Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“Yeah, and we gotta go now,” Cat said. “Treakle’s in charge.”

“Aw, shit,” Jetsam said. “Sorry for you.”

Flotsam looked at the cageless old black-and-white parked in the lot and said, “Which supervisor belongs to that piece of shit?”

“Chickenlips,” Cat said. “He’s on a sneak-and-peek mission, checking out the target. We can’t talk. Gotta go.”

“Catch you later,” Jetsam said while Cat drove away, following the caravan of police units ready to swoop into the warehouse parking lot.

Flotsam massaged his aching shoulder while Jetsam switched from the Hollywood base frequency to the tactical frequency just in time to hear Sergeant Treakle’s high-pitched radio voice.

“All units converge on target!” Sergeant Treakle said, spraying saliva on his rover. “Converge, converge, converge!”

“He gets pretty excited about a bunch of chickens, don’t he?” Jetsam said.

“I bet that dude’s got women’s tits,” Flotsam said. “Let’s go get a burrito.”

While the surfer cops were sitting in their car on Sunset Boulevard enjoying some Tex-Mex, one of the cars that was checked out to the Community Relations Office drove up the hill to Mt. Olympus and into the driveway of Margot Aziz. The driver got out of the car but didn’t close the door. He tried to will himself to get back into the car but could not. Then he closed the car door quietly, walked to the front door of the house, and rang the bell. He heard footsteps on the inside marble foyer and knew she was looking through the brass-enclosed peephole.

When the door opened, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him repeatedly on the mouth, cheeks, and neck as he tried to push her away. Her eyes were bright and wet in the moonlight streaming down, drops clinging to her eyelashes. He felt wetness on her cheekbones, and could taste it when she kissed him, and he wondered why her tears were not salty.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t show up,” she said. “I was afraid you’d never come again. I left four messages on your cell today.”

“You’ve gotta stop doing that, Margot,” said Bix Ramstead. “My partner might pick up my calls sometime.”

“But I haven’t seen you in twenty-nine days and twenty-nine nights!” She pulled him forward into the foyer and closed the door. She wanted to smell his breath for alcohol, but he kept pulling back when she tried to kiss him again.

“I can’t stay, Margot,” he said. “I’ve got a police car here. I’ve gotta get it back to the station.”

“Do it and hurry back,” she said. “I’ll make some supper for you.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I just stopped by to tell you that you gotta stop calling me. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Trouble, Bix?” she said. “Trouble? I’m the one in trouble. I’m crazy in love with you. I can’t sleep, I can’t think. We have something, Bix, and you can’t throw it away. I’m almost free of Ali now. Then I’m all yours. Me and everything I have!”

“I can’t. I’ve been going crazy too. Thinking of you. Thinking of my family. I’m no good for you. We’re no good for each other.”

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” she said, and then she put her face against his badge and held him hard with both arms.

“I gotta go,” he said again, but he wasn’t pulling away from her now.

“I’ve tried to be patient,” she said. “The only thing that’s held me together is knowing that your family went to your in-laws’ for a visit. You see, I’ve marked my calendar, Bix. You’re all I think about. I’m selfish. I want you here with me every night while they’re gone. I want the chance to convince you how right we are for each other.”

“I can’t think straight tonight,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve gotta get the car back to the station.”

She released him and he looked at her. Then he kissed her, and for certain she smelled the booze on his breath.

“Tomorrow, darling,” Margot said, smiling hopefully. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

When Bix Ramstead backed out of the driveway and turned back down the hill, he didn’t see the Mustang parked a block farther up. Hollywood Nate had waited since Friday for her call that never came. He too had had a few drinks that evening after getting off duty. And impetuously, he had driven up to Mt. Olympus, intending to knock on her door. Intending to find out just what the hell was going on in that woman’s head. But as Nate had approached her driveway, he’d seen a police vehicle. He’d driven past the driveway, turned around, parked, and waited.

Nate didn’t have to tail him very long to be sure that the driver was Bix Ramstead. He was tempted to follow Bix to the station for a friendly face-off, to compare notes on Margot Aziz. But he decided that he’d better wait until he was completely sober before trying something like that.

After finishing their burritos, Jetsam and Flotsam drove back in the direction of the cockfight raid instead of toward their beat.

“Where you going, dude?” Flotsam said.

“To take a look at the big chicken caper.”

“Why?”

“You ever seen a fighting rooster?”

“No, and I got no desire.”

“Might be educational.”

By the time they pulled into the warehouse parking lot, everything was under control. All of the Mexican and Filipino spectators were inside being questioned and having FI cards filled out on them. Everyone was being checked for wants and warrants, and a few were being cited. There was nobody outside the building except Gil Ponce, standing by a stack of metal cages containing the fighting cocks, which were still squawking furiously and pecking at the steel confining them.

Jetsam drove up to the young cop and said, “What’s going down in there, dude?”

“Nothing now,” Gil said. “Just FI-ing everybody and running them for warrants. Gonna book a few. You shoulda been here when we first arrived. One of the organizers of this thing tried to get away, but Gert threw a body block that knocked him flat.”

“Yeah, she would,” Flotsam said.

Then a lithe figure came through the darkness, carrying a steel crate. When she got close, they saw it was Cat Song.

“That rat dog bastard,” she said to the surfer cops. “Treakle’s making us carry the birds out here instead of waiting for Animal Control to do it. He wants to lock up the warehouse and go brag to the watch commander about his great chicken raid and leave us to babysit the birds until Animal Control arrives. I’ve got feathers and chicken shit on my uniform!”

She stacked the cage on top of two others and the fighting cocks made a louder racket at the new arrival.

“How many birds you got?” Jetsam asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Ten, twelve. Haven’t counted them.” Then she turned to Gil Ponce and said, “Come on, sonny, I’m not carrying these things all by myself.”

When they walked back inside the warehouse, Jetsam glanced at Flotsam, who looked like he was about to start whining about his shoulder again.

Jetsam turned out the headlights, jumped out of the black-and-white, and opened the back door on Flotsam’s side.

“What’re you doing, dude?” Flotsam asked.

He watched in amazement when Jetsam grabbed the top crate and swung it into the backseat of their shop, saying, “You had a bad day at Malibu, bro. I’m trying to cheer you up.”

“Just whadda you got on your desktop?” Flotsam said anxiously.

“Now, bro, don’t suck the cool outta this situation,” Jetsam said, closing the door and getting behind the wheel.

“What situation?” Flotsam wanted to know, and soon found out.

Jetsam drove, lights out, and wheeled into the parking lot, where a lone black-and-white was parked in the darkness. And he said, “You still carry that Slim Jim in your war bag?”