Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Moon

Nate said, “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Well, do you have, like, anyone else you could invite?” Jetsam asked.

“Yeah, dude,” said Flotsam. “A man with your hormonal ingenuity oughtta be able to come up with another idea to get them Sallys mega-stoked.”

“Downright stokaboka is how we want them,” Jetsam said to Nate. “Invite anyone but a clown.”

“Dude!” Flotsam yelled it so loud at Jetsam that he startled Nate.

To change the subject, Jetsam quickly said, “Hey, this juicehead is faced.”

A balding tourist with a double chin and cheeks flushed to bubblegum pink was staggering along the Walk of Fame, definitely tanked. The front of his “Hollywoodland” souvenir T-shirt looked like it had been washed in mai tais, and his fly was unzipped, the tail of his tee protruding.

“Whoa there, pard,” Jetsam said, grabbing his elbow as the man tried to lurch past. “How many drinks you had tonight?”

“I’m perf… perf… fectly sober!” the tourist said, reeling.

“Don’t try to okeydoke us, dude,” Flotsam said. “Answer the question.”

“What was the question again?” said the tourist, wattles twitching.

“How many drinks you had tonight?” Jetsam repeated. “The truth bus or the bullshit bus. Which one you taking?”

The tourist hiccupped twice and said, “About fifteen or twenty drinks, maybe. Beers mostly. I been pissing barley and hops all night.”

Flotsam said, “Dude, that answer makes you just about the most honest man in all of L.A., so we’re gonna give you a chance to prove your sobriety. Now pay attention.”

A few minutes later they were in the privacy of the parking lot west of the tourist masses in Grauman’s forecourt, and Hollywood Nate was mystified when Flotsam pulled a balloon from his pocket and blew it up. On his second try, the tourist actually slapped the balloon as it dove past his nose, prompting Flotsam to say, “You got game, dude.”

Ten minutes after that, the tourist was boarding a bus to his hotel in Universal City, having put forth satisfactory effort in a two-out-of-three balloon test to satisfy the forces of law and order that he was a real trouper.

Nate was still chortling when Jetsam said to him, “Hey, bro, let’s see if any of them Main Street Crips or Rolling Sixties are up from south L.A. They’ll be hanging around the subway station dealing crack.”

“We might find a gun,” Flotsam said to Nate. “You down?”

“I got your back,” said Nate.

“The game’s afoot, dude!” Flotsam announced.

“Rock on, bro!” Jetsam concurred.

This was the camera’s favorite time, called “magic hour” in the movie business. The summer sun was plunging into the ocean off Malibu, and onshore winds chased tumbling clouds to the east, inflamed by streaks of color from dying solar fire. The sky over Hollywood Boulevard was transformed into a blazing palette where any fool could gaze up breathless and dream of painting a new self-portrait, and maybe this time get it right. After a moment, Nate found himself stepping out with just a touch of foot-beat swagger, slipping through the crowds, giving the stink eye to Batman and Darth Vader, striding over marble and brass stars along the Walk of Fame. The surfer cops strolling behind him gave each other a knuckle bump, and Flotsam whispered, “Dude, I think Nate just caught a blast of mucho mojo!”

Nate glanced into the Kodak Centre as they were passing, and he halted, turning his face to the darkening west, letting that sea breeze cooled by the Pacific sigh in his ears and blow through his hair, bringing with it a breath of great possibility, perhaps even redemption.

“About that Wednesday night bowling?” he said. “I’m good to go. And I’ll see about renting us a midget.”

Upon hearing this news the surfer cops beamed. “Midgets rule, dude!” said Flotsam.

“We’re gravy, bro!” said Jetsam.

Then Flotsam’s grin melted like a Slurpee on the sidewalk when Hollywood Nate said, “But will somebody please tell me, why no clowns?”

JOSEPH WAMBAUGH, a former LAPD detective sergeant, is the bestselling author of eighteen prior works of fiction and nonfiction. In 2004, he was named Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Southern California.