Hollywood Crows (16 page)

He did. And while Charlie Gilford and Gil Ponce got busy looking in other directions, Gert shined her beam on the fat man’s penis and said, “Whoa, that’s gnarly! You gotta have a doctor stitch it up. That thing looks like the pork sausage my mom used to make.”

The detective said to Gert and Gil, “How about you two driving Mr. Kenmore here to the shelter and grabbing Ruthie and Sadie. In case they used different names, he can point them out. Treat this like a possible homicide. They coulda killed the baby.”

“Oh, no!” the fat man said. “She was going to adopt it out. She thought she could get maybe two thousand bucks for it if it was white. And sure enough it was. She cried when she saw it was dead. She wouldn’t hurt the baby. It was stillborn. I’m a witness. I put it in the corner and covered it with a box. We wouldn’t throw it in a Dumpster or anything like that. They were gonna come back and take care of the body like responsible citizens.”

“We gotta corroborate everything you told us and we’ll need you to help us do it,” Charlie Gilford said.

That was Gert’s cue, and she headed out to the front street to get their car and drive it around to the parking lot so they didn’t have to walk so far with the fat drunk.

“Just find the two women,” Charlie Gilford said to Gil Ponce. “Bring them to the station and we’ll let the Homicide team decide how they wanna handle all this.”

Gil said, “If the women don’t wanna come, do we place them under arrest?”

“Absolutely,” Charlie Gilford said. “We got a dead baby. This is a crime scene until somebody tells us different.”

“Nobody committed a crime,” the fat man said, reeling again and grabbing the corner of the concrete wall. “Ruthie woulda been a fine mother.”

Charlie Gilford said, “Yeah, well, that’s heartwarming, but I doubt that our Crows will wanna share this tearjerker the next time they meet the folks from the Restore Hollywood project.”

And while Charlie Gilford was dialing the Homicide D3 again to tell her about the new developments, and Gil Ponce was watching the detective, eager to ask more questions about his further duties, nobody was watching Livingston G. Kenmore. He just couldn’t stay upright any longer. He staggered a few steps over to the darkened stairwell and saw a pad of some kind on the third step and sat down on it.

“Holy shit!” Gil Ponce yelled. “Get up! Get up! Get the fuck up!”

It all happened just as the D3 on the other end of the line said to Charlie, “Is there any obvious trauma to the dead baby?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Compassionate Charlie Gilford after turning toward the commotion. “There is now.”

T
HE CROWS HAD
a recurring problem and it had to do with the Nightclub Committee’s complaints about hot dog vendors. The prior evening, the vice unit, working in concert with the Crows and night-watch patrol, initiated Operation Hot Dog.

The night-watch and midwatch patrol officers had been too busy and too short staffed to deal with the vendors, and things had gotten out of hand. On Hollywood and Sunset Boulevards, where so many nightclubs were springing up — clubs whose purported ownership changed nearly as often as the tablecloths — Latino hot dog vendors were setting up carts to catch nightclub customers coming and going during the wee hours. On the night of Operation Hot Dog, there had been more than fifty vendors cited for illegal sidewalk sales, and their carts had been impounded. Now the station parking lot was jammed with carts and rotting hot dogs, and everyone was wondering if the “wienie sweep” had been a bit overzealous.

Ronnie got relieved of any responsibilities for Operation Hot Dog when she and Bix Ramstead were asked to meet 6-A-97 in Southeast Hollywood. The Crow who usually took care of calls in that neighborhood was on a short leave due to a death in his wife’s family. There were not many black residents living in Hollywood Division, and the absent Crow, a black officer, had established rapport with some of them.

Six-A-97 had responded to a complaint regarding shopping carts, five of them, that were lying around a wood-frame cottage rented to a Somalian couple. When Ronnie and Bix arrived, the older of the two waiting cops nodded to Bix Ramstead.

“We’re not trying to kiss this one off,” he said, “but you Crows deal with chronic-noise complaints and quality-of-life shit, right?”

“And ‘-quality-of-life’ covers a lot of territory,” Bix said wearily. “What’s the deal?”

The cop said, “The woman who called us says the people who live in that little house are from Somalia and the husband doesn’t like black people, so she can’t talk to them.”

“Somalians
are
black people,” Bix said.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t like American black people. So she wants us to talk to the guy and tell him that in this country, you can’t just walk off the market parking lot with shopping carts. In fact, she says the Somalian even jacked a cart from her teenage son when he tried to take it back to the market. She says the guy just doesn’t get it about shopping carts.”

“So did you try talking to the guy?” Ronnie asked.

“He won’t answer,” the cop said, “but the woman swears he’s in there. Can you take over? We got some real crime to crush.”

There it was, Ronnie thought. They were real cops, the Crows were something other.

“Okay,” Bix said. “What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Farnsworth.” The cop was obviously happy to dump this one on the Crows, since patrol officers believed that Crows never did a day’s work anyway.

Mrs. Farnsworth was a stout woman with straightened gray hair combed in a Condi Rice flip. Her bungalow, across the street from the Somalians’, had a geranium garden in front and was freshly painted. She invited the cops in and asked if they’d like a cold drink, but they declined.

“I’d like to handle this my own self,” she told them, “but that Somali man is mean. He has a big scar down the side of his face and he never smiles. His wife is very sweet. I talk to her when she passes on the way to the market. She’s about twenty years younger than him, maybe more. And she left him once. I didn’t see her for maybe three weeks and I don’t know where she went. Then a week ago she came back.”

“We’ll have the shopping carts picked up,” Bix said. “Any idea why he keeps taking different ones?”

“I think he’s plain crazy,” she said. “I tried to ask him to turn down his music one night and he screamed at me. Called me a nigger. I said, ‘Whadda you think
you
are?’ He didn’t answer.”

“Anything else you can tell us about him? Something that makes you think he’s crazy?”

“I talked to his wife a couple times when he had a big party with some Somali friends on New Year’s. She said they just chew something called
kaat
and eat their spicy food and gamble all the time. Every one of them has their birthday on New Year’s, that’s why their party lasted for three days.”

“Why New Year’s?” Ronnie asked.

“They’re so damn backwards, they don’t know when they were born. They just pick any year they want for the immigration papers, and make the birthday fall on New Year’s so it’s easy to remember. That’s what she told me. They’re that ignorant. And he has the gall to call
me
a nigger.”

“What’s his name?” Ronnie asked.

“Omar,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “I found out they’re all named Omar, or Muhammad. I don’t know his last name.”

“Are you sure he’s home now?” Bix asked.

“He sure is,” she said. “And she is too. That damn music was blaring an hour ago and then it went off and he ain’t left the house. I been watching it. He just don’t wanna talk to the police, is all.”

“We’ll knock and see if he’ll open the door,” Bix said. “And we’ll call the store and get the carts picked up.”

“I can tell you this,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “His wife is scared of him. You can see that. I’m surprised she come back to him, but maybe she just didn’t have no money and nowhere else to go.”

They crossed the street and Ronnie knocked at the door of the cottage while Bix stood to the side, trying to peek into the window through a rip in what looked to be muslin curtains. No answer.

She knocked louder and said, “Police officers. Open the door, please.”

They could clearly hear some movement inside and then an accented voice said, “What do you want?”

“We just need to speak to you for a minute,” Ronnie said.

The door opened, and a tall, very dark man with the chiseled facial structure often seen in the Horn of Africa stood in the doorway. He wore only black trousers and tennis shoes, and he was unmistakable by virtue of the pale scar running from his hairline down the right side of his jaw to his throat. His irises were gunmetal blue.

Ronnie said, “We’ve received complaints about loud music and about the shopping carts in your yard. Do you know it’s against the law to take shopping carts home from the market? That’s theft.”

“I will take them back,” he said with a rumbling voice from deep inside him.

“What’s your name?” Ronnie asked.

“Omar,” he said.

“And your last name?”

“Omar Hasan Benawi,” he said.

“Why do you take so many carts, Mr. Benawi?” Bix asked.

The man stared at both cops for a moment and said, “If they steal one cart I have more.”

“If who steals one cart?” Bix asked.

“Them,” he said.

“Who?” Ronnie asked. “Neighbors?”

“Them,” he said without elaborating but looking off vaguely in the distance with those gunmetal eyes.

“Is your wife home?” Bix asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Ronnie said, “Let us see her. Now, please.”

The Somalian turned and mumbled something, and a bony young woman wearing a maroon head scarf, pink cotton dress, and sandals came to the door. She wasn’t as dark as her husband, but like him, she had sharply defined features, and large, velvety eyes.

“Do you speak English?” Ronnie asked.

She nodded, glancing up at her scowling husband.

“Did you hear what we said to your husband?”

“Yes,” she said. “I hear.”

“Do you understand that you cannot play loud music at night and that you cannot take shopping carts home from the market?”

“Yes,” she said, looking at her husband again.

“Are you all right?” Bix Ramstead asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’d like to talk to you about the shopping carts. Can you step outside, please?” Ronnie said.

The young woman looked at her husband, who hesitated and then nodded. His wife walked onto the porch and followed Ronnie to the front yard, where Ronnie put an overturned cart upright.

Then in a quiet voice, while Bix kept the husband busy by getting names, phone number, and other information, Ronnie said, “Is there something wrong with your husband?” Ronnie pointed to her head and said, “Here?”

The young woman glanced back at the house and said, “No.”

“What is your name?” Ronnie asked.

“Safia,” the young woman said.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth, Safia,” Ronnie said. “Has he hurt you in any way? If he has, we can take you to a shelter, where you’ll be safe.”

“No, I am fine,” Safia said.

“And your husband,” Ronnie said. “Is he fine? Up here?” And she pointed to her head again.

“He is fine,” Safia said, eyes downcast.

“Does he have a job?” Ronnie asked.

“No, not now,” Safia said. “He look for job. I look for job also. I clean houses.”

“How old are you?” Ronnie asked.

“Twenty-one,” she said. “I think.”

“Do you really want to stay with your husband?” Ronnie asked. “Is he kind to you?”

“I stay,” the young woman said, looking at Ronnie now. “My father give me to Omar. I stay.”

Bix left the Somalian on the porch and approached Ronnie and Safia then, saying quietly, “You do not have to stay with him.”

Speaking slowly and articulating carefully, Ronnie said, “This is America and you are a free woman. Would you like to get your clothes and leave with us? There are people who can help you.”

“No, no!” the young woman said emphatically. “I stay.”

Ronnie pressed a business card into the young woman’s hand and said, “Call if you need help. Okay?”

The young woman hid the card in her sleeve and nodded.

Bix Ramstead went back to see Mrs. Farnsworth and gave her one of his business cards, writing his personal cell-phone number on the back of it. “If you suspect anything really bad is going on over there, I want you to call me. I can be reached at this number anytime.”

And that’s how it was left. Bix and Ronnie stopped by the market two blocks away and notified the kid who picked up shopping carts abandoned in the neighborhood that there was a jackpot in Omar’s yard. They went about their business, hoping it was the last they’d hear of Omar Hasan Benawi.

Half an hour later, while driving to Hollywood South, Bix Ramstead said, “I have a very bad feeling about that Somali couple.”

“So do I,” Ronnie said.

Los Angeles experienced a rare summertime thunderstorm at twilight. The rain came down hard for twenty minutes and then it stopped, and a gigantic rainbow appeared over the Hollywood Hills. It was a magic moment, residents said. And the rain led to an incredible moment that would be remembered in LAPD folklore for years to come. It occurred moments after the midwatch hit the streets, and the surfer cops were there to see it.

The Gang Impact Team, called GIT, had made arrangements with the watch commander to use two of the midwatch cars and two from the night watch on a surprise sweep of the 18th Street gang. GIT had the highest felony filing rate at Hollywood Detectives and loved to jam the street gangsters, but morale had been suffering ever since the U.S. district judge overseeing the federal consent decree wanted all six hundred LAPD officers assigned to gang and narcotics units to disclose their personal financial records as part of the anti-corruption crusade. However, since that information could be subpoenaed, a cop’s bank account information, Social Security number, and much else could end up in the hands of lawyers for street gangsters. Cops were threatening to quit their present assignments rather than let that happen, and their union, the L.A. Police Protective League, was waging a battle on their behalf. It was another of many oppressive, paper-intensive skirmishes during the dreary years of the federal consent decree.