“Nobody’d steal a car that crappy,” Sheila said, but she moved to the passenger side of the Chevy when Aaron approached the driver.
“Turn off the engine, sir,” Aaron said, startling Tristan, who hadn’t seen him coming.
“Somethin’ wrong, Officer?” Tristan said, very grateful that the Polack had left the gun in his own car. But then he thought of the buck knife. He didn’t need this shit right now.
“Your right taillight is broken,” Aaron said. “I’d like to see your license and registration.”
“Sure, Officer,” Tristan said, glancing at Jerzy, who had that not-again expression going on. Tristan feared it might piss off the cops.
From past experience and urban legend about the LAPD, Tristan always opened the glove box very carefully, giving the cop on the passenger side a good look before reaching his hand inside for the registration.
“Here it is, Officer,” Tristan said.
Aaron didn’t like the looks of the sullen, fat white guy and was about to ask them to get out of the car, when Tristan smiled obligingly and said, “You’re welcome to run a make on us if you want. But Officer Vaughn already done it, day before yesterday.”
Aaron was mildly surprised. “How did you meet Officer Vaughn?”
Tristan reached inside his wallet and removed the folded copy of his traffic citation, handed it to Aaron, and said, “She gave me this traffic ticket and she checked out both of us for warrants and such. And she also told me to get the taillight fixed.”
Aaron looked at the citation and then glanced at Sheila, who shrugged. Aaron said, “So why didn’t you get the taillight fixed?”
“My daddy died,” Tristan said. “I been tendin’ to funeral arrangements. I’ll go straight to a Chevy dealer and get it fixed tomorrow, Officer. So help me God.”
Aaron handed the documents back to Tristan, again looked across the roof at Sheila, who gave a chin tilt, and said to Tristan, “Drive carefully.”
When the Chevy was motoring away, Aaron said to Sheila, “Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s one slick-talking dude.”
“The donuts in this joint wouldn’t melt if you hit them with a blowtorch,” Sheila said. “Are you really gonna eat one of them?”
“Two,” Aaron said. “Glazed and cream-filled, with extra sprinkles.”
Tristan hadn’t driven his Chevy two blocks before Jerzy said, “I don’t like the way our luck’s goin’. We’re runnin’ up against too many cops these days.”
“We been in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all,” Tristan said. “We gotta be more careful where we go until this whole deal shakes out.”
Jerzy was quiet then, thinking about the risk they were about to take, and finally he said, “You know how cops give people’s descriptions over their radio, like ‘male white,’ or ‘male Hispanic,’ or ‘male black’? That kind of cop shit?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “What about it?”
“Know what I heard a cop say to another one there at the cyber café when they were roustin’ some of your south L.A. cousins?”
Tristan sighed and said, “No, but you’re gonna tell me, I’m sure of that.”
“Instead of sayin’ ‘male black,’ he said, ‘male usual.’ Ain’t that a giggle?”
FOURTEEN
HOLLYWOOD NATE WAS HAVING women troubles, and by now Dana Vaughn was growing accustomed to her role as adviser. The latest problem involved a secretary of a casting agent who, Nate was “almost positive,” might cast him in a made-for-cable pilot for a cop show being shot on a soundstage in the San Fernando Valley.
Dana, who was driving, interrupted him to say, “Nate, the Valley is the porn capital of the universe. Have you checked out this production company?”
“This is a legit indie production,” Nate said. “They’re making it on a shoestring, but they’re trying to hire a good features director.”
“Whadda they want you to do?”
“They need a cop technical adviser, but the secretary told me I’m being considered for a scene that runs for five script pages. That’s a significant part.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Her name’s Sharon. She’s okay, but way alpha. My ex-wife was a man-eater too, and I just wanna run the other way when I meet another one like that.”
“So what?” Dana said. “You’re trying to get a job, not trying to get laid. Or am I wrong about that part?”
“No, you’re right, but she has other ideas.”
Dana stopped at Melrose and La Brea in the middle of a rush-hour traffic snarl, with people driving home from work in all directions, and she said, “Are you telling me that Hollywood Nate, the most talked-about male in the women’s locker room except for George Clooney, isn’t willing to take one for his acting career?”
“I must be getting old,” he said. “These days I have to feel something for the women I sleep with.”
When the light changed, Dana proceeded cautiously across La Brea, trying to get around a beer truck, and said, “Would you be mortified if I shared with one or two of the other girls that Hollywood Nate has at last got in touch with his inner child? Who’s turned out to be that nice boy his mother always mistakenly thought he was when she glowed at his bar mitzvah?”
“Don’t even think about doing it. You’re my partner and sworn to secrecy.”
“Okay, so what’re you gonna do about this?”
“I was hoping you’d have some advice,” Nate said. “I’m not sure she could kill the job if she got really pissed off, but I think she could make it tough. I’m expecting a call any day now with a contract offer from her boss.”
“How old is she?”
“About your age,” Nate said.
“Okay, I see your dilemma,” Dana said. “Who in the hell would go to bed with a woman my age, right?”
“That’s not what I meant, partner,” Nate said. “You’re a bona fide Betty. In fact, if I hadn’t been forced to finally become a grown-up after the Oracle was no longer here to protect me, I’da tried leaving my house key in your ticket book.”
“My life,” Dana said melodramatically. “Always bad timing.”
“Come on, help me out,” Nate pleaded.
Dana considered it for a moment and said, “Okay, it’s gonna be hard for a dreamboat like you to manage, but you’re just gonna have to get less attractive to her.”
“Don’t expect fanny burps,” Nate said.
“Worse than that,” Dana said. “You gotta start subtly criticizing her makeup. Like maybe she uses too much or too little. Or maybe you don’t think the color of her lipstick is quite right for her. And if you really wanna end her lust, start inviting her to the gym to work out with you. Tell her it’s a good way to burn off the cottage cheese that clings to the thighs of women her age. Within a week she’ll hate your guts.”
Hollywood Nate thought it over and said, “I don’t wanna be that snarky.”
“Then leave off the cottage cheese part.”
They were interrupted by a call that had just been given to 6-X-66.
“We can mosey over there as backup,” Dana said. “If I’m all through being your shiksa auntie.”
After their coffee and donut fix, the partners in 6-X-66 had been chatting pleasantly, until Sheila Montez started talking about a cop she’d met in grappling school last year.
“There we were,” she said to Aaron Sloane, who was now driving east on Melrose Avenue, “supposedly learning street fighting. How to protect ourselves when we’re on the ground, battling for our lives. He wasn’t a big guy at all. More like my size. And after lying on top of each other for five days-you know, wrapping legs around each other-the sexual tension started building. On the last day of class, he says to me, ‘Wanna go have a drink?’ ”