Good Cop, Dead Cop

Michael “Moonie” Miller was feeling pretty good about things. The day was beautiful. A little breeze, nice and warm, was blowing in from the desert as it often does this time of year in the Los Angeles basin. Two days before Halloween and it’s 81 degrees, mid-afternoon. It can’t get much better than this, he thought. “Moonie” acquired his nickname years ago but it was hardly relevant anymore. In his early, rebellious years when he’d first moved into the Hollywood area, “Moonie” was simply known as Michael. Without a dime in his pocket and no intention of working too hard to get one, Michael simply hung out; depending on his wits and the generosity of strangers to get by. In other words, he begged, borrowed or stole what he needed. A dry place to sleep, some warm clothes and a bite to eat were all he required, or wanted. Moonie had few friends. He saw himself as a rebel who shunned any involvement with society. The only exceptions were other denizens of the street who had adopted a similar, antisocial philosophy. However he never developed what you could call a warm, loving relationship with anyone. Aloof pretty well described his attitude. Shortly after arriving in Hollywood, “Moonie” staked his claim on a stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard which became his territory, for all intents and purposes. He rarely left the six blocks or so he called home. The bus kiosks became his home in rainy weather and the dumpsters and trashcans located in the alleys adjacent to the boulevard became his source for most things necessary to his daily survival. When things got a little tough, “Moonie” would resort to panhandling, a practice he found particularly distasteful. Not because he felt this behavior was particularly degrading but rather because it meant he had to come in contact with “polite society,” an accommodation he disliked intensely. Wanting to make certain that none of those he put the touch on ever walked away smugly believing they had provided something to an otherwise helpless street person who doubtless would have starved without their generosity, “Moonie” always graphically displayed his disdain. He did that immediately after he had the money in hand and was a comfortable distance away. He’d bend over, drop his drawers and bare his buttocks to the donor. While this seldom resulted in any repeat donations, it made “Moonie” feel pretty good about himself. On occasion he mooned those who refused to give him any money but that became a lot of work as the numbers who didn't were significantly higher than the numbers who did. He also mooned an occasional bus, particularly enjoying the tour buses full of out-of-towners searching for the magic of Hollywood. On a few occasions he made the tactical error of mooning passing police cars. This generally resulted in his arrest; a not altogether bad thing on cold, rainy nights. Anyway, that was how Michael came to be called “Moonie” by all of his fellow street people. Having mellowed with age however, “Moonie” hadn’t dropped his pants in years. On this particular day, warm and lovely as it was and feeling good, as “Moonie” was, he was quite sure he was going to find some good, useable or sellable stuff as he dug through the dumpsters in the alley south of the boulevard. He had to maintain a pretty good pace to stay ahead of the trash trucks that were only a few blocks away. It was past noon and he had high hopes they would stop for lunch soon. Either way, “Moonie” was moving briskly from dumpster to dumpster. Pickings weren’t too bad so far. He’d half-filled his shopping cart with aluminum cans and some redeemable bottles and he still had three blocks to go before he’d cross the boulevard and start down the other side. “Moonie” wasn’t particularly tall and it was, therefore easiest for him to climb up on his cart and get right down into the dumpster. He could then rummage through the loose contents and open any trash bags that were there, as well. The particular dumpster “Moonie” was going through was behind the Jack Rabbit Theatre; a strip joint that couldn’t possibly pass as a theatre anymore. He noted there were several green, heavy-duty trash bags inside. All were closed tightly at the top with plastic ties. The size and weight of the bags suggested to “Moonie” that the contents might well be a real find. “Moonie” decided that rather than fool with the ties around the top of the bag, he’d simply rip the side of the bag and inspect the contents. That way, if they looked promising, he’d empty the bag out. He got a firm grip on the first plastic bag and tore it open. Suddenly, “Moonie” didn’t feel so good anymore.