The Glitter Dome (11 page)

When the incredulous headhunters asked if she didn't think the man's costume was a bit unusual, the girl said, “Where the fuck you think this is—Wahoo, Nebraska? This is
Hollywood
, U.S.A.!”

It began to look like the vicious attacks on Captain Woofer had run their course when yet another incident occurred, this one the most direct and personal, literally under Captain Woofer's stopped-up nose. It had to be someone very close, someone who knew that Captain Woofer had a corker of a head cold that week. His adenoids were mushrooming, his eyes watering, his nose was absolutely useless, and two bottles of spray hadn't unclogged it. Captain Woofer had been leaning back in his swivel chair, his sore tail planted in his rubber ring, legs up to relieve the inflammation, squirting drops in his nostrils. Nothing worked. He had caught the cold by sitting in his rhododendrons all night watching the house of the mysterious neighbor on Oxford Avenue.

He was suffering and miserable when he ordered the Weasel and Ferret to get that son of a bitch of a dope dealer, and left no doubt that he would whack their balls if they failed. It made
them
downright hostile. And not toward Just Plain Bill, the alleged hash dealer.

The very afternoon that the Weasel and the Ferret were working the stakeout on Oxford Avenue, Captain Woofer strolled out of his office into the squadroom, made a strange statement to his troops, and keeled over into the lap of poor old Cal Greenberg.

The paramedics were called and Captain Woofer was rushed to the receiving hospital, where there was a physician on duty who did
not
have the sniffles and could detect a powerful odor on Captain Woofer's breath. That, coupled with the fact that his distended pupils looked like black dimes, caused the physician to put in a call to the police department which resulted in Captain Woofer's being the
suspect
in an investigation by Internal Affairs Division.

The headhunters, who had not watched
Gaslight
, were nevertheless able to absolve Captain Woofer of any charge of misconduct. It was apparent that he was the victim of yet another attempt to drive him bonzo. And it had temporarily succeeded.

They discovered that Captain Woofer's beloved briar had been tampered with, probably when Captain Woofer went to the toilet to make his futile morning attempt, and undoubtedly by someone who knew that Captain Woofer had the habit of leaving his pipe on the towel tray in the restroom, along with his coat and gunbelt. The gun stayed on the floor beside the toilet. What with all the raids against him these days he didn't feel safe
anywhere
.

It seemed likely that someone had crept into the men's rest-room and unloaded Captain Woofer's tamped and loaded briar, reloading it with very high grade hashish or Thai stick, according to the crime lab. Then a layer of tobacco was spread over the potent pipe which was tamped and replaced. With Captain Woofer's head cold, he smelled nothing. With his sniffer out of commission it was difficult to
taste
anything, but he did think upon reflection that the smoke seemed extra harsh. After he'd smoked half a pipe load, Captain Woofer felt that something was wrong. Still, he smoked. Then he stood up unsteadily and strolled out of the squadroom, and made a singularly bizarre announcement, even for him.

Before he keeled over into poor old Cal Greenberg's lap he pointed to a sixty-year-old clerk typist named Gladys Bruckmeyer who was just trying to do her time and get her pension and retire to a mobile home in Apple Valley. Captain Woofer aimed an accusing finger at her and, his voice full of righteous indignation, cried: “Y
OU
! I
T'S YOUR FAULT
, G
LADYS
B
RUCKMEYER
!”

Gladys Bruckmeyer snapped out of her Apple Valley reverie so fast she tore her pantyhose jumping up. And, as the senior clerk typist wondered what mistake she could have possibly made on Captain Woofer's progress reports to spur
this
kind of rage, he repeated it: “I
T'S YOUR FAULT
, G
LADYS
B
RUCKMEYER
!”

The entire squadroom, of course, grew deathly still. Detectives hung up on callers in midsentence. Pencil lead broke in mid-stroke. It was a frozen tableau unique in the history of Hollywood Detectives.

Then Captain Woofer, still puffing on the pipe, in the presence of nearly the entire squadroom of astonished detectives (two were off throwing footballs with peculiar smiles on their faces this morning) unequivocally accused Gladys Bruckmeyer and challenged her to deny it.

And in her shock and fear of losing her pension and never living in Apple Valley, Gladys Bruckmeyer became disoriented and confused.

“W
ELL
?” Captain Woofer thundered at the top of his ragged lungs, “D
O YOU DENY LETTING THE CATERPILLARS CONQUER THE KINGDOM
?”

Just before Captain Woofer did his nose dive into poor old Cal Greenberg's lap, Gladys Bruckmeyer tearfully admitted that she
couldn't
deny it.

“But can't you give me another chance, Captain?” she sobbed. “I've already got my mobile home picked out!”

While the Weasel decided to pop a can of beer and take it laid-back and easy, because this hash dealer, if he
was
a hash dealer, was
never
going to make a move, and while the Ferret prowled around what was left of the yard on Oxford Avenue, morosely throwing his stiletto into an olive tree, the only piece of vegetation they hadn't demolished, Just Plain Bill made his move.

If the Weasel hadn't reached into the back seat of the green Toyota for the beer, he might never have noticed the little silver Mercedes wheeling out of the driveway and turning north toward Fern Dell Park. Before the Weasel got the Toyota fired up and pointed in the right direction the Mercedes was already out of sight. The happy Ferret leaped into the nark ark as the Weasel yelled, “Let's get
on
it!” and careened toward the park.

The two narcs thus began a tail which ultimately resulted in the Weasel and the Ferret helping to coach the Los Angeles Lakers toward a world basketball championship. And only incidentally resulted in yet another break in the Nigel St. Claire murder case.

The thirteen hours with Just Plain Bill almost ended before it all began. The Mercedes made a right, and yet another right on Franklin Avenue, heading back to the Oxford address like a homing pigeon. But before reaching Oxford, the Mercedes made a fancy U-turn on Franklin Avenue and then another, almost running smack into the green Toyota, causing the Weasel to yell: “Eat the floormat! The asshole's looking for a tail!”

Then, with the Ferret down on the floor of the Toyota, the Weasel turned east on Franklin Avenue, certain that Just Plain Bill had not seen the Toyota and, if he had, would have seen only one head in the car rather than the ever more suspicious two-man tailing team.

They only had to wait thirty minutes. The silver Mercedes pulled out of the Oxford driveway a second time. The driver seemed more satisfied that there was no one watching the house and he made a southbound turn, passing the Toyota, which was jammed parallel between two neighborhood cars, and
both
narcs ate the floormat until the Mercedes turned west on Franklin. Then they roared after him, taking Just Plain Bill more seriously.

“This sucker's for real,” the Ferret observed. “Why didn't we believe Sox Wilson this time? We should have two more cars on this tail.”

“Why did I open my big mouth to Woofer about the doper on his street?”

“Why don't those
unknown suspects
have a little more imagination next time and come up with a surefire scheme to get Woofer in the ding ward at the Veterans' Hospital
before
he knocks our dicks down? I got a bad feeling this is gonna be an all-nighter.”

“I got a bad feeling I ain't gonna meet whatzerface with the four nipples at The Glitter Dome tonight.”

“Shit, neither one of us is gonna be touching pee pees tonight and …
FOUR NIPPLES
?”

Just then the Mercedes gunned it on the yellow and busted the light on Gower Street.

“Son of a bitch! He's
still
hinky about a tail!”

The Weasel slid the Toyota over to the eastbound lane, causing a laundry truck to jam on his brakes, turned south, jumping the curb in a service station, crossed the sidewalk, and after two other cars were behind the Mercedes, risked getting back into the westbound lane to continue following. If they had run the stoplight behind the watchful driver, it would have been all over. The Ferret's pulse was kicking in at 130 beats a minute, and he glanced repeatedly at the bulging green eyes of the bearded Weasel with his death grip on the steering wheel.

“Goddamn, Ferret, watch the fucking road! We're gonna
lose
him. Shit, where
is
he? We
lost
him!”

Both narcs swiveled every which way, squinting down side streets against the smoggy rays of the setting sun that made every pale car look silver.

“I blinked. I just blinked for a second.”

“Well, do your goddamn blinking when this tail is
finished!
Do your .… There he
is
!”

The silver Mercedes was parked on Vine Street in front of a liquor store. The Weasel kept the Toyota lost in the number one traffic lane, and while the Ferret hit the floor, drove past the store until he could safely turn left. He parked on the first street south, where the Ferret leaped out of the car and ran to the corner to act as point man. While the Weasel kept the Toyota ready at the curb, the Ferret stood peeking around the corner at the silver Mercedes. Suddenly the Ferret ran back to the Toyota, and the Weasel dropped it in low gear.

“Is he moving?”

“No. He's still inside. Does she
really
have four nipples?”

“F
ERRET, GET THE FUCK BACK TO THE POINT
! T
HIS IS BUSINESS
! W
E'RE GONNA GET OUR DICKS KNOCKED OFF
!”

So the Ferret loped back to his point position and sulked, and vowed to move in on the chicken with four nipples
if
the Weasel would only reveal her identity the next time he got drunk at The Glitter Dome.
Four
nipples!

Then Just Plain Bill strolled out of the liquor store, glanced lazily both ways on the street, lit a cigarette, and got back into the 450SL, heading north again.

The nark ark tailed him north on the Hollywood Freeway. They were resorting to props now. On the outbound trip the Weasel tucked his pony tail up under a construction worker's hard hat. The Ferret kept down in the seat, only raising up when the Weasel's eyes were drifting.

Then the Mercedes took an off-ramp and an on-ramp and headed back
inbound
on the Hollywood Freeway, and the Ferret put on his blond Farrah Fawcett wig and slid over close to the Weasel, as they both sweated in what was left of a very hot afternoon.

“I think your deodorant's failed you,” the Weasel said when the Ferret cuddled up.

“You were expecting Bo Derek?” the Ferret answered. “Oh, no! The asshole's going back
home
!”

There was no traffic between the Mercedes and the Toyota when they took the off-ramp. Just Plain Bill seemed to be looking in his rearview mirror. The Ferret had to put both arms around the Weasel and snuggle.

“God damn, Ferret! I'm taking you to the morgue. They may as well start the autopsy right now.”

“How you think
you
smell after throwing footballs for two days? You ain't used deodorant since Christ was a carpenter. You …”

“There he goes!
Back
on the goddamn freeway!” the Weasel yelled, and the Ferret threw his Farrah Fawcett wig in the back seat and jumped huffily to his side of the car.

Just Plain Bill continued back inbound on the freeway, this time heading directly toward downtown Los Angeles, toward the Harbor Freeway, toward the waterfronts of San Pedro.

Except that by now the outbound freeways were jammed with afternoon commuters, so the Weasel and the Ferret settled in six cars behind the silver Mercedes, which they assumed would stay on the freeway all the way to the harbor.

“I wish Just Plain Bill was a broad. It's
so
much easier to tail a broad,” the Ferret said, looking cagily at the Weasel, who had dumped his prop hard hat in favor of a prop cowboy hat in case Just Plain Bill was looking.

“Broad or not, he's one tough mother to tail,” the Weasel said, rubbing his distended eyeballs. Do all your blinking
before
you start the tail.

“A broad spots some guy tailing her, it's no problem,” the Ferret said, casting sidelong glances toward the Weasel. “She's flattered, in fact. She thinks her Maidenform's working. Which reminds me …”

“Yes, she has
four
fucking nipples, and you could give me the entire balance a your paycheck that you
don't
have to surrender to your ex-wife's lawyer, and I still wouldn't tell you her name,” the Weasel said.

“Come
on
, Weasel, I shared that stewardess with you that time!”

“Whadda you mean,
shared
her? You gave me her phone number and address is what you did, and you didn't tell me she had a thing for Samoan longshoremen, and I nearly got my throat torn out when I tripped-on into that little beer party where guys were so big they made Schultz and Simon look like the Captain and Tenille. And
that's
what you did for me by way a sharing her.”

“Are all four nipples actually developed? Are they pink or more brownish? Are they two by two or sort of scattered? Just tell me if her first name is Trudy, Shirley or Rosie? It's one a the three, ain't it?”

And so forth. It passed the long tedious ride down the Harbor Freeway in bumper-to-bumper, creeping lines of traffic. The exhaust fumes mingled with the dusk to produce that peculiar, deadly, beautiful Los Angeles sunset.