Timothy, who had been working for Lawford and Drubb only three years, knocking down more than $175,000 last year (their father’s idea of starting at the bottom), said to him, “What do you get out of it, Wesley? And please don’t give me any undergraduate existential bullshit.”
Wesley had said, “I just… I don’t know. I like what I do most of the time.”
“You are such an asshole,” his brother said, ending the discussion. “Just try to only get crippled and not killed. It would be the end of Mom if she lost her baby boy.”
Wesley Drubb didn’t think that he was terribly afraid of getting crippled or killed. He was young enough to think that those things happened to other guys, or other girls, like Mag Takara. No, the thing that he couldn’t explain to his brother or his dad or mom, or any of his fraternity brothers who were now going to grad school, was that the Oracle was right. This work was the most fun he would ever have on any job.
Oh, there were boring nights when not much happened, but not too boring. On the downside, there was the unbelievable oversight that LAPD was presently going through, which created loads of paperwork and media criticism and a level of political correctness that a civilian would never understand or tolerate. But at the end of the day, young Wesley Drubb was having fun. And that’s why he was still a cop. And that’s why he just might remain one for the foreseeable future. But his thought process went off the rails at that point. At his age, he couldn’t begin to fathom what the words “foreseeable future” truly meant.
After Hollywood Nate had his Starbucks latté and was in a good mood, they got a call to Hollywood and Cahuenga, where a pair of Hollywood’s homeless were having a twilight punch-out. Neither geezer was capable of inflicting much damage on the other unless weapons were pulled, but the fight was taking place on Hollywood Boulevard, and that would not be tolerated by the local merchants. Project Restore Hollywood was in full bloom, with everyone dreaming of more and more tourists and of someday making seedy old Hollywood glam up like Westwood or Beverly Hills or Santa Barbara minus the nearby ocean.
The combatants had taken their fight to the alley behind an adult bookstore and had exhausted themselves by throwing half a dozen flailing punches at each other. They were now at the stage of standing ten feet apart and exchanging curses and shaking fists. Wesley parked the shop on Cahuenga north of Hollywood Boulevard, and they approached the two ragbag old street fighters.
Nate said, “The skinny one is Trombone Teddy. Used to be a hot-licks jazzman a truckload of whiskey ago. The real skinny one I’ve seen around for years, but I don’t think I’ve ever talked to him.”
The real skinny one, a stick of a man of indeterminate age but probably younger than Trombone Teddy, wore a filthy black fedora and a filthier green necktie over an even filthier gray shirt and colorless pants. He wore what used to be leather shoes but were now mostly wraps of duct tape, and he spent most evenings shuffling along the boulevard raving at whoever didn’t cross his palm with a buck or two.
It was hardly worth worrying about who would be contact and who would be cover with these two derelicts, and Hollywood Nate just wanted to get it over with, so he waded in and said, “Jesus, Teddy, what the hell’re you doing fighting on Hollywood Boulevard?”
“It’s him, Officer,” Teddy said, still panting from exertion. “He started it.”
“Fuck you!” his antagonist said with the addled look these guys get from sucking on those short dogs of cheap port.
“Stay real,” Nate said, looking at the guy and at his shopping cart crammed with odds and ends, bits and bobs. There was no way he wanted to bust this guy and deal with booking all that junk.
Wesley said to the skinniest geezer, “What’s your name?”
“What’s it to ya?”
“Don’t make us arrest you,” Nate said. “Just answer the officer.”
“Filmore U. Bracken.”
Trying a positive approach, Wesley smiled and said, “What’s the U for?”
“I’ll spell it for you,” Filmore replied. “U-p-y-u-r-s.”
“Upyurs?” Wesley said. “That’s an unusual name.”
“Up yours,” Nate explained. Then he said, “That’s it, Filmore, you’re going to the slam.”
When Nate took latex gloves from his pocket, Filmore said, “Upton.”
Before putting the gloves on, Nate said, “Okay, last chance. Will you just agree to move along and leave Teddy here in peace and let bygones be bygones?”
“Sure,” Filmore U. Bracken said, shuffling up to Teddy and putting out his hand.
Teddy hesitated, then looked at Nate and extended his own hand. And Filmore U. Bracken took it in his right hand and suckered Teddy with a left hook that, pathetic as it was, knocked Trombone Teddy on the seat of his pants.
“Hah!” said Filmore, admiring his own clenched fist.
Then the latex gloves went on both cops, and Filmore’s bony wrists were handcuffed, but when he was about to be walked to their car, he said, “How about my goods?”
“That’s worthless trash,” Hollywood Nate said.
“My anvil’s in there!” Filmore cried.
Wesley Drubb walked over to the junk, gingerly poked around, and underneath the aluminum cans and socks and clean undershorts probably stolen from a Laundromat found an anvil.
“Looks pretty heavy,” Wesley said.
“That anvil’s my life!” their prisoner cried.
Nate said, “You don’t need an anvil in Hollywood. How many horses you see around here?”
“That’s my property!” their prisoner yelled, and now an asthmatic fat man waddled out the back door of an adult bookstore and said, “Officer, this guy’s been raising hell on the boulevard all day. Hassling my customers and spitting on them when they refuse to give him money.”
“Fuck you too, you fat degenerate!” the prisoner said.
Nate said to the proprietor, “I gotta ask you a favor. Can he keep his shopping cart inside your storage area here until he gets outta jail?”
“How long will he be in?”
“Depends on whether we just book him for plain drunk or add on the battery we just witnessed.”
“I don’t wanna make a complaint,” Trombone Teddy said.
“Shut up, Teddy,” Hollywood Nate said.
“Yes, sir,” said Teddy.
“I ain’t as drunk as he is!” the prisoner said, pointing at Teddy.
He was right and everyone knew it. Teddy was reeling, and not from the other geezer’s punch.
“Okay, tell you what,” Nate said, deciding to dispense boulevard justice. “Filmore here is going to detox for a couple hours and then he can come back and pick up his property. How’s that?”
Everyone seemed okay with the plan, and the store owner pushed the shopping cart to the storage area at the rear of his business.
While Nate was escorting their prisoner to the car, Trombone Teddy walked over to Wesley Drubb and said, “Thanks, Officer. He’s a bad actor, that bum. A real mean drunk.”
“Okay, anytime,” Wesley said.
But Teddy had a card in his hand and extended it to Wesley, saying, “This is something you might be able to use.”
It was a business card to a local Chinese restaurant, the House of Chang. “Thanks, I’ll try it sometime,” Wesley said.
“Turn it over,” Teddy said. “There’s a license number.”
Wesley flipped the card and saw what looked like a California license plate number and said, “So?”
Teddy said, “It’s a blue Pinto. Two tweakers were in it, a man and a woman. She called him Freddy, I think. Or maybe Morley. I can’t quite remember. I seen them fishing in a mailbox over on Gower south of the boulevard. They stole mail. That’s a federal offense, ain’t it?”
Wesley said, “Just a minute, Teddy.”