Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“I’m just saying. I just have to be careful what I’m getting into, is all. She might have very bad friends who could see the tremendous advantage to her if you would pass away suddenly. And as your agent I might find myself in serious trouble. Whadda you know about this new boyfriend, for example?”

Ali was holding his head in his hands now, getting a headache. “Nothing. I know nothing.”

“How do you know he’s not some coke dealer from her younger days? How do you know what the two of them are scheming about? He might be a very dangerous man.”

“I beg you to stop,” Ali said.

“I just hope it all works out for you, Ali,” Jasmine said. “For your son’s sake.”

Ali said, “When Nicky is older, I think he shall see his mother is a cunt bitch. And he shall want to come and live with Daddy. That is what my new lawyer says. He tells me I must have very much patience.”

“Okay, I’ll do more undercover work for you, Ali, but I’ll need serious compensation for it.”

“Yes, yes,” Ali said. “If she is doing cocaine with this man, you must tell me very fast. Then I can tell my lawyer and we maybe can go to the judge to get back my son. This country have very insane laws.”

“You mean I might have to give a deposition or something?” Jasmine said. “I wouldn’t like that.”

“I shall pay you, Jasmine,” Ali said. “You shall not be sorry.”

“To betray my friend?” Jasmine said. “And to maybe run the risk of her new pal finding out about it? That’s gotta be worth a lot.”

“I shall pay you plenty,” Ali said. “Nicky is my life.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” Jasmine said.

“Thank you, Jasmine, thank you,” Ali Aziz said. “Now, please come here and make me feel like a man once more.”

“Not again,” Jasmine muttered but nevertheless got down on her knees in front of Ali’s chair while he unzipped his fly, wishing he’d taken Viagra.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY AFTERNOON, an extraordinary photo was taken by Officer Tony Silva in Laurel Canyon. A drunken porn producer in a Ferrari, coming from an all-day shoot at his studio on Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley, swerved head-on into a pair of eucalyptus trees, doing damage to the front end of his car but not activating the air bag.

The Crow had just dealt with another in the endless complaints about peeping paparazzi from one of the second-rate actors who lived in a rented house in the hills, when he came upon the accident, which a nearby resident had called in. However, Tony Silva was the second cop to arrive, the first being Officer F.X. Mulroney.

The LAPD motorcycle was parked twenty feet behind the Ferrari, whose engine was still running, and the driver, who would later blow an astonishing.37 on the Breathalyzer, was casting panicky looks over his left shoulder. The porn producer was concentrating on what he thought was the road in front of him but was really open space between the two trees, where his car was wedged and immobile.

With his decades of experience in such matters, F.X. Mulroney immediately understood that as far as this motorist was concerned, he was still negotiating the curves on the canyon road, no doubt with double vision. And by the time Tony Silva got out of the CRO’s Ford Explorer, F.X. Mulroney had already been at it for a while and was short of breath from his “pursuit” of the Ferrari.

Tony Silva later said that with a video camera he could have had himself a huge hit on the Internet, but all he had was his cell-phone camera. The grainy still photos he shot were of F.X. Mulroney, in full motor cop regalia, running in place beside the Ferrari, his black boots pumping up and down while he shouted, “Pull over! Pull that fucking car over!” to the porn producer, who was gunning the engine and looking back, desperate to speed away from the relentless motor cop who, as in a dream-or in his case, a nightmare-seemed to be pursuing him on foot!

“I don’t wanna have to shoot ya!” F.X. Mulroney yelled. “Pull to the curb and turn off your engine!” Then, as always, F.X. Mulroney went totally over the top and yelled, “Watch out for the woman and baby! Pull right! Pull right!”

For a moment the high-performance engine revved to full rpm, the wheels turning sharply, and this allowed the car to climb a foot or so up the trunk of the larger of the eucalyptus trees, tires smoking, engine roaring. But then it settled back down, coughing, sputtering, and dying when the engine finally blew.

F.X. Mulroney noticed Officer Tony Silva for the first time then, but he couldn’t speak. He had to bend forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath after such a long “chase.” Then F.X. stood tall, removed his mirrored aviator sunglasses, and said to the camera, “Am I glad this asshole finally pulled over. I was just about outta gas.”

The porn producer looked up at the old motor cop standing beside his car. And with eyes at half-mast, he opened the door and said, “My compliments, Officer. I thought I lost you a couple times, but you caught me fair and square.”

Ronnie felt that Bix Ramstead had seemed different for most of the day. He was uneasy, agitated, nervous. They’d spent several hours knocking on doors, dealing with the myriad calls from the constant complainers who were so well known at the Community Relations Office. It was tedious work, and on past occasions Bix had seemed temperamentally perfect for the assignment. But not today. He wasn’t as patient as usual. His practiced responses didn’t seem as sincere. He looked at his watch when people were pouring out their troubles, most of which the cops could do nothing about. The fact was, the callers were lonely and wanted attention from officialdom, but all they had were the Crows from Hollywood South.

On the last call they did together, Ronnie and Bix were standing in the kitchen of an eighty-year-old white-stucco bungalow, listening to the complaint of an elderly Salvadoran immigrant whose children hadn’t been to visit her in three months. Her English was good enough that they came to understand that her life was being made miserable by her next-door neighbor’s frequent yard sales, which attracted a bad element who threw trash on her property and urinated in her driveway in broad daylight.

When she stopped long enough to answer the phone in her bedroom, Bix went to the sink and helped himself to a glass of water. In the corner of the kitchen he spotted a mouse in a glue trap. The mouse, firmly stuck by its belly, feet, and legs, looked up with eyes both frightened and sad, as though the creature knew it was hopeless.

Ronnie heard Bix Ramstead say to the mouse, “Sorry, buddy, I’d help you if I could, but I can’t even help myself.”

When the Salvadoran woman returned to the kitchen, she picked up the trap and drowned the rodent in a bucket of water on the back porch. Then she continued reciting her many complaints about her neighbors.

After completing that visit, Bix said, “Let’s go back to the office and get another car. I think we should split up and deal with as many calls as we can for the rest of the day. We’ve gotta get our backlog caught up.”

Ronnie agreed but couldn’t help wondering what Bix had meant when he’d spoken those words to a doomed mouse.

In recent years, Alvarado Street in Rampart Division had come to resemble a commercial thoroughfare in Tijuana. Most of the shops and businesses displayed goods that spilled out onto the pavement, and those sidewalks were mobbed by Spanish-speaking pedestrians at all hours of the day and most of the evening. The sights and sounds and smells were all from beyond the imaginary line that marks the southern boundary of the United States of America.