Hollywood Moon (14 page)

“Stop by the Mexican joint after you’re all done,” she said, which they both knew to mean Pablo’s Tacos, the notorious Santa
Monica Boulevard meeting place for tweakers, crackheads, and others with illicit goods to sell. “Look for a black guy who
calls himself John. He’s supposed to show up at around eight fifteen with the goods I talked to you about on Monday.”

Eunice had never shut her fucking mouth on Monday or any other day, and most of what she’d said had passed him by. She had
one idea after another, one job after another for him to do, while she just sat there in the apartment and “created,” and
smoked herself into an early grave. The last part would be just fine with him if it could happen sooner. Monday? Which gag
was that? Finally, he had to admit the truth and take what she’d surely dump on him.

He said, “Okay, Ethel, I don’t remember what you told me on fucking Monday, okay?”

“You don’t remember. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she said. “Why do I knock myself out for you?”

“Please let
me
knock you out sometime,” he said, slamming on the brakes after almost blowing the light at Cahuenga and Sunset because she
had him so upset.

“The guy with the goods from his office? Sweet Jesus! Do I have to spell it out for you on the goddamn phone?”

Then he remembered. A Nigerian night janitor who was acquainted with one of Dewey’s Mexican runners claimed to have access
to his company’s checks, and he’d suggested that some checks could temporarily disappear from the office, no problem. His
company employed several hundred Latino workers, and Eunice intended to make duplicates of the paychecks and then have the
janitor return the originals to the check file. She was curious to see how many could be cashed by Dewey’s Mexicans with bogus
IDs she supplied before the company and the company’s bank discovered that some paychecks were being cashed twice.

“Okay, Ethel, I’m all dialed-in now,” Dewey said after he remembered her instructions regarding the Nigerian. “I’ll go by
the joint and look for some black dude, which might include half the people I see in the parking lot, what with so many silverbacks
coming up to Hollywood from South L.A. every goddamn night. Do you have a better description?”

“Your runner said he’s forty, fat, and nervous, remember?” Then she said, “No, of course you don’t remember. Offer one Franklin
to him and see how it goes from there.”

“This is just great,” Dewey said. “Somebody walks into that parking lot looking suspicious and the first cop cruising by will
be on him like maggots on the horse meat they sell in that joint. And of course, being a black foreigner from his fucked-up
country, he’ll be an hour late.”

Ignoring his complaints, Eunice said, “And after you finish with that job, stop and get me a Whopper with fries. No, make
it two Whoppers. I’m hungry.”

Then she clicked off, and Dewey threw the phone on the seat beside him, muttering all the way to West Hollywood, for what
he’d previously thought would be the last stop of the day.

Dewey was leery about dealing with a Nigerian. They had their own scams and didn’t work well with outsiders. Dewey thought
that by now everyone with the brain of a chicken would be onto the big Nigerian eBay scams, such as the one where an item,
like a golf cart, would be listed for sale by a legitimate US seller. The Nigerians would send a check to the seller made
out for five times the asking price of the item. Many honest but gullible sellers would send the item and the balance of the
huge check to the Nigerian, who the seller figured was just not attuned to our American way. Of course, the seller’s check
would be legitimate but the Nigerian’s original check would be bogus.

Dewey had seen a notice on the online classifieds site craigslist from a seller who’d been stung. He’d posted a message saying
that his item was “not for sale to any Nigerian.” Dewey figured he should be cautious when dealing with the Nigerian tonight
and would look and listen very carefully to determine if the sheet of checks was legitimate.

He was lucky to find a parking space for his Honda Civic just off the Sunset Strip, and he spotted his depositor runner sitting
outside at a sidewalk table, where he could sip a $5 cup of coffee and pretend that he was going to amount to something in
the world as soon as he got his degree in anthropology or whatever useless fucking thing he was studying. Dewey hadn’t met
one yet who he thought would end up as anything but a valet parking attendant or a busboy at some Wolfgang Puck restaurant,
if he got lucky.

This one was a smallish kid, and of course he was wearing wraparound shades, cargo pants, and a baseball cap pulled low, as
if he were someone who didn’t want to be recognized by the adoring public. Dewey wondered where he got the T-shirt with the
Warner Bros. logo on the back. That, the cargoes and retro sneakers, and the inability to get out of his car without a bottle
of designer water said, “I am employed in some capacity at the studio!” Dewey Gleason was sick to death of doing business
with these pathetic little fucks.

When Dewey took the chair across the table, the kid smiled nervously and said, “Hi, Mr. Graham. I’m ready to go to work.”

Dewey, ever cautious, removed the envelope he was carrying inside the pocket of his summer blazer, holding it by the corner
between the tip of his thumb and forefinger, and slid it across the table.

“Everything is there, Michael,” he said quietly after glancing to his right at a young woman with a leopard headband who might
have overheard them if she hadn’t been jabbering on her cell phone.

“Mitchell,” the student corrected.

“Yes, Mitchell,” Dewey agreed. “You’ll find two checks each for three banks. The debit cards and the driver’s licenses are
in the name of Seymour Belmont, Josh Davidson, and Ralph Tanazzi. Instructions are very clear. Make sure you carry the correct
ID and debit card for each bank and then deposit the checks as though you do it every day. The PIN number is taped on the
card for you.”

“I’m sorta blonde,” Mitchell said, concerned. “I don’t look like a Ralph Tanazzi.”

“You look like the photo ID,” Dewey said. “That’s all you have to worry about.”

“I hope the pictures on the driver’s licenses turned out okay,” Mitchell said. “That guy in the camera shop you sent me to
was drunk.”

“He did a good job,” Dewey said. “Don’t sweat it.”

“And my… pay?”

“Is in the envelope,” Dewey said. “Three hundred dollars for walking into three banks. A couple hours of your time, driving
included.”

“You said four hundred dollars, Mr. Graham,” Mitchell said.

“Did I?” said Dewey disingenuously. He withdrew his wallet from the pocket of his blazer, removed a $100 bill, and put it
on the table, saying, “My mistake.”

An Asian waiter approached and said to Dewey, “Sir, what can I get you?”

“You’ll buy me a coffee, won’t you, Mitchell?” Dewey said.

Happily the kid replied, “Of course, Mr. Graham. And how about a croissant?”

Later, while driving to Pablo’s Tacos, Dewey had to admit that Eunice had some impressive talents she’d learned from her first
husband, Hugo. She could legally shop on the Internet and buy whatever she needed. Legitimate companies sold her magnetic
ink and high-end printers with different color inks, as well as other card-altering devices. Dewey was amazed the first time
he watched her redo a mag number and slide a new mag strip in place of the old one.

She had very valuable information that she sometimes kept in the virtual storage she got when buying new computers. She claimed
that the cops were able to get links to Internet sites, but that was all, and that Dewey, who was nearly computer-illiterate,
should stop worrying and leave the thinking to her. Of course, a deprecating crack or two would top off any admonishment she
directed his way.

Eunice kept much of her information in a Yahoo account, including names, credit-card numbers, and Social Security numbers,
so that she could just log in and bring up the information as needed. Sometimes she went to Office Depot to buy Mips VersaChecks
with computer programs, along with plenty of check stock. With that she could produce her own checks, account numbers, and
routing numbers. She believed it was risky and didn’t like to do it too often, but Eunice had never spent a day in jail, except
for a DUI, and Dewey had been jailed only twice, for traffic warrants back when he was a struggling actor, before meeting
Eunice.

When Dewey parked in the little strip mall and walked inside Pablo’s Tacos, he saw no black man who was forty, fat, and nervous.
The people at the tables were a Latino couple with two small children, all of them eating tacos and refried beans, and a young
Latino guy sitting by himself, drinking coffee.

Dewey ordered a taco he didn’t really want and a Coke. Then he sat at the table next to the young man, who was no older than
Dewey’s college kids. In fact, this boy could very well be in college. He was a good-looking, slender young guy with great
curly hair, wearing a red T-shirt, clean jeans, and Adidas running shoes. He had no tatts, earrings, or face jewelry, but
being at Pablo’s Tacos in an apparently expectant mode might mean that he had a drug issue and could use some fast and easy
bucks.

While waiting for the Nigerian, Dewey figured he might as well work the kid and see what was what. Dewey nibbled at the taco
and felt the heat instantly. He grabbed his Coke, took a couple of gulps, and said, “Damn, they didn’t warn me about the jalapeños!”

Malcolm Rojas said, “You have to tell them no heat.”

“I can’t eat this,” Dewey said, dropping the taco onto the paper plate.

“Take it back to the counter,” Malcolm said. “They’ll give you another.”

“I’m not hungry anyway,” Dewey said with an affable smile, “but thanks for the tip.”

Malcolm looked at him curiously. In Hollywood, when a middle-aged white stranger started being friendly, Malcolm figured he
was probably gay. This guy looked straight enough, but you never knew, especially on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Dewey said to Malcolm, “I’m looking for ambitious young college students who’re interested in some very profitable part-time
work. Would you be a student by any chance?”

Malcolm, who hadn’t taken a single course even at a community college since graduating from high school, now figured the guy
for some kind of pervert and said guardedly, “What kind of work?”

“Just some easy jobs to help with tuition and books, with a lot of money left over.”

Even more curious now, Malcolm lied and said, “I’m only a part-time student at City College. Does that work for you?”

“Certainly,” Dewey said. “If I told you that you could make between five hundred and a thousand dollars working just a couple
of days a week, would you be interested?”

Now Malcolm was sure the guy was a perv. He said, “I don’t do fuck films, man.”

Dewey chuckled and said, “You wouldn’t make such easy money in such a short time doing fuck films.” He broke off a piece of
the fried taco shell and said, “Are you willing to work with cards?”

“How do you mean?” Malcolm asked.

“Do you have a debit card?”

“No,” Malcolm said.

“How old’re you?”

“Nineteen,” Malcolm said truthfully.

“That’s fine,” Dewey said. “You can pass for twenty-one, no problem.”

“Whadda you mean, ‘pass’?”

“If I gave you a debit card, a PIN number, and good ID with your picture on it, but with a bogus name, would you be willing
to use it to draw out money at certain places that’re very safe? Or would you be willing to go on a fun shopping trip and
buy all kinds of great things with a credit card that has someone else’s name on it?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “I got a job. I never done anything with debit cards or credit cards.”

“I’ll bet your job pays minimum wage,” Dewey said.

A bit offended, Malcolm said, “It’s a living.”

There was something about this young man. He had a straightforward sincerity about him that Dewey seldom found in young people
these days. Something told him that he could use this forthright young Latino to great advantage. He drew a business card
from his wallet with the name Bernie Graham on it along with the number of one of his GoPhones, and slid it across the table
to Malcolm.

“Think about a shopping trip as a starter,” Dewey said. “Buying great merchandise is what it amounts to. You’d buy things
at places I send you to, and you’d deliver the items to a place that I select. Call me tomorrow at five
P.M
. if you’re interested. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll figure it’s a no-go.”

“I work till five,” Malcolm said. “Can I call you at five thirty?”

“Certainly,” Dewey said, confident that he’d hooked his fish. “I’m Bernie Graham. What’s your name?”

“You can call me Clark,” said Malcolm, standing up to leave. “Clark Jones.”

“I hope to hear from you, Clark Jones,” said Dewey as the young man exited the taco shop.

Six-X-Thirty-two was driven by Flotsam, whose partner had gotten permission from Sergeant Murillo to go home early after telling
the supervisor that his dog had disappeared from the yard and his landlady was in a panic. It was a lie hastily dreamed up
by the surfer cop after his waitress du jour at IHOP agreed to go surfing with him the next morning at Malibu but only if
the surfer cop could get to the beach by 8
A.M
. Because Watch 5 didn’t end until 0400 hours, Jetsam had been in a tizzy, worrying about sleep deprivation that might make
him less than magnificent the next day. So he concocted the dog story for Sergeant Murillo, even though the only pet he had
was a turtle.

Flotsam, who of course was privy to his partner’s scheme, asked the sergeant what he should do for the remainder of the watch,
and it turned out that P1 rookie Harris Triplett’s usual field training officer was on a special day off. The probationer
had been assigned to assist the desk officer that night, just to give him something to do, so Sergeant Murillo decided to
let him work with Flotsam for the remainder of the watch. The sergeant would ordinarily have been reluctant to put even a
last-phase probationer like Harris Triplett with either of the surfer cops, but being down to five cars on the midwatch, he
thought he’d take a chance.