Hollywood Station

TWELVE

HOLLYWOOD NATE ALWAYS said that there were two kinds of cops in Hollywood Division: Starbucks and 7-Eleven types. Nate was definitely a Starbucks guy, and lucky for him his protégé Wesley Drubb came from a family that had never set foot in a 7-Eleven store. Nate couldn’t work very long without heading for either the Starbucks at Sunset and La Brea or the one at Sunset and Gower. On the other hand, there were Hollywood Division coppers (7-Eleven types) who chose to take code 7 at IHOP. Nate said that eating at IHOP would produce enough bad cholesterol to clog the Red Line subway. He seldom even patronized the ever-popular Hamburger Hamlet, preferring instead one of the eateries in Thai Town around Hollywood Boulevard and Kingsley. Or one of the more health-conscious joints on west Sunset that served great lattés.

The hawkish handsome face of Nate Weiss had now recovered from his battle with the war veteran who insisted on a ride to Santa Monica and La Brea. The last Nate heard about the guy was that he’d plea-bargained down to simple battery and would no doubt soon be returning to drugs and flashbacks and a hankering for another ride to Santa Monica and La Brea.

Nate was back to pumping iron at the gym and jogging three times a week and had an appointment to meet a real agent who might advance his career immeasurably. Being one of the few officers at Hollywood Station who loved to work all the red carpet events at Grauman’s or the Kodak Theatre, where sometimes hundreds of officers were needed, he’d met the agent there.

“You know, Wesley,” Nate said, “about that little indie film I’ve been trying to put together? Had a chance to talk to your old man about it yet?”

“Not yet, Nate,” Wesley said. “Dad’s in Tokyo. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. He’s a very conservative man when it comes to business.”

“So am I, Wesley, so am I,” Nate said. “But this is as close to a no-brainer as it gets in the film business. Did I tell you I’m getting my SAG card?”

“I’m not sure if you told me or not,” Wesley said, thinking, Does he ever stop? The guy’s thirty-five years old. He’ll be a star about the time USC trades its football program for lacrosse.

“Every time I do a union job as a nonunion extra, I get a voucher. One more job and I’ll have enough vouchers and pay stubs. Then I’m eligible to join the Screen Actors Guild.”

“Awesome, Nate,” Wesley said.

When Hollywood Nate lay in bed after getting off duty, he had latté dreams and mocha fantasies of life in a high canvas chair, wearing a makeup bib, never dating below-the-line persons, using the word “energy” at least once in every three sentences, and living in a house so big you’d need a Sherpa to find the guest rooms. Such was the dream of Hollywood Nate Weiss.

As for young Wesley Drubb, his dream was muddled. Lately he’d been spending a lot of time trying to convince himself that he had not made a horrible mistake dropping out of USC, not graduating and going on for an MBA. He often questioned the wisdom of moving away from the Pacific Palisades family home into a so-so apartment in West Hollywood that he couldn’t have easily afforded without a roommate. And not without the personal checks he was secretly receiving from his mother’s account, checks that he had nobly refused to cash for several months until he’d finally succumbed. What was he proving? And to whom?

After the hand grenade incident and the fight in which Nate got hurt worse than he pretended, Wesley had confided in his brother, Timothy, hoping his older sibling would give him some advice.

Timothy, who had been working for Lawford and Drubb only three years, knocking down more than $175,000 last year (their father’s idea of starting at the bottom), said to him, “What do you get out of it, Wesley? And please don’t give me any undergraduate existential bullshit.”

Wesley had said, “I just… I don’t know. I like what I do most of the time.”

“You are such an asshole,” his brother said, ending the discussion. “Just try to only get crippled and not killed. It would be the end of Mom if she lost her baby boy.”

Wesley Drubb didn’t think that he was terribly afraid of getting crippled or killed. He was young enough to think that those things happened to other guys, or other girls, like Mag Takara. No, the thing that he couldn’t explain to his brother or his dad or mom, or any of his fraternity brothers who were now going to grad school, was that the Oracle was right. This work was the most fun he would ever have on any job.

Oh, there were boring nights when not much happened, but not too boring. On the downside, there was the unbelievable oversight that LAPD was presently going through, which created loads of paperwork and media criticism and a level of political correctness that a civilian would never understand or tolerate. But at the end of the day, young Wesley Drubb was having fun. And that’s why he was still a cop. And that’s why he just might remain one for the foreseeable future. But his thought process went off the rails at that point. At his age, he couldn’t begin to fathom what the words “foreseeable future” truly meant.

After Hollywood Nate had his Starbucks latté and was in a good mood, they got a call to Hollywood and Cahuenga, where a pair of Hollywood’s homeless were having a twilight punch-out. Neither geezer was capable of inflicting much damage on the other unless weapons were pulled, but the fight was taking place on Hollywood Boulevard, and that would not be tolerated by the local merchants. Project Restore Hollywood was in full bloom, with everyone dreaming of more and more tourists and of someday making seedy old Hollywood glam up like Westwood or Beverly Hills or Santa Barbara minus the nearby ocean.

The combatants had taken their fight to the alley behind an adult bookstore and had exhausted themselves by throwing half a dozen flailing punches at each other. They were now at the stage of standing ten feet apart and exchanging curses and shaking fists. Wesley parked the shop on Cahuenga north of Hollywood Boulevard, and they approached the two ragbag old street fighters.

Nate said, “The skinny one is Trombone Teddy. Used to be a hot-licks jazzman a truckload of whiskey ago. The real skinny one I’ve seen around for years, but I don’t think I’ve ever talked to him.”

The real skinny one, a stick of a man of indeterminate age but probably younger than Trombone Teddy, wore a filthy black fedora and a filthier green necktie over an even filthier gray shirt and colorless pants. He wore what used to be leather shoes but were now mostly wraps of duct tape, and he spent most evenings shuffling along the boulevard raving at whoever didn’t cross his palm with a buck or two.

It was hardly worth worrying about who would be contact and who would be cover with these two derelicts, and Hollywood Nate just wanted to get it over with, so he waded in and said, “Jesus, Teddy, what the hell’re you doing fighting on Hollywood Boulevard?”

“It’s him, Officer,” Teddy said, still panting from exertion. “He started it.”

“Fuck you!” his antagonist said with the addled look these guys get from sucking on those short dogs of cheap port.

“Stay real,” Nate said, looking at the guy and at his shopping cart crammed with odds and ends, bits and bobs. There was no way he wanted to bust this guy and deal with booking all that junk.

Wesley said to the skinniest geezer, “What’s your name?”

“What’s it to ya?”

“Don’t make us arrest you,” Nate said. “Just answer the officer.”

“Filmore U. Bracken.”

Trying a positive approach, Wesley smiled and said, “What’s the U for?”

“I’ll spell it for you,” Filmore replied. “U-p-y-u-r-s.”

“Upyurs?” Wesley said. “That’s an unusual name.”

“Up yours,” Nate explained. Then he said, “That’s it, Filmore, you’re going to the slam.”

When Nate took latex gloves from his pocket, Filmore said, “Upton.”

Before putting the gloves on, Nate said, “Okay, last chance. Will you just agree to move along and leave Teddy here in peace and let bygones be bygones?”

“Sure,” Filmore U. Bracken said, shuffling up to Teddy and putting out his hand.

Teddy hesitated, then looked at Nate and extended his own hand. And Filmore U. Bracken took it in his right hand and suckered Teddy with a left hook that, pathetic as it was, knocked Trombone Teddy on the seat of his pants.

“Hah!” said Filmore, admiring his own clenched fist.

Then the latex gloves went on both cops, and Filmore’s bony wrists were handcuffed, but when he was about to be walked to their car, he said, “How about my goods?”

“That’s worthless trash,” Hollywood Nate said.

“My anvil’s in there!” Filmore cried.

Wesley Drubb walked over to the junk, gingerly poked around, and underneath the aluminum cans and socks and clean undershorts probably stolen from a Laundromat found an anvil.

“Looks pretty heavy,” Wesley said.

“That anvil’s my life!” their prisoner cried.

Nate said, “You don’t need an anvil in Hollywood. How many horses you see around here?”

“That’s my property!” their prisoner yelled, and now an asthmatic fat man waddled out the back door of an adult bookstore and said, “Officer, this guy’s been raising hell on the boulevard all day. Hassling my customers and spitting on them when they refuse to give him money.”

“Fuck you too, you fat degenerate!” the prisoner said.

Nate said to the proprietor, “I gotta ask you a favor. Can he keep his shopping cart inside your storage area here until he gets outta jail?”

“How long will he be in?”

“Depends on whether we just book him for plain drunk or add on the battery we just witnessed.”

“I don’t wanna make a complaint,” Trombone Teddy said.

“Shut up, Teddy,” Hollywood Nate said.

“Yes, sir,” said Teddy.

“I ain’t as drunk as he is!” the prisoner said, pointing at Teddy.

He was right and everyone knew it. Teddy was reeling, and not from the other geezer’s punch.

“Okay, tell you what,” Nate said, deciding to dispense boulevard justice. “Filmore here is going to detox for a couple hours and then he can come back and pick up his property. How’s that?”

Everyone seemed okay with the plan, and the store owner pushed the shopping cart to the storage area at the rear of his business.

While Nate was escorting their prisoner to the car, Trombone Teddy walked over to Wesley Drubb and said, “Thanks, Officer. He’s a bad actor, that bum. A real mean drunk.”

“Okay, anytime,” Wesley said.

But Teddy had a card in his hand and extended it to Wesley, saying, “This is something you might be able to use.”

It was a business card to a local Chinese restaurant, the House of Chang. “Thanks, I’ll try it sometime,” Wesley said.

“Turn it over,” Teddy said. “There’s a license number.”

Wesley flipped the card and saw what looked like a California license plate number and said, “So?”

Teddy said, “It’s a blue Pinto. Two tweakers were in it, a man and a woman. She called him Freddy, I think. Or maybe Morley. I can’t quite remember. I seen them fishing in a mailbox over on Gower south of the boulevard. They stole mail. That’s a federal offense, ain’t it?”

Wesley said, “Just a minute, Teddy.”

When he got back to his partner, who had put Filmore U. Bracken in the backseat of the car, Wesley showed him the card and said, “Teddy gave me this license number. Belongs to tweakers stealing from mailboxes. The guy’s name is Freddy or Morley.”

“All tweakers steal from mailboxes,” Hollywood Nate said, “or anything else they can steal.”

It seemed to Wesley that he shouldn’t just ignore the tip and throw the license number away. But he didn’t want to act like he was still a boot, so he went back to Teddy, handed him the card, and said, “Why don’t you take it to a post office. They have people who investigate this sort of thing.”

“I think I’ll hang on to it,” Teddy said, clearly disappointed.

Driving to the station, Nate got to thinking about the secretary who worked for the extras casting office he’d visited last Tuesday. She had given him big eyes as well as her phone number. He thought that he and Wesley could pick up some takeout, and he could sit in the station alone somewhere and chat her up on his cell.

“Partner, you up for burgers tonight?” he asked Wesley.

“Sure,” Wesley said. “You’re the health nut who won’t eat burgers.”

And then, thinking of the little secretary and what they might do together on his next night off, and how she might even help him with her boss the casting agent, Nate felt a real glow come over him. What he called “Hollywood happy.”

He said, “How about you, Filmore, you up for a burger?”

“Hot damn!” the derelict said. “You bet!”

They stopped at a drive-through, picked up four burgers, two for Wesley, and fries all around, and headed for the station.

When they got there, Nate said to their prisoner, “Here’s the deal. I’m giving you not only a burger and fries, but a get-out-of-jail-free pass. You’re gonna sit in the little holding tank for thirty minutes and eat your burger, and I’ll even buy you a Coke. Then, after my partner writes an FI card on you for future reference, I’m gonna let you out and you’re gonna walk back up to the boulevard and get your shopping cart and go home to your nest, wherever that is.”

“You mean I ain’t going to jail or detox?”

“That’s right. I got an important phone call to make, so I can’t waste time dicking around with you. Deal?”

“Hot damn!” Filmore said.

When their passenger got out of the car in the station parking lot, Wesley looked at the car seat and said to Filmore, “What’s that all over the seat? Beach sand?”

“No, that’s psoriasis,” said Filmore U. Bracken.

“Oh, gross!” Wesley cried.

B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster caught the call to the apartment building on Stanley north of Fountain. They were half a block from the L.A. Sheriff’s Department jurisdiction of West Hollywood, and later Benny Brewster thought about that and wished it could’ve occurred just half a block south.

The apartment manager answered their ring and asked them inside. It was by no means a down-market property. In fact, B.M. Driscoll was thinking he wouldn’t mind living there if he could afford the rent. The woman wore a blazer and skirt and looked as though she had just come home from work. Her silver-streaked hair was cut like a man’s, and she was what is called handsome in women her age.

She said, “I’m Cora Sheldon, and I called about the new tenant in number fourteen. Her name is Eileen Leffer. She moved in last month from Oxnard and has two young children.” She paused and read from the rental agreement, “A six-year-old son, Terry, and a seven-year-old daughter, Sylvia. She said she’s a model and seemed very respectable and promised to get us references but hasn’t done it yet. I think there might be a problem.”

“What kinda problem?” Benny asked.

“I work during the day, but we never see or hear a peep from the kids. The owner of the building used to rent our furnished units to adults only, so this is new to me. I’ve never been married, but I think normal kids should be heard from sometimes, and these two are not. I don’t think they’re enrolled in any school. Even on weekends when I’m home, I never hear or see the kids.”

“Have you investigated?” B.M. Driscoll asked. “You know, knocked on the door with maybe an offer of a friendly cup of coffee?”

“Twice. Neither time was there a response. I’m worried. I have a key, but I’m afraid to just open the door and look.”

“We got no probable cause to enter,” Benny said. “When was the last time you knocked on the door?”

“Last night at eight o’clock.”

“Gimme the key,” B.M. Driscoll said. “And you come with us. If there’s nobody home, we all just tiptoe away and nobody’s the wiser. We wouldn’t do this except for the presence of little kids.”

When they got to number fourteen, Benny knocked. No answer. He tapped sharply with the butt of his flashlight. Still no answer.

Benny called out, “Police officers. Anybody home?” and knocked again.

Cora Sheldon was doing a lot of lip biting then, and B.M. Driscoll put the pass key in the lock and opened the door, turning on the living room light. The room was messy, with magazines strewn around and a couple of vodka bottles lying on the floor. The kitchen smelled of garbage, and when they looked in, they saw the sink stacked with dirty dishes. The gas range was a mess with something white that had boiled over.

B.M. Driscoll switched on a hallway light and looked into the bathroom, which was more of a mess than the kitchen. Benny checked the master bedroom, saw an unmade bed and a bra and panties on the floor, and returned with a shrug.

The other bedroom door was closed. Cora Sheldon said, “The second bedroom has twin beds. That would be the children’s room.”

B.M. Driscoll walked to the door and opened it, turning on the light. It was worse by far than the master bedroom. There were dishes with peanut butter and crackers on the floor and on the dresser top. In front of the TV were empty soda cans, and boxes of breakfast cereal were lying on the floor.

“Well, she’s not much of a housekeeper,” he said, “but other than that?”

“Partner,” Benny said, pointing at the bed, then walking to it and shining his light at wine-dark stains. “Looks like blood.”

“Oh my god!” Cora Sheldon said as B.M. Driscoll looked under the bed and Benny went to the closet, whose door was partially open.

And there they were. Both children were sitting under hanging garments belonging to their mother. The six-year-old boy began sobbing, and his seven-year-old sister put her arm around him. Both children were blue-eyed, and the boy was a blond and his sister a brunette. Neither had had a decent wash for a few days, and both were terrified. The boy wore shorts and a food-stained T-shirt and no shoes. The girl wore a cotton dress trimmed with lace, also food-stained. On her feet she wore white socks and pink sneakers.

“We won’t hurt you, come on out,” Benny said, and Cora Sheldon repeated, “Oh my god!”

“Where’s your mommy?” B.M. Driscoll asked.

“She went with Steve,” the girl said.

“Does Steve live here?” Benny asked, and when Cora Sheldon said, “I didn’t rent to anyone named -” he shushed her by putting up his hand.

The little girl said, “Sometimes.”

B.M. Driscoll said, “Have they been gone for a long time?”

The little girl said, “I think so.”

“For two days? Three days? Longer?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Okay, come on out and let’s get a look at you,” he said.

Benny was inspecting the stain on the bed, and he said to the girl, “Has somebody hurt you?”

She nodded then and started crying, walking painfully from the closet.

“Who?” Benny asked. “Who hurt you?”

“Steve,” she said.

“How?” Benny asked. “How did he hurt you?”

“Here,” she said, and when she lifted her cotton dress slightly, they saw dried blood crusted on both legs from her thighs down, and what looked like dark bloodstains on her lace-trimmed white cotton socks.

“Out, please!” Benny said to Cora Sheldon, taking both children by the hands and walking them into the living room, first closing the bedroom door to protect it as a crime scene.

B.M. Driscoll grabbed his rover to inform detectives that they had some work to do and that they needed transportation to the hospital for the children.

“Wait in your apartment, Ms. Sheldon,” Benny said.

Looking at the children, she said, “Oh,” and then started to weep and walked out the door.

When she had gone, the girl turned to her younger brother and said, “Don’t cry, Terry. Mommy’s coming home soon.”

It was nearly midnight when Flotsam and Jetsam were in the station to get a sergeant’s signature on a robbery report. A drag queen claimed to have been walking down the boulevard on a legitimate errand when a car carrying two guys stopped and one of them jumped out and stole the drag queen’s purse, which contained fifty dollars as well as a “gorgeous” new wig that cost three hundred and fifty. Then he’d punched the drag queen before driving away.

Jetsam was in the process of calling to see what kind of record the dragon had, like maybe multiple prostitution arrests, when the desk officer asked Flotsam to watch the desk while he ran upstairs and had a nice hot b.m.

Flotsam said okay and was there when a very angry and outraged Filmore U. Bracken came shuffling into the lobby.

Flotsam took a look at the old derelict and said, “Dude, you are too hammered to be entering a police station of your own volition.”

“I wanna make a complaint,” the codger said.

“What kinda complaint?”

“Against a policeman.”

“What’d he do?”

“I gotta admit he bought me a hamburger.”

“Yeah, well, I can see why you’re mad,” Flotsam said. “Shoulda been filet mignon, right?”

“He brought me here for the hamburger and left my property with a big fat degenerate at a dirty bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Which dirty bookstore?”

“I can point it out to you. Anyways, the degenerate didn’t watch my property like he said he would and now it’s gone. Everything in my shopping cart.”

“And what, pray tell, was in your cart?”

“My anvil.”

“An anvil?”

“Yeah, it’s my life.”

“Damn,” Flotsam said. “You’re a blacksmith? The Mounted Platoon might have a job for you.”

“I wanna see the boss and make a complaint.”

“What’s your name?”

“Filmore Upton Bracken.”

“Wait here a minute, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said. “I’m going to talk this over with the sergeant.”

While Jetsam waited for the Oracle to approve and sign the crime report, Flotsam went to the phone books and quickly looked up the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, a notorious and hated lawyer in LAPD circles who had made a living suing cops and the city that hired them. Somebody was always saying what they would do to Harold G. Lowenstein if they ever popped him for drunk driving.

Flotsam then dialed the number to the lobby phone. After the eighth ring, as he started to think his idea wasn’t going to work, the phone was picked up.

Filmore Upton Bracken said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Bracken?” Flotsam said, doing his best impression of Anthony Hopkins playing a butler. “Am I speaking to Mr. Filmore Upton Bracken?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“This is the emergency hotline for the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, Esquire, Mr. Bracken. A Los Angeles police officer just phoned us from Hollywood Station saying that you may need our services.”

“Yeah? You’re a lawyer?”

“I’m just a paralegal, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said. “But Mr. Lowenstein is very interested in any case involving malfeasance on the part of LAPD officers. Could you please come to our offices tomorrow at eleven A.M. and discuss the matter?”

“You bet I can. Lemme get a pencil from the desk here.”

He was gone for a moment, and Flotsam could hear him yelling, “Hey, I need a goddamn pencil!”

When Filmore returned, he said, “Shoot, brother.”

Flotsam gave him the address of Harold G. Lowenstein’s Sunset Strip law office, including the suite number, and then said, “Mr. Bracken, the officer who just phoned on your behalf said that you are probably without means at present, so do not be intimidated if our somewhat sheltered employees try to discourage you. Mr. Lowenstein will want to see you personally, so don’t take no for an answer from some snippy receptionist.”

“I’ll kick ass if anybody tries to stop me,” Filmore said.

“That’s the spirit, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said, his accent shifting closer to the burr of Sean Connery and away from Anthony Hopkins.

“I’ll be there at eleven.”

Filmore was waiting in the lobby when Flotsam returned, saying, “Mr. Bracken? The sergeant will see you now.”

Filmore drew himself up on his tiptoes to lock eyeballs with the tall cop and said, “Fuck the sergeant. He can talk to my lawyer. I’m suing all you bastards. When I’m through, I’ll own this goddamn place, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll buy you a hamburger sometime. Asshole.”

And with that, Filmore Upton Bracken shuffled out the door with a grin as wide as Hollywood Boulevard.

When B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster went end-of-watch in the early-morning hours, Flotsam and Jetsam were in the locker room, sharing Filmore Upton Bracken adventures with Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb.

After the chuckles subsided, Nate said to Flotsam and Jetsam, “By the way, you guys’re invited to a birthday party. My newest little friend is throwing it at her place in Westwood. Might be one or two chicks from the entertainment industry for you to meet.”

“Any of the tribe coming?” Flotsam asked. “No offense, but I got a two-Jew limit. Three or more Hollywood hebes gather and they start sticking political lapel pins on every animate and inanimate object in sight, which might include my dead ass.”

“Why, you filthy anti-Semitic surfer swine,” Nate said.

“You inviting Budgie?” Flotsam asked.

“Probably,” Nate said.

“Okay, we’ll come. My partner admires her from afar.”

They stopped the banter when B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster came in looking very grim. Both began quickly and quietly undressing.

“What’s wrong with you guys?” Jetsam asked. “They taking Wrestlemania off the air?”

“You don’t wanna know,” B.M. Driscoll said, almost tearing the buttons from his uniform shirt as though he just wanted out of it. “Bad shit. Little kids.”

“So lighten up,” Flotsam said. “Don’t you guys listen to the Oracle? This Job can be fun. Get happy.”

Suddenly, Jetsam did his Bono impersonation, singing, “Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad.”

Benny Brewster peeled off his body armor and furiously crammed the vest into the locker, saying, “No shots of happy tonight, man. Just one shot of sad. Real sad.”