SUICIDE HILL

481

nearest big street to the chicks’ pads. That’s Ventura for the Issler woman, Lankershim for Confrey. Wear gloves, but don’t put on your ski masks until right before you go in the door. Carry briefcases and dress well so you’ll blend in with the neighborhood. We meet at my place, Room 112 at the Bowl Motel on Highland up from the Boulevard, one hour after I call you at the girlfriends’ pads. Tie the chicks up and tape their mouths, but make sure they can breathe. Questions?”

Bobby Garcia said, “Yeah. You said you been casing both gigs for three days. What do you mean by that?”

“We’ve got two on-the-sly romances going down,” Rice said. “Hawley from the B. of A. and his bitch Issler; Eggers from Security-Pacific and his babe Confrey. Both men open their banks early, by themselves, and pilfer from the tellers boxes, probably small amounts. Okay, three days now, I’ve seen them tap the tills before opening. I’ve watched the guards and tellers arrive, parked across the street with binoculars. At both banks the money at the tellers stations is left there overnight!”

Joe Garcia raised his hand. “Why are these banks so lax about their security?”

“Good question,” Rice said. “I thought about that, then I did some more checking. First off, Hawley is a fuckup, too wimpy to run a tight ship. He’s got nothing but party-hearty types working there, you know, everybody smokes dope on their lunch hour, young squares with no ambition, so they’ve got to get wasted to make it through the day. Also, the SecurityPacific is only half a block from an L.A.P.D. substation—maybe Eggers thinks he’s robbery-proof. Who knows? And who cares?”

Bobby held up his hands, then brought them together and began slowly cracking the knuckles on each finger. Finishing, he said, “Let’s cut the shit and get to the cut. It’s a righteous fucking plan, but how much are we gonna make?”

Rice said, “I’m guessing at least thirty K per bank minimum, sixty-forty split—sixty for me, forty for you guys to split.”

Bobby snorted. Joe said, “That sounds fair to me, you did all the wo—”

“Shut up, pendejo!” Bobby yelled. Lowering his voice, he said to Rice, “I like you, Duane, but you’re giving me the big one where it hurts the most. Fifty-fifty, or you go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut.”

Rice faked a sheepish look; his split strategy had worked to perfection.

“Deal,” he said, sticking out his right hand for the brothers to grasp, wincing when Bobby slammed it with both callused palms, grinning when Joe’s 482

L.A. NOIR

tagalong hands followed. “Day after tomorrow for Hawley and Issler. I’ll meet you here tomorrow night at nine for a final briefing. If you need me for anything, call me at Louie’s bootleg number.”

The three men stood up and shook hands all around. Rice turned to walk out, and Bobby tapped him on the shoulder. “Ain’t you forgetting something, Duane?”

Rice smiled and did a two-gun pirouette, drawing one .45 from his back waistband and another from his shoulder holster, flipping them up by the silencered barrels and catching them by the grips. “Be cool,” he said as he handed the guns to Bobby.

Bobby “Boogaloo” Garcia grinned and emptied both .45s at his back living room wall, blowing Roberto Duran to shreds and the wall itself into a rubble heap of rotted wood, dust and plaster chips. Joe squinted through the gun smoke and saw that the shots had ripped apart the connecting door to his bedroom. Screaming, “You rape-o motherfucker, you wasted my albums!”

he ran back to inspect the damage. Bobby bowed to Rice and said, “Never liked Roberto since Hearns kicked his ass. Silencers work good, Duane.”

7

Deputy Chief Thad Braverton slammed down the phone and muttered,

“Fuck,” then buzzed his secretary. When she appeared in the doorway, he said, “Ring Captain McManus at Robbery/Homicide and have him come up immediately, then call Captain Gaffaney at Internal Affairs and have him come up in fifteen minutes, no sooner.”

The woman nodded and about-faced into her vestibule. Braverton sent exasperated eyes heavenward and said, “Crazy Lloyd. Jesus fucking Christ.”

McManus rapped on the doorjamb only moments later. Braverton took his eyes from the ceiling and said, “Sit down, John. Close the door behind you. Fred Gaffaney is joining us shortly, and I don’t want him to hear any of this.”

McManus nodded and eased the door shut, then sat down, waiting for the superior officer to speak first. Close to a minute passed before Braverton said, “Hopkins isn’t accepting the retirement deal.”