by James Ellroy
he ran back to inspect the damage. Bobby bowed to Rice and said, “Never liked Roberto since Hearns kicked his ass. Silencers work good, Duane.”
7
Deputy Chief Thad Braverton slammed down the phone and muttered,
“Fuck,” then buzzed his secretary. When she appeared in the doorway, he said, “Ring Captain McManus at Robbery/Homicide and have him come up immediately, then call Captain Gaffaney at Internal Affairs and have him come up in fifteen minutes, no sooner.”
The woman nodded and about-faced into her vestibule. Braverton sent exasperated eyes heavenward and said, “Crazy Lloyd. Jesus fucking Christ.”
McManus rapped on the doorjamb only moments later. Braverton took his eyes from the ceiling and said, “Sit down, John. Close the door behind you. Fred Gaffaney is joining us shortly, and I don’t want him to hear any of this.”
McManus nodded and eased the door shut, then sat down, waiting for the superior officer to speak first. Close to a minute passed before Braverton said, “Hopkins isn’t accepting the retirement deal.”
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McManus shrugged. “I didn’t think he would, sir. I also didn’t know that you’d spoken to him.”
“I haven’t,” Braverton said. “Someone leaked the word to him in Frisco. Hopkins went out looking for an attorney to represent him at his trial board and blundered into the office of the most prestigious left-wing firm in the city. He ended up shoving around the head shyster and punching out a bookcase.”
McManus breathed out slowly. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“My initial reaction, too.”
“Charges filed?”
Braverton shook his head. “S.F.P.D. talked the shyster out of it, applied pressure somehow. I just spoke to the station commander who caught the squeal. He said when the beef came in, Hopkins got a standing ovation from the detective squad.”
McManus felt chills dance up his spine. “Typical. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“No.”
“Would you like my feedback?”
“Of course. You’re his immediate supervisor, and, as cops go, an atypical thinker.”
McManus didn’t know if the chief’s last remark was a compliment or a jibe; Braverton was a poker voice all the way. Trying hard to keep his own voice level, he said, “Sir, I’ve been Hopkins’s supervisor since Gaffaney made captain and went to I.A.D., and I’ve handled him the way Fred and his previous bosses did. Let him pick his own shots, let him head up investigations that should have gone to field lieutenants, let him work without a partner. The results he’s given me have been outstanding; his methods of obtaining them either dubious or outright illegal. For example: he solved Havilland-Goff brilliantly, but in the process shot it out with Goff in a crowded nightclub, then let him get away. Then he pulled at least two burglaries to obtain evidence. You know how I feel about violation of due process, sir. Hopkins is essentially a criminal. What sets him apart from a run-of-the-mill street thug is a one-seventy I.Q. and a badge. And he’s slipping. That foul-up at Oldfield’s arraignment is just the beginning. He’s obsolescent. Cut him loose.”
Braverton remained silent for long moments. McManus fidgeted, then said,
“Sir, why have you called Gaffaney in? He was Hopkins’s previous sup—”
Braverton cut him off. “I’ll tell you after he’s left. What you said makes perfect sense, John. You’re probably the world’s only liberal Irish cop. I th—”
The sound of a buzzer interrupted him. Braverton said, “There he is,”
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then pressed a button on his phone console. There was a tapping on the doorjamb. Braverton called out, “Enter!” and Captain Fred Gaffaney walked in and nodded briskly at both men. “Chief, Captain,” he said. Braverton pointed to a chair. McManus stood up and shook the I.A.D. adjutant’s hand, feeling like he had stepped backward in time—Gaffaney’s crew cut and bargain-basement blue suit always reminded him of his rookie days, when departmental regulations demanded such a visage. His bonecrusher handshake was another anachronism, and McManus sat down wondering what kind of game Braverton was playing. Gaffaney settled into his chair and fingered his cross and flag lapel pin. Braverton looked straight at him and said, “Lloyd Hopkins is about to be brought up on a trial board. Dereliction of duty, maybe a criminal prosecution for perjury if he doesn’t accept the retirement deal the Department is going to offer him. We’re looking for backup dirt. What have you got on him?”
“Internal Affairs has a substantial file on Hopkins,” Captain Fred Gaffaney said. “Notations covering his numerous insubordinations and illegal search and seizures. What are you using for ammo at the trial board?”
Braverton smiled. “The court transcript of his perjury, a psychiatrist’s report that states, essentially, that he’s a burnout. If need be, we may utilize his I.A.D. file. Your personal testimony might help.”
Gaffaney’s left hand jerked up to his lapel pin; McManus watched the witch-hunter’s eyes narrow as he said, “You mean as to the information in the file?”
“That’s right.”
“Of course I’ll testify, Chief.”
Braverton sighed. “Thanks, Fred, I knew I could count on you.”
Gaffaney got to his feet, then said, “If there’s nothing else, I have an interview in ten minutes.” Braverton nodded dismissal, and McManus watched the crew-cut anachronism exit the office looking strange. The chief’s silent deadpan stare compounded the feeling of strangeness. Knowing he was being tested, McManus dropped his usual “sir” and said,
“What was that all about?”
Braverton responded with an open-armed gesture that took in his whole office. “You may well be sitting in this chair one day. If you make it, you’ll be dealing more with ambitious brass like Gaffaney than with street dicks like Crazy Lloyd.”
McManus’s whole being tingled; the testing was moving toward a veiled offer of patronage. “And, sir?”
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“And I have a nominal regard for due process myself. Gaffaney is on the promotion list. He’ll be a commander very shortly, and he’ll probably take over I.A.D. when Stillwell retires. As far as that goes, he deserves the job; he’s a good exec.
“But he’s a born-again Christian loony, so far right that he scares me. He’s been playing savior to some very well placed junior officers—field sergeants in Metro, I.A.D. dicks, uniformed officers in a half dozen divisions. Sergeants and lieutenants, all born-agains and all ambitious. He’s offered them his patronage and promised to move them up as he moves up.”
McManus whistled, then said, “What’s his ultimate end?”
Braverton repeated his expansive gesture. “Chief of police, then politics?
Who knows? The man is forty-nine years old, twenty-three years on the Job and fucked up on religion. My wife suggested male menopause. What do you—”
McManus raised a hand in interruption. “Sir, where did you get this information?”
“I was getting to that. Gaffaney has a son in the Department, Steve Gaffaney, a rookie working West L.A. Patrol. The kid has been pilfering from the station, clerical supplies, ammo, that kind of thing, for months. Finally the daywatch boss got pissed and called Intelligence Division, because if he initiated an investigation through I.A.D., Gaffaney senior would pick up on it. Intelligence checked the kid out and discovered that he had been suspended from high school for pilfering from lockers and that Captain Fred had bribed the principal of the school to erase all notations pertaining to disciplinary problems on the kid’s record, and to improve his grades. Junior wouldn’t have been admitted to the Academy with his real transcript.”
McManus whispered, “And, sir?”
“And Intelligence did some more checking on Jesus Freak Fred and got wind of his little cross-and-flag coterie, which of course is perfectly kosher within departmental regulations.”
“What’s the u
pshot?”
“For now I’m going to sit on it. If the kid fucks up big or Captain Fred gets obstreperous, I’ll lower the boom.”
McManus smiled as the chief of detectives’ machinations moved into out-and-out barter. “Sir, you still haven’t told me where Hopkins fits in, and you want something.”
Smiling back, Braverton said, “The Intelligence dicks said that Jesus Fred has got a shitload of personal dirt files on officers he hates and wants to 486
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curry favor with. He hates Hopkins’s guts, and I know for a fact that he’s privy to a lot of the sleazy stuff Lloyd has pulled over the years. That charade was to confirm that the files exist. His reaction proved that they do.”
“And, sir?”
“And, John, what’s your reaction to all this?”
“Cut Hopkins loose, blackmail Jesus Fred into retiring by threatening to expose the kid, fire the kid and stonewall the whole fucking mess.”
Braverton gave his new protégé a round of applause. “Bravo, except your love of due process and lack of paranoia is appalling. First we have to neutralize Gaffaney’s files, which may take a while.”
“Then?”
“First things first. Today is December sixth. On January first you will leave Robbery/Homicide and take over the Violent Crime Task Force in South Central L.A. I want a broad-minded man down there, someone who can deal rationally with blacks.”
McManus’s throat went dry; his first reaction was to offer effusive thanks. Then respect for the barter game took over. “What’s it going to cost me?”
Braverton’s eyes clouded. “I want to ease Hopkins out,” he said. “Hopefully without a trial board. I want you to call him back from San Francisco and give him some sort of assignment that does not involve homicide and will not insult his intelligence. I want him around Parker Center where I can talk to him. He’s got to be cut loose, but I want it done gently.”
McManus winced at the price of his high-visibility promotion. “You could have made it an order.”
“Not my style,” Braverton said. “Liberals should be adept at trading up, seeing as how they’re handicapped from the gate.”
The epiphany clicked into McManus’s head and made him forget caution. “You love him.”
“Yes. And I owe him, and you owe him. He got the Slaughterer and Havilland and Goff within fifteen months. Do you know the story on the Slaughterer?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t want to know. Will you do this for me?”
McManus felt old notions of duty crumble in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you have an appropriate assignment for him?”
“Not right now. But something should come up soon. It always does.”
8
Duane Rice stood in a phone booth adjoining a 7-11 store in Encino. He was wearing a three-piece suit bought for ten dollars at a Hollywood thrift shop, and a curly-haired wig and beard/mustache combo purchased at Western Costume. His shoulder holster held a silencer-attached .45; his rear waistband a tranquilizer dart gun loaded with PCP darts. His hands were covered with surgical rubber gloves. He was ready. At exactly 7:45 the phone rang. Rice picked up the receiver and said,
“Yes?”
The gloating voice was unmistakably Bobby Garcia’s: “Got her. Broke in the side door. Nobody saw us, nobody’s gonna see us. She’s scared shitless, but the kid is playing Mr. Nice Guy and sweet-talking her. Have lover boy call.”
Rice said, “Right,” then hung up and dialed the home number of Robert Hawley. The phone rang twice, then a female voice yawned, “Hello?”
“Robert Hawley, please,” Rice said briskly.
The woman said, “One minute,” then called out, “Bob! Telephone!”
There was the sound of an extension being picked up, then a male voice calling, “I’ve got it, Doris. Go back to sleep.” When he heard the original line go dead, Rice said, “Mr. Hawley?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“It’s a friend of Sally Issler.”
“What the he—”
“Listen to me and be real, real cool and we won’t kill her. Are you listening?”
“Yes, oh God . . . What do—”
Rice cut in, “What do you think we want, motherfucker! The same thing you rip off from your own fucking employer!” When he heard Hawley start 488
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to blubber, he lowered his voice. “You want to be cool or you want Sallypoo to die?”
“B-be cool,” Hawley gasped.
“Then here’s the pitch: One, I’ve got photographs of you pilfering the B. of A. tellers boxes, with the clock in the background, showing that you’re on the job when you’re not supposed to be, and some juicy infrared shots of you and Sally fucking. If you don’t do what I want, my buddies chop Sally to pieces and the pictures go to your wife, the L.A.P.D., the bank and Hus- tler magazine. Dig me, dick breath?”
The gasp was now a whimper. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Good. Now, I want you to call Sally and have her introduce you to my colleagues. I’ll call you back in exactly three minutes. There’s a tap on your phone, so if you call the cops, another colleague will know and call Sally’s roommates and tell them to do some chopping. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.”
Rice said, “Three minutes or chop, chop,” then hung up. He watched the second hand on his Timex, pleased that his spontaneous bullshit about the photographs and phone tap had been so easy. When the hand made three sweeps, he again dialed Hawley’s number.
“Yes?” A groveling whimper.
“You ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to get in your car and take your usual route to the bank. I’ve been tailing you for days, so I know the route. Park on the west side of Woodman a half block north of Ventura. I’ll meet you there. You’re being tailed, so don’t fuck up. I’ll see you there in twelve minutes.”
Hawley’s reply was a barely audible squeak. Rice hung up and walked very slowly to his Pontiac, forcing himself to count to fifty before he hit the ignition and eased the car into traffic. When he was six blocks from Hawley’s house, he resumed counting, figuring that the bank manager would pass him in the opposite direction before he hit twenty-five. He was right; at twenty-two, Hawley’s tan Cadillac approached at way over the speed limit, swerving so close to the double line that he pulled to the right to avoid a head-on. There were no cop cars anywhere. Nothing suspicious. Just business going down.
Rice cut over to side streets paralleling Ventura, pushing the car at fortyfive, so that he wouldn’t get stuck waiting for Hawley to arrive. At Woodman he turned right and parked immediately, a solid hundred and fifty yards
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from the spot where the bank man was to meet him. Just as he set the brake and grabbed a briefcase from the back seat, Hawley’s Caddy hung an erratic turn off Ventura and slowed. Rice checked his fake mustache in the rearview mirror. Mr. Solid Citizen out for a stroll. The bank man was acting like Mr. Solid Citizen on a trip to Panic City. Rice walked toward the bank parking lot, watching Hawley scrape bumpers as he parallel-parked his Caddy, plowing into the curb twice before squeezing into an easy space. When he finally got out and stood by the car, he was shaking from head to toe.
Rice approached, swinging the briefcase casually. Hawley frantically eyeballed the street. Their eyes locked for an instant, then Hawley turned around and checked out his blind side. Rice grinned at his protective image and came up on the bank manager and tapped him on the shoulder. “Bob, how nice to see you!”
Hawley did a jerky pivot. “Please, not now. I’m meeting someone.”
Rice clapped Hawley on the back and spun him in the direction of the bank, keeping an arm around his shoulders as he hissed, “You’re meeting me, dick breath. We’re going straight to the tellers boxes, then straight back to your car.” He dug his fingers into the bank man’s collarbone and g
ouged in concert with sound effects: “Chop, chop, chop.” Hawley winced with each syllable and let himself be propelled toward the bank. At the front door, Hawley inserted keys into the three locks while Rice stood aside with one eye cocked in the direction of Ventura Boulevard. No patrol cars; no unmarked cruisers; nothing remotely off. The doors sprung open and they stepped inside. The bank man locked a central mechanism attached to the floor runner and looked up at the robber. “F-fast, please.”
Rice pointed toward the teller area, then stepped back and let Hawley lead the way. When the manager’s back was turned, he opened his briefcase and took out a pint bottle of bourbon and stuck it into his right front pants pocket. Hawley stepped over a low wooden partition and began unlocking and sliding open drawers. Rice glanced down and saw rows of folding green, then looked closer and saw that it was off-green—fancy traveler’s checks done up in a Wild West motif. “The cash,” he hissed. “Where’s the fucking money?”
Hawley stammered, “T-t-time-locked. The vault. You said on the phone you wanted—”
Ignoring him, Rice opened the rest of the drawers himself, finding nothing but fat stacks of B. of A. “Greenbacks” in denominations of twenty, fifty and a hundred. Replaying his casing job in his mind, he snapped to what 490
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happened. Hawley was pilfering the traveler’s checks. The paperwork he saw him doing was some sort of ass-covering. Seeing the banker outlined in red, he said, “There’s no cash in these drawers?”
“N-nn-no.”
“You’ve been ripping off traveler’s checks?”
Shooting a panicky glance at the window, Hawley said, “Just for a while. I’ve got bad gambling debts, and I’m just trying to get even. Please don’t kill me!”
Rice held the briefcase open, thinking of Chula Medina and twenty cents on the dollar tops. When Hawley started stuffing the rows of Greenbacks inside, he said, “Talk, dick breath. Give me a good line on your scam, and maybe I’ll let you slide.”
