Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

The tweaker had been running frantically through the park, and for no reason anyone could later determine, he ran to the obelisk rising into the blue-black sky with the Hollywood sign visible in the background, to the north on Mt. Lee. He waited while cops and security guards searched the cemetery grounds on foot with flashlights, and with spotlights from the police vehicles. It was there at the obelisk that the tweaker made his last mistake of the day, after being spotted by Gil Ponce, who was teamed with Cat Song.

The tweaker later told a paramedic on their way to the ER that he’d been hanging on to the starter pistol only because he wanted the police to have it if he wasn’t able to get away. This, in order to prove that he hadn’t used a real gun in the hijacking. The tweaker said that when he saw about two tons of blue running his way, and when a young cop spotted him and began shouting commands, he got worried about the starter pistol in his waistband, scared that the rookie would see it and panic. He said he tried to draw it out with only three fingers, like in the cowboy movies, and drop it on the ground.

But the LAPD hadn’t taught Gil Ponce with cowboy-movie training films, and it was too dark to see a three-fingered draw. When the tweaker pulled the gun from his waistband, he saw orange balls of flame and was jolted back against the obelisk, struck in the upper body by two of three rounds fired by Gil Ponce.

Cat was running fast, her nine in both extended hands, when Gil fired the rounds. After the tweaker was on the ground and other cops were running to the obelisk and Cat had gotten on her rover and requested a rescue ambulance, Gil Ponce said, “He pulled a gun, Cat! I had to shoot him!”

“I know you did,” she said, putting her arm around the young man. “I would’ve done the same thing. You did good.”

By the time the tweaker arrived at the ER, he was deemed to be in serious but not critical condition. However, after a seemingly successful surgery, he died three hours later of a pulmonary embolism. Surgeons reported that one of the rounds had dotted the i on the tattoo across his bony chest, which said “Mom tried.”

Despite the tweaker’s statement, which the paramedic repeated in a TV interview, it was widely believed that the trapped and surrounded robber had intended to die. In fact, the TV reporter who covered the incident from the start of the pursuit came on the eleven o’clock news and described the events in the Hollywood cemetery. After reciting a long list of film stars who were interred there, he told his audience that police had withheld the name of the deceased until next of kin could be located.

Then, in response to a question from the anchor desk, he said, “It is the opinion of this reporter that, despite what was said to the paramedic in the rescue ambulance, what we have here is another tragic case of suicide-by-cop. To believe that the cornered robbery suspect was trying to comply with police commands when he pulled what appeared to be a deadly weapon from his waistband flies in the face of credibility. If he’d wished to surrender, he would never have done something so stupid.”

Leonard Stilwell, who was lying in bed when he saw that newscast, knew from long experience that in Hollywood, things are seldom as they seem. And he muttered to the TV screen, “Dude, that idiot’s entire brain would fit in a coke spoon.”

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Hollywood Nate got a phone call at home from his CRO sergeant at Hollywood South. The surfer cops had been trying to reach Nate and had left a cell number with the sergeant. When Nate called the number, Jetsam answered, and Nate could hear the sound of crashing surf in the background.

“Why am I being summoned by the headache team?” Nate wanted to know.

“Bro, Malibu is radical today!” Jetsam said. “You should be here. My partner is out there with two little newbies in thongs the size of tire patches.”

“I see,” Nate said. “You had to give a surf report to somebody and I won the prize?”

“No, bro,” Jetsam said. “I gotta talk to you about something.”

“Talk,” Nate said.

Jetsam said, “I wish I could do it in person at the station, but our hours and yours don’t match too good.”

The rest of it faded, and when the signal returned, Nate said, “I can’t hear you.”

“Shit!” Jetsam said. “Meet us at Hamburger Hamlet at noon straight up.”

Then it was Nate who said “Shit!” The signal was gone and Nate figured it was probably because the goofy surfer had failed to charge his cell.

Nate was supposed to meet Rita Kravitz to talk with three members of the Homeless Committee, but he felt obliged to postpone that and meet with Flotsam and Jetsam, who would be at Hamburger Hamlet, expecting him. Hollywood Nate could only hope that Jetsam wasn’t in his sleuthing mode again. The last episode had gotten him supper with Margot Aziz, but that was all it had gotten him. She still had not called.

Late that morning Leonard Stilwell dragged himself out of bed without having slept more than two hours altogether. He’d awakened several times with nightmares and had lain awake for hours before falling into a brief but fitful sleep. For most of the night, he’d contemplated how he had barely survived catastrophe the previous evening as a result of being driven to desperate measures. He was lucky to be alive and free but had no prospects whatsoever, except for the job with Ali Aziz. His weekly rent was due in two days and he hardly had enough money to put gas in his car and enough food in his belly to keep from feeling weak and nauseous. He ate the last of the breakfast cereal right out of the box, since he had no milk, drank a cup of coffee, didn’t bother shaving, and got in his car, determined to drive straight to the Leopard Lounge and demand another advance from Ali Aziz.

Leonard had to bang on the kitchen door before one of the Mexican workers looked out and opened it.

“Where’s Ali?” Leonard asked.

“He ees een the office,” the young guy said, obviously uncertain if he should have opened the door for Leonard.

Leonard walked past him, entered the main room, where another Mexican was vacuuming and cleaning tables, and continued down the long hallway to Ali’s office. He didn’t bother to knock.

“Leonard!” Ali said, irritated by the abrupt entrance.

“I gotta talk to you, Ali,” Leonard said.

“I tell you I shall call.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t wait no more,” Leonard said.

Ali Aziz glared at him. Leonard’s freckled face looked blotchy. His blue eyes seemed even more empty and stupid-looking than usual. His rusty red hair was a tangled mess and he hadn’t shaved in days. Ali thought he must be a fool to be involved with this thief. If only he himself knew how to open a locked door. He was starting to wonder how long it would take him to learn such a skill and if a locksmith could be hired to teach him.

Then Ali said, “I shall need you soon.”

“Well, soon ain’t soon enough,” Leonard said. “I’m busted, man. I need money now. I’ll wait, but only if I get another advance.”

“No, Leonard,” Ali said. “I give you one advance. We make the deal.”

“Four hundred more,” Leonard said. “I gotta pay my rent and I gotta actually take some nourishment once in a while. You ever think of that?”

“We shall do the deal next week,” Ali said. “I promise you.”

“You said a Thursday. Tomorrow is Thursday.”

“This week, no,” Ali said. “Next week for sure.”

“I’m outta here,” Leonard said, turning toward the door.

“Okay!” Ali said. “Leonard, please. Go out to the kitchen and tell Paco to get you food. Eat. I see you in twenty minutes, okay?”