Before he dismissed them, Sergeant Murillo made an announcement that concerned Britney Small and Della Ravelle.
“Six-X-Forty-six,” he said, “I’d like you to stop by the library on Ivar and talk to the librarian about the Wedgie Bandit. He’s at it again.”
The veteran midwatch cops groaned at the news, and Sergeant Murillo said, “For you new people, the Wedgie Bandit is a white male, about thirty years old, five ten, one forty, brown and blue. He usually wears long-sleeved jerseys or sweatshirts, jeans, and tennis shoes. And he is an unparalleled menace to the safety and security of Hollywood’s citizens. It’s imperative that we get this villain off the street.”
Snuffy Salcedo said, “Wedgie Bandit? Why do they call him that?”
Sergeant Murillo said, deadpan, “He assaults any unsuspecting person he encounters with very forceful wedgies.”
“With wedgies?” Snuffy said.
“Do you know what a wedgie is, Officer Salcedo?” Sergeant Murillo asked. “It’s very unpleasant. How would you like someone to give you one?”
“I know they’re unpleasant, boss,” Snuffy said, “but why does he do it to strangers?”
Sergeant Murillo said, “That is the question that the watch commander wants answered, and the station captain, and the division captain, and the bureau commander. I wouldn’t be surprised if the chief of police wants to know his motive. When he’s caught, we’ll find out why he does it, but we can’t catch him. Six-X-Thirty-two almost caught him one time, I believe. I’m not sure what happened.”
Flotsam said, “Yeah, my little pard here chased him through Griffith Park, but the Wedgie Bandit left him panting on the grass with his tongue hanging out like one of them Frisbee-chasing border collies that scoot around there all day.”
“He runs like a cheetah,” Jetsam said defensively.
Sergeant Murillo said, “You all should be aware of how serial wedgies are committed. This fiend just walks up behind victims of either gender, even senior citizens, and grabs a handful of underwear from the back and pulls up as hard as he can. Then he beats feet and vanishes.”
Jetsam said, “I almost had that little booger eater till he ran right through a bunch of bird-watchers that’re always out there looking for the Painted Redstart, whatever the hell that is. One of the old babes was, like, taking a bunch of pictures with a telephoto lens and another one was chirping with a birdcall. And pretty soon both were sitting on the grass after he bowled them over. I’m only surprised he didn’t stop long enough to give one of them a wedgie.”
Flotsam said, “Sarge, remember the time the vice unit helped us out and put an undercover guy out there, and the bandit snuck up behind him and gave the UC cop a wedgie? And got away again!”
“Yes, he’s been imaginative and resourceful,” Sergeant Murillo said, still deadpan. “If a unit from Watch Five can jam him tonight, I will buy two large pizzas with the works for that team. Of course, with the price of two pizzas, I hope you’ll wait until about, oh, two thirty for me to buy them, when they’re older and cheaper, at an hour when only coppers will eat them.”
Hollywood Nate said to Britney Small of 6-X-46, “Be supercareful at the library, Britney. Make sure Della’s got your back at all times. It’d be a real feather in his cap to give a uniformed female copper a wedgie.”
Britney blushed and the troops hooted and whistled and were all ready to go out and do police work.
When Watch 5 cleared and was on the streets, there was a cyclist causing a disturbance on Santa Monica Boulevard. But this wasn’t any ordinary cyclist. He was unique even for this attention-getters Mecca. This cyclist kept cruising on the sidewalk past a beauty shop, honking a horn attached to his handlebars. He wasn’t satisfied until he got several women to go to the windows with their hair rolled in goop and tinfoil, with strands protruding in all directions. Then he’d ride no hands and wave at them.
The cyclist was reptile-thin, of indeterminate age, with his hair done in purple spikes, and as far as face metal went, there was nothing left to pierce. He had rings or studs through his nose, ears, eyebrows, lips, and tongue. He was inked on most of his upper body and had only a bit of bare flesh untatted from his knees down.
He wore flip-flops and violet short shorts decorated with sparkles. The proprietor of the beauty shop, a no-nonsense Cambodian woman, went outside several times and yelled, “You stop this! You go way! I call police!”
But that only made him emit a lunatic laugh and honk his horn and make another pass in front of the beauty shop window.
Finally one of the customers said, “I’m sick of this shit!”
She went outside, still wearing her black wraparound smock, and when the cyclist cruised by again, she shouted, “Hey, freako! Get outta here!”
All she got was the cry of a loon, and he sped right past her no hands as she yelled, “You asshole!”
Which turned out to be the apt epithet. She got a good look at him from the back, and when she ran inside to call the police, she said to the other women, “There’s no seat on the bike!”
Six-X-Seventy-six got the call about a “415 cyclist” at the beauty shop, and Viv Daley said to Georgie Adams, “The message doesn’t say how he’s disturbing the peace.”
“In Hollywood it could mean anything,” Georgie said. “Probably DUI and doing wheelies to impress the ladies while they’re getting their hair bleached. I’m glad you don’t go in for that highlights stuff, sis. It’s so lame and boring. I think half the people in Hollywood do it these days, even Flotsam and Jetsam.”
“Those surfer boys swear their golden streaks are from the sun and surf,” Viv said as she turned eastbound through the Sunset Boulevard early evening traffic.
“Yeah, right,” Georgie said.
“Where the hell does all this traffic come from?” Viv said.
“It can’t be explained,” Georgie said. “I think it’s immaculate congestion.”
When they arrived at the beauty shop, the outraged proprietress met them at the curb and pointed to the cyclist, who pedaled off in the opposite direction very fast upon seeing the black-and-white.
The Cambodian beautician tried to explain to them in broken English about the cyclist causing a disturbance, but “Look at ass!” was the best they could get from her.
Not knowing what that meant, 6-X-76 made a dodgy U-turn through the traffic and caught up with the cyclist. Viv beeped her horn and gestured for him to stop, and when he did, she pulled the Crown Vic to the curb beside him.
“What the hell was that woman trying to tell us?” Georgie said. “I don’t get it.”
They got out and approached the cyclist, who was still astride his bike with one foot on the sidewalk. Since he was wearing only the sparkled short shorts, there was no need for a pat down.
Georgie said to Viv, “The dude’s got enough face metal to trade at a junkyard for a ’sixty-eight Torino.”
“First of all,” Viv said to the cyclist, “you’re riding a bike on the sidewalk. Secondly, you were beeping your horn and causing an unnecessary disturbance.” Then she took a closer look at him and said, “Get off the bike, sir.”
Obediently he swung his leg over the saddle, except there was no saddle. Georgie looked at the steel seat post and said, “What the hell?”
Viv said to the cyclist, “Turn around sir and face away from me.”
He smiled amiably and complied, and she got a rear view of him and said, “Don’t look, Gypsy. You’re too squeamish for this.”
But Georgie looked anyway and saw the opening in the shorts. After that he refused to look at either the man’s shorts or the metal seat post.
“You talk to him,” he said to Viv Daley. “I’m getting nauseous.”
“Sir,” Viv said to the cyclist, “where’s the seat that goes on this bike?”
“Wore it out,” he said.
“Why don’t you buy another one?”
“I got used to this,” he said. “It’s more comfortable. And I think it gives me greater control of the bike. Why? Is there any law against it?”