BLOOD ON THE MOON

205

On Monday morning Lloyd flew back to Los Angeles and took a cab to Parker Center. He walked up to the sixth floor, feeling the sore muscles around his groin wound stretch and tighten. It would still be weeks before he could make love, but when old doc dope pusher gave him the word he would sweep Kathleen off for a whole shitload of weekends. The sixth-floor corridors were empty. Lloyd checked his watch. 10:35. Morning coffee break. The junior officers’ lounge was probably packed. Dutch had undoubtedly covered his prolonged absence with some sort of story, so why not get the reunion amenities out of the way in one fell swoop?

Lloyd pushed the lounge door open. His face lit up at the sight of a huge roomful of shirt-sleeved men hunched over coffee and donuts, laughing and joking and making good-natured obscene gestures. He stood in the doorway savoring the picture until he felt the noise recede to a hush. Every man in the room was looking at him, and when they all rose to their feet and began to applaud he looked back into their faces and saw nothing but awe and love. The room swayed behind his tears, and shouted “bravos” coupled with the applause to drive him back out into the corridor, dashing more tears from his eyes, wondering what on earth it all meant. Lloyd ran toward his office. He was fumbling in his pocket for his keys when Officer Artie Cranfield came up beside him and said, “Welcome back, Lloyd.”

Lloyd pointed down the hallway and wiped his face. “What the fuck was that all about, Artie? What the fuck did all that mean?”

Artie looked puzzled, then wary. “Don’t shit a shitter, Lloyd. There’s a rumor all over the department that you cleared the Hollywood Slaughterer case. I don’t know where it started, but everyone in Robbery/Homicide believes it, and so does half the L.A.P.D. The word is that Dutch Peltz told the chief himself and that the chief pulled the Internal Affairs bulls off your ass because keeping you on the Department was the best way to keep your mouth shut. You want to tell me about it?”

Lloyd’s tears of bewilderment became tears of laughter. He opened his door and wiped his face with his sleeve. “The case was cleared by a woman, Artie. A left-wing cop-hater poet. Dig the irony and enjoy your tape recorder.”

Lloyd closed the door on Artie Cranfield’s baffled face. When he heard him walk away muttering to himself he switched on the light and looked at his cubicle. Everything was the same as when he had last seen it, except for 206

L.A. NOIR

a single red rose sticking out of a coffee cup on his desk. There was a piece of paper next to the cup. Lloyd picked it up and read: Dearest L.—Protracted goodbyes are terrible, so I’ll be brief. I have to go away. I have to go away because you have given me back my life, and now I have to see what I can do with it. I love you and I need your shelter and you need mine, but the mortar that binds us is blood, and if we stay together it will own us and we will never have the chance to be sane. I have given up the bookstore and my apartment. (It belongs to my creditors and the bank, anyway.) I have my car and a few hundred dollars in cash, and am taking off sans excess baggage for parts unknown. (Men have been doing it for years.) I have much on my mind, much writing to do. Does “Penance for Joanie Pratt” sound like a good title? She owns me, and if I give her my best then maybe I’ll be forgiven. I hurt for our past, L.—But I hurt for your future most of all. You have chosen to stalk ugliness and try to replace it with your numbing kind of love, and that is a painful road to follow. Goodbye. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

K.

P.S. The rose is for Teddy. If we remember him, then he’ll never be able to hurt us.

Lloyd put the paper down and picked up the flower. He held it to his cheek and juxtaposed the image with the spartan accoutrements of his trade. Floral-scented terror merged with metal filing cabinets, wanted posters, and a map of the city, producing pure white light. When Kathleen’s words turned the light into music he drew the moment into the strongest fiber of his heart and carried it away.