Hollywood Station

SIXTEEN

THE ORACLE SHOWED up at roll call that Thursday evening with a detective whom most of them had seen around the station and a few of the older cops knew by name.

The Oracle said, “Okay, listen up. This is Detective Chernenko. He has a few things to say to you, and it’s important.”

Viktor stood before them in his usual rumpled suit with food stains on the lapels and said, “Good evening to you. I am investigating the jewelry store two-eleven where your Officer Takara was so very brave. And I also have very much interest in the two-eleven of three days ago at the ATM where the guard was killed. I am thinking that the same two people did both of them and now everybody agrees with me.

“What I wish is that you watch out for anybody who might be stealing from a mailbox. It is a crime very typical of addicts, so you might watch for tweakers who are hanging around the blue mailboxes on the corners of the streets. Especially in the area of Gower south of Hollywood Boulevard. If you find a suspect, look for a device like string and tape that they use to fish in a mailbox. If you find nothing, please write a good FI on the suspect and leave it for me at end-of-watch. Any question?”

Wesley Drubb turned and glanced at Hollywood Nate, who looked sheepish, obviously thinking what Wesley was thinking.

Fausto Gamboa, the old man of the midwatch, said, “Why Gower south of the boulevard, Viktor? Can you share it with us?”

“Yes, it is no big secret, Fausto,” Viktor said. “It is a very small clue. I believe that information about the jewels was learned from a letter stolen from a mailbox there on Gower.”

Wesley Drubb looked at Hollywood Nate again but couldn’t wait to see if Nate was going to admit that they might have lost a lead several days ago. Wesley raised his hand.

The Oracle said, “Yeah, Drubb. Got a question?”

Wesley said, “Last week we got a call about two homeless guys fighting on Hollywood Boulevard. One of them said that a couple weeks before, he saw a guy and a woman stealing mail from a blue mailbox a few blocks south of Hollywood Boulevard on Gower.”

That didn’t elicit too much excitement in itself but Viktor was mildly interested and said, “Did he provide more details than that?”

Looking at Nate again. “Yes, he did. He said the guy was driving an old blue Pinto. And his partner was a woman. And he heard the woman call him Freddy or Morley.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Viktor said. “I will check recent FIs for the name of Freddy and the name of Morley, but of course that will not be easy.”

The Oracle saw Wesley glance at Hollywood Nate again, and he said to Wesley, “I think you’re not through, Drubb. Was there something more?”

“Yes, Sarge,” Wesley said. “The homeless guy had a card with the mail thief’s license number written on it.”

Now Viktor’s mouth dropped open. “Fantastic!” he said. “Please present me with this card, Officer!”

Wesley looked sheepish, and being loyal to his partner said, “I’m afraid I gave the card back to him.”

Hollywood Nate spoke up then, saying, “I told him to give it back. I figured, what the hell, just some tweakers stealing mail, happens all the time. It was my fault, not Drubb’s.”

“We’re not talking fault here,” said the Oracle. “What was the name of the homeless guy with the card? Where can Detective Chernenko find him?”

“They call him Trombone Teddy,” Nate said. “We wrote an FI on him and the other homeless geezer who knocked him on his ass. But neither one of them has a real address. They don’t live anywhere, guys like that.”

The Oracle said to Hollywood Nate, “Weiss, you and Drubb are on a special detail tonight. Don’t clear for calls. Just stay off the air and go out there and find Trombone Teddy. Get that license number for Detective Chernenko.”

“I’m sorry, Sarge,” a chastened Hollywood Nate said.

“Do not feel too badly, Officer,” Viktor said. “These suspects are no doubt lying down low for a few days but soon must act. Our balls are in their court.”

On very busy nights the midwatch units sometimes compared notes for who would get the BHI prize for Bizarre Hollywood Incident of the evening. Six-X-Thirty-two got an honorable mention for a call to east Hollywood, where an Eighteenth Street gang member was loitering by a liquor store with two other homies. A Lebanese store clerk got scared because the guy obviously was hiding something large under his sweatshirt. In the age of terrorism the clerk was afraid that the Eighteenth Street cruisers might be getting ready to bomb his store because he’d once called the cops on one of their crew who had shoplifted a bottle of gin.

Flotsam and Jetsam were the responders, and they had the three cruisers against the wall of the liquor store, assisted by Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb, who were tired of looking for Trombone Teddy. Wesley was thrilled that they’d been close enough to provide cover when gang members were involved.

With flashlights and neon from the store lighting him up, the shortest homie, a head-shaved, tattoo-covered, twenty-one-year-old in baggy walking shorts and an enormous cut-off sweatshirt, was looking over his shoulder at them. The cops liked the homie low-slung baggies because they often fell down and tripped them when they ran from cops. But this cruiser had something huge bulging from his chest.

Flotsam drew his nine and holding it down by his leg, said, “Okay, homes, turn around and raise up your sweatshirt real slow. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

When he did, they saw the yellow pages of the Los Angeles telephone directory taped to his chest with elastic wrap.

“What in the hell is that?” Flotsam said.

“It’s a phone book,” the cruiser said.

“I know it’s a phone book. But why do you have it taped to your chest?”

The gangster looked around and said, “An old veterano from White Fence is after me, man. You think I’m gonna just stand around and take a bullet without some protection?”

“Bro, do you know what you’ve done here?” Jetsam said to him. “I think you can take this nationwide. You’ve just designed an affordable bulletproof vest for the inner city!”

On Saturday, two days after Cosmo and Ilya had hidden the stolen car and the money at the house of Farley Ramsdale, Cosmo decided that they had hidden out as long as they dared. He had phoned Gregori at the junkyard that morning and arranged for one of Gregori’s Mexicans to drive the tow truck to Farley’s address. Cosmo insisted that timing was important and that the truck should arrive at 7 P.M.

“Why do you buy an old car that will not operate?” Gregori asked him in Armenian.

“For Ilya. We need two cars,” Cosmo said. “I will give you the repair job and pay three hundred dollars for the tow because it is on Saturday evening. Also, I shall tip your driver another fifty if he arrives at precisely seven P.M.”

“You are generous,” Gregori said. “And when do you return to me the spare key for my yard that I left with Ilya?”

“On Monday morning,” Cosmo said. “When I come to see how much repairs the Mazda needs.”

“All right, Cosmo,” Gregori said. “My driver is named Luís. He speaks pretty good English. He will tow the car to our yard.”

“Thank you, my brother,” Cosmo said. “I shall see you on Monday.”

When he finished his call to Gregori, Ilya, who was lying on the bed smoking and staring at an old MGM musical on TV, said, “So today you do what you do?”

“You wish to hear my plan, Ilya?”

“I know I say do not tell me. I have a change of mind about some things. Now I wish you to tell how you get rid of the car and get our money. Do not tell me more than that.”

“Okay, Ilya,” he said. “I shall be at the house of Farley at seven o’clock to help truck driver to take away the car. I shall give to truck driver fifty dollars to call me when he get the car to junkyard of Gregori. If he do not call me, I shall know that police have him and stolen car he is towing. Then we take our money and our diamonds and fly to San Francisco and never come back.”

She said, “But maybe yesterday or today Farley has found the car or found our money and made call to police and they are there to wait for you.”

“If I do not phone you at seven-thirty that all is okay, you take taxi to airport and fly to San Francisco with diamonds. And God bless you. Please have good life. I shall never tell the police nothing about you. Never.”

“You take big risk, Cosmo.”

“Yes, but I think is okay. I think Farley and Olive do not look in garage or under house. All they look for is drugs. Nothing else.”

“How you can be sure that Farley and Olive will not be there at the house when you go there at seven o’clock, Cosmo?”

“Now you ask question you say you not wish to know.”

“You are correct. Do not tell me.”

The unanswered question had a simple answer. Cosmo was going to phone Farley to arrange a business meeting and then arrive at Farley’s at six P.M., carrying a canvas bag. In the bag he would have his gun, a roll of duct tape and a kitchen knife that he had sharpened when Ilya had gone to the liquor store for cigarettes. If Farley and Olive were at home, he would knock, be admitted on the pretext of paying the blackmail money, take them prisoner at gunpoint and tape their wrists and their mouths. Then cut their throats. Just another addict murder, the police would think. Probably a drug deal gone bad.

If for some reason Farley and Olive could not be home at the appointed hour, there was an alternate plan that involved the spare key to the junkyard. They would be lured there tomorrow by a call from Gregori about buying more key cards. Cosmo would ambush them there and dispose of their bodies somewhere in east Los Angeles. Just another addict murder.

As for the car, if the tow driver phoned his cell, telling him that the towing had been accomplished, Cosmo would go to Gregori’s junkyard on Monday morning and tell Gregori he’d changed his mind about repairing the car and ask him to crush the Mazda for scrap. For one thousand dollars cash Cosmo was sure that Gregori would ask no questions and do it.

He could not see a flaw in his plan. It was foolproof. He wished that Ilya would permit him to tell her about all of it. She would be impressed by how much thought he had put into it. The only thing that worried him was that Dmitri might be so angry Cosmo hadn’t called him that he would think he was being betrayed and maybe send Russian thugs looking for him.

His hands were shaking at 5:15 P.M. while driving to Farley’s house. He decided to make the two crucial calls that would possibly decide his fate. The first was to the cell number that Dmitri said was the only one he should use after the job was done.

It rang five times, and then, “Yes.”

“Dmitri, it is me.”

“I know who,” Dmitri said. “I am think-ink that you had run away from me. That will be a stupid think to do.”

“No, no, Dmitri. We are being quiet for two, three days.”

“Do not tell me more. When do I see you for all of our business? You have thinks for me.”

“There is more I must complete, Dmitri. Maybe I come to you tonight.”

“I like that,” Dmitri said.

“Maybe I must wait for Monday morning.”

“I do not like that.”

“There are two peoples -”

“Enough!” Dmitri said, interrupting him. “I do not want to hear about your business. If you do not call me tonight, I shall be here on Monday. If I do not see you on Monday, you are very stupid person.”

“Thank you, Dmitri,” Cosmo said. “I shall be correct in my business with you.”

After hanging up, Cosmo made the second crucial call, to Farley Ramsdale’s cell number, but got only his voice mail. It was the first time this had ever happened. The addict never slept and was always open for business deals. It staggered him. He would try again in thirty minutes. He still had the alternate plan for Farley and Olive, but this did not bode well. He had all of the killing tools with him and he was ready.

Where in the hell was Olive? She knew they were almost down to their last dollar and had to work the mailboxes or maybe try again to pass some of the bogus money they still had. Or just go to a RadioShack or Best Buy and try to boost a DVD player to sell at the cybercafé. Things were that desperate!

But where was the stupid bitch? All Farley knew was she went out searching the goddamn neighborhood for that crazy Mabel’s fucking cat! He was about to go out looking for her, when he got a cell call from Little Bart.

When he recognized the voice he said, “Whadda you want?”

“I felt bad the way things were left between us,” Little Bart said.

“So you’re calling to say you wanna send me flowers?”

“I wanna do a deal with you.”

“What kinda deal?”

“I want you to deliver a couple of brand-new computers to a real nice house on the west side of Laurel Canyon.”

“Deliver them how?”

“In your car.”

“Why don’t you deliver them?”

“I lost my driver’s license on a DUI.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“And I hurt my back and can’t carry them.”

“They ain’t very heavy. Tell you what, how about I deliver in your car?”

“They impounded my car when they popped me.”

“Uh-huh. So how much do I get for this delivery?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Good-bye, Bart,” Farley said.

“No, wait! A hundred bucks. It’ll take you a half hour, tops.”

“One fifty.”

“Farley, I’m not making much on this. They aren’t the very best top-of-the-line computers.”

“I don’t risk my ass delivering hot computers that you’re too chickenshit to deliver for less than one twenty-five.”

“Okay, deal.”

“When?”

“Can you meet me at Hollywood and Fairfax in twenty minutes? I’ll be standing on the corner and I’ll walk and you follow me to where you pick up and deliver. The merchandise is in a garage there. Then when you got it, I’ll ride with you to the drop-off address.”

“Why will you walk to the pickup location instead of riding with me?”

“I can’t be anywhere near this pickup. I can’t explain.”

“And you’ll have the money?”

“Half. I’ll give you the other half when the job’s done.”

“Can you make it later? I can’t find that goddamn bitch of mine.”

“You don’t need her.”

“Who the hell you think does the heavy lifting?” Farley said. “And she goes in first in case there’s anything chancy going on.”

“We can’t wait for her. Twenty minutes, Farley,” Bart said.

Farley looked all over the street but still no Olive. He made a quick stop at Mabel’s and found the old witch reading tarot cards in which Olive believed with all her heart.

Farley peered through the rusted screen. “Hey, Mabel, you seen Olive?”

“Yes, she’s out looking for Tillie. I think Tillie might be pregnant. She’s acting peculiar and roaming around as though she’s looking for a nest. She was once a feral cat, you know. I took her in and tamed her.”

Farley said, “Yeah, I’m sure you got a Humane Society award. If you see Olive, tell her I had to do a quick job and she should wait for me at home.”

“All right, Farley,” Mabel said. “It might interest you to know that the cards don’t look good for you,” she added. “Maybe you should stay home too.”

She heard him mumble “Crazy old bitch” when he left her porch.

Olive was in the backyard of a neighbor six houses away, looking for Tillie and chatting with the neighbor about the beautiful white camellias that bordered her property. And Olive just loved the pink and white azaleas that climbed the fence. Olive told her that someday she hoped to have a garden. The woman offered to teach Olive the basics and to get her started with the proper seeds and a few young plants.

Olive thought she heard Farley’s Corolla, excused herself, and running to the street saw his taillights at the stop sign. She yelled but he didn’t hear her and was gone. Olive then went home, hoping he wasn’t mad at her.

There he was on the northeast corner of Hollywood and Fairfax, jumping around like he had to take a leak. Or had to score some tweak, more likely, Farley figured. He didn’t like any part of this. Little Bart couldn’t drive because he had no license? When did that ever stop a tweaker from driving? He couldn’t carry a computer because his back hurt? He couldn’t ride in Farley’s car to the garage where the computers were? What was this shit all about?

Little Bart walked over to his car and said, “Just follow me real slow for half a block. When I get to the house, I’ll point with my finger behind my back. Then you drive into the driveway and go to the garage. The door will open manually. Get the computers and pick me up two blocks north.”

While he was driving slowly behind Bart, he missed Olive more than he had in the eighteen months they’d been together. This was a very bad deal. Bart was scared to pick up the merchandise, which meant that Bart didn’t trust the thief who’d stolen the computers, or the fence who’d hired Bart to deliver them.

If Olive were here, there’d be no problem. He’d drop her off at the pickup address and let her go into the garage and check it out. If the cops were there and grabbed her, he’d just keep on moving down the road. If there was one thing he was sure of, Olive would never rat him out. She’d take the hit and do the time if she had to and come to him when she got out of jail, just as though nothing had happened.

But Olive wasn’t here. And that fucking Little Bart was pointing at a house, a modest one for this neighborhood. Then Bart kept walking north. Farley parked across from the house and looked at the garage.

The house wasn’t unlike his own. It was in that ubiquitous California style that everyone calls Spanish, which means nothing other than tile roof and stucco walls. The longer he looked at it, the worse he felt about the whole arrangement.

Farley got out of the car and walked across the street to the house. He went to the front door and rang the bell. When he got no answer, he went to the side door, which was only forty feet from the garage, banged on the door, and yelled, “Olive, you there? Hellooooo? Olive?”

It was then that two Hollywood Division detectives came out of the garage, badged him, put him against the wall, patted him down, and then dragged him back into the garage. There was nothing in the garage except a workbench, some tools and tires, and two boxes containing new computers.

“What is this?” he said.

“You tell us,” the older detective said.

“My girlfriend, Olive, went to lunch with a pal of hers and gave me the pal’s address. This is it.”

“Right,” the younger detective said. “What’ve you been in jail for?”

“Petty kid stuff is all,” Farley said. “What’s this all about?”

“You been busted for burglary?”

“No.”

“Receiving?”

“Receiving what?

“Don’t fuck with us. Receiving stolen property.”

“No, just kid stuff. Drug possession. Petty theft a couple times.”

“Are you going to use the S-O-D-D-I defense?”

“What’s that?”

“Some other dude did it.”

“I’m innocent!” Farley cried.

“Well, partner,” the younger detective said to the other. “Let’s take kid stuff here to the station. Looks like our surprise party is blown.”

“Hey, man,” Farley said, “I musta wrote down the wrong address is all. My girlfriend Olive’s gonna be looking for me. If you’ll let me call her, she’ll tell you.”

“Turn around, kid stuff,” the older detective said. “Put your hands behind your back.”

After they handcuffed Farley, they led him out to the street, where a detective car drove up from wherever it had been hidden. Then they searched his Corolla, but of course it was clean. There wasn’t even a roach in the ashtray.

When they got to the station, Farley saw some movie posters on a wall. What the fuck kind of police station has movie posters on the wall? Farley thought. And how did he get in this horror flick? All he knew was, if he’d had Olive with him, he wouldn’t be here. That dumb bitch just got his ass busted!

It was after five o’clock and Farley hadn’t come home and hadn’t called. Olive was tired and she was very hungry. She remembered what Mabel had said about saving some food for her. She wondered if Mabel might let her help cook the meal. She’d like that, and getting to eat and chat with Mabel.

When she got to Mabel’s the old woman was delighted to see her.

“I’m sorry, Mabel,” she said. “I can’t find Tillie.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mabel said. “She’ll turn up. She always does. She’s still a bit of a wild thing. Tillie’s got a touch of Gypsy in her soul.”

“Would you like me to help you cook?”

“Oh, yes,” Mabel said. “If you’ll promise to stay and have supper with me.”

“Thank you, Mabel,” Olive said. “I’ll be real happy to join you for supper.”

“Then we’ll play gin. If you don’t know how, never mind, I’ll teach you. I know all about cards. Did I ever tell you I used to make good money telling fortunes with cards? That was sixty-five years ago.”

“Really?”

“Really. There are certain legal technicalities about foretelling the future that I didn’t follow. I was arrested twice and taken to Hollywood Station for ignoring those silly technicalities.”

“You, arrested?” Olive couldn’t imagine it.

“Oh, yes,” Mabel said. “I was a bit of a naughty girl in my time. The old police station was a lovely building constructed in nineteen thirteen, the year my parents got married. When I was born, they named me for the silent-screen star Mabel Normand. I never had any siblings. You know, I used to date a policeman from Hollywood Station. He was the one who arrested me the second time and persuaded me to stop telling fortunes for money. He was killed in the war. One week after D-day.”

Loving Mabel’s stories and gossip about the old days in Hollywood, Olive hated to interrupt her, but she thought about Farley and said, “Mabel, let me run home and leave a note for Farley so he’ll know where I’m at. Be right back!”

“Hurry, dear,” Mabel said. “I’ll tell you lots of tales about life in the golden age of Hollywood. And we’ll play cards. This is going to be such fun!”