L.A. Noir: The Lloyd Hopkins Trilogy

by James Ellroy

  Douglas grabbed the bottle and downed half of it in one gulp. “Do I look stupid, Hopkins?”

  “No, you look intelligent and handsome and full of savoir faire. Let’s accomplish this with a minimum of bullshit and jive. The I.A.D. bulls think that you have some guilty knowledge regarding the classified files at Junior Miss. Let’s take it from there.”

  Douglas coughed and breathed bourbon in Lloyd’s face. “But what if that there guilty knowledge involves coppin’ to some illegal shit I pulled?”

  “You still walk.”

  “No shit, Dick Tracy?”

  “If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’. Talk, Hubert.”

  Douglas knocked back a drink and wiped his lips. “ ’Bout three weeks ago 368

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  I was drinkin’ in a juke joint down the street from Junior Miss. This paddy dude starts a conversation with me, asks me if I like workin’ security at Junior Miss, what my duties was, how tight I was in with the security boss, that kind of rebop. He buys me drinks up the ying-yang, gets me righteously lubed, then splits. I ain’t no dummy, I knows this dude and I ain’t seen the last of each other.”

  Douglas paused and grabbed the bottle. Lloyd snatched it out of his hand before he could bring it to his lips. Placing the mug-shot strip on the table, he said, “Is this the man?”

  Douglas stared at the photos and grinned from ear to ear. “Righteous. That’s the dude. What kind of shit did he pull?”

  “Never mind. Finish your story.”

  Casting sad eyes at the pint, Douglas said, “I was right. The dude shows up the very next day, and offers to get me coked. We toot some righteous pharmaceutical blow in the john, then he starts talkin’ about this righteous smart fuckin’ buddy of his, how the guy was fuckin’ obsessed with fuckin’

  data, you know, obsessed with knowin’ the fuckin’ skinny on other people’s lives. You dig?”

  “I dig,” Lloyd said. “Did he tell you the man’s name? Did he describe him?

  Did he say that the man was his half-brother?”

  Douglas shook his head. “The fucker didn’t even tell me his own fuckin’

  name, let alone the name of his fuckin’ buddy. But dig, that day he makes his pitch: one K and two grams of pharmacy blow for Xerox copies of all the classified files. I tell him it’s gonna take time, I gotta make them copies a couple at a time, on the sly. So I does it, without Murray or anyone else at Junior Miss knowin’ about it. The dude calls me at the bar to set the tr—”

  Lloyd interrupted: “Did he give you an address or a phone number where he could be reached?”

  “Fuck, no! He kept callin’ himself a ‘justified paranoid’ and said that he covered his tracks when he took a fuckin’ piss, just to stay in fuckin’ practice. He wouldn’t even call me at my fuckin’ crib; it had to be the fuckin’

  bar. Anyways, we sets up the trade-off, last week sometime, Tuesday or Wednesday night, and man, it was righteously fuckin’ strange. Kick loose with that jug, will you, homeboy? I’m thirsty.”

  Lloyd slid the bottle across the table. “Tell me about the trade-off. Take it slow and be very specific.”

  Douglas guzzled half of the remaining whiskey. “Righteous. Anyway, I been observin’ the dude, and to my mind he seems like he ain’t wound to-

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  gether too tight. You know, this seems to be a dude that you might wanta call seriously nervous and itchy. We sets up the meet for Nichols Canyon Park, at night. The dude shows up in his little yellow car, lookin’ sweaty, shaky and bug-eyed, lookin’ like a righteous fuckin’ rabid dog lookin’ to die, but lookin’ to get in a few righteous fuckin’ bites before he goes. He kept grabbin’ at himself like he was packin’ a roscoe and he kept baitin’ me with all this racist shit. Hopkins, this fucker looked like righteous fuckin’ death. I gave him the files and he gave me the K and the blow and I got the fuck out fast. I don’t know what the fucker done, but I wouldn’t worry too much about catchin’ him, because no fuckin’ human bein’ can look like that and fuckin’ survive. I been to ’Nam, Hopkins. Righteous fuckin’ Khe Sahn. I seen lots of death. This fucker looked worse than the terminal yellow jaundice battle fatigue walkin’ dead over there. He was righteous fuckin’ death on a popsicle stick.”

  Lloyd let the barrage of words settle in on him, knowing that they confirmed Thomas Goff’s Melbourne Avenue horror show, and possibly the killing of Howard Christie; but that they somehow contradicted the revelation of Richard Oldfield and his sibling rivalry with Goff. He said, “Kill the jug, Hubert, you’ve earned it,” and walked out into the hallway. A secretary passed him and said, “Captain Gaffaney went to lunch, Sergeant. He left your query reply with the duty officer.”

  Lloyd thanked the woman and nonchalantly walked into Gaffaney’s office. A plastic bag of marijuana tagged with an official evidence sticker was lying on his desk. He pulled off the sticker and put it in his pocket, then opened the window and hurled the bag out into the middle of Los Angeles Street, where it came to rest in the bed of a passing Dodge pickup.

  “Support your local police,” Lloyd called out. When only traffic noise answered him, he walked by the interrogation cubicle and gave Hubert Douglas the thumbs up sign. Douglas grinned through the open doorway and raised his empty pint in farewell.

  Lloyd took the elevator down to the first floor and walked to the front information desk. The duty officer did a double take on his outfit and handed him a slip of paper. He leaned against the desk and read: Subject D.O.B. 6/30/53, L.A. Calif. driv. lic. # 1679143, issued 7/69, no moving violations; no wants, warrants or record in Cont. U.S. squeaky clean—F.G. Lloyd felt nameless little clicks assail him. He put his mind through a twenty-four-hour instant replay until he hit the source of his confusion: Thomas Goff was born and raised and sent to prison in New York State. 370

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  Havilland’s psychiatric report on his half-brother Richard Oldfield stated that their mother raised the two boys together, presumably in New York. Yet this computer run-through fixed Oldfield’s place of birth as Los Angeles. Also, Oldfield was issued a California driver’s license in 1969, shortly after his sixteenth birthday, which at least hinted at long-term California residency.

  Lloyd grabbed the desk phone and dialed Dutch’s office number at the Hollywood Station.

  “Captain Peltz speaking.”

  “It’s me, Dutch. You busy?”

  “Where the hell have you been? Did you get my memo?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Listen, I need your help. Two-man stakeout on a pad near the Hollywood Bowl. It’s got to be very cool, no unmarked units, nothing that smacks of heat. I don’t want to approach this guy just yet; I only want him pinned.”

  “This guy? Who the hell is this guy?”

  “I’ll tell you about him when I see you. Can you meet me at my place in an hour? I want to change clothes and grab my civilian wheels.”

  Dutch sighed. “I’ve got a meeting in half an hour. Make it two hours.”

  Lloyd sighed back. “Deal.”

  Driving home, his little clicks worked themselves into the tapestry of the case, assuming the shape of a man who might or might not be Richard Oldfield; a man adept at manipulating violent men in order to achieve his purpose, which now emerged as the accruing of potential blackmail knowledge. Fact: Jack Herzog had stolen six L.A.P.D. Personnel files for his personal aim of “vindicating” Marty Bergen, and had told his girlfriend that he was “really scared” in the days before his disappearance/murder/suicide. Bergen considered his best friend’s attempt at vindication ridiculous and had destroyed the columns the files had inspired. Yet, Thomas Goff and/or his still unknown “hotshot,” “really smart” accomplice/partner, had used the L.A.P.D. information to cunningly circumvent Captain Dan Murray, wresting confidential file copies from his stooge Hubert Douglas, killing Lieutenant Howard Christie, probably for his refusal to deliver the files or on the basis of his demands for exorbitant amounts of mon
ey. This evidential and theoretical narrative line was cohesive and arrow straight. But it contradicted most of his instincts regarding Thomas Goff. Goff was obsessed with his .41 revolver. He had used it on the three liquor store victims, a crime still lacking a motive; he had fired it at Lloyd himself, its single-

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  action clumsiness giving him away. Yet . . . Howard Christie was killed with his own gun. Goff, assuming he was the killer, had eschewed a violent pattern in a time of stress, grabbing a weapon from a seasoned police officer, then shooting him with it. It didn’t wash. The Christie job had the earmarks of a killing perpetrated by a novice, someone who had lulled the cop/

  security chief into considering him harmless—not the fever-or dope-driven Goff.

  This left four potential suspects—Herzog, Havilland, Bergen, and Oldfield. The first three were ridiculous prospects: Herzog was a ninety-nine percent sure dead man; Havilland a love-and conscience-struck coincidental link with no motives; Bergen a pathetic, guilt-ridden drunk. Only Oldfield remained, and even he was shot full of logical holes. His blood relationship with Goff was, of course, the key tie-in. Still, hearsay evidence indicated that Goff was dominated by his unknown partner, while Havilland’s psychological workup portrayed Oldfield as being subservient to Goff. And the fact that he strongly resembled Goff and still walked around the streets pointed to his innocence. If he were Goff’s accomplice, he would know that every cop in Southern California was looking for his mirror image. He would not go out and cruise for comely nurses to bring back to his pad.

  Lloyd hit the Harbor Freeway southbound, feeling his clicks work into truth. He was dealing with two killers, two men whose drives had spawned an apocalypse.

  20

  The chess game progressed. The lonelies had been tapped for data purchasing capital, and tonight, with his cop/adversary dead, he would inject himself with sodium Pentothal and images of his past hours and make the void explode. The homecoming was in sight.

  The Night Tripper stood on his balcony and stared at the ocean, then closed his eyes and let the sound of waves crashing accompany a rush of fresh images: Hopkins departing Windemere Drive at dawn; the industrial-372

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  sized trashbag containing Sherry Shroeder thumping against Richard Oldfield’s shoulder as he carried it to his car; the sated look on Richard’s face as they lowered her to her grave in the shadow of the Hollywood sign. Satisfying moments, but not as fulfilling as watching his lonely Billy develop and then edit his movie into a co-mingling of Linda Wilhite’s childhood trauma and adult fantasy. Billy had at first warmed to the challenge of a rush job, then had become frightened when Sherry Shroeder died in his developing room. It had taken a brilliantly ad-libbed therapy session to see him through completion of the assignment.

  Opening his eyes, Havilland recalled the day’s minor testimonials to his will: The manager of his office building had called his condo with the news that he had been burglarized and that workmen were now repairing the damage to his front office door; his answering service had an urgent “call me” message from Linda Wilhite. Those telephone tidings had been such obvious capitulations to his power that he had succumbed to their symbolism and had used the beach phone to call the lonelies with an “assessment”

  request—ten thousand dollars per person. They had all answered “Yes” with doglike servility.

  Let the capitulations continue.

  The Night Tripper walked over to the kitchen wall phone and punched Linda Wilhite’s number. When he heard her “Hello?” he said, “John Havilland, Linda. My service said that you needed to speak to me.”

  Linda’s voice took on force. “Doctor, I realize that this is short notice, but I want to let you know that I’m quitting therapy. You’ve opened me up to lots of things, but I want to fly solo from here on in.”

  Havilland breathed the words in. When he breathed his own words out, they sounded appropriately choked with sentiment. “I’m very sad to hear that, Linda. We were making such progress. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m positive, Doctor.”

  “I see. Would you agree to one more session? A special session with visual aids? It’s my standard procedure for final sessions, and it’s essential to my form of therapy.”

  “Doctor, my days are very tied up. There’s lots of—”

  “Would tonight be all right? My office at seven? It’s imperative we conclude this therapy on the right foot, and the session will be free.”

  Sighing, Linda said, “All right, but I’ll pay.”

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  Havilland said, “Goodbye,” and hung up, then punched another seven digits and began hyperventilating.

  “Yes?” Hopkins’s voice was expectant.

  “Sergeant, this is John Havilland. Strange things have been happening. My office was broken into, and besides that, my source just contacted me. I—I—I—”

  “Calm down, Doctor. Just take it slow.”

  “I—I was going to say that I still can’t give you his name, but Goff contacted him, because he heard that he was in need of a gun and some money Goff owed him. The money and the gun are in a locker box at the Greyhound Bus Depot downtown. Fr-frankly, Sergeant, my source is afraid of a setup. He’s considering returning to therapy, so I was able to get this information out of him. He-he has a strange relationship with Goff. . . . It’s frfraternal almost.”

  “Did he give you the number of the box?”

  “Yes. Four-one-six. The key is supposed to be with the man at the candy counter directly across from the row of lockers. Goff gave it to him yesterday, my man told me.”

  “You did the right thing, Doctor. I’ll take care of it.”

  Dr. John Havilland replaced the receiver, thinking of Richard Oldfield stationed in the bar across from Box 416, armed with Lloyd Hopkins’s personnel file photo and an Uzi submachine gun. 21

  Lloyd was lead-footing it northbound on the Harbor Freeway when he realized that he had forgotten to leave Dutch a note explaining his absence. He slammed the dashboard with his palm and began shouting obscenities, then heard his cursing drowned out by the wail of sirens. Looking in his rearview mirror he saw three black-and-whites roar past with cherry lights flashing, heading for the downtown exits. Wondering why, he flipped on his two-way radio. When a squelch filtered voice barked “All units, all units, 374

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  code three to the bus depot, Sixth and Los Angeles, shot fired,” he shuddered back a wave of nausea and joined the fray. Sixth and Los Angeles Streets were a solid wall of double-parked patrol cars. Lloyd parked on the sidewalk outside the bus terminal’s south entrance and ran in past a bewildered-looking group of patrolmen carrying shotguns. They were jabbering among themselves, and one tall young officer kept repeating “Psycho. Fucking psycho,” as he fondled the slide of his Ithaca pump. Pushing through a knot of unkempt civilians milling around in front of the ticket counters, Lloyd saw a uniformed sergeant writing in a spiral notebook. He tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Hopkins, Robbery/

  Homicide. What have we got?”

  The sergeant grinned. “We got a machine-gun nut case. A wino was checking the doors of the lockers across the walkway from the gin mill by the Sixth Street entrance when this psycho runs out of the bar and starts shooting. The wino wasn’t hit, but the lockers were torn up and an old bag lady got grazed by a ricochet. The meat wagon took her to Central Receiving. The juicehounds inside the bar said it sounded like a tommy gun—rattat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. My partner is at the gin mill now, taking statements from the wino and potential witnesses. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tattat.”

  Lloyd felt little clicks resound to the beat of the sergeant’s sound effects.

  “Is there a candy counter directly across from the shooting scene?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What about the suspect?”

  “Probably long gone. The wino said he tucked th
e burpgun under his coat and ran out to Sixth. Easy to get lost out there.”

  Lloyd nodded and ran to the hallway by the Sixth Street entrance. Gray metal lockers with coin slots and tiny key holes covered one entire wall, the opposite all inset with narrow cubicles where vendors dispensed souvenirs, candy and porno magazines. Checking the lockers close up, he saw that numbers 408 through 430 were riddled with bullet dents, and as he had suspected, the bar the gunman had run out of was directly across from 416. Crossing to the bar, Lloyd eyeballed the man at the candy counter, catching a cop-wise look on his face. Doing a quick pivot, he walked over and stuck out his hand. “Police officer. I believe someone left a key for me.”

  The candy man went pale and stammered, “I—I—didn’t think there’d be no gunplay, Officer. The guy just asked me if I wanted to make twenty

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  scoots for holding on to the key, then whipping it on the guy who asked for it. I didn’t want no part of no shooting.”

  The fury of his mental clicking made Lloyd whisper. “Are you telling me that the man who gave you the key is the man who fired off the machine gun?”

  “Th-that’s right. This don’t make me no kind of accessory after the fact, does it?”

  Lloyd took out a well-thumbed mug shot of Thomas Goff. “Is this the man?”

  The candy man shook his head affirmatively and then negatively. “Yes and no. This guy looks enough like him to be his brother, but the gun guy had a skinnier face and a longer nose. It’s a real close resemblance, but I gotta say no.”

  Taking the key from the vendor’s shaking hands, Lloyd said with a shaking voice, “Describe the wino the gunman fired at.”

  “That’s easy, officer. He was a big husky guy, ruddy complexion, dark hair. He looked kinda like you.”

  The final click went off like a flashing neon sign that spelled, “Fool. Patsy. Dupe. Sucker bait.” It was Havilland. The setup was for him, not Oldfield; it was perpetrated by Oldfield, not Goff. Whatever the unrevealed intricacies of the case, Havilland had set him up from the beginning, acting on knowledge of his methods gathered from his L.A.P.D. file. The shrink had set up the psychiatric report on Oldfield as a calculated move based on old Hollywood Division fitness reports that had mentioned his penchant for “search methods of dubious legality.” He had been strung out from before their first meeting; the Night Tripper albums and the Linda Wilhite office photos ploys, with Linda and Stanley Rudolph and Goff and Oldfield and Herzog and how many others dangling on their own puppet strings as the Doctor’s willing or unwitting accomplices? The simple brilliance of it was overpowering. He had pinioned himself to a steel wall with selfconstructed steel spikes. Before the spikes could draw more blood, Lloyd walked to Box 416 and inserted the key. The door jammed briefly, then came open. Inside was a