Hollywood Moon (11 page)

“I know all that,” Sharon Gillespie said. “I’m not stupid. But he didn’t ejaculate. He didn’t even get hard. He got angry.
Furious. He called me all kinds of things. ‘Whore, slut, pig, drunk, bitch.’ I don’t know what else.”

“Drunk?” Dana said, writing in her notebook. “Had you been drinking?”

“No, I’d just come from work.”

“Okay,” Dana said, “so there was no ejaculation?”

“No,” she said. “After a few minutes, he jerked me up by the hair and with that box knife in his fist punched me in the face
and jumped out and ran toward the fire exit door.”

“Would you be able to recognize the man if you saw him again?”

“No. He was a Middle Eastern guy in his twenties. Close to six feet tall, wearing a light blue T-shirt and jeans. He had black,
curly hair and he looked like the nine-eleven hijackers. With that same kind of box knife.”

“A box cutter,” Dana said. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Sharon Gillespie said, “I’ve seen the guys at Home Depot cutting open boxes with those things.”

“Did he have a Middle Eastern accent?” Dana asked.

“No, he had no accent that I could make out. He didn’t say much. Only those filthy obscenities.”

“About calling you a drunk,” Dana said, “could he be someone who’d seen you at a bar or restaurant when you were having a
few drinks? Maybe a busboy or waiter?”

“I go to a lot of restaurants in my business, but I never get drunk,” Sharon Gillespie said. “Now, please go out there and
catch that god-damn Arab!” Then she started to weep.

After Dana put out a further description of the suspect to the RTO at Communications Division, she walked down to the parking
garage. There she found the lazy night-watch detective “Compassionate Charlie” Gilford, a lanky, middle-aged veteran D2 notorious
for his horrible taste in neckties and acerbic comments at crime scenes.

The detective said, “SID’s gonna have to crawl that SUV with a black light.”

“No, they aren’t,” Dana said. “There’s no semen in there.”

Charlie Gilford, who had a thing for well-preserved fortyish woman like Dana, said to her, “What, no dribble in the withdraw
mode? You got the panties?”

“Nope,” Dana said, and before she could explain, Charlie Gilford said, “Those drawers and what was in them is a crime scene.
Where are they?”

“He didn’t ejaculate,” Dana said, unsure which was more distasteful, his manner or his necktie.

“How can she be sure?” the detective said.

“Because his penis was in her mouth and it was flaccid,” Dana said. “That means it wasn’t hard.”

“I know what it means,” Charlie Gilford said, but Dana doubted it. Then he added, “How come the only sex maniac that leaves
all the evidence where you can’t miss it is Bill Clinton?”

Dana Vaughn and Hollywood Nate didn’t immediately hear the further description of the apartment garage rapist when the Communications
RTO broadcast her follow-up info. Since violent assailants often seem older or larger to their victims, Dana said to Nate,
“He might not be that old, and he might not be that tall. And in fact, he might not be Middle Eastern. Just because the guy
had a box cutter doesn’t mean he works for Osama bin Laden.”

“Might even be a Jew,” Nate said. “His description sounds like my cousin Morris.”

None of the Hollywood cops expected to find the guy on foot in the area, and of course they were right. Dana and Hollywood
Nate cleared from their call, but before heading for the station, they immediately received another one.

At Nate’s insistence, Dana had to speed to this one. It was the kind of call that brought out black-and-whites from all over
the division, not to mention gang cops, motor cops, and any other male officers who happened to be on the radio frequency.
It was a “311 woman,” the penal code designation defining indecent exposure. The call sent 6-X-76 to a Laundromat on Santa
Monica Boulevard.

Dana said en route to Hollywood Nate, “I know this is the most important call that you pathetically desperate males will roll
on this month, but would you be terribly upset if I slowed down? My motto is ‘Drive to Arrive.’ ”

Three female customers waited outside on the sidewalk for the police before venturing back inside to retrieve their clothes
from the coin-operated dryers. Dana parked the Ford Crown Vic in front of the Laundromat and took her time emerging, not wanting
to get in the way of horny male coppers like Hollywood Nate, who might trample her.

The Asian woman who’d made the call said, “She’s still inside. She scared us to death when she took off all her clothes.”

When Nate ran into the Laundromat, he found the 311 woman sitting on a folding chair. Rather, she was sitting on two folding
chairs that had been pushed together. She was naked and milky white with long, stringy brown hair, and she weighed approximately
350 pounds. She was crying, her mascara running down her swollen cheeks and dripping off her pug nose onto her pendulous bosom.

Nate gaped, then turned to Dana and held up four fingers, meaning “code 4,” no further help needed at the scene. Dana jogged
out to their car and put out the code 4 broadcast, knowing that it wouldn’t stop the other horny bastards from arriving. Not
unless she said that the 311 woman was “GOA,” or “gone-on-arrival,” in which case they’d fan out and start looking for her.

The woman on the sidewalk who’d put in the call said to Dana, “Why is that woman naked, Officer?”

“We’re gonna find out,” Dana said. “Be patient.”

When she reentered the Laundromat, Nate said to her, “I got a feeling you should handle this one.”

Hollywood Nate walked out to the sidewalk, when, predictably, a car from Watch 3 squealed to the curb, despite the code 4
broadcast.

“You don’t wanna go in there,” he said to the cops inside. “She’s naked all right, but she weighs at least three bills. Her
jelly rolls hang like a loincloth. You don’t wanna go in there.”

Without comment, the night-watch car drove off, and a second one arrived and received the same eyewitness commentary, resulting
in the same rapid departure. But the third black-and-white to arrive belonged to the midwatch surfer cops, and they stayed
briefly.

After Hollywood Nate explained what he’d encountered inside the Laundromat, Flotsam tried to give Hollywood Nate his cell
phone camera, saying, “Dude, you gotta get me a couple shots of her! Frontal and reverse!”

“I’m over this,” Nate said.

“It might be worth a buck on YouTube!” Jetsam urged.

“Paddle off, you surfboard pervs!” Hollywood Nate said, and the surfer cops reluctantly drove away.

When Nate got back inside the Laundromat, Dana Vaughn was sitting in a folding chair next to the 311 woman, who made no effort
to hide her nakedness from Hollywood Nate. Not that it would have been possible, since she only had a small hand towel, which
she was using to dab at her lacerated and swollen lip and to wipe away her tears. She appeared to Nate to be in her late thirties.

She said to Dana between sobs, “He said he was leaving me and would never come back. And I’d always believed him when he said
we were going to get married and have a family.”

“How long have you been together, Reba?” Dana asked.

“Over a year. I spent most of my trust fund on him.” Then she started crying openly again.

Dana looked up at Hollywood Nate and said, “This is Reba Costello. Her boyfriend Lester’s a piece of work. He drops her here
to do their laundry, and then he goes out and hits a couple bars on Western Avenue. Then he comes back, and when the second
load of laundry’s not started, he starts ragging on her, and when they’re alone, he ends up punching her in the mouth.”

“Where’s Lester now?” Nate asked.

“Probably back on Western Avenue,” Dana said, answering for the sobbing woman.

“She gonna sign a report?”

Reba looked up at Nate and said, “I don’t wanna have him arrested. I just want him to get a job and not get drunk all the
time!”

“You don’t have to be his punching bag,” Dana said. “He should be in jail, Reba.”

“No, please!” the woman said. “As soon as the clothes’re dry, I’ll just go home. I can walk from here.”

“So why is she naked?” Hollywood Nate asked Dana, just as the dryer alarm sounded and the drum stopped turning.

Dana walked him a few steps away from the woman and whispered, “When he knocked her down on the floor here, the drunken bastard
whipped it out and pissed on her. All she had on was her cotton dress and underwear. They’re in the dryer with the second
load.”

Nate raised his voice, saying, “After that, she’s not gonna sign a crime report?”

“No, no!” Reba said, overhearing him. “I think maybe I can persuade Lester to go to AA. Then everything will be fine. Honest.”

Dana said to Reba Costello, “The load’s done. Take your dress out and put it on. We’ll give you a lift to your apartment.”

“You’ve been real nice,” Reba said, getting painfully to her feet and opening the dryer. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’ll help you fold your things,” Dana said. “And then we’ll get you home.”

Fifteen minutes later, 6-X-76 dropped Reba Costello and her laundry at her apartment, a few blocks from the Hollywood Cemetery.
Dana helped the obese woman out of the car, along with her bags of laundry.

“He wouldn’t by chance be home by now, would he?” Dana said. “I’d like to have a little chat with him.”

“No, no, he’ll be out till the bars close when he’s like this,” Reba said. “I’ll be okay. Thank you, Officers, for being so
kind.”

“Take care of yourself, honey,” Dana said. “Call us if he ever lays a hand on you again.”

When they had driven away, Hollywood Nate said, “Let’s request seven,” referring to code 7, the LAPD radio designation for
a meal break.

“Okay,” Dana said, “and you can be sure I won’t be eating anything with a lot of fat grams or calories. Not tonight.”

Nate said, “How come our Hollywood romances never end happy like the ones in the movies?”

“Does anything?” Dana Vaughn said.

By the time Malcolm Rojas arrived home that night, his mother was sound asleep and snoring on the sofa while the TV blared.
Malcolm was exhausted, and his fury had waned. He was ravenously hungry and hoped that his mother had prepared something and
put it in the fridge for him, but she had not. He went to the cupboard and began eating cereal out of the box. Then he ate
an apple, and after that, some cottage cheese that had already started to turn.

Malcolm was not yet ready to relive the events of the evening. Tomorrow would be the best time for that. He knew instinctively
that the thing in the parking garage was something momentous. He was changed and he’d never be the same again. He felt like
a failure for not having consummated his experience with that fat whore, but on the other hand, he felt that he’d been brave.
If that feeling ever came over him again, he believed he’d be up to the task. It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t do it.
He should’ve picked someone more attractive, someone more his type, for his first sexual experience with a woman.

After he’d eaten a peanut butter and honey sandwich, he thought about going to bed and masturbating. He looked at his mother
lying on the sofa with her mouth hanging open, drool running down her cheek, and he was repulsed. They were all alike, women
like her, sickeningly soft with flesh like jelly. Smelly drunkards who always tried to put their hands on him. He was sure
that the woman in the SUV would’ve begged him to fuck her if they’d been in the right place at the right time. But she was
disgusting, and thinking of her made the anger start to rise again. Instead of letting it overwhelm him, he opened his cell
phone and impulsively dialed young Naomi Teller.

He smiled when a voice that sounded like a small child’s said, “Hello?”

“It’s me, Clark Kent,” he said. “Strange visitor from the planet Krypton.”

“Clark!” she said. “I was getting ready to go to bed. I didn’t think you’d call.”

“I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“It’s nice to talk to you,” Naomi said. “Where are you?”

“I’m at home,” Malcolm said, “thinking of you.”

“No way,” Naomi said. “You’re not thinking of me.”

“Yes way,” Malcolm said. “I’m thinking that you and me’re gonna hop in my Mustang and go to the mall in North Hollywood or
wherever there’s a good movie playing. And we’re gonna eat popcorn, and then I’m gonna buy you a burger or pizza afterwards.
Which do you want?”

“Pizza,” she said.

“Deal,” Malcolm said.

“But my parents can’t know about this date, so I gotta plan how we’re gonna do it,” Naomi said.

“Why can’t your parents know?”

“I’m not old enough to go out with a guy your age,” Naomi said. “You’re an adult.”

That made him chuckle. He wasn’t used to thinking of himself as an adult. “If we were both ten years older, our age difference
wouldn’t mean a thing,” he said.

She was quiet for several seconds and then she said, “It doesn’t mean a thing now. Not to me. You’re a very easy person to
talk to, Clark.”

“I’ll be calling you in a day or two, Naomi,” he said. “Payday’s coming up and I wanna have some money to spend on you.”

“You don’t have to spend money on me,” Naomi said. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“You’re a special kind of girl to me,” Malcolm said. “I’ll be calling you.”

“I’ll be here,” Naomi said.

Before ending his call, Malcolm said, “Don’t forget me. Don’t ever forget me.”

“Of course I won’t forget you!” Naomi said. “How could I?”

Hollywood Nate said passionately to Kenny, the thirtyish, flamboyant waiter at Hamburger Hamlet, “Why can’t I just quit you?
Why?”

“Pick a newer movie line,” Kenny said. “So what’re you having?”

“I’ll have a salad, honey,” Dana Vaughn said. “Low-fat dressing. And a Coke.”

“High-octane or diet?” Kenny asked.

“Diet, of course,” Dana said.

“With voltage or without?” Kenny asked.

“What?” Dana said.

“Caffeine,” Kenny said.

“With,” Dana said. “I’m feeling dangerous tonight.”

“How about you, Nate?” Kenny said.