3

Venice was having its own dirty little war, and bodies were beginning to pile up at a rate that made Sydney look like a pleasant seaside city with an Opera House and a wondrous bridge. I didn’t have to write about them, and although the black–Latino war was being fought within earshot, it was almost in another world. Our problem next door, on the other hand, wouldn’t go away. The Man with No Brain’s dementia worried the immediate residents far more than gang shootouts in the ’hood, which had nothing to do with them.

The possibility of Boo being caught in the crossfire was of concern to me, as she had ridden through or past bullets while taking her daily exercise. But she would not be deterred, and the last time a respected member of the public had been shot in nearby Santa Monica, the police reaction was so intense the gangs were apparently taking some care not to kill whites, Asian-Americans, or tourists.

But the Man with No Brain had no such compunctions, and the terror finally reached the point where even the Venice division of the LAPD was forced to take action. Following my cowardly failure to ‘pop’ him, Brainless, perhaps sensing the broadening of hatred throughout the entire block, decided to intensify and widen his targets.

We were quite blithe to the incident that was to finally lead us to the lip of the Mojave Desert, until 11.00 one evening, when there was a quiet knock at the back door. I was lighting a joint at the time, and, assuming someone was dropping in on their way home from The Circle Bar, casually opened the door to find the Venice cop, the one who had suggested I take out my neighbour, standing respectfully on the crumbling door step.

He asked if he might come in, and I asked him to wait. I shut the door, extinguished the joint, and returned to the friendly sergeant and ushered him into the kitchen. He entered, and to my surprise brought a few friends with him. The better part of a SWAT team began to pour into a house not designed to accommodate SWAT teams. All were wearing body armour, and carrying automatic rifles or shotguns or both. Their comrades were being assembled outside. The sergeant explained that The Man with No Brain had finally gone a few feet too far. He had, in fact, deliberately driven down and over a woman who lived in the adjacent alley, breaking at least one of her legs. A female Caucasian, no less.

I gave them the freedom of the house, and they took up positions in the living room, aiming their weapons out the window, into the darkness, and at The Man with No Brain’s house, which was so close that their rifle tips almost scraped his asbestos sidings. I pointed out that it was blue asbestos, and was more dangerous than the occupant. Two SWAT members took up positions behind the lemon velvet love seat, which I suggested was unlikely to deter gunfire. The sergeant informed me that a machine-gun post had been established on the roof of an apartment building opposite, and it might be best for Boo and me to join the crowd of evacuated neighbours that was gathering in the alley. Leave it to the experts.

On the scale of overreactions, this was shaping up like another Waco. At this stage, Harry, our black-and-white springer spaniel, awoke, and began snarling and barking at the SWAT members, no doubt confusing them with the detested mailman — due to their uniforms. As the SWAT members cowered before Harry’s wrath, I found his lead, and we exited the house. Out in the alley, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Some were evacuated neighbours; others, folks who had wandered out of The Circle Bar and had stumbled into the action. Marijuana was strong in the air, and lines of cocaine were being chopped out on the trunk of an LAPD black-and-white. Beer arrived, and the stakeout party was soon in full swing. Neighbours started taking bets on whether the cops would shoot Brainless. The air was festive; the mood, Woodstock. The remaining SWAT members started to form a phalanx that would have done justice to the Romans. As they marched past us, Harry escaped the lead and flung himself into their midst, utterly disrupting their formation. I retrieved him, and the small army regained its composure.

One of the SWAT ringleaders produced a megaphone, and demanded that all occupants of the house come out with their hands up — or words to that effect.

The crowd was assuming the mentality of a mob of vigilantes, inciting the police to open fire and loudly reminding them that he was a ‘druggie’. The house was in darkness, and I wondered if The Man with No Brain was actually home. It was impossible to tell. He owned so many cars I could not figure if one was missing. Nothing transpired, so a couple of SWAT members aimed their tear-gas launchers towards the house and, after a few more warnings on the bullhorn, started peppering the place with the gas.

For a moment, silence reigned, but as the first familiar whiffs of tear gas drifted back to our assembly, a young man stumbled out in pyjamas with his hands raised. A cop asked me if he was the target, and I assured him he was not.

More tear gas.

Finally, the moment we had all waited for. The Man with No Brain, to the cheers of the now huge crowd, lumbered into the glare of the lights from the circling choppers, dressed in a white bathrobe. It wasn’t white for long. Before he could be cuffed, our neighbour lost control of his bowels in a fashion quite different from mine at LAX, and soiled himself severely. The stench, as he was thrown into one of what appeared to be the entire fleet of LAPD police cars, overwhelmed the tear gas, and I felt sorry for the cops who had to accompany him on his ride to the slammer.

Boo, Harry, and I returned to our home, now thick with tear gas. It was to be days before the smell passed, and Boo wondered whether we really wanted to live in Venice forever. So did I.