“My lawyer!” a homie yelled. “I’m calling my lawyer!”
Flotsam and Jetsam stared as Officer Francis X. Mulroney spread his arms wide, looked up at the darkening sky, and cried, “God knows I’m innocent! Even Bill Clinton had a premature discharge!”
“I’m fucking suing!” Gold Tooth yelled.
F.X. Mulroney bowed his head then and murmured, “Oh, the horror. The horror!”
Flotsam whispered to Jetsam, “F.X. always goes over the top. He’s, like, way dramatic.”
Jetsam whispered back, “In Hollywood everybody’s an actor.”
All the drama caused Flotsam and Jetsam to walk quietly to their shop, start the engine, and drive away before anyone noticed they were gone.
Most of the other bluesuits were doing the same, and the gang cop pulled Gold Tooth aside and said, “Homes, I think you better forget all about this…accident.”
“Accident, my ass!” the homie said.
The gang cop said, “Can you imagine what’ll happen if this story gets out? That crazy old motor cop can retire anytime. You can’t hurt him. But everybody’ll be laughing like hyenas. At you, dude. At your whole posse. MS Thirteen will laugh. White Fence will laugh. El Eme will laugh. All the Crips and Bloods from Southeast L.A. that done your people wrong, they’ll laugh the loudest. You’ll hear fucking laughter in your sleep!”
Gold Tooth thought it over and huddled with his crew for a minute or two. When he returned, he said, “Okay, but we don’t want nobody to know about this, right? All your cops gotta keep their mouths shut.”
“If there’s one thing cops can do, it’s keep a secret,” the gang cop said.
When they were two blocks from the scene, Flotsam said, “Dude, do you realize we were a witness to Hollywood history being made? That old copper just brought down a whole crew with one fucking shot!”
“We didn’t see nothing, bro,” Jetsam said. “We were already gone when history was being made.” After a pause, he said, “When he’s ready to pull the pin, do you think that loony old motor cop will really, like, drive his bike up to the chief’s office and leave it there with a sign on it?”
“What motor cop?” Flotsam replied.
TEN
IT WORRIED RONNIE SINCLAIR that her partner, Bix Ramstead, was so troubled by the encounter with the Somalians. They were at Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard, both doing some paperwork before going end-of-watch. Bix, never garrulous, had been unusually quiet all day.
The third time he brought it up he said, “Sometimes I think being a copper turns you into an animal in more ways than one. The hair on my neck hasn’t settled down since we first laid eyes on that scar-faced Somali. That guy’s fifty-one-fifty, for sure.”
“He’s way out there, no doubt,” Ronnie said, “but what could we do about it? There was no evidence of violent behavior. I gave her every chance to walk outta there and she flat-out refused. What could we do?”
“Nothing, I suppose,” Bix said. “But wasn’t your blue radar blinking? That dude’s gonna hurt that girl.”
“He’s probably hurt her already,” Ronnie said. “Lots and lots of times. He owns her, according to their customs. You know we couldn’t pick her up and bundle her out on the basis of blue radar, Bix.”
“Of course,” he said, “but it still bothers me.”
“The way I look at stuff like that is, it’s not my tragedy. I have to see it, but I don’t have to take it home with me. I let it go.”
“My wife’s told me that for years,” Bix said. “That’s one of the reasons I got into CRO. Her telling me I was bringing too much shit home with me for too many years.”
“She was right,” Ronnie said, thinking that every once in a while she’d run into a cop like Bix Ramstead, someone who didn’t have the right temperament for the Job. Somebody who couldn’t let it go.
He suddenly looked a bit embarrassed, as cops do when they indulge in uncoplike self-revelatory talk. He turned the conversation to her. “You ever gonna get married again, you think?”
“I’m not in the market,” Ronnie said. “I’ve proven to be a bad shopper. Besides, I’m concentrating on passing the sergeant’s exam. But if I ever get married again, it will not be to another cop.”
Bix smiled and said, “Smart girl.”
And Ronnie thought, If you weren’t already bought and paid for, buddy, I might make an exception. She was surprised by how much she liked Bix. Those sensitive, dusky gray eyes of his could make a girl’s knees tremble.
She said, “Will you be staying on the Job until the bitter end?”
“Until I’m fifty-five, at least,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of teenagers who’ll have to get through college, and my daughter is talking about becoming a physician. I won’t be retiring any time soon, that’s for sure.”
Ronnie almost suggested that he might consider an inside job somewhere, one that would keep him from the likes of Omar Hasan Benawi and his pitiful wife, but she thought she shouldn’t be offering career advice to a veteran like Bix. Besides, the Community Relations Office was the next best thing to an inside job. How much real police work would they ever have to do as Crows?
She said, “A couple of us are heading up to Sunset after work for a few tacos and a tequila or two. Wanna come?”
Bix hesitated, but he obviously trusted Ronnie and could confide in her in ways he might not to a male officer. He said, “I’d better not join you. I have a bit of a problem.”
“Problem?”
“I haven’t had a drink for almost a month, and I’m reluctant to go places where everyone else is powering them down.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Ronnie said.
“It’s nothing major,” Bix said. “I’ve been dealing with it for years. On the wagon, off the wagon. I deal with it.”
“I hear you,” Ronnie said. “My first ex was an alcoholic in denial. Still is.”
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Bix said quickly. “I just don’t handle booze very well. When I drink, my personality changes. My wife, Darcey, put me on notice last month when I came home hammered, and I’m grateful she did. I feel a lot better now. Getting too old for that nonsense.”
Ronnie didn’t know what else to say, and Bix obviously thought he’d said too much. They finished their cappuccinos and their reports silently.
Hollywood Nate Weiss could not wait to log out at 7:30 P.M. He’d changed from his uniform into a pricey white linen shirt, and black jeans from Nordstrom’s. He’d thought about really dressing up but figured it might make him look like some schmuck who’d never had a private supper at the home of some flaming hot, bucks-up chick in the Hollywood Hills. Which was the case exactly.
While driving to Mt. Olympus he thought of half a dozen opening remarks he could say to her, but rehearsing aloud made them sound dumber than they did in his mind. He almost parked on the street in front but decided that as a guest he was entitled to pull into the bricked motor court. The lot was quite expansive for a view site in the hills, where land was scarce, and the motor court was large enough for an easy U-turn. The house itself was deceivingly large, with a Spanish-tile roof, white plaster walls, exposed beams, and lots of arches, a style that realtors liked to call “early California.” A cinch to sell, especially to non-Californians who found it romantic.
Nate was very happy to see that there were no other cars in the motor court. He’d been worried that the babysitter might have decided to stay with the kid at Margot’s house. Or that maybe Margot had invited somebody else to her pasta supper. He attempted to stay calm, trying on the affable but poised mini-smile he’d used successfully in his last piece-of-shit movie, and rang the bell.
Margot showed him that dazzling smile when she opened the door. She too was wearing jeans, low-cut designer jeans, and a yellow tee that stopped six inches before the jeans began. His eyes went from her eyes directly to that tan, muscular belly. She’d pulled back her heavy butterscotch hair and pinned it with a tortoiseshell comb.