Fallen Angels (13 page)

“Captain Corsino,” she said, sweetly. “I’m so pleased to see you. You’ve never been in my club. Let me show you around.”

Josie thanked her but instead asked the woman to join them as they did their working tour of the club. One by one the undercover officers stepped up to Marge and listed at least a dozen violations of everything from underage drinking to indecent exposure on the dance floor. The owner became very quiet and apologetic. She promised to have a meeting with her manager in the morning.

“I can’t believe how fucking civil she was,” Marge said, as she and Josie left the club. “That was bitchin’ sweet. Usually she’s mother-fucking and threatening us with lawsuits all the way to our cars.”

“I have that effect on people. It’s difficult to make a complaint if the person you’re supposed to complain to is standing there watching it happen.”

“Work with us every night. Look at all the paperwork you’d avoid.”

“Don’t I wish?”

Marge laughed. “Everybody knows you’re a frustrated street cop. Sneak out, make a few arrests, bust a few heads. It’ll feel good.”

Josie looked around to be certain none of the officers was close enough to hear. “Then who’d be there to keep Nasty and Sneaky off your back?”

They followed the same routine in three more clubs. When it was close to one a.m., Marge announced it was time to descend on Avanti’s. Josie had only seen Vince Milano’s club in the daylight. It was a drab warehouse. Tonight with the loud pounding music and a rainbow of neon lights, the place had been transformed into a gaudy warehouse. Hundreds of young adults milled around the front of the building where there was a huge lighted fountain; others stood in line waiting to get inside.

From the sidewalk, Josie felt the amplified music shake the ground like a rolling earthquake. Now she understood why David’s hearing was so bad. Before she and Marge could reach the door, Vince Milano was in front of them. He was several inches shorter than Josie had remembered, and with his substantial tummy and spindly legs, he resembled a cartoon tycoon in an expensive threepiece suit. His dyed dark hair was thinning, and he combed it over just enough to cover a tiny bald spot.

Milano, like all the previous club owners, was surprised to see Josie with the vice officers. He was nervous and obsequious, and couldn’t stop admiring everything about her. Finally, Josie explained it wasn’t a social visit and stepped aside to let Marge enlighten the little man about the reason for their call. His smile faded, but he remained cordial and led the way inside his club.

They were met by the undercover officers who detailed a number of violations and started writing the citations. The club was dark with flashes of light that gave it an eerie, broken film projector look. A gigantic disco ball hung from the ceiling and caught the light rays, sprinkling them over the dance floor like colorful confetti. While Marge talked with Milano and his manager, Josie wandered around the cavernous room. A number of the patrons looked to be in their teens, not old enough to drive. She wondered what sort of parent would allow a kid to come to a place like this, maybe even deliver them to the front door. The young girls’ clothes or lack of clothing resembled that worn by Hillary Dennis in her mother’s pictures. These kids were celebrity MTV clones with tattoos, body piercing, and hair dyed outrageous colors. She thought if their dance positions didn’t produce babies it would be a miracle. Lewd was a mild word for some of their gyrations, and they didn’t appear to be the least bit inhibited by the proximity of vice officers.

The pungent odor of marijuana was in the air but she didn’t see anyone smoking, which usually meant there was a secluded safe room somewhere in the building designated for that activity and drinking alcohol. Mirrors lined every wall of the room and couples took turns performing simulated sex acts in front of them. Not only was her head throbbing from the noise, but she’d seen enough to close the club.

For a few seconds, the smells, body heat, loud pulsating music, and fractured light flashes made her lightheaded. She stood in place and looked around trying to get her bearings. Several yards away from her, light flickered in a corner reflecting off the mirrors, and during those seconds Josie saw him. Cory Goldman had his back to her but he was easy to recognize in the mirror. He looked up when the light washed over him. He had his arm around a small blond woman. It happened so quickly, Josie couldn’t be certain, but she thought the woman might’ve been Mouse. The light flashed again and they were gone. She pushed through the crowd of gyrating teens to move closer, but it was hopeless. It was too dark and there were too many bodies.

Josie did manage to find the lobby where Marge had relocated with Milano. It was still too loud out there but tolerable. The owner had a fistful of citations and looked distraught. He wiggled from one foot to the other, and tried to explain how all this could be going on under his nose while he designed his
DON
’
T DRINK—DON
’
t USE DRUGS
posters. She took Marge by the arm and pulled her away from Milano, and told her what she’d seen in the club. It was Josie’s intention to shut down the place for the remainder of the night, and she wanted the vice officers to find Mouse and the councilman’s son.

“There’s a few thousand fucked-up, emotionally challenged, wild party animals in here, boss. You sure you wanna chase them out of the asylum onto the streets before they’ve had an opportunity to expend all that energy?” Marge said, with that raised eyebrow.

Josie didn’t. “Can your people find Mouse and Cory if I let this dump stay open? I want a tail on them.”

“Sure, describe him. All my guys know Mouse. Unfortunately, she knows most of us too.”

Josie went back and informed Milano how close he’d come to being shut down; and claimed if it hadn’t been for Marge’s intervention, she would’ve chained his doors for at least a week. So, he’d better get his act together and clean up his club.

Vince Milano was falling all over himself thanking Josie for not overruling her subordinate and closing Avanti’s. He swore he would personally supervise the enforcement of codes and license requirements, but he was forever indebted to her. Josie warned Milano this was his last chance to comply or she’d make certain he got a stiff fine and lost his club license. He kept trying to kiss her hand, but Josie insisted they just shake hands and call it a night. While she was lecturing Milano, Marge huddled with a few of her vice officers, then sent them back into the club.

By the time they wrapped up business at Avanti’s, it was too late to make the last couple of clubs. Josie was grateful. She was tired and out of condition for the grind of real police work. There was a time when she could stay up all night booking suspects, change her clothes and go to court the next morning. She still could if she didn’t have to run the whole damn division, but that was another life.

The debriefing was at the twenty-four hour Denny’s restaurant on Sunset. Josie didn’t care about a post-game review, but she was starving. She ordered eggs and pancakes and listened to the young officers brag about what they’d done that night, as if they were the first to experience the adrenaline rush of putting themselves in harm’s way. When she thought about it, in a way they were.

They were grateful to her for coming along because they knew only a few commanding officers ever got involved in operations. This had been an opportunity to show their captain what they could do, and she let them know they’d done a good job. She finished eating, paid the bill and thanked them again before Marge drove her back to Hollywood station.

“You’re such a fucking frustrated street cop,” Marge said, shaking her head as Josie got out and walked to her car.

EIGHT

L
ate Sunday morning, Marge called Josie at home to report her officers had located Mouse and Cory Goldman in the crowd at Avanti’s shortly before it closed.

“Did I wake you up, boss?” Marge asked after a few seconds, and added before Josie could answer, “Wish I had more to tell you. They drank and talked at the club, then drove to an apartment building off Melrose.”

“Where are they now?” Josie asked, settling into the lounger in her den with the newspaper on her lap. She’d been dead tired when she finally got to bed early that morning, but couldn’t sleep; so she got up intending to read the Sunday paper and fell asleep in her chair until the phone rang.

“Still inside a first-floor apartment . . . if you want I’ll have my guys watch the little shit birds for a few days and let Behan know if there’s anything of interest.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” Josie said. “Now hang up so I can read my Sunday paper in peace.”

“Not coming in today?”

“You wore me out last night. Unless there’s a call-out, I’ll see you Monday.”

“Careful you don’t become one of those nine-to-five management weenies.”

“Careful I don’t give your cushy vice job to some deserving lieutenant who isn’t such a pain in the ass,” Josie said.

“Son of a bitch, I was trying so hard to be good,” Marge said before hanging up.

The rest of the day was planned inertia for Josie. She took hours to browse through the L.A. Times with unscheduled naps between the boring news and editorial sections. Shortly before the dinner hour, pleasantly surprised by the lack of any emergency phone calls from the station, she perused the last advertisement and changed out of her pajamas into a pair of shabby cutoff Levi’s and sweatshirt.

The house resembled a domestic disaster area badly in need of straightening and cleaning. She picked up a few things from the floor and removed the most visible layers of dust on the furniture before deciding she wanted to cook. It felt strange without Jake and David sharing her space. She could actually do whatever she wanted without getting consensus from the two men in her life. For over twenty years, every choice . . . what, when, and where to eat, what to watch on television, what CD to listen to . . . was a group decision. Suddenly she could decide for herself, and then realized she couldn’t remember what she actually liked without at least considering her husband and son.

There was a veal roast, still safely under the expiration date, in the refrigerator. She sharpened her best knife and sliced the veal almost as if she were peeling an apple, and flattened it on the cutting board. It was a technique she’d learned from Jake’s Italian mother. She mixed bread crumbs, parsley, parmesan cheese, an assortment of spices, onions, and garlic, sautéed all of it with the pork squeezed from two sausages, then spread the mixture over the veal. Josie rolled the veal like a carpet and tied the reconstructed roast with string. It was big enough for a family of four. She peeled the last two potatoes in the bin, quartered them, put them in a roasting pan with the veal, and poured a glass of the wine she’d been drinking over the whole thing. The oven had been heating so she slid the pan in quickly. She enjoyed cooking but didn’t like eating alone. Without giving it much thought, she called Jake’s cell phone, and he answered.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“What’s up?” he countered, in his best noncommittal tone.

“I’m making veal roast. Want some?”

He cleared his throat and mumbled something Josie couldn’t understand.

“I don’t wanna sleep with you, dear; I wanna feed you an exquisite meal,” she said, getting a little annoyed by his stalling.

“Can I call you right back?”

“No,” she said calmly, and hung up. The wonderful smell of the veal cooking in a bath of expensive red wine filled the kitchen, but Josie was losing her appetite. She tried David’s number but got his answering machine. Marge was working and Behan was busy getting married so she sat at the breakfast table, drank a little more wine, turned off the stove, and went to bed.