SUICIDE HILL
539
Calderon opened the refrigerator and took out a Coors, then sat down behind his desk. Popping the can, he said, “Topped out my parole, topped out my probation. Pay my taxes and don’t associate with no criminal types. My only vice is brew. I’m a righteous sudser. If outfits were legal, I’d geez the shit. I’m a suds-guzzling motherfucker. I pour the shit on my Rice Krispies in the morning, and sometimes I even shave with it. I give my dog a brew chaser with his Alpo. If I was a fag, I’d squirt the shit up my ass. I am a righteous beerhound motherfucker. So how come you’re coming on like storm troopers, when all the Rampart cops know Likable Louie likes to cooperate?”
Lloyd breathed the spiel in, savoring the tension that fueled it. He looked over at Kapek, who was chuckling with genuine amusement, and said, “I don’t work out of Rampart, and I didn’t come here to catch your Richard Pryor shtick. I could roust your workers for green cards and get myself a bonaroo immigration bust, and I’d love to run the numbers on your engine blocks. A third time receiving conviction is a nickel minimum. State time, Louie, and what you get up the ass there ain’t Coors.”
Louie Calderon sipped beer. Lloyd saw that his first salvo was on target, but not a wounder. Sensing that Kapek was being quiet out of real respect, he bored in: “You snitching for Rampart dicks, Louie?”
Calderon smiled; Lloyd could almost feel the fat man’s blood pressure chill out as he said, “It’s well known that Likable Louie likes to cooperate.”
Lloyd twisted a wooden chair around and sat down in it, facing Calderon. Smiling and hooking a thumb over his back at Kapek, he said, “Louie, that man over there is an F.B.I. Criminal Division agent. Why haven’t you asked me about him?”
“Because unless he wants a boss transmission overhaul, I don’t care if he stays, lays, prays or strays.”
“How come you’ve got two phones, different colors?”
“The black phone’s for business, the red phone’s my hot line to the White House. Ronnie calls me up sometimes. We chase pussy together.”
“Who’s your connection at Rampart dicks?”
“Who’s your tailor? Your suit sucks.”
The black phone rang. Calderon picked it up and spoke into it in Spanish. Lloyd raised his eyebrows at Kapek; the F.B.I. man said, “Not a word.”
Shaking his head, Lloyd watched Likable Louie talk a blue streak, then hang up and say, “Okay, let’s see if I can scope this out. You need a favor, and someone at Rampart said I could help. You came on strong to test me, to see if I could be trusted. I’m tired of playing games. What do you need?”
540
L.A. NOIR
Lloyd was reaching for his most disarming smile when the red phone rang. Louie picked up the receiver and said, “Yes,” then nodded and wrote on the clipboard. Lloyd squinted and saw that the top sheet of paper was half covered with pencil scrawl.
Calderon said yes a final time and hung up. Lloyd looked at the veins in his neck and saw the signs of a slamming heart. “Who’s your connection at Rampart dicks?”
Louie’s voice was hoarse; Lloyd could tell that he was getting genuinely befuddled. “Why you keep asking me that, man?”
Lloyd’s third volley began with his most evil shitkicker glare. “I grew up in Silverlake. I was in the Dogtown Flats back when you were in the Alpines. My parents still live over on Griffith Park and St. Elmo, so I like things safe around here. Rampart does a pretty good job of keeping the peace, because they’ve got snitches like you to rat off the bad dudes that everybody hates. You get to hire wetbacks and turn over some stolen parts, and my mom and dad go to sleep safe at night. Right, Louie?”
“R-r-r-right,” Louie stammered.
Lloyd stood up and pulled a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster. Holding it in front of Louie Calderon’s trembling face, he said, “There’s these three guys perving on women and taking out banks, and maybe they got their pieces from you. Here’s the pitch: if you turned the pieces, you’ve got twenty-four hours to give me the names. If you didn’t, you’ve got fortyeight hours to find out who did, and who he sold them to. If I don’t hear from you in forty-eight one way or the other, I go to the commander of Rampart dicks and snitch you off to him as the kingpin motherfucking gun dealer of L.A. County.” He dropped his Robbery/Homicide business card on the desk and reholstered the gun. “Be cool, homeboy.”
Back at the car, Kapek looked at Lloyd and said, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Lloyd unlocked the door and got in. “Meaning Calderon?”
Kapek took the passenger seat. “No, you. How much of that was bluff?”
“Everything but my threat. Calderon had that self-satisfied look, and he had a shitload of wetbacks working for him, and he didn’t want us to see his office. My guess is that he’s snitching dope dealers to the Rampart narks in exchange for immunity on the illegals. I know the squad commander at Rampart—he’ll let minor shit slide for good information, but he’s death on violent crime. If he finds out Louie’s dealing guns, Louie’s ass is fucking grass.”
“But is he our gun dealer?”