Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“I’m not in the market,” Ronnie said. “I’ve proven to be a bad shopper. Besides, I’m concentrating on passing the sergeant’s exam. But if I ever get married again, it will not be to another cop.”

Bix smiled and said, “Smart girl.”

And Ronnie thought, If you weren’t already bought and paid for, buddy, I might make an exception. She was surprised by how much she liked Bix. Those sensitive, dusky gray eyes of his could make a girl’s knees tremble.

She said, “Will you be staying on the Job until the bitter end?”

“Until I’m fifty-five, at least,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of teenagers who’ll have to get through college, and my daughter is talking about becoming a physician. I won’t be retiring any time soon, that’s for sure.”

Ronnie almost suggested that he might consider an inside job somewhere, one that would keep him from the likes of Omar Hasan Benawi and his pitiful wife, but she thought she shouldn’t be offering career advice to a veteran like Bix. Besides, the Community Relations Office was the next best thing to an inside job. How much real police work would they ever have to do as Crows?

She said, “A couple of us are heading up to Sunset after work for a few tacos and a tequila or two. Wanna come?”

Bix hesitated, but he obviously trusted Ronnie and could confide in her in ways he might not to a male officer. He said, “I’d better not join you. I have a bit of a problem.”

“Problem?”

“I haven’t had a drink for almost a month, and I’m reluctant to go places where everyone else is powering them down.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Ronnie said.

“It’s nothing major,” Bix said. “I’ve been dealing with it for years. On the wagon, off the wagon. I deal with it.”

“I hear you,” Ronnie said. “My first ex was an alcoholic in denial. Still is.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Bix said quickly. “I just don’t handle booze very well. When I drink, my personality changes. My wife, Darcey, put me on notice last month when I came home hammered, and I’m grateful she did. I feel a lot better now. Getting too old for that nonsense.”

Ronnie didn’t know what else to say, and Bix obviously thought he’d said too much. They finished their cappuccinos and their reports silently.

Hollywood Nate Weiss could not wait to log out at 7:30 P.M. He’d changed from his uniform into a pricey white linen shirt, and black jeans from Nordstrom’s. He’d thought about really dressing up but figured it might make him look like some schmuck who’d never had a private supper at the home of some flaming hot, bucks-up chick in the Hollywood Hills. Which was the case exactly.

While driving to Mt. Olympus he thought of half a dozen opening remarks he could say to her, but rehearsing aloud made them sound dumber than they did in his mind. He almost parked on the street in front but decided that as a guest he was entitled to pull into the bricked motor court. The lot was quite expansive for a view site in the hills, where land was scarce, and the motor court was large enough for an easy U-turn. The house itself was deceivingly large, with a Spanish-tile roof, white plaster walls, exposed beams, and lots of arches, a style that realtors liked to call “early California.” A cinch to sell, especially to non-Californians who found it romantic.

Nate was very happy to see that there were no other cars in the motor court. He’d been worried that the babysitter might have decided to stay with the kid at Margot’s house. Or that maybe Margot had invited somebody else to her pasta supper. He attempted to stay calm, trying on the affable but poised mini-smile he’d used successfully in his last piece-of-shit movie, and rang the bell.

Margot showed him that dazzling smile when she opened the door. She too was wearing jeans, low-cut designer jeans, and a yellow tee that stopped six inches before the jeans began. His eyes went from her eyes directly to that tan, muscular belly. She’d pulled back her heavy butterscotch hair and pinned it with a tortoiseshell comb.

Extending her warm, dry hand, she took his and said, “Officer Weiss. You look so different in civilian clothes.”

“The uniform makes the man, huh?” He tried to keep the tremble out of his voice, needing one drink to mellow out.

Seeming to read his mind, she said, “What can I get you to drink? And to answer your question, you don’t need a uniform. In fact, you look much younger now.”

Nate tried on a broader smile and said, “Wine?”

“Name your flavor.”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Pinot grigio it is,” she said. “I’m not a wine snob. Just give me an honest California pinot and I’m happy as a lark in the park. Come in and pour while I finish the pasta.”

Nate entered and was drawn at once to the living room, with its view of Hollywood and beyond. Blankets of lights, some twinkling, some still, and the summer smog hanging low and dark against the golden glow of sunset actually calmed him. The view wasn’t as good as some he’d seen from houses in the Hollywood Hills farther west, but this would do. He couldn’t imagine how many millions a home with a view would cost around there.

As far as the furnishings, it looked a trifle overdone, like many of the westside living rooms he’d seen in Los Angeles magazine and the L.A . Times. An unpleasant image of the Arab ex sitting on one of those plush sofas smoking a hookah flashed and faded. Nothing could spoil it for him. It all smelled like big bucks to Hollywood Nate Weiss.

“You know,” he said, “from here even the smog looks beautiful.”

Margot chuckled and he thought it sounded charming and warm. Everything about her was warm.

She said, “Come on, boy, let’s away with us to the kitchen, where you can pour us some grape. I need to let my hair down whenever my five-year-old stays over with our au pair.”

Nate followed her into a very large gourmet kitchen with two stainless-steel side-by-side refrigerator-freezer combinations and a commercial gas range and oven, also done in stainless steel. There were three steel sinks, and he wondered which she’d choose when she drained a pan of pasta. Too many choices!

He picked up the corkscrew and the bottle of pinot grigio and tried to peel off the neck seal and extract the cork like he’d seen sommeliers do it on those occasions when he could afford to take a date to an expensive restaurant. He had some trouble with the cork, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Have you been a police officer long, Nate?” she asked.

“Yeah, almost fifteen years,” he said.

“Really?” Margot said. “You don’t look old enough.”

“I’m thirty-six,” he said. Then he added, “You don’t look old enough to have a five-year-old child.”

“I could have one a lot older, but I’m not telling you my age,” she said.

“I already know,” Nate said. “Your driver’s license, remember?”

“Drat!” she said. “I forgot.”

Nate poured wine into the glasses and put one on the drain board by Margot.

“Does your son stay with your nanny often?” Nate asked.

“Only on very special occasions,” Margot said, and there was that coy smile again.

He took a big swallow then but told himself to slow it down, way down. He began thinking of acting tricks, such as pretending that this was a movie starring Nate Weiss. Trying to get himself into character but uncertain whom the character should resemble. Hollywood Nate Weiss simply had no frame of reference for a date like this one.

“So are you really interested in the Mercedes?” Margot said.

“Of course,” Nate said nervously. “Why else would I have called?”