to Burger King, where they parked in the lot and went inside.

Malcolm stood examining the wall menu, deciding what he was going to order, while Eunice was in the restroom. When she returned, her hair was combed and she was wearing fresh lipstick and even some eye shadow. Malcolm didn’t like it, seeing her made up like this. It made her look… flirty. He felt himself getting angry, but he had to control it if he wanted to work for her boss, Bernie Graham.

“I think I’ll do like you and have a Whopper,” he said, concentrating on the menu. “And a Coke, please.”

After she ordered at the counter and their burgers were ready, she brought a tray to the table where Malcolm waited. Eunice put Malcolm’s burger and drink in front of him, along with a paper napkin.

“There,” she said. “You’re too thin to be missing meals.”

Malcolm said, “If you could explain to me some of the ins and outs of the business, I’d really appreciate it. I want Mr. Graham to be happy with my work.”

“How old are you, Clark?” Eunice asked.

“Nineteen. But Mr. Graham said I could pass for twenty-one.”

“That’s astounding,” Eunice said, smiling tenderly. “I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone who wanted to look older.”

Malcolm did not like the way she was staring at him. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He suddenly experienced a wave of nausea and even fear, but he held it back, forcing himself to concentrate on the food.

“The burger is awesome,” he said. “Thanks a lot, Ethel.”

“You ever throw a rock at our car again and I’ll kill you and everyone you know,” Flotsam said to the Salvadoran kid who was sitting on the curb with three other Latino teenagers after 6-X-32 stopped and the surfer cops got out. They made all four boys kneel with their hands on their heads, and they kept flashlight beams on them while they patted them down.

“I didn’t throw no rock,” the kid said with a giggle.

Flotsam was pretty sure the rock had come from him, the one with the goofy grin. They were in a graffiti-tagged residential neighborhood in east Hollywood. The boy was thirteen years old, an aspiring member of MS-13, the world’s largest gang. But at this stage he was just a play gangster, just a wannabe.

Jetsam motioned for them to get to their feet and put their hands down, and he said, “Who threw it, then?”

“I didn’t see no rock throwed,” the kid said.

“Maybe that was a hummingbird sailing over our car,” Flotsam said.

“Maybe a bat,” the kid said, giggling again. “There’s lotsa bats flying around here.”

The other kids chortled at that, and Flotsam said, “You ever hit our car with a rock and I’ll kill you, your momma, and your dog.”

“Our dog is with my brother, Chuey,” the kid said, giggling again, as a tricked-out lowrider squealed around the corner from the boulevard onto the residential street. The kid turned to look in the direction of the car and said, “Yo, here comes Chuey now!”

Flotsam and Jetsam turned toward the green lowrider with gleaming spinner wheels, and when Chuey spotted the black-and-white, he floored it to the end of the street, where he made a screaming left turn.

The surfer cops jumped in their shop, ripped a rubber-burning U-ee, and went after the lowrider. Chuey had second thoughts and stopped two blocks away rather than try to escape. It was another dark residential street like the first one, with modest homes interspersed among deteriorating apartment buildings. Somebody was destroying eardrums in the house nearest to them, playing hard rock that neither cop recognized. Salsa music was competing with it in the apartment building next to that house, with a Marc Anthony CD cranked up to decibel overload.

Flotsam approached on the driver’s side and Jetsam on the passenger side of the car, both moving cautiously, lighting up the interior with their flashlight beams. Neither of them saw Chuey’s “passenger,” who was lying down on the backseat.

When Flotsam got parallel with the backseat, Chuey rolled down his window and said to the tall cop, “Be careful, man.”

Flotsam put his hand on his nine and said, “Careful of what?” and found out when a Rottweiler rose up and roared, lunging at the rear window that was open six inches for ventilation.

“Whoa!” Flotsam yelped and drew his Beretta reflexively.

Jetsam almost drew but relented when he saw that the dog could not get out. Then he said, “Bro, that is a major canine. Hugangus, I would call it.”

Flotsam’s hands were shaking when he holstered his pistol. “Step outta the car, dude,” he said to Chuey.

“I can’t,” Chuey said, eyes red and watery, clearly tanked, which explained his initial panic.

He was no more than twenty years old and was inked up gangster-style. Of course, Flotsam directed his flashlight beam on Chuey’s hands, and in this case he was looking for more than a weapon. He was looking for an MS-13 tattoo but he didn’t see one.

“Whaddaya mean you can’t?” Flotsam said.

“If I do, my dog’s gonna come over that seat before I can close the door, and he’ll go for you.”

“He does and I’ll shoot him,” Flotsam said.

Then Chuey said, “You can’t shoot him! That dog’s like my brother, man!”

“That dog is smarter than your brother,” Jetsam said. “We just met him back there.”

“You shoot my dog, I’ll sue your ass!” Chuey said.

“We’re gonna give you a sobriety test, dog or no dog,” Flotsam said.

“I’m warning you, man!” Chuey said.

“No, I’m warning you, dude,” Flotsam said. “And for the last time, get the fuck outta that car.”

Flotsam’s tone got the massive canine growling and his fangs bared.

By the time that growl came from deep within the animal’s chest to his throat and past his bone-crunching jaws, it was a lion’s roar.

“Partner!” Flotsam called. “Come around here and cover me!”

Jetsam ran around the car, drawing his Glock, while Flotsam grabbed the door handle.

“You chickenshit motherfucker!” Chuey said. “You shoot my dog and there’s gonna be payback! I’ll find out where you live!”

Seeing that Jetsam had the man and dog covered with his pistol, Flotsam drew his side-handle baton from the ring on his Sam Browne. The batons were made of aircraft aluminum and were supposedly unbreakable under normal conditions. Flotsam figured this might turn out to be a real test of that claim.

“You on it, dude?” he said to his partner.

“Good to go, bro,” Jetsam said, directing his flashlight beam and his gun on whatever came out that door in a hurry.

Flotsam jerked open the car door, and Chuey turned in his seat, trying but failing to stop the 140-pound animal. In fact, the surging Rottweiler shoved Chuey out onto the street flat on his face, a pint bottle of vodka he’d been concealing behind him spilling onto the asphalt. And then the dog paused for a few seconds on the front seat, snarling at the cops.

Flotsam dropped his flashlight and, instinctively holding the baton high in the air to deliver a hammer blow, said, “Here he comes!”

But suddenly the animal froze. The brute stopped growling. His huge mouth opened wide and his tongue lolled out. And he started barking, an excited bark, without menace.

Flotsam said, “What the fuck?” and stepped back.

The dog leaped onto the street while Jetsam aimed his pistol directly at the animal’s massive skull. But the dog sat, looking at the taller cop and barking happily.

“Bro!” Jetsam cried. “The baton!”

“He can have it!” Flotsam cried. And then to the animal he said, “Okay, doggy! Fetch! Fetch!” And he hurled the baton with all his strength and heard it clattering to the pavement forty yards down the darkened street.

The Rottweiler yapped with joy and raced after the baton as Flotsam picked up his flashlight, and Jetsam grabbed Chuey by the back of his collar. They quickly handcuffed the prisoner and dragged him to their shop, throwing him into the backseat. Then both cops leaped into the black-and-white and Flotsam made a faster U-turn than he had when Chuey had tried to get away from them.

Thirty seconds later, the Rottweiler was running back to the car with the aluminum baton in his teeth. But when he saw the car had gone, he dropped the baton and chased the black-and-white, howling.

Chuey’s brother and his friends were surprised to see the police car speeding back toward them, and the kid thought he heard a dog barking furiously farther north on the street. The barking seemed to be getting closer. It sounded like a big dog. It sounded like their dog, and he was coming their way.

Flotsam slowed and yelled, “Grab your mutt when he gets here! Your brother’s going to jail for DUI.”

Then Flotsam floored it again and circled the block until he was back to Chuey’s lowrider. They stopped to lock the car and give Chuey his keys.

“I gotta find Excalibur!” Flotsam said, jumping out of the car with a flashlight, searching for his baton.

Jetsam said, “Make it fast, bro, before the dog figures out he’s been gamed and comes looking for revenge!”

Flotsam yelled, “Eureka!” when he found the baton resting against the tire of a parked car. He picked it up and ran to their shop, giving the baton a kiss before putting it in the door rack. Suddenly, he was wiping his mouth on the shirtsleeve of his uniform.

“Gross!” he said. “I kissed dog slobber!”

When they were on their way to Hollywood Station, their silent prisoner made an observation, his first words spoken since being pushed out of his car by the Rottweiler.

Chuey said, “Fernando just wants to chase sticks, man. He can do it all day long.”

Jetsam, coming down from the waning adrenaline rush, said, “Is Fernando the one with two legs or four?”