by James Ellroy
Lloyd laughed in his face, then spat in his face. Collins yelled, “Get back to the fucking desk!” and the cross-and-flag man half-walked, half-ran down the corridor and out of sight. Lloyd watched Collins help his partner to his feet. Lohmann was blowing cartilage and bloody mucus out of both nostrils, spitting the overflow on the floor. Collins made him tilt his head backward; then, with one arm around his shoulders, he walked him toward the front of the station.
Louie Calderon was still on the storage room floor, twisted sideways in his chair. Lloyd watched him gasp and let out little sobs. His own breathing was almost back to normal when Collins returned, picked up the chair and placed a finger under Likable Louie’s chin. “You’re going to give me three 582
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names,” he said. “A federal officer saw your little boy with a tranq gun. We know you’re the dealer.”
Calderon pulled his chin free. “Your mother’s the dealer,” he slurred.
“She deals AIDS at a lesbian bar.”
Collins hit him in the stomach, knocking the chair back to the floor. Calderon retched for breath, then started hyperventilating, thrashing with his feet, heaving with his shoulders. The chair buckled off the floor as he squirmed, and one by one the wooden slats on the backing snapped. Collins stood over Calderon until he got his wind and started shrieking, “Pig, pig, pig.” Then he knelt beside him and said, “The three names.”
Calderon took a long gasp of air and said, “Your mother, your partner’s mother and Crazy Lloyd’s mother. Chinga su madres todos. Lesbian pig threeway with niggers. Puto! Puto! Puto! ”
Collins said, “Pig is a no-no,” stuck his right thumb and forefinger behind Calderon’s ear and squeezed the carotid artery. “The three names. ”
Lloyd squinted and saw Calderon’s face start turning purple. He squeezed the bars, pushing harder and harder into them. It felt like he was the first part of a chain of pressure moving straight through the bars to the hot dog and his victim, and if he let up, he would never get to Them. Then, when Calderon’s face looked like a plum about to burst, he saw what he was doing and screamed, “No!”
Startled, Collins withdrew the hold. He looked over at Lloyd, and Lloyd saw his own eyes burning into him. Knowing it couldn’t be, he held his hands up in front of his face. Seeing nothing, he felt all his senses go into his ears and pick up whispers:
“The names. I’ll maim you for life if you don’t give them to me.”
“No. No. Fuck you. No. Don’t. Please don’t.”
“Think of your family. Think of your wife at Tehachapi, where she’ll be on dope charges if you don’t tell me.”
“No. No. No. Please, please. No.”
“The three names. Think of your kids in a cut-rate board-and-care home. Have you watched the news lately? Lot of sexual abuse in those places. Give me the three names. ”
“No. No. No.”
“No? No? ‘Yes,’ or I get a dykey woman officer to skin search your wife for the narcotic substances that I know she’ll find.”
“No. No. N—”
“Tell me, Luis.”
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“No. They’ll hurt me.”
“They won’t hurt you, but I will.”
“No.”
“Don’t say no to me, say yes to me, or I’ll hurt your family.”
“Yes. Yes. Duane Rice. Bobby Garcia. Joe Garcia.”
Them.
Lloyd closed his eyes and flashbacked: The “Duane/Rhonda” message on Calderon’s bootleg message list; Christine Confrey’s puzzled reaction to the mug shots of Duane Richard Rice, allegedly serving a year in county jail for G.T.A. He pressed himself into the bars, the better to see and listen. Collins was squatting beside Calderon, unlocking the handcuffs that bound him to the chair. “There’s a lot of Bobby and Joe Garcias,” he said.
“Be more specific about them.”
Likable Louie fumbled himself away from the chair, slowly stretching his arms and kneading his gouged wrists. “Bobby ‘Boogaloo’ Garcia, the exboxer. His brother Joe.” His voice was filled with the self-disgust of the freshly turned snitch. Lloyd held his eyes shut to give the man back some of his dignity. He kept them shut until he felt a tap on his shoulder. Collins was standing directly in front of the cell. Lloyd saw that his eyes were brown, not gray like his own, but that they were still somehow identical. “I’ll have the desk officer let you out in a little while,” he said. “But stay out of this, it’s ours.”
Lloyd couldn’t think of anything to say. He stared at Collins as he walked back to the storage room and helped Calderon over to the holding cell next to his. Still too numb to talk, he heard the door being unlocked and locked again, followed by footsteps moving away from the blood-spattered corridor. Then, from beyond the periphery of his vision, Louie Calderon said, “Don’t let them kill the kid. Bobby and Duane are hope-to-die trash, but the kid was just too weak to say no. Don’t let them kill him.”
22
Midway down Vermont to Los Feliz, Joe Garcia realized he didn’t know how to steal a car. He’d heard nine million raps on hot-wiring and drilling steering columns, and that was it. Anne Vanderlinden walked beside him, talking gibberish about karma and the ritzy houses they were passing. Her voice was getting more and more feverish, and when streetlamp light caught her eyes, they glowed wide and loony. Then Joe caught a blast of Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band and weaving headlights. He grabbed Anne just as a yellow Corvette cut a sharp left turn and screeched to a stop in the driveway next to them. A young man got out of the car and stumbled across the lawn and through the front door of a large Tudor house. Joe left Anne on the sidewalk and checked out the ’Vette. The keys were in the ignition. He looked at the house and saw window lights going on, then off. Now or never.
He walked back to Anne and shoved her toward the car. She got in the passenger side and started burrowing in the glove compartment. Joe slipped behind the wheel, trembling when he saw the shifter on the floor and realized that he didn’t know how to drive a stick. Muttering “Fuck it,” he remembered the way Bobby used to drive his old VW and watched Anne open up a prescription bottle and start shoving pills in her mouth. He found neutral; he depressed the clutch; he hit the ignition. Bob Seger boogied. Joe slammed the shifter into reverse and inched out of the driveway. Anne giggled, “Drive to the Strip and we’ll call my friends!” and Joe ground his way through the gears, stalling the car twice, but finally working clutch and gearshift to the point where he could keep them going. The moment on the hillside came back, ten times as strong, and they fishtailed toward Hollywood. 23
Two-way radio crackle in the distance; helicopter searchlights swooping the motel at irregular intervals. Duane and Joe gone over twenty-four hours, probably dead. Twice the radio had screeched, “ ’81 Chevrolet Caprice.”
Bobby “Boogaloo” Garcia knew they were coming for him. His hours of Bible reading and prayers had reaped nada. He was going to die alone, excommunicated, away from God and his brother, two .45 automatics and 16
grand in cash his only companions.
No one to mourn him;
No one to talk to on the night he finally figured it all out; No chance to pay back his victims and slide into heaven on last-minute good deeds and acts of contrition;
No one to grant absolution for his sins.
At first, when he got it all down in his head, it made him feel peaceful. Then the choppers kept buzzing and flashing their lights, pissing off the old juiceheads boozing in the parking lot, who started jabbering and throwing their empty T-bird bottles at the wall. That made him mad, made him feel like going out defiant, even when he knew that defiance was his most heavy-duty sin. That was the funniest part of it. Half of him wanted to admit it and go out clean; the other half wanted to go out righteously defiant, because that’s what he was for thirty-four years, and if he reversed his act now, it meant that he never existed at all.
Bullhorns barking from up the block; copter lights f
looding the sky every five minutes; the winos wailing like nigger banshees. Finally Bobby decided to cover his bets. He pulled up his chair to directly in front of the door and placed the Bible on the right armrest, then loaded both .45s and unscrewed the silencers for better range. Sliding shells into both chambers, he sat 586
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down with the guns in his lap. When they kicked in the door, he’d know how to play it.
24
Three minutes after his cell door was opened by a station trustee, Lloyd was in a phone booth on Rampart and Temple, turning out his pockets for change.
His first call was to the Central Jail Records night line, where an information clerk told him that Duane Richard Rice, white male, D.O.B. 8/16/56, 6'0'', 170, light brown hair, blue eyes, had been released on a sentence modification on November 30, after serving six months of a one-year sentence for grand theft auto. He had one previous conviction, for vehicular manslaughter, and had put in three years of a five-year sentence at the California Youth Authority Facility at Soledad. He was now on both state parole and county probation, and his last known address was 1164 South Barrington, West Los Angeles. Pressing, Lloyd asked the clerk what module Rice was housed in at the Main County Jail. After a moment spent checking other records, she came back on the line and said, “Twenty-seven hundred.”
The Ding Tank—Gordon Meyers connection.
But why?
Lloyd called the Los Angeles County Probation Department and got an operator who put him through to a series of clerks, who finally put him through to the county’s chief probation officer at home. The chief made a series of calls herself and buzzed Lloyd back at his pay phone with the word: Duane Richard Rice had not reported to his P.O. after his release from jail and had vacated his condo on South Barrington. He was now technically a parole and probation absconder, and a bench warrant for his arrest had been issued. Hanging up, Lloyd tried to recall the phone numbers from Louie Calderon’s message book. After a minute, they came to him: Rhonda, 6548996; Silver Foxes, 658-4371. He dialed Rhonda’s number and got the beginning of a recorded message, then hung up and called Bell Telephone and made his demands. A super-
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visor gave him the information he wanted: Rhonda Morrell, 961 North Vista, West Hollywood; Silver Foxes, 1420 North Gardner. Lloyd smiled as he wrote it down. The addresses were only a few blocks apart. With his .45
unholstered on the seat beside him, he drove to West Hollywood. 961 North Vista was a modern building, with two stories of apartments around a cement courtyard. The directory by the front gate listed R. Morrell in Unit 20. Lloyd studied the numerical scheme and judged Rhonda’s apartment to be on the first story, dead center. He walked over, the .45 pressed to his leg.
No lights were on, but he pressed the buzzer beneath the taped-on Mor- rell anyway, then stepped to the side. A full minute passed with no sounds issuing in response to his ring. No Rhonda.
Lloyd walked around to the parking space in the back of the building. The slot for Unit 20 was empty. Feeling itchy but close, he drove the three blocks to Silver Foxes.
Pulling up and surveying the lavender Spanish-style, Lloyd was surprised to see no neon beacons or other accoutrements of sleaze, only a quiet fourflat with lights coming from the left downstairs side. Again holding the .45
to his leg, he walked over to the lights and rang the bell next to the smiling fox emblem. Pressing himself against the wall beside the doorway, he held the gun next to his chest, prepared to wheel and fire. Silence, then a whiney male voice muttering, “Oh shit,” then footsteps approaching the door. When he heard inside locks being unlatched, Lloyd stepped out and leveled the .45 at midpoint in the doorway. The door swung open, and a muscle-bound young man in a tight tank top stood there, frozen by the gun held only inches from him. “Police officer,”
Lloyd said. “Walk backward inside, turn around and place your hands on the wall above your head, then step back and spread your legs.”
Biting his lip, the young man complied. Lloyd followed him into a stark white room and nudged the door shut with his toe, pressing the .45 to the back of his neck, frisking him with his left hand. The youth moaned when Lloyd brushed the insides of his thighs. Finding no concealed weaponry, Lloyd said, “How many other rooms?”
“Just the bathroom, sweetie. There’s nobody here but us chickens. Are you a chicken hawk?”
Lloyd gave the room a quick once-over, catching tube furniture, white Plasticine desk, white walls hung with pictures of rock and rollers. “No banter,” he said. “Go over and open the bathroom door, then come back here.”
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The young man walked over to the bathroom door and pushed it open, then returned and sat down on the white desk, one foot on the floor, one leg dangling in Lloyd’s direction. “Like I said, ‘No one here but us chickens.’ My name’s Tim. What’s yours?”
Lloyd reholstered his .45 and said, “Son, I am the last person in the world you want to get cute with tonight. The last. I’m going to ask you some simple straight questions, and I want simple straight answers. Do you understand?”
Tim smiled coyly and tapped his heel against the desk. “Shoot, baby.”
“First, do you know a man named Duane Rice? Late twenties, six feet, one-seventy, light brown hair, blue eyes?”
“No, but he sounds cute. Is he your lover?”
Lloyd backhanded the young man, knocking him off the desk. He smiled and wiped a trickle of blood from his nose. Lloyd said, “I don’t want to hurt you, but please Jesus God don’t fuck with me. Not tonight.”
Tim stood up. “Say ‘pretty please’ and I’ll be a good Boy Scout and cooperate.”
Penny and Janice moved through Lloyd’s mind in precaution reflex, then Jesus Fred Gaffaney and Collins eclipsed them. He pushed Tim across the room and held him to the wall with a hand on his neck. “Pretty please talk, motherfucker, before I trash your worthless ass.”
Tim made gurgling sounds until Lloyd released him and stepped back. Smiling, he rubbed his neck and sighed. “Rough play is one thing, hurting is another. You said ‘pretty please,’ so I’ll be a good Scout and be nice. What do you want to know?”
The singsong words settled on Lloyd like fallout, and he wondered if this night would ever be over. “One of your whores,” he said. “Rhonda Morrell. I picked up on one of her phone messages from Duane Rice. He was supposed to call her at home or here last night. The message mentioned someone named Stan Klein. What do you know about this?”
Tim moved to the desk and opened drawers, then pulled out a white Naugahyde binder and leafed through it. Holding the binder open, he said,
“That’s Rhonda. Isn’t she foxy?”
Lloyd looked at the nude photographs. Rhonda Morrell was a beautiful brunet. He memorized her face, holding his eyes from the rest of her body.
“Tell me about her. And about Rice and Klein.”
Tim snapped the binder shut. “What’s to tell? Rhonda is a real brain fox, wants to be a stockbroker. She’s very much in demand with our clients. Rice and Klein I don’t know about, although the way you described Rice, he
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sounds like this guy who came by last week, this guy Rhonda’s got some kind of nonsex scene going with, you know, for money. Rhonda’s a real money fox.”
The “Wants $” in Calderon’s message book popped into Lloyd’s head.
“Tell me about him—and Rhonda.”
Tim wrapped his arms around himself. “Last week a man came in, looking for a fox. He didn’t seem like Silver Foxes caliber, but I liked his style, so I fixed him up with Rhonda. He gave me a name, but I knew it was phony. Later on, Rhonda tells me she’s helping the guy look for his girlfriend, for big bucks. In fact, she called this afternoon and told me she’s supposed to meet him here tonight at midnight. She wanted me to hold him in case she’s late.”
Lloyd fingered the gun he had killed wi
th, then looked at the clock on the wall. 10:49. In August of 1965 he had gone one-on-one with a .45caliber killer; now he was coming full circle back to that point, to pay his dues for the event that had formed him. Shivering, he said, “Tim, do you believe in God?”
Tim shrugged. “I’ve never given it much thought.”
“You should. He’s a tricky bastard; you might dig him. Go home. I’m going to wait for Rhonda and her friend.”
“Is this legal?”
“No. Go home. I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I’m not,” Tim said, and walked out the door.
Lloyd waited for ten minutes, then went out to his car and turned on his two-way. He listened for twenty minutes. The air was flooded with calls directing Hollywood Division units to the area near the Hollywood Bowl, but there was no mention of the hottest trio in L.A. History—Duane Rice, Bobby and Joe Garcia. Gaffaney and his hot dogs were sitting on the information. It was coming down to their outlaw vendetta, and his own. And when Rice fell into his hands at midnight, would he be able to press his advantage and take him out in cold blood?
Lloyd walked back to the Silver Foxes office to await Rhonda Morrell and then the moment. He sat down in an uncomfortable white chair and stared at the pictures on the white walls, unable to identify any of the rock and rollers by name. Checking the clock repeatedly, he hoped that Rhonda would be late, so he could take a post outside and back-shoot Duane Rice as he walked up to the door. God as an ironic bastard stuck in his mind. 590
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Taking out the Pico-Westholme cop killer would be considered the zenith of his career, not the desperately selfish survival tactic that it was. At 11:42 there was a rapping on the door. Lloyd took out his .45 and tiptoed over and opened the door, startling Rhonda Morrell, who saw the gun and opened her mouth to scream. Lloyd got her in a headlock with his free arm and pulled her inside, stifling her attempts to make noise. She bit at his jacket sleeve, and he kicked the door shut and whispered, “L.A.P.D. I’m here for Duane Rice, not you. I just want to ask you a few questions, then get you the hell out of here before he shows up. Now, I’m going to let you go, but you have to promise not to scream. Okay?”
