Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Crows

“Why?” Cat asked.

“Because of the occupants. We don’t know what the hell they are.”

Flotsam shined his spotlight along the second-floor balcony until he spotted Lance’s apartment number, then got on the PA and said, “Attention, Lance! Miss Rhonda regrets she is indisposed and unable to keep her date with you tonight. It’s her recurring prostate infection.”

RONNIE WASN’T SURE how she felt about working at the CRO. It surely wasn’t police work, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d felt when her mother and father and married sister had ganged up on her. It had happened when she’d mentioned her new job to them during a family dinner at her parents’ home in Manhattan Beach, where her father owned and operated a successful plumbing-supply business.

“I don’t even like what they call us,” Ronnie said to them.

“Crows?” her mother said. “That’s cute.”

“How would you like to be called a crow?” Ronnie said.

“I’m too old to appreciate it,” her mother said. “But on you it’s cute.”

Ronnie had felt exceptionally tired that evening, and while her mother and her sister Stephanie were preparing a dinner of roasted halibut and wild rice, Ronnie was sprawled on the sofa with her niece Sarah sitting on her stomach. She’d tried without much success to enjoy a glass of pinot while Sarah prattled on, bouncing incessantly.

After the meal, Ronnie’s mother urged her just to relax and listen to her mom’s favorite Sting CDs and her father’s Tony Bennett albums while the others tidied up. She should have been suspicious of the extra solicitude. Then they all entered the living room and sat down, her mother and sister with a glass of wine each, her father with a beer. And they started in on her.

“The Community Relations Office is where you belong, Ronnie,” her father began. “You should stay there until you make sergeant. It’s a good stepping-stone and there’s no reason for you to leave.”

Her mother said, “You’ve done your share of dangerous work, honey.”

Stephanie said, “Do a year or two as a community relations officer, study, and get promoted. I know you think being a street cop is more fun, but you gotta think of the future.”

Her sister had assured her own future by marrying a computer geek who made three million dollars from selling his start-up company and investing it in another computer business, which was soaring.

“What is this, an intervention?” Ronnie said. “When did you all decide to do good-cop, bad-cop on me?”

“We’ve been talking about you, it’s true,” her mother said. “We know you’re not thrilled with your new job, but you’re smart. You can climb the ladder and end up-”

“In a safe desk job somewhere,” Ronnie said, ruefully. “Build them a desk and they will sit, right?”

Stephanie, who bore a family resemblance to her older sister, said, “I’ll never understand your fascination with being a cop anyway. What’s it got you except two failed marriages to other cops?”

“But they were both Sinclairs, so I didn’t even have to change my driver’s license,” Ronnie said with a smirk, pissed off as she always was when Sanctimonious Stephanie spouted off about Ronnie’s bad choices. Both Sinclair husbands had fooled Ronnie at first, but she felt she hadn’t gotten enough credit for dumping each of them quickly, as soon as she discovered that one was a secret drinker and the other a philanderer.

“Give your new job a chance,” her father said.

“You might start liking it,” her sister said. “Making your own hours to suit your own schedule.”

“And I could quit worrying about you,” her mother said.

After that evening, Ronnie decided to give it all she had at the CRO, especially since the sergeant had teamed her with an experienced senior lead officer, Bix Ramstead, to whom Ronnie had been drawn instantly.

Forty-five-year-old Bix Ramstead was thirteen years her senior, on both the Job and the calendar. At six foot one, he was fit and good-looking, with a warm and kindly smile. He had a head full of curls the color of pewter, and smoky gray eyes, and though Ronnie had never dated a man his age, she would have jumped at a chance with Bix. Except that he was married with two children he adored, a sixteen-year-old girl named Janie, and Patrick, who was twelve. Their photos were on his desk and he talked of them often, worrying about whether he’d have enough for their college tuition when the time came. Because of that, he worked as much overtime as he could, and the citizens in his area liked him.

When Ronnie had mentioned Bix to Cat, she’d said, “Yeah, I was teamed with him a few times, maybe six years ago, when he was working patrol. A complicated guy who never wanted to make sergeant. Not as much fun as some of the gunfighters when you’re working the streets. Back then I was always happier with carnivores than with grazers, but I don’t need kick-ass partners anymore. Now he’d probably suit me fine. Plus, he’s very cute.”

When Ronnie said it was too bad that Bix was married, Cat said, “He’s a little too old for you, and besides, didn’t you learn your lesson marrying two cops? I learned from marrying one. Do like me and look for a rich attorney next time. Hang out in lawyer-infested bars. Shysters are all over the place, like Starbucks cups.”

The first appointment Ronnie took with Bix Ramstead was at “The Birds,” as the cops referred to the Doheny Estates, in 6-A-31’s area. It was late morning as they cruised up the hills, surrounded by seven-figure homes on streets named Warbler Way, Robin Drive, Nightingale Drive, Thrush Way, and Skylark Drive. Many movie and rock stars owned high-dollar houses in the Hollywood Hills, some of them serving as occasional homes when their owners were in L.A. Many had great open views, some were on secluded properties. The showbiz residents were fearful of stalkers, burglars, and paparazzi.

“Occasionally, we do burglary walk-throughs,” Bix Ramstead explained to Ronnie while they drove the streets. “We just point out all the vulnerable places that need protection.”

“Quality of life,” Ronnie said, repeating the CRO mantra.

“You got it,” Bix said with a grin. “The quality-of-life calls we get up here in the hills are a bit different from the quality-of-life calls in East Hollywood, you’ll notice.”

Ronnie looked at the luxury surrounding her and said, “Their quality is a lot different from my quality, for sure.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “We still look like police officers, still think like police officers, but we aren’t doing police work.”

Bix Ramstead said to her, “When I was a cop, I spoke as a cop, I understood as a cop, I thought as a cop. But when I became a Crow, I put aside cop-ish things.”

“Who’s line is that?” Ronnie said.

“St. Paul to the Corinthians. More or less.” Then he said, “This is a good job, Ronnie. You’ll see. Don’t fight it.”

The call to the Community Relations Office that had come from The Birds was from a drummer in a rock band who was definitely on his way down. At one time he’d been hot and mentioned in the same breath with Tommy Lee, but internal dissension between the singer and the lead guitarist, who wrote their material, had broken up the group. The drummer lived with a singer whose career had taken a similar dive. She was known on the Strip as a very bad drinker whose cocaine addiction had gotten her arrested twice.

When they rang the bell, Bix said to Ronnie, “Look for Scarface . He’s an icon.”

“Who?” Ronnie said.

It took the rocker a minute to come to the door, and when he did, he looked pale and puzzled. His ginger ringlets hung in his face. He had a week’s growth of whiskers, and the wispy, dark soul patch under his lip was plastered with dried food. He wore a “Metallica” T-shirt and battered designer jeans that Ronnie figured had cost more than the best dress she owned. His arms were covered with full-sleeve tatts and he appeared malnourished.