BLOOD ON THE MOON

193

might know of his whereabouts; Lloyd always sought out women when he was under stress.

Dutch drove to Yucca and Highland, pulling up in front of the Feminist Bibliophile, noticing immediately that the front door was half open and the porch was littered with broken glass.

Drawing his gun, Dutch walked inside. Mounds of broken glass, plaster, and books covered the floor. He walked back through the kitchen and into the bedroom. No more evidence of destruction, only the eeriness of a leather purse lying on the bed.

Dutch dug through the purse. Money and credit cards were intact, throwing the scene way out of kilter. When he found more money and Kathleen McCarthy’s driver’s license and car registration inside a calfskin wallet, he grabbed the telephone and dialed the desk at the station.

“This is Peltz,” he said. “I want an all points bulletin issued. Kathleen Margaret McCarthy, white female, 5'9", 135, brown and brown, D.O.B. 11/21/46. Beige 1977 Volvo 1200, license LQM 957. Have the officers detain for questioning only. No force—this woman is not a suspect. I want her brought to my office.”

“Isn’t this a little irregular, Captain?” the switchboard officer asked.

“Shut up and issue it,” Dutch said.

After checking the blocks around the bookstore unsuccessfully for Kathleen and her car, Dutch began to feel like a pent-up Judas having second thoughts. He knew that movement was the only antidote. Any destination was better than no destination.

Dutch drove to Silverlake. He knocked on the door of the old house that Lloyd had driven him by so many times, only halfheartedly expecting someone to answer; he knew that Lloyd’s parents were old and lived in silent solitudes. When no one came to the door, he walked around the side of the house to the backyard.

Peering over the fence, Dutch saw a man swigging from a pint of whiskey and waving a large handgun in front of him. He stood perfectly still, recalling Lloyd’s stories about his crazy older brother Tom. He watched the sad spectacle until Tom dropped the handgun to the ground and reached into a packing crate next to it, pulling out a machine gun. Dutch gasped as he watched Tom weave drunkenly, muttering, “Fuckin’

Lloyd don’t know shit, fuckin’ fuzz don’t know how to deal with the fuckin’

niggers, but I know for fuckin’ sure. Fuckin’ Lloyd thinks he can fuck with me, he’s got another fuckin’ think comin’.”

194

L.A. NOIR

Tom dropped the machine gun and fell to the dirt along with it. Dutch drew his .38 and squeezed through a gap in the fence. He crept along the side of the house, then sprinted over to Tom, his gun aimed straight at his head. “Freeze,” he said as Tom looked up, bewildered.

“Lloydy took my goodies,” he said. “He never wanted to play with me. He took my best stuff and still wouldn’t play with me.”

Dutch noticed a large hole in the ground next to him. He looked into it. The muzzles of a half-dozen sawed-off shotguns stared up at him. Leaving Tom weeping in the dirt, he ran back to his car. He gripped the steering wheel and wept himself, praying for God to give him the means to indict Lloyd with pity or release him with love.

18

Kathleen zigzagged through Hollywood side streets, destinationless, numbing the discovery of the tape recorder with silent chantings of her very best prose, the big policeman and his murder theory battling her words point-counterpoint until she ran a red light on Melrose and fishtailed across the intersection, narrowly missing a crossing guard and a flock of children. She pulled to the curb, shaking, her literary holding action drowned out by the honking of angered motorists. She was past words now. Lloyd Hopkins and his conspiracies demanded to be disproved on the basis of fact. The tape recorder was evidence that would require the negation of superior evidence. It was time to visit an old classmate and let his words speak.

*

*

*

Dutch watched from the back of the room as Lieutenant Perkins, the commanding officer of the Hollywood Division detective squad, briefed his men on the Hollywood Slaughterer case:

“Our black-and-white units and helicopter patrols are going to keep the bastard from killing again, but you guys are going to find out who he is. The Sheriff’s dicks are handling the Morton and Craigie cases, and may have an angle—some deputy who used to work West Hollywood Vice blew his brains out last night at his pad, and some of his old Vice partners say he was