Hollywood Crows by Joseph Wambaugh Read Free Book Online Page A

It was late morning as they cruised up the hills, surrounded by seven-figure homes on streets named Warbler Way, Robin Drive, Nightingale Drive, Thrush Way, and Skylark Drive. Many movie and rock stars owned high-dollar houses in the Hollywood Hills, some of them serving as occasional homes when their owners were in L.A. Many had great open views, some were on secluded properties. The showbiz residents were fearful of stalkers, burglars, and paparazzi.
    “Occasionally, we do burglary walk-throughs,” Bix Ramstead explained to Ronnie while they drove the streets. “We just point out all the vulnerable places that need protection.”
    “Quality of life,” Ronnie said, repeating the CRO mantra.
    “You got it,” Bix said with a grin. “The quality-of-life calls we get up here in the hills are a bit different from the quality-of-life calls in East Hollywood, you’ll notice.”
    Ronnie looked at the luxury surrounding her and said, “Their quality is a lot different from my quality, for sure.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “We still look like police officers, still think like police officers, but we aren’t doing police work.”
    Bix Ramstead said to her, “When I was a cop, I spoke as a cop, I understood as a cop, I thought as a cop. But when I became a Crow, I put aside cop-ish things.”
    “Who’s line is that?” Ronnie said.
    “St. Paul to the Corinthians. More or less.” Then he said, “This is a good job, Ronnie. You’ll see. Don’t fight it.”
    The call to the Community Relations Office that had come from The Birds was from a drummer in a rock band who was definitely on his way down. At one time he’d been hot and mentioned in the same breath with Tommy Lee, but internal dissension between the singer and the lead guitarist, who wrote their material, had broken up the group. The drummer lived with a singer whose career had taken a similar dive. She was known on the Strip as a very bad drinker whose cocaine addiction had gotten her arrested twice.
    When they rang the bell, Bix said to Ronnie, “Look for
Scarface
. He’s an icon.”
    “Who?” Ronnie said.
    It took the rocker a minute to come to the door, and when he did, he looked pale and puzzled. His ginger ringlets hung in his face. He had a week’s growth of whiskers, and the wispy, dark soul patch under his lip was plastered with dried food. He wore a “Metallica” T-shirt and battered designer jeans that Ronnie figured had cost more than the best dress she owned. His arms were covered with full-sleeve tatts and he appeared malnourished.
    “Oh, yeah, thanks for coming,” he said, stepping back in bare feet, obviously just recalling that he’d called the police the day before.
    When they entered, Ronnie saw his singer girlfriend sprawled in a huge wicker chair inside a garden room just off the foyer. She was listening trancelike to speakers built into the walls on each side of the chair. Ronnie figured it was her voice on the CD singing unintelligible lyrics. Behind her on the wall was a framed one-sheet movie poster of
Scarface
, starring Al Pacino.
    The rocker didn’t invite them in any farther than the foyer, and Bix Ramstead said, “How can we help you?”
    “We’re scared of getting trapped in a fire,” the rocker said, scratching his ribs and his back, even his crotch for a moment, until he remembered that one of the cops was a woman. “It’s the pap. They come around with scopes and watch us from vacant property on the hilltop. And they smoke up there. We’re scared they’ll start a brush fire. Can you chase them away?”
    “Are there any up there now, or do you not know?” Bix asked.
    “I don’t know. We see them watching us. Always watching.”
    “We’ll take a drive up the hill and check it out,” Bix said.
    “Stop back and let us know,” the rocker said.
    “Sure, we’ll be back in a little bit.”
    When they got in their car and drove up the hill, Ronnie said, “He’s a poster boy for ‘Just Say