Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Hills

It was not a night of a Hollywood moon, but if it had been, the pizza might have gone to 6-X-46. During the first hour of their watch, Della Ravelle and Britney Small got a call to a popular bar and grill on north Vermont Avenue, where a drunk was causing a disturbance.

It was one of the older chop houses with the red imitation leather and walnut paneling that previous generations loved so much. A sixty-something hostess with a retro bouffant hairdo, wearing an inappropriate sheath dress with spaghetti straps, was standing at a tall table in the foyer taking reservations.

She put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone when the cops entered, and said, “In the bar.”

Britney started in until Della grabbed her arm and said, “Wait a minute. Let’s first find out what we’re walking into.”

When the hostess finished taking the dinner reservation, Della said, “What’s the disturbance all about?”

The hostess said, “There’s a crazy man in there, buying two drinks at a time and pouring every other one into a vase.”

“That’s it?” Della said. “That’s the disturbance?”

“He’s frightening customers,” the hostess said. “Several people left the bar because of him. And he’s disturbing the bartender.”

“Is he ranting and raving and talking gibberish or something like that?” Della asked.

“No,” the hostess said. “But he seems to be talking to himself.”

“Quietly?” Della asked. “There’s no law against that.”

“Maybe not, but it’s scary,” the hostess said.

“Okay,” Della said. “Let’s have a look, partner.” When they were walking to the bar, Della whispered to Britney, “Remember, we don’t hassle loony tunes if they’re peaceful. This is fucking Hollywood.”

Their eyes had to adjust when they got inside the barroom. It was one of those very dark, formerly elegant barrooms, where after a martini or two, the aging patrons could appear to each other the way they used to be and not the way they currently were. They saw that the hostess was right. He’d scared everyone away. He was seated on a stool at the far end of an old mahogany bar complete with a dented but shiny brass rail several inches from the floor.

The bartender looked at the cops and moved his eyes toward the lone customer, who had two bucket glasses in front of him. He was not old, but he was older than Della. She figured him for about fifty. He was losing his hair but it was mostly dark with only sprinkles of gray. He was getting a soft roll around his middle that his yellow golf shirt didn’t hide, but Della thought he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. In fact, he reminded her in some ways of her second husband, even to the arching heavy eyebrows. He looked to be talking softly to himself and he appeared boozy enough that he should not drive home.

Della said sotto to Britney. “You’re contact, I’m cover. Go for it.”

Britney walked up behind the man and said, “Evening, sir.”

He didn’t turn around, but said, “Evening.”

“What’re you doing, sir?” Britney asked.

“Having a drink,” he said.

It was so dark in the bar that she couldn’t clearly see the object on his lap, so she said, “Why don’t you put that vase up on the bar. It makes police officers nervous when people have strange items in their hands. You can understand that, can’t you?”

He picked it up carefully with both hands and put it on the bar, saying, “It isn’t a vase. It’s an urn.”

“An urn?”

“Yes,” he said, and for the first time turned on the stool and looked at Britney.

“Have you been pouring drinks into it?” she asked.

“Yes, a few. I don’t think it’s against the law, is it?”

Britney turned to look at Della and said, “Not that I know of, sir, but it’s scaring the customers because it’s so… unusual. Would you please tell me why you’re pouring drinks into the urn and talking to yourself?”

“I’m not talking to myself,” he said. “I’m talking to my dad. He’s in there.”

“I see,” Britney said. “That urn contains your dad’s ashes?”

“Yes,” he said. “Digby G. Randolph was a great father and a wonderful man. This was just about his favorite restaurant. He asked me to come here from time to time and have a drink for him.”

“But you had the idea to give a drink to him, is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly. I’m buying a few drinks for my dad.”

“And when you’re talking, you’re not talking to yourself?”

“I’m talking to my dad. I know he can hear me.”

Britney turned toward Della and then back to the son of Digby G. Randolph and said, “Are you driving tonight?”

“No,” he said, “I came by taxi. I live in a condo at Sunset and Genesee.”

“Okay, Mr. Randolph,” Britney said. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight. The bartender thinks so, too. I’m going to ask the hostess to call you a cab, and then you and your dad can finish that last drink and go home, okay? And the next time you come here, I’d like you and your dad to take the dark corner table. Just put him on the chair beside you and whisper softly, and I don’t think anyone will bother you. Do not belly-up to the bar with your dad anymore, okay?”

“I’ll do what you say, Officer,” the son of Digby G. Randolph said, “but Dad so liked to stand at the bar with his foot on the rail.”

“I understand that, sir,” Britney said. “But he had feet then. I’d like you to do it my way from now on.”

“I will accede to your request, Officer,” said the son of Digby G. Randolph, opening the lid of the urn and giving the last of the Jack Daniel’s to his dad.

There was a reunion that night in unit 6-X-66. Hollywood Nate got Snuffy Salcedo back, complete with a bandage across his nose and a plastic noseguard. It made him look to Nate the movie buff like Lee Marvin with his false nose in Cat Ballou.

“Glad to be back?” Nate asked.

Snuffy said, “Yeah, my mother gets to kicking my ass after I been laying around the house too long, wounded warrior or not. She thinks idleness invites the devil.”

Hollywood Nate was being extra solicitous and was doing the driving. “Let’s not do anything heroic tonight,” Snuffy said. “I’d like to just sit back and be the scribe. I don’t wanna bump the beak before it’s healed.”

“Is it gonna look better when the bandage comes off?” Nate asked.

“It can’t look worse than it’s looked all my life,” Snuffy said.

“Dude, I didn’t think you were ever coming back,” Flotsam said to Jetsam, on duty together in unit 6-X-32 for the first time since the battle at Goth House.

“Bro, I learned a few things about neck injuries,” Jetsam said. “I learned you don’t wanna have one. They hurt.”

Flotsam had insisted on driving so that Jetsam didn’t have to do too much craning at intersections. In fact, he was so solicitous that Jetsam finally said, “Bro, I ain’t an invalid.”

“I missed my li’l pard,” Flotsam said. “Of course, Hollywood Nate’s a cool dude, but he don’t know shit about the beach and briny. After a while I couldn’t think of what to talk about.”

The surfer cops had taken a crime report just after dark from a Gallup, New Mexico, tourist who had had her purse picked while she was taking photos of the marble-and-brass stars on the Hollywood Boulevard Walk of Fame. They drove to the station to get a DR number on the report as required, and to have it signed by a supervisor, but they didn’t find Sergeant Murillo in the sergeant’s room. The troops, especially the surfer cops, always tried to avoid the nitpicking watch commander.

Jetsam said to Flotsam, “I hate taking our report to the kinda guy that would wear a ring on his index finger and make us call him ‘His Excellency’ if he had his way.”