Hollywood Crows by Joseph Wambaugh

go in.”
    Ronnie noticed the cocktail waitress giving Bix the big eye when they squeezed passed her in the narrow corridor leading to the office, but he didn’t seem to notice. Ronnie had decided by now that Bix was the elusive Monogamous Male Cop, a creature she thought was extinct, if it had ever existed in the first place.
    Ali Aziz was sitting at his desk, which was covered with file folders, bills, and photos of prospective dancers, most of them topless. He was yelling in Arabic at someone on the phone. When he looked up at them, he forced a polite smile and motioned them to the two client chairs.
    Ronnie thought the office was very nice, not at all what she’d expected. The wall coverings were subtle, mostly pale colors that complemented the earth tones in the carpeting, and drapes that concealed the single small window facing the alley. The only bling was on the person of Ali Aziz himself, who wore a creamy silk blazer with a monogrammed pocket, a black shirt and matching black trousers, a gold Rolex, and pinkie rings on both hands. He was middle-aged, balding, swarthy, and wasn’t likely to get invited to the Jonathan Club downtown, she thought. But he’d fit in okay on the Nightclub Committee of the Community Police Advisory Board.
    When Ali Aziz hung up the phone, he stood and reached across the desk to shake hands with both cops. He was several inches shorter than Bix and looked up with all of the cordiality he could muster, saying, “Welcome, Officers. I hope there is nothing wrong? We are friends of Hollywood Station. I am knowing your captain well, and each year I give from my heart to the Children’s Holiday Party and the Tip-A-Cop fund-raiser.”
    “It’s the same complaint, Mr. Aziz,” Bix said.
    “Parking?” With his accent he pronounced it
barking
.
    “Yes, parking.”
    “Fucking Mexicans!” Ali Aziz said, then looked at Ronnie and said, “Sorry. I am sorry, Officer. I have so much anger with my Mexicans. I shall fire them. They do that illegal parking. I am sorry for my rude mouth.”
    Ronnie shrugged and Bix said, “We wouldn’t like to get anybody fired. We just want your employees to stay out of the parking places belonging to the apartment building across the street. Even though the spots look empty, people who work late hours come home to find your employees’ cars in their spaces.”
    “Yes, yes,” Ali said. “The old Russian lady, she is right. She calls me all the time. I have police coming here all the time. I do not mind. I wish for my customers to see the police here. They know this is a respectable club. But I am sorry for you to waste your time. I shall fix this problem. I am going to send flowers to the old Russian lady. Do you need money for anything? I shall give you some cash for the — how you call it? — Pals Program.” He turned the
p
into a
b
again.
    “No cash,” Bix said, standing up. “If you like, you can make a donation by check to the Police Activity League.”
    “I shall do that tomorrow, god willing,” Ali said, standing to shake hands.
    Ronnie was looking at the framed photos on a shelf over a big-screen TV. Three were studio shots of a beautiful boy, one taken when he was about two and another when he looked to be about five years old, wearing a suit, white shirt, and necktie in both photos. The third studio photo was of the boy posing next to his mother, he wearing a blazer and tie, she a basic black, V-neck dress with only a string of pearls hanging at her throat. She was a striking beauty, with hair the color of, what? Golden chestnut, maybe, full and heavy hair that any woman would die for.
    Ronnie carefully touched the frame and said, “Your family is very beautiful.”
    “My little son,” Ali said, smiling genuinely for the first time. “My heart. My life. My little Nicky.”
    “Your wife should be in movies,” Ronnie said. “Don’t you think, Bix?”
    “Uh-huh,” Bix said, hardly glancing at the photo.
    Ali’s smile turned sour