SUICIDE HILL

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tight way inside himself, alternately staring at the walls and the non-inked 16K on the bed. Showered and dressed in Rice’s own clothes, the tagalong looked like he had the juice to hold, the oldies but goodies he’d been softly humming for hours supplying him with the guts not to rabbit. At 7:10, for the second time that day, Rice said, “Now, Bobby, you stay here. Joe and I are going to pick up my old lady. When we get back, we’ll split the money and split up. Sit still and be cool.”

Bobby looked up from his Bible and made a weird gesture Rice figured was Catholic. Joe took his eyes from the stacks of money, and the tune he was humming jumped up three octaves. Rice recognized it as “Blueberry Hill,” and said, “Come on, watchdog. Let’s move.”

They cruised down Highland in the Trans Am, then hung a right turn on Franklin and headed west toward the Mount Olympus development. Joe reached over to flip on the radio, and Rice touched his hand and said, “No. We’ll buy a paper at the airport. When we’re free and clear. Right now, you don’t want to know.”

Joe swallowed and returned to his humming. Rice openly scrutinized him. It looked like he was groping for words to go with the music. At Fairfax, Rice swung over to the Strip and stopped at a stand of pay phones in a Texaco parking lot. Noting a newspaper rack beside the booths, he slipped in a quarter and nickel and forced himself to read the front page of the Times.

The headline screamed, “Four Killed in West L.A. Bank Stickup!” and the subheading read, “Robbery Linked to Two Others.” Rice scanned the paragraphs that detailed their first two kidnap-heists, complete with the names of the victims and suspect descriptions provided by Christine Confrey, the bitch he’d saved from Sharkshit Bobby. Words jumped at him:

“Largest manhunt in L.A. history”; “Stolen car by freeway off-ramp presumed to be approach vehicle, but no fingerprints discovered”; “$75,000 offered in combined reward money.”

The bombshell was on page two; an artist’s sketch of him, also courtesy of Chrissy Confrey. The resemblance was about three-quarters accurate, and Rice balled the paper up, then stepped into the booth and called Rhonda the Fox’s home number.

“Hello?”

Rice breathed out in relief. “It’s Duane. You want to get paid, with a little bonus for some extra info?”

“Have you found her?”

560

L.A. NOIR

“Just about. We’re flying to New York in a few days. I need the names of some music people—solid people, no cocaine sleazebags. Do you know people who know people there?”

After a long moment of silence, Rhonda said, “Sure. But listen, I’m booked straight through until tomorrow night late. Can you meet me outside Silver Foxes tomorrow night at twelve?”

“No sooner than that?”

“I have to ask around, and that takes time.”

Rice said, “I’ll be there,” and hung up and walked back to the car. Joe swallowed a burst of song lyrics as he got in and peeled rubber up Fairfax toward the Hollywood Hills. When they were just north of Franklin, he pulled the Trans Am into a large vacant lot, wracking the undercarriage. Killing the headlights, he eased off the gas and let the car glide to a halt behind a long scrub hedge. Turning off the ignition, Rice said, “Wait here,” then got out and waded through the hedge. The Mount Olympus access road was right in front of him, and directly across it he could see Stan Klein’s house, with no lights on and no Porsche in the driveway or on the street. Returning to the car, he unholstered his .45 and put it in the glove compartment, pulling out a pushbutton switchblade to replace it. “In and out, watchdog,” he said.

“You’ve got one job and one job only. Don’t let me kill him.”

They waited.

Rice sat perfectly still and stared at the access road, waiting for lights to show in number 14; Joe made music in his head. The night cooled and a light drizzle hit the windshield. Then, just after 1:00 A.M., the lights in the house went on.

Rice nudged Joe and handed him the knife, then pointed through the windshield at their target. Joe got out of the car and walked through the hedge, rubber-kneed, his hands in his jacket pockets to kill his tremors. Rice caught up with him. They crossed the blacktop, then Rice bolted up the steps and rang the buzzer.

Voices echoed within the house; Rice heard Vandy’s, and knew from the tone that she was tired and cranky. Joe stood beside him, his eyes wide and panicky. Then the door was thrown open, and Stan Klein was standing there, flashing a shit-eating grin betrayed by tics around his temples. “Disco Duane and friend,” he said. “When you get out?”

Rice sized Klein up. Red nose from too much coke, useless muscles from too much iron pumping, bullshit dope bravado fueling him for the con-