Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

Ali was ready for him. He put five $100 bills on the counter and said, “Please, brother, for me. I’ll make the date for you with Tex and Goldie. Both at the same time. You shall never forget the date. You need lots of Viagra for this one!”

Ali felt his chin tremble, but he fought to keep the sly smile in place as Jaime Salgando mulled it over.

Then the pharmacist said, “I’ll have to get what you need from a supplier I know. I’ll drop it at your club on Thursday evening at six o’clock.”

“That is good, brother,” Ali said. “But please make sure, one capsule that we can stick inside the little meatball. I see this Russian many times feed him little Russian meatballs from his hand.”

“I’ll tell my friend what is needed for the bait,” the pharmacist said.

“When you want the three-way date, brother?”

“On Saturday evening,” the pharmacist said. Then he added, “Nobody must ever know about any of this, Ali.”

“No,” Ali said. “Nobody must ever know, or this Russian shall kill me! And thank you, brother, thank you. You have save the life of my son!”

“I’ll see you on Thursday with your order,” Jaime said. “At the Leopard Lounge.”

Affecting a lighthearted farewell, Ali said, “Yes, my brother! And Tex shall wear her cowboy hat and cowboy boot for you on Saturday night, I promise!”

When Ali got to his car, he tore open the paper bag and was relieved to see that Goldie’s sleep aids were identical to the turquoise-and-magenta capsule in his pocket. It had cost him $200 just to be sure that the manufacturer of Margot’s sleep aids had not changed the colors or size of the capsule in recent months. He might have to put a few extra capsules of the sleep aid in her vial so that things didn’t happen too soon. He wanted her to die when he was ready, and not before.

On his drive from Alvarado Street back to Hollywood, Ali began to fret about Jaime Salgando. But the closer he got to Hollywood, the more his fears seemed irrational. If three months from now Margot were to die, why wouldn’t it be considered a suicide over her affair with that new boyfriend, whoever he was? Or, if murder was suspected, why wouldn’t the new boyfriend be the object of the inquiry? Who knows what intrigues the boyfriend may have been plotting with Margot. The police might surmise that she had threatened to leave the boyfriend and he was punishing her. Her pig boyfriend would be the target of the police investigation, not Ali Aziz.

Even the most fearful scenario did not hold up when he looked at it with courage and reason: that Jaime Salgando might have a terrible attack of Christian conscience and inform the police that on one hot summer day he had supplied Ali Aziz with 50 milligrams of poison, ostensibly to kill a dog. But that was the silliest fear of all. If Jaime did such a thing, what would happen to his license, his business, his life? Jaime was a man who had taken money from Ali for years, unlawfully dispensing drugs for dancers at the Leopard Lounge. Jaime, the loving father and grandfather who had bedded a number of those dancers to whom he was unlawfully providing drugs. And how could Jaime ever prove that he gave Ali Aziz a 50-milligram capsule of poison? No, Jaime Salgando had committed too many crimes behind the counter at his farmacia. Jaime was the least of the worries of Ali Aziz.

His main concern would be to gain legal custody of Nicky when Margot was found dead. Ali knew that her family, those insignificant people in Barstow, California, would fight for custody in order to have control over their grandson, the heir to Margot’s fortune. Or rather, Margot’s half of Ali’s fortune, the wealth that the bitch had stolen from him through all her trickery. And truth be told, he would let them have everything she had stolen from him-all of it-if only they would not initiate any custody fight for Nicky. All that Ali Aziz wanted was his son.

When Ali got to the Leopard Lounge that afternoon, he went to his office, locking the door behind him. He sat at his desk, turned on the desk lamp, dried his hands, and drank a shot of Jack to steady them. Ali found it absolutely astonishing how, despite his fear, the thought of soon possessing that deadly capsule made him feel extremely powerful. He would have the power of life and death. With the unexpected gifts of drugs that he would be giving to his dancers, he felt entitled to special blow jobs with no complaints. Ali decided to call one of the girls into his office. And he wouldn’t be needing Viagra. Not today.

Ronnie and Bix Ramstead’s ten-hour duty tour-excluding the half hour for a meal break referred to as code 7-was to end at eight that evening. But when Ronnie signed out, Bix still hadn’t returned. She’d called him on his cell twice but couldn’t reach him. She was so worried that she was about to mention it to the sergeant prior to his leaving for a meeting with the Graffiti Committee. Then her cell rang.

“It’s me,” Bix said when she answered.

“I was getting concerned,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got tied up.”

Ronnie thought she detected a slight slurring of speech but hoped she was wrong. She said, “You coming in now?”

Bix said, “Check me out, will you? I’ll be back later to turn the car in.”

Now she was sure of it. She said, “Why don’t I come where you are? We could get a bite to eat.”

“No, I’m gonna grab a burger with a cop I know from my North Hollywood days. Just check me out. I’ll be back soon.”

And that’s how it was left. If it had been anyone other than Bix Ramstead, Ronnie Sinclair, being so new to the Community Relations Office, would not have complied. She thought about talking to one of the other Crows about it, but she did not. Ronnie liked Bix as much as any cop she’d ever known at Hollywood Station. She was feeling very nervous and worried when she checked out both Bix and herself that evening. Ronnie knew she’d have a restless night, worrying about the possibility of Bix Ramstead and his LAPD car getting involved in a DUI collision.

There was trouble in Southeast Hollywood that evening involving more than fifty Filipino and Mexican men. They had gathered in a warehouse that closed its doors for the day at 6 P.M. but whose back door had been left unlocked by an employee who’d made secretive arrangements with all the other sporting men who worked in the warehouse. One of the storage bays had been roped off, and tattooed workers in company shirts or wife beaters were drinking beer and tequila as they gathered around a fighting pit made of plywood that had been temporarily nailed in place to provide an arena for the grisly spectacle about to take place.

Several trucks arrived and very soon steel cages were being carried into the warehouse and stacked against the wall. Each of twelve cages contained a fighting cock, and every bird was squawking in terror from the commotion. Mexican music was blaring from an old boom box, and voices of drinking men shouted bets to one another in Spanish, Tagalog, and Spanglish prior to prepping the birds for the bloody fights to the death, scheduled to begin at 8:30 P.M.

It might have gone off as planned except for one young Mexican forklift operator named Raul, who had made the mistake of telling his wife, Carolina, a Mexican American girl born and raised in East L.A., that he would be busy that evening and would be coming home late.

“Busy doing what?” she said.

“I cannot tell you,” he said.

“Whadda you mean you can’t tell me?” she said.

“I swore a secret,” he said.

“You better unswear it, dude,” she said. “I wanna know where you’re going.”

It was always like this. The forklift operator had wished a thousand times that he’d married a real Mexican girl. These brown coconuts, milky white on the inside, were nothing but nagging gringas with Hispanic names.