Hollywood Moon (46 page)

Jerzy had been pacing with the buck knife in his hand, indulging in violent fantasies until he tired of that. Then he pulled
the snub-nosed revolver from his jeans and passed the time by aiming it at the imaginary heads of those he hated. Two of those
he hated interrupted him by driving up to the curb in the rented van and in the Honda just as the Hollywood moon began to
rise.

Tristan and Dewey each carried a box containing a laptop to the door, which was held open by Jerzy, who’d tucked his weapons
inside the waistband of his jeans, under his T-shirt.

“Where the fuck you been?” Jerzy growled.

“Don’t start,” Tristan said. “I might as well’ve loaded the van by myself, all the help Bernie gave me. My ass is scrapin’
the ground.”

“I need money right now,” Jerzy said to Dewey. “Call your fence and start sellin’ this shit.”

“I have a call in to him,” Dewey said, “but I don’t think my receiver’s gonna run right over here this minute.”

“Come on, dawg,” Tristan said to Jerzy. “Help me carry all those boxes inside. Bernie, you keep callin’ the guy till you reach
him. Tell him this is like a big garage sale if he’s got plenty of cash.”

Dewey sat down on a kitchen chair, cell phone in hand, and said, “I’ll keep trying.”

Jerzy looked like his central nervous system was short-circuited, and he seemed ready to start tearing the wallpaper off the
walls. Dewey tried his best to avoid eye contact, but Jerzy said to him, “Bernie, if you don’t get me some money tonight,
I’m gonna start rememberin’ how much I hated Jakob Kessler.”

Dewey tried speed-dialing Hatch one more time while Tristan and Jerzy walked to the van under an unusually clear summer sky
in a bright glow of moonlight.

“Yeah, we got us a Hollywood moon up there, dude,” Flotsam said when he walked back to the shop with the license belonging
to the driver of a Lexus hardtop convertible. “Did you see what that guy’s wearing?”

Jetsam, who had walked up on the passenger side, flashing the beam from his mini-light onto the dash to let the driver know
he was there, said, “I think I saw a coat and tie, right?”

“You didn’t look low enough. He ain’t wearing pants. But he’s got nice wingtip shoes on and socks.”

“Where’s his pants, bro?” Jetsam said as Flotsam put the ticket book and flashlight on the hood of the black-and-white and
started writing.

“On the seat beside him,” Flotsam said. “With his underwear. He was probably jerking off, and that’s why he was late on the
red light.”

“What did you say to him, bro?”

“I asked to see his license.”

“What did he say?”

He said, ‘Yes, officer.’ ”

“Is that, like, okay with you, bro? I mean, maybe he was flashing somebody in the lane next to him.”

“That’s a seventy-thousand-dollar ride. If he wants to jizz all over it, that’s his business.”

As Flotsam finished writing the ticket, Hollywood Nate and Dana Vaughn turned the corner onto Gower, dimmed the headlights,
and pulled next to the surfer cops.

“Keep looking for an old red Mustang with a Latino kid driving,” Dana said. “I just checked where they’re setting up and they
don’t have him yet.”

“That was great work, Dana,” Jetsam said. “You rock, girl.”

Dana said, “I’m gonna be notified by detectives if he goes home, but I think it’d be super-cool if one of us busts him on
the street before they do. Stay on the air and listen for Six-X-Seventy-six.”

“Roger that,” Flotsam said. “We’ll be all over it.”

When Dana and Nate were gone, Flotsam said, “Now, dude, you wanna waste our time investigating a possible weenie waver who’s,
like, suffering the effects of a Hollywood moon? Or do you wanna be ready to jump with Dana and Nate if the big ping happens
somewheres around us?”

“You’re right, bro,” Jetsam said. “Why should I give a shit if a driver don’t have pants on? Sometimes I forget where I’m
at.” Then he looked at his partner and they said in unison, “This is fucking Hollywood!”

When the driver signed the citation, Flotsam tore off a copy, handed it to the man, and said, “Drive carefully, sir, and please
try to keep
both
hands on the wheel.”

Eunice, having started on her third Bombay martini, was wearing a tiger lily silk blouse and Ralph Lauren white jeans that
she could hardly squeeze herself into, and toeless wedges. She’d had trouble deciding on a lipstick but had finally settled
on something called Flirty Burgundy. She hoped it didn’t draw attention to the damage that the duct tape did to the skin around
her mouth. She was considering another change when the phone rang.

She picked up and heard him. “Hi, Ethel,” he said. “It’s Clark.”

“Come on up,” she said and touched a phone button to open the gate.

Eunice took one more look in the mirror before opening the door with a huge smile.

“Hi!” she said, thinking he looked very hot, sweaty, and tired. But also thinking there was something very sexy about that.
She had an image of herself helping him out of his T-shirt and drying his chest and shoulders with a towel. She imagined that
his skin would be hairless. She knew his body would be firm and smooth. She said, “You look like you could use a cold drink,
Clark.”

“Is Mr. Graham here?” Malcolm asked.

“Mr. Graham is definitely not here,” she said. “And won’t be coming back.”

“He won’t?” Malcolm said. “Where is he?”

“Like old Hollywood, he’s gone with the wind,” Eunice said.

“I don’t get it,” Malcolm said. “I’m supposed to work for him. He promised!”

“You can work for me,” Eunice said, finishing the martini in a gulp. “At least for today. We gotta get these boxes and luggage
down to your car. I need you to take me to the airport.” As he looked at the suitcases waiting by the door, she said, “I hope
we can fit all my bags in your Mustang. Is the trunk very big?”

“I gotta see Mr. Graham!” Clark said. “He made a lotta promises to me. Is he at the office?”

“The office?” she said. “Oh, yeah, the apartment where he meets with the runners. He might be there, but he can’t help you.”

“He’s gotta help me!” Malcolm said. “I better drive over there and talk to him.”

“Look, Clark,” Eunice said. “Lemme get you a cold drink. How about a martini? Bet you never tasted a real Bombay martini.”

“I gotta go find Mr. Graham,” Malcolm said and started for the door.

“Sit down, Clark,” Eunice said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Malcolm hesitated while she pushed a computer chair on wheels toward him and lit a cigarette. The smoke in the apartment was
making him nauseated and she looked like she’d had too many martinis, but she had urgency to her voice, so he sat.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m sitting.”

“Clark,” Eunice said, “Mr. Graham isn’t in charge of our business. Mr. Graham is just a glorified runner. I’m the boss of
our operation, and I’m shutting things down for a while. I’m leaving town and won’t be back for a few months.” Then she added,
“I’m going to New York.”

“How about Mr. Graham?” Malcolm said.

“Fuck Mr. Graham!” Eunice said. “Pardon my French. He tried to cheat me, so I fired him. He’s out.” Malcolm looked so distressed
that she felt sorry for him and said, “I’m gonna come back here and start a new business in a few months, and I could use
a smart boy like you. I’ll stay in touch and tell you when and where to meet me. But for now, I want you to help me get rid
of everything in those boxes. We’ll have to find Dumpsters for them and then return here to get my bags. I can see now that
we’ll never be able to squeeze the boxes
and
the luggage into your car.”

Malcolm’s disappointment was palpable even to Eunice in her deliriously happy, three-martini state.

“You called me here to be your taxi?” Malcolm said, hardly moving his lips when he spoke.

“Not my taxi, my loyal employee,” Eunice said. “It’s important that we get rid of all the stuff in those boxes. I’m gonna
pay you two hundred dollars, Clark. With maybe a bonus if we can dispose of everything and get me to the airport in two hours.”

“This is not right,” Malcolm Rojas said. “I gotta go to the office and talk to Mr. Graham about this. This is not fair.”

When he stood abruptly, Eunice said, “Clark, Clark, cool down. I’ll pay you three hundred. And after I get settled, I might
just send you a plane ticket to come visit me. How would you like that?”

She stood and reached up slowly and buried her left hand in the beautiful curls over his ear. His dark eyes were so fiery
and intense she felt her own heat rising.

“You can make plenty of money with me, sweetheart,” she said with a long sigh, tugging at his curls, thinking his nose was
cute and pert and his dimples were divine.

When she pushed closer to him he could smell the gin, and it disgusted him, and her touch disgusted him, and when she called
him sweetheart, it enraged him. “I’m not your sweetheart,” he said.

“What… what’s wrong?” she said, looking at his face flush. “I’ll bet you never had a mature woman treat you right, have you,
Clark? I’ll treat you right and pay you good money to boot. All for a little help this evening.”

Malcolm felt her left hand scratching and tugging, and then her right hand moved down his body to the front of his jeans,
and he felt her touching his crotch, rubbing it, feeling gently with her fingers, her recent manicure badly damaged by the
chains that had bound her. “Just sit back down, Clark,” Eunice said. “And let Momma teach you a few tricks.”

With that, Malcolm Rojas shoved her so hard in the chest that she staggered back and fell onto the kitchen floor. “You bitch!”
he said. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me! You fat old filthy bitch!”

Eunice was livid. She pulled herself up by grabbing the kitchen counter, unsteady from the martinis, and yelled, “Who the
fuck do you think you are, you Mexican dimwit? Get the fuck outta my apartment! Get out, you pathetic little greaser!”

She started for the door to jerk it open when she felt the strike to her throat—an instant of burn, and then she couldn’t
breathe. She threw her hands up and blood washed over them, running down her arms. She instinctively started to run, trying
to breathe, but she could not breathe. Nor could she scream. She ran to her bedroom, slammed into the doorjamb, and fell to
her knees. There was no air! She tried harder to breathe but nothing entered her lungs except blood.

Malcolm stood with the box knife down by his leg, looking at her. The tiger lily top was now a burgundy that matched her lipstick.
She toppled onto her side, hands clutching at the air, as though she were trying to paddle up and away from there, blood streaming
and finally bubbling from the widening gap in her throat. In less than a minute she stopped thrashing. Her body jerked twice
and then was still except for little twitches. Malcolm couldn’t take his eyes off her, utterly amazed. It was the most astonishing
thing he’d ever seen. And then he turned and ran for the door, hurtling down the steps, running to his Mustang.

While driving aimlessly east on Franklin Avenue, he was startled by the dried spatter on his right hand. He started to wipe
it onto his jeans but then paused and looked at it. The blood was arousing conflicting emotions in him. He knew that later
tonight in bed he would have to relive this event as best he could. Right now he was too rattled to remember the instant that
he’d slashed her. He hoped he could remember it while lying alone in the dark. He did not feel remorse. She had left him no
choice, the way she’d screamed at him and handled him like he was nothing. Like he was a helpless child that she could fondle
as she wished. He was only sorry there wasn’t some way he could tell his mother what he had done—not to grieve but to gloat.

But then fear began to overwhelm him. He didn’t know what the police could find at crime scenes. On TV it was like magic.
The scientist-cop could almost trap your shadow and use it to catch you somehow. He hadn’t worried about things like fingerprints
when he’d attacked those other bitches. He never really touched anything but their fat bodies. And since he’d never been arrested,
they couldn’t find him, even if he left a bit of fingerprint somewhere. But this was different, what he’d done today. He was
trying to think of what he’d touched in that apartment. Nothing. Only the door handle. It was a lever and he’d opened it with
his palm wrapped around it. Could they get a print from his palm?

Then he remembered! He’d braced himself against the wall when she was trying to swim away from him through the air. His entire
left hand with all five fingers might be imprinted on the wall beside her body! Did they take a thumbprint when he got his
driver’s license? He couldn’t remember. If they did, was it the left thumb or the right thumb? Or was it his index finger?
Would they have that to compare with the handprint he’d left in the apartment?

He took his cell from the charger and clicked it on to call Bernie Graham. Maybe the man was leaving Los Angeles too, just
like Ethel. Malcolm needed someone to tell him what to do. Maybe Bernie Graham would take him along, and they could set up
the business in some other city. Then he remembered the office. She said he might be there. Malcolm was more frightened than
he’d ever been in his life. The fear was exploding into outright panic.

Dana Vaughn, who was riding shotgun with her cell phone pressed to her ear, closed the cell and said to Hollywood Nate, “Flo
Johnson said they got a ping!”

“Where is he?” Nate asked.

“She doesn’t know exactly. She’s being given quadrants. Santa Monica Boulevard between Wilcox and Cahuenga.”

“Better get on tac and tell Flotsam and Jetsam and Sheila and Aaron.”

“How about Mindy and R.T. Dibney?”

“Okay,” Nate said, “but we may have to taze R.T. to keep him from shooting the guy on sight.”

By the time Malcolm reached the duplex in east Hollywood, the moon was large and full and high enough to make the street glow,
the way he’d seen the boulevard glow in reflected glare from the huge spotlights during red carpet events. There was a van
parked in front and no parking for half a block north, where he managed to find a space. He wondered if any of Bernie Graham’s
runners were there. He needed to speak to the man alone. He was feeling light-headed and giddy, like when he smoked pot. His
thoughts were fragmented, and he kept seeing her doing her dog paddle, trying to swim away while the blood splashed onto the
floor.