Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Hills

The desk chair overturned and both bodies hit the floor, Nigel screaming and Jonas screaming, as each had hold of the pistol. Then Nigel closed his bloody mouth over his assailant’s ear and bit down, grinding the gristle, and Jonas screamed louder than ever. Then it was a test of strength as four hands tried to wrest the pistol free.

Drugs had reduced Jonas’s strength by half, but he was much younger, so the struggle was even. They moaned and grunted and growled and occasionally sobbed as they lay face-to-face on the floor. Then, for a brief second when the gun muzzle was pointed up toward the face of Nigel Wickland, Jonas Claymore got a finger through the trigger guard.

The explosion inches from his head made Jonas’s ears ring, and the blowback from the muzzle blast hit him in the face. The smell of cordite penetrated his brain, and the 9-millimeter slug penetrated the brain of Nigel Wickland after first passing through his twitching left eye, and that ended the struggle.

Jonas looked at the art dealer in horror, at the macabre bloody smile and the mangled, oozing orbit that would never twitch again, and at the skull fragment lying on the floor beside Nigel’s head. He got to his feet, so weak he almost collapsed. Then he turned and ran to the storage room in panic, looking for a button to open the siding door so he could escape. He couldn’t find it and then realized that, since the door had opened when the van pulled up to it, there must be a remote control inside the vehicle.

He opened the van door and saw the remote button and was about to push it and run to his car, when a single thought knifed through the panic. The paintings in the blankets, his paintings, were worth $30,000 anywhere! Nigel Wickland had said so. But he couldn’t carry them in his VW, so he ran to the body, keeping his eyes averted as he rummaged through the dead man’s pockets until he found the key ring. He picked up the bloody knife and the pistol, both of which bore his fingerprints, and he ran back to the storeroom, opening the passenger door of the van and throwing the weapons onto the passenger seat.

Then he covered the pictures in the mover’s blankets and placed both of them on the floor in the cargo section. He closed the door and, getting behind the wheel, pressed the button on the remote device attached to the visor. He felt a burst of elation when the storage room door slid open.

“I’m gonna make it!” Jonas said aloud, and he drove out of the storage room into the alley and headed toward the safety of his apartment in Thai Town.

Six-x-thirty-two was cruising westbound on Sunset Boulevard when Jetsam said, “While I was off, I got thinking about the Wedgie Bandit. You know the apartments by Ivar and Franklin? The white building with all the palm trees in front?”

“Yeah, I think I know which one you’re talking about.”

“I got thinking that the Wedgie Bandit lives in that building. That’s why he strikes more in the vicinity of the library. He don’t have to run so far to get home. I worked out a plan.”

“What’s that?”

“The next time we hear any kind of call about a four-fifteen man anywhere near the library, we haul ass straight for that apartment building. If anything jumps off, we’re ready. I’m about the only copper at Hollywood Station who can ID him.”

“You can ID the back of him,” Flotsam reminded his partner. “He left you in the dust when he shifted to his fourth gear.”

“The doofus can run,” Jetsam had to admit. “But next time I’m gonna catch him. Losing that guy feels like a stain on my career. I gotta make it right.”

“Okay, dude,” Flotsam said. “Six-X-Thirty-two is gonna be the unit to catch the Wedgie Bandit. If we do, you think the sarge will buy us a pizza?”

Viv Daley said to Georgie Adams, who was the driver in 6-X-76, “Don’t rock the boat, Gypsy. I ate the world’s hottest curry last night and my stomach’s still reeling from the abuse. That’s the last time I date a Thai guy in Thai Town.”

Georgie Adams said, “Most Thai guys are no taller than me, sis. Didn’t you two look funny together?”

“No, I got to enjoy the top of his head after looking at it all night. He had bad hair plugs, and pretty soon I started counting the hairs in each plug when I didn’t know what he was talking about. He has a really strong accent, but he’s rich and it was a lot nicer than my last date, with a class-action lawyer who pops up on Channel Five every other day with an offer to make you rich. But no more dinners in the Thai guy’s ’hood.”

“Why would you date a trial lawyer that advertises on TV?”

“We all kiss a frog at least once in our lives.”

“Frogs, yes, cobras, no,” Georgie said.

She turned the rearview mirror to check her lipstick and Georgie said, “Why do you always have to do that when I’m driving in heavy traffic?”

“You’re getting very territorial for a Gypsy boy, aren’t you?” Viv said.

Georgie was silent for a moment and then said, “Well, if you’re dating short people with bad hair plugs, not to mention slithery trial lawyers, maybe you oughtta do something semiworthwhile for a change and go with me to the track next week. I got a few hundred bucks burning a hole in my checking account.”

Viv turned to Georgie with a hint of a smile and finally said, “Okay, it’s a date, if you promise to look in your crystal ball like a good Gypsy and pick a couple of winners for us.”

A horny businessman on his way home to West L.A. from downtown almost sideswiped 6-X-46. His problem was that he was ogling the streetwalkers who emerged after dark on the east Sunset Boulevard track. Two of the hookers were black and one was white, and they were dressed for duty in tank tops, short skirts or shorts, and leggings or nosebleed stilettos.

“This one’s for Momma at home with the kiddies,” Della Ravelle said to Britney Small when she turned on the red-and-blues and honked him to the curb.

To explain his erratic driving he said to Della, “I’m sorry, Officer. Something blew in my eye.”

After she’d written the citation and he was gone, Della said to Britney, “It’s another kind of blowing he’s interested in. We mighta saved him from a flaming STD, which would be hard to explain to the little missus.”

Britney said, “Have you noticed how quiet things have been all week? Hardly any code-three calls.”

“That’s okay for an old lady like me,” Della said. “But I know what follows quiet times. Remember where you work, kiddo.”

Britney giggled and said, “Right, I almost forgot. This is fucking Hollywood.”

Jonas Claymore was coming down fast from the methamphetamine frenzy, but there was still plenty of residue paranoia. He was in the number-one eastbound lane on Hollywood Boulevard, passing Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and he looked over at Barney the Dinosaur, who was talking to the Incredible Hulk, and both street characters seemed to be looking at him.

Narks! he thought. They’re undercover cops. Then he saw Spider-Man say something to Darth Vader, and he was sure they were pointing at him. They were all fucking narks. He suddenly got so terrified he began panting. They wanted him for murder! They wanted to execute him! There were two cars in front of him stopped by heavy traffic at Hollywood and Highland, even though the traffic light was green.

Jonas looked toward Grauman’s again. Now Batman was looking at him. Then a second Batman walked to the curb, and he was looking also. And pointing. They were all narks! Jonas Claymore pulled the van out into the westbound lane right at the oncoming traffic and sidewiped the rear fender of a Prius that had swerved just in time to avoid a head-on crash. Jonas kept driving eastbound and just failed to make the yellow light, and when the Wickland Gallery van roared into the busy intersecion, all north and southbound traffic had to screech to a stop, causing two whiplashing rear-enders and lots of horns blowing and a huge traffic snarl. But Jonas Claymore was past the famous intersection, and the stream of traffic had thinned, and there were no more narks dressed as Street Characters staring and pointing at him. He was heading home. He had escaped them all.