BLOOD ON THE MOON

59

Lloyd found Dutch Peltz in the muster room at Van Nuys Station, pacing the walls and reading the crime reports tacked to the bulletin boards. He cleared his throat and the older cop wheeled and threw up his hands in mock surrender.

“Jesus, Lloyd,” he said, “when in God’s name will you learn not to tread so softly among friends? A Kodiak bear with the tread of a cat. Jesus!”

Lloyd laughed at the expression of love; it made him happy. “You look good, Dutch. Working a desk and losing weight! A fucking miracle.”

Dutch gave Lloyd a warm, two-handed handshake. “It’s no miracle, kid. I quit smoking and lost weight too. What have we got?”

“A gunsel. Works with a partner. He’s got a pad on Saticoy. I figured we’d drive over and check if his car is around. If he’s at home, we’ll call for a couple of back-up units; if he’s gone, we’ll wait him out and take him ourselves. You like it?”

“I like it. I brought my Ithaca pump. What’s the joker’s name?”

“Richard Douglas Wilson, white male, age thirty-four. Two-time loser with a Quentin jacket.”

“Sounds like a charming fellow.”

“Yeah, a Renaissance lowlifer.”

“You’ll tell me about it in the car?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Richard Douglas Wilson was not at home. Having checked every street space, driveway and parking lot on the 11800 block of Saticoy Street for a

’79 Firebird, Lloyd made a circuit of number 11879; a rundown, two-story apartment house. The mailbox designated Wilson as living in Number 14. Lloyd found the apartment at the rear of the building. A screen-covered, sliding glass window was wide open. He looked inside, then walked back to Dutch, who was parked across the street in the shadow of a freeway offramp.

“No car, no Wilson, Dutch,” Lloyd said. “I looked in his window—brand new stereo, new TV, new clothes, new money.”

Dutch laughed. “You happy, Lloyd?”

“Yeah, I am. Are you?”

“If you are, kid.”

The two policemen settled in to wait. Dutch had brought a thermos of coffee, and when twilight stifled the heat and smog, he poured two cups. Handing one to Lloyd, he broke the long, comfortable silence. “I ran into Janice the other day. I had to testify for an old snitch of mine in Santa Mon-60

L.A. NOIR

ica. He took a fall for a burglary one, so I went down to rap sadness to the D.A. about how the poor bastard was strung out and would he talk to the judge about diverting him to a drug program. Anyway, I stop at a coffee shop, and there’s Janice. She’s got this fag with her, he’s showing her fabrics out of this binder, really giving her the hard sell. Anyway, the fag sashays off and Janice invites me to sit down. We talk. She says the shop is doing well, it’s acquiring a reputation, the girls are fine. She says that you spend too much time working, but that it’s an old complaint and she can’t change you. She looks sort of disgusted, so I come to your aid. I say, ‘Genius writes its own rules, sweetie. Lloyd loves you. Lloyd will change in time.’ Janice screams at me, ‘Lloyd is incapable of it, and his fucking love isn’t enough!’

That was it, Lloyd. She wouldn’t talk about it any more. I tried to change the subject, but Janice keeps taking these cryptic little digs at you. Finally, she jumps up and kisses me on the cheek and says, ‘I’m sorry, Dutch. I’m just being a bitch,’ and runs out the door.”

Dutch’s voice trailed off as he searched for words to end his story. “I just thought I’d tell you,” he said. “I don’t believe partners should keep secrets from each other.”

Lloyd sipped his coffee, his mind quietly turbulent, as it always was when he felt cracks appearing in his major dreams. “So what’s the upshot, partner?” he asked.

“The upshot?”

“The riddle, you dumb fucking krauthead! The undercurrents! Haven’t I taught you better than that? What was Janice really trying to tell you?”

Dutch swallowed his crushed pride and spat it out angrily. “I think she’s wise to your womanizing, brainboy. I think she knows that the finest of L.A.’s finest is chasing cunt and shacking up with a bunch of sleazy bimbos who can’t hold the remotest candle to the woman he married. That’s what I think.”

Lloyd went calm beneath his anger, and the cracks in his major dreams became fissures. He shook his head slowly, searching for mortar to fill them up. “You’re wrong,” he said, giving Dutch’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I think Janice would let me know. And Dutch? The other women in my life aren’t bimbos.”

“Then what are they?”

“Just women. And I love them.”

“You love them?”

Lloyd knew as he said the words that it was one of the proudest moments