“With one foot? They might as well retire me,” Jetsam said.
“I been talking to people,” Flotsam said. “LAPD once had a cop with one hand. He got it blown off by a bomb. He got a cool prosthesis. The gangsters started calling him Captain Hook. He was, like, kinda famous after that. And we had some coppers that got an eye shot out. They stayed on the Job and did good work.”
“A cop’s gotta be able to walk, bro. A cop’s gotta be able to run.”
“You’ll walk. You’ll run. I been talking to people about the kind of prosthetic foot they can give you. It’s gonna be better than your old foot, dude. You’ll be good to go. You’ll see.”
“My foot, it hurts bad sometimes, but it ain’t there. They call it phantom pain.”
“I know,” Flotsam said.
“I wouldn’t mind so much but… but I’m a surfer.”
“You’re a great surfer,” Flotsam said. “You’re way better than me, dude. You’re way better than I ever could be. Why, I seen you do chocka backsides that nobody at Malibu could do. You’re a crusher. Nothing can stop you.”
“I don’t wanna lay on the beach like a stranded seal and just watch,” Jetsam said. “I wouldn’t wanna do that.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Flotsam said. “Sure, maybe at first we gotta take it easy. I’m gonna take you to Malibu every day if you wanna go, and we’ll let the ocean heal you. The ocean is a great healer. And soon as you’re ready, we’re gonna get you that new foot. They can make you a prosthesis that’ll grip that board like Elmer’s Glue.”
“What’ll I do at the beach till it heals, bro?”
“We’ll bodysurf or boogie board.”
“I ain’t no booger, bro. Can you see me, like, sponging-in on a real kahuna and getting in his way like some snarky squid?”
“Dude, the boogie board would be temporary till we heal,” Flotsam said. “Till we get our new foot.”
“I guess the Wedgie Bandit’s safe now, bro,” Jetsam said.
Flotsam said, “Trust me. Real soon it’s gonna be us two kahunas ripping like always. And we’ll get that Wedgie Bandit, you and me. Don’t cry, dude.”
“You’re the one that’s crying, bro,” Jetsam said. “In case you didn’t notice.”
Hollywood Nate turned then and walked back down the corridor past the nurse’s station, heading for the exit.
The floor nurse said, “Aren’t you going in?”
“Not today,” said Hollywood Nate. “Not today.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The second year of the Obama presidency saw big changes at the Los Angeles Police Department. The Eastern chief had resigned and moved back to New York to take a top job with the private security firm that had been overseeing the federal consent decree under which the LAPD had suffered for so many years. Some said that his connection to that security firm had been a conflict of interests, but the fact was, he was gone for good.
The new chief was not an outsider, far from it. He was second-generation LAPD. His father had been a deputy chief. His son and daughter were both LAPD officers, and his wife was retired from the L.A. Sheriff’s Department. Even his sister was a retired cop. They didn’t come more insider than this one. He inherited the tough job of being chief in the great recession that had just about bankrupted the state of California, and the city of Los Angeles right along with it. There had to be lots of maneuvering of personnel, including sending a large number of officers from the elite Metropolitan Division back to patrol.
But there was at least one officer going from patrol back to Metro. One quiet evening on patrol, Snuffy Salcedo said to Hollywood Nate, “I went downtown and talked to a few people and I’m gonna be taken back as a security aide to the new chief.”
“Is it my deodorant?” Nate said. “What brought this about?”
“Don’t get me wrong, partner,” Snuffy said. “I’ve really enjoyed working here at Hollywood Station, and it hasn’t been too awful having you as a partner.”
“I’ll put that in my diary,” Nate said.
Snuffy said, “But I think for the next few years, till I pull the pin and say adios, I should take it easy. And the new chief ain’t nothing like Mister. So I see myself driving for him for three more years and then I’ll retire and spend the rest of my life cutting grass and trimming trees like a typical Mexican gardener, except it’ll be my grass and my trees.”
“Was it stuff like the rumble at Goth House that made you wanna leave Hollywood?” Nate asked.
“Naw,” Snuffy said. “It was fun tuning up Rolf Thunder, sort of. I even got a new and better nose out of it. It’s just that patrol needs people who have real thick skin. Young people. So they can look at stuff like that baby in Little Armenia and go home and say, That’s not my tragedy. That’s somebody else’s tragedy. That has nothing to do with me. When you get old like me, the skin thins out and bleeds.”
“Who’s gonna bring me homemade enchiladas then?” Nate said. “Tell me that.”
“You’ll find some other Mexican whose mother can cook,” Snuffy said.
Nate said, “On this sad occasion I’d like to devote a few minutes to my own future. Would you mind if I stop by a house in the Hollywood Hills? I gotta see a director about making me a star.”
“Anything you wanna do,” Snuffy Salcedo said. “I’m just a short-timer along for the ride.”
Nate drove up Mulholland Drive to the vicinity of the crash that had cost Jetsam his foot and Jonas Claymore his life. He stopped at the gate of a particularly large estate and pressed the button.
A man’s voice answered and Nate said, “This is Officer Nate Weiss. I’d like to see Mr. Ressler if he’s there.”
The male voice spoke to someone and came back, saying, “Come in.”
Nate and Snuffy Salcedo entered the gate, driving over the faux-cobblestone driveway, then circled around the fountain and parked next to the front door.
“Just be a minute,” Nate said and got out.
“Take your time,” Snuffy said. “I’ll have a siesta.”
Raleigh Dibble opened the door and said, “Good to see you again, Officer Weiss. Mrs. Brueger is in the great room.”
Nate found her in silk pajamas and a matching peignoir, sitting on a lounge with a glass of wine beside her and a copy of Cosmopolitan in her lap. The music coming from surrounding speakers was Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood,” one of Nate’s favorite background melodies for any movie that promised glamour and sophistication.
“My, my, Nathan,” she said. “You’re even more handsome in uniform.”
“Evening, Mrs. Brueger,” Nate said.
She said, “It’s Leona, remember? Can Raleigh get you anything to drink? Coffee, maybe?”
“No, thanks,” Nate said. “My partner’s waiting.”
“Bring him in,” Leona Brueger said. “Or her.”
“Can’t stay but a minute,” Nate said. “The reason I’m here is that I’ve called Mr. Ressler half a dozen times in the last few months and only hooked up with him once. He said he’d be starting to prep his movie in February, but here it is March and I haven’t heard anything. He hasn’t returned my calls lately. You said you might be able to help me get this job and, well, here I am. Hopes and dreams, remember?”
Leona took another sip of wine and said, “Oh, Nathan, I’m so glad I’m not an actor. The truth of it is, after we got back from Europe, things went from bad to worse for poor Rudy. His investors pulled the plug on him and the project died, but he doesn’t want to admit it to anyone. That’s probably why he’s dodging your calls. He’s scratching and clawing and trying to stay afloat, but the fact of the matter is, his career is circling the drain. He’s drifting into irrelevancy, and in Hollywood that’s Hell’s last circle. A living death. I’m sure you know that the irrelevant are Hollywood’s zombies.”
Nate was silent for a moment and said, “I see.”
“Aren’t you used to it yet, Nathan?” Leona Brueger asked. “The rejection?”