by James Ellroy
Rice said, “Long and strong,” and squinted across the booth to get a handle on how the tagalong was holding up. Not bad, he decided; scared, but probably cash flushed, and more scared of continuing a crime career with Sharkshit Bobby. A born follower about to trade leaders.
The waitress returned. The brothers ordered Carta Blanca; Rice another iced tea. When she brought the drinks, the three partners fell silent. Then Rice looked straight at the Garcias, knowing they’d go for the plan: bullshit, truth, the whole enchilada.
“Nifty little Cal Federal on Pico near the West L.A. freeway crisscross. One camera—we shoot it out. One plainclothes security man—a juicehead. Big payroll payouts on the twelfth and twenty-sixth of the month, so we hit the twelfth, this Monday. I’ve got one car pegged for the approach, another for the getaway—a family car right around the corner from the bank. The people are away on vacation, and I’ve got a master key for the doors and ignition. We go in wearing suits and beard-mustache disguises, carrying briefcases. Six tellers stations, two to a man. I know an abandoned garage in Holly weird where we can stash the getaway sled. In, out, on the freeway by the time the fuzz show up. Three-way equal split. I’ve been casing this score for a long time, but I didn’t know how stand-up you guys were. Are you with me?”
Bobby chugalugged his beer, reached into the bowl and crumbled the remains of the nachos, then placed his hands palms up on the table. Rice placed his right hand on top of them; Joe sealed the partnership agreement with both of his. Rice said, “You know how to dress and what to bring. Meet me at Melrose and Highland Monday morning at ten.”
The partners withdrew their hands and stood up. Bobby squeezed out of the booth, walked over to the waitress and began a soft rendition of the Jaws theme. Joe looked at Rice, swallowed and said, “Was that for real about New York and the music gig?”
Rice smiled. “We leave on Wednesday. You stick with me after the job. We have to pick up my old lady, then we have to keep you away from Sharkshit over there. Comprende?”
“Sí, comprendo, mano.” Joe put out his hand jailhouse style; Rice held it down in a square-john shake. “That low-rider shit is dead. You pull that stuff in New York, and they’ll laugh you out of town.”
13
Lloyd pulled up to the back entrance of the West L.A. Federal Building and honked his horn. Peter Kapek walked over to the car and got in. Expecting a rebuke for the Confrey approach, Lloyd was stunned when the junior G-man said, “Good work on the girlfriend. I got a good statement out of her. No positive I.D. on the white man, but Confrey and Eggers worked up a composite with an L.A.P.D. artist. It’ll be distributed all points by tomorrow morning. Where are we going? And by the way, you look like shit.”
Lloyd nosed the Matador out onto Wilshire. “Didn’t you get the complete message? We’re going to brace a suspected gun dealer. Luis Miguel Calderon, a.k.a. “Likable Louie,” male Mexican, age thirty-nine, two convictions for receiving stolen goods, former youth gang member mellowed out into smalltime businessman. He’s got an auto parts shop in Silverlake, my old neighborhood. A snitch I trust says he’s dealing army-issue .45s. And I look like shit because I’ve been doing police work all night.”
Kapek laughed. “I like it! Learn anything?”
Lloyd shook his head. “Not really. I canvassed the Security Pacific area and Confrey’s neighborhood; Brawley from Van Nuys Dicks couldn’t spare any men. I got a big zero—no suspicious people or vehicles. I read every report on Hawley’s and Issler’s associates eight times—nothing bit me. Then I called a couple of media people and gave them the whole ball of wax. It goes to press and on the air Monday night, giving us exactly forty-eight hours to figure out a strategy. What’s the matter, G-man? You’re not doing your famous slow burn.”
Kapek toyed with the knobs of the two-way radio. “Don’t call me ‘G-man,’ it turns me on. I didn’t rat you off on Confrey because I heard these homicide guys at Parker Center talking about you with awe, and I actually started to like you a little bit. Also, I got a good statement from Confrey. The rape guy turned out not to be a rape-o, more like a psycho muff diver. He did this rebop about being a shark, then went down on Chrissy’s bush. I’ve computer-fed the info nationwide—nothing—and I’ve put it in a memo for L.A.P.D. roll calls—maybe we’ll get a bite.”
“A shark bite?”
“Very fucking amusing. We need a hard lead, Hopkins; this thing is covered from every paper angle. Our eyeball witnesses have checked every local and federal mug book—zero. The men checking out the victims’ associates have got nothing, and I’ve got an agent going over Hawley’s and Eggers’ credit card slips with them—you know, all the places they rendezvoused with the girlfriends have got to be checked out. If nothing breaks by Monday, I’m planting people in the offices where Issler and Confrey work.”
Lloyd nodded and said, “I’ve been kicking around an idea that might account for a connection between Hawley and Eggers and explain why the robbers have escalated their M.O. I’m thinking both these guys might be pilfering traveler’s checks—at least Hawley. Here’s the reconstruction. While they’re casing the B. of A., the robbers see Hawley stealing the green traveler’s checks, which from a distance look like cash. They think that money is left overnight in the tellers boxes—”
Kapek interrupted. “Hawley said the inside man wanted the bank checks—that he asked for them by name.”
Lloyd shook his head. “That’s Hawley the pilferer covering his ass, obscuring the robbers’ reasons for hitting his bank. Here’s my reasoning. The robbers have either seen Eggers pilfering similarly, or they figured, and this isn’t likely, given their intelligence, that all banks leave loose cash out overnight. So, after the low score on the traveler’s checks, they figure that Eggers is just another check stealer, say to themselves ‘Fuck that’ and decide to make Eggers go for the vault. You like it?”
Grinning, Kapek said, “It floats. But what do we do about it?”
“Have your Bank Fraud Division people give you a crash course in check rip-off scams. Maybe they can tell us something we can use to squeeze Hawley and Eggers. I’ve got a hunch on this. I think that if these guys are pilferers, it’s out of desperation—cash flow problems that they can’t talk about. And that makes me think vice—gambling, dope, sex. Sex the least likely, because they’ve got the outside stuff going. I’m going to initiate inquiries with every vice squad in the Valley—maybe our boys are heavy in hock to bookies, or loan sharks, or they’re into kinky shit we don’t know about. If we get a bunch of vice dicks to pump their informants, we might get something.”
Kapek elbowed Lloyd and said, “I like it! There’s nothing on the traveler’s checks, by the way, but on the cash flow problems, I’m going to peruse our boys’ bank accounts, see what I get.”
Lloyd took the words in silently and, as the old neighborhood drew closer, thought of his family. “You didn’t rag me on the media goose,” he said. “Come Monday night a lot of innocent people are going to be hurting. I figured a sensitive guy like you would be pissed.”
Kapek flushed. “It was the right thing. I would have waited a day or so, then done it. I’m doing the family interviews, though, and discreetly.”
“We’re almost there, G-man. Any thoughts on this interview?”
“No, you?”
“Yeah. Let’s test Likable Louie’s fuse.”
Lloyd pulled to the curb, then pointed to the white adobe building that housed Louie’s One-Stop Pit Stop.
“No violence?” Kapek said.
“No violence.”
“Then I like it.”
They walked across the street and through the wide-open front door of the garage, into a small room filled with stacks of retread tires. A Chicano youth popping a pimple at a wall mirror gave them the fisheye, and Lloyd said, “Where’s Louie?”
The youth gouged the zit a last time and reached for an intercom set mounted on the connecting door. Lloyd said, “Don’t do that,” and motioned for Kapek t
o walk ahead of him. The kid shrugged, and Kapek pushed through the door. Lloyd was right behind him, tingling at the thought of a razzle-dazzle interrogation.
The garage proper was huge, with pneumatic grease racks, sliding drawers full of auto parts, and a large drive-in space leading to a back entrance and work area. Lloyd and Kapek walked slowly, catching cop-wise squints from the mechanics working beneath the racks. A heavyset man glanced at them, and Lloyd recognized him from his R&I snapshot: Luis Calderon.
He walked over and smiled, revealing buck teeth and a fortune in dental gold. “Good afternoon, Officers. Looking for me?”
Lloyd flashed his badge. “Hopkins, L.A.P.D. This is Special Agent Kapek, F.B.I. We’d like to talk to you.”
Calderon sighed. “Have I got a choice?”
Lloyd sighed back. “Yeah, you do. Here or Rampart Station.”
“I’ve already seen it,” Calderon said. “Let’s go out back and get some air.”
Catching an edge in his voice, Lloyd said, “No. Your office.” Calderon sighed again and started walking toward the garage’s street entrance. Lloyd tapped him on the shoulder. “No, Louie. Your real office, where you’ve got your desk and your files and your invoices.”
Louie turned around and walked over to and up a flight of wooden stairs next to the tool bin. Lloyd let Kapek get between them, knowing the mechanic/hood’s reaction to a fed roust was out of kilter. When Calderon opened the office door, he squeezed in ahead of him and quickly sized up the room. Soot-stained walls, paper-cluttered desk, refrigerator and a Playboy Playmate tacked to the wall, probably hiding a safe. Two phones on the desk, one red, one black; a clipboard holding notebook paper leaning against the red one. Nothing incriminating at first glance.
Calderon opened the refrigerator and took out a Coors, then sat down behind the desk. Popping the can, he said, “Topped out my parole, topped out my probation. Pay my taxes and don’t associate with no criminal types. My only vice is brew. I’m a righteous sudser. If outfits were legal, I’d geez the shit. I’m a suds-guzzling motherfucker. I pour the shit on my Rice Krispies in the morning, and sometimes I even shave with it. I give my dog a brew chaser with his Alpo. If I was a fag, I’d squirt the shit up my ass. I am a righteous beerhound motherfucker. So how come you’re coming on like storm troopers, when all the Rampart cops know Likable Louie likes to cooperate?”
Lloyd breathed the spiel in, savoring the tension that fueled it. He looked over at Kapek, who was chuckling with genuine amusement, and said, “I don’t work out of Rampart, and I didn’t come here to catch your Richard Pryor shtick. I could roust your workers for green cards and get myself a bonaroo immigration bust, and I’d love to run the numbers on your engine blocks. A third time receiving conviction is a nickel minimum. State time, Louie, and what you get up the ass there ain’t Coors.”
Louie Calderon sipped beer. Lloyd saw that his first salvo was on target, but not a wounder. Sensing that Kapek was being quiet out of real respect, he bored in: “You snitching for Rampart Dicks, Louie?”
Calderon smiled; Lloyd could almost feel the fat man’s blood pressure chill out as he said, “It’s well known that Likable Louie likes to cooperate.”
Lloyd twisted a wooden chair around and sat down in it, facing Calderon. Smiling and hooking a thumb over his back at Kapek, he said, “Louie, that man over there is an F.B.I. Criminal Division agent. Why haven’t you asked me about him?”
“Because unless he wants a boss transmission overhaul, I don’t care if he stays, lays, prays or strays.”
“How come you’ve got two phones, different colors?”
“The black phone’s for business, the red phone’s my hot line to the White House. Ronnie calls me up sometimes. We chase pussy together.”
“Who’s your connection at Rampart Dicks?”
“Who’s your tailor? Your suit sucks.”
The black phone rang. Calderon picked it up and spoke into it in Spanish. Lloyd raised his eyebrows at Kapek; the F.B.I. man said, “Not a word.” Shaking his head, Lloyd watched Likable Louie talk a blue streak, then hang up and say, “Okay, let’s see if I can scope this out. You need a favor, and someone at Rampart said I could help. You came on strong to test me, to see if I could be trusted. I’m tired of playing games. What do you need?”
Lloyd was reaching for his most disarming smile when the red phone rang. Louie picked up the receiver and said, “Yes,” then nodded and wrote on the clipboard. Lloyd squinted and saw that the top sheet of paper was half covered with pencil scrawl.
Calderon said yes a final time and hung up. Lloyd looked at the veins in his neck and saw the signs of a slamming heart. “Who’s your connection at Rampart Dicks?”
Louie’s voice was hoarse; Lloyd could tell that he was getting genuinely befuddled. “Why you keep asking me that, man?”
Lloyd’s third volley began with his most evil shitkicker glare. “I grew up in Silverlake. I was in the Dogtown Flats back when you were in the Alpines. My parents still live over on Griffith Park and St. Elmo, so I like things safe around here. Rampart does a pretty good job of keeping the peace, because they’ve got snitches like you to rat off the bad dudes that everybody hates. You get to hire wetbacks and turn over some stolen parts, and my mom and dad go to sleep safe at night. Right, Louie?”
“R-r-r-right,” Louie stammered.
Lloyd stood up and pulled a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster. Holding it in front of Louie Calderon’s trembling face, he said, “There’s these three guys perving on women and taking out banks, and maybe they got their pieces from you. Here’s the pitch: if you turned the pieces, you’ve got twenty-four hours to give me the names. If you didn’t, you’ve got forty-eight hours to find out who did, and who he sold them to. If I don’t hear from you in forty-eight one way or the other, I go to the commander of Rampart Dicks and snitch you off to him as the kingpin motherfucking gun dealer of L.A. County.” He dropped his Robbery/Homicide business card on the desk and reholstered the gun. “Be cool, homeboy.”
Back at the car, Kapek looked at Lloyd and said, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Lloyd unlocked the door and got in. “Meaning Calderon?”
Kapek took the passenger seat. “No, you. How much of that was bluff?”
“Everything but my threat. Calderon had that self-satisfied look, and he had a shitload of wetbacks working for him, and he didn’t want us to see his office. My guess is that he’s snitching dope dealers to the Rampart narks in exchange for immunity on the illegals. I know the squad commander at Rampart—he’ll let minor shit slide for good information, but he’s death on violent crime. If he finds out Louie’s dealing guns, Louie’s ass is fucking grass.”
“But is he our gun dealer?”
“I don’t know. The important thing is that he’s scared. He’s between Lieutenant Buddy “Bad Ass” Bagdessarian and me on one side, the robbers and getting a rat jacket on the other. We’ve got to put a twenty-four tail on him—your men—he’s too hip to local cops. He’s an old homeboy, a criminal with contacts, and he may damn well not be our gun dealer, but be able to put the finger on him, or he may snitch off the robbers straight out to save his ass with Buddy. Either way, we’re set. How soon can you implement the surveillance?”
“As soon as you drop me off at Central Office. What are you going to do?”
Lloyd hit the ignition and gunned the car out onto Tomahawk Street. “Read all the paperwork again, then write up my ideas for Brawley at Van Nuys Dicks. Then I’m going to visit an old pal of mine. He’s a superior court judge, and he’s senile and a right-wing loony. He gets his rocks off issuing search-and-seizure warrants. I buy him a case of Scotch every Christmas, and he signs whatever I ask him for. Right before Louie’s forty-eight are up, I’m going in his front door with a .12 gauge and due process to seize every scrap of paper he’s got. You like it?”
Kapek was pale; his voice was shaky. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“You said that before. One other thing. I�
�m almost positive that the reason Calderon didn’t want us in his office is the red phone. He’s either taking bets or running a bootleg message service.”
“What’s that?”
“A two-way answering service. Mostly it’s used by parole absconders and their families. He had a clipboard with writing on it next to the phone—messages for sure. Calderon’s house is right next to the garage, and he’s probably got someone there monitoring an extension all the time. Sometimes those numbers are legit Ma Bell handouts; sometimes illegal hookups that can’t be traced. I want a tap on all Calderon’s lines. That requires a federal warrant—your side of the street. Can you swing it?”
Kapek’s color was returning, but a thin layer of sweat was creeping over his forehead. He wiped it off with his sleeve and said, “Monday at the earliest. Federal judges all go incommunicado on the weekends to avoid warrant hassles. You really want these guys, don’t you?”
Lloyd smiled. “I’m probably getting stress-pensioned soon, against my will. I intend to go out in true hot-dog fashion.” He pulled up in front of the downtown F.B.I. building, and Kapek got out. Highballing it to Parker Center, the junior G-man’s pale face stayed fixed in his mind, and he knew he had taken over the investigation.
With twenty-eight sleepless hours behind him, Lloyd pushed his investigation for another twenty-four flat out.
At Parker Center he checked the “monicker” file for every nickname variation of “Shark,” coming away with a large assortment of data pertaining to black youth gangs. Useless trivia. An R&I check of male Mexican registered sex offenders with a cunnilingus M.O. yielded seven names, but three of the men were currently in prison and the other four were in their fifties—way above Sally Issler’s and Christine Confrey’s “late twenties, early thirties” appraisal. The only remaining option was to add the “Shark” and oral sex abuse facts to the roll call reports and distribute the word to all L.A.P.D. informants.