Hollywood Station

FIFTEEN

THE SOUTHEASTERN PART of Hollywood Division, near Santa Monica Boulevard and Western Avenue, was the turf of Latino gangs, including Eighteenth Street cruisers and some Salvadorans from the huge MS-13 gang. White Fence, one of the oldest Mexican American gangs, was active around Hollywood Boulevard and Western, and Mexican Mafia, aka MM or El Eme, was only here and there but in some ways was the most powerful gang of all and could even operate lethally from inside state prisons. There were no black gangs in the Hollywood area, like the Crips or Bloods of south central and southeast L.A., because there were very few blacks living in the Hollywood area.

Wesley Drubb was steeped in this what was to him exciting information, having been permitted to gain new experience by working on loan for two nights with 6-G- 1, a Hollywood Division gang unit. But now while driving on Rossmore Avenue, which bordered the Wilshire Country Club, his gang chatter seemed ludicrously inappropriate and especially annoying to Hollywood Nate Weiss.

Wesley said, “The California Department of Corrections estimates that El Eme has nearly two hundred members in the prison system.”

“You don’t say.” Nate was gazing up at the luxurious apartment buildings and condos on both sides of his favorite Los Angeles street.

“They’re usually identified by a tattoo of a black hand with an M on the palm of it. In the Pelican Bay Maximum Security Prison, an MM gang member had sixty thousand dollars in a trust account before it was frozen by authorities. He was doing deals from inside the strictest prison!”

“Do tell.” Nate imagined Clark Gable in black tie and Carole Lombard in sable, both smiling at the doorman as they went off for a night on the town. At the Coconut Grove, maybe.

Then he tailored the fantasy to fit Tracy and Hepburn, even though he knew that neither of them had ever lived on the street. But what the hell, it was his fantasy.

Wesley said, “Big homies have been known to order hits from their prison cells. If you’re ‘in the hat’ or ‘green-lighted,’ it means you’re targeted.”

“Weird,” Nate said. “Green-lighted in the movie business means you got the okay to do the picture. In Hollywood it means you’re alive. In prison it means you’re dead. Weird.”

Wesley said, “They told me that sometimes in Hollywood we might encounter southeast Asian gangsters from the Tiny Oriental Crips and the Oriental Boy Soldiers. Ever run into them?”

“I don’t think so,” Nate said. “I’ve only encountered more law-abiding and sensitive Asians who would bury a cleaver in your neck if you ever referred to them as Orientals.”

Wesley said, “And the Asian gang whose name I love is the Tiny Magicians Club, aka the TMC.”

“Jesus Christ!” Nate said, “TMC is The Movie Channel! Isn’t anything fucking sacred anymore?”

Wesley said, “I already knew about the civil injunctions to keep gang members in check, but did you know the homies have to be personally served with humongous legal documents that set forth all terms of the injunction? Two or three gang members congregating can violate the injunction, and even possession and use of cell phones can be a violation. Did you know that?”

Nate said, “Possession of a cell phone by any person of the female gender who is attempting to operate a motor vehicle should be a felony, you ask me.”

Wesley said, “I might get to examine the tattoos and talk to some crew members and hear about their gang wars next time.”

“Do I detect a ’hood rat in the making?” Nate said, yawning. “Are you gonna be putting in a transfer, Wesley? Maybe to Seventy-seventh Street or Southeast, where people keep rocket launchers at home for personal protection?”

“When I got sent to Hollywood I heard it was a good misdemeanor division. I guess I wanna go to a good felony division. I’ve heard that in the days before the consent decree, Rampart Division CRASH unit used to have a sign that said ‘We intimidate those who intimidate others.’ Imagine how it was to work that Gang Squad.”

Nate looked at Wesley the way he’d look at a cuppa joe from Dunkin’ Donuts or a Hostess Ding Dong and said, “Wesley, the days of LAPD rock ’n’ rule are over. It’s never coming back.”

Wesley said, “I just thought that someplace like Southeast Division would offer more… challenges.”

“Go ahead, then,” Nate said. “You can amuse yourself on long nights down there by going to drug houses and yelling ‘Police!’ then listening to toilets flushing all over the block. Cop entertainment in the ’hood. Watching cruisers throw gang signs beats the hell outta red carpet events, where the tits extend from Hollywood Boulevard to infinity, right?”

Wesley Drubb was eager indeed to do police work in gang territory, or anyplace where he might encounter real action. He was growing more and more tense and nervous with Nate boring him to death by directing him far from the semi-mean streets of Hollywood for his endless sorties into Hollywood’s past. The gang turf was there and he was here. Touring!

Quiet now, Wesley chewed a fingernail as he drove. Nate finally noticed and said, “Hey pard, you look especially stressed. Got girlfriend troubles maybe? I’m an expert on that subject.”

Wesley wasn’t far enough from his probationary period to say, “I am fucking bored to death, Nate! You are killing me with these trips through movie history!”

Instead, he said, “Nate, do you think we should be cruising around the country club? This is Wilshire Area. We work in Hollywood Area.”

“Stop saying area,” Nate said. “Division sounds more coplike. I can’t stand these new terms for everything.”

“Okay, Hollywood Division, then. We’re out of it right now. This is Wilshire Division.”

“A few blocks, big deal,” Nate said. “Look around you. This is gorgeous.”

Hollywood Nate was referring to Rossmore Avenue, where the elegant apartment buildings and pricey converted condos had names like the Rossmore, El Royale, the Marlowe, and Country Club Manor, all of them a short walk from the very private golf course. They were built in the French, Spanish, and Beaux Arts styles of Hollywood’s Golden Age.

Seeing that Wesley lacked enthusiasm for the architecture, Nate said, “Maybe you’d like to cruise by the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center? We might spot John Travolta. But we can’t hassle any of their so-called parishioners or we’ll get beefed by their fascist security force. Do you know they even beefed our airship one time? Said they wanted to make their headquarters an LAPD no-fly zone.”

Wesley said, “No, I don’t have much interest in Scientology or John Travolta, to tell you the truth.”

“This looks like we’re in Europe,” Nate said, as the setting sun lit the entry of the El Royale. “Can’t you see Mae West sashaying out that door with a hunky actor on her arm to a limo waiting on the street?”

“Mae West” was how Wesley Drubb’s father referred to the life jackets he kept aboard a seventy-five-foot power yacht that he used to own and kept docked at the marina. Wesley didn’t know that they were named after a person, but he said, “Yeah, Mae West.”

“Someday I’ll be living in one of those buildings,” Nate said. “The local country clubs used to restrict Jews. And actors. I’ve heard it was Randolph Scott who told them, ‘I’m not an actor and I’ve got a hundred movies to prove it.’ But then I heard it was Victor Mature. Even John Wayne, and he didn’t hardly play golf. It’s a good Hollywood story no matter who said it.”

Wesley had never heard of the first two actor-golfers and was getting a tightness in his neck and jaw muscles. He was even grinding his teeth and only relaxed when Nate sighed and said, “Okay, let’s go find you a bad guy to put in jail.”

And at last, with an enormous sense of relief, Wesley Drubb was permitted to drive away from reel Hollywood and head for the real one.

Darkness fell as they were passing the Gay and Lesbian Center, and Nate said, “That’s where they can go to let their hair down. Or their hair extensions. There’s a place for everyone to dream in Hollywood. I don’t know why you can’t be satisfied.”

A few minutes later, on Santa Monica Boulevard, Wesley said, “Look how that guy’s walking. Let’s shake him.”

Nate looked across the street at a pale and gaunt forty-something guy in a crew neck, long-sleeved sweater and jeans, walking along the boulevard with his hands in his pockets.

“Whadda you see that I don’t see?”

“He’s a parolee-at-large, I bet. He walks like they do in the prison yard.”

“You learned a lot with the gang unit,” Nate said. “Maybe even something worthwhile, but I haven’t noticed it yet.”

Wesley said, “The parole officers are a few months behind in getting warrants into their computer, but we could check him anyway, okay? Even if there’s no warrant, maybe he’s holding some dope.”

“Maybe he’s cruising for a date,” Nate said. “This is Santa Monica Boulevard, home of boy love and homo-thugs. He might be looking for somebody like the one he left in prison. A guy with a tattoo of a naked babe on his back and an asshole like the Hollywood subway.”

“Can we check him?”

“Yeah, go ahead, get it outta your system,” Nate said.

Wesley pulled up several yards behind the guy, and both cops got out and lit him with their flashlight beams.

He was used to it. He stopped and took his hands out of his pockets. With a guy like this preliminaries were few, and when Wesley said, “Got some ID?” the guy shot them a grudging look of surrender and without being asked pulled up the sweater sleeves, showing his forearms, which were covered with jailhouse tatts over old scar tissue.

“I don’t use no more,” he said.

Nate moved the beam of his light near the man’s face and said, “Your eyes are down right now, bro.”

“I drink like a Skid Row alky,” the ex-con said, “but I don’t shoot up. I got tired of getting busted for eleven five-fifty. I was always under the influence and I just kept getting busted. Like, I was serving life in prison a few weeks at a time.”

Wesley wrote an FI card on the guy, whose ID said his name was Brian Allen Wilkie, and ran the information on the MDT, coming back with an extensive drug record but no wants or warrants.

Before they let him go, Nate said, “Where you headed?”

“Pablo’s to get a taco.”

“That’s tweakerville,” Nate said. “Don’t tell me you’re smoking glass now instead of shooting smack?”

“One day at a time, man,” Brian Wilkie said. “I wouldn’t want my PO to know, but I’m down to booze and a little meth now and then. That’s an improvement, ain’t it?”

“I don’t think that’s what AA means by one day at a time, man,” Nate said. “Stay real.”

A few minutes later, when Wesley drove past Pablo’s Tacos, they saw an old car parked in front and a pair of skinny tweakers in a dispute with another guy who also had tweaker written all over him. The argument was so animated that the tweakers didn’t see the black-and-white when Wesley parked half a block away and turned out the lights to watch.

“Maybe one of them’ll stab the other,” Nate said. “And you can pop him for a felony. Or better yet, maybe one of them’ll pull a piece and we can get in a gunfight. Would that relieve your boredom?”

Farley Ramsdale was waving his arms like one of those people with that terrible disease whose name she couldn’t remember, and Olive was getting scared. Spit was running down Farley’s chin and he was screaming his head off because the tiny tweaker that they knew as Little Bart wouldn’t sell one of the two teeners he was holding. Farley refused to meet his excessive price and had tried to bargain him down.

Olive thought it was mean and wrong of Little Bart, because Farley had often sold to him at a decent price. But all this screaming was just going to get them in trouble.

“You are an ungrateful chunk of vomit!” Farley yelled. “Do you remember how I saved your sorry ass when you needed ice so bad you were ready to blow a nigger for it?”

Little Bart, who was about Farley’s age and whose neck bore a tattoo of a dog collar all the way around, said, “Man, things’re bad, real bad these days. This is all I got and all I’m gonna have for a while. I gotta pay the rent.”

“You little cocksucker!” Farley yelled, doubling his fist.

“Hey, dude!” Little Bart said, backing up. “Take a chill pill! You’re freaking!”

Olive stepped forward then and said, “Farley, please stop. Let’s go. Please!”

Suddenly, Farley did something he had never done in all the time they’d been together. He smacked her across the face, and she was so stunned she stared at him for a moment and then burst into tears.

“That’s enough,” Wesley said, and got out of the car, followed by Hollywood Nate.

Farley never saw them coming but Little Bart did. The tiny tweaker said, “Uh-oh, time to go.”

And he started to do just that, until Wesley said, “Hold it right there.”

A few minutes later, Little Bart and Farley were being patted down by Wesley and Hollywood Nate while Olive wiped her tears on the tail of her jersey.

“What’s this all about?” Farley said. “I ain’t done nothing.”

“You committed a battery,” Wesley said. “I saw it.”

“It was an accident,” Farley said. “Wasn’t it, Olive? I didn’t mean to hit her. I was just making a point with this guy.”

“What point is that?” Nate said.

“About whether George W. Bush is really as dumb as he looks. It was a political debate.”

Little Bart wasn’t really worried, because the ice was under the rear floor mat of his car, which was half a block down the street. So he just had to chill and not piss off the cops, and then he figured he could skate.

When Nate pulled Farley ten yards away from the other two, Farley yelled back, “Olive, tell these guys it was an accident!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Nate said. “Where’s your car?”

“I ain’t got a car,” Farley lied, and after he did it, he wondered why he had lied. There was no crystal in his car. He hadn’t smoked any glass for two and a half days. That’s why his nerves were shot. That’s why he was on the verge of strangling Little Bart. He was just so sick of being hassled by cops that he lied. Lying was a form of rebellion against all of them. All of the assholes who were fucking with him.

For the next twenty minutes, the shakes were written, and each name was run through CII, with a rap sheet showing for Farley Ramsdale but none for Olive O. Ramsdale. Farley finally stopped bitching and Olive stopped crying.

Little Bart actually began trying to talk politics to Farley to go along with the George Bush crack, but the cops obviously weren’t buying it. They knew that some kind of drug deal was going down, and Little Bart just didn’t want to give them a good reason to try his car keys in the doors of the eight cars that were parked within half a block of Pablo’s. And he especially didn’t want them to look under the floor mat.

Farley thought the cops were going to prolong this for as long as possible, but the younger cop ran up to the other one and said, “Kidnapping in progress, Omar’s Lounge on Ivar! Let’s go, Nate!”

When Farley and Olive and Little Bart were left standing there outside Pablo’s Tacos, Farley said to Little Bart, “Those cops saved your fucking life.”

Bart said, “Dude, you need some help. You’re way out there. Way, way out there.” And he ran to his car and drove off.

Olive said, “Farley, let’s go home now and -”

“Olive,” he said, “if you say you’ll make me a delicious cheese sandwich, I swear I’ll knock your fucking tooth out.”

Hollywood detectives had been forced to investigate a number of date rapes, called acquaintance rapes by the police. It was usually “I woke up naked with somebody I didn’t know. I was drugged.”

The cases were never prosecuted. Evidentiary requirements necessitated an immediate urine test, but the date rape drugs metabolized in four to six hours. It was always too late for the special analysis that had to be done outside the LAPD crime lab, which did only basic drug screening of controlled substances. In fact, as defense lawyers argued, too much booze produced much the same effect as a date rape drug.

The date rape cases were reported to Hollywood Station by persons of both genders, but only once was there a criminal filing by the district attorney’s office. The victim had vomited shortly after the encounter, and the drug was able to be recovered and identified.

Six-X-Seventy-six was the unit to receive the code 3 call to Omar’s Lounge but Budgie and Fausto were beaten to the call by Wesley Drubb and Hollywood Nate, followed closely by Benny Brewster and B.M. Driscoll, complaining of motion sickness caused by Benny’s fast driving.

The first units to arrive gave way to Budgie and Fausto, since they were assigned the call, and Budgie entered the nightclub to interview the victim. Even though Fausto was the report writer on this night and Budgie was driver, she took over with the report because the victim was a woman.

When they were being escorted to a private office inside the nightclub, Fausto whispered to her, “This joint gets sold to somebody new just about every time they change the tablecloths. It’s impossible to keep track of who the owner is, but you can bet your ass it’s a Russian.”

Sara Butler was sitting in the office being tended to by a cocktail waitress who wore a starched white shirt, black bow tie and black pants. The waitress was a natural blonde and pretty, but the kidnap victim, who was about Budgie’s age, was both prettier and unnaturally more blond. The straps on her black dress were held together with safety pins, and her pantyhose was in shreds around her ankles. Her knees were scraped and bleeding, as were both her palms. Mascara and eye liner were smeared all over her cheeks, and she was wearing most of her lipstick on her chin. She was angry and she was drunk.

The cocktail waitress was applying ice in a napkin to the victim’s right knee when the cops walked in. A faux fur coat was draped across the chair behind the young woman.

Budgie sat down and said, “Tell us what happened.”

“I was kidnapped by four Iranians,” Sara Butler said.

“When?” Budgie asked.

“About an hour ago,” Sara Butler said.

Budgie looked at Fausto, who nodded and went out to broadcast a code 4, meaning sufficient help at the scene, since the suspects were long gone.

“What did you say when you called it in?” Budgie asked. “We were under the impression that it had just occurred.”

“I don’t know what I said, I was so upset.”

“Okay,” Budgie said. “From the beginning, please.”

After she’d given all of the contact information for the report, and after listing her occupation as actress, Sara Butler said, “I was supposed to meet my girlfriend here but she called me on my cell and said her husband came home from a trip unexpectedly. And I thought I might as well have a drink since I was here.”

“You had more than one?”

“I don’t know how many I had.”

“Go on.”

“I got talking to some guy at the bar and he started buying me martinis. I didn’t have that many.”

Worrying about the liquor license, the cocktail waitress looked at Budgie and said, “We wouldn’t serve anyone who’s drunk.”

“Continue, please,” Budgie said to Sara Butler.

“So pretty soon I started feeling weird. Dizzy in a weird way. I think the guy slipped me a date rape drug but I didn’t drink enough of it to knock me cold.”

“How many martinis did you drink?”

“No more than four. Or possibly five.”

“That could knock a hippo cold,” Budgie said. “Go on.”

“The guy who bought me the martinis offered to drive me home. Said he had a black Mercedes sedan and a driver parked right in front. Said he’d be in the car. I said okay and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up.”

“Weren’t you worried about the date rape drug?” Budgie asked.

“Not then. I only thought about it after the kidnapping.”

“Okay, continue.”

“Then I left the club, and there was a long black car at the curb and I went to the back door which was open and got in. And goddamn! There were four drunken Iranians in the car and one of them closed the door and they took off with me, just laughing their asses off. And I realized that it was a limo and I was in the wrong car and I yelled at them to stop and let me out.”

“How did you know they were Iranians?”

“I go to acting class with two Iranians and they’re always jabbering in Farsi. I know Iranians, believe me. Or Persians, as they prefer to call themselves when they live in a free country, the bastards.”

“Okay, and then?”

“They were groping me and kissing me and I scratched one on the face and he told the driver to stop and they pushed me out of the car right onto the street and I ran back here. I want them arrested and prosecuted for kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping might be very hard to allege in this case,” Budgie said, “but let’s get the report finished and see what the detectives think.”

“I don’t care what the detectives think,” Sara Butler said. “I’ve done half their job for them already.”

And with that she produced a tissue that was carefully folded, and said, “These are fingernail scrapings from the Iranian’s face. And my coat there can be examined for latent fingerprints.”

“We can’t get fingerprints from fur,” Budgie said.

“Officer, don’t tell me what you can’t do,” Sara Butler said. “My father’s a lawyer and I won’t have my report swept under the rug by your detectives. The dirt from my dress will identify where I was lying in the gutter in case someone says I wasn’t pushed from the car. And those fingernail scrapings will positively identify one of my assailants after a DNA analysis.” She paused and said, “And Channel Seven is on the way.”

“Here?”

“Yes, I called them. So I suggest you take this case very seriously.”

“Tell me, Ms. Butler,” Budgie said. “Do you watch CSI?”

“All the time,” Sara Butler said. “And I know that some cheap lawyer for the Iranians might say I got into the car by design and not by accident, but I have that covered as well.”

“I’m sure you do,” Budgie said.

“The man who bought me the martinis can testify that he had a car waiting for me, and that will prove I just made a mistake and got into the wrong car.”

“And I suppose you have the man’s name and how we can contact him?”

“His name is Andrei. He’s a Russian gentleman who said he worked as manager at the Gulag in east Hollywood. And he gave me a business card from there. I think you should check on him and see if he’s ever been accused of doctoring a girl’s drink either at his nightclub or elsewhere. I still think I was affected too suddenly by the martinis.”

“Anything else you’d like to add?” Budgie said, intending to get the hell out before a news team arrived.

“Only that I intend to have my father call the Gulag or go to the nightclub in person if necessary to make sure someone from the police department properly investigates my crime report. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get myself together for Channel Seven.”

When Budgie got back outside, Fausto, who had stepped into the office during part of the interview, said, “Would you call that a righteous felony or an example of first-stage alcoholism and a slight PMS issue?”

“For once, you sexist old bastard,” Budgie said, “I think you got it right.”

Dmitri would have been even angrier, if that were possible, had he known that Andrei, his night manager, had been out on his night off trying to pick up a woman who subsequently got herself involved with the police. Dmitri did not want the police at his place of business ever, not for any reason. But this night he had cops all over the place, including Andi McCrea, who’d been called in from home by the night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie Gilford.

When Charlie told Andi that he was having trouble reaching other members of the homicide unit, two of whom were sick with the flu that was going around, she suggested he try one of the detectives from Robbery, and gave him Brant Hinkle’s cell number.

Charlie rang up Brant Hinkle and told him there was a murder at the Gulag and asked if he’d be willing to help out Andi. Brant said he thought he could manage and that he’d be there ASAP.

Then Brant closed his cell and looked over at Andi, naked in bed beside him, and said, “That is a very dirty trick.”

She kissed him, jumped out of bed, and said, “You’d rather investigate a homicide with me than lie here alone all night, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess I would at that,” Brant said. “Is that what you would call a commitment?”

Andi said, “When two cops are committed, the definition is similar to the one meaning residents of an asylum. Let’s go to work.”

There had been a large private party in the VIP section on the upper level of the Gulag, an area roped off and guarded by a bouncer. Dmitri had assigned two waitresses for the party and wished he’d scheduled three when the party grew much larger than had been expected. Soon the sofas along the walls and every chair was occupied in layers, young women sitting on the laps of any guy who would permit it. Everyone else was standing three deep by a railing, watching the mass of dancers writhing in the pit down below on ground level.

They were foreign students from a technical college attending this gathering put together by a party promoter who dealt with various Hollywood nightclubs. Most at the soirée were Arabs, some were Indians, a few were Pakistanis. And there were two uninvited guests from south L.A. who were members of the Crips gang, out for a night in Hollywood, one of whom claimed to be a cousin of the promoter.

Dmitri had installed a video camera on the patio outside, where customers could go for a smoke, and it was there on the patio that the crime occurred. One of the young Arabs, a twenty-two-year-old student, didn’t like something that the taller of the two Crips said to his girlfriend, and a fight started. The taller Crip, who wore a raspberry-colored fedora over a head rag, got knocked down by the Arab with some help from his friends. While several people were separating the combatants, the shorter of the two Crips, the quiet one, walked behind the Arab, reached around, and stabbed him in the belly.

Then both Crips ran from the patio and out through the nightclub’s front door as people screamed and an ambulance was called. The young Arab lay thrashing and bled out, displaying no signs of life even before the RA and the first black-and-whites arrived. Still, he was taken straight to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital while a paramedic worked on him futilely.

It was B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster who sealed off the area and kept as many actual eyewitnesses in place as they could, but the nightclub had started emptying fast after word got out about the stabbing. When Andi McCrea and Brant Hinkle arrived (in separate cars so as to stay discreet), Benny Brewster and B.M. Driscoll were writing down information from half a dozen of the Arabs and two of their American girlfriends, who were crying.

Benny Brewster briefed Andi by pointing out the party promoter, Maurice Wooley, a very worried black man who was sitting at the far end of the now-empty bar drinking a tall glass of Jack. He was plump, in his midfifties and wearing a conservative, double-breasted gray suit. He was also bleary-eyed from the booze.

Benny said to him, “Mr. Wooley, this is Detective McCrea. Tell her about the homie that did the stabbing.”

“I really don’t know much about him,” the promoter said to Andi. “He’s jist somebody from Jordan Downs, where I grew up, is all. I don’t live down there no more.”

“I understand he’s your cousin,” Andi said.

“A much younger cousin to my play cousin,” the promoter said quickly. “I don’t know his real name.”

Benny Brewster abruptly changed tack, glared at him, and said, “So what’s your cousin to your play cousin’s street name? Whadda you call him?”

The promoter’s jowls waddled slightly and he said, “Doobie D. That’s all I ever did call him, Doobie D. I swear on my momma’s grave.”

Benny scowled and said, “Maybe your momma has room for one more in there.”

Andi said, “What’s his phone number?”

“I dunno,” the promoter said, twisting his zircon ring nervously, glancing every few seconds at the tall black cop, who looked about ready to grab him by the throat.

Andi said, “This officer tells me you invited him here as your guest tonight.”

“That’s ’cause I run into him on the street when I went to visit my momma. He said he wanna go to one of them Hollywood parties I promote. And me, I’m a fool. I say, okay, when I get one, I’m gonna let you know. So I get this job and I let him know and I comp him in here as my guest. With one of his crew. And look at the grief I get.”

“If you don’t have his number, how did you reach him?”

“I jist have his e-mail address,” the promoter said, handing Andi his cell phone. “His cell company is one of them that you can e-mail or phone.”

When they were finished at the Gulag and ready to go, Andi was approached by a man with an obvious hairpiece and a peculiar smile. He extended his hand to both detectives and said, “I am Dmitri Zotkin, proprietor of the Gulag. I am sick to my heart from the terrible think that has een-wolved my club tonight. I shall be of service if you need any-think. Any-think at all.”

He gave them his card and bowed slightly.

“We may have some questions for you tomorrow,” Andi said.

“On the back of the card is my cell number,” he said. “Anytime you wish to call Dmitri. Please, I shall be at your service.”

After getting back to the station, Andi Googled Doobie D’s Internet provider from the text message. Then she left a phone message with the provider, requesting that the customer’s name and phone number be pulled up, with the assurance that a search warrant would be faxed to them in the morning before the provider faxed the account information to her.

Andi said to Brant, “We’ll write a three-page search warrant and run it over to the Hollywood court tomorrow. Have you ever done it?”

“I’m real rusty,” he said.

“The provider will triangulate from the cell site towers. If we’re real lucky and Doobie D uses his phone, the provider will call us every hour or so to tell us where he is. It’s like a GPS on the cell phone. If he disposes of the cell, we’re outta luck.”

“Are we gonna finally get home to get the rest of our night’s sleep, do you think?”

Looking at those green eyes of his, she said, “Is that all you’re thinking about, sleep?”

“It’s one of the things I’m thinking about,” he said.