The cheerleader said, “Officers, we’re not doing anything illegal here. We’re having a harmless nostalgia party. We don’t even use drugs, except for the strawberry martinis. Maybe we had too many.” Then he pointed to the naked old guy with the erection and said, “Roger was down in the pool having a moonlight swim just before you arrived, and hadn’t dressed yet.”
“Must be awful hard water down there,” Nate observed.
Dana said, “There’s a guy in the bedroom who might dispute how harmless your nostalgia party is.”
When they could hear the whoop and whine of the ambulance siren, the older vice cop left the man in the bedroom to enter the living room and whispered to Dana, “I think the guy’s in big trouble. His ass is torn up, and he’s got a couple vials of heart medication on the nightstand next to him. I think he’s had a heart attack.”
“Check out the beach boy,” Dana whispered. “There’s blood spatter on his shorts.”
“Uncuff him and bring him in the master bedroom,” the vice cop said. “I need to talk to him privately.”
In the next few minutes, the paramedics arrived with their gurney and carried the stricken man out of the apartment, where they encountered a detective in a wrinkled suit and a horrible necktie. It was Compassionate Charlie Gilford, waiting at the foot of the stairs until the gurney got past. Only his instinct for the bizarre would get him out of the squad room when there were summer reruns of his favorite reality shows, but when he heard the watch commander talking about this one, he figured it might be worth a peek.
The detective entered and checked out the living room and then walked to the master bedroom with the older vice cop.
“This is what spoiled the party,” the vice cop said, gloved-up and holding a twelve-inch bloodstained Barbie doll, with her one arm extended and the other broken off.
“Her ponytail’s a mess,” said Compassionate Charlie. “Let’s hear it.”
Back in the living room, where Hollywood Nate and Dana Vaughn watched the partygoers, Dana said sotto to Nate, “If there was a Hollywood moon tonight, we’d win the pizza.”
When Compassionate Charlie returned from the bedroom, he beckoned Nate and Dana into the hallway away from the others, where he quietly explained things.
“Seems like the over-age beach boy shoved a Barbie doll up the host’s ass to liven up the party and get a few giggles from the others,” Charlie explained. “With the host’s permission, he says. Except when the rubber band that held Barbie’s little arms in place busted loose, they popped straight out, and her fingers are sharp. So, suddenly the guy on the bed doesn’t love Barbie no more and doesn’t find the joke very funny and he starts screaming. But the beach boy, who says he drank seven martinis, claims he got confused and thought it was a pleasure scream, not a pain scream, until the guy started clutching his chest and gulping like he’s underwater and grabbing for his heart medication.” After a pause, he added, “I imagine his love canal’s gonna need to be resurfaced big time.”
“Are we booking anybody here?” Nate asked, looking queasy.
“The guy was turning blue when I saw him last,” Charlie continued. “And with his heart condition and all, he might just croak. So, even though this won’t go anywhere, I’m gonna call this a mandated sexual assault case for now, and I’m gonna advise booking the Brian Wilson look-alike until somebody can interview the host tomorrow. If he lives.”
“How about the others?” Dana asked.
“Let them walk, but we’ll need a good crime report and transportation for the beach boy.”
“What’s the booking charge?” Nate asked.
Compassionate Charlie grinned and said, “How about assault with a deadly Barbie?”
Nate and Dana went back to the living room, thinking that things couldn’t get much stranger, until the diminutive man called Roger let out a yelp, lost his wraparound towel, and scared the crap out of everybody. A purple oscillating object flew across the floor and stopped when it struck Nate’s shoe, causing him to leap away like it was radioactive.
“Sorry,” Roger said, picking up his towel. “I’m sorry to alarm you, but I held it in as long as I could.”
“What the hell is that?” Nate demanded.
“It’s a vibrating egg. I didn’t want you to know it was there. I’m so embarrassed.”
The detective ran into the living room and said, “Who yelled?”
Hollywood Nate, looking a bit pale, pointed to Roger, who was holding the towel in front of him, and Nate said, “That dude shot me in the foot with an egg he had tucked up his ass!”
The detective shrugged and said, “So, chill. This is Hollywood, for chrissake.”
“What?” Nate said. “You think it’s an everyday thing when a guy lays an egg on your goddamn shoe?”
Backing her partner, Dana said, “Yeah, Charlie, wouldn’t you find it a teeny bit weird if someone fired a rectal egg at you?”
Compassionate Charlie stroked his chin as though mulling over something momentous. And before exiting, he sucked his teeth and said, “I think it all depends on the size of the egg he laid. Are we talking pigeon or ostrich?”
When Malcolm Rojas left Mel’s Drive-In that evening, he was excited about the money he was going to make. He considered quitting his job in the warehouse even before working a single day for Bernie Graham, but then he thought he’d better wait and see. It was still too early to go to bed, so instead of driving home, he parked on a side street near Hollywood High School and impulsively dialed the number of Naomi Teller.
Her cell phone rang several times, and when he was about to give up, she said in a small voice, “Hello.”
“Can you guess who this is?” Malcolm said.
“No,” she said, stifling a giggle because she knew who it was.
“Do you have so many boyfriends you can’t guess?” he said.
“Maybe,” she said, even though she’d never had a real boyfriend.
“Take a guess,” he said.
She said, “Josh.”
“No, it’s not Josh,” Malcolm said, and he sounded so disappointed, she laughed and said, “I’m just kidding. I know it’s you, Clark.”
Malcolm was happy again and said, “I’d sure like to take you for a ride in my Mustang sometime.”
“You have a Mustang?”
“It’s an old one,” Malcolm said, “but it runs good. “We could go to the beach.”
“I’d like that,” she said, “but my mom’d go all spaz if I went to the beach with a guy as old as you.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Twenty-one maybe,” she said. “You sound older than you look.”
“I’m nineteen,” he said. “Is that better?”
“My mom’d still think you’re too old for me. You’re an adult and I’m a juvenile.”
“What if we met at the mall and went to the movies?” he said. “Would that work?”
“Sure,” she said. “As long as my mom doesn’t know.”
“I’m gonna call you on Friday and set something up, okay? We’ll maybe see a movie and grab a pizza and get better acquainted. Can you do it?”
He could hear the excitement in her voice when she said, “For sure. Call me at about six o’clock on Wednesday, okay?”
“Okay, Naomi,” he said. “I can’t wait.”
“Me too, Clark,” she said.
Malcolm felt good when he closed the cell and dropped it on the passenger seat. It made a clicking sound when it bumped against the box cutter. Looking at it made him think that it was too early to go home. His mother would be sitting there watching one of her stupid TV shows if she was sober, and she’d insist on making him a sandwich even after he told her he’d eaten already. She wouldn’t believe him. She never believed him. If she was drunk, she’d forget and call him Ruben, and she might even try to stroke his hair again.