“Sure, we’ll be back in a little bit.”
When they got in their car and drove up the hill, Ronnie said, “He’s a poster boy for ‘Just Say No.’ He’s thirty years old, going on eighty. And speaking of posters, how did you know Scarface would be there?”
“Rocker plus cocaine plus Hollywood equals Scarface,” Bix said. “The cocaine set loves that movie, especially that dopey scene where Al Pacino’s so buzzed he falls face-first into a snowdrift of coke. You can usually find Scarface somewhere in all their cribs.”
Ronnie said, “The first time I drove up to the Hollywood Hills, I saw these homes and figured these were the kind of people who listen to music I never hear on K-Rock. Now I find out there’re people here who download tunes from Headbanger’s Heaven.”
“Big bucks don’t change human nature,” Bix said.
He didn’t waste much time on the paparazzi search. Bix drove to the area where homes had not yet been built on the steeper slopes, looked around perfunctorily, then drove back down to the rocker’s address and parked in front, where the man was waiting for them in the doorway.
“Well?” the rocker said.
“You were right,” Bix said. “There were four of them. They had telephoto cameras on tripods. And there were three more driving up while we were talking to the other four. You’re a very popular target, it seems.”
“What’d you tell them?” the rocker asked anxiously.
“I told them that I know they’re just doing their jobs but that there could be serious repercussions for stalking famous people.”
“I understand they gotta make a living,” the rocker said.
“I reassured them that you understand. That celebrities like you need them and they need you. A reciprocal arrangement, so to speak.”
“Yeah, exactly,” the rocker said. “Just so they don’t start a fire. That’s all we’re worried about.”
“They promised me that there’d be no smoking up there in the future unless it was done in their van with cigarettes extinguished in the ashtray.”
“They had a van?” the rocker said with a little smile.
“Yes, sir,” Bix said. “They come prepared for someone like you.” Then he added, “And your lady, of course.”
The rocker’s smile widened and he said, “Yeah, because of the pap, she’s afraid to get in the Jacuzzi without wearing something.”
“The price of fame,” Bix said, nodding sympathetically.
“Well, thanks, Officers,” the rocker said. “Anything I can do for you, let me know. We played a gig one time for the Highway Patrol.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Bix said. “We’d be thrilled to hear you play.”
When they were driving back down toward Sunset Boulevard, Bix said to Ronnie, “We get a lot of those. I never tell them the truth. They’re miserable enough in their failed lives without finding out that there’s no paparazzi. That nobody gives a shit anymore.”
Hollywood Nate was supposed to be doing similar CRO work that day, but he took a drive up into the Hollywood Hills on his own, to a neighborhood farther east. On an impulse, he cruised up to Mt. Olympus, sipping a cup of Starbucks latte as he remembered the young woman with butterscotch hair. He hadn’t been able to forget her since the day he wrote down her license plate number at Farmers Market.
Nate parked a block from her home on her very winding street. It was obvious that on her side of the street, there was a good city view. He told himself that he wasn’t going to sit there long, only long enough to finish the latte.
Hollywood Nate couldn’t understand why he was there in the first place. That is, until he remembered the way she’d moved. Like an athlete, or a dancer, maybe. And the way her hair itself had danced when she’d turned abruptly. He couldn’t forget that either. In fact, he was ashamed of himself for doing this, but as long as nobody would ever know, what the hell. He just wanted to see her one more time, to see if she measured up to the image in his memory.
Then Nate thought, What am I, a high-school kid? And he tossed the empty cup on the floor of the car, started the engine, and was just about to head back down, when the garage door opened and the red Beemer backed out. The car turned and drove down the hill with Hollywood Nate Weiss following behind, but far enough to be out of mirror range.
Nate’s heart started pumping faster and he knew it wasn’t the caffeine. He’d never done anything like this before, had never had the memory of a beautiful woman affect him in this way. Hollywood Nate Weiss had never had to pursue any woman, not in his entire life. And it made him think, I’ve turned into a goddamn stalker! Now Nate was experiencing something altogether unique for him. Not just shame, but a trace of self-loathing had entered his consciousness.
He said aloud, “Fuck this!” and was about to abandon this silliness when they were a few blocks from Hollywood Boulevard. But then he saw her car rolling through a boulevard stop without so much as a tap on the brake pedal.
Suddenly, Nate Weiss was no longer in charge. Something took him over. It was like he was watching himself on a movie screen. Without completely willing it, Nate stepped on the accelerator and got close behind her, turning on the light bar and tooting his horn until she glanced at her rearview mirror, pulled over, and parked.
When he got to her driver’s-side window, she looked at him with amber eyes that matched her hair and said, “Ditzy Margot didn’t come to a complete stop back there, did she?”
Her cotton jersey that stretched tight over her cleavage was a raspberry shade. Her skirt was eggshell white and was halfway up her suntanned thighs. Those thighs! She was an athlete or a dancer, he just knew it.
Nate’s hand trembled when he took her driver’s license, and his voice was unsteady when he said, “Yes, ma’am, you ran the stop sign without even trying to stop. Your brake lights didn’t glow at all.”
“Damn!” she said. “I’ve got so much on my mind. I’m sorry.”
He read the driver’s license: Margot Aziz, date of birth 4-13-77. She was six years younger than Nate, yet he felt like a schoolboy again. Stalling for time in order to pull himself together, he said, “Could I see your registration, ma’am?”
She reached into the glove box for the leather packet containing the owner’s manuals, removed the registration and insurance card, handed them to Nate, and said, “Please don’t call me ma’am, Officer. I recently turned thirty, as you see, and I’m feeling ancient. Call me Margot.”
Her lipstick was a creamy raspberry to match her jersey, and her perfect teeth were probably whiter than nature intended. Nate blurted, “I won’t call you ma’am if you don’t call me Officer. My name is Nate Weiss.”
She had him and she knew it. The smile widened and she said, “Do you patrol this area all the time, Nate?”
“Actually, I’m what the other cops call a Crow. I work the Community Relations Office. I don’t do regular patrol.”
“You don’t look like a crow,” Margot Aziz said. “More like an eagle, I would say.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed, but his face felt hot. He said, “Yeah, I do have a bit of a beak, don’t I?”
“No, my husband has a beak,” she said. “Your nose is barely aquiline. It’s very strong and manly. Actually, quite…beautiful.”
He wasn’t even aware that he’d handed her back her license and registration. “Well,” he said, “drive carefully.”
Before he could turn to leave, she said, “Nate, what does a Crow do?”
He said, “We deal with quality-of-life issues so that the officers on patrol don’t have to. You know, stuff like chronic-noise complaints, graffiti, homeless encampments up near where you live. Stuff like that.”
“Homeless encampments!” she cried, like calling a winning Bingo. “This is an amazing coincidence because I was going to call Hollywood Station about that very thing. I can see them from my patio. They make noise up there and they light campfires. It’s terrible. How lucky to run into you like this. Sometime I’d like you to come by my house and let me point them out. Maybe you can do something about it.”