Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“Man, I’ve had enough,” Leonard said to him. “Way more than enough. This ain’t what I planned for my life. This ain’t what I had in mind.”

The old con man replied, “Destiny is pitiless, son. Nobody ever started out in life wanting to be a proctologist either, but shit happens.”

The residential burglary team who got the arrest report on Leonard Stilwell had a heavy load that week and were able to devote very few hours to a follow-up. One of them got Leonard out of his cell and interviewed him with much the same result that Charlie Gilford had gotten. The detective’s partner, D2 Lydia Fernandez, drove to the address of Margot Aziz and knocked on the door at 10 A.M.

Lola was vacuuming the living room and Nicky was watching Sesame Street in the family room, with the volume turned up loud so he could hear it over the vacuum noise. Margot, still in her nightgown and robe after a drug-aided nine-hour sleep, answered the door. A woman not much older than Margot, looking businesslike in a matching summer jacket and skirt, showed Margot her badge and presented a business card, saying, “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Detective Fernandez and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Margot stepped out on the porch and said, “I’d invite you in but we’d have to communicate in writing. I have a five-year-old in there.”

The detective smiled and said, “I’ll just need a moment. Do you know a man named Leonard Stilwell?”

“I don’t think so,” Margot said. “Why?”

“This man?” the detective said, showing Leonard’s mug shot.

Margot took the photo and said, “I’ve never seen this man, as far as I know. Can you tell me what it’s about?”

“Possibly nothing,” Detective Fernandez said. “He had an address in his car that’s close to yours but not right on. He has a burglary record and he had some tools that could be used to enter a locked door. I’m going to check with every resident on this block.”

“A burglar?” Margot said. “How scary.”

“Was your house or property disturbed in any way yesterday?”

“Not at all,” Margot said. “My housekeeper was here most of the day, and a few hours after she left, I came home with my son. The doors were locked and the alarm was set when I entered. Should we be worried about this man?”

“There’s no need for alarm,” the detective said. “Just be aware that there’re always opportunists like him looking for an easy target.”

“Thanks for telling me,” Margot said.

When the detective was turning to leave, Margot said, “Could I trouble you for just a minute about another matter?”

“Okay,” the detective said and stopped.

Margot said, “I’m not worried about burglars, but I’m involved in a very nasty divorce and my husband’s made some veiled threats. I’d like the patrol car in this area to drive by from time to time. Would you please remind Sergeant Treakle at Hollywood Station? He was here one night.”

“I’d suggest you give him a call,” the detective said. “Any note I leave for him might get misplaced in the piles of paperwork at our station.”

“I’ll do that,” Margot said.

She stood on her porch and watched the detective entering the driveway next door. Now Margot had another name to add to the list of police officers she’d apprised of worrisome threats from Ali Aziz.

When Margot reentered the house, she motioned for Lola to turn off the vacuum and said to her, “We have to be more careful about security, Lola. That was a police officer. There might be burglars in the neighborhood.”

The Mexican woman said, “I be careful, missus. I always lock doors and set the alarm.”

“Yes, Lola, and you’ll have to start remembering to always set the lock on the door to the garage. We can’t be too careful these days.”

“Yes, missus,” Lola said. “I am sorry. I forget that one.”

“You didn’t forget yesterday,” Margot said. “So just do it like that every time.”

Lola looked perplexed because she couldn’t remember setting that thumb-latch yesterday, but since she was getting praised for it, she figured she must have done it for once.

“Yes, missus,” Lola said with a fourteen-karat smile.

Ronnie Sinclair made two calls that day to the homes of chronic complainers about trash removal, one of the objects being a twelve-foot sofa with the springs hanging out of it. How it got into the front yard of a vacant house was anyone’s guess, and the complainant said it wasn’t there yesterday. It was during moments like this that Ronnie thought about becoming a real cop again.

But then she looked on the bright side. She was in street clothes today instead of her uniform because of a dinner meeting she had to attend. And she had no radio calls to answer and got her SLO pay bonus. Moreover, she had time to study for the sergeant’s exam. Still, there was a wistful feeling every time she saw a black-and-white roaring to a call with lights flashing and siren wailing.

Ronnie was sure by now that Bix had fallen off the wagon and hit the deck hard. With his wife and kids out of town and with days off, she figured he was binge drinking. After learning that Leonard Stilwell was in jail, she didn’t really have an excuse to bother Bix with more phone calls. It was still hard to accept that he might be just another Hollywood Nate, tapping some rich bimbo up on Mt. Olympus. She’d expected much more from Bix Ramstead.

Then she started to wonder why she was so troubled by it. She wondered if there was resentment here because Bix had never so much as uttered a sexual innuendo or shot a suggestive glance in her direction. Was it that her pride was hurt? That Bix might prefer one of those Laurel Canyon stone-washed Crate & Barrel addicts who outgrew their tramp stamps by the age of forty and lived with tattoo remorse or laser scars? Or maybe that he’d prefer one of those Hollywood Hills trophy bunnies in all that distressed second-skin denim, married to middle-aged guys who still dressed like middle school but never in uncool pastels, the lot of them mentally exhausted from trying to think up screwier names for their babies than the movie stars routinely came up with? Is it that I’m a jealous bitch with wounded pride? Ronnie Sinclair asked herself.

The detectives had found nothing on Mt. Olympus or on any report that would marry Leonard Stilwell to a burglary or theft of $1000. The day-watch patrol officers had come in with several arrests that would require extensive investigation, so at 3 P.M. the overworked detectives permitted Leonard to be released from custody, and he was given back his money and his tools. The desk officer at Hollywood Station looked at Leonard like he was nuts when he asked if the officer could break a $100 bill for the pay phone because he’d left his cell in his car.

The desk officer called Leonard a cab, which was driven by a Pakistani, who transported Leonard to the parking lot on Hollywood Boulevard by Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. After a raging argument with the parking attendant, they settled on a parking fee of $85 for leaving his Honda parked for twenty-six hours, and Leonard gave the leftover $15 to the cabbie. He was now down to nine Ben Franklins.

Trying to keep all his anger and frustration under control, he dialed Ali’s office number and got voice mail. He said, “Ali, it’s Leonard. I need to see you at six o’clock. Be there, man.”

Then Leonard drove to IHOP and loaded up on pancakes, ham, fried eggs, and hash browns, wolfing it all down so fast the waitress was gawking at him. After that, he drove to his apartment building, wrapped a $50 bill around the tension bar and lock pick, and slid it under Junior’s door. Then he went to his room, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep.