Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Hills

Nigel laughed heartily and said, “Good lord! You’re so convincing that I can almost believe that, too, Valerie.”

“Good-bye for now, Mr. Wickland,” Megan said. She stood and opened the office door, walking briskly to the street door and out onto Wilshire Boulevard.

After Megan left the Wickland Gallery, Nigel dialed the cell phone of Alec Townsend, the manager of his bank, a personal friend who also frequented the gay bars of west Hollywood.

When he reached the bank manager, he said, “Alec, Nigel Wickland here. Listen carefully. I need to loot my savings account and my commercial account. I must have one hundred thousand dollars as soon as possible. I have a chance to purchase a painting of immense value, but it’s a bit dodgy because its provenance is unknown to the seller. Someone else will get it if I don’t grab it at once. This investment will produce a windfall profit.”

He listened to the bank manager’s warnings and protests and said, “Alec, I am not being scammed and I am not being extorted. This is a chance of a lifetime. I want the money in hundred-dollar bills by tomorrow.”

After a moment of listening, he said in frustration, “I don’t care about your currency transaction reports or your goddamn deposit-demand account. It’s my money. And I stand to reap a return of one thousand percent in a few months. Can your fucking bank do that for me?”

He listened again and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry. But Alec, it is my money to risk as I see fit. Can you pull strings and have it for me by the day after tomorrow at the latest? In hundred-dollar bills. I’ll owe you, my friend. Please help me.”

When Megan Burke left the Wickland Gallery with the envelope in her purse, she had to walk two blocks until a very cautious and supremely nervous Jonas Claymore had the courage to pull the VW bug to the curb beside her.

She jumped in and said, “Go, Jonas.”

He almost sideswiped a gleaming Rolls-Royce parked on Wilshire Boulevard and she said, “Watch where you’re driving.”

“Did you get it?”

“Yes, I got it.”

“Let’s see it.”

“When we get home.”

“Now, bitch!” he said.

She looked at him but said nothing. Then she turned the rearview mirror and looked at herself.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m trying to see who I am,” she said.

“What the fuck you talking about?”

“I should say that I’m trying to see who I’ve become. Sitting here with a loser like you who can’t utter a complete sentence without using words like bitch. In fact, someone who can’t utter a complete sentence period.”

“Me, a loser?” he said. “I jist got you six fucking grand. Me, a loser? Gimme that money!”

“It’s in my purse and you’ll have it when we get to the apartment,” she said firmly. “Now drive me home.”

“It ain’t your home, it’s my home,” he reminded her. “And first I’m stopping at Pablo’s Taco Shop and you’re gonna give me some of that bank and I’m gonna buy some OCs. And then I’m going home and I’m chasing the dragon, and if you don’t like it, move the fuck out. But first gimme what you got in your purse.”

Jonas was driving as fast as the rush-hour traffic allowed, and he kept glaring at her, but Megan was past anger, past all intense feelings. She had never been so tired in her life. She reached into her purse, withdrew the envelope, opened it, and handed him five hundred-dollar bills.

“Go ahead, stop at Pablo’s,” she said. “Get yourself busted. Get me arrested, too. That’d be about what I’d expect from you.”

“What you can expect from me is a bunch of good ideas, and this is only the start of it. When we get home, the first thing we do is get rid of those paintings.”

Megan looked at him and said, “What do you mean, get rid of them?”

“We got paid for our work, so why do we need to take any more chances with them? I’ll give them to Wilbur for some ox. He can unload them at a swap meet.”

“No!” Megan said. “I gave the man my word.”

Jonas looked at her and said, “Your word? What’s this, something you picked up in Sunday school? Your word?”

“It’s a bargain,” Megan said. “We made a bargain with the man and we took his money.”

“So now you’re running the show, huh? Well, news flash, girlfriend. That ain’t gonna fly. I’m the man. I’m the quarterback and I’ll call the signals. You reading me?”

She was silent. Then she sighed and said, “Yes, you’re easy to read. You’re a comic book. You’re what I deserve for riding the ox.”

Feeling gravely insulted, Jonas said, “When we get back to the apartment, maybe I’ll give you what you got coming and let you take your fucking cat and your clothes and get the fuck out.”

“And what do I have coming?”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“Think hard,” she said. “I faced the man and got the money. I deserve a fifty-fifty split.”

She heard him cackle like a movie witch, and he said, “I been saying you’re all smoked out. Your brain’s more shriveled than your puny tits.”

“What split do you have in mind, Jonas?” she demanded. “I walked in there and got the money.”

“Okay, I’ll be big about it,” he said. “An eighty-twenty split. The eighty is for the brains.”

“I see” was all Megan said.

They spoke no more until they arrived in Hollywood at Pablo’s Taco Shop on Santa Monica Boulevard, where he drove into the parking lot at twilight.

“Please take me home, Jonas,” Megan begged. “We can’t afford to get busted now. There might be some narks watching this place. Everybody knows it’s a hangout for dealers. Please take me home first.”

He parked at the far end of the little strip mall and said, “I ain’t scared of five-oh. I can smooth-talk any of them. Anyways, I ain’t got time to drop you. I want those green beans now, and you do, too.”

“I’m not smoking ox with you anymore, Jonas,” she said. “Or anything else.”

“Hah!” he said. “Let’s see what you do when that beautiful snowbird starts to cook.”

“All right, get me some perks or norcos,” she said. “Anything to get me past the joneses. But I’m not smoking ox with you.”

“We’ll see,” he said with a smirk, and left her sitting in the car. He walked ten yards, stopped, and came back. He reached through the open window and took the keys from the ignition, saying with a wicked little grin, “Can’t leave you here with my keys and my bank. The temptation might be too much for you.”

He got out but left his cell phone in the ashtray, where he always kept it while driving.

He was gone only for a moment when she saw the black-and-white wheeling into the parking lot.

Six-X-Seventy-six had just cleared from roll call, and Viv Daley and Georgie Adams thought it was time for a cruise through the strip mall on a routine check for tweakers and other drug users who did business at the taco shop.

Megan Burke grabbed Jonas’s cell phone, opened the door of the VW bug, got out, and walked east on Santa Monica Boulevard as fast as she could. When she was a safe distance away, she stopped and watched the parking lot to see what was going to happen.

Jonas Claymore had to use his hand to shield his eyes from the late rays of the sun. The dying fireball was giving Hollywood a last blast of its power before settling into the Pacific. Jonas peered into an old Mazda and found a dude he’d done business with on a few occasions. What was his name? Earl, that was it.

He was a scrawny little rat-faced tweaker with what everyone said looked like terminal acne. His face was a flaming pus ball, and it was sickening to score from him, but he had pharmacy connections and was usually good for norcos and perks and sometimes OCs.