Hollywood Station

“Goddamn!” Nate yelled, keying the mike and yelling, “Six-X-Seventy-two, officers need help!” He gave the location, then threw open his door and jumped out with his baton, which he lost during the first thirty seconds of the fight.

Wesley jumped from the driver’s side, not removing the keys, not even turning off the engine, ran around the car, and leaped onto the back of the madman who had Nate’s baton with one hand and Nate in a headlock.

All those muscles that Hollywood Nate had found in his gym, that had impressed badge bu

Wesley tried the Liquid Jesus on him but the OC can was clogged and it created a pepper-spray mist in front of his own face that almost blinded him. Then he tried again but got more on Hollywood Nate than on the suspect, so he gave up and dropped the canister.

And pretty soon they had tussled, tumbled, and rolled across the lawn of a sagging two-story residence belonging to Honduran immigrants, into the side yard, and then clear into the backyard, where Hollywood Nate was starting to panic as he felt his strength waning. And he thought he might have to shoot this fucking lunatic after he felt the guy trying to grab his sidearm.

And while the battle was raging, some of the Eighteenth Street cruisers from another two-story house looked out the window, and a few of them came out to get a better look and root for the guy to kick some LAPD ass. When their pit bulls tried to follow, they leashed them, knowing that lots of other cops would be coming soon.

The dogs seemed to enjoy the fight even more than the crew did and began snarling and barking, and whenever the leather-clad madman growled and kicked at Wesley Drubb, who was administering LAPD-approved baton strikes, the dogs would bark louder. And then Loco Le

Loco Le

Loco Le

Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb didn’t even know that their shop had been stolen. By now they had the guy pi

And before the first help came screeching around the corner, siren yelping louder than the homie dogs and even louder than this howling mental case who was trying desperately to bite Hollywood Nate, the cop locked his forearm and biceps in a V around the man’s throat. Nate applied all the pressure he could manage to the carotid arteries while Wesley exhausted himself, whacking the guy everywhere from the guy’s wingspan on down to his lower legs with little effect.

Flotsam and Mag, Budgie and B.M. Driscoll, and four officers from Watch 3 all came ru

When it looked as though the situation was in hand, one of the dogs belonging to the cruisers did what guard dogs do, after he saw the cops piling out of their black-and-whites and ru

The gunfire seemed to stop all action. Hollywood Nate realized that the maniac was choked out, and he let the guy fall to the ground, unconscious. Wesley Drubb looked toward the street for the first time and said, “Where’s our shop?”

Now that the entertainment had ended, the homies and their still-living dogs turned and retreated to their house without complaint about the unlicensed animal they’d lost. And there was lots of talk among them about how Loco Le

When Flotsam saw the leather-clad lunatic lying on the ground, he said to Mag, “Let’s do rock-paper-scissors to see who gets the mouth on CPR.”

But as Mag was ru

It was then that Flotsam noticed something clinging to the guy’s bald head. He shined his light on it and saw “Weiss.” Hollywood Nate’s name tag had been pulled off and was sticking to the guy’s bare scalp.

“Get me a Polaroid!” Flotsam yelled.

By the time the Oracle had arrived and instructed Flotsam and Mag to ride with him and to give their car to Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb, the handcuffed man was alert, and he said to Hollywood Nate, “You can only hurt me in a physical state.”

And Nate, who was still trying to get his own breathing back to normal, rolled his aching shoulders and answered, “That’s the only state we live in, you psycho motherfucker.”

The Oracle warned that now they might have two FID teams out there: one on the dog shooting and another because Hollywood Nate had applied the dreaded choke hold. Force Investigation Division would have to be convinced that B.M. Driscoll had acted in fear of great bodily injury and that Hollywood Nate had choked out the madman as a last resort in the immediate defense of a life, namely his own.

“Not one but two FID roll-outs on the same freaking incident,” the Oracle moaned.

Flotsam said sympathetically, “LAPD can’t get enough layers of oversight, Boss. Somebody flipped the pyramid and we’re under the pointy tip. We got more layers than a mafia wedding cake.”

When a plain-wrapper detective unit pulled up in front and parked, the Oracle wondered how FID could have gotten there so fast but then saw that it was only the night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie, as usual experiencing morbid curiosity. He was wearing one of his Taiwanese checked sport coats that made people ask if it was flame retardant. Charlie got out, picked some food from his teeth, and surveyed the scene for one of his sage pronouncements.

Flotsam talked for a few minutes to one of the Eighteenth Street crew who had lingered to be sure the dog was dead, and after the short conversation, the surfer jogged up to the Oracle and said, “Boss, I think we have some extenuating circumstances in this shooting that might help you with those rat bastards from FID.”