SUICIDE HILL
515
The connecting hallway was still. Joe heard music coming from a door at the far left end and took that side of the hall, knowing part of his watchdog job was to be the one who grabbed the girl. As the music grew louder, he pressed himself to the wall; when the music drowned out the slamming of his heart, he leaped through the open door and jumped on the woman who was standing with one foot on the bathtub ledge, poising a razor over her leg. The woman screamed as Joe’s arms went around her; the razor gouged a section of calf. Bobby elbowed his way into the bathroom and wrapped the towel over her head, stuffing a large wad of it into her mouth, stifling her screams. Joe fumbled her robe into her breasts so they wouldn’t stick out, then circled the cord around her, pressing her arms to her sides. When he got it tied, he lifted her off the floor, kicking and flailing, still tightly grasping the razor. He whispered, “Sssh, sssh, sssh. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want money. We just want money.”
Bobby got out his roll of tape and pulled a long piece loose, then withdrew the towel. The woman let out a short screech before he was able to loop the tape around her head and press it to her mouth. When he saw the terror in her eyes, his whole body started to twitch, and he whispered, “Get her fucking calmed down.”
Joe loosened his grip on the woman as Bobby stumbled out of the bathroom. With one hand he took out his .45 and held it in front of her; with the other he smoothed her disheveled hair. “Sssh. Sssh. We’re not going to hurt you. This is a robbery. It’s got to do with you and your boyfriend Eggers. You have to do two things: you have to not be scared, but you have to act scared when the phone rings and you talk to your boyfriend. My buddy’s a crazy man, but I can control him. Be cool and you won’t get hurt. ”
Christine Confrey’s tremors decelerated just a notch; Joe could feel her thinking. When she dropped the razor, he relaxed his grip and steered her into the hallway. Bobby was there, leaning against the wall, giving the thumbs-up sign. “The phone is gonna ring real soon,” he giggled. Joe nodded and moved Christine into the bedroom, motioning Bobby to stay out. He noticed the phone on a nightstand; it had the look of something about to explode. When it rang shrilly, he looked into his captive’s eyes. “Just be cool, ” he whispered, gently pulling the tape from her mouth. He picked up the phone on the fifth ring and said, “Eggers?” getting a
“Y-yes, Chrissy. P-please p-put her on.” Nodding at Christine and holding up the .45 for her to see, he handed the receiver over. She grasped it with shaking hands and tried to form words. Joe fought a 516
L.A. NOIR
desire to smooth her hair. Finally her voice caught: “John, there’s these two men here. They’ve got guns and they say that all they want is money.” She watched Joe stroke the barrel of his .45, and her voice accelerated: “Please, John, goddammit. Don’t be fucking cheap—do whatever they tell you to do or they’ll kill me. They—”
Joe grabbed the phone and put his free hand over Christine’s mouth. He said, “Got it, Eggers?” and got “Yes, you animal” in return. Joe said, “Just do what our friend says,” then hung up.
Christine Confrey twisted her head free and said, “Now what?” Joe thought of tire-squealing black-and-whites and shotgun-wielding fuzz.
“Now we wait,” he said. “An hour tops. Then we get another call, and we tape your mouth and you never see us again.”
“You’re a slimy piece of Mexican shit,” Christine Confrey replied. Joe caught himself starting to nod in agreement, but said instead, “Be cool.” His face began sweating beneath the ski mask. It felt like a shroud. They waited in silence, Christine sitting on the bed, Joe standing by the bedroom door, looking at his watch and listening to Bobby giggle as he prowled the house. It felt like he had two senses, both of them working toward something bad. After thirty-two minutes of scoping out the Timex, Bobby’s giggles exploded into a big burst of laughter. Then the door pushed open, and the ski-masked loony was there, a magazine in his hands, growling, “Check the skin book, homeboy. Righteous hairpie. ”
Christine pointed to the magazine Bobby was waving, hyperventilating, then getting out: “I-I-I was nineteen! I needed the money and I only kept it because John likes to see what I was like then and I—”
Joe moved to the bed and wrapped the discarded section of tape around Christine’s mouth. Bobby was at his back, holding the copy of Beaverooney open, jabbing his right forefinger at the pictures inside. “Dig it, bro! Is this bitch fine as wine, or am I woofin’! Dig it!”
To placate Bobby, Joe glanced at the legs-apart nude spread. “Yeah, but just maintain. Main-fucking-tain. ”
Bobby shoved him aside and sat down on the edge of the bed. Christine strained against the cord and tape, kicking her legs in an effort to propel herself away, working her lips trying to scream. A stream of urine stained the front of her robe and trickled down her thighs. Bobby squealed, “Righteous,” and grabbed both her ankles with his left hand and held them to the bed, while his right hand hovered over her pelvis in a parody of a shark about to attack. He grunted, “Duhn-duhn-duhn-duhn,” and Joe recognized