by James Ellroy
“I told you I could give sex and not sacrifice my karma, and if you give sex for money you might as well do a good job. And I wasn’t leaving you; I was coming back to B.F.’s.”
Joe snickered, imitating the pimps at the coffee shop. “That’s because you need a man to tell you what to do. Okay, I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do. How much did that scumbag in the Benz give you?”
“A C-note.”
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“Groovy. We’re gonna use about seventy of it to check into that motel next to B.F.’s. You check us in, I’ll follow you back. Dig?”
Anne did a nervous foot dance. “Now you’re starting to talk like a tough guy—”
“People change.”
“All right, but that trick just told me about this all-night open-house party at an exec producer’s place. I used to trick regularly with the guy when I worked outcall. He’s a video heavy, and he really liked me. I can get some money there, I know I can.”
Joe shook his head. “First we’re getting a flop. Come on.”
Without a word, Anne led the way back to the Strip. Joe saw that she looked dejected, but was secretly glad he’d taken charge. From the rear of the Ben Frank’s parking lot he watched her hit the motel office, pay the night clerk and glom a key, then walk around to the street and into the courtyard. When the clerk sighed and returned to his paperback, he followed. She was waiting for him in the doorway of a downstairs unit, one hip cocked, one elbow resting on the doorjamb, looking like an evil little girl born to fuck. She smiled and shifted her weight; her preppy shirt fell away and revealed huge dark hollows across her stomach. Joe moved toward her to smash the pose and make her real.
Anne resisted the soft kisses on her neck and the softer hands that tried to stop her hips from gyrating. Holding herself rock still, she said, “Whores don’t respond to kindness, whores rut.”
Joe said, “Hush,” slid his hands under her shirt and traced soft circles on her back. Anne sighed, then caught herself and said, “Whores don’t make love, whores do the dirty dog deed.” Her own wordplay made her giggle and press her hands to her mouth, and Joe bit at her neck until she started to squeal uncontrollably. An upstairs voice called out, “Go, lovebirds, go!” and Anne began to cry. Joe didn’t know what the tears meant, so he picked her up and carried her to the bed. Applause and catcalls rained down as he shut and bolted the door. When he turned around, Anne was naked and he was crying himself.
27
The smell of decomposing flesh hit him the second he walked in the door.
Lloyd turned to Rhonda Morrell and said, “Wait here,” then shot a look at an arched entrance hall crowded with video equipment. Drawing his .45, he walked in the direction of the stench.
It was a dead man who matched Rhonda’s description of Stan Klein. He was lying in the middle of a large living room filled with electrical equipment—V.C.R.s, TVs, computer terminals and video games. His corpse was drained of blood, the handle of a switchblade was extending from his stomach, and the carpet beneath him was caked thick with dried blood. A small caliber automatic was in his right hand. The knife wound spelled death by stabbing: the smell and body drainage indicated that the murder had taken place at least twenty-four hours prior. Lloyd held a handkerchief to his face and knew that this night would never be over.
He walked to Rhonda, still standing by the door. “Go identify the body. Try not to get hysterical.”
“Is that what that awful smell is?”
“Smart girl.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“I’m holding you as a material witness. Give me shit and I’ll fabricate a felony to keep you off your back for years. You almost got me killed. Be grateful that I’m a sensitive cop.”
Rhonda gave Lloyd a slow once-over. “You look spooky. Really weirded out. When can I go home?”
“Later. Go identify the stiff.”
Rhonda walked into the living room and let out a ladylike shriek; Lloyd found a phone in the entrance hall and dialed Hollywood Station. Dutch 600
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Peltz answered, “L.A.P.D.,” and Lloyd could tell from his hollow tone that he was scared.
“It’s Lloyd, Dutch. What is it?”
“It’s fucking all coming down crazy,” Dutch said. “There was a shootout on Sunset and Gardner. Both perpetrators got away, and one of them commandeered a car, then ran down one of my men with it. He died at Central Receiving. The killer escaped on foot, and the man whose car he commandeered I.D.’s him from the eyewitness sketch of the white bank robber. Two of my men raided his pad half an hour ago—the Bowl Motel on Highland. No one was there, but they found two .45 autos. Then, and I still can’t believe it, there was a body found inside a fucking church three blocks from the motel and a half mile from the spot where the officer was hit and run. He was twenty-six, Lloyd. He had a wife and four kids and he’s fucking dead!”
The news of the two dead men and Dutch’s grief squeezed out Lloyd’s last remaining calm. The night came down on him from all sides, and he started to weave on his feet, death stench assailing him from the living room, mass insanity over the phone line. Finally Dutch’s “Lloyd! Lloyd! Lloyd, goddammit, are you there!” registered, and he was able to answer: “I don’t know where the fuck I am. Listen, have any A.P.B.s been issued?”
“No. The white man signed into the motel under an obvious alias—John Smith.”
Lloyd marshaled his thoughts, deciding not to add Stan Klein to the list of the night’s dead. “Dutch, Fred Gaffaney and at least two of his Metro freaks are in this big, which is why no A.P.B.s have hit the air. They know, and I know, the names of the three robbers. They—”
“What!”
“Just listen, goddammit! I was one of the perps at the shootout on Gardner. I thought I could take out the white man myself. I blew it, and he got away.”
“What!”
“Don’t grief me on that, goddamn you! It was the only way to do it. Have you I.D.’d the stiff at the church?”
His voice more hollow than Lloyd had ever heard it, Dutch said, “Everywhere you go there’s nothing but shit. The dead man is Robert Ramon Garcia, male Mexican, age thirty-four. Is he one of the three?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the two other names.”
Lloyd signed his own murder indictment. “The white man is Duane
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Richard Rice, D.O.B. 8/16/56. The other Mexican is Joe Garcia, the dead man’s brother. It’s crazy out here, Dutch.”
“I know it is. Largely due to you. Every single one of my men is on the streets, along with half the Rampart and Wilshire nightwatches. I’ve got two reservists running the station with me.”
“You feel like helping me, or you feel like pouting?”
“I’ll forget you said that. What do you need?”
“First, what did you get from Intelligence Division on Gaffaney?”
“Gaffaney’s in deep shit in the Department,” Dutch said. “Intelligence has him nailed as having bribed school officials to doctor up his son’s records so he could secure an appointment to the academy. Apparently the kid was a long-time petty thief with a lot of crazy religious beliefs. Also, Gaffaney is building up a huge interdepartmental power base—right-wing hot dogs from Metro, I.A.D. and various uniformed divisions. To what end, I don’t know.”
Lloyd let the information settle on him, then said, “I need a favor.”
“You always need favors. I forgot to mention that right when all hell started breaking loose a guy came to the station looking for you, said he had info on the first two bank robberies. He read about you, and about the rewards, and he wants to talk. I was about to tell him to split, then one of my squad room dicks told me he had two armed robbery convictions. I’ve got him in a holding tank. Ask your favors quick: I want to broadcast those names.”
“I want complete paper on the three names, plus Anne Vanderlinden, W.F., twenties,” Lloyd sa
id. “R&I, parole and probation department files, jail records. You’ve got the juice to shake the right people out of bed to get them, and you can send one of your reservists to make the run, then deliver them to my pad.”
Now Dutch’s voice was incredulous. “Don’t you want to be on the street for this?”
Lloyd said, “No. It feels like I’m inches away from the biggest fuckup I’ve ever pulled, and if I hit the bricks I’ll go nutso. This whole mess is so full of weird angles that if I don’t figure them out I won’t survive, and I just want to think. Hold that guy for me, I’ll be at the station in fifteen minutes.”
“What do you mean, ‘you won’t survive’?”
“No. Don’t ask again.”
Lloyd hung up and looked around for Rhonda. He found her smoking a cigarette by an open window, and said, “Come on. Don’t mention Stan Klein to anybody, and you may still make a few bucks out of this.”
“What are you talking about?”
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“Survival.”
“Whose survival?”
“That’s the funny thing. I don’t know.”
*
*
*
Outside Hollywood Station, Lloyd handcuffed Rhonda to the steering column and said, “I’ll be no more than half an hour. While I’m gone, think about Rice and his girlfriend, and where she’d go if she were scared.”
“I think better without handcuffs.”
“Too bad, I don’t trust you, and with Rice on the loose you’re in danger.”
“That’s a laugh. He didn’t drag me all over town and handcuff me.”
Lloyd slammed the car door and walked into the station. A uniformed reserve officer noticed him immediately, handed him a sheaf of papers and said, “Captain Peltz said to tell you that he’s busy, but he sent the other reservist to get your paperwork. Here’s a memo and the stats on that clown who wants to talk to you. He’s in a holding cell.”
Lloyd nodded and read the memo first:
To: Det. Sgt. L. Hopkins, Rob/Hom
From: Det. Lt. E. Hopper, West Valley Vice
Sergeant—Regarding your inquiry as to vice activities of R. Hawley and J. Eggers, informers have reported that both men are long-time heavy gamblers known to utilize Valley area bookies. Hawley said to sporadically pay debts through “percentage arrangement” with blank bank checks (assumed by informant to be stolen). Different informant states that Eggers has also paid debts with blank check lots—“past six weeks or so.”
Hope this helps—Hopper.
Feeling the connection breathing down his neck, Lloyd turned to a rap sheet in Dutch’s handwriting.
Shondell Tyrone McCarver, M.N., 11/29/48. A.k.a. “Soul,” a.k.a. “Daddy Soul,” a.k.a. “Sweet Daddy Soul,” a.k.a. “Soul King,” a.k.a. “Sweet King of Soul.” Conv: Poss. Dang. Drugs—(2)—6/12/68, 1/27/71. Armed Rbry
—(2)—9/8/73, 7/31/77. Paroled 5/16/83—clean since—D.P. Shaking his head, he looked at the officer and said, “Bad nigger?”
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The reservist said, “More the jive type.”
“Good. Crank the door in sixty seconds, then lock it again.”
The officer about-faced and walked to the electrical panel, and Lloyd strode through the muster room to the jail area. Passing the framed photographs of Hollywood Division officers killed in the line of duty, he pictured another frame beside them and the station hung with black bunting. He knew he was pumping himself up with anger to fuel his interrogation, and that it wasn’t working—at 2:00 A.M. on the longest night of his life, all he could drum up were the motions.
Except for some babbling from the drunk tank, the jail was quiet. Lloyd saw his man lying on the bottom bunk of a cell on the misdemeanor side of the catwalk. The door clanged open a second later, and the man shook himself awake and smiled. “I’m Sweet Daddy Soul, the patriarch of rock and roll,” he said.
Lloyd stepped inside, and the door creaked shut behind him. Sizing up the man, he saw a good-natured jivehound who thought he was dangerous and might even be. “Not tonight, McCarver.”
Shondell McCarver smoothed the lapels of his mohair suitcoat. “Another time, perhaps?”
Lloyd sat on the commode and took out a pen and notepad. “No. You said you’ve got information, and you’ve got a heist jacket, so I’ll listen to you. But catch my interest quick.”
“You know I want that reward money.”
“You and everybody else. Talk.”
“Some brothers I know said you was always good for some rapport.”
“Cut the shit and get to it.”
McCarver crossed his ankles and laced his fingers behind his head.
“Guess they was wrong. How’s this for starters: bet you don’t know how the guys who pulled them kidnap heists snapped to the two girlfriends. That safe to say?”
Lloyd’s exhaustion dropped; his head buzzed with the coming of a second mental wind. “You’ve got my interest. Keep talking.”
“The heists was my idea,” Shondell McCarver said. “Up till about two weeks ago I had a bouncer job going, a temporary gig every other week or so, two hundred scoots a night, working for these people of the Eye-talian persuasion.
“The basic scene was this setup trying to re-create the sporting houses 604
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back in the old days, you know, like in New Orleans. For a C-note admission you get complimentary coke within reason, high-class whores, a shot at a few semi-pro ladies, crap game, high-stakes poker, old Ali fights on bigscreen TV, fuck films, nude swimming, sauna. What—”
“Where?” Lloyd said.
“I’m getting to that,” McCarver said, drawing out the words teasingly.
“The spot was a big house in Topanga Canyon. The two bank guys, Hawley and Eggers, brought their chicks to the parties. They—”
“How often were they held?”
“Every two weeks or so. Anyway, there was these mirrored bedrooms, you know, for romance. They was all rigged for sound, and one of my jobs was to listen for good info, like stock tips and the like. That’s where I heard Hawley and Eggers talking to their bitches, and where I figured out Hawley was pilfering from his tellers boxes. Still got your interest, Mr. Po-liceman?”
Lloyd remembered Peter Kapek’s mention of Hawley’s and Eggers’s large cash withdrawals. “Were parties thrown on October seventeenth and November first?”
McCarver laughed. “Sure were. I got a righteous memory for dates. How you know that?”
“Never mind, just keep talking.”
“Anyhow, I heard Hawley run down his scam to his bitch. He told her that Greenbacks were left overnight at the tellers cages and—”
Lloyd interrupted: “Did you know that Greenbacks is a brand name of traveler’s check?”
Slapping his knee, McCarver said, “Ain’t that a riot? Shit. I read that in the paper, and it made me fuckin’ glad I never got to utilize my plan. Anyhow, I think he’s talkin’ cash. He tells the bitch that he goes to the bank early on certain mornings, gloms the Greenbacks from the teller drawers, runs a transaction with a duplicate bankbook belonging to some senile old cooze with big bucks, doctors tally slips so that it balances out and looks like a cash withdrawal—to the cooze, who of course is Hawley boy.
“See, Hawley is scared, ’cause the scam only works if the cooze don’t get hip to the missing bucks, and he’s heard the old girl’s relatives is about to have her declared noncompas mental and grab the fuckin’ scoots. So Hawley is pouring his soul out to his bimbo, and, unbefuckingknowst to him—me.”
Lloyd looked up from his notepad. “What about Eggers?”
McCarver said, “I’m getting to that. Anyhow, I concocted the plan that ultimately got utilized by them guys you’re looking for. I staked out Hawley
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for days, watched him glom them Greenbacks, thinkin’ they was cash, watched him do his number with the tally slip
s and bankbook and computer. I’m thinkin’, ‘Too bad there’s only one of these scamsters,’ when this bookie workin’ the house tells me about Eggers bein’ way behind on his vig. So I think, ‘Gifts in a manger’ and nudge the bookie to nudge Eggers into the scam that Hawley pulls. Then I start tailing Eggers, and damned if he didn’t start pulling the same tricks. You dig?”
Lloyd said, “I dig. But you never saw Eggers with cash in his hands, right?”
“Right. His hands was out of sight when he did his rippin’. I just assumed that since he followed Hawley’s procedure, it had to be cash.”
“And it was about six weeks ago that you told the bookie to nudge Eggers?”
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“Never mind, keep going.”
“Anyhow, I never told the Eye-talians about any of this, and I cased the kidnap part of the deal real good—the bitches’ cribs, the managers’ cribs, the whole shot. Then I got me a partner, then he decided to take off a liquor store and got busted. You follow so far?”
“I’m ahead of you,” Lloyd said. “Wrap it up.”
McCarver lit a cigarette, coughed and said, “Homeboy’s a righteous partner. A little on the impetuous side, but solid. Except that he’s a fat-mouth motherfucker, which ain’t as bad as being a snitch, but still ain’t good. When I read about my plan gettin’ utilized, I called Homeboy at Folsom, got through ’cause he got this cush orderly job. I said, ‘Who the fuck you shoot your fat motherfuckin’ mouth off to?’ He says, ‘Who, me?’ I says,
‘Yeah, you, motherfucker, ’cause whoever you blabbed to utilized my plan, plus one other, and killed four people, includin’ two cops, and there is seventy thou in reward bucks on that motherfucker’s ass.’
“So . . . Homeboy tells me he talked to two paddy dudes in the High-Power Tank at the New County—Frank Ottens and Chick Geyer. I figure, righteous, those are cop killer motherfuckers. Then I back off and think, ‘What if those dudes blabbed to someone else, and righteous third-or fourth-or fuckin’ fifth-hand info was responsible for the utilization of my plan?’ So I call the jail, and they tell me Ottens and Geyer is still in High-Power fighting their beefs. So, big man, you find out who Ottens and Geyer blabbed to, and you find your fuckin’ cop killer. Now, is that a righteous tip or a righteous tip?”
