Hollywood Moon (31 page)

Both Tristan and Jerzy gave the cops their legitimate driver’s licenses, and Jetsam pulled out his rover and stepped outside
the front door, only a few steps away.

“We’re clean,” Tristan said. “We already got a check run on us the other day.”

“Yeah?” Flotsam said. “You two must be pretty busy to always be getting checked out by police.”

“No, it was jist a ticket,” Tristan said. “But I guess we look suspicious or somethin’.”

“Everybody looks suspicious when they climb in windows,” Flotsam said.

“I can see that,” said Tristan. “You got a job to do.”

When Jetsam came back in the apartment moments later, he said to his partner, “Mr.”—he couldn’t pronounce Jerzy’s last name
and pointed to him—“has been in jail a few times for drugs and grand theft. Mr. Hawkins has a misdemeanor record for petty
theft and DUI.”

“The petty theft was when I had to steal some milk for my baby sister after our family got foreclosed on,” Tristan said.

Flotsam looked at Jetsam and said, “Why does everybody give us such lame stories?”

Tristan said, “Officers, is there somethin’ in this here apartment to steal? We’re waitin’ for Mr. Kessler, who wants us to
help him haul some furniture and fix up this place for his pregnant daughter and her husband. It’s a hot day, so we decided
to pop open the window and sit in the shade and suck on a brew till he shows up. No harm, no foul. Okay?”

Flotsam glanced at his partner, who’d finished writing FI cards on both men. Jetsam signaled by raising his eyebrows almost
imperceptibly.

Flotsam said, “Okay, Mr. Hawkins, but maybe next time you should sit on the step outside to wait for your boss instead of
scaring the neighbors.”

“I hear you,” Tristan said. “We’re sorry.”

When the cops had gone, Jerzy said, “So your name’s Hawkins. What’s your Christian name? Or are you a fuckin’ Muslim?”

“Whadda you care?” Tristan said.

“I jist wanna know if it’s a circumcised cock or an uncircumcised one that I’m gonna cut off and jam down your throat if you
get me busted behind this crazy fuckin’ scheme of yours.”

During all the goings-on at the supermarket, and just after the surfer cops had departed from the duplex-office, Dewey Gleason
as Jakob Kessler showed up, carrying an overnight bag, and unlocked the door. He’d never bothered to have the place alarmed,
because there was nothing of value there. It was no more than a convenient spot to meet his runners, pay them, and receive
the fruits of their labor.

He was surprised to find Creole and Jerzy Szarpowicz already inside, waiting for him. Creole was wearing a white Polo shirt
and chinos, as though he was ready to work a job for him at a westside hotel. As usual, the Polack, in his black T-shirt,
filthy jeans, and boots, looked like he’d just crawled off a Harley. Wearing his baseball hat backward made Jerzy even more
repugnant to Dewey, if that was possible.

Dewey said in his accented Kessler voice, “How did you get in here?”

“Pried the window open with this,” Jerzy said, holding a big screwdriver like a stabbing instrument as he stepped between
Dewey and the only exit door.

“You did what?” Dewey said, his accent slipping a bit.

“It’s a hot and smoggy day,” Jerzy said. “We wanted to relax inside. In fact, we bought a six-pack. How ’bout a brew? They’re
in the fridge.”

“This is an outrage!” Dewey said, not sounding as outrageous as he wanted to sound. “I want to know what game you two think
you are playing.”

“We ain’t—aren’t playin’ a game, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said, correcting himself by force of habit when talking to this man.

“What
are
you doing, then?”

“We’re formin’ a partnership,” Tristan said. “You’re the senior partner and we’re the junior partners. We’re willin’ to work
real hard. Sixteen hours a day if you want. But we’re takin’ a percentage of what we make together. No more chump change.”

Dewey turned as though to leave, but Jerzy didn’t budge. He stood with his arms folded, looking down at Dewey. Then he showed
Dewey a mirthless smile, and said, “Siddown. Take a load off. Lose the wig. Lose the glasses. And lose the fuckin’ elevators.
We saw you without them. You’re kind of a cute little shit when you ain’t playin’ gestapo.”

“I am leaving!” Dewey cried, and he pushed past Jerzy, who dropped the screwdriver and grabbed Dewey around the neck, driving
his fist into Dewey’s midsection. Then he did it twice more.

“Chill, wood!” Tristan yelled. “What the fuck you doin’?”

As Dewey slid to the floor, gasping and going fetal, Jerzy said, “I’m cuttin’ to the fuckin’ chase. I’m sick of this game.
I’m gettin’ his attention. You got a problem with that?”

Then he snatched the gray hairpiece, tape and all, from Dewey’s head, jerked the steel-frame glasses from Dewey’s face and
tossed them on the kitchen table, and, for good measure, pulled the $600 elevator shoes from Dewey’s feet.

“Look at these skates, Creole!” Jerzy said. “I put these on, I could look like Frankenstein.”

You already do, you dumb Polack, Tristan thought, and you’re about to fuck up my whole play here!

Then Jerzy grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and made a fist, as though he were going to move his facial bones around.
Now the big Polack was scaring Tristan as much as he was the man on the floor.

“Don’t go turbo, dawg!” Tristan said. “Step off! We don’t wanna kill the man. We wanna work with him. Jist chill, okay?”

“Okay,” Jerzy said. “But I got a feelin’ this actor’s gonna sing better if I tune him up.”

“Help me get him in the chair,” Tristan said, taking hold of Dewey’s right arm.

Dewey’s gasps turned to groans mixed with a few sobs when they each took an arm and, lifting him to his feet, put him in the
overstuffed chair that Jerzy knew from experience was full of fleas. Then Jerzy grabbed a kitchen chair, placed it facing
the door, and straddled it, arms crossed on the backrest.

“I’m sorry about the violence,” Tristan said to Dewey. “I don’t work that way, but you got my partner upset when you tried
to bounce.”

Jerzy pulled the buck knife from his boot, held it up beside his face as though to shave with it, and said, “In case you try
again, Mr. Kessler.”

“What name do you want us to call you?” Tristan said to Dewey, who was in pain with every breath he took.

“I don’t… don’t give a shit what you call me,” Dewey said, unaccented. “Just take my money and get out.”

“The man thinks we’re thieves,” Jerzy said. “Common fuckin’ thieves. I’m insulted. How ’bout you, Creole?”

Tristan had not expected anything like this and was trying to readjust his approach, now that the dumb Polack had freaked
out.

He said to Dewey Gleason, “What name do you want us to call you?”

“My name’s Bernie Graham,” Dewey said. “Whadda you want from me?”

“Like I said… , Bernie,” Tristan said, “we’re gonna be partners.”

“I think you’re both crazy,” Dewey said and then winced again as he tried to move to a more comfortable position in the chair.

“We were very patient, buyin’ into your Nazi act,” Jerzy said. “Lettin’ you take advantage of our hard work with the minimum
wages you paid us. It’s different now.”

“Is this a kidnap?” Dewey said. “If it is, I don’t have any money at home. There’s about six hundred and change in my wallet.
Take it and go.”

“Who do you got at home?” Tristan asked.

“Nobody. I live alone.”

“Where do you live?” Tristan asked.

“What difference does it make?”

“Don’t make me get up,” Jerzy said.

“I live in Sherman Oaks,” Dewey lied. “In an apartment.”

“Alone, huh?” Tristan said.

“I live with my dog.” Another lie, and he winced again.

“Yeah, I seen her,” Tristan said. “You got that part right.”

Dewey said, “What?”

“You oughtta take her to a groomer once in a while,” Tristan said. “Get her shampooed and fluffed up. She smells like an ashtray.”

That got Dewey’s attention. His eyes widened, and he said, “What’s going on here?”

“And while you’re at it, get yourself flea-dipped, Bernie,” Jerzy said, “after sittin’ in that chair.”

“We know where you live,” Tristan said. “On Franklin. And we know your geek, Miss Nicotine Fingers. How many computers is
she runnin’?”

After a long silence, Tristan said, “And of course we know where your storage locker is. And we know about the job you did
on the owner of that house in Los Feliz. Wait’ll he gets his American Express statement.”

“You were in on that,” Dewey said. “You made money from that.”

“Chump change,” Jerzy said. “Chicken feed for pigeons.”

“I got a friend at Hollywood Station,” Tristan lied. “A detective who busted me a while back. If I was to call him now and
tell him all I know about you, he’d see to it that I get a suspended sentence and probation for dimin’ you.”

“How about your partner?” Dewey said, his mind racing, trying to digest all of this. “Is he willing to go down with me?”

“Me?” Jerzy said. “I’d flip too and get the same deal Creole gets. The DA would probably buy us French dips downtown at Philippe’s
when we get through testifyin’.”

“You won’t call the cops,” Dewey said, so scared that his teeth clicked together when he talked. “You don’t wanna get arrested.
There’s nothing in it for you.”

“Sure there is, dude,” Jerzy said. “We get to take you way down and see you go to the joint, where some of Creole’s dark-skinned
cousins will turn you into a screamin’ bitch. I would like that because I don’t like you… , Bernie.”

“You wouldn’t let yourselves get busted just to bring me down,” Dewey said painfully. “You’re bluffing. This is all bullshit.”

Tristan laughed out loud at that and said, “Sure we are, bro! You’re too smart to think we’d go to jail even for a day jist
to nail your puny ass. No, you and your geek can get outta Dodge tonight if that’s what you wanna do. This crazy Polack and
me, we’re gonna sit up on your crib and watch the door. If you two go, all you can take is the clothes on your back and an
extra set of underwear. Your computers, all your checks and credit-card equipment, all the files you prob’ly have inside there—all
that precious information stays. Not to mention your storage room full of very valuable goods. The second we see you drive
off, I’m gonna call the cops, like the good CI that I am. And then they make their big recovery of stolen goods and all the
rest of the stuff you got at your crib. By the way, Bernie, CI stands for ‘confidential informant’ in cop talk. In case you
didn’t know.”

“I’d like to take a piece of him to leave behind before he says good-bye to Hollywood,” Jerzy said, pointing the buck knife
at Dewey.

Ignoring Jerzy, who was wrecking the conversation flow by terrorizing the man, Tristan said, “I’ll get in real good with that
detective for providin’ him with information that breaks up a criminal enterprise. It’s always good to have a get-outta-jail-free
card from a cop. How much is everything worth that you’ll leave in the apartment and in the storage room? That’s what you’re
gonna lose, along with the whole business you worked so hard to start up. Are you ready to give up your entire livelihood
to keep from payin’ your junior partners a reasonable percentage of what we can all earn together from now on? Are you that
dumb, Bernie?”

Dewey was quietly watching Tristan. Then he looked at Jerzy and back at Tristan, and he said, “Were you the guy from Water
and Power?”

“You ain’t—aren’t the only actor in Hollywood, Bernie,” Tristan said with another hearty laugh.

“Get me one of those beers from the fridge,” Dewey said. “Help me sit up and we’ll talk.”

Tristan said, “Get the man a beer, wood.” And he helped Dewey sit up straight in the chair.

Jerzy said, “He oughtta get his own fuckin’ beer. What am I, his personal negro?” But he did as he was told, grumbling as
usual.

“Open that bag,” Dewey said to Tristan, “and give me the hand towel and the loafers.”

“Sure,” Tristan said, putting the overnight bag on the kitchen table, opening it, and finding casual clothes neatly folded,
a pair of Bernie Graham glasses, and the Bernie Graham mustache.

“Is this your props and makeup department, Bernie?” Tristan said. “Who are you when you change into this?”

“A guy named Bernie Graham,” Dewey said. “That’s what you can call me.”

“Wanna put them on?” Tristan asked, fascinated now. “Would it make you feel better if we let you, like, get into character?
Is that what it’s called?”

“Just give me the towel.”

Tristan threw the hand towel to Dewey. Then he and Jerzy pulled up kitchen chairs and sat watching.

“The spray bottle,” Dewey said.

Tristan handed him the plastic bottle and he sprayed it directly onto his face and wiped the shadows from under his eyes and
around his mouth, and then sprayed more onto the towel and wiped his sideburns free of the gray.

“I suppose you want your comb and brush,” Tristan said, handing them to the man.

“Thank you,” Dewey said, and he took the comb and brush and worked on his hair while Jerzy stood watching with Dewey’s can
of beer in his hand.

“What the fuck is this anyways?” Jerzy said. “The
Creole and Bernie Show
?”

“Let the man get into character,” Tristan said. “Want your stash, Bernie?”

“Thank you,” Dewey said, carefully sticking the mustache over his upper lip. “And my Bernie glasses, please.”

“They busted when I tossed them on the table,” Jerzy said.

“Those are my Kessler glasses,” Dewey said. “I’ll never need those again.” And he held his palm below his eyes and removed
both contact lenses, which had lightened his brown irises.

“Ain’t that some shit, wood?” Tristan said with admiration. “I’m proud to be a partner of this man!”

Dewey said, “The reason I’m getting into character, as you call it, is because I have to meet a new runner here in thirty
minutes. Would you please help me get into my loafers? I can’t manage. I think I have a cracked rib.”

“Puttin’ the man’s shoes on his feet is definitely a job for you, Creole,” Jerzy said, handing the beer to Dewey. “There’s
some things a self-respectin’ white man won’t do.”