Lloyd Hopkins 3 - Suicide Hill

by James Ellroy

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 forty-five, 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 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 foot.

  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 gouged 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 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.”

  Hawley fumbled the packets into the briefcase, his eyes averted from Rice, his voice near cracking as he spoke. “The Greenbacks are tallied by the week. I’ve got duplicate bankbooks for two old lady customers—they’re senile—and I transfer cash from their accounts to the bank and take it out in Greenbacks. I can’t do it for much longer, it’s wrong, and the paperwork juggling has got to come back on me.” He opened the last drawer and transferred its contents to the briefcase, then held up supplicating hands and whispered, “Please, fast.”

  Rice took in the bank man’s “scam,” feeling it sink in as truth, knowing that Eggers’ pilfer scene was probably something similar—he was a fool to think bank pros would leave cash out overnight. Noting wraparound tabs on the Greenbacks, he flashed a psycho killer smirk and held his jacket open to show off his .45. “I know about exploding ink packets, dick breath. You ink me and I’ll come back and chop-chop your whole family.”

  Hawley shook his head and mashed his hands together. “We do ink only on cash, only on payroll days. Please.”

  He looked up doglike for instructions. Rice closed his briefcase and said, “Back to your car. Stay calm. Think about your golf game and you’ll be cool.”

  Hawley moved toward the front doors in spastic steps; Rice was right behind. When they hit the street and the manager locked the door behind them, he threw his left arm over his shoulders and shifted the tranq gun from his waistband to his right jacket pocket.

  They approached the Cadillac from the street. Rice pointed to the driver’s-side door, and Hawley got in behind the wheel. Terror hit his face as he saw Rice reach into his waistband, and he squeezed his eyes shut and began murmuring the Lord’s Prayer.

  Rice shot him twice point-blank: once in the neck, once in the chest just below his left collar point. Hawley jerked backward in his seat, then bounced forward into the steering wheel. Rice watched him slump sideways, his eyes fluttering, his limbs going rubber. Within seconds he was sleeping the open-mouthed sleep of the junkie. Rice leaned into the car and poured the pint of whiskey over his chest and pants legs. “Bon voyage.” he said.

  After driving to a pay phone and giving Bobby Garcia the all-clear and setting up plans for the split, Rice removed his facial disguise and hit the 405 Freeway to Redondo Beach, the briefcase full of bank checks on the seat beside him. He did another replay of the Eggers case job as he drove, remembering that he had only seen him rummage through the tellers boxes—he’d never seen him with money in hand. That heist had to be a cash rip, and that meant the Garcias couldn’t know about the Greenback fuckup. Turning off the freeway onto Sepulveda, he beat time on the dashboard. The melody was a Vandy/Vandals tune; the words he murmured were, “Be home and be flush, Chula.”

  Chula Medina was at home.

  After bolting the door behind him, Rice unceremoniously opened the briefcase and dumped the contents on the floor, then said, “Quarter on the dollar, cash. And fast.”

  Chula Medina smiled in answer, then sat down cross-legged beside the pile of bank checks. Rice watched him lick his lips as he counted. When he finished, he said, “Nice, but consecutive serial numbers and an off-brand check. These are gonna have to be frozen, then sent east. You’ve got sixty-four K here. My first, last, final and only offer is a dime on the dollar; here, now, cash, you walk out and we never met. Deal?”

  Rice fingered his “Death Before Dishonor” tattoo and knew it was a fu
cking he had to take. “Deal. Put the money in the briefcase.”

  Chula got up, gave a courtly Latin bow and went into his bedroom. Rice had the briefcase held open when he returned. Chula dumped in a big handful of real U.S. currency, bowed again and pointed to the door. “Vaya con Dios, Duane.”

  Rice took the 405 to the Ventura to the Hollywood, wondering how the Garcias would react to the low numbers, and if Eggers could be intimidated into the vault for the real stuff. At Caheunga he exited the freeway, and within minutes he was at his new “home,” the Bowl Motel, seventy scoots a week for a room with a sink, toilet, shower and hot plate. Too expensive for dope fiends; too far up from the Boulevard for hookers; too jig-free to interest the local fuzz. A good interim pad for a rising young criminal. He parked in his space, grabbed the briefcase and walked to his room, threading his way past groups of beer-guzzling pensioners. Inside, he tossed the briefcase on the bed and flopped down beside it, grabbing the snapshot of Vandy off the nightstand. “Coming home, babe; coming home.”

  Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Rice put the photo in his shirt pocket, then walked over and squinted through the peephole, seeing Joe and Bobby Garcia standing there looking hungry: Joe itchy and anxious, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done, but drooling for the payoff; Bobby in a gang-stered-back thumbs-in-belt stance, drooling for more, the butt of his .45 clearly outlined through his windbreaker.

  Rice opened the door and pointed the brothers inside, then bolted it shut behind them. He grabbed the briefcase and dumped the money onto the bed and said, “Count it; it’s a little less than I figured.” Bobby started to giggle while Joe made a beeline for the cash and began separating it into piles. Rice locked eyes with Bobby and said, “Tell me about it.”

  Bobby let his giggle die slowly; Rice saw that the ex-welter was closer to stone loon than he thought—he couldn’t play anything straight.

  “Went in easy like I told you,” Bobby said. “Wham, blam, thank you, ma’am. Kept our masks and gloves on, tied her up good, taped her mouth shut. I think maybe she dug it. Her nipples were all pointy.” He went back to giggling, then segued into sex noises while he jabbed his right forefinger into a hole formed by his left thumb and pinky. When he started making slurping sounds, Rice said, “Ease off on that, will you?”

  Bobby kiboshed the slurping and started fondling the religious medals that encircled his neck. “Okay, Duane-o. But she was fine as wine, I’ll tell you that. It go good for you?”

  Rice watched Joe stack the loot according to denomination, realizing that he liked the tagalong as much as he despised his brother. Joe hummed as he counted, a tune that sounded like “Blueberry Hill.” Listening to the humming made it easy to talk to Bobby without wanting to vomit. “Yeah, it was pie. Day after tomorrow for Confrey/Eggers. I’ve got a recon job for you guys in the meantime.”

  Bobby giggled and said, “Pie like in hairpie?” and Rice saw red. He was cocking his fists when Joe jumped up from the bed, frowned and said, “Sixty-four hundred on the nose. That’s really sh—”

  Bobby shoved his brother aside, moved to the bed and began recounting the money. Finishing, he spat on the pile of bills and turned to look up at Rice. “Slightly less than you figured, huh? Like twenty-five K less. Like Little Bro and me just risked ten to life for three fucking grand?” He paused, then whispered, “You holding out on us?”

  Knowing that fire full was the only way out, Rice said, “I’ll chalk that up to disappointment and a bad temper, but you say it again and I’ll kill you.”

  Joe stood perfectly still; Bobby gripped the mattress with both hands, his jaw trembling, saliva starting to creep out the corners of his mouth. Seeing more fear than anger, Rice threw him back a chunk of his cojones. “Listen, man, I’m just as pissed about it as you. And it’s my fault. I should have realized that the real money was left in the vault. But we’re still on for the next—”

  Bobby screamed, “You’re fucking crazy! These bank fools are leaving out peanuts to pilfer, and I’m not risking my ass again for another three grand!”

  Thinking, macho counterpunch, Rice smiled and said, “I’m going to make Eggers go into the vault for us. The same hostage plan, for twenty times the money. I’m going to intercept him in person as he enters the bank, then force him to call you guys for confirmation that you’re holding his bitch. If he agrees to hit the vault, I’ll tell him to sit tight at his desk with his hands in view, and I’ll go across the street and keep him eyeball pinned. When the guard and tellers arrive and the real money comes out, Eggers grabs what he can carry on his person and goes across the street to meet me. He figures out a cool way to do this, or his bitch gets chopped. Then I walk him to his car and tranq him.”

  Grinning like a macho ghoul, Bobby said, “Suppose he don’t agree?”

  Rice moved to Joe and threw a rough arm around his shoulders. “Then I kill him then and there and take the teller box money. But he’ll agree. He always wears a baggy suit. Lots of room, and I’ll tell him c-notes only. You in, partners?”

  Bobby whooped and jumped up and down, dunking imaginary baskets; Rice tightened his grip on Joe’s shoulders. Joe twisted free and stared at him, and Rice snapped to the fact that he was the smarter of the two. Joe’s eyes pleaded; Rice whispered, “Two more days and it’s over.” Joe looked at Bobby, who was throwing left-right body punches at his reflec tion in the wall mirror. Rice stuck two fingers into his mouth and forced out a loud, shrill whistle.

  The noise brought the scene to a halt. Bobby leaned against the mirror and said in exaggerated barrioese, “Thirty-two hundred. Come up green, homeboy.”

  With an exaggerated shit-eating grin, Rice moved to the bed and began a slow-motion recount of the money, dividing it first in half and shoving that part under the pillow, then separating the remaining half into two portions. Finishing, he offered Joe the first handful of bills, Bobby the second. Both brothers jammed the cash into their front and back pants pockets, then stuffed the overflow into their windbreakers. When the last of the money was stashed, Rice gave them a slow eyeball and shook his head. His crime partners looked like two greedy greaseballs with elephantiasis; like a world-class dose of bad news.

  Bobby cracked his knuckles; Joe looked at Rice and blurted, “What about the recon job, Duane? You gonna tell us now?”

  Rice leaded back on the bed and shut his eyes, blotting out the bad news. “Yeah. I was thinking that maybe Hawley and Eggers know each other. Remember, we don’t know who originally scoped out the heists, how he knew, who he knew, that kind of thing. I’ll be watching the papers to see if they mention Hawley and Issler, and I want you guys to keep a loose tail on Eggers and Confrey, see if the cops or feds are nosing around. If they are, we have to call the heist off. I’ll call you late tomorrow night. If there’s no heat, we hit Friday morning.”

  Bobby popped his knuckles and said, “What kinda recon you gonna be doing?”

  Rice opened his eyes, but kept them away from the brothers. “A little added terror angle, in case Eggers gets uppity. I’m going to trash his pad and steal some kitchen knives, then bring the knives with me when I brace him. That way, I can tell him you’re gonna chop up his bitch with a knife with his prints on them. That and the fact that his pad’s been violated ought to keep him docile.”

  Bobby whooped and jumped up and touched the ceiling; loose bills started to pop out of his pants pockets. Rice said, “What was your record as a fighter?”

  “Eleven, sixteen and zero,” Bobby said. “Never went the distance, knocked out or got knocked out. My tops was seven rounds with Harry “The Headhunter” Hungerford. Lost on cuts. Why you asking?”

  “I was wondering how you survived this long.”

  Bobby giggled and shoved Joe in the direction of the door. “Clean living, anonymous good deeds and faith in Jesus, Duane-o,” he said, kneading his brother’s shoulders. “And a good watchdog. Don’t you worry. I’ll keep a good tail on Eggers and his mama.” He unlocked the door and wagg
led his eyebrows on the way out. Rice could hear him giggle all the way back to the parking lot.

  With the money under his pillow, Rice tried to sleep. Every time he was about to pass out, the staccato beat of the Vandals’ gibberish number “Microwave Slave” took over, and Vandy jumped into his mind in the frumpy housedress she wore when she performed the tune. Finally, staying awake seemed like the easier thing to do. Opening his eyes, he saw the ugliness of the room merge with the ugliness of the music. The frayed cord on the hot plate; a line of dust under the dresser; grease spots all along the walls. A lingering echo of Bobby Garcia’s psycho/buffoon act was the final straw. Rice packed the money and his shaving gear into the briefcase and went looking for a new pad.

  He found a Holiday Inn on Sunset and La Brea and paid $480 for a week in advance. No grease spots, no dust, no senile boozehounds clogging up the parking lot. TV, a view, clean sheets and daily maid service.

  After stashing the bulk of his loot, Rice drove up to the Boulevard and spent a K on clothes. At Pants West he bought six pairs of Levi cords and an assortment of underwear; at Miller’s Outpost he purchased a half dozen plaid shirts. His last stop was the London Shop, where a salesman looked disapprovingly at his tattoo while fitting him for two sport jacket/slacks combos. He thought about buying a set of threads for Vandy, but finally axed the idea: after he got her off the coke, she’d be healthier and heavier and a couple of sizes bigger.

  Now the only white-trash link to be severed was the car. After dropping off his clothes at the new pad and changing into a new shirt and pair of Levi’s, Rice drove to a strip of South Western Avenue that he knew to be loaded with repo lots.

  Two hours and six lots got him zilch—the cars looked shitty and none of the sales bosses would let him do under-the-hood checks. The seventh lot, a G.M. repo outlet on Twenty-eighth and Western, was where he hit pay dirt, a bored sales manager in a cubicle hung with master ignition keys telling him to grab a set of diagnostic tools and scope out any sled he wanted.