And then he’d remember how awful the federal prison had been, and he’d imagine how much more horrible state prison would be. He wouldn’t be serving time with tax cheats and white-collar criminals and organized-crime guys, as he had at Club Fed. No, this time he’d be in with the vilest of psychopaths: rapists and serial killers and thugs and cutthroats of every stripe. His life would be in danger when he was just walking across the yard. He could be murdered by gang members just for talking to the wrong guy, or even to the right guy at the wrong time.
His fear would make Raleigh appreciate how this Brueger job was the sweetest setup he’d ever had. In some ways it was even better than when he’d had his own catering business, when he had always had to worry about finding decent meat and fish and produce for a price. And hiring people who actually gave a shit. And paying taxes. All that made him think of $500,000, tax-free. Tax-free! He’d get a safe-deposit box, and that’s where it would stay until he could see what was what. He’d go to the bank from time to time just to visit his money. He’d take it out and run his fingers over it.
Or if the recession got worse and property values went in the toilet, maybe he’d use the money to buy the little condo he’d always dreamed of owning. Cash would be king if real estate really tanked. And he’d have cash, more than he’d ever had in his life. A condo that was worth a million nowadays could probably be had for half a mill when California eventually went bankrupt and Arnold Schwarzenegger went back to making dumb movies.
Raleigh grabbed his cell impulsively and dialed the Wickland Gallery, and when Ruth Langley transferred him to Nigel, he said, “Do you have a minute?”
“Only a minute,” Nigel said.
“Is it okay to talk on your office phone, or do you want to call me back?”
“Ruth’s with a customer,” Nigel said. “Go ahead.”
“When are you coming?”
“Are you getting eager?”
Nigel’s tone was annoying, and Raleigh said, “No, I’m not that eager. But I want this thing to move along at a faster pace.”
“I’m just about ready,” Nigel said. “I’ve practiced at my friend’s place of business, and after a couple of unsatisfactory attempts, I was successful the last time. Very successful. The work was perfect. You’d be amazed.”
“So when’re you coming?”
“Try to contain your emotions, dear boy,” Nigel said. “It will happen at the right time, and that time is nearly at hand. Be prepared for a call this week. All right?”
When Raleigh closed his cell, he thought that’s what he’d hated most about working in London, having to deal with supercilious condescending snobs. Just the sound of their flutey voices could be unbearable, especially the patronizing bitchier teabags like Nigel Wickland.
ELEVEN
By the end of the week, the surfer cops were unlucky enough to be on duty when there was a Hollywood moon, that is, a full moon over Hollywood, when anything could happen. Sergeant Murillo conducted the midwatch roll call, and after warning everyone that there would be a Hollywood moon in the sky that night, the last thing he did was search his Darwin list for something that might be a morale booster for the troops.
“And now it’s time for the Darwin list,” he said, turning to a recent bulletin. “That means people we’re better off without. Last night in West L.A. a burglar who’d entered a commercial building through an A/C duct with a flashlight in his mouth fell twenty feet onto his face and the flashlight jammed in his throat and suffocated him. It looks like a clear case of death by Ever Ready.”
The troops all cheered and whistled, and then he said, “Tonight we have a full moon. A Hollywood moon, and as you know, that makes citizens do all kinds of strange things. For you new people, that also means that I buy a large pizza with the works for the team that brings in the weirdest story at end-of-watch. Okay, let’s hit the bricks.”
Everyone gathered their gear and each cop touched the Oracle’s picture for luck before heading for the kit room and then the parking lot.
The sizzle of the Santa Anas on the boulevards generated rays of heat rising from the blacktop and left people scratching their bone-dry skin and dabbing moisturizer on their lips. After the feverish glow of twilight, and well before the Hollywood moon rose in the sky, a call came into Communications Division from east Hollywood that set a tone for the evening. Despite the immigrant mix in the area that made the school district a Tower of Babel, there were not many African American households within the geographic boundaries of Hollywood Division. The “shots fired” radio call took them to the cottage of a black family who were not African Americans but recent immigrants from the Dominican Republic.
When 6-X-32 pulled up in front of the cottage of the person reporting, Jetsam unlocked the shotgun and took it with him to the door. He was followed by Flotsam, who was driving that evening.
The call had come from a Dominican neighbor of a Salvadoran family from whose house the gunshot had emanated. The person reporting was a Dominican woman who worked as a waitress at a Mexican restaurant on Western Avenue, and she was waiting for them. She was middle-aged and looked to the surfer cops like she ate too many of her restaurant’s gorditas. Although she was only five feet tall, she easily outweighed Flotsam, who towered over her.
“I hear somebody fire a gun,” she said. “Een there!” And she pointed to the ramshackle residence next door.
By then, 6-X-66 had squealed to a stop, and Hollywood Nate and Snuffy Salcedo jumped out to back up the surfer cops.
Snuffy spoke briefly to the woman in Spanish and was told that she did not know the Salvadoran family, who were recent arrivals to the neighborhood. She thought there was a mother, and a man who might or might not be the father, and at least six children, maybe more. They all lived in the two-bedroom rented bungalow, which was owned by the same slumlord who owned the house of the Dominicans. And then she added that there was also a very old abuelita living there.
“A grandma?” Hollywood Nate asked, and Snuffy nodded.
“There’s a big houseful of people in that little crib,” Snuffy said.
Before the surfer cops got to the front porch of the Salvadorans, a team from Watch 3 arrived to cover the back door. Just then, a detective car pulled up in front, and the night-watch detective, Compassionate Charlie Gilford, got out, wearing a food-stained tan cotton blazer and sucking his teeth, as usual. He was wanting an entry for his log in order to prove that he did leave the station from time to time to assist the bluesuits, and not just to grab a free meal at places where a plate of greasy fare was a full pop to coppers on the beat and half price to anyone else with a badge.
Nate always thought that one of the great mysteries of Hollywood was how the lazy detective-who took the night-watch assignment only to avoid the real work of handling a daytime caseload-could always manage to find a new necktie that was even uglier than the last one he wore. The base color of this one was uncertain because of the swirl and patterns of garish clashing colors snaking over the entire tie, but it was a cinch to hide salsa stains. Nate figured that Charlie showed up only because he had heard the hotshot call, being a few blocks away leeching freebie tostadas by badging the boss at the local taco shop.
When Compassionate Charlie was halfway between the car and the house, he saw that he’d arrived too soon. The uniformed coppers hadn’t made entry and secured the situation yet, so he stayed where he was instead of walking into a potentially dangerous incident.
Jetsam angled off at one side of the screen door and tapped on it with the muzzle of the Remington 870 shotgun. Flotsam held his Glock down by his right leg.
“Police!” Jetsam yelled. “Anybody inside, step out now with your hands on your head!”