Hollywood Station (27 page)

"I think I'll hang on to it," Teddy said, clearly disappointed.

Driving to the station, Nate got to thinking about the secretary who worked for the extras casting office he'd visited last Tuesday. She had given him big eyes as well as her phone number. He thought that he and Wesley could pick up some takeout, and he could sit in the station alone somewhere and chat her up on his cell.

"Partner, you up for burgers tonight?" he asked Wesley.

"Sure," Wesley said. "You're the health nut who won't eat burgers."

And then, thinking of the little secretary and what they might do together on his next night off, and how she might even help him with her boss the casting agent, Nate felt a real glow come over him. What he called "Hollywood happy."

He said, "How about you, Filmore, you up for a burger?"

"Hot damn!" the derelict said. "You bet!"

They stopped at a drive-through, picked up four burgers, two for Wesley, and fries all around, and headed for the station.

When they got there, Nate said to their prisoner, "Here's the deal. I'm giving you not only a burger and fries, but a get-out-of-jail-free pass. You're gonna sit in the little holding tank for thirty minutes and eat your burger, and I'll even buy you a Coke. Then, after my partner writes an FI card on you for future reference, I'm gonna let you out and you're gonna walk back up to the boulevard and get your shopping cart and go home to your nest, wherever that is."

"You mean I ain't going to jail or detox?"

"That's right. I got an important phone call to make, so I can't waste time dicking around with you. Deal?"

"Hot damn!" Filmore said.

When their passenger got out of the car in the station parking lot, Wesley looked at the car seat and said to Filmore, "What's that all over the seat? Beach sand?"

"No, that's psoriasis," said Filmore U. Bracken.

"Oh, gross!" Wesley cried.

B. M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster caught the call to the apartment building on Stanley north of Fountain. They were half a block from the L. A. Sheriff's Department jurisdiction of West Hollywood, and later Benny Brewster thought about that and wished it could've occurred just half a block south.

The apartment manager answered their ring and asked them inside. It was by no means a down-market property. In fact, B. M. Driscoll was thinking he wouldn't mind living there if he could afford the rent. The woman wore a blazer and skirt and looked as though she had just come home from work. Her silver-streaked hair was cut like a man's, and she was what is called handsome in women her age.

She said, "I'm Cora Sheldon, and I called about the new tenant in number fourteen. Her name is Eileen Leffer. She moved in last month from Oxnard and has two young children." She paused and read from the rental agreement, "A six-year-old son, Terry, and a seven-year-old daughter, Sylvia. She said she's a model and seemed very respectable and promised to get us references but hasn't done it yet. I think there might be a problem."

"What kinda problem?" Benny asked.

"I work during the day, but we never see or hear a peep from the kids. The owner of the building used to rent our furnished units to adults only, so this is new to me. I've never been married, but I think normal kids should be heard from sometimes, and these two are not. I don't think they're enrolled in any school. Even on weekends when I'm home, I never hear or see the kids."

"Have you investigated?" B. M. Driscoll asked. "You know, knocked on the door with maybe an offer of a friendly cup of coffee?"

"Twice. Neither time was there a response. I'm worried. I have a key, but I'm afraid to just open the door and look."

"We got no probable cause to enter," Benny said. "When was the last time you knocked on the door?"

"Last night at eight o'clock."

"Gimme the key," B. M. Driscoll said. "And you come with us. If there's nobody home, we all just tiptoe away and nobody's the wiser. We wouldn't do this except for the presence of little kids."

When they got to number fourteen, Benny knocked. No answer. He tapped sharply with the butt of his flashlight. Still no answer.

Benny called out, "Police officers. Anybody home?" and knocked again.

Cora Sheldon was doing a lot of lip biting then, and B. M. Driscoll put the pass key in the lock and opened the door, turning on the living room light. The room was messy, with magazines strewn around and a couple of vodka bottles lying on the floor. The kitchen smelled of garbage, and when they looked in, they saw the sink stacked with dirty dishes. The gas range was a mess with something white that had boiled over.

B. M. Driscoll switched on a hallway light and looked into the bathroom, which was more of a mess than the kitchen. Benny checked the master bedroom, saw an unmade bed and a bra and panties on the floor, and returned with a shrug.

The other bedroom door was closed. Cora Sheldon said, "The second bedroom has twin beds. That would be the children's room."

B. M. Driscoll walked to the door and opened it, turning on the light. It was worse by far than the master bedroom. There were dishes with peanut butter and crackers on the floor and on the dresser top. In front of the TV were empty soda cans, and boxes of breakfast cereal were lying on the floor.

"Well, she's not much of a housekeeper," he said, "but other than that?"

"Partner," Benny said, pointing at the bed, then walking to it and shining his light at wine-dark stains. "Looks like blood."

"Oh my god!" Cora Sheldon said as B. M. Driscoll looked under the bed and Benny went to the closet, whose door was partially open.

And there they were. Both children were sitting under hanging garments belonging to their mother. The six-year-old boy began sobbing, and his seven-year-old sister put her arm around him. Both children were blue-eyed, and the boy was a blond and his sister a brunette. Neither had had a decent wash for a few days, and both were terrified. The boy wore shorts and a food-stained T-shirt and no shoes. The girl wore a cotton dress trimmed with lace, also food-stained. On her feet she wore white socks and pink sneakers.

"We won't hurt you, come on out," Benny said, and Cora Sheldon repeated, "Oh my god!"

"Where's your mommy?" B. M. Driscoll asked.

"She went with Steve," the girl said.

"Does Steve live here?" Benny asked, and when Cora Sheldon said, "I didn't rent to anyone named -" he shushed her by putting up his hand.

The little girl said, "Sometimes."

B. M. Driscoll said, "Have they been gone for a long time?"

The little girl said, "I think so."

"For two days? Three days? Longer?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Okay, come on out and let's get a look at you," he said.

Benny was inspecting the stain on the bed, and he said to the girl, "Has somebody hurt you?"

She nodded then and started crying, walking painfully from the closet.

"Who?" Benny asked. "Who hurt you?"

"Steve," she said.

"How?" Benny asked. "How did he hurt you?"

"Here," she said, and when she lifted her cotton dress slightly, they saw dried blood crusted on both legs from her thighs down, and what looked like dark bloodstains on her lace-trimmed white cotton socks.

"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."