Hollywood Moon (38 page)

T
HE NEXT DAY WAS
to be the most momentous in his life. At such a moment, he could face and admit who Dewey Gleason really was: failed actor,
failed screenwriter, mediocre forger and thief. At such a time, all denial was stripped away. He thought of his brother and
sister in Seattle, a civil engineer and a schoolteacher. Both had spouses and children and were ostensibly happy, yet he’d
always felt he was smarter and more accomplished than either of them. For years he’d blamed his failures on the show-business
bug that bit him during his high school years. Then later, he’d decided it wasn’t a bug, it was a goddamn vampire bat that
sucked Seattle right out of him and eventually steered him to Hollywood. And this was where it would all finally end, one
way or the other.

Of course, Dewey had slept intermittently, and the sleep he did get was clouded by bizarre and unremembered nightmares. There
were so many things that could go wrong, he’d finally stopped listing them. He’d faced the certain truth that if this didn’t
work, he and Eunice were finished as a team, whether or not she guessed he’d engineered the gag. She’d probably pack up and
head for San Francisco without him. That is, if she
survived
. And that made him think of Jerzy Szarpowicz, and of how much he hated even being in the cretin’s presence, let alone having
his own freedom depend on him. As he faced his fiftieth birthday in extreme desperation, he felt old, as old as original sin.
Dewey knew that his plan could lead to
extreme
violence. And that made him get out of bed before daybreak and make his fourth trip to the bathroom.

When he was sitting on the toilet, he made a mental note to call Creole to tell him that when they got their kidnap victim
into the apartment in Frogtown, they must not let Eunice have a cigarette, no matter how much she begged. Dewey hoped that
nicotine deprivation might be the torture that would break her faster than anything they could inflict.

Tristan Hawkins and Jerzy Szarpowicz met at the house near Frogtown that Jerzy shared with his woman and her kids. After that,
they spent an hour renting a van, using the same bogus ID that Tristan had used before, and then drove to a thrift shop, where
they bought a roll-away bed with a pancake mattress of jail quality. The bed was old but the frame was made of heavy steel
that would fit their needs. They didn’t bother buying a pillow and certainly didn’t purchase sheets. The thrift shop manager
threw in a blanket with cigarette burns in several places, and having seen their victim, Tristan figured that cigarette burns
would probably make her feel at home.

Next they bought some lengths of chain at a hardware store, along with two padlocks, a roll of duct tape, and some large cleaning
rags to serve as blindfolds. They made a trip to a sporting goods store for two sleeping bags for themselves, and then to
a supermarket for cans of soup, packages of lunch meat, three loaves of bread, mayonnaise (because Jerzy insisted), an ice
chest, bags of ice, bottled water, toilet paper, one bar of soap, and several rolls of paper towels. They bought a box of
lawn-and-leaf bags to haul away all debris from the apartment after they were finished with their gag. And that completed
the shopping list.

Or so Tristan thought until Jerzy said, “We forgot something.”

“What?” Tristan said.

“We gotta go back to the thrift shop and get an old rug.”

“We ain’t settin’ up housekeepin’, dawg,” Tristan said. “Next thing, you’ll be wantin’ a few pots of geraniums.”

“The rug’s for jist in case,” Jerzy said.

“In case of what?”

“In case we gotta roll her up in it if things don’t work out right.”

Tristan started to say something but changed his mind. What good would it do? He’d told both Jerzy and Bernie enough times
that he wasn’t going to stand for violence, but he knew in his heart that he wouldn’t be able to stop it if it got started.
He’d grown up in the ’hood. He knew how
nobody
could stop violence once it really got started. He refused to go back inside the thrift shop, so Jerzy bought the threadbare
rug for $65 and carried it to the rental van by himself.

Eunice was absolutely bubbly when she went off to Henri’s for all the beauty work. She even mentioned to Dewey that she might
stop by Macy’s and pick up something to wear.

“We’re only going to Musso’s,” Dewey said. “I’ve seen guys in T-shirts and tennis shoes having dinner there. In fact, that’s
the dress code for most of the half-ass movie and TV people around this fucking town.”

“You’re grouchy this morning,” Eunice said. “And you got bags under your eyes.”

“That’ll provide a marked contrast to our young dinner guest,” Dewey said.

“I forgot we even have one,” Eunice said, and Dewey controlled the urge to smirk. “I don’t suppose Clark’ll be dressed up,
will he?”

“Not ghetto-fabulous or anything like that, I wouldn’t think,” Dewey said, and added with feigned enthusiasm, “Okay, then,
see you later when you’re beautiful.”

Malcolm Rojas brought a clean shirt and jeans to work and put them in a locker. He thought he’d shower and shave there at
the end of the day. Actually, he really only had to shave every other day, and he’d shaved yesterday for that little bitch
Naomi, but tonight was a special occasion. His mother hadn’t been awake when he left in the morning, so at least he was spared
her nagging, or an interrogation as to why he hadn’t called her when he’d failed to come home for supper last night.

It had been hard for Malcolm not to tell someone at work about what had happened to him. He’d bought an
L.A. Times,
hoping to find some mention of the cop getting dunked in a swimming pool, but there was nothing there. He hadn’t even thought
to look in the paper to see if the other incidents had been mentioned. That’s because he wasn’t proud of how he’d failed on
both of those occasions, but nobody could say he’d failed last night. He’d gotten away when it looked like half the cops from
Hollywood Station were looking for him. It made Malcolm smile every time he thought about it.

When they awoke late that morning in her double bed, Sheila Montez said to Aaron Sloane, “How about some tortillas and eggs?
I still cook like a Mexican. Hollywood hasn’t changed me.”

“Anything you say,” Aaron said with his moonstruck smile. “I think I’m still dreaming.”

When she got out of bed and walked naked to the bathroom, he looked at her and said, “You’re even more beautiful in the daylight.
If I ever run into that prowler again, I think I’ll kiss him.”

Sheila glanced over her shoulder with the dusky, sloe-eyed look that always enchanted him. Her heavy dark hair, no longer
pinned up so as not to touch the lower edge of her uniform collar per regulations, was draped across one shoulder.

She paused at the bathroom door and said, “After my bad marriage, I promised myself that I’d absolutely, positively never
get involved with another cop. And I’ve kept my promise until now.”

“You’ll
never
have a problem with me, Sheila,” Aaron said earnestly, propped up in bed on one elbow, his blue eyes wide and artless. “I’m
crazy for you and have been since our first night as partners. Now I can’t wait to take you to my folks’ house in Van Nuys
for Sunday dinner. They’re gonna fall in love with you too. In fact, I predict that my accountant father will tell us how
much money we could save if we take the proper steps to file a joint tax return next year.”

After digesting the import of his words, Sheila turned away from Aaron for a moment and he couldn’t see her face, and it alarmed
him. The besotted young cop had been so overwhelmed by the rapture of the moment that the words had just poured from his lips.
But now he feared he’d said too much too soon, and he was trying to think of something, anything, to tell her that he was
patient and he’d wait, and that he hadn’t meant to blurt out what he was feeling so profoundly.

But when she turned again to face him, her eyes were glistening, as they had been last night under the summer moon. All she
said was, “If you ever cheat on me, I’ll kill you.”

“Cheat on you?” Aaron cried in relief and elation. “That’s impossible, Sheila! Not only am I mad about you, I’m scared to
death of you!”

Prior to getting ready for work that afternoon, Dana decided to take her daughter shopping at Banana Republic and Nordstrom,
spending on Pamela most of the money she’d been saving to buy herself a few things at the midsummer sales. Dana loved shopping
with Pamela, seeing her so enthusiastic and excited about going away to Cal in September. Of course, Dana’s feelings were
mixed. She was proud that Pamela had worked hard and got the grades to be accepted at UC Berkeley, but she worried about her
child living in a dorm five hundred miles from her.

When they’d talked about it over lunch during a break from the shopping frenzy, Pamela sensed her mother’s anxiety and said,
“Mom, I know you think I might get taken over by radicals from the People’s Republic of Berkeley and turned into a campus
terrorist, but not to worry. About eighty percent of my dorm mates will be brainy Asian girls with parents calling three times
a day to make sure they’re doing violin practice as well as studying every waking moment. I don’t think there’s much chance
of getting into trouble up there. It’ll be all I can do to keep up academically.”

And Dana gazed at her daughter, eighteen years old now, who’d inherited Dana’s wide-set, golden-brown eyes, firm chin, great
cheekbones, and lovely long legs. Dana figured she was probably smarter than both her cop mother and lawyer father, who, Dana
had to admit, was readily coughing up the money that their daughter needed to get college-bound.

Dana thought that someday she might actually be able to bring herself to a face-to-face with that lying, skirt-chasing asshole,
and hear about his new family: a bucks-up wife with two sons of her own. Dana guessed that by now the boys must resent their
stepfather for taking control of their trust-fund management, because Dana was sure that he would have. He was that kind of
intrusive, controlling lawyer who could never stop beginning every ponderous pronouncement with “At some point in time.” Dana
hated that law school redundancy almost as much as she’d hated his philandering. How he’d managed to provide the seed to produce
the splendid girl sitting across from her would always be a mystery.

Before they finished their iced tea, Dana’s cell chimed, and when she picked it up, a tremulous voice said, “Officer Vaughn?”

“Yes?” Dana said, not recognizing the caller.

“It’s Naomi Teller? From Ogden Drive?”

“Yes, Naomi,” Dana said. “Thanks for calling. Do you have some information for me?”

“Yes,” Naomi said. “I been thinking about it and I didn’t talk to my mother or dad, but I’d like to talk to you. Could we
talk in person? It’s kinda hard to tell it on the phone.”

“I go on duty late this afternoon. I can meet you just after six
P.M
. Do you want me to come to your house?”

“No. I’ll just tell my mother I’m going up the street to visit my friend Liz, but I’ll meet you at the corner of Sunset and
Ogden. I’ll start walking at six o’clock.”

“See you there, honey,” Dana said.

When Dana closed her cell phone, Pamela said, “Who was that?”

“A fourteen-year-old girl whose house got attacked by a prowling rock thrower last night. I think she wants to tell me who
it was.”

“Rock thrower?” Pamela said. “I didn’t think you busy LAPD cops had time to be chasing around after rock throwers.”

“This one’s special,” Dana said. “When we were looking for him, he sneaked up on one of our officers and tossed him into a
swimming pool before escaping.”

“Really?” Pamela said. “How mad was the cop?”

“You know how your electric toothbrush vibrates?” Dana asked.

At 3
P.M
., Dewey Gleason in his Honda, followed by Tristan Hawkins and Jerzy Szarpowicz in a rented van, were at the car gate of the
storage facility in Reseda. Dewey punched in his entry code while the office employee looked out the window. The gate buzzed
and swung open. Both vehicles drove in, and Dewey stopped at the office, entered, and spoke to a woman he’d come to know as
Bessie on other trips he’d made as Bernie Graham.

“Dropping off a van, Bessie,” he said. “We’re coming back later.”

“Okay, Bernie,” she said.

He often gave her small gifts, and this time he brought a few fan magazines to keep her occupied when he pulled out of the
storage facility alone in his car.

They proceeded to the storage room, and while Dewey unlocked the door, Tristan drove the van around to the next lane of parking
spaces.

While Tristan was gone, Jerzy said to Dewey, “I hope you don’t plan to lock this thing up while we’re inside.”

“Of course I do,” Dewey said. “My wife’ll be with me when we come back tonight. What’s she gonna say if she sees the thing
unlocked?”

“I don’t know what she’s gonna say,” Jerzy said, “but you ain’t lockin’ us in there.”

“There’s plenty of air,” Dewey said. “And if you have to take a leak, just do it in there.”

“You ain’t lockin’ us in there,” Jerzy repeated. “Figure out somethin’ else.” And with that, he took the padlock from Dewey’s
hand and said, “I’ll hang on to this.”

“Shit!” Dewey said just as Tristan came jogging back from parking the van. He was carrying a flashlight, a roll of duct tape,
and rags for the blindfolds.

“What’s the problem?” Tristan said when he saw that they hadn’t yet opened the storage-room door.

“He won’t let me lock you in,” Dewey said. “It’ll look suspicious if I don’t. It could wreck the whole gag.”

“I ain’t gonna be locked in that room,” Jerzy said, “and that’s final.”

“Lemme see that,” Tristan said, indicating the padlock.

Tristan hung the padlock over the metal door staple and closed the door and folded the hasp over it. “There,” he said. “In
the dark it’ll look okay. Make sure your old lady’s standin’ behind you when you pretend to be unlockin’ it.”