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several uncharacteristic dirty jokes with officers on duty there, then demanded the key to the evidence room, got it, and rummaged through the lockers until he found a .357 Python, sealed in an evidence bag that also contained a dozen loose shells. Offering no explanation for his actions, he spurned Ehrlich’s condolences for the loss of his son and walked out of the squad room, shaking from head to foot.

When Artie returned with five biphetamine capsules, Lloyd had gotten his shaking under control. After dropping his resignation letter off with Thad Braverton’s secretary, he drove to Temple and Beaudry. Finding an ace stakeout spot across from the guitar shop, he swallowed a black beauty and settled in to await his hand-picked survivor. Soon an amphetamine symphony was ringing in his head:

Gaffaney.

Hopkins.

Two killers doing the doomsday tango.

35

“Un-fucking-real!”

Joe balled up the newspaper, took a bead on the bright blue sky and hurled the missile of good news straight at the sun. Street passersby turned to stare at him, and he shouted, “I got a fucking guardian angel!” and let the ball fall into his hands. Running with it like a halfback with a hot short pass, he headed straight for the motel and Anne.

She was sitting up in bed, smoking, when he came through the door and smoothed the headline out on the sheet in front of her. “Read it,” he said. “Bad news and good news, but mostly righteously good!”

Anne put out her cigarette and read the front page; Joe sat on the edge of the bed, wondering how the fuzz had got it so wrong and why Rice offed himself there. Watching Anne read, his old song obsession did a brief boogie reprise:

“. . . and death was a thrill on Suicide Hill.”

Anne turned to the second page, and Joe got curious about how she’d react to the story on her old boyfriend and his death. He’d had her on de-636

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creasing coke use for two days now, and she was probably as close to being a normal woman as she ever would be. Would she have the soul to grieve for the crazy motherfucker?

Putting down the newspaper, Anne lit another cigarette and said, “Wow, I thought Duane was just a car thief. I think that stuff about Stan being a bank robber is phony, though. I think we were together on Monday when that bank was robbed.”

Joe couldn’t tell if she was being cagey or straight. “You were probably stoned,” he said. “He probably split for the heist, then came back.”

Anne shrugged and blew smoke rings, then said, “Wrong, baby, but who cares? Also, the paper says Duane shot Stan. That’s wrong. I was there. Duane stabbed him.”

Joe tingled at her mistaken certainty—it meant he could ditch her with a free mind. “Cops screw up sometimes,” he said. “Or they work things around to fit the evidence they got. Sweetie, what do you want to do?”

“You mean in general? And about us?”

“Right.”

Anne blew a string of perfect rings and said, “I like you as a boyfriend, but you’re too uptight about dope, and too macho. When we first got together, you weren’t so bad, but the more I get to know you, the more stern you get, like you think violence and manhood are synonymous or something. But basically, I want to be with you, and I want to get back into music. I think we’re a wave. We last as long as we last.”

Joe bent over and cupped her breasts. “What about Rice? He righteously loved you.”

Anne caressed the hands caressing her. “He was a stone loser. And you know what’s sad? Karmically he betrayed himself, because he said suicide was for cowards. That’s sad. How much of Mel’s money have we got left?”

Thinking R.I.P. Duane Rice, Joe said, “We’re almost broke, but I’ve got a buddy holding a guitar of mine, and we can get at least three bills for it. So let’s move.”

“Is it okay to be out on the streets?”

“I think so. We got some kind of weird guardian angel, and I want to see if the old neighborhood still looks the same.”

36

At twilight, just when the long stint of surveillance was starting to drive him batshit, his survivor walked up to the guitar shop window, a skinny blonde woman in tow. From a distance they looked like a down-at-the-heels couple—modest dreamers in rumpled clothes peering into the glass in search of a dream fix. Letting them enter the shop, Lloyd hoped they wouldn’t do anything to blow the impression.

When they walked back out a minute later, he was there on the sidewalk, waiting. Joe Garcia looked into his eyes and knew; Anne Atwater Vanderlinden looked at Joe and got the picture secondhand. Lloyd stepped back toward the curb and put up his hands in surrender. “Peace, homeboy,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

Anne moved to Joe’s side as he stared at Lloyd; the tense three-way silence stretched until Lloyd put down his hands, and Joe said, “What do you want?”

“People keep asking me that,” Lloyd said, “and it’s getting old. You read the papers today?”

Joe put an arm around Anne. She nuzzled into his chest and said,

“Maybe he’s the guard—”

“He’s a fucking cop!” Joe blurted. Seeing a woman pushing a baby carriage past them, he lowered his voice. “Crazy Lloyd Hopkins, big fucking deal. You don’t scare me, man.”

Lloyd smiled. Garcia looked like a thirty-year-old teenager trying to impress a high school chick and get a date for the Junior Prom. Given what he’d been through in the past two weeks, the impression was astounding. The silence hit again, broken this time by Joe’s broad smirk. Smirking back, Lloyd hooked a finger at the strangest armed robber he’d ever seen. Joe walked over, and Lloyd draped an arm around his shoulder and whispered, 638

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“Don’t be a dumb taco bender. Let Klein take the fall and get the fuck out of L.A. before something goes wrong. And don’t ask me what I want again, or I may have to kick your ass.”

Joe twisted free. “I killed Stan Klein, man. I righteously killed him.”

The proud statement hit Lloyd between the eyes as truth, and he started sensing juice behind the ancient teenager’s bravado. “I believe you. Tell your old lady we’re going for a little ride.”

*

*

*

The last of the mechanics were leaving when they pulled up across the street from Likable Louie’s One-Stop Pit Stop. Lloyd let them finish locking up and gave them time to get down to Sunset, then took a crowbar from the trunk, ran over and pried the garage door open. Flicking on the overhead lights, the first thing he saw was a low-rider perfection. It was a mint-condition ’54 Chevy ragger, candy-apple sapphire blue, canary yellow top, continental kit, tuck-and-roll upholstery. Lloyd checked the dashboard and grinned. The key was in the ignition.

“Bonaroo, man! Fine as fucking wine!”

Lloyd turned around and saw Joe stroking the Chevy’s rear fender skirts. Anne Vanderlinden stood behind him, smoking a cigarette and eyeing a tool bin loaded with portable TVs. Tapping Joe’s shoulder, Lloyd said, “Are you legit with the greaser act, or are you just trying to impress me?”

Joe started polishing the car with his sleeve. “I don’t know. I righteously don’t know.”

“What do you know?”

“That I righteously know what I don’t want to be. Listen, I got a question.”

“Shoot, but nothing about what’s going down. All you need to know is get the hell out. There’s loose ends all over the place.”

Joe fingered the Chevy’s pinstriping. “Why’d Rice kill himself at Suicide Hill? What was he thinking of?”

Lloyd shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Anne was by the tool bin, fiddling with the dials of the TV sets. Joe could tell that she was dope-itchy, looking for something to do with her hands. Moving his eyes back and forth between his maybe girlfriend and his guardian angel, he said, “Hopkins, what’s with that place? I mean, you’re a cop, you must have heard the stories. It started out with this dude Fritz Hill, right? Back in the forties? He was a righteous hardball and the Hill was named after him?”