Hollywood Crows (38 page)

Margot said, “I believe I told you that I took a shooting lesson at a gun store in the Valley. And I’m sure you’re right about a revolver being what I should buy, but the nine-millimeter pistol I fired in that lesson seemed comfortable to me. If that’s a word that applies to a gun. Would you mind getting yours so I can ask you a few questions? Or I can get it if you give me your car keys.”

“I’ll get it,” Bix said with a sigh. “I gotta pee anyway.”

It took him two attempts to get up from the sofa, and he weaved when he crossed the living room to the powder room off the foyer. After he’d flushed the toilet, he looked at himself in the mirror, trying to focus on his pupils. Was he drunk? He thought he’d better not have another vodka. Maybe some fizzy water. After that, he was going home.

The second he opened the door to his minivan to retrieve his holstered nine from under the seat, Bix Ramstead felt it: a hint of danger. His neck hair bristled when he touched the gun, and he shivered. Cop instincts that he’d developed over nearly two decades were telling him to get into that van and drive down that hill and never drive back up again. But he decided he was being ridiculous. He was having a pleasant time and would be flying off to his nest very soon. After one more drink.

While he was gone, Margot removed from the drawer in the butler’s pantry two magenta-and-turquoise capsules that she’d taken from her jewelry box earlier in the day. She pulled one apart and poured it into the drink, stirring it before dropping in the ice. She didn’t like the way it failed to completely dissolve, and she didn’t really think it would be needed tonight, but there was no sense taking a chance that he’d somehow summon enough sobriety to drive away from there. The granules were clinging to the ice, and she thought he’d get very little of it into his system, so she took the second capsule and added it, then flushed the empty capsules away. She prepared herself another tumbler of plain tonic, ice, and lime.

When Bix got back inside the house, a fresh drink was waiting for him on the massive glass-and-steel coffee table. He sat down heavily again and withdrew the Beretta from its holster. After taking a sip from the fresh drink, he said, “Is this the kind of gun you fired?”

“Yes,” she said. “I just liked the feel of that kind of pistol, but I’m unsure how the safety works. I wouldn’t want anything that would be too easy for Nicky to figure out if, god forbid, he ever found it.”

“It’s your job to see that he never does,” Bix said emphatically. “That’s why buying a gun is a bad idea.”

“What is that on the frame?” she said. “Is that the safety?”

“No,” Bix said with the careful articulation of the inebriate. “It’s a decocker. With this gun you don’t have to sweep a safety up from the safe position before firing. We can just draw, aim, and squeeze the trigger. The first round is double action and takes more trigger pull. Then the rest are single action while the gun ejects the empty shell casings. Afterwards, we sweep the decocker down to safely drop the hammer, then back up to the fire position, and we’re ready again.”

“What’s the bottom line?” she said. “You only have to pull the trigger, right?”

“Squeeze with the pad of your index finger,” he said. “Don’t pull, yank, or jerk.”

“Got it,” she said. “I think I’ll buy one of those.”

Bix got the hiccups then and Margot got up, saying, “I’ll get you some bitters and lime. Works every time.”

Bix holstered the gun and took a long gulp of vodka, but it didn’t stop the hiccups. She returned with a saucer. On it was a wedge of lime soaked in bitters.

“Bite on this and suck hard,” she said with a grin.

He did as he was told and shuddered, saying, “That tastes awful!”

“Wash it down,” she said, and he did, with more vodka.

“Is that better?” she said.

He sat quietly for a moment and said, “My hiccups are history.”

“See?” she said. “Would I ever steer you wrong?”

Another Hollywood Crow had too much to drink that evening. Hollywood Nate was enjoying his day off and had gone alone to an early first-run movie in Westwood, later stopping at Bossa Nova on Sunset Boulevard, a restaurant that stayed open until very late and was frequented by cops. He saw a black-and-white in the parking lot, but he didn’t know the two cops inside. After he ate, he drove to Micelli’s on Las Palmas, thinking he might see a few cops, but there wasn’t anyone he recognized in there either. He stayed and had a glass of house red. Then another.

Nate was mellow when he got into his Mustang. And because he was, he again did something that he would never admit having done. Something he would never forget and always wonder about, the thought of which would later fill him with profound regret. He drove up the hill to Mt. Olympus.

He’d never gotten her out of his mind, even though the initial lust he felt for her had subsided. It was the mystery of her. Who was she? What was she about? He didn’t know what he’d do if he saw her red Beemer pulling in or out of her driveway. He didn’t think he had the gall to walk up and ring her bell at this time of night. To say what? Yes, Margot, I’ll take the job as your live-in security guard. And why haven’t you called me?

He was a grown man, thirty-six years old, and this was childish and silly, and yet he kept driving up into the Hollywood Hills. Up to Mt. Olympus for no reason that made any sense whatsoever. When he got there, he saw a blue Dodge minivan and he recognized it. Bix Ramstead often parked that minivan near Nate’s Mustang in the south lot, and once he’d told Bix the minivan looked like a vice squad hand-me-down and asked if Bix had to steam clean the cargo area and rake out the condoms after the hookers had been transported to jail.

Seeing that minivan made him face another possibility that he did not like to consider. Was he simply jealous that Margot Aziz could prefer Bix Ramstead to Hollywood Nate Weiss? Nate passed the address, turned around farther up the hill, and stared at the house of Margot Aziz as he drove slowly down past it again. He thought that Jetsam had been dead right. That house had an aura.

“I
’
M DRUNK
!” B
IX
Ramstead finally admitted.

“You’re just a bit tipsy,” Margot said, removing the throw pillow between them on the sofa while Rod Stewart sang “You Go to My Head.”

“Gotta go, Margot,” he said.

Still not touching him, she said, “How about a good-night kiss for the road?”

Quickly, she slid over next to him, and he felt her breath on his neck. She kissed him with lots of tongue, and then she kissed his face and neck and ran her hands all over him while he groaned softly.

“Let’s go lie down for a while, sweetheart,” she said. “Until you’re feeling more alert.”

“I can’t—,” he said, but she cut him off with more kisses.

“You’re sweet, Bix,” she whispered. “You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”

“I can’t, Margot,” he said without conviction.

“You’ve never even seen my bedroom,” she said. “Let me show it to you.”

He would’ve been surprised by her strength if he’d been sober enough to appreciate it. She half lifted him to his feet, put his arm around her neck, and led him to the carpeted staircase.

“I gotta go feed Annie!” he said, but she had an arm around his waist, and, holding up much of his weight, she started up the stairs.

“Shhhh, baby!” she said. “Wait till you see my bedroom. You can feed her later.”

Margot was panting by the time she got him upstairs and into the bedroom. She walked him to the bed, and he stood swaying when she pulled back the spread and top sheet. Then she let him fall back onto the bed. This was not how she had imagined it would happen. She thought she’d have to get him pretty drunk, but not utterly blitzed like this. After sex, sleep would naturally follow. That was how it was supposed to happen, but she’d been too fearful that he’d have an attack of conscience. She’d poured too heavily. The only bonus was that she wouldn’t have to ball him after all.

He was up on one elbow, unable to focus, seeing two Margots, when she quickly peeled off her top and stepped out of her pants.

“See!” she said cheerily, just in case he had any noncompliance left in him. “No underwear!”

He was nearly unresponsive, eyes closed, breathing through his mouth.

Naked, she worked methodically, pulling off his shoes and socks, undoing his belt, unzipping his chinos, pulling them down and off. Then she peeled off his briefs and he seemed barely awake when she unbuttoned his Oxford shirt and got him out of it.

When he opened his eyes, looking past her at the open doorway, she nearly panicked. He couldn’t get up now! He couldn’t leave now! She climbed on him, sliding along his body, moaning, uttering endearments, running her hands over him, leaning down to kiss him when he tried to raise up.

“Baby, baby,” she murmured. “I want you!”

All he said to her was “
Some
angel I am.”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “You
are
my angel. You
are
!”

It was more of a sex simulation than the real thing, and it required much more effort for her. She was panting from exhaustion by the time he fell into a deep slumber. She gathered his clothes, folded them, and put them in her closet. When she came back to the bed, she strained and pushed and lifted until he was under the covers, his head on the pillow, snoring softly.

She put on a robe and ran downstairs. She retrieved his holstered gun from the coffee table but left the empty vodka bottle and the two glasses on the table, pouring some vodka into her tumbler of tonic to prove that they’d both been drinking heavily.

Then she crossed the foyer to the front door and unlocked the thumb-latch, making sure that the door opened easily. She ran back up to the bedroom and put Bix’s holstered gun on the nightstand at his side of the bed, along with his car keys and wallet. Then she turned out all of the lights except a lamp on the second floor at the top of the staircase. She wanted Ali backlit when he entered her bedroom.

Gil Ponce had gotten back to regular duty in record time after the shooting of the ice-cream hijacker was found to be in policy and the BSS shrink had peeked inside his head. Gil’s quick return was probably due to the TV media’s being so quick (and incorrect) in calling the incident a suicide-by-cop, thus giving the LAPD bureaucrats plenty of cover.

Six hours into their watch, Cat Song and Gil Ponce took code 7 in a restaurant that Cat frequented in Thai Town. That meant phoning ahead for their dinners so that the food could be served the moment they sat down, giving them the whole thirty minutes to get through the courses.

Cat told Gil that the main course was named for her, and he smiled when they brought out a whole baked catfish. Cat talked to Gil about the satay and the curry, and, using a fork, she flaked off the tender flesh from the fish and spooned it onto his plate. They drank Thai iced coffee, and when the bill came, Cat insisted on paying it, leaving a good tip for the owner.

When they got back out to their black-and-white, Gil driving and Cat riding shotgun, he said, “Why’re you being so nice to me? It’s not my birthday.”

“I’m always nice to everybody,” she said. “And you’re so close to finishing your probation, I thought we should celebrate. You won’t be a probie that we can kick around anymore.”

“You’ve been especially nice,” Gil said, driving west on Sunset Boulevard at 11
P.M
.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Cat said, clearing from code 7 and, seeing their MDC blinking, hitting the message-received and display button.

She opened and acknowledged the message, then hit the en route key, and Gil looked at the message on the dashboard screen, saying, “Illegal parking. That’s near that nightclub, what’s it called? The Leopard Lounge?”

“It’s a titty bar masquerading as a fancy nightclub,” Cat said. “Somebody’s always complaining about the parking around there.”

When they were still a few minutes away, Gil said, “There wouldn’t be another reason why you’ve been treating me like you’re my—”

“If you say mommy, I’ll give you a shot of whup-ass spray,” Cat said, touching the canister on her Sam Browne.

“Big sister, I was gonna say.” Then Gil added, “Is it about the shooting?”

“You tell me, Gil,” Cat said. “I haven’t seen you crack a smile since that night in the Hollywood cemetery.”

“Well, it was scary with those FID investigators jacking me up. They aren’t gentle. The shrink was okay, but I just told him what I thought he wanted to hear.”

“Who cares about any of them?” Cat said. “I told you a minute after you shot that guy that you did good. That I woulda done the same.”

“I know, but, well…”

“Well what? You shoulda had ESP and known the tweaker was packing a starter pistol? Is that what?”

“I don’t know. I just feel… different now.”

“Sure, you do,” Cat said. “You’re supposed to. You took a life — through no fault of your own. He made the choice, not you. I was there, boy. I heard you yelling at him to put his hands on his head and get down and prone out. I heard it!”

Gil Ponce said, “I don’t like the other guys slapping me on the back and calling me a gunfighter. I don’t like that.”

“Screw them too!” Cat said. “Macho dipshits. None of them ever fired their weapons outside the pistol range. Those that have wouldn’t go around patting your ass over it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want anyone else to know that you and me talked about this,” Gil said.

“That’s just your Hispanic machismo,” Cat said.

“I’m not really Hispanic,” he said.

“Let’s not go over that again,” she said. “Now, listen to me, partner, I don’t know how to dial you in except to keep saying you did exactly what any copper woulda done and shoulda done at that moment in that place. And I’d hate to think that my safety could be jeopardized from now on because you’re gun-shy.”

He said, “Cat, I don’t want you—”

“Lemme tell you a true story,” she said, interrupting him. “Five years ago, I had a partner for two months. A nice guy. We were working Watch three. He married a woman with four kids who was a peace activist, and pretty soon he decided to resign from the Department. Said he wanted to go into a line of work where he’d never have to use violence on anybody. And on the last day we worked together, he made a little confession to me. Because of his wife’s haranguing, he hadn’t loaded a round in his nine since before we started working together. It’s the closest I ever came to pulling my baton and beating another cop right into the ground.”