Little Bart actually began trying to talk politics to Farley to go along with the George Bush crack, but the cops obviously weren’t buying it. They knew that some kind of drug deal was going down, and Little Bart just didn’t want to give them a good reason to try his car keys in the doors of the eight cars that were parked within half a block of Pablo’s. And he especially didn’t want them to look under the floor mat.
Farley thought the cops were going to prolong this for as long as possible, but the younger cop ran up to the other one and said, “Kidnapping in progress, Omar’s Lounge on Ivar! Let’s go, Nate!”
When Farley and Olive and Little Bart were left standing there outside Pablo’s Tacos, Farley said to Little Bart, “Those cops saved your fucking life.”
Bart said, “Dude, you need some help. You’re way out there. Way, way out there.” And he ran to his car and drove off.
Olive said, “Farley, let’s go home now and -”
“Olive,” he said, “if you say you’ll make me a delicious cheese sandwich, I swear I’ll knock your fucking tooth out.”
Hollywood detectives had been forced to investigate a number of date rapes, called acquaintance rapes by the police. It was usually “I woke up naked with somebody I didn’t know. I was drugged.”
The cases were never prosecuted. Evidentiary requirements necessitated an immediate urine test, but the date rape drugs metabolized in four to six hours. It was always too late for the special analysis that had to be done outside the LAPD crime lab, which did only basic drug screening of controlled substances. In fact, as defense lawyers argued, too much booze produced much the same effect as a date rape drug.
The date rape cases were reported to Hollywood Station by persons of both genders, but only once was there a criminal filing by the district attorney’s office. The victim had vomited shortly after the encounter, and the drug was able to be recovered and identified.
Six-X-Seventy-six was the unit to receive the code 3 call to Omar’s Lounge but Budgie and Fausto were beaten to the call by Wesley Drubb and Hollywood Nate, followed closely by Benny Brewster and B.M. Driscoll, complaining of motion sickness caused by Benny’s fast driving.
The first units to arrive gave way to Budgie and Fausto, since they were assigned the call, and Budgie entered the nightclub to interview the victim. Even though Fausto was the report writer on this night and Budgie was driver, she took over with the report because the victim was a woman.
When they were being escorted to a private office inside the nightclub, Fausto whispered to her, “This joint gets sold to somebody new just about every time they change the tablecloths. It’s impossible to keep track of who the owner is, but you can bet your ass it’s a Russian.”
Sara Butler was sitting in the office being tended to by a cocktail waitress who wore a starched white shirt, black bow tie and black pants. The waitress was a natural blonde and pretty, but the kidnap victim, who was about Budgie’s age, was both prettier and unnaturally more blond. The straps on her black dress were held together with safety pins, and her pantyhose was in shreds around her ankles. Her knees were scraped and bleeding, as were both her palms. Mascara and eye liner were smeared all over her cheeks, and she was wearing most of her lipstick on her chin. She was angry and she was drunk.
The cocktail waitress was applying ice in a napkin to the victim’s right knee when the cops walked in. A faux fur coat was draped across the chair behind the young woman.
Budgie sat down and said, “Tell us what happened.”
“I was kidnapped by four Iranians,” Sara Butler said.
“When?” Budgie asked.
“About an hour ago,” Sara Butler said.
Budgie looked at Fausto, who nodded and went out to broadcast a code 4, meaning sufficient help at the scene, since the suspects were long gone.
“What did you say when you called it in?” Budgie asked. “We were under the impression that it had just occurred.”
“I don’t know what I said, I was so upset.”
“Okay,” Budgie said. “From the beginning, please.”
After she’d given all of the contact information for the report, and after listing her occupation as actress, Sara Butler said, “I was supposed to meet my girlfriend here but she called me on my cell and said her husband came home from a trip unexpectedly. And I thought I might as well have a drink since I was here.”
“You had more than one?”
“I don’t know how many I had.”
“Go on.”
“I got talking to some guy at the bar and he started buying me martinis. I didn’t have that many.”
Worrying about the liquor license, the cocktail waitress looked at Budgie and said, “We wouldn’t serve anyone who’s drunk.”
“Continue, please,” Budgie said to Sara Butler.
“So pretty soon I started feeling weird. Dizzy in a weird way. I think the guy slipped me a date rape drug but I didn’t drink enough of it to knock me cold.”
“How many martinis did you drink?”
“No more than four. Or possibly five.”
“That could knock a hippo cold,” Budgie said. “Go on.”
“The guy who bought me the martinis offered to drive me home. Said he had a black Mercedes sedan and a driver parked right in front. Said he’d be in the car. I said okay and went to the ladies’ room to freshen up.”
“Weren’t you worried about the date rape drug?” Budgie asked.
“Not then. I only thought about it after the kidnapping.”
“Okay, continue.”
“Then I left the club, and there was a long black car at the curb and I went to the back door which was open and got in. And goddamn! There were four drunken Iranians in the car and one of them closed the door and they took off with me, just laughing their asses off. And I realized that it was a limo and I was in the wrong car and I yelled at them to stop and let me out.”
“How did you know they were Iranians?”
“I go to acting class with two Iranians and they’re always jabbering in Farsi. I know Iranians, believe me. Or Persians, as they prefer to call themselves when they live in a free country, the bastards.”
“Okay, and then?”
“They were groping me and kissing me and I scratched one on the face and he told the driver to stop and they pushed me out of the car right onto the street and I ran back here. I want them arrested and prosecuted for kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping might be very hard to allege in this case,” Budgie said, “but let’s get the report finished and see what the detectives think.”
“I don’t care what the detectives think,” Sara Butler said. “I’ve done half their job for them already.”
And with that she produced a tissue that was carefully folded, and said, “These are fingernail scrapings from the Iranian’s face. And my coat there can be examined for latent fingerprints.”
“We can’t get fingerprints from fur,” Budgie said.
“Officer, don’t tell me what you can’t do,” Sara Butler said. “My father’s a lawyer and I won’t have my report swept under the rug by your detectives. The dirt from my dress will identify where I was lying in the gutter in case someone says I wasn’t pushed from the car. And those fingernail scrapings will positively identify one of my assailants after a DNA analysis.” She paused and said, “And Channel Seven is on the way.”
“Here?”
“Yes, I called them. So I suggest you take this case very seriously.”
“Tell me, Ms. Butler,” Budgie said. “Do you watch CSI?”
“All the time,” Sara Butler said. “And I know that some cheap lawyer for the Iranians might say I got into the car by design and not by accident, but I have that covered as well.”
“I’m sure you do,” Budgie said.
“The man who bought me the martinis can testify that he had a car waiting for me, and that will prove I just made a mistake and got into the wrong car.”
“And I suppose you have the man’s name and how we can contact him?”