Wesley said, “They told me that sometimes in Hollywood we might encounter southeast Asian gangsters from the Tiny Oriental Crips and the Oriental Boy Soldiers. Ever run into them?”
“I don’t think so,” Nate said. “I’ve only encountered more law-abiding and sensitive Asians who would bury a cleaver in your neck if you ever referred to them as Orientals.”
Wesley said, “And the Asian gang whose name I love is the Tiny Magicians Club, aka the TMC.”
“Jesus Christ!” Nate said, “TMC is The Movie Channel! Isn’t anything fucking sacred anymore?”
Wesley said, “I already knew about the civil injunctions to keep gang members in check, but did you know the homies have to be personally served with humongous legal documents that set forth all terms of the injunction? Two or three gang members congregating can violate the injunction, and even possession and use of cell phones can be a violation. Did you know that?”
Nate said, “Possession of a cell phone by any person of the female gender who is attempting to operate a motor vehicle should be a felony, you ask me.”
Wesley said, “I might get to examine the tattoos and talk to some crew members and hear about their gang wars next time.”
“Do I detect a ’hood rat in the making?” Nate said, yawning. “Are you gonna be putting in a transfer, Wesley? Maybe to Seventy-seventh Street or Southeast, where people keep rocket launchers at home for personal protection?”
“When I got sent to Hollywood I heard it was a good misdemeanor division. I guess I wanna go to a good felony division. I’ve heard that in the days before the consent decree, Rampart Division CRASH unit used to have a sign that said ‘We intimidate those who intimidate others.’ Imagine how it was to work that Gang Squad.”
Nate looked at Wesley the way he’d look at a cuppa joe from Dunkin’ Donuts or a Hostess Ding Dong and said, “Wesley, the days of LAPD rock ’n’ rule are over. It’s never coming back.”
Wesley said, “I just thought that someplace like Southeast Division would offer more… challenges.”
“Go ahead, then,” Nate said. “You can amuse yourself on long nights down there by going to drug houses and yelling ‘Police!’ then listening to toilets flushing all over the block. Cop entertainment in the ’hood. Watching cruisers throw gang signs beats the hell outta red carpet events, where the tits extend from Hollywood Boulevard to infinity, right?”
Wesley Drubb was eager indeed to do police work in gang territory, or anyplace where he might encounter real action. He was growing more and more tense and nervous with Nate boring him to death by directing him far from the semi-mean streets of Hollywood for his endless sorties into Hollywood’s past. The gang turf was there and he was here. Touring!
Quiet now, Wesley chewed a fingernail as he drove. Nate finally noticed and said, “Hey pard, you look especially stressed. Got girlfriend troubles maybe? I’m an expert on that subject.”
Wesley wasn’t far enough from his probationary period to say, “I am fucking bored to death, Nate! You are killing me with these trips through movie history!”
Instead, he said, “Nate, do you think we should be cruising around the country club? This is Wilshire Area. We work in Hollywood Area.”
“Stop saying area,” Nate said. “Division sounds more coplike. I can’t stand these new terms for everything.”
“Okay, Hollywood Division, then. We’re out of it right now. This is Wilshire Division.”
“A few blocks, big deal,” Nate said. “Look around you. This is gorgeous.”
Hollywood Nate was referring to Rossmore Avenue, where the elegant apartment buildings and pricey converted condos had names like the Rossmore, El Royale, the Marlowe, and Country Club Manor, all of them a short walk from the very private golf course. They were built in the French, Spanish, and Beaux Arts styles of Hollywood’s Golden Age.
Seeing that Wesley lacked enthusiasm for the architecture, Nate said, “Maybe you’d like to cruise by the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center? We might spot John Travolta. But we can’t hassle any of their so-called parishioners or we’ll get beefed by their fascist security force. Do you know they even beefed our airship one time? Said they wanted to make their headquarters an LAPD no-fly zone.”
Wesley said, “No, I don’t have much interest in Scientology or John Travolta, to tell you the truth.”
“This looks like we’re in Europe,” Nate said, as the setting sun lit the entry of the El Royale. “Can’t you see Mae West sashaying out that door with a hunky actor on her arm to a limo waiting on the street?”
“Mae West” was how Wesley Drubb’s father referred to the life jackets he kept aboard a seventy-five-foot power yacht that he used to own and kept docked at the marina. Wesley didn’t know that they were named after a person, but he said, “Yeah, Mae West.”
“Someday I’ll be living in one of those buildings,” Nate said. “The local country clubs used to restrict Jews. And actors. I’ve heard it was Randolph Scott who told them, ‘I’m not an actor and I’ve got a hundred movies to prove it.’ But then I heard it was Victor Mature. Even John Wayne, and he didn’t hardly play golf. It’s a good Hollywood story no matter who said it.”
Wesley had never heard of the first two actor-golfers and was getting a tightness in his neck and jaw muscles. He was even grinding his teeth and only relaxed when Nate sighed and said, “Okay, let’s go find you a bad guy to put in jail.”
And at last, with an enormous sense of relief, Wesley Drubb was permitted to drive away from reel Hollywood and head for the real one.
Darkness fell as they were passing the Gay and Lesbian Center, and Nate said, “That’s where they can go to let their hair down. Or their hair extensions. There’s a place for everyone to dream in Hollywood. I don’t know why you can’t be satisfied.”
A few minutes later, on Santa Monica Boulevard, Wesley said, “Look how that guy’s walking. Let’s shake him.”
Nate looked across the street at a pale and gaunt forty-something guy in a crew neck, long-sleeved sweater and jeans, walking along the boulevard with his hands in his pockets.
“Whadda you see that I don’t see?”
“He’s a parolee-at-large, I bet. He walks like they do in the prison yard.”
“You learned a lot with the gang unit,” Nate said. “Maybe even something worthwhile, but I haven’t noticed it yet.”
Wesley said, “The parole officers are a few months behind in getting warrants into their computer, but we could check him anyway, okay? Even if there’s no warrant, maybe he’s holding some dope.”
“Maybe he’s cruising for a date,” Nate said. “This is Santa Monica Boulevard, home of boy love and homo-thugs. He might be looking for somebody like the one he left in prison. A guy with a tattoo of a naked babe on his back and an asshole like the Hollywood subway.”
“Can we check him?”
“Yeah, go ahead, get it outta your system,” Nate said.
Wesley pulled up several yards behind the guy, and both cops got out and lit him with their flashlight beams.
He was used to it. He stopped and took his hands out of his pockets. With a guy like this preliminaries were few, and when Wesley said, “Got some ID?” the guy shot them a grudging look of surrender and without being asked pulled up the sweater sleeves, showing his forearms, which were covered with jailhouse tatts over old scar tissue.
“I don’t use no more,” he said.
Nate moved the beam of his light near the man’s face and said, “Your eyes are down right now, bro.”
“I drink like a Skid Row alky,” the ex-con said, “but I don’t shoot up. I got tired of getting busted for eleven five-fifty. I was always under the influence and I just kept getting busted. Like, I was serving life in prison a few weeks at a time.”
Wesley wrote an FI card on the guy, whose ID said his name was Brian Allen Wilkie, and ran the information on the MDT, coming back with an extensive drug record but no wants or warrants.