SUICIDE HILL

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drove off. For a cowardly tagalong criminal, Joe Garcia had balls. If he could control the rape-o’s balls for three hours, he’d make Pico and Westholme happen. When he got “home” to the Holiday Inn, Rice changed from his bank robber suit into a new shirt-Levi combo and counted the proceeds of the Eggers/Confrey job. His half of the haphazardly split take came to

$5,115.00. Fondling the money felt obscene, and he remembered what a soft-hearted old bull at Soledad told him: don’t fuck whores, because then all women start looking like whores. He remembered Christine Confrey’s terrified face and wondered if you loved a woman, then did all women start looking like her? Even though Christine and Vandy were physical opposites, their resemblance was weird. Rice looked at the phone and flashed on an idea to call the fuzz and tip them to Christine, then double-flashed on it as suicide and dialed Louie Calderon’s bootleg number.

Louie picked up on the first ring. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Duane. Got any messages for me?”

“Duane the Brain. How’s it hangin’?”

“A hard yard. Any calls?”

“Yeah. If a nigger and a Mexican jump off the top of the Occidental Building at the same time, who hits the ground first?”

“Jesus, Louie. Who?”

“The nigger, ’cause the Mexican’s gotta stop on the way down and spray his name on the wall!” Louie went into a laughing attack, then recovered and said, “I thought it was funny, and I’m a fuckin’ Mexican. Got a pencil?”

“I can remember it. Shoot.”

“Okay. Call Rhonda—654-8996. Sexed-out voice, Duane, really fine.”

Rice said, “Yeah” and hung up, then dialed Rhonda’s number. After six rings, the hooking stockbroker’s sleepy voice came on the line. “Yes?”

“It’s Duane Rice. What have you got for me?”

“Brace yourself, Duane.”

“Tell me!”

Rhonda let out a long breath, then said, “I found out that Anne did work Silver Foxes for a while, a few months ago. Now she’s taken up with a man—a video entrepreneur. I’m pretty sure it’s a coke-whore scene. He’s heavy into rock vid, and, well, I . . .”

Rice said, “Real slow now and you’re a K richer. Name, address and phone number. Real slow.”

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L.A. NOIR

“Can you pay me Monday or Tuesday? I’m going to the Springs for the weekend, and my car payment’s due.”

Rice screamed, “Tell me, goddammit, you fucking whore!”

Rhonda screamed back, “Stan Klein, Mount Olympus Estates, Number 14! You’re a bigger whore than I am and I want my money!”

Klein the dope dealer who probably ratted him off on his G.T.A. bust—

Klein the lounge lizard who he always figured had the hots for Vandy and—

The hotel room reeled; adrenaline juiced through Rice like the shot of dope that had cost him three years of his life. The phone dropped to the floor, and through a long red tunnel Rhonda’s voice echoed: “I’m sorry, Duane. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Everything went crazy, then a jolt of ice water made the room sizzle like a live wire.

You can’t kill him.

You can’t kill him because he’s a known associate. You can’t kill him because Vandy’s a known associate, and the cops will sweat her at Sybil Brand and the dykes will eat her up. You can’t kill him because then you and Vandy can’t make the rock scene in the Big Apple and you’ll never have the place in Connecticut, and—

It was enough ice-water fuel. Rice ran for the Trans Am, leaving the .45

under the pillow as added insurance. Rhonda’s pleas were still coming out of the phone: “I’m sorry, goddammit, but I need money! You promised! You promised!”

*

*

*

Mount Olympus was an upscale tract of two-story Mediterranean villas situated off Fairfax in the lower part of the Hollywood Hills. Rice cruised the access road, looking for Stan Klein’s red Porsche with the personalized plate

“Stan Man.” When all he saw were Benzes, Caddys and Audis, mostly colorcoordinated to the houses, he pulled into the empty driveway of Number 14

and got out, grabbing a skinny-head screwdriver from the glove compartment. The windows were too high to reach, but the door looked flimsy. Rice rang the bell, waited twenty seconds, then rang again. Hearing no sounds of movement inside, he inserted the screwdriver into the door runner just above the lock and yanked. The cheap plywood cracked, and the door opened. He stepped inside and closed the door, making a mental note not to leave prints. The entrance foyer was dark, but off to his left he could see a big, high-ceilinged living room.

Rice walked in and gasped. Every inch of floor and wall space was cov-