SUICIDE HILL

517

it as the theme from Jaws. Bobby’s shark hand did slow figure eights; Bobby himself whispered, “We reconned you good, baby, but I didn’t pick up on how fine you are. Fine as wine. I’m the Sharkman, baby. Duhn-duhn-duhnduhn. I give righteous fin and even better snout.”

Joe whimpered, “No, no, no,” as Bobby stuck his tongue through the hole in his ski mask and lowered his head; when his mouth made contact with Christine’s leg, he shrieked, “No, you fucking rape-o, no!”

The phone rang.

Bobby jerked his head up as Joe moved toward the nightstand. He pulled the .45 from his waistband and aimed it straight between his brother’s eyes.

“Let it ring, puto. The shark wants to give some snout, and no candy ass watchdog is gonna stop him.”

Joe backed into the wall; the phone rang another six times, then stopped. Bobby giggled and started making slurping noises. Christine squeezed her eyes shut and tried to bring her hands together in prayer. Joe shut his own eyes, and when he heard Bobby titter, “Shark goin’ down,” he stumbled out of the bedroom, picturing tear gas and choppers and death. Then there was a crashing sound from the rear of the house. Joe opened his eyes and saw Duane Rice running down the hallway holding a briefcase and the .45, no ski mask and no beard disguise on. The house went silent, then Bobby’s “Sharkman, Sharkman,” reverberated like thunder. Rice crashed into the bedroom, and Joe heard a sound he’d never heard before: Bobby squealing in terror.

He ran to the bedroom door and looked in. Rice had Bobby on the floor and was slamming punches at his midsection. Christine Confrey was still on the bed, trying to scream. Her robe was pulled up over her stomach and her panties were curled around her ankles. Joe ran to the bed and pulled down the robe, then grabbed Duane Rice’s shoulders and screamed, “Don’t!

Don’t! You’ll kill him!”

Rice’s head and fists jerked back at the same instant, and he twisted to look up at the voice. Joe said, “Please, ” and Rice weaved to his feet and gasped, “Get the briefcase.”

Bobby moaned and curled into a ball; Christine tried to bury her head in the bed sheets. Rice felt the throbbing redness that was devouring him ease down. When Joe came back holding the briefcase, he pinned his shoulders to the wall and hissed, “You listen to this and we’ll survive. Get psycho out of here and run herd on him like you never did before. Tie the woman up 518

L.A. NOIR

even better and don’t let that piece of shit near her. If I find out he even touched her again, I’ll kill him. Do you believe me?”

Joe nodded and said, “Yes.” Rice released him, opened the briefcase and started extracting handfuls of money, dropping them on the bed. When the briefcase was half empty, he pointed to the pile and said, “Your share. I’ll call you tonight. I trust you for some reason, so you take care of him.”

Joe looked at the wads of cash covering the crumpled sheets and Christine Confrey’s legs, then looked down at Bobby, slowly rising to his knees. He turned around for sight of Duane Rice, but he was already gone.

*

*

*

Rice forced himself to walk slowly to the Trans Am, parked a block from Christine Confrey’s house. He swung the briefcase like Mr. Square Citizen and wondered how good a look the woman got at his face, and why for a split second her face looked just like Vandy’s. Then he remembered how at their first meeting Joe Garcia had called his brother a rape-o and how it didn’t register as anything but jive. Eggers was angel dust pie, but it was Bobby Boogaloo who put them inches away from the shithouse. After stashing the briefcase in the trunk, Rice drove down Gage to Studio, and at the corner saw the Garcias’ ’77 Camaro parked at the curb. He pulled into a liquor store lot across the street to observe the brothers’ getaway and see if the fuzz approached the Confrey pad. If no black-and-whites descended and Joe and the rape-o looked good, they were clear, and Pico and Westholme was still a possible.

He thought of the score, of the sheer audacity of trashing Eggers’s sterile Colonial crib and the look on his face when he showed him the knives he’d stolen and said, “Christine Confrey, chop, chop. Your prints. You know what I want. ” The look got better as the heist progressed, the bank man realizing there was no way out except to obey. Even though the take was probably only 12K tops, it was twice the amount of the first job—a good omen, and a better appetite whetter.

After ten minutes, no patrol cars or unmarked cruisers appeared, and he could see straight up Gage and tell that the house was still undisturbed. His hands throbbed from whomping Bobby Garcia, and he gripped the steering wheel to control the pain. After twenty minutes, the Garcias swung onto Studio Boulevard from a block east of Gage, walking two abreast with shopping bags partially shielding their faces. Bobby was limping, probably from abdominal pain, and Joe was talking him through the whole scene, more like a daddy than a kid brother. Rice smiled as they got in their Camaro and