SUICIDE HILL

603

The reservist said, “More the jive type.”

“Good. Crank the door in sixty seconds, then lock it again.”

The officer about-faced and walked to the electrical panel, and Lloyd strode through the muster room to the jail area. Passing the framed photographs of Hollywood Division officers killed in the line of duty, he pictured another frame beside them and the station hung with black bunting. He knew he was pumping himself up with anger to fuel his interrogation, and that it wasn’t working—at 2:00 A.M. on the longest night of his life, all he could drum up were the motions.

Except for some babbling from the drunk tank, the jail was quiet. Lloyd saw his man lying on the bottom bunk of a cell on the misdemeanor side of the catwalk. The door clanged open a second later, and the man shook himself awake and smiled. “I’m Sweet Daddy Soul, the patriarch of rock and roll,” he said.

Lloyd stepped inside, and the door creaked shut behind him. Sizing up the man, he saw a good-natured jivehound who thought he was dangerous and might even be. “Not tonight, McCarver.”

Shondell McCarver smoothed the lapels of his mohair suitcoat. “Another time, perhaps?”

Lloyd sat on the commode and took out a pen and notepad. “No. You said you’ve got information, and you’ve got a heist jacket, so I’ll listen to you. But catch my interest quick.”

“You know I want that reward money.”

“You and everybody else. Talk.”

“Some brothers I know said you was always good for some rapport.”

“Cut the shit and get to it.”

McCarver crossed his ankles and laced his fingers behind his head.

“Guess they was wrong. How’s this for starters: bet you don’t know how the guys who pulled them kidnap heists snapped to the two girlfriends. That safe to say?”

Lloyd’s exhaustion dropped; his head buzzed with the coming of a second mental wind. “You’ve got my interest. Keep talking.”

“The heists was my idea,” Shondell McCarver said. “Up till about two weeks ago I had a bouncer job going, a temporary gig every other week or so, two hundred scoots a night, working for these people of the Eye-talian persuasion.

“The basic scene was this setup trying to re-create the sporting houses 604

L.A. NOIR

back in the old days, you know, like in New Orleans. For a C-note admission you get complimentary coke within reason, high-class whores, a shot at a few semi-pro ladies, crap game, high-stakes poker, old Ali fights on bigscreen TV, fuck films, nude swimming, sauna. What—”

“Where?” Lloyd said.

“I’m getting to that,” McCarver said, drawing out the words teasingly.

“The spot was a big house in Topanga Canyon. The two bank guys, Hawley and Eggers, brought their chicks to the parties. They—”

“How often were they held?”

“Every two weeks or so. Anyway, there was these mirrored bedrooms, you know, for romance. They was all rigged for sound, and one of my jobs was to listen for good info, like stock tips and the like. That’s where I heard Hawley and Eggers talking to their bitches, and where I figured out Hawley was pilfering from his tellers boxes. Still got your interest, Mr. Po-liceman?”

Lloyd remembered Peter Kapek’s mention of Hawley’s and Eggers’s large cash withdrawals. “Were parties thrown on October seventeenth and November first?”

McCarver laughed. “Sure were. I got a righteous memory for dates. How you know that?”

“Never mind, just keep talking.”

“Anyhow, I heard Hawley run down his scam to his bitch. He told her that Greenbacks were left overnight at the tellers cages and—”

Lloyd interrupted: “Did you know that Greenbacks is a brand name of traveler’s check?”

Slapping his knee, McCarver said, “Ain’t that a riot? Shit. I read that in the paper, and it made me fuckin’ glad I never got to utilize my plan. Anyhow, I think he’s talkin’ cash. He tells the bitch that he goes to the bank early on certain mornings, gloms the Greenbacks from the teller drawers, runs a transaction with a duplicate bankbook belonging to some senile old cooze with big bucks, doctors tally slips so that it balances out and looks like a cash withdrawal—to the cooze, who of course is Hawley boy.

“See, Hawley is scared, ’cause the scam only works if the cooze don’t get hip to the missing bucks, and he’s heard the old girl’s relatives is about to have her declared noncompas mental and grab the fuckin’ scoots. So Hawley is pouring his soul out to his bimbo, and, unbefuckingknowst to him—me.”

Lloyd looked up from his notepad. “What about Eggers?”

McCarver said, “I’m getting to that. Anyhow, I concocted the plan that ultimately got utilized by them guys you’re looking for. I staked out Hawley