“Out, please!” Benny said to Cora Sheldon, taking both children by the hands and walking them into the living room, first closing the bedroom door to protect it as a crime scene.
B.M. Driscoll grabbed his rover to inform detectives that they had some work to do and that they needed transportation to the hospital for the children.
“Wait in your apartment, Ms. Sheldon,” Benny said.
Looking at the children, she said, “Oh,” and then started to weep and walked out the door.
When she had gone, the girl turned to her younger brother and said, “Don’t cry, Terry. Mommy’s coming home soon.”
It was nearly midnight when Flotsam and Jetsam were in the station to get a sergeant’s signature on a robbery report. A drag queen claimed to have been walking down the boulevard on a legitimate errand when a car carrying two guys stopped and one of them jumped out and stole the drag queen’s purse, which contained fifty dollars as well as a “gorgeous” new wig that cost three hundred and fifty. Then he’d punched the drag queen before driving away.
Jetsam was in the process of calling to see what kind of record the dragon had, like maybe multiple prostitution arrests, when the desk officer asked Flotsam to watch the desk while he ran upstairs and had a nice hot b.m.
Flotsam said okay and was there when a very angry and outraged Filmore U. Bracken came shuffling into the lobby.
Flotsam took a look at the old derelict and said, “Dude, you are too hammered to be entering a police station of your own volition.”
“I wanna make a complaint,” the codger said.
“What kinda complaint?”
“Against a policeman.”
“What’d he do?”
“I gotta admit he bought me a hamburger.”
“Yeah, well, I can see why you’re mad,” Flotsam said. “Shoulda been filet mignon, right?”
“He brought me here for the hamburger and left my property with a big fat degenerate at a dirty bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard.”
“Which dirty bookstore?”
“I can point it out to you. Anyways, the degenerate didn’t watch my property like he said he would and now it’s gone. Everything in my shopping cart.”
“And what, pray tell, was in your cart?”
“My anvil.”
“An anvil?”
“Yeah, it’s my life.”
“Damn,” Flotsam said. “You’re a blacksmith? The Mounted Platoon might have a job for you.”
“I wanna see the boss and make a complaint.”
“What’s your name?”
“Filmore Upton Bracken.”
“Wait here a minute, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said. “I’m going to talk this over with the sergeant.”
While Jetsam waited for the Oracle to approve and sign the crime report, Flotsam went to the phone books and quickly looked up the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, a notorious and hated lawyer in LAPD circles who had made a living suing cops and the city that hired them. Somebody was always saying what they would do to Harold G. Lowenstein if they ever popped him for drunk driving.
Flotsam then dialed the number to the lobby phone. After the eighth ring, as he started to think his idea wasn’t going to work, the phone was picked up.
Filmore Upton Bracken said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Bracken?” Flotsam said, doing his best impression of Anthony Hopkins playing a butler. “Am I speaking to Mr. Filmore Upton Bracken?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“This is the emergency hotline for the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, Esquire, Mr. Bracken. A Los Angeles police officer just phoned us from Hollywood Station saying that you may need our services.”
“Yeah? You’re a lawyer?”
“I’m just a paralegal, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said. “But Mr. Lowenstein is very interested in any case involving malfeasance on the part of LAPD officers. Could you please come to our offices tomorrow at eleven A.M. and discuss the matter?”
“You bet I can. Lemme get a pencil from the desk here.”
He was gone for a moment, and Flotsam could hear him yelling, “Hey, I need a goddamn pencil!”
When Filmore returned, he said, “Shoot, brother.”
Flotsam gave him the address of Harold G. Lowenstein’s Sunset Strip law office, including the suite number, and then said, “Mr. Bracken, the officer who just phoned on your behalf said that you are probably without means at present, so do not be intimidated if our somewhat sheltered employees try to discourage you. Mr. Lowenstein will want to see you personally, so don’t take no for an answer from some snippy receptionist.”
“I’ll kick ass if anybody tries to stop me,” Filmore said.
“That’s the spirit, Mr. Bracken,” Flotsam said, his accent shifting closer to the burr of Sean Connery and away from Anthony Hopkins.
“I’ll be there at eleven.”
Filmore was waiting in the lobby when Flotsam returned, saying, “Mr. Bracken? The sergeant will see you now.”
Filmore drew himself up on his tiptoes to lock eyeballs with the tall cop and said, “Fuck the sergeant. He can talk to my lawyer. I’m suing all you bastards. When I’m through, I’ll own this goddamn place, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll buy you a hamburger sometime. Asshole.”
And with that, Filmore Upton Bracken shuffled out the door with a grin as wide as Hollywood Boulevard.
When B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster went end-of-watch in the early-morning hours, Flotsam and Jetsam were in the locker room, sharing Filmore Upton Bracken adventures with Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb.
After the chuckles subsided, Nate said to Flotsam and Jetsam, “By the way, you guys’re invited to a birthday party. My newest little friend is throwing it at her place in Westwood. Might be one or two chicks from the entertainment industry for you to meet.”
“Any of the tribe coming?” Flotsam asked. “No offense, but I got a two-Jew limit. Three or more Hollywood hebes gather and they start sticking political lapel pins on every animate and inanimate object in sight, which might include my dead ass.”
“Why, you filthy anti-Semitic surfer swine,” Nate said.
“You inviting Budgie?” Flotsam asked.
“Probably,” Nate said.
“Okay, we’ll come. My partner admires her from afar.”
They stopped the banter when B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster came in looking very grim. Both began quickly and quietly undressing.
“What’s wrong with you guys?” Jetsam asked. “They taking Wrestlemania off the air?”
“You don’t wanna know,” B.M. Driscoll said, almost tearing the buttons from his uniform shirt as though he just wanted out of it. “Bad shit. Little kids.”
“So lighten up,” Flotsam said. “Don’t you guys listen to the Oracle? This Job can be fun. Get happy.”
Suddenly, Jetsam did his Bono impersonation, singing, “Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad.”
Benny Brewster peeled off his body armor and furiously crammed the vest into the locker, saying, “No shots of happy tonight, man. Just one shot of sad. Real sad.”
THIRTEEN
EXCUSE ME, PLEASE, Andrea,” Viktor Chernenko said late in the morning. There were only six detectives in the squad room, the rest being out in the field or in court or, in the case of Hollywood detectives, nonexistent due to the manpower shortage and budget constraints.
“Yes, Viktor?” Andi said, smiling over her coffee cup, fingers still on the computer keyboard.
“I think you are looking very lovely today, Andrea,” Viktor said with his usual diffident smile. “I believe I recognize your most beautiful yellow sweater from the Bananas Republic, where my wife, Maria, shops.”
“Yeah, I bought it there.”
Then he walked back to his cubicle. This was the way with Viktor. He wanted something, but it might take him half a day to get around to asking. On the other hand, nobody ever paid her the compliments that Viktor did when he needed a woman detective for something or other.