Hollywood Moon (40 page)

“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.”

T
HE STORAGE FACILITY
was almost without customers by the time Dewey and Eunice arrived at 8:45
P.M
. The light was on in the office, and the employee on duty at that time of night was an elderly ex-employee of a local alarm
company who’d been pensioned off and was now supplementing his income. Dewey had met him on a few occasions but couldn’t remember
his name. When Dewey stopped at the gate and punched in his code, the man looked out and buzzed open the car gate. Dewey drove
in and stopped at the office, leaving Eunice in the car while he went inside to check in.

The night man had more hair than Dewey did, but it was chalk-white. His face was splotchy with liver spots, and the skin on
his hands was translucent. He had a small TV on the desk and was watching Dodgers baseball.

Dewey read the name on the shirt tag and said, “Evening, Sam. I’m Bernie Graham. Met you a couple of evenings last year, but
so far this year I’ve only been coming in the daytime.”

“Oh, sure, hi, Bernie,” Sam said, but Dewey was sure the old guy didn’t remember him at all.

“My employees left a van here today, did you see it?”

“Naw,” Sam said, eyes darting back to the ballgame. “I been too busy to make the rounds.”

“I’ll be driving it out in a little while. Might be leaving my car here till tomorrow.”

“No problem, Bernie,” Sam said. “I’ll open the gate when I see you leaving.”

When Dewey got back to the car, Eunice was dozing, but she sat up, looking disoriented when he opened the door.

“You’re at the storage room,” Dewey said, “in case you’re wondering.”

“Oh, shit,” Eunice said. “I was hoping this was only a nightmare.”

“I’ll need some help carrying the plasmas,” Dewey said. “My ribs’re still aching bad.”

“What else?” Eunice said. “I may as well get a back sprain while I’m at it.”

Dewey’s hands were shaking when he pulled open the hasp and pretended to be unlocking the padlock hanging on the door staple.
He dropped the key twice before he could complete the charade, causing Eunice to say, “Do you want me to do it? Next time
drink Virgin Marys.”

When he opened the door, he said, “I never come here at night. Let’s see, where’s the light switch? Can you strike a match
over here?”

Grumbling, she walked inside, and then a meaty hand was clamped over her mouth and she was pulled to the floor onto her belly
with a huge weight on top of her while duct tape was wrapped around her ankles.

She heard Dewey cry out, “Owwww! You’re breaking my wrist! Put the gun away, Creole! Why’re you doing this?”

A man whose breath smelled like rank onions and beer said in her ear, “If you make one fuckin’ sound, I’ll bury my knife in
your belly and gut you like a pig. Now lay real still.”

Then, while she whimpered, her wrists were duct-taped behind her back, and a cloth blindfold was wrapped around her face and
duct-taped in place with barely enough of her nostrils exposed for breathing.

Eunice heard Dewey say, “Okay, I can’t move! You don’t need the gun, Creole! Take the merchandise! Take our money! You can
have the goddamn car too!”

Then she heard a smacking sound, like fist striking flesh, and Dewey cried out in pain. And she heard a thud against the metal
wall of the storage room and then a low moan from Dewey.

His voice was guttural and choked when he said, “Go ahead and hit me if it makes you feel better, Jerzy. But for God’s sake,
don’t hurt my wife!”

To Tristan Hawkins, the man looked like some fucking radio actor in one of those old movies about people performing to a microphone.
He was cooking way too much ham here, so Tristan decided to take control.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tristan said. “I’m sick of hearin’ you.”

Unable to surrender the stage, Dewey moaned again and said in a stage whisper, “Okay, I’ll be quiet, but please, please, don’t
hurt her! That’s all I ask!”