by James Ellroy
On a cold night around this time, Officer Lloyd Hopkins told his partner he was hungry for sweets, and suggested they stop at a market or liquor store for cookies or cupcakes. His partner shook his head; nothing open this late except Donut Despair, he said. Lloyd weighed the pros and cons of a raging sweet tooth versus the world’s worst donuts served up by either sullen or obsequious wetbacks. His sweet tooth won, but there were no wetbacks. Lloyd’s jaw dropped as he took a seat at the counter. Donut Despair (or Donut Deelite, open all nite!), as it was known to the world at large, hired nothing but illegal aliens at all its locations. It was the policy of the chain’s owner, Morris Dreyfus, a former gangland czar, to employ illegals and pay them below the minimum wage, but make up the difference by providing them with flop-out space at his many Southside tenements. Now this!
Lloyd watched as a sullen hippie youth placed a cup of coffee and three glazed donuts in front of him, then retreated to a back room, leaving the counter untended. He then heard furtive whispers, followed by the slamming of a back door and the starting of a car engine. The hippie counterman reappeared a moment later and couldn’t meet Lloyd’s eyes; and Lloyd knew it was more than his blue uniform. He knew something was wrong. The following day, armed with a copy of the Los Angeles Yellow Pages, Lloyd, in civilian clothes, made a circuit of over twenty Donut Despairs, to find the counters manned by longhaired white men at all locations. Twice he sat down and ordered coffee, letting the counterman see—as if by accident—his off-duty .38. In both instances the reaction was cold, stark terror. Dope, Lloyd said to himself as he drove home that night. Dope. Dope. But. But any streetwise fool would know that anyone as big as I am, with my short haircut and square look, is a cop. Those two kids made me for one the second I walked in the door. But it was my gun that scared them. It was then that Lloyd thought of the Hippie Hunter and the seemingly 56
L.A. NOIR
unrelated heroin influx. When he got home he called Hollywood Station, gave his name and badge number and asked to talk to a Homicide dick. Dutch Peltz was more impressed with the huge young cop himself than he was with the fact that they had been thinking along almost identical lines. Now he had a hypothesis—that Big Mo Dreyfus was pushing smack out of his donut stands, and that somehow people were getting killed because of it. But it was young Hopkins himself, so undeniably infused with a brilliance of instinct for the darkness in life, that had him awestruck. Peltz listened for hours as Lloyd told of his desire to protect innocence and how he had trained his mind to pick out conversations in crowded restaurants and how he could read lips and memorize with time and place any face that he glimpsed for only a second. When he went home, Dutch Peltz said to his wife, “I met a genius tonight. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”
It was a prophetic remark.
The following day Peltz began an investigation into the financial dealings of Morris Dreyfus. He learned that Dreyfus had been converting his stocks and bonds into cash and that he was contacting former gangland associates with offers to sell the Donut Deelite chain dirt cheap. Further investigation showed that Dreyfus had recently applied for a passport and had sold his homes in Palm Springs and Lake Arrowhead. Peltz began a surveillance of Dreyfus, watching him make steady rounds of his donut stands, where he would motion the longhaired counterman into the back room and depart a moment later. That night Peltz and a veteran narcotics detective tailed Dreyfus to the Benedict Canyon home of Reyes Medina, a Mexican reputed to be the liaison between poppy-growing combines in southern Mexico and scores of heavyweight stateside heroin dealers. Dreyfus was inside for two hours, and left looking distraught. The following morning, Peltz drove to the Donut Deelite on 43rd and Normandie. He parked across the street and waited until the stand was empty of customers, then walked in and flashed his badge at the youth behind the counter, telling him he wanted information, and not on donut recipes. The youth tried running out the back way, but Peltz wrestled him to the floor, whispering, “Where’s the smack? Where’s the shit, you hippie fuck?” until the youth began to blubber out the story that he expected. Mo Dreyfus was pushing Mexican brown heroin to medium-level local dealers, who were turning it over for a huge profit. What Peltz didn’t expect was the news that Dreyfus was dying of cancer and was accruing capital to
BLOOD ON THE MOON
57
take exorbitantly expensive treatments by a Brazilian doctor-medicine man. The word had come down that all drug sales out of all Donut Deelite locations were to stop the following week, when the new owner took over. Big Mo would be on his way to Brazil by then, and all the countermen-pushers would be contacted by a “rich Mexican” who would give them their “going away” bonuses.
After uncovering three ounces of heroin underneath a meat locker, Peltz handcuffed the youth and took him downtown to the central jail, where he was booked as a material witness. Peltz then took the elevator to the eighth floor offices of the L.A.P.D.’s Narcotics Division. Two hours later, after obtaining search and arrest warrants, four shotgunwielding detectives burst into the home of Morris Dreyfus and arrested him for possession of heroin, possession with intent to sell, sales of dangerous drugs and criminal conspiracy. In his jail cell, against his attorney’s advice, Morris Dreyfus made the connection that convinced Dutch Peltz beyond any doubt of Lloyd Hopkins’s genius: In hushed tones, Dreyfus told how a
“death squad” of militant illegal aliens was behind the killing of the five hippies and how they were now demanding $250,000 from him for firing his immigrant work force en masse. The hippies were killed as a terror tactic; their random selection a ruse to keep attention from being focused on the Donut Deelite chain.
The following morning a dozen black-and-whites cordoned off both sides of the 1100 block of Wabash Street in East Los Angeles. Flak-jacketed officers surrounded the building that housed the death squad. Armed with fully automatic AK-47s, they broke through the front door, firing warning bursts above the heads of four men and three women quietly eating breakfast. The seven stoically submitted to handcuffing and a search team was deployed to check the rest of the house. A total of eleven illegal aliens were arrested. After a gruelling series of interrogations, three men admitted to the Hollywood killings. They were indicted on five counts of first-degree murder and ultimately received life sentences.
The day after the confessions were secured, Dutch Peltz went looking for Lloyd Hopkins. He found him going off duty in the parking lot at Central Division. Unlocking his car, Lloyd felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and found Peltz shuffling his feet nervously, gazing up at him with a look that he could only think of as pure love.
“Thanks, kid,” the older cop said. “You’ve made me. I was going to tell—”
58
L.A. NOIR
“No one would believe you,” Lloyd interrupted. “Let it go down the way it is.”
“Don’t you want—”
“You did the work, Sergeant. I just supplied the theory.”
Peltz laughed until Lloyd thought he would keel over of a heart attack. As his laughter subsided, Peltz regained his breath and said, “Who are you?”
Lloyd flicked the antenna of his car and said softly, “I don’t know. I Jesus fucking Christ don’t know.”
“I can teach you things,” Dutch Peltz said. “I’ve been a Homicide dick for eleven years. I can give you a lot of solid, practical information, the benefit of a lot of experience.”
“What do you want from me?” Lloyd asked.
Peltz took a moment to consider the question. “I think I just want to know you,” he said.
The two men stared at each other in silence. Then Lloyd slowly extended his hand, sealing their fates. It was Lloyd who was the teacher; almost from the start. Dutch would provide knowledge and experience in the form of anecdotes and Lloyd would find the hidden human truth and hold it up for magnification. Hundreds of hours were spent talking, rehashing old crimes and discussing topics as diverse as women’s clothing and how it reflected character t
o dogwalking burglars who used their pets as subterfuge. The men discovered safe harbors in each other—Lloyd knew that he had found the one cop who would never look at him strangely when he retreated at the sound of a radio or begrudge him when he insisted on doing it his way; Dutch knew that he had found the supreme police intellect. When Lloyd passed the Sergeant’s exam, it was Dutch who pulled strings to get him assigned to the Detective Division, calling in a career’s worth of unreturned favors. It was then that Lloyd Hopkins was able to manifest his intellect and produce astounding results—the greatest number of felony arrests and convictions of any Los Angeles police officer in the history of the department, all within a period of five years. Lloyd’s reputation grew to the point where he asked for and was granted almost complete autonomy, deferred to by even the most stern-minded, traditionalist cops. And Dutch Peltz proudly watched it happen, content to play in the august light of genius provided by a man he loved more than his own life.
*
*
*
BLOOD ON THE MOON
59
Lloyd found Dutch Peltz in the muster room at Van Nuys Station, pacing the walls and reading the crime reports tacked to the bulletin boards. He cleared his throat and the older cop wheeled and threw up his hands in mock surrender.
“Jesus, Lloyd,” he said, “when in God’s name will you learn not to tread so softly among friends? A Kodiak bear with the tread of a cat. Jesus!”
Lloyd laughed at the expression of love; it made him happy. “You look good, Dutch. Working a desk and losing weight! A fucking miracle.”
Dutch gave Lloyd a warm, two-handed handshake. “It’s no miracle, kid. I quit smoking and lost weight too. What have we got?”
“A gunsel. Works with a partner. He’s got a pad on Saticoy. I figured we’d drive over and check if his car is around. If he’s at home, we’ll call for a couple of back-up units; if he’s gone, we’ll wait him out and take him ourselves. You like it?”
“I like it. I brought my Ithaca pump. What’s the joker’s name?”
“Richard Douglas Wilson, white male, age thirty-four. Two-time loser with a Quentin jacket.”
“Sounds like a charming fellow.”
“Yeah, a Renaissance lowlifer.”
“You’ll tell me about it in the car?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Richard Douglas Wilson was not at home. Having checked every street space, driveway and parking lot on the 11800 block of Saticoy Street for a
’79 Firebird, Lloyd made a circuit of number 11879; a rundown, two-story apartment house. The mailbox designated Wilson as living in Number 14. Lloyd found the apartment at the rear of the building. A screen-covered, sliding glass window was wide open. He looked inside, then walked back to Dutch, who was parked across the street in the shadow of a freeway offramp.
“No car, no Wilson, Dutch,” Lloyd said. “I looked in his window—brand new stereo, new TV, new clothes, new money.”
Dutch laughed. “You happy, Lloyd?”
“Yeah, I am. Are you?”
“If you are, kid.”
The two policemen settled in to wait. Dutch had brought a thermos of coffee, and when twilight stifled the heat and smog, he poured two cups. Handing one to Lloyd, he broke the long, comfortable silence. “I ran into Janice the other day. I had to testify for an old snitch of mine in Santa Mon-60
L.A. NOIR
ica. He took a fall for a burglary one, so I went down to rap sadness to the D.A. about how the poor bastard was strung out and would he talk to the judge about diverting him to a drug program. Anyway, I stop at a coffee shop, and there’s Janice. She’s got this fag with her, he’s showing her fabrics out of this binder, really giving her the hard sell. Anyway, the fag sashays off and Janice invites me to sit down. We talk. She says the shop is doing well, it’s acquiring a reputation, the girls are fine. She says that you spend too much time working, but that it’s an old complaint and she can’t change you. She looks sort of disgusted, so I come to your aid. I say, ‘Genius writes its own rules, sweetie. Lloyd loves you. Lloyd will change in time.’ Janice screams at me, ‘Lloyd is incapable of it, and his fucking love isn’t enough!’
That was it, Lloyd. She wouldn’t talk about it any more. I tried to change the subject, but Janice keeps taking these cryptic little digs at you. Finally, she jumps up and kisses me on the cheek and says, ‘I’m sorry, Dutch. I’m just being a bitch,’ and runs out the door.”
Dutch’s voice trailed off as he searched for words to end his story. “I just thought I’d tell you,” he said. “I don’t believe partners should keep secrets from each other.”
Lloyd sipped his coffee, his mind quietly turbulent, as it always was when he felt cracks appearing in his major dreams. “So what’s the upshot, partner?” he asked.
“The upshot?”
“The riddle, you dumb fucking krauthead! The undercurrents! Haven’t I taught you better than that? What was Janice really trying to tell you?”
Dutch swallowed his crushed pride and spat it out angrily. “I think she’s wise to your womanizing, brainboy. I think she knows that the finest of L.A.’s finest is chasing cunt and shacking up with a bunch of sleazy bimbos who can’t hold the remotest candle to the woman he married. That’s what I think.”
Lloyd went calm beneath his anger, and the cracks in his major dreams became fissures. He shook his head slowly, searching for mortar to fill them up. “You’re wrong,” he said, giving Dutch’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I think Janice would let me know. And Dutch? The other women in my life aren’t bimbos.”
“Then what are they?”
“Just women. And I love them.”
“You love them?”
Lloyd knew as he said the words that it was one of the proudest moments
BLOOD ON THE MOON
61
of his life. “Yes. I love all the women I sleep with, and I love my daughters and I love my wife.”
After four hours of silent surveillance, Dutch had dozed off in the driver’s seat, his head cradled into the half-opened front window. Lloyd remained alert, sipping coffee and keeping his eyes glued to the driveway of 11879
Saticoy Street. It was shortly after ten o’clock when he saw a late-model Firebird pull up in front of the building.
He nudged Dutch awake, placing a hand over his mouth. “Our friend is here, Dutch. He just pulled up, and he’s still in the car. I think we should get out on my side and walk around and take him from the rear.”
Dutch nodded and handed Lloyd his shotgun. Lloyd squeezed through the passenger door onto the sidewalk, keeping the shotgun pressed into his right leg. Dutch followed suit, slamming the door and throwing an arm around Lloyd, exclaiming, “God, am I smashed!” He went into an adept imitation of a weaving drunk, leaning against Lloyd and talking gibberish. Lloyd kept his eyes on the black Firebird, waiting for the doors to open, wondering why Wilson was still inside. When they got to the end of the block, he handed Dutch the Ithaca pump and said, “You take the driver, I’ll take the passenger.” Dutch nodded and jacked a shell into the chamber. Lloyd whispered, “Now,” and the men hunkered down and ran up behind the car, swooping down on it from opposite sides, Dutch jamming his shotgun into the driver’s side window, whispering, “Police, don’t move or you’re dead”; Lloyd resting his .38 on the doorjamb and saying to the woman passenger, “Freeze, sweetheart. Put your hands on the dashboard. We want your boyfriend, not you.”
The woman stifled a scream and slowly complied with Lloyd’s orders. The driver started to jabber, “Look man, you got this wrong, I ain’t done nothin’!”
Dutch tightened his finger on the trigger and rested the barrel on the man’s nose and said, “Put your hands behind your head. I’m gonna open this car door real slow. You get out real slow or you’re gonna be real dead.”
The man nodded and wrapped shaky hands around his neck. Dutch pulled the shotgun back and started to open the car door. As his hand hit the latch, the man kicked
out with both legs. The door swung into Dutch’s midsection, knocking him backward, the shotgun exploding into the air as his finger reflexively yanked the trigger. The man jumped out of the car and stumbled into the street, then got up and started to run. 62
L.A. NOIR
Lloyd relinquished his bead on the woman and fired a warning shot into the air, yelling, “Halt, halt!”
Dutch got to his feet and fired blindly. Lloyd saw the running figure starting to weave in anticipation of further volleys. He watched the rhythm of the man’s swaying, then fired three times at shoulder level. The man buckled and fell to the pavement. Before Lloyd could approach cautiously, Dutch had run up and was slamming the man in the ribs with the butt of his shotgun. Lloyd ran over and pulled Dutch off, then cuffed the suspect’s hands behind his back.
The man had been hit twice just below the collarbone. Clean, Lloyd noticed; two crisp exit wounds. He pulled the man roughly to his feet and said to Dutch, “Ambulance, back-up units.” Looking around at the crowd that was starting to form on both sides of the street, he added: “And tell those people to back off onto the sidewalk.”
Lloyd turned his attention to the suspect. “Richard Douglas Wilson, right?”
“I don’t gotta tell you nothin’,” the man answered.
“That’s right, you don’t. Okay, let’s take care of the legalities. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to have legal counsel present during questioning. If you cannot afford counsel, an attorney will be provided. You got anything to say, Wilson?”
