“Mae West” was how Wesley Drubb’s father referred to the life jackets he kept aboard a seventy-five-foot power yacht that he used to own and kept docked at the marina. Wesley didn’t know that they were named after a person, but he said, “Yeah, Mae West.”
“Someday I’ll be living in one of those buildings,” Nate said. “The local country clubs used to restrict Jews. And actors. I’ve heard it was Randolph Scott who told them, ‘I’m not an actor and I’ve got a hundred movies to prove it.’ But then I heard it was Victor Mature. Even John Wayne, and he didn’t hardly play golf. It’s a good Hollywood story no matter who said it.”
Wesley had never heard of the first two actor-golfers and was getting a tightness in his neck and jaw muscles. He was even grinding his teeth and only relaxed when Nate sighed and said, “Okay, let’s go find you a bad guy to put in jail.”
And at last, with an enormous sense of relief, Wesley Drubb was permitted to drive away from reel Hollywood and head for the real one.
Darkness fell as they were passing the Gay and Lesbian Center, and Nate said, “That’s where they can go to let their hair down. Or their hair extensions. There’s a place for everyone to dream in Hollywood. I don’t know why you can’t be satisfied.”
A few minutes later, on Santa Monica Boulevard, Wesley said, “Look how that guy’s walking. Let’s shake him.”
Nate looked across the street at a pale and gaunt forty-something guy in a crew neck, long-sleeved sweater and jeans, walking along the boulevard with his hands in his pockets.
“Whadda you see that I don’t see?”
“He’s a parolee-at-large, I bet. He walks like they do in the prison yard.”
“You learned a lot with the gang unit,” Nate said. “Maybe even something worthwhile, but I haven’t noticed it yet.”
Wesley said, “The parole officers are a few months behind in getting warrants into their computer, but we could check him anyway, okay? Even if there’s no warrant, maybe he’s holding some dope.”
“Maybe he’s cruising for a date,” Nate said. “This is Santa Monica Boulevard, home of boy love and homo-thugs. He might be looking for somebody like the one he left in prison. A guy with a tattoo of a naked babe on his back and an asshole like the Hollywood subway.”
“Can we check him?”
“Yeah, go ahead, get it outta your system,” Nate said.
Wesley pulled up several yards behind the guy, and both cops got out and lit him with their flashlight beams.
He was used to it. He stopped and took his hands out of his pockets. With a guy like this preliminaries were few, and when Wesley said, “Got some ID?” the guy shot them a grudging look of surrender and without being asked pulled up the sweater sleeves, showing his forearms, which were covered with jailhouse tatts over old scar tissue.
“I don’t use no more,” he said.
Nate moved the beam of his light near the man’s face and said, “Your eyes are down right now, bro.”
“I drink like a Skid Row alky,” the ex-con said, “but I don’t shoot up. I got tired of getting busted for eleven five-fifty. I was always under the influence and I just kept getting busted. Like, I was serving life in prison a few weeks at a time.”
Wesley wrote an FI card on the guy, whose ID said his name was Brian Allen Wilkie, and ran the information on the MDT, coming back with an extensive drug record but no wants or warrants.
Before they let him go, Nate said, “Where you headed?”
“Pablo’s to get a taco.”
“That’s tweakerville,” Nate said. “Don’t tell me you’re smoking glass now instead of shooting smack?”
“One day at a time, man,” Brian Wilkie said. “I wouldn’t want my PO to know, but I’m down to booze and a little meth now and then. That’s an improvement, ain’t it?”
“I don’t think that’s what AA means by one day at a time, man,” Nate said. “Stay real.”
A few minutes later, when Wesley drove past Pablo’s Tacos, they saw an old car parked in front and a pair of skinny tweakers in a dispute with another guy who also had tweaker written all over him. The argument was so animated that the tweakers didn’t see the black-and-white when Wesley parked half a block away and turned out the lights to watch.
“Maybe one of them’ll stab the other,” Nate said. “And you can pop him for a felony. Or better yet, maybe one of them’ll pull a piece and we can get in a gunfight. Would that relieve your boredom?”
Farley Ramsdale was waving his arms like one of those people with that terrible disease whose name she couldn’t remember, and Olive was getting scared. Spit was running down Farley’s chin and he was screaming his head off because the tiny tweaker that they knew as Little Bart wouldn’t sell one of the two teeners he was holding. Farley refused to meet his excessive price and had tried to bargain him down.
Olive thought it was mean and wrong of Little Bart, because Farley had often sold to him at a decent price. But all this screaming was just going to get them in trouble.
“You are an ungrateful chunk of vomit!” Farley yelled. “Do you remember how I saved your sorry ass when you needed ice so bad you were ready to blow a nigger for it?”
Little Bart, who was about Farley’s age and whose neck bore a tattoo of a dog collar all the way around, said, “Man, things’re bad, real bad these days. This is all I got and all I’m gonna have for a while. I gotta pay the rent.”
“You little cocksucker!” Farley yelled, doubling his fist.
“Hey, dude!” Little Bart said, backing up. “Take a chill pill! You’re freaking!”
Olive stepped forward then and said, “Farley, please stop. Let’s go. Please!”
Suddenly, Farley did something he had never done in all the time they’d been together. He smacked her across the face, and she was so stunned she stared at him for a moment and then burst into tears.
“That’s enough,” Wesley said, and got out of the car, followed by Hollywood Nate.
Farley never saw them coming but Little Bart did. The tiny tweaker said, “Uh-oh, time to go.”
And he started to do just that, until Wesley said, “Hold it right there.”
A few minutes later, Little Bart and Farley were being patted down by Wesley and Hollywood Nate while Olive wiped her tears on the tail of her jersey.
“What’s this all about?” Farley said. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“You committed a battery,” Wesley said. “I saw it.”
“It was an accident,” Farley said. “Wasn’t it, Olive? I didn’t mean to hit her. I was just making a point with this guy.”
“What point is that?” Nate said.
“About whether George W. Bush is really as dumb as he looks. It was a political debate.”
Little Bart wasn’t really worried, because the ice was under the rear floor mat of his car, which was half a block down the street. So he just had to chill and not piss off the cops, and then he figured he could skate.
When Nate pulled Farley ten yards away from the other two, Farley yelled back, “Olive, tell these guys it was an accident!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Nate said. “Where’s your car?”
“I ain’t got a car,” Farley lied, and after he did it, he wondered why he had lied. There was no crystal in his car. He hadn’t smoked any glass for two and a half days. That’s why his nerves were shot. That’s why he was on the verge of strangling Little Bart. He was just so sick of being hassled by cops that he lied. Lying was a form of rebellion against all of them. All of the assholes who were fucking with him.
For the next twenty minutes, the shakes were written, and each name was run through CII, with a rap sheet showing for Farley Ramsdale but none for Olive O. Ramsdale. Farley finally stopped bitching and Olive stopped crying.