Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Moon

“This job don’t look like a place where you form long-term relationships,” Jerzy said.

“How’d you meet the man?” Tristan asked.

“This basehead named Stella told me about him. She used to live in the room next to me at Cochran’s Hotel. Said I could make some serious coin, but I ain’t seen nothin’ serious yet.”

“I don’t know a Stella workin’ for him,” Tristan said.

“She’s brain-fried, man. Here one day, spun out and gone the next.”

“Jakob Kessler is one weird dude,” Tristan said, realizing that this was the first time in four days working together that he and Jerzy had spoken more than a dozen words at a time.

Jerzy just grunted and scratched his balls, looking as though he’d like to throw one of the Mexicans out of a kitchen chair so he could get off the floor.

“Way he got me,” Tristan said, “he saw me lookin’ at some shiny spinners on a pimpmobile at Pablo’s. He says to me in that Hitler accent of his, ‘You don’t have to steal spinners. If you want them, you can walk in a store and buy them with a credit card.’ Then he bought me a taco plate and we talked.”

“He never bought me nothin’,” Jerzy said.

“The man can talk,” Tristan said. “Do those weird eyes of his ever get on your nerves?”

“I don’t pay no attention to nobody’s eyes,” Jerzy said. “Unless I think the guy’s an undercover cop and he’s lookin’ at me too close.”

Tristan then said to the smaller Mexican, “How long you been at work here for the boss?”

The Mexican shrugged and said, “Three, four week. I think.”

“And your amigo?” Tristan said.

“The same.”

“See?” Tristan said to Jerzy. “Nobody works long for Kessler. Then they’re gone, like Old Jerzy. I’ll bet this fuckin’ apartment is rented week to week.”

“What, you were hopin’ for a pension and health plan?” Jerzy said.

“I just don’t wanna suddenly not be here someday,” Tristan said. “Like Old Jerzy.”

The Mexicans completed their check washing and hid their work in a laundry bag just before Jakob Kessler arrived. He still looked neat and eminently presentable in his suit and white shirt and tie, a businessman finishing up a long day but still ready in case a sale had to be made.

Tristan got to his feet, but Jerzy didn’t bother. Tristan pointed to a paper bag on a little table by the flea-infested chair in the living room. “We didn’t go through the real mail, Mr. Kessler. It’s all there ’cept for the junk stuff. And the two credit cards I got from -”

“Never mind where you got them from,” Jakob Kessler interrupted, glancing quickly at the two Mexicans.

“Oh, yeah,” Tristan said, remembering that Kessler kept his teams of runners segregated for security. “Anyways, it’s all there, Mr. Kessler.”

“I was hoping you’d get more than two cards,” Jakob Kessler said.

“The locker room-I mean the place was pretty busy. I’ll do better next time,” Tristan said.

Jakob Kessler picked up the bag, looked inside, and said, “How many mailboxes did you visit?”

“About fifteen or twenty,” Jerzy said, finally standing up.

“Twenty-two,” Tristan said. “There’s bound to be some good stuff in there.”

“We’ll see,” Kessler said. Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket, withdrew a leather wallet, and removed eight $100 bills, giving two to each man in the room. Then he removed one more $100 bill and gave it to Tristan, saying, “Your extra work was more risky.”

“I could cash checks for you, Mr. Kessler,” Tristan said. “If you’d get me a driver’s license and a credit card. I always make a good impression, and people don’t question me. Or I could be a great shopper if you’d give me a chance.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Creole,” Kessler said. “Perhaps in a few days.”

“That’s it?” Jerzy said. “I was with him. I only get two Ben Franklins for all our labor?”

Kessler said, “If your bags of material and the credit cards work out, you are going to get ten percent of what we net from them, as promised.”

“How will I know how much you net?” Jerzy demanded.

“I shall tell you how much,” Kessler said, annoyance in his voice, turning those pale lasers on his fat mail thief.

“That don’t seem right, Mr. Kessler,” Jerzy murmured, but when he glanced at the man’s strange eyes, he looked away and was silent.

“You know where to take the merchandise after you shop tomorrow, don’t you, Diego?” Jakob Kessler said to the smaller Mexican, who looked at Tristan and Jerzy and said, “I know, boss. The new place.”

“Good lad,” said Kessler.

“When we suppose to meet tomorrow, boss?” the Mexican asked.

“I can’t do it tomorrow. Just wait for my call.”

“Okay, boss,” said the Mexican.

And then Kessler was out the door and gone.

“That man talks to people like we’re all niggers,” Jerzy said to the Mexicans.

“Fuck you, peckerwood,” said Tristan.

For the first time all day, Jerzy smiled and replied, “As a famous member of your tribe once said, ‘Can’t we all jist get along?’ ”

There was a remarkable part of the story of the Rupert Moore shooting that Dana Vaughn did not share with Hollywood Nate. He’d learned it from Sergeant Lee Murillo at end-of-watch after Dana had gone home. The story made it that much more difficult for Nate to get annoyed with her for all her witty remarks at his expense. Only a few officers at Hollywood Station knew about it, yet it was considered a small miracle by the parents of Officer Sarah Messinger.

For each of the ten days that the rookie was at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in a coma, Dana Vaughn had visited her, a woman she’d never met. Sarah Messinger was only a few years older than Dana Vaughn’s daughter, and there was something about what the rookie had undergone that made Dana bond with that helpless young woman who was sustained by feeding tubes and monitors.

Dana introduced herself to the ward nurses on the first night, nurses who knew about the incident that put Officer Sarah Messinger in their care. And each day or evening, when she was sure that there would be no one else but nurses present, Officer Dana Vaughn, usually in uniform, would go to the bedside of the young woman and speak to her for ten minutes or more. Sometimes she told Sarah Messinger about the happenings on Watch 3. Sometimes she talked about teaming up with Sarah when she came back to work and was off probation. Sometimes she just did girl talk. But she never missed a day.

On one of those visits, when Dana was in uniform, an elderly Irish priest entered while Dana was talking to the young woman. The shoulders of the priest’s black coat were flaked with dandruff, and Dana thought she could smell liquor on his breath. She stopped talking when he entered.

“Don’t stop, Officer,” he said with a thick brogue. “Please don’t let me bother you. I only make the rounds to see if I’m needed by anyone.”

Dana was embarrassed and said, “I know it’s silly of me. The nurses say she can’t hear me, but… well, I know it’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” the priest said, and when he walked closer to the bed, Dana could see right through his wispy white hair to his scaly pink scalp, and she smelled liquor on his breath for sure. “Doctors don’t know everything. I believe that people in comas are like dolphins that dive deep into the waters, fathoms deeper than we can imagine, but they are still capable of receiving signals from the surface. You keep talking to your young friend, and she will hear you in ways that we cannot understand.”

“I’m not a Catholic, Father,” Dana said, “but I’d like to think you’re right.”