Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“No mercy,” Leonard said. “There ain’t a drop of mercy and compassion in this whole fucking town.”

Jetsam had his flashlight beam close enough to Leonard’s face to see the twitching and sweat. He raised the light to check Leonard’s pupils and said, “Got some ID?”

“What for?” Leonard said. “I haven’t done nothing.”

“You drive this car,” Jetsam said. “You have a driver’s license, right?”

Leonard reached in his pocket for his wallet. “Not a drop of mercy or compassion for a fellow human being,” Leonard said, taking the parking citation from Flotsam and handing Jetsam his driver’s license.

Jetsam took the license and walked back to their shop and sat down inside it.

“Aw, shit,” Leonard said. “What’s he doing, calling in on me?”

“Just routine,” Flotsam said, giving Leonard a quick pat-down.

“That’s what they always say,” Leonard whined. “Do you guys ever give a person a break? I mean ever?”

“Whadda you been arrested for?” Flotsam asked.

“You’re gonna find out in a few minutes,” Leonard said. “Couple of small-time thefts is all. I learned my lesson. I’m just a working stiff now. Between jobs.”

When Jetsam came back, he said to his partner, “Mr. Stilwell here has two priors for burglary and one for petty theft.”

“The burglaries were reduced to petty theft,” Leonard said. “I pled guilty and I only got county jail time. The petty theft was for shoplifting when I had to steal some groceries for an elderly neighbor who was sick. Jesus! Can’t a guy get a second chance?”

By then, both cops figured him for a crackhead or maybe a tweaker, and Flotsam said, “Mr. Stilwell, you wouldn’t object if we took a look in your car, would you? Just routine, of course.”

“Go ahead,” Leonard said. “If I said no, you’d find an excuse to do it anyways.”

“Are you saying no?” Jetsam said.

“I’m saying just do what the fuck you gotta do so I can go home. I give up. There ain’t a drop of mercy and compassion and charity left in this whole fucking city. Here.”

He pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Jetsam, who opened the door and did a quick search for drugs in the glove box, under the seats and floor mats, and in other obvious places. All he saw was a note behind the visor with an address on it. He recognized the street as one on Mt. Olympus near the house where a multiple murder involving Russian gangsters had occurred. He jotted the address down in his notebook.

When he was finished, he nodded to Flotsam and said, “Okay, Mr. Stilwell, thanks for the cooperation.”

By then Leonard was shaking his head in disgust, and when he got into his car, he was mumbling aloud about the merciless, pitiless, fucking city he lived in.

“Let’s drive up to Mount Olympus for a minute,” Jetsam said when they were back in their shop.

“What for?”

“That guy had an address behind his visor. What would a loser like that be doing up on Mount Olympus? Except casing a house, maybe.”

“There you go again,” Flotsam said. “Dude, you are determined to go all detective and sleuthy on my time. Maybe the guy’s looking to become a gardener or something. Did you think of that?”

“He’s the wrong color. Come on, bro, it’ll just take a few minutes.”

Flotsam headed for the Hollywood Hills without another word and, finding the winding street, followed it up to the top.

Jetsam checked addresses and said, “This number don’t exist.”

“Okay,” Flotsam said. “You satisfied now?”

He turned around just as Jetsam spotted a familiar car in a driveway a few houses away from where the street address should have been.

“That’s Hollywood Nate’s ride!” he said.

“That Mustang?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, there’s lots of Mustangs in this town.”

Jetsam grabbed the spotlight and shined it on the car. “How many with a license plate that says SAG4NW?”

“What?”

“Screen Actors Guild for Nate Weiss. How many?”

“So?”

“Maybe we should stop and see if the resident knows a Leonard Stilwell.”

“Look, dude,” Flotsam said. “We already dragged Hollywood Nate into one of your wild goose chases. We ain’t gonna interrupt whatever he’s doing in there with another of your clues. And knowing him, whatever he’s doing in there involves pussy, that much is totally for sure. So he is not gonna be happy to see us, no matter what.”

“Bro, this could be something he should know about.”

“It’s the wrong goddamn address!” Flotsam said. “You can tell Nate all about it tomorrow. That thief we just shook ain’t gonna be killing no residents on this street tonight. You good with that?”

“I guess I gotta be,” Jetsam said.

“Tomorrow you can call Sleuths R Us if you get more brainstorms.”

“Bro, do you think you could stop ripping on me about that?” Jetsam said. “So I made a mistake about the SUVs. Can’t you just step off?”

Flotsam said, “I’m off it. Somebody’s gotta prove there’s a drop of mercy and compassion in this whole fucking city. Are we gravy, dude?”

“Gravy, bro,” Jetsam said. “Long as you don’t mention it again.”

“I’m off it forever,” Flotsam said. “And that’s the truth, sleuth.”

OF COURSE, Hollywood Nate didn’t know anything at all about the surfers’ debate taking place out on the street in front of the Aziz home. He was sitting at the dining room table, sipping wine and looking into the amber eyes of Margot Aziz, who kept topping off his wineglass and trying to persuade him that she made the best martinis in Hollywood.

Finally he said, “I’m just not much of a martini guy. The wine is great and the pasta and salad were sensational.”

“Just a simple four-cheese noodle,” she said. “Your mom called it macaroni and cheese.”

“I should help you with the dishes,” he said. “I’m good at it. My ex-wife was dishwashing obsessive and turned me into a kitchen slave.”

“No dishes for us, boyo,” she said. “My housekeeper will be here in the morning, and she gets mad when there’s not something extra for her to do.” Then she said, “Did you have kids with your ex?”

“That was the one good thing about my marriage. No kids.”

“Can be good or bad,” she said. “Nicky is the only good thing about my marriage, which will soon be officially over, praise the lord.”

Nate looked around and said, “Will you get to keep this house?”

“We’re selling it,” she said. “Which is sad. This is the only home Nicky’s ever known. Did your wife get to keep your house?”

“It was an apartment,” Nate said. “More or less a pots ’n’ pans divorce. She came out of it way better than I did. Married a doctor and now lives the way a Jewish princess was meant to live. Her father hated it when she married a cop. She shoulda listened to him. I shoulda listened to him.”

Margot said, “My Nicky is five years old and deserves to keep the lifestyle he’s always had.”

“Sure,” Nate said. “Of course.”

“I worry a lot about him, and that’s part of what I need to talk to you about.”

“Okay,” Nate said. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve become afraid of his father.” Then she stopped, took another sip of wine, and said, “Sure you won’t have a martini? I’ve just gotta have one when I talk about my husband, Ali Aziz.”

“No, really,” Nate said. “You go ahead.”

Margot Aziz got up and walked out of the dining room and into a butler’s pantry, then to the kitchen, where Nate could hear her scooping from an ice maker. He got up and joined her, watching her make the cocktail.