Hollywood Moon (5 page)

That’s another thing that made Jerzy sneer. The “office” was what he called the duplex apartment in east Hollywood where meetings
were held with the boss in order to trade loot for pay.

“About time,” Jerzy said. “This is way stupid to be cruisin’ up here.” And he waved his hand to indicate the hills of Hollywood
with all the multimillion-dollar homes. “Maybe you figure to outrun any cops that might come after this piece-of-shit car
of yours?”

Tristan couldn’t contain his own sneer. This biker-ugly cracker calling
him
stupid? Tristan looked at Jerzy’s belly, hanging in two blubber rolls under his sweaty black T-shirt. Jerzy was tatted-out
on both arms, Navy shit and women’s tits. And of course the dumb Polack wore a baseball cap backward on his football-shaped
skull, with tufts of rhubarb-red hair sticking out over his wing-nut ears, and with eyebrows like balls of rust clinging to
his lumpy forehead under the cap band. And those faded blue eyes of his, Tristan thought they looked too shallow to drown
an ant, but the grungy little teeth were the worst, like you’d see on the pancaked carcass of roadkill that spent its life
eating grubs, insects, and worms. When they went on certain jobs, Jerzy wore a long-sleeve shirt to cover the ink and turned
the bill to the front, but it didn’t help at all, and Tristan hated to be seen with him and always walked several paces ahead.

“Never fear, my Polish apprentice,” Tristan said with a smirk. “I won’t try to get away in this piece-of-shit car. I’ll bail
and get away on my two feet. You can try it too. You can waddle up one of them steep streets fast as you can and see how far
you get. You’ll drop dead of a heart attack and the cops won’t end up with nothin’ but a pile of mail and a car that’s registered
to a dude that died two years ago. And three bills of dead goober coolin’ out on the curb. So I don’t see no problem with
this here car, wood.”

“You’re gonna woof on me once too often,” Jerzy said. “I ain’t no goober. And I don’t weigh no three bills.”

“Hey, if it don’t apply, let it fly,” Tristan said.

“And I warned you before, I don’t like bein’ called a peckerwood.”

Tristan’s mouth smiled and he said, “I dropped the pecker. You okay with that, wood?”

Jerzy glared with watery blue eyes at the brazen little nigger, the scar across Jerzy’s eyebrow flushing through the frown,
and said, “Someday, Mr. Bojangles, you’re gonna dance too far.”

“Somehow I get the idea that us two ain’t never gonna get all ‘Kum Bay Ya,’ ” said Tristan Hawkins.

The next and final job of their long working day was at a popular Gym-and-Swim in the San Fernando Valley. It boasted an enormous
workout room with state-of-the-art equipment and an indoor pool, and Jakob Kessler had arranged a membership card for Tristan
under a fictitious name. This kind of job was not for Jerzy, who looked too much like street trash to get through the door
without someone grabbing weapons of self-defense. Tristan, on the other hand, was clean-shaven and untatted, wore wire-rim
glasses even though he didn’t really need them, and always dressed in a clean Polo shirt and Banana Republic jeans and the
kind of Nike sneaks that white men wore. He figured that his dreads even enhanced his aura of respectability, making him look
more like the sensitive artistic type he felt he was.

Tristan parked the car in the Gym-and-Swim lot, where Jerzy pulled his baseball hat over his eyes to snooze. Tristan opened
the trunk, took out his gym bag, and entered, showing his card to the kid at the desk, who barely glanced at it before giving
him a locker key and a towel.

There were no members in the locker room, so Tristan walked along the double rows of laminated wood lockers and tried them
all before putting down his bag. You never knew when somebody might forget to lock his, but not today. He put the bag on one
of the benches and took out his tiny eyeglass screwdriver and a pick. He could open a locker in less than a minute, and he
opened two that turned out to be empty before he found one that was in use. The clothes hanging there looked promising, and
the Rolex inside one of the Ferragamo loafers looked very promising, possibly indicating a large line of credit for this dude.
It took all of Tristan’s self-control not to steal the Rolex and the wallet, but Jakob Kessler had drilled it into his head
that discipline would make money for them and keep them out of jail. And that greed would get them jailed, “or worse.”

Jakob Kessler, which Tristan figured was a bogus name, looked to Tristan like an accountant. He was an unimposing guy, maybe
in his late fifties, with a full head of slicked-back silver hair, and maybe six feet tall but with posture somewhat stooped.
There was something about those eyes, so pale that the irises looked more white than blue. Tristan thought from the beginning
that he shouldn’t fuck with the guy, at least not until he saw how much money he was going to make through their association.
He took the “or worse” to mean something very bad might happen to him if he disobeyed orders.

Kessler had explained the game to Tristan in that accent of his, saying, “If you steal money, the man can figure out how it
happened. If you replace the card and steal nothing, he will be confused and try to think, when was it he had his last restaurant
meal and mistakenly got given back the wrong card?”

“What if he goes to a gas station right after his workout and finds out he’s got a wrong card?” Tristan had asked Kessler.

His employer had said, “Even if he discovers the replacement card today, he is going to take time to ponder and to maybe call
the last restaurant he visited. He will not think that the card could have been stolen from his wallet, because nothing else
is missing—not his money, nothing. His belief will be that the restaurant made a mistake. And we may have the use of the card
for perhaps one day. Perhaps two. Perhaps longer, you never know. So you see, Creole, why we do not steal money, rings, or
wristwatches? It would end that specific game for us.”

When he spoke to Kessler, Tristan was conscious of his own grammar and diction, never talking street to the man. He said,
“You mean at that specific location?”

“Exactly,” Kessler said. “We can visit the Gym-and-Swim at least once a week for a very long time if we are patient and not
greedy. You must never surrender to greed.” Then his employer said, “There must be discipline.”

Tristan did not like the way Kessler’s eyes bore into his when he uttered that last word, and he didn’t think it wise to push
it. Instead he said, “What’s the longest you ever had a card before it got canceled?”

“For almost a month,” Kessler said.

“And how much did your people charge on it?” Tristan asked.

Kessler chuckled and said, “You have a curious mind, Creole. I don’t mind that. I like curiosity in a man as long as he is
loyal and obedient. To answer your question, many thousands were charged in small amounts for three weeks before the switched
card was discovered and reported.”

“That ain’t—that’s not bad,” Tristan said. “Not bad at all.”

“Think of what one location like Gym-and-Swim could do for us in a few months, Creole,” Kessler said to him, “if we never
surrender to greed.”

There it was again:
greed
. When Kessler said it that time, his eyes seemed to grow deader than Old Jerzy Krakowski. That’s where Tristan figured Old
Jerzy was—dead. He figured that’s what Kessler really meant when he’d said that Old Jerzy’s employment had been terminated.
He wondered if Old Jerzy had surrendered to greed.

Tempted though he was, memories of all of those conversations with Jakob Kessler made Tristan leave the Rolex inside the loafer.
Tristan opened the wallet and found three credit cards. He removed the American Express card and, choosing from among the
several cards that Kessler had given to him, replaced it with a stolen and expired American Express card.

Tristan picked six more lockers and was disappointed that only one had clothes inside. He removed a Visa card from the wallet
in that locker, and was in the process of replacing it with a stolen and expired Visa card, when a customer in a Speedo walked
into the locker room, drying off with a towel. Tristan was ready to bolt if this was the guy’s locker and he started yelling.

But the man, a flabby fifty-something with a bad transplant and a worse dye job, just smiled and said, “The pool’s too cold
today in case you plan to try it.” He went to a locker on the other side of the benches and unlocked a lower one.

Tristan said to the guy, “I just had a workout on the treadmill. I’m ready to go home.”

Then a naked bodybuilder suddenly entered from the pool area, a white guy with shoulders like a buffalo who was all sleeved-out
with tatts, from his wrists to his bulging biceps. On his belly he had an attention-getting tattoo of a semiautomatic pistol,
muzzle down. With his shirt hanging open, it would look like he was packing, a handgun tucked inside his waistband. His head
was shaved, and even his skull was inked-up. Just over his left ear, where a gold loop dangled, a tatt on his skull said,
“What’re you looking at, bitch?”

Tristan froze. The guy was between him and the exit. If he was into this ’roid monster’s locker, he was one dead identity
thief. But the guy walked past him and opened a locker near the end of the row.

Tristan hurriedly completed the switch, closed the locker, and left the locker room, making sure to slip past the desk when
the kid was on the phone and not looking, because he hadn’t been in there long enough for a workout or a swim. His only regret
was that the Rolex would’ve looked very fine on his wrist. He was definitely a Rolex type of dude.

Officer Sheila Montez, the heavy-lashed, sloe-eyed P2 who was currently the heartthrob of both surfer cops as well as half
the midwatch, had just finished doing her nails with clear polish, all the while shooting peevish glances at her slightly
older partner. Aaron Sloane, at age twenty-nine and with eight years on the LAPD, certainly did not look older than Sheila
Montez, nor anyone else at Hollywood Station, and that included twenty-two-year-old rookies. The boyish-looking cop was too
heavy-footed on brake and throttle for Sheila’s taste, and he caused her to smear polish on her fingertip.

Both partners had the windows rolled down on this warm summer twilight as Aaron drove through the streets in the Hollywood
Hills, where a number of car burglaries had taken place during early evening hours. After Sheila finished with her nails,
she held all ten fingers in front of her, blowing lightly on them. Like all women patrol officers at LAPD, she had her hair
pinned up so that it did not hang below her collar. And like all women officers who favored lip gloss and nail polish, she
wore a pale unobtrusive shade while on duty. Aaron Sloane liked watching her do her lips and nails and thought her dusky good
looks could be enhanced by a more crimson shade, especially if those lustrous umber tresses were unpinned and draped across
her shoulders.

Sheila had almost seven years on the Job, and though she’d recently transferred to Hollywood from Pacific Division, she was
comfortable enough with Aaron to be tending to nails and makeup while riding shotgun in unit 6-X-66. When she’d been a rookie
at Northeast Division, her field training officer, an old P3 named Tim Brannigan, would’ve had apoplexy if she’d tried this
in his shop. Tim Brannigan had been the kind of FTO who resented women working patrol in the first place, never talked to
her when he could yell, and made her call him sir right to the end of her probationary period.

Since he’d hated writing reports, Tim Brannigan had let her drive only about once every four or five days. The rest of the
time she was the passenger, doing the report writing. His favorite response to her requests to drive had been, “Rookie, you’re
taking the paper.”

Sheila figured the old bastard probably wasn’t breast-fed as a baby, so he never learned to appreciate or respect women. But
at least he wasn’t one of the handsy partners who’d “accidentally” touch her when reaching for the MDC dashboard computer.
There had been more than a few of those in her career.

Sheila recalled a night two weeks earlier when Aaron Sloane was driving and a code 3 call had interrupted her nail polishing.
She’d had to hang her wet nails out the window to dry while he drove with lights and siren to a check-cashing store where
a clerk had accidentally tripped the silent robbery alarm. Aaron never complained about her dangling fingers and never told
the others about what he called her girl stuff and she called her ablutions. And he never complained about the car mirror
being turned so she could touch up her lips.

Part of the reason Aaron never protested about anything was that he was one of the smitten ones, as Sheila had suspected from
their first night together. But she’d never encouraged him, even though now, glancing over at him, she had to admit that he
had boy-next-door good looks and was buff from a lot of iron pumping. It was just that the sandy-haired, baby-faced reticent
types like Aaron had never appealed to her.

And as though he had read her mind at that moment, Aaron said, “I got carded Saturday night when I had a date with a girl
I met in my poly sci class.”

Like many of the young cops at Hollywood Station, Aaron was taking college classes, and he was only six units away from a
bachelor’s degree.

“Does that surprise you?” Sheila asked. “Getting carded? I wish I could get carded once in a while.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about getting old,” Aaron said, gazing at her with that moony expression of his.

“Less than two years from now I’ll be thirty,” she said. “It’s hard to believe.”

“I’ll be thirty in four months,” Aaron said. “And I get carded just about every damn time I go to a bar. It’s embarrassing
when I have a date.”

“You’ll be glad someday to be looking like a perennial frat rat.” To tweak him she added, “Do you have to shave every day,
Aaron, or just a couple times a week?”

Aaron reddened and said, “You know, my youthful DNA almost got me killed before I got off probation. Did you know I worked
UC for a while? I mean deep undercover.”