“What’s Pluto do?” Junior wanted to know.
“He barks. He’s a fucking dog!”
“How do I make it sound?”
“You just say what a dog says. What’s a dog say in Fiji? ‘Woof!’ Right?”
“No,” Junior said. “I seen ‘woof’ in American cartoons, but in Fijian cartoons, dogs don’t say ‘woof.’”
“Well, you’re an American dog, so you say ‘woof,’ okay?”
“Okay, bro,” Junior said. “Woof.”
“Now, here’s the deal,” Leonard said. “We always go straight to the little kids. The little kids don’t really give a shit about Darth Vader and Frankenstein and all those other scary Characters. And the cute Characters, like SpongeBob and Barney? They’re boring. But the little kids love Mickey Mouse. Their parents love Mickey Mouse. Their grandparents love Mickey Mouse. You and me, we’ll steal the business from all those other jerkoffs by going back to cartoon roots.”
“Whadda you do when I say ‘woof’?” Junior asked.
“Let’s rehearse it,” Leonard said. Then, in as squeaky a falsetto as he could manage, Leonard said to an imaginary tot, “Hello! My name is Mickey Mouse! What’s yours?”
“Junior,” said Junior.
Leonard said, “No, I ain’t asking your name, for chrissake!”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Do it again,” Junior said.
“Wait for your cue,” Leonard said. Then, again in a squeaky falsetto to an imaginary tot, Leonard said, “Hello! My name is Mickey Mouse! What’s yours?”
“Pluto!” said Junior.
“Oh, fuck,” said Leonard Stilwell. “This is gonna take some work.”
Hollywood Nate Weiss had occasion to make a call in Laurel Canyon that afternoon. A resident had been complaining to the Community Relations Office about a neighbor’s yard sales. They’d been happening at least once a week, and it was, according to the complainant, “unbecoming” to other property owners in Laurel Canyon. After Nate spoke to the neighbor, who agreed to curtail the activity, Nate was driving back when something made him take a left turn up to Mt. Olympus.
He drove to the former home of Ali and Margot Aziz and parked in front. He thought about Margot and about Bix Ramstead. If only he’d obeyed the impulse and gone up to the door and rung the bell on that last night, when he’d seen Bix’s minivan in the driveway. He didn’t like thinking about Bix. Nate believed the way Bix died had unnerved all of them. But they’d never admit it. It couldn’t happen to them. They were tough guys.
Then the front door opened and two young children ran out, a boy and a girl, followed by their pregnant mother. They were heading for the mailbox when they noticed the black-and-white, and the woman said, “Is there anything wrong, Officer?”
Nate smiled and said, “Not anymore. You’ve got a beautiful house.”
“We’re very excited about it,” she said. “And we know about its history.”
“You’ll write your own history,” Nate said, and they all waved as he drove back down from Mt. Olympus.
When he got to the stop sign at Laurel Canyon, a Porsche 911 flew past him southbound, cutting off a car that had been trying to make a safe left turn. Nate pulled in behind the Porsche, turned on the light bar, and tooted his horn.
She had all the markings of a Hills bunny, with highlighted hair curled and tousled like Sarah Jessica Parker’s. She had violet eyes and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheekbones under one of those salon tans like Margot’s. Her saline-enhanced bustline reached out and touched the steering wheel.
“Your license, please,” Nate said.
“Was I going too fast?” she said with a blazing orthodontic smile. Her license showed her to be thirty-two years old, and she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Yes, and that was a very unsafe pass,” Nate said. “We’ve had several bad traffic collisions on this road.”
“I recently got this car,” she said, “and I’m not used to it. I hope you don’t have to write me a ticket!”
He noticed her fingers tugging subtly at her skirt until her athletic thighs were exposed. Then she said, “We just moved in. Guess I need someone local to show me the lay of the land.”
“Just a moment,” Nate said and walked to his shop.
When he returned, the Hills bunny’s skirt was almost up to her seat belt, and she said, “I think that if an officer wanted to get to know a girl better, he wouldn’t write her a ticket.”
Hollywood Nate said, “I think you’re right. Sign here, please.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOSEPH WAMBAUGH, a former LAPD detective sergeant, is the bestselling author of seventeen prior works of fiction and nonfiction, including The Choirboys and The Onion Field. In 2004, he was named Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Southern California.
