SUICIDE HILL

533

said no; the fourth said yes and offered him a special “short timer” rate for private listening. Steeling himself, he accepted the offer. The six cassettes stacked atop the V.C.R. in front of the sweat-stained bed all bore the “Stan Man” name and P.O. box. He loaded them into the machine and turned off the lights. Tremors and a flash thought hit him along with the “Stan Man” logo; he didn’t want it to be Vandy, but if it was Vandy, he wouldn’t be so god-awful alone. Cursing himself, he turned up the volume and watched the show.

A disco beat, then a haggard woman was gobbling a donkey-sized dick while Donna Summer belted, “She Works Hard for the Money.” Fade-out, logo, then Rhonda the Fox was taking on four guys at once, the Beach Boys wailing for her to help them. Blank frames, blurred logo, “This Land Is Your Land” on the sound track, Mondale and Ferraro doing a handshaking tour on the screen, intercut with a girl in a red, white and blue negligee giving head to a jig in an Uncle Sam costume.

No Vandy.

If you fuck whores, then all women start looking like whores. If you love a woman, then all women start looking like her. Rice kicked over the V.C.R. and ran out of the room and across Sunset to a phone booth. He dialed the Garcias’ number; Joe answered on the first ring. All he got out was “Hello?” before Duane the Brain took over in force:

“You want to come to New York, get away from your batshit brother and work a real musician gig?

“You and Bobby want two-thirds of a hundred K foolproof, in and out on Monday morning in six minutes?

“You want to be a fucking pachuco for the rest of your life, or do you want out?

“You get your brother to come with you to La Talpa tomorrow at noon. Tell him I’ll apologize; tell him I need him.”

The words stuck in his throat. Joe’s final answer would always stick in his brain: “I’m your man, Duane. And don’t worry about Bobby. He likes getting hit. In fact, he said you remind him of this priest he used to know.”

*

*

*

“Thanks for sparing my face, Duane-o. The old Sharkman owes you for that. I lit a candle for you last night. Figured you was Protestant, but what the fuck.”

Rice looked up to see Bobby Garcia sliding into the booth, his right hand held out. He shook it, glad that the restaurant was dark, so the greasy piece of sharkshit couldn’t read the contempt on his face. Thinking, Ice City, he said, “Sorry, Bobby. I flipped out.”

534

L.A. NOIR

Bobby sat down across from him and dug into the bowl of nachos and salsa on the table. Between wolfish mouthfuls, he said, “No strain, no gain, no pain. Little brother’s coming in a minute. You got another score?”

“Yeah. Straight in and out bank job.”

Bobby whistled. “Righteous. Little Bro said a hundred big ones. That true?”

“If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Bobby giggled and slithered a shark hand over the bowl of nachos. “Then you gotta have wings somewhere, ’cause your first two righteous big-time scores netted me and Little Bro about a dollar eighty-nine, and I’m startin’

to feel like the bottom man in a Mongolian cluster fuck.”

Rice took in a deep breath, hoping his voice would come out just right, giving Sharkshit the perfect amount of slack. “That was secondhand information I acted on. I was crazy to trust it. But we’ve hit twice. We’re on a roll, and this one is all mine. I’ve had it in mind for a long time, I was just waiting for the right partners.”

Bobby smirked. “I hope it ain’t a roll into the gutter. I been there twice, and I ain’t goin’ for sloppy thirds.”

“You’ll like this one—it’s you. ”

“Yeah? Me? Tall, dark and handsome? Hung like a mule?”

“No. Nasty, simple and out front. Easy to understand, so I know you’ll eat it up.”

Bobby giggled. “You said the magic word—eat. You know how to pick up chicks without saying a word? Sit at the bar and part your hair with your tongue.”

“It’s you, Bobby. So simple and low class that it’s got class.”

A waitress came up to the booth with menus; Rice grabbed them and said, “We’ll order in a few minutes.” When she walked away, Bobby said,

“We shoulda hit a smorgasbord. The furburger buffet: all you can eat for sixty-nine clams.” Rice felt a tide of slime wash over him. Then Joe Garcia was there, saying, “Duane, how’s it hanging?”

Rice said, “Long and strong,” and squinted across the booth to get a handle on how the tagalong was holding up. Not bad, he decided; scared, but probably cash flushed, and more scared of continuing a crime career with Sharkshit Bobby. A born follower about to trade leaders. The waitress returned. The brothers ordered Carta Blanca; Rice another iced tea. When she brought the drinks, the three partners fell silent. Then