by James Ellroy
Transfixed by a nightmare flashback of Richard Beller’s corpse, Lloyd trembled and tried to speak. His tongue and palate and brain refused to connect, and he shook even harder.
“So you see the position you’re in,” Gaffaney said. “I despise you, but you are the finest detective the Department has ever produced, and I need you.”
He pointed toward the dining room. “On your table are copies of the existing reports on the Pico-Westholme homicides. I understand the robbery is connected to two others you were working with the feds on, so that gives you an edge. I’m throwing all my clout into getting you assigned to the investigation, on your own autonomy. I’m sure I’ll succeed. Whatever you need, from other reports to men for shit work, you’ll get—just call me. If you don’t comply, I can guarantee your crucifixion in the form of a murder indictment.”
Lloyd looked at his accuser and saw the faces of Richard Beller and the Hollywood Slaughterer superimposed over his mercilessly cold features. He tried to speak, but his brain was still jelly.
Gaffaney got up and walked past him to the front door. When his hand was on the latch, he said, “Get them and I’ll have mercy. But they are not to be arrested. Kill them or bring them to me.”
16
Now it was clockwork in a hurricane, staying icy in a heat wave determined to fry them to Cinder City. At 7:00, Rice gave the Garcias another check for survival balls. Bobby was quiet, sitting in a chair by the dresser, reading the Gideon Bible that came with the room. Joe was hanging drum-
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tight way inside himself, alternately staring at the walls and the non-inked 16K on the bed. Showered and dressed in Rice’s own clothes, the tagalong looked like he had the juice to hold, the oldies but goodies he’d been softly humming for hours supplying him with the guts not to rabbit. At 7:10, for the second time that day, Rice said, “Now, Bobby, you stay here. Joe and I are going to pick up my old lady. When we get back, we’ll split the money and split up. Sit still and be cool.”
Bobby looked up from his Bible and made a weird gesture Rice figured was Catholic. Joe took his eyes from the stacks of money, and the tune he was humming jumped up three octaves. Rice recognized it as “Blueberry Hill,” and said, “Come on, watchdog. Let’s move.”
They cruised down Highland in the Trans Am, then hung a right turn on Franklin and headed west toward the Mount Olympus development. Joe reached over to flip on the radio, and Rice touched his hand and said, “No. We’ll buy a paper at the airport. When we’re free and clear. Right now, you don’t want to know.”
Joe swallowed and returned to his humming. Rice openly scrutinized him. It looked like he was groping for words to go with the music. At Fairfax, Rice swung over to the Strip and stopped at a stand of pay phones in a Texaco parking lot. Noting a newspaper rack beside the booths, he slipped in a quarter and nickel and forced himself to read the front page of the Times.
The headline screamed, “Four Killed in West L.A. Bank Stickup!” and the subheading read, “Robbery Linked to Two Others.” Rice scanned the paragraphs that detailed their first two kidnap-heists, complete with the names of the victims and suspect descriptions provided by Christine Confrey, the bitch he’d saved from Sharkshit Bobby. Words jumped at him:
“Largest manhunt in L.A. history”; “Stolen car by freeway off-ramp presumed to be approach vehicle, but no fingerprints discovered”; “$75,000 offered in combined reward money.”
The bombshell was on page two; an artist’s sketch of him, also courtesy of Chrissy Confrey. The resemblance was about three-quarters accurate, and Rice balled the paper up, then stepped into the booth and called Rhonda the Fox’s home number.
“Hello?”
Rice breathed out in relief. “It’s Duane. You want to get paid, with a little bonus for some extra info?”
“Have you found her?”
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“Just about. We’re flying to New York in a few days. I need the names of some music people—solid people, no cocaine sleazebags. Do you know people who know people there?”
After a long moment of silence, Rhonda said, “Sure. But listen, I’m booked straight through until tomorrow night late. Can you meet me outside Silver Foxes tomorrow night at twelve?”
“No sooner than that?”
“I have to ask around, and that takes time.”
Rice said, “I’ll be there,” and hung up and walked back to the car. Joe swallowed a burst of song lyrics as he got in and peeled rubber up Fairfax toward the Hollywood Hills. When they were just north of Franklin, he pulled the Trans Am into a large vacant lot, wracking the undercarriage. Killing the headlights, he eased off the gas and let the car glide to a halt behind a long scrub hedge. Turning off the ignition, Rice said, “Wait here,” then got out and waded through the hedge. The Mount Olympus access road was right in front of him, and directly across it he could see Stan Klein’s house, with no lights on and no Porsche in the driveway or on the street. Returning to the car, he unholstered his .45 and put it in the glove compartment, pulling out a pushbutton switchblade to replace it. “In and out, watchdog,” he said.
“You’ve got one job and one job only. Don’t let me kill him.”
They waited.
Rice sat perfectly still and stared at the access road, waiting for lights to show in number 14; Joe made music in his head. The night cooled and a light drizzle hit the windshield. Then, just after 1:00 A.M., the lights in the house went on.
Rice nudged Joe and handed him the knife, then pointed through the windshield at their target. Joe got out of the car and walked through the hedge, rubber-kneed, his hands in his jacket pockets to kill his tremors. Rice caught up with him. They crossed the blacktop, then Rice bolted up the steps and rang the buzzer.
Voices echoed within the house; Rice heard Vandy’s, and knew from the tone that she was tired and cranky. Joe stood beside him, his eyes wide and panicky. Then the door was thrown open, and Stan Klein was standing there, flashing a shit-eating grin betrayed by tics around his temples. “Disco Duane and friend,” he said. “When you get out?”
Rice sized Klein up. Red nose from too much coke, useless muscles from too much iron pumping, bullshit dope bravado fueling him for the con-
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frontation. Stan Man shrugged, then faked a sigh. “I don’t think she wants to see you, man.”
Voice steady, Rice said, “She doesn’t know what she wants. Go get her.”
Klein sniffed back a noseful of mucus and pointed at Joe. “Who’s this . . . Tonto? The strong silent sidekick? What’s shakin’, Kemo Sabe?”
Through the half-open door, Rice saw the stick skinny legs walking down a wrought-iron staircase. He moved straight toward the sight, pushing Klein backward. Joe was right behind him, sliding past Klein just as he muttered,
“Hey, you can’t—”
Her.
Rice saw Vandy at the foot of the staircase, wearing a pink crewneck and kelly green cords. She looked emaciated, but her face was pure waiflike beauty. Her voice was just a shadow of her old vibrato growl: “I don’t want to go with you, Duane.”
Rice stood still, afraid to move or say the wrong thing. Joe trembled with his hands in his pockets. Stan Klein walked over to an end table by the staircase and scooped up a mound of coke with a single-edged razor blade. Squatting, he snorted it, then laughed. “You heard the lady. She doesn’t want to go with you.”
Prepared to see red and hold it down, Rice moved his eyes back and forth from Vandy to Klein and smelled the bank before it all went haywire. Vandy nibbling her cuticles; Klein doing another snootful of coke. Vandy looking like the wasted little girls in concentration camp pictures. Then Joe Garcia’s scared rabbit squeak: “Duane, he’s got a gun.”
Klein was standing by a row of Pac-Man machines near the living room entranceway, licking coke off his fingers and leveling a small automatic at Rice. “Come here, Annie,” he said.
/> Vandy walked to Klein in jerky little-girl steps. He threw his left arm around her and nuzzled her cheek without relinquishing his bead on Rice. Keeping one eye on Joe, he said, “You were fucking comic relief for the whole crowd. Everybody used you. If you weren’t such a boss car thief, we would have laughed you out of L.A. The biggest laugh was you making contacts to boost Annie’s career, gonna make her a million-dollar rock video star. Dig this on your way to the door with Pancho: I’m gonna make Annie a rock vid star. She’s gonna be the queen of porn vid first, then move up. I’m producing a flick with her and this guy I gotta pay by the inch, and I’m talking heavy double digits. Annie knows what’s good for her career, and she’s gonna do it, ’cause she knows I’m not a dumb shit dreamer like you.”
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No red, but the haywire stench ate at Rice’s nostrils and made his eyes burn. “You ratted me off on my G.T.A. bust, motherfucker.”
Klein bit at Vandy’s ear, then looked directly at Rice and said, “No, Duaney-boy, I didn’t. Annie did. She got busted for prostitution and talked her way out of a drug rehab by snitching you off. Romantic, huh?”
Now the red.
Rice made a slow, deliberate beeline toward the woman he loved and her destroyer. Vandy screamed; Klein squeezed the trigger. The gun jammed, and he pulled back the slide and ejected the chambered round, then slid in another and fired. The shot went wide, tearing into the wall by the staircase. Rice kept walking. Joe pinned himself to the Pac-Man machine farthest from Klein, and stared at the man he was supposed to watchdog, who just kept walking. Klein fired again; the shot hit the wall directly above Rice’s head. He kept walking and was within point-blank range of his objective when Klein put the gun to Vandy’s head, took a step backward with her and muttered, “No no no no no.”
Rice halted; Joe fed himself a bomb-burst of music, pulled the switchblade from his pocket and jumped knife first, pushing the button just as Klein wheeled and aimed at him.
The pistol jammed; Vandy dropped to the floor. Joe caught Klein flush in the stomach and ripped upward with both hands. Blood spurted from his mouth, and Rice reached for the gun. Joe saw him aim it at Vandy and the dying man, and knew he was fixing to blow away the whole fucking world. He got to his feet and grabbed a portable TV from the top of the Pac-Man beside him. He swung it forward, and Rice turned and stepped into the blow, catching the plastic and glass missile head-on. He crumpled across Stan Klein’s body, and Joe and Vandy ran.
17
Only repeated readings of the Pico-Westholme homicide files kept his mind off Watts in the summer of ’65, and even then, the facts that were being imprinted in his mind stuck as self-accusation rather than indicators
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pointing to Them. Karleen Tuggle, Gordon Meyers, Officer Steven Gaffaney and Officer Paul Loweth were killed by .45 gunshots, the two patrolmen and Meyers by rounds fired from the same gun, Tuggle by shots from a different piece—solid ballistics confirmation. Three for the white man; one for the Shark.
And he had killed Richard Beller with the same type weapon. Eyewitness accounts were hysterical, but cross-checking them allowed him to come up with a reconstruction: the robbers enter the bank, the white man shoots shaving cream on the surveillance camera. This means that unless the lens is cleared in two minutes, the silent alarm will go off. The Mexicans hit the tellers stations, the Shark goes wacko at the sight of Karleen Tuggle, talks trash to her, she reacts and he blows her away. The white man is screaming for the “Security Boss.” Gordon Meyers appears, then turns tail and runs, and he shoots him in the back. The basics were covered: no eyewitnesses outside the bank; the ’78 Malibu found by the freeway ramp, covered with glove prints, was reported stolen later that day by its owner, a rent-a-cop at a Burger King in Hollywood. Going on the assumption that the robbers lived in the Hollywood area, house-to-house checks were being initiated, the officers carrying the artist’s sketch of the white man. Approach vehicle covered. The escape vehicle was most likely an ’81 Chevy Caprice belonging to a family around the corner from the bank. Neighbors reported it stolen three hours after the robbery. It was now the hottest car on the L.A. County Hot Sheet, and the object of an all-points bulletin. Lloyd shuddered. Any man seen driving that car was dead meat, and back in ’59 he had paid for most of his Stanford tuition by clouting Chevys.
Them.
Me.
Looking out the window at his neglected front lawn, Lloyd thought of the new Him, Gordon Meyers. A team of L.A.P.D. dicks were checking out his personnel record for K.A.s and possible vengeance motives, and Gaffaney had included with his paperwork a hastily compiled addendum report on the man. As dawn crept up, signifying another sleepless night, Lloyd read the report for the fifth time.
Gordon Michael Meyers, D.O.B. 1/15/40, L.A. Graduated high school in ’58, joined sheriff’s department in ’64, during a manpower shortage wherein they lowered their entrance requirements to recruit men. 564
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After the mandatory eighteen-month jail training, assigned to Lenox Station. Assessed as being too ineffectual for street duty, reassigned as night jailer at county jail facility for nonviolent emotionally disturbed prisoners. Kept that assignment for seventeen and a half years, until his retirement. Unmarried, parents retired in Arizona. Address: 411
Seaglade, Redondo Beach.
The phone rang.
Lloyd jerked back in his chair; the shrill noise registered as a gunshot. Realizing it wasn’t, he picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”
The seething voice on the line was McManus’s: “You’re back on the investigation. Two heavy hitters pulled strings. Don’t fuck up.”
Lloyd hung up. A hideous thought crossed his mind: the condemned killer was being let out on parole. Getting to his feet and stretching, he ran mental itineraries: review the case with Kapek? No—this was his. Roust Calderon? No—Judge Penzler would be back in twenty-four hours to sign his warrant, and with Buddy Bagdessarian assisting they could squeeze Likable Louie to perfection. It was time to find out why Gordon Meyers was shot in the back. Another hideous thought made him wince. The .45 he had killed Richard Beller with was in his desk drawer, oiled, dum-dum loaded and encased in a shoulder rig.
Them.
Me.
Me or them.
Us.
Lloyd strapped on the weapon that had stood him through his baptism of fire, then went out to quash his murder indictment.
*
*
*
On Sepulveda southbound to Redondo Beach, he spotted a tail two car lengths in back of him. Decelerating and weaving into the slow lane, he saw that it was a Metro Division unmarked unit, distinguished from his own Matador by an olive-drab paint job and a giant whip antenna. Slowing to a crawl, he let the car come up on his bumper. When the driver applied the brakes, he stared in his rearview, fuming when he saw two classic Metro hot dogs in the front seat—burly, crew-cut white men in their mid-thirties wearing identical navy windbreakers: Gaffaney’s or McManus’s insurance against possible fuckups.
Lloyd gave the cops the finger and hung a hard right through a liquor store
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parking lot, fishtailing into the alley behind it. Seeing no cars or pedestrians, he punched the gas until the alley ended and angled off into a quiet residential street. He took the street at ninety, then slowed and zigzagged in a random pattern until he was within sight of the Redondo Beach Pier. Parking by a chowder stand, he looked around for the Metro unit. It was nowhere in sight. Exhilarated by the speed, Lloyd drove slowly to 411 Seaglade. It was a garage apartment in the shadow of the pier. Lloyd parked and surveyed the front house. There was no car in the driveway, and the old white wood frame stood quiet in the early morning sunlight. No media vehicles were anywhere to be seen, and by squinting he could tell that there was no
“Crime Scene” notice tacked to the door of 411. Knowing that MacManus’
s
“two heavy hitters” were Gaffaney and in all likelihood the Big Chief himself, he grabbed an evidence kit from the backseat, walked up the driveway and kicked the door in.
The burst of sunlight illuminated a dreary living room, spotlessly clean, but featuring mismatched sofa, chairs, coffee table and bookshelves. Lloyd stood in the doorway and made repeated eyeball circuits of the room, picking up a profusion of small details that spelled loner: expensive TV, the only wall adornments photographs of Meyers himself, alone in his sheriff’s uniform and standing by himself holding a fishing reel and string of trout, no magazines or ashtrays or portable bar for guests.
Lloyd shut the door and walked into a small dining room, catching a first anomaly: all the living room furniture was squared off at right angles; here the table and chairs were haphazardly arranged. The kitchen was more loner confirmation: nothing but frozen dinners in the refrigerator, plates and dishes for one in the sink, a dozen bottles of cheap bourbon in the cupboard. The bedroom was off to the side of the kitchen. Lloyd flicked on a wall light and tingled. Everything in the small rectangular space was immaculately clean and tidy, from the G.I. made-up bed to the perfectly aligned end table with an alarm clock dead in its middle. But the dresser had been pulled out, and the three scrapbooks stacked across it had been replaced unevenly, one upside down. The pad had been crawled. Lloyd retraced his steps to the front door, opened his evidence kit and took out a vial of fingerprint powder and a print brush. Removing surgical rubber gloves from the kit, he put them on and limbered his fingers with a series of stretching exercises. Then he went to work to find out just how solitary Gordon Meyers was, and if the pad crawler knew his stuff. He discovered that Meyers was a stone loner, and the crawler was a pro. 566
