Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

The night-watch and midwatch patrol officers had been too busy and too short staffed to deal with the vendors, and things had gotten out of hand. On Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards, where so many nightclubs were springing up-clubs whose purported ownership changed nearly as often as the tablecloths-Latino hot dog vendors were setting up carts to catch nightclub customers coming and going during the wee hours. On the night of Operation Hot Dog, there had been more than fifty vendors cited for illegal sidewalk sales, and their carts had been impounded. Now the station parking lot was jammed with carts and rotting hot dogs, and everyone was wondering if the “wienie sweep” had been a bit overzealous.

Ronnie got relieved of any responsibilities for Operation Hot Dog when she and Bix Ramstead were asked to meet 6-A-97 in Southeast Hollywood. The Crow who usually took care of calls in that neighborhood was on a short leave due to a death in his wife’s family. There were not many black residents living in Hollywood Division, and the absent Crow, a black officer, had established rapport with some of them.

Six-A-97 had responded to a complaint regarding shopping carts, five of them, that were lying around a wood-frame cottage rented to a Somalian couple. When Ronnie and Bix arrived, the older of the two waiting cops nodded to Bix Ramstead.

“We’re not trying to kiss this one off,” he said, “but you Crows deal with chronic-noise complaints and quality-of-life shit, right?”

“And ‘-quality-of-life’ covers a lot of territory,” Bix said wearily. “What’s the deal?”

The cop said, “The woman who called us says the people who live in that little house are from Somalia and the husband doesn’t like black people, so she can’t talk to them.”

“Somalians are black people,” Bix said.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t like American black people. So she wants us to talk to the guy and tell him that in this country, you can’t just walk off the market parking lot with shopping carts. In fact, she says the Somalian even jacked a cart from her teenage son when he tried to take it back to the market. She says the guy just doesn’t get it about shopping carts.”

“So did you try talking to the guy?” Ronnie asked.

“He won’t answer,” the cop said, “but the woman swears he’s in there. Can you take over? We got some real crime to crush.”

There it was, Ronnie thought. They were real cops, the Crows were something other.

“Okay,” Bix said. “What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Farnsworth.” The cop was obviously happy to dump this one on the Crows, since patrol officers believed that Crows never did a day’s work anyway.

Mrs. Farnsworth was a stout woman with straightened gray hair combed in a Condi Rice flip. Her bungalow, across the street from the Somalians’, had a geranium garden in front and was freshly painted. She invited the cops in and asked if they’d like a cold drink, but they declined.

“I’d like to handle this my own self,” she told them, “but that Somali man is mean. He has a big scar down the side of his face and he never smiles. His wife is very sweet. I talk to her when she passes on the way to the market. She’s about twenty years younger than him, maybe more. And she left him once. I didn’t see her for maybe three weeks and I don’t know where she went. Then a week ago she came back.”

“We’ll have the shopping carts picked up,” Bix said. “Any idea why he keeps taking different ones?”

“I think he’s plain crazy,” she said. “I tried to ask him to turn down his music one night and he screamed at me. Called me a nigger. I said, ‘Whadda you think you are?’ He didn’t answer.”

“Anything else you can tell us about him? Something that makes you think he’s crazy?”

“I talked to his wife a couple times when he had a big party with some Somali friends on New Year’s. She said they just chew something called kaat and eat their spicy food and gamble all the time. Every one of them has their birthday on New Year’s, that’s why their party lasted for three days.”

“Why New Year’s?” Ronnie asked.

“They’re so damn backwards, they don’t know when they were born. They just pick any year they want for the immigration papers, and make the birthday fall on New Year’s so it’s easy to remember. That’s what she told me. They’re that ignorant. And he has the gall to call me a nigger.”

“What’s his name?” Ronnie asked.

“Omar,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “I found out they’re all named Omar, or Muhammad. I don’t know his last name.”

“Are you sure he’s home now?” Bix asked.

“He sure is,” she said. “And she is too. That damn music was blaring an hour ago and then it went off and he ain’t left the house. I been watching it. He just don’t wanna talk to the police, is all.”

“We’ll knock and see if he’ll open the door,” Bix said. “And we’ll call the store and get the carts picked up.”

“I can tell you this,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “His wife is scared of him. You can see that. I’m surprised she come back to him, but maybe she just didn’t have no money and nowhere else to go.”

They crossed the street and Ronnie knocked at the door of the cottage while Bix stood to the side, trying to peek into the window through a rip in what looked to be muslin curtains. No answer.

She knocked louder and said, “Police officers. Open the door, please.”

They could clearly hear some movement inside and then an accented voice said, “What do you want?”

“We just need to speak to you for a minute,” Ronnie said.

The door opened, and a tall, very dark man with the chiseled facial structure often seen in the Horn of Africa stood in the doorway. He wore only black trousers and tennis shoes, and he was unmistakable by virtue of the pale scar running from his hairline down the right side of his jaw to his throat. His irises were gunmetal blue.

Ronnie said, “We’ve received complaints about loud music and about the shopping carts in your yard. Do you know it’s against the law to take shopping carts home from the market? That’s theft.”

“I will take them back,” he said with a rumbling voice from deep inside him.

“What’s your name?” Ronnie asked.

“Omar,” he said.

“And your last name?”

“Omar Hasan Benawi,” he said.

“Why do you take so many carts, Mr. Benawi?” Bix asked.

The man stared at both cops for a moment and said, “If they steal one cart I have more.”

“If who steals one cart?” Bix asked.

“Them,” he said.

“Who?” Ronnie asked. “Neighbors?”

“Them,” he said without elaborating but looking off vaguely in the distance with those gunmetal eyes.

“Is your wife home?” Bix asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Ronnie said, “Let us see her. Now, please.”

The Somalian turned and mumbled something, and a bony young woman wearing a maroon head scarf, pink cotton dress, and sandals came to the door. She wasn’t as dark as her husband, but like him, she had sharply defined features, and large, velvety eyes.

“Do you speak English?” Ronnie asked.

She nodded, glancing up at her scowling husband.

“Did you hear what we said to your husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “I hear.”

“Do you understand that you cannot play loud music at night and that you cannot take shopping carts home from the market?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at her husband again.

“Are you all right?” Bix Ramstead asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’d like to talk to you about the shopping carts. Can you step outside, please?” Ronnie said.

The young woman looked at her husband, who hesitated and then nodded. His wife walked onto the porch and followed Ronnie to the front yard, where Ronnie put an overturned cart upright.