Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Hills

When she told her partner about the invitation, and her concern that a bunch of boozy surfers might get a bit too aggressive and handsy with any women present, Georgie offered to go with her as chaperone.

He said, “Sis, if any drunken surfer trash put their paws on my bosom buddy, I’ll cut out their fucking hearts and feed them to the seagulls.”

“ ‘Bosom buddy,’ ” Viv said. “That’s charming, but I don’t think I’ll be needing a Gypsy assassin as a chaperone.”

When Jetsam heard from Viv about Georgie’s offer, he informed Flotsam, who said, “Dude, maybe we oughtta like, rethink our rager invite to Viv. The Gypsy might spoil the party if he goes all aggro and starts carving up kahunas.”

There’d been persistent rumors ever since he arrived at Hollywood Station that Georgie Adams carried a buck knife on duty in an ankle rig. There had been two known cases in LAPD history of unarmed undercover officers killing assailants with a knife when they were trapped in a deadly situation. The Gypsy was known for his mordant sense of humor, but when he showed his baleful smile and let it be known that he was looking for a chance to be the first uniformed LAPD copper to do it, the others tended to believe he might be serious.

The first time the rumor about the buck knife reached young Lieutenant O’Reilly, he ordered Sergeant Murillo to check it out, and if it was true, to put a stop to it immediately.

“Tell Adams he isn’t playing a role in a spaghetti western here,” Lieutenant O’Reilly said to his sergeant.

But the desk officer overheard the watch commander’s order, and LAPD’s jungle wireless went to work immediately. By the time Sergeant Murillo got around to asking Georgie Adams to accompany him to the locker room, the young cop didn’t look at all surprised, nor did he question his supervisor about his reason.

“I’m sorry, Adams,” Sergeant Murillo said when they were alone in the locker room, “but I’ve been tasked to find out if you carry a buck knife in an ankle rig, and if you do, to order you to stop doing it.”

Silently, Georgie reached down and pulled up both pant legs all the way to his knees. Sergeant Murillo saw no buck knife. What he did see was mottled scar tissue from third-degree burns, and grafts that looked like scorched lumpy egg white, wrapped around Georgie’s shins and calves from the top of his six-inch zip-up boots to just below his knees.

“Okay, thanks,” Sergeant Murillo said, and left him in the locker room.

When he returned to the watch commander’s office, Sergeant Murillo said, “I’ve spoken with Adams and checked for a buck knife.”

“What did you find out?” asked Lieutenant O’Reilley.

“That he earned his Purple Heart,” said Sergeant Murillo. “And I’m gonna invite him and his partner to meet me at Hamburger Hamlet for code seven tonight. Where I’ll buy them any goddamn thing they want.”

Lieutenant O’Reilley never asked Sergeant Murillo about the buck knife again.

Back when Viv Daley and Georgie Adams had first been partnered, Sergeant Murillo had taken her aside in the sergeants’ room and said, “I know that Adams is an acquired taste. I was wondering if you’re happy working with him?”

Viv Daley said, “Sarge, I wouldn’t trade him for anybody at Hollywood Station. When the Gypsy’s got your back, a girl couldn’t be more safe at a sleepover in the Lincoln Bedroom.” Then she added, “Except for when Bill Clinton lived there.”

Viv and Georgie drove to Louis Dryden’s apartment building on Franklin Avenue and slid the detective’s business card in the jamb of Dryden’s front door where he couldn’t miss it, then began patrol and cleared for calls. While driving eastbound on Hollywood Boulevard on the way to their area, they saw that the Street Characters were out in force in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The recession had brought hard times to even some of the costumed performers, who posed for photos with tourists and received voluntary tips for it. They were not allowed by law to panhandle or make demands of the tourists.

Newscasters gleefully reported to their audiences whenever tensions arose around the Grauman’s forecourt, where the handprints and footprints of famous movie stars were set in the cement pavement. On a recent occasion, Elmo the Muppet had been arrested for aggressive panhandling, and so had the dark-hooded character from Scream. Street Character Freddy Krueger was also busted for taking his role too seriously and allegedly stabbing someone. Mr. Incredible had been jailed, as had Batman and Chewbacca from Star Wars . So far, the several Darth Vaders had behaved themselves, but Spider-Man, or rather one of several using that costume, got popped by Hollywood cops for slugging somebody.

As 6-X-76 passed Grauman’s, Georgie Adams said, “I’m gonna be real disappointed if SpongeBob Square-Pants ever gets busted for something. I always liked him on TV.”

“I never much liked Spider-Man,” Viv said. “Too creepy. Crawling around like an insect and all that.”

“Let’s make a pass by that apartment house we’re supposed to check,” Georgie said. “Then I can log it and get it over with. Sounds like it’s just a PR job the detectives are foisting off on us poor overworked bluesuits.”

In the last of the daylight, when the summer sun was settling down behind the Pacific Ocean, giving Hollywood its special rosy glow, the old apartment building in Little Armenia looked impregnable to the officers of 6-X-76.

“This is bullshit,” Georgie Adams said. “Real-estate guys like Dryden don’t kill their squeezes themselves. They hire it done. He’d just find an Eighteenth Streeter or some other local crusier and put a ticket on her.”

“The detectives said he’s supposed to be into crystal meth,” Viv reminded him. “A desperate guy on ice might do anything when he gets all spun out.”

“Anyways,” Georgie said, “even Spider-Man himself couldn’t get in there.”

“Spider-Man,” Viv said, mulling it over. She then drove around to the alley behind the building and parked by the attached carport.

“What’re you looking for, sis?” Georgie wanted to know.

“Any sign of a trail from his web-shooter,” Viv said with a sly smile. “I think old sticky foot could get into her apartment.”

“How?”

“There,” she said, pointing to the neighboring apartment building.

The building was in the process of being renovated and reroofed before the winter rains came. An eight-foot temporary chain-link fence was all that secured the construction site. Rolls of tar paper and shingles were visible inside the fence where workers had left them, along with two aluminum extension ladders.

“So?” Georgie said.

Viv said, “He could climb over the fence and borrow one of those extension ladders.”

“So?” Georgie said. “She’s on the third floor. Most ladders don’t go that high unless you’re a firefighter on a truck.”

Viv said, “He could use the ladder to get onto the carport roof and then pull it up and extend it high enough to do the job.”

“You got some imagination, sis,” Georgie said. “But there’s no accessible window over the carports.”

“But from that point he could get clear to the roof of the building.”

“Then what?” Georgie said. “He goes down her chimney? News flash, sis. There ain’t no chimneys.”

“I noticed the small window on the south side,” Viv said. “She keeps it wide open. I’ll bet there’s no AC in that little place and she needs ventilation. He could scoot to the edge of that flat roof on his belly, lower his legs down in front of the open window, and swing right into her apartment.”