“No. They must have drugs. They must have money for drugs. After they take half of money, they are, how you say it, partners in the crime. They cannot tell police nothing. We shall wait two, maybe three days. I tell you the addicts will not know the Mazda is in garage. And under the house they never go in all their life. We are okay for two, three days. We hide here.”
“Ilya, we may keep half money and give other half to Dmitri.” Then he almost told the truth about the diamond deal, saying, “I think I may bargain with Dmitri. I think I say to him I must have thirty-five thousands for diamonds. So, we shall have almost eighty-five thousands and we stay in Los Angeles. All of this if you permit me to kill the addicts. I know how. You shall not need to do nothing.” He was finished now, but he decided to add a postscript. He said, “Please, Ilya. You love the life here. You very much love the life in Hollywood. Am I correct?”
Ilya’s mascara was running when she got up and went to the tea kettle on the stove. She stood there for a long moment before speaking. With her back to him she said, “All right, Cosmo. Kill them. And do not never talk of it. Never!”
FIFTEEN
THE SOUTHEASTERN PART of Hollywood Division, near Santa Monica Boulevard and Western Avenue, was the turf of Latino gangs, including Eighteenth Street cruisers and some Salvadorans from the huge MS-13 gang. White Fence, one of the oldest Mexican American gangs, was active around Hollywood Boulevard and Western, and Mexican Mafia, aka MM or El Eme, was only here and there but in some ways was the most powerful gang of all and could even operate lethally from inside state prisons. There were no black gangs in the Hollywood area, like the Crips or Bloods of south central and southeast L.A., because there were very few blacks living in the Hollywood area.
Wesley Drubb was steeped in this what was to him exciting information, having been permitted to gain new experience by working on loan for two nights with 6-G- 1, a Hollywood Division gang unit. But now while driving on Rossmore Avenue, which bordered the Wilshire Country Club, his gang chatter seemed ludicrously inappropriate and especially annoying to Hollywood Nate Weiss.
Wesley said, “The California Department of Corrections estimates that El Eme has nearly two hundred members in the prison system.”
“You don’t say.” Nate was gazing up at the luxurious apartment buildings and condos on both sides of his favorite Los Angeles street.
“They’re usually identified by a tattoo of a black hand with an M on the palm of it. In the Pelican Bay Maximum Security Prison, an MM gang member had sixty thousand dollars in a trust account before it was frozen by authorities. He was doing deals from inside the strictest prison!”
“Do tell.” Nate imagined Clark Gable in black tie and Carole Lombard in sable, both smiling at the doorman as they went off for a night on the town. At the Coconut Grove, maybe.
Then he tailored the fantasy to fit Tracy and Hepburn, even though he knew that neither of them had ever lived on the street. But what the hell, it was his fantasy.
Wesley said, “Big homies have been known to order hits from their prison cells. If you’re ‘in the hat’ or ‘green-lighted,’ it means you’re targeted.”
“Weird,” Nate said. “Green-lighted in the movie business means you got the okay to do the picture. In Hollywood it means you’re alive. In prison it means you’re dead. Weird.”
Wesley said, “They told me that sometimes in Hollywood we might encounter southeast Asian gangsters from the Tiny Oriental Crips and the Oriental Boy Soldiers. Ever run into them?”
“I don’t think so,” Nate said. “I’ve only encountered more law-abiding and sensitive Asians who would bury a cleaver in your neck if you ever referred to them as Orientals.”
Wesley said, “And the Asian gang whose name I love is the Tiny Magicians Club, aka the TMC.”
“Jesus Christ!” Nate said, “TMC is The Movie Channel! Isn’t anything fucking sacred anymore?”
Wesley said, “I already knew about the civil injunctions to keep gang members in check, but did you know the homies have to be personally served with humongous legal documents that set forth all terms of the injunction? Two or three gang members congregating can violate the injunction, and even possession and use of cell phones can be a violation. Did you know that?”
Nate said, “Possession of a cell phone by any person of the female gender who is attempting to operate a motor vehicle should be a felony, you ask me.”
Wesley said, “I might get to examine the tattoos and talk to some crew members and hear about their gang wars next time.”
“Do I detect a ’hood rat in the making?” Nate said, yawning. “Are you gonna be putting in a transfer, Wesley? Maybe to Seventy-seventh Street or Southeast, where people keep rocket launchers at home for personal protection?”
“When I got sent to Hollywood I heard it was a good misdemeanor division. I guess I wanna go to a good felony division. I’ve heard that in the days before the consent decree, Rampart Division CRASH unit used to have a sign that said ‘We intimidate those who intimidate others.’ Imagine how it was to work that Gang Squad.”
Nate looked at Wesley the way he’d look at a cuppa joe from Dunkin’ Donuts or a Hostess Ding Dong and said, “Wesley, the days of LAPD rock ’n’ rule are over. It’s never coming back.”
Wesley said, “I just thought that someplace like Southeast Division would offer more… challenges.”
“Go ahead, then,” Nate said. “You can amuse yourself on long nights down there by going to drug houses and yelling ‘Police!’ then listening to toilets flushing all over the block. Cop entertainment in the ’hood. Watching cruisers throw gang signs beats the hell outta red carpet events, where the tits extend from Hollywood Boulevard to infinity, right?”
Wesley Drubb was eager indeed to do police work in gang territory, or anyplace where he might encounter real action. He was growing more and more tense and nervous with Nate boring him to death by directing him far from the semi-mean streets of Hollywood for his endless sorties into Hollywood’s past. The gang turf was there and he was here. Touring!
Quiet now, Wesley chewed a fingernail as he drove. Nate finally noticed and said, “Hey pard, you look especially stressed. Got girlfriend troubles maybe? I’m an expert on that subject.”
Wesley wasn’t far enough from his probationary period to say, “I am fucking bored to death, Nate! You are killing me with these trips through movie history!”
Instead, he said, “Nate, do you think we should be cruising around the country club? This is Wilshire Area. We work in Hollywood Area.”
“Stop saying area,” Nate said. “Division sounds more coplike. I can’t stand these new terms for everything.”
“Okay, Hollywood Division, then. We’re out of it right now. This is Wilshire Division.”
“A few blocks, big deal,” Nate said. “Look around you. This is gorgeous.”
Hollywood Nate was referring to Rossmore Avenue, where the elegant apartment buildings and pricey converted condos had names like the Rossmore, El Royale, the Marlowe, and Country Club Manor, all of them a short walk from the very private golf course. They were built in the French, Spanish, and Beaux Arts styles of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Seeing that Wesley lacked enthusiasm for the architecture, Nate said, “Maybe you’d like to cruise by the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center? We might spot John Travolta. But we can’t hassle any of their so-called parishioners or we’ll get beefed by their fascist security force. Do you know they even beefed our airship one time? Said they wanted to make their headquarters an LAPD no-fly zone.”
Wesley said, “No, I don’t have much interest in Scientology or John Travolta, to tell you the truth.”
“This looks like we’re in Europe,” Nate said, as the setting sun lit the entry of the El Royale. “Can’t you see Mae West sashaying out that door with a hunky actor on her arm to a limo waiting on the street?”