SUICIDE HILL
589
sounds like this guy who came by last week, this guy Rhonda’s got some kind of nonsex scene going with, you know, for money. Rhonda’s a real money fox.”
The “Wants $” in Calderon’s message book popped into Lloyd’s head.
“Tell me about him—and Rhonda.”
Tim wrapped his arms around himself. “Last week a man came in, looking for a fox. He didn’t seem like Silver Foxes caliber, but I liked his style, so I fixed him up with Rhonda. He gave me a name, but I knew it was phony. Later on, Rhonda tells me she’s helping the guy look for his girlfriend, for big bucks. In fact, she called this afternoon and told me she’s supposed to meet him here tonight at midnight. She wanted me to hold him in case she’s late.”
Lloyd fingered the gun he had killed with, then looked at the clock on the wall. 10:49. In August of 1965 he had gone one-on-one with a .45caliber killer; now he was coming full circle back to that point, to pay his dues for the event that had formed him. Shivering, he said, “Tim, do you believe in God?”
Tim shrugged. “I’ve never given it much thought.”
“You should. He’s a tricky bastard; you might dig him. Go home. I’m going to wait for Rhonda and her friend.”
“Is this legal?”
“No. Go home. I’m sorry I hit you.”
“I’m not,” Tim said, and walked out the door.
Lloyd waited for ten minutes, then went out to his car and turned on his two-way. He listened for twenty minutes. The air was flooded with calls directing Hollywood Division units to the area near the Hollywood Bowl, but there was no mention of the hottest trio in L.A. History—Duane Rice, Bobby and Joe Garcia. Gaffaney and his hot dogs were sitting on the information. It was coming down to their outlaw vendetta, and his own. And when Rice fell into his hands at midnight, would he be able to press his advantage and take him out in cold blood?
Lloyd walked back to the Silver Foxes office to await Rhonda Morrell and then the moment. He sat down in an uncomfortable white chair and stared at the pictures on the white walls, unable to identify any of the rock and rollers by name. Checking the clock repeatedly, he hoped that Rhonda would be late, so he could take a post outside and back-shoot Duane Rice as he walked up to the door. God as an ironic bastard stuck in his mind. 590
L.A. NOIR
Taking out the Pico-Westholme cop killer would be considered the zenith of his career, not the desperately selfish survival tactic that it was. At 11:42 there was a rapping on the door. Lloyd took out his .45 and tiptoed over and opened the door, startling Rhonda Morrell, who saw the gun and opened her mouth to scream. Lloyd got her in a headlock with his free arm and pulled her inside, stifling her attempts to make noise. She bit at his jacket sleeve, and he kicked the door shut and whispered, “L.A.P.D. I’m here for Duane Rice, not you. I just want to ask you a few questions, then get you the hell out of here before he shows up. Now, I’m going to let you go, but you have to promise not to scream. Okay?”
Rhonda quit squirming and biting. Lloyd released her, and she twisted around and stood with her back to him, fluffing out her Afro. Turning back, she said in a perfectly composed voice, “He owes me a lot of money. If you arrest him, he won’t be able to pay me.”
Lloyd blurted, “Jesus,” then mustered his thoughts and said, “There’s a lot of reward money being offered for his capture. You talk to me, fast, and I’ll see that you get it.”
Rhonda smiled. “How much money?”
“Over seventy thousand,” Lloyd said, stealing a glance at his watch. “Tim told me you’re helping Rice look for his girlfriend. Tell me about that, and tell me about Stan Klein.”
“You know a lot about it already.”
“I don’t know a fucking thing! Tell me, goddammit!”
Rhonda looked at the clock and said, “I guess this is trading up. Rice has a coke-whore girlfriend. I’ve been helping him look for her. I found out that she’s been living with a sleazy entrepreneurial type, Stan Klein. I got—”
“What’s the girlfriend’s name?”
“Anne Vanderlinden. Duane called me Monday night, and we made a date to meet here at midnight. He said he and Vandy were flying to New York in a few days, and he needed the names of some music people. Apparently Vandy is a singer, and he wants to help her career. He promised me a bonus for that, and—”
“That was the last time you spoke to him?”
“No! He called me this afternoon, at home, to confirm our date. He sounded spacey, and he said that Vandy had left Stan Klein’s place last night, with a puto Mexican, whatever that is. Now he’s promising me the moon if I help him find her again. He also said we have to pick up some money.”
Lloyd stared at the clock, his mind suddenly blank. Rhonda fidgeted,