Hollywood Moon

EIGHTEEN

THE NEXT DAY WAS to be the most momentous in his life. At such a moment, he could face and admit who Dewey Gleason really was: failed actor, failed screenwriter, mediocre forger and thief. At such a time, all denial was stripped away. He thought of his brother and sister in Seattle, a civil engineer and a schoolteacher. Both had spouses and children and were ostensibly happy, yet he’d always felt he was smarter and more accomplished than either of them. For years he’d blamed his failures on the show-business bug that bit him during his high school years. Then later, he’d decided it wasn’t a bug, it was a goddamn vampire bat that sucked Seattle right out of him and eventually steered him to Hollywood. And this was where it would all finally end, one way or the other.

Of course, Dewey had slept intermittently, and the sleep he did get was clouded by bizarre and unremembered nightmares. There were so many things that could go wrong, he’d finally stopped listing them. He’d faced the certain truth that if this didn’t work, he and Eunice were finished as a team, whether or not she guessed he’d engineered the gag. She’d probably pack up and head for San Francisco without him. That is, if she survived. And that made him think of Jerzy Szarpowicz, and of how much he hated even being in the cretin’s presence, let alone having his own freedom depend on him. As he faced his fiftieth birthday in extreme desperation, he felt old, as old as original sin. Dewey knew that his plan could lead to extreme violence. And that made him get out of bed before daybreak and make his fourth trip to the bathroom.

When he was sitting on the toilet, he made a mental note to call Creole to tell him that when they got their kidnap victim into the apartment in Frogtown, they must not let Eunice have a cigarette, no matter how much she begged. Dewey hoped that nicotine deprivation might be the torture that would break her faster than anything they could inflict.

Tristan Hawkins and Jerzy Szarpowicz met at the house near Frogtown that Jerzy shared with his woman and her kids. After that, they spent an hour renting a van, using the same bogus ID that Tristan had used before, and then drove to a thrift shop, where they bought a roll-away bed with a pancake mattress of jail quality. The bed was old but the frame was made of heavy steel that would fit their needs. They didn’t bother buying a pillow and certainly didn’t purchase sheets. The thrift shop manager threw in a blanket with cigarette burns in several places, and having seen their victim, Tristan figured that cigarette burns would probably make her feel at home.

Next they bought some lengths of chain at a hardware store, along with two padlocks, a roll of duct tape, and some large cleaning rags to serve as blindfolds. They made a trip to a sporting goods store for two sleeping bags for themselves, and then to a supermarket for cans of soup, packages of lunch meat, three loaves of bread, mayonnaise (because Jerzy insisted), an ice chest, bags of ice, bottled water, toilet paper, one bar of soap, and several rolls of paper towels. They bought a box of lawn-and-leaf bags to haul away all debris from the apartment after they were finished with their gag. And that completed the shopping list.

Or so Tristan thought until Jerzy said, “We forgot something.”

“What?” Tristan said.

“We gotta go back to the thrift shop and get an old rug.”

“We ain’t settin’ up housekeepin’, dawg,” Tristan said. “Next thing, you’ll be wantin’ a few pots of geraniums.”

“The rug’s for jist in case,” Jerzy said.

“In case of what?”

“In case we gotta roll her up in it if things don’t work out right.”

Tristan started to say something but changed his mind. What good would it do? He’d told both Jerzy and Bernie enough times that he wasn’t going to stand for violence, but he knew in his heart that he wouldn’t be able to stop it if it got started. He’d grown up in the ’hood. He knew how nobody could stop violence once it really got started. He refused to go back inside the thrift shop, so Jerzy bought the threadbare rug for $65 and carried it to the rental van by himself.

Eunice was absolutely bubbly when she went off to Henri’s for all the beauty work. She even mentioned to Dewey that she might stop by Macy’s and pick up something to wear.

“We’re only going to Musso’s,” Dewey said. “I’ve seen guys in T-shirts and tennis shoes having dinner there. In fact, that’s the dress code for most of the half-ass movie and TV people around this fucking town.”

“You’re grouchy this morning,” Eunice said. “And you got bags under your eyes.”

“That’ll provide a marked contrast to our young dinner guest,” Dewey said.

“I forgot we even have one,” Eunice said, and Dewey controlled the urge to smirk. “I don’t suppose Clark’ll be dressed up, will he?”

“Not ghetto-fabulous or anything like that, I wouldn’t think,” Dewey said, and added with feigned enthusiasm, “Okay, then, see you later when you’re beautiful.”

Malcolm Rojas brought a clean shirt and jeans to work and put them in a locker. He thought he’d shower and shave there at the end of the day. Actually, he really only had to shave every other day, and he’d shaved yesterday for that little bitch Naomi, but tonight was a special occasion. His mother hadn’t been awake when he left in the morning, so at least he was spared her nagging, or an interrogation as to why he hadn’t called her when he’d failed to come home for supper last night.

It had been hard for Malcolm not to tell someone at work about what had happened to him. He’d bought an L.A. Times, hoping to find some mention of the cop getting dunked in a swimming pool, but there was nothing there. He hadn’t even thought to look in the paper to see if the other incidents had been mentioned. That’s because he wasn’t proud of how he’d failed on both of those occasions, but nobody could say he’d failed last night. He’d gotten away when it looked like half the cops from Hollywood Station were looking for him. It made Malcolm smile every time he thought about it.

When they awoke late that morning in her double bed, Sheila Montez said to Aaron Sloane, “How about some tortillas and eggs? I still cook like a Mexican. Hollywood hasn’t changed me.”

“Anything you say,” Aaron said with his moonstruck smile. “I think I’m still dreaming.”

When she got out of bed and walked naked to the bathroom, he looked at her and said, “You’re even more beautiful in the daylight. If I ever run into that prowler again, I think I’ll kiss him.”

Sheila glanced over her shoulder with the dusky, sloe-eyed look that always enchanted him. Her heavy dark hair, no longer pinned up so as not to touch the lower edge of her uniform collar per regulations, was draped across one shoulder.

She paused at the bathroom door and said, “After my bad marriage, I promised myself that I’d absolutely, positively never get involved with another cop. And I’ve kept my promise until now.”

“You’ll never have a problem with me, Sheila,” Aaron said earnestly, propped up in bed on one elbow, his blue eyes wide and artless. “I’m crazy for you and have been since our first night as partners. Now I can’t wait to take you to my folks’ house in Van Nuys for Sunday dinner. They’re gonna fall in love with you too. In fact, I predict that my accountant father will tell us how much money we could save if we take the proper steps to file a joint tax return next year.”

After digesting the import of his words, Sheila turned away from Aaron for a moment and he couldn’t see her face, and it alarmed him. The besotted young cop had been so overwhelmed by the rapture of the moment that the words had just poured from his lips. But now he feared he’d said too much too soon, and he was trying to think of something, anything, to tell her that he was patient and he’d wait, and that he hadn’t meant to blurt out what he was feeling so profoundly.

But when she turned again to face him, her eyes were glistening, as they had been last night under the summer moon. All she said was, “If you ever cheat on me, I’ll kill you.”

“Cheat on you?” Aaron cried in relief and elation. “That’s impossible, Sheila! Not only am I mad about you, I’m scared to death of you!”

Prior to getting ready for work that afternoon, Dana decided to take her daughter shopping at Banana Republic and Nordstrom, spending on Pamela most of the money she’d been saving to buy herself a few things at the midsummer sales. Dana loved shopping with Pamela, seeing her so enthusiastic and excited about going away to Cal in September. Of course, Dana’s feelings were mixed. She was proud that Pamela had worked hard and got the grades to be accepted at UC Berkeley, but she worried about her child living in a dorm five hundred miles from her.

When they’d talked about it over lunch during a break from the shopping frenzy, Pamela sensed her mother’s anxiety and said, “Mom, I know you think I might get taken over by radicals from the People’s Republic of Berkeley and turned into a campus terrorist, but not to worry. About eighty percent of my dorm mates will be brainy Asian girls with parents calling three times a day to make sure they’re doing violin practice as well as studying every waking moment. I don’t think there’s much chance of getting into trouble up there. It’ll be all I can do to keep up academically.”

And Dana gazed at her daughter, eighteen years old now, who’d inherited Dana’s wide-set, golden-brown eyes, firm chin, great cheekbones, and lovely long legs. Dana figured she was probably smarter than both her cop mother and lawyer father, who, Dana had to admit, was readily coughing up the money that their daughter needed to get college-bound.

Dana thought that someday she might actually be able to bring herself to a face-to-face with that lying, skirt-chasing asshole, and hear about his new family: a bucks-up wife with two sons of her own. Dana guessed that by now the boys must resent their stepfather for taking control of their trust-fund management, because Dana was sure that he would have. He was that kind of intrusive, controlling lawyer who could never stop beginning every ponderous pronouncement with “At some point in time.” Dana hated that law school redundancy almost as much as she’d hated his philandering. How he’d managed to provide the seed to produce the splendid girl sitting across from her would always be a mystery.

Before they finished their iced tea, Dana’s cell chimed, and when she picked it up, a tremulous voice said, “Officer Vaughn?”

“Yes?” Dana said, not recognizing the caller.

“It’s Naomi Teller? From Ogden Drive?”

“Yes, Naomi,” Dana said. “Thanks for calling. Do you have some information for me?”

“Yes,” Naomi said. “I been thinking about it and I didn’t talk to my mother or dad, but I’d like to talk to you. Could we talk in person? It’s kinda hard to tell it on the phone.”

“I go on duty late this afternoon. I can meet you just after six P.M. Do you want me to come to your house?”

“No. I’ll just tell my mother I’m going up the street to visit my friend Liz, but I’ll meet you at the corner of Sunset and Ogden. I’ll start walking at six o’clock.”

“See you there, honey,” Dana said.

When Dana closed her cell phone, Pamela said, “Who was that?”

“A fourteen-year-old girl whose house got attacked by a prowling rock thrower last night. I think she wants to tell me who it was.”

“Rock thrower?” Pamela said. “I didn’t think you busy LAPD cops had time to be chasing around after rock throwers.”

“This one’s special,” Dana said. “When we were looking for him, he sneaked up on one of our officers and tossed him into a swimming pool before escaping.”

“Really?” Pamela said. “How mad was the cop?”

“You know how your electric toothbrush vibrates?” Dana asked.

At 3 P.M., Dewey Gleason in his Honda, followed by Tristan Hawkins and Jerzy Szarpowicz in a rented van, were at the car gate of the storage facility in Reseda. Dewey punched in his entry code while the office employee looked out the window. The gate buzzed and swung open. Both vehicles drove in, and Dewey stopped at the office, entered, and spoke to a woman he’d come to know as Bessie on other trips he’d made as Bernie Graham.

“Dropping off a van, Bessie,” he said. “We’re coming back later.”

“Okay, Bernie,” she said.

He often gave her small gifts, and this time he brought a few fan magazines to keep her occupied when he pulled out of the storage facility alone in his car.

They proceeded to the storage room, and while Dewey unlocked the door, Tristan drove the van around to the next lane of parking spaces.

While Tristan was gone, Jerzy said to Dewey, “I hope you don’t plan to lock this thing up while we’re inside.”

“Of course I do,” Dewey said. “My wife’ll be with me when we come back tonight. What’s she gonna say if she sees the thing unlocked?”

“I don’t know what she’s gonna say,” Jerzy said, “but you ain’t lockin’ us in there.”

“There’s plenty of air,” Dewey said. “And if you have to take a leak, just do it in there.”

“You ain’t lockin’ us in there,” Jerzy repeated. “Figure out somethin’ else.” And with that, he took the padlock from Dewey’s hand and said, “I’ll hang on to this.”

“Shit!” Dewey said just as Tristan came jogging back from parking the van. He was carrying a flashlight, a roll of duct tape, and rags for the blindfolds.

“What’s the problem?” Tristan said when he saw that they hadn’t yet opened the storage-room door.

“He won’t let me lock you in,” Dewey said. “It’ll look suspicious if I don’t. It could wreck the whole gag.”

“I ain’t gonna be locked in that room,” Jerzy said, “and that’s final.”

“Lemme see that,” Tristan said, indicating the padlock.

Tristan hung the padlock over the metal door staple and closed the door and folded the hasp over it. “There,” he said. “In the dark it’ll look okay. Make sure your old lady’s standin’ behind you when you pretend to be unlockin’ it.”

Then he opened the storage-room door and said to Jerzy, “Come on, dawg, let’s get inside and figure how we’re gonna pull our ambush on this here victim and his woman.”

“This isn’t starting out right,” Dewey said. “This is a bad omen.”

“Fuck your omens,” Jerzy said. “Just do what we say.”

So now Dewey could no longer even pretend that he was in charge. These thugs had taken over. Dewey looked at Jerzy and nodded, forcing himself to think only of the money and of driving away from Hollywood forever. He imagined how he’d be laughing out loud every time he thought of this fat pig being left in Frogtown with nothing but his frustrated partner, his boiling rage, and Eunice Gleason.

There wasn’t a soul at Hollywood Station that day who did not know about the assault on Officer R.T. Dibney the night before. When he came to work, everyone greeted him with a grin, a chuckle, or a wiseass remark. He even saw two Mexican janitors jabbering in Spanish, and one of them waved his arms in a swimming motion while the other cackled hysterically. The Mexican stopped swimming when he saw R.T. Dibney glaring at him.

R.T. Dibney was expecting more of the same after he changed into his uniform, but walking to the roll call room, he got stopped momentarily by the surfer cops, and they didn’t make any wisecracks or swimming jokes.

“Dude, we’re into cruising those westside reporting districts until we catch that prowler,” Flotsam said gravely.

“Thanks,” R.T. Dibney said with some suspicion.

“We’re gonna get him before this deployment period ends, bro,” Jetsam said.

Now R.T. Dibney was even more suspicious. It was one minute from the start of roll call. Why were they out in the hallway, offering this moral support?

Both surfer cops patted him on the shoulder in yet another show of solidarity and slowly made their way into the roll call room, where everyone was already seated in attentive poses, faces to the front. Both Sergeant Lee Murillo and Sergeant Miriam Hermann looked as serious as the troops. He couldn’t figure that out either.

The surfer cops sat quickly and nobody paid the least attention to R.T. Dibney, who was the last man in, and he made his way to his usual seat.

But as he prepared to sit, Sergeant Murillo said, “Today, roll call training is about… swimming pool safety.”

And there on R.T. Dibney’s chair was a child-size, plastic life preserver with a little toy whistle attached to it, and a tag that said, “Next time, just whistle.”

After the dozen cops and two supervisors got their laughter under control, R.T. Dibney, with mustache twitching, said to all, “I’m gonna find that guy. And when I do, I just might not be taking prisoners.”

“You’re a knockout!” Dewey Gleason said to Eunice when she emerged from her bedroom in a knee-length, wraparound, black-and-white flower-print dress from Macy’s. Her strawberry-blonde hair was dyed and highlighted, making her more of a taffy blonde this time, and cut in a chin-length bob. Her nails were coated in clear polish, with the tips whitened for the more natural look, and she wore black, strappy heels that he figured must have set her back a few Franklins.

“I love your new shoes,” Dewey said.

Eunice said, “Yeah, well, if I bought shoes to fit the occasion, Musso’s would deserve old leather bedroom slippers.”

“Anyway, you look terrific,” Dewey said with less enthusiasm.

Eunice hadn’t had a compliment from Dewey in so long, she didn’t know how to respond. She removed the cigarette protruding from the left side of her freshly glossed lips and said, “A girl has to get gussied up once in a while to feel like a girl.”

Waxing theatrical, Dewey said with a flourish, “Her flesh is luminous in velvet shadows. A figure from Rembrandt, who will turn all heads in Musso and Frank!”

Eunice looked at him and said, “Don’t overact and go all burbly. When your chirp level gets elevated, you make me think you have ulterior motives, Dewey.”

That wiped the smile off his face and gave him a jolt of alarm. The goddamn woman had a sixth sense! He’d have to watch every word he said tonight if he was to get her to that storage room in Reseda. The booze would help if he could entice her to swill it while she was busy flirting with the kid. Suddenly, the whole elaborate plan seemed half-baked, and he felt the confidence leaking out of him. But then he only had to think of that meth demon and his sly little partner and remember that they owned him now. That was enough to give him the resolve to get through this gag and hope that he really was the actor he’d always believed he was.

Malcolm Rojas was showered and shaved and wearing a lemon-yellow, long-sleeve shirt that his mother had ironed. He arrived early and was standing nervously in the parking lot behind Musso & Frank when Dewey drove the Honda in. Malcolm wondered why someone as successful as Bernie Graham didn’t have a better car, but he figured it must be part of doing what the man always referred to as a gag, and not wanting to draw attention in any way. Malcolm couldn’t understand the relationship that Bernie Graham had with his secretary, Ethel, and wondered if it was romantic. All Malcolm knew for sure was that he didn’t like the way Ethel looked at him and smiled at him, as though she wanted to put her hands in his hair the way his mother had done until he’d put a stop to it. And then, when they got out of the Honda, there was something about Ethel, all dressed up with her hair really blonde now, something that made him think of his mother.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Dewey said as he and Eunice approached Malcolm.

When they shook hands, Malcolm’s palm was wet and clammy. “Oh, nothing,” Malcolm said, and the image vanished.

Eunice smiled coquettishly and said, “Are you hungry, Clark?”

“Not real hungry,” Malcolm said, “but I’m sure it’ll happen when I smell the food in there.”

Five minutes after they cleared from roll call, Dana Vaughn had a surprise for Hollywood Nate.

“What was it that the Oracle always told you about police work?” she said.

“He said that doing good police work was the most fun we’d ever have in our entire lives. He was nearly sixty-nine years old when he died, so I think he knew a few things about the Job.”

“How would you like to do some pretty good police work tonight?”

“Like what?”

“Popping the guy who pushed R.T. Dibney into the swimming pool.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“The kid, Naomi Teller? She called me. I think she wants to give up the person who tossed the rock. I’m betting it’s some little jerkoff from school that she doesn’t want her mom to know about.”

“You haven’t told anyone about the phone call?”

“No, I thought it’d be cool to bust the kid ourselves and let you come up with something funny when R.T. Dibney finds out about it.”

“Yeah!” Hollywood Nate said eagerly. “Maybe I’ll text him and offer to trade the kid for the keys to his new Acura. Something like that.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it, honey,” Dana said.

Naomi Teller was standing on the west side of Ogden Drive just south of Sunset Boulevard at 6:10 P.M., as promised. She looked especially young in low-rise jeans, a cutoff “Pink” jersey, and tennis shoes, especially since she was still a year or more from acquiring the womanly curves that the style required.

Dana pulled to the curb and said to Nate, “You better take a short walk and let us girls talk it over.”

“Roger that,” he said, getting out of the car and holding the passenger door open for the girl to get in.

When Naomi was in the passenger seat next to Dana, she said, “I was wondering if pushing the officer into the swimming pool is real serious?”

“It’s an assault on a police officer,” Dana said. “People don’t do it every day, that’s for sure. Are you worried about what’ll happen to the rock thrower?”

“No, I’m kinda scared about what might happen to me if I snitch. ’Cause I’m pretty scared of him. I think he’s not quite right up here.” She tapped her temple with a fingernail decorated by a little Walk of Fame star.

“Tell me about him,” Dana said.

“I met him when I was walking home last week, and I gave him my number. And I went and had a burger with him yesterday when he called me after he got off work. That’s all I did with the guy, but he’s, like, nineteen years old. My mom’d have a fit if she knew I got in a car with a guy his age that I didn’t even know.”

“Did he say where he worked?”

“No.”

“What kind of car?”

“A red Mustang. A real old one.”

“What’s his name, Naomi?”

“Clark. He says it’s Clark Jones, but I don’t believe he’s a Jones. He looks like a Gomez maybe. He’s real cute with great teeth and big dimples.”

Dana smiled at that and said, “Why’d he throw the rock through the window?”

“Because after he bought me the burger, he thought I was his girlfriend or something. There was stuff kinda weird about him, and I got scared and wished I’d never got in his car. When he called me later, I told him he was too old for me. I did it, like, real nice and all, but he got way mad. He called me a bitch, and I hung up on him.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No, he never said.”

“When he called you at home, was it on your home phone?”

“No,” Naomi said, “on my cell.”

“Bingo!” Dana said. “You’ve got his cell number in your phone, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Naomi said. “In fact, I put it in the list the first time he called.” She pulled her phone from the pocket of her jeans, scrolled to “Clark,” and said, “Here. You can write it down.”

Dana pulled out her notebook and did just that, and then she said, “Now I’d like the best description of him that you can give me. You think he might be Hispanic, and he’s nineteen years old, right? How tall is he?”

“Not tall,” Naomi said. “I’m five foot six, and he’s only a couple inches taller.”

“How much does he weigh? Take a guess.”

“He’s thin. So how much would that be?”

“About a hundred and forty or so. Any tattoos?”

“Not that I could see.”

“How about the color of his hair and eyes?”

“Real pretty brown eyes with long lashes,” Naomi said. “And real dark curly hair, almost black.”

Dana made notes and then said, “Long hair, short hair?”

“Just a regular guy’s haircut,” Naomi said, “except it was thick and curly. It curled over his ears. Most girls would die for hair like that.”

And then Dana Vaughn’s demeanor changed, and Naomi thought her questions seemed a bit more urgent.

Dana looked at her notes and back at Naomi and said, “When was the first time you saw Clark?”

“Last week,” Naomi said. “I forget what day. Maybe Friday?”

“What was he wearing then?”

“He wore a T-shirt and jeans and tennis shoes,” Naomi said.

“What color was the T-shirt?”

“Blue. Light blue.”

And now Naomi saw even more of a change in the officer when she leaned forward and said, “When you were having your burger yesterday, where were you?”

“At Mel’s Drive-In on the Strip,” Naomi said. “It was pretty expensive, I think.”

“Did you notice anything different about him yesterday? Anything about his face or other parts of his body?”

“Like what?”

“Any fresh scratches or bruises anywhere?”

“Just skinned-up knuckles on both hands. And a little bruise under his eye. He said he beat up a couple of guys at his job that were bullies. I didn’t really believe that either.”

And now there was no question in Naomi’s mind: This police officer was super-interested in Clark Jones. In fact, the officer looked as though she wanted to call out something to her partner, who was waiting twenty yards away on the sidewalk.

“Anything else?” Dana asked.

Naomi said, “I think Clark is kind of a bragger who makes up things. Like about his Persian mother and his French father. I didn’t believe that either. We talked about guys like him in class. They have a mental problem, maybe because of drugs or something. It makes them behave… grandy-something.”

“Grandiose?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Naomi said. “He talks, like, way grandiose.”

“If Clark phones you again, I want you to call me immediately,” Dana said. “I’m not sure yet, but he may be involved in some very serious crimes against women.”

“Now I’m really scared,” Naomi said.

“Don’t be afraid,” Dana said. “I’m taking your information straight to my station and phoning detectives with it. I think Clark will be behind bars very soon. Would you like us to drop you at your house now?”

“I think you better,” Naomi said. “I don’t wanna walk alone. But I’d like to tell my mom about it myself. She might phone you later.”

“That’s fine,” Dana said. “I’ll be available.”

After they dropped off Naomi at her house on Ogden Drive, Dana said to Hollywood Nate, who as yet knew nothing about Naomi’s information, “Well, if the Oracle was right about doing good police work, we’re about to have ourselves lots of fun, honey.”

When Malcolm finished his steak, he said it was the tastiest he’d ever had. Eunice smiled tenderly and said, “Would you like another soda?”

“I don’t think so. Thanks, anyways.”

“Did you save room for dessert?” she asked.

“Sure,” Malcolm said with his high-wattage smile.

“That smile of yours could light up the Vegas Strip,” Eunice said, making Malcolm drop his eyes in discomfort.

Dewey, who hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of his swordfish, signaled to a waiter for a recitation of the desserts. The waiter nodded but continued with other customers. It didn’t faze Dewey, who especially liked the waiters at Musso & Frank, most of whom were aging brusque Mexicans dressed formally in black tie. They knew their stuff and didn’t waste time or words stroking customers, unless the customers were Hollywood relics, those faded stars and almost-stars who still came to the old places for the fantasy of retaining continuity with a Hollywood that was no more.

“Do you like this place, Clark?” Eunice asked, tapping on the table with one of her newly lacquered nails, and Dewey knew she was dying to run outside for a smoke.

“Yeah, it’s really nice,” Malcolm said.

Eunice looked around, trying to see the place as the boy saw it. Musso & Frank was one of the old restaurants that didn’t so much resist changes in style and decor. They simply ignored them.

“Have you ever been to a nice restaurant before?” she asked.

“No, not really,” he said. “But like I was telling you, my dad was a French chef. He told me about the restaurants he worked at in New York and Paris, France, and London, England. He’s dead now.”

“A French chef?” Eunice said. “How about that. Is your mom still alive?”

“No, she passed away too. She was a Persian who was a distant relative of the royal family over there. I was raised by my dad’s cousin, who was married to a man in East L.A. I didn’t belong there, but there was nothing I could do about it. Now I live alone in Hollywood in an apartment. It’s pretty expensive. That’s why I’m so anxious to go to work for you and make some real money.”

Dewey glanced at Eunice and knew that she didn’t believe this kid’s bullshit any more than he did, but by the way she smiled at the boy-and it wasn’t maternally-he knew she didn’t give a damn what he said. Eunice was utterly taken. Thank God for midlife crises, Dewey Gleason thought, and he looked at his watch.

Jerzy Szarpowicz, sweating in the oppressive darkness of the metal-and-concrete storage room, turned on his flashlight and also looked at his watch.

“It don’t make the time pass no faster by lookin’ at your watch every two minutes,” Tristan said. They were sitting on top of cardboard crates containing large plasma TV sets that they fully intended to take away and sell when this was over.

“I’m burnin’ up in here!” Jerzy said. “I wish I had a quarter of Go Fast. I even wish I had a dime bag of smoke.”

“Get on the floor,” Tristan said. “Heat rises.”

“It’s jist as hot down there,” Jerzy grumbled. “This gag ain’t gonna work. That motherfucker’s gamin’ us like he games everybody else.”

“It might work, it might not work,” Tristan said. “If they don’t show up, we’ll load all his merchandise in the van and take it outta here and sell it. Then we’ll have more negotiations to conduct with Mr. Bernie Graham.”

“If he ain’t already outta Dodge,” Jerzy said.

“He ain’t,” Tristan said. “He’s locked into this gag. You can see it all in the man’s eyes.”

“See what?”

“Greed,” Tristan said. “Like I see in your eyes.”

“And how ’bout you? You ain’t greedy?”

“Oh, yeah, dawg,” Tristan said. “But somehow I don’t think I’m desperate greedy like you and Bernie. I got my limits.”

“You think too much,” Jerzy said.

Tristan looked at his partner and said, “Wood, it jist occurred to me that I ain’t never seen you in anything but a black T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Don’t you have no other threads?”

“I got duplicates of these,” Jerzy said testily.

“Your bitch must find you very easy to buy for,” Tristan observed.

All pout, Jerzy looked at his wristwatch again.

Six-X-Seventy-six was back in the officers’ report room at Hollywood Station. Dana had called to leave information for the sex crimes detectives, a job that had recently been taken away from Hollywood Detectives and given to West Bureau. She made a request that when the detectives got the warrant the next day, she be kept in the loop as to their arrest plans.

And while she was doing that, Hollywood Nate was apprising the acting watch commander, Sergeant Murillo, on what they’d learned from Naomi Teller. His supervisor was not just interested but very impressed.

When Nate was finished, Sergeant Murillo said, “Damn, I think you’ve nailed it. Clark Jones, or whatever he’s called, has gotta be the rapist too.”

“Dana nailed it,” Hollywood Nate said. “A lotta coppers woulda just taken the original report for the busted window and turned it in and been done with it. Not her. She’s gonna be one hell of a sergeant.”

“No doubt about that,” Sergeant Murillo said. “And though we’re one day early for our full moon over Hollywood, this piece of police work deserves a large pizza with the works for you two.”

“Which you’ll help us eat,” Nate said.

“Of course,” said Sergeant Murillo. “And I think I’ll call Miriam in to join us at the feast.”

“If you’re calling in Sergeant Hermann, don’t you think you better get the super-large-size pizza?” Hollywood Nate said.

When Nate got back to the report room, Dana Vaughn was still writing. He watched her for a moment. When she stopped writing and glanced up at him, he said, “When your promotion and transfer goes through, I hope you’ll come back here as our midwatch supervisor after you finish your probation.”

“You gonna miss me that much?” Dana said.

Hollywood Nate said, “You’re not a sixty-nine-year-old guy with too much gut and a crew cut right out of an old black-and-white movie, but by God, there’s something about you that reminds me of the Oracle.”

“Why, honey,” said Dana Vaughn, “that’s just about the nicest thing anyone around here’s ever said to me.”

After paying the check, Dewey said, “Will you two excuse me? Cocktails always excite my bladder.”

“We don’t need the details,” Eunice said. “Just go.”

When Dewey was gone, Eunice said to Malcolm, “Can you give me your cell number, Clark? I’ll be needing it when we have to set up jobs for you.”

“Sure,” Malcolm said.

Eunice smiled at Malcolm when she punched his number into her own cell phone. He didn’t like the way she was smiling at him and wished his boss would hurry back.

The moment he was alone in the restroom, Dewey pulled his cell from his pocket and speed-dialed. After one ring, he heard Tristan say, “Yeah.”

“Call in exactly ten minutes,” he said.

“Okay,” Tristan said and clicked off.

Dewey’s bowels suddenly rumbled and he ran inside a toilet stall just in time.

Eight minutes later, after Eunice had visited the restroom, she and Malcolm and Dewey were in the parking lot behind the restaurant, having said their good-byes. Dewey paid for his car and Malcolm’s, and just as they were ready to go, Eunice, who’d drunk two cocktails more than usual, said, “Clark, don’t go home yet. Let’s stop and get a nightcap. Have you ever been to the Formosa Café? No, of course you haven’t. It’s another old Hollywood joint on Santa Monica that Bernie likes because Bogie drank there.”

She saw the young man’s blank expression and said, “Humphrey Bogart? Ever heard of him?”

“No,” Malcolm said.

“Damn, you’re young!” Eunice said.

Dewey looked at his watch. Less than two minutes! The kid had to be gone when his cell rang, or the whole gag could fail! “Ethel,” he said, “this young man can’t have a nightcap. He’s not old enough to drink in bars, so why don’t we let him go.”

When she turned to face him, Dewey could see she was hammered, and only minutes away from belligerence. If she turned mean, it was all over. As he was trying to decide how to handle her, the kid saved him.

“Thanks, but I should go home now,” Malcolm said. “I had a real nice time, but I still gotta get up early for my job at the warehouse.” Then he added, “Which I hope I can quit real soon.”

“Soon,” Dewey said. “We’ll start working in earnest late tomorrow afternoon. Keep your cell on and I’ll call around noon.”

“Good night, Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said, walking to his car. “Good night, Ethel.”

“Night,” Eunice said and then turned to Dewey and said, “You can’t let someone have a nice evening out, can you, Mr. Graham?”

He didn’t need this shit, not now. He looked at his watch and held open the passenger door for her, saying as soothingly as he could without condescension, “Eunice, we had a very nice evening. The boy had to go home and -”

His cell chirped, and she heard it while she was lighting a cigarette and shooting a boozy glare at him.

He opened the cell and said, “Bernie Graham speaking.”

He heard Tristan say, “Okay, I’ll jist keep this goin’ till you say good-bye.”

Then Dewey said for effect, “Oh, shit! How did that happen?” After a long pause, he said, “Oh, Christ, I can’t come now, and I don’t have anybody else to send!” He paused again and said, “Okay, okay, how long will he wait?” After another pause he said, “I’ll deal with it somehow.”

When he clicked off, Eunice said, “Now what the hell’s the problem?”

“That was our runner Creole. He works with Jerzy and they’re stuck downtown at the interchange with a flat tire and no spare. I was depending on them to deliver three laptops and two small plasmas to a regular customer of ours named Hatch. You’ve heard me talk about him.”

“They’ll have to do it tomorrow,” Eunice said.

“He said Hatch wants the merchandise by ten o’clock tonight or he’s walking away from the deal. And he owes us three grand in addition to this delivery.”

“What, you’re giving easy terms to thieves now, Dewey? How the hell is it that he already owes us three grand?”

“It wasn’t me. Creole did it last Thursday without my approval when he made another delivery to Hatch. I knew you’d get mad, so I didn’t tell you. Anyway, Hatch is waiting in north Hollywood in Von’s parking lot with almost five thousand dollars for us. That’s if we make tonight’s delivery by ten o’clock.”

As drunk as she was, it made her stop and think, as Dewey had hoped it would. He knew he could always depend on her avarice.

She said, “And I suppose the goods are in the storage room in Reseda.”

“Of course,” he said, “and there’s just barely enough time to pick up the stuff and deliver it to Hatch. I’m just saying, that’s how it is.”

She smoked and thought about it and said, “Okay, let’s go. I mighta known I could never get a nice evening out without some major shit going down all wrong.”

“It wasn’t my fault, Eunice,” Dewey said.

“Just drive to Reseda, for chrissake,” Eunice said, taking a big drag from the cigarette and blowing it at the windshield. “And hurry it up, Dewey, or we’ll lose it all and that’ll make everything perfect. A perfectly fucked-up evening.”