L.A. Noir: The Lloyd Hopkins Trilogy Read online

  “Birdy” had yielded only the names of a dozen ghetto blacks. Useless—the high-pitched voice in Whitey Haines’s living room had obviously belonged to a white man.

  But the greatest frustration had been the absence of a print make on the tape recorder. Lloyd had stalked the crime lab repeatedly, looking for the technician he had left the machine with, calling the man at home, only to find that his father had had a heart attack and that he had driven to San Bernardino, taking the recorder with him, intending to use the facilities of the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department for his dusting and comparison tests. “He said that you wanted him to do the tests personally, Sergeant,” the technician’s wife had said. “He’ll call from San Bernardino in the morning with the results.” Lloyd had hung up cursing semantics and his own authoritarian nature. This left two last-ditch, one-man options: Interview the thirty-one buyers himself or cop some bennies and stake out Whitey Haines’s apartment until the bugger showed up. Desperation tactics—and the only avenues he had left.

  Lloyd got his car and headed west, toward Kathleen’s bookstore-cottage. When he got off the freeway he realized he was bone weary and flesh hungry and pointed his Matador north, in the direction of Joanie Pratt’s house

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  in the Hollywood Hills. They could love and talk and maybe Joanie’s body would smother his feeling of doomsday attrition coming from all sides. Joanie jumped on Lloyd as he walked through the open front door, exclaiming, “Sarge, wilkommen! Romance on your mind? If so, the bedroom is immediately to your right.” Lloyd laughed. Joanie’s big carnal heart was the perfect spot to place his tenderness.

  “Lead the way.”

  When they had loved and played and looked at the sunset from the bedroom balcony, Lloyd told Joanie that his wife and children were gone and that in the wake of his abandonment there was only himself and the killer.

  “I’m giving my investigation two more days,” he said, “then I’m going public. I’m taking everything I have to Channel 7 News and flushing my career down the toilet. It hit me while we were lying in bed. If the leads I have now don’t pan out I’m going to create such a fucking public stink that every police agency in L.A. County will have to go after this animal; if my reading of him is correct, the exposure will drive him to do something so rash that he’ll blow it completely. I think he has an incredible ego that’s screaming to be recognized, and when he screams it to the world I’ll be there to get him.”

  Joanie shuddered, then put a comforting hand on Lloyd’s shoulder.

  “You’ll get him, Sarge. You’ll give him the big one where it hurts the most.”

  Lloyd smiled at the imagery. “My options are narrowing down,” he said.

  “It feels good.” Remembering Kathleen, he added, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Hot date?” Joanie asked.

  “Yeah. With a poetess.”

  “Do me a favor before you go?”

  “Name it.”

  “I want a happy picture of the two of us.”

  “Who’s going to take it?”

  “Me. There’s a ten-second delay on my Polaroid. Come on, get up.”

  “But I’m naked, Joanie!”

  “So am I. Come on.”

  Joanie walked into the living room and came back with a camera affixed to a tripod. She pushed some buttons and ran to Lloyd’s side. Blushing, he grabbed her around the waist and felt himself start to go hard. The flash cube popped. Joanie counted the seconds and pulled the film from the camera. The print was perfect: the nude Lloyd and Joanie, she smiling carnally, 144

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  he blushing and semi-erect. Lloyd felt his tenderness explode as he looked at it. He took Joanie’s face in his hands and said, “I love you.”

  Joanie said, “I love you too, Sarge. Now get dressed. We’ve both got dates tonight, and I’m late for mine.”

  *

  *

  *

  Kathleen had spent her entire day in preparation for her evening; long hours in the women’s departments of Brooks Brothers and BoshardDoughty, searching for the romantic purist outfit that would speak eloquently of her past and flatter her in the present. It took hours, but she found it: pink Oxford cloth button down shirt, navy blue ankle socks and cordovan tassel loafers, a navy crew neck sweater and the pièce de résistance—a knee length, pleated, red tartan skirt. Feeling both sated and expectant, Kathleen drove home to savor waiting for her romantic conspirator. She had four hours to kill, and prescribed getting mildly stoned and listening to music as the way to do it. Since tonight she would be juxtaposed iconoclastically against a staid gathering of policemen and their wives, she put a carefully selected medley of flower child revolution on the turntable and sat back in her robe to smoke dope and listen, filled with the knowledge that tonight she would teach the big policeman—wow him with her poetry, read classic excerpts from her diary, and maybe let him kiss her breasts.

  As the Colombian gold took her over, Kathleen found herself playing out a new fantasy. Lloyd was her dream lover. He was the one who had sent the flowers all those years; he had waited for the terrible impetus of searching for a killer to bring them together—a casual meeting wouldn’t have been romantic enough for him. The genesis of his attraction had to be Silverlake—they had grown up a scant six blocks apart. Kathleen felt her fantasy drift apart with the diminishing of her high. To fortify it, she smoked her last Thai stick. Within minutes she was at one with the music and Lloyd was nude in front of her, admitting his deepening love of almost two decades, breathless in his desire to have her. Regal in her magnanimity, Kathleen accepted, watching him grow bigger and harder until she, Lloyd, and the deep bass guitar of the Jefferson Airplane exploded at once and her hand jerked from between her legs and she looked reflexively at the clock and saw that it was ten of seven. Kathleen walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower, then dropped her robe and let the stream of water run alternately hot and cold over her until she felt her sober self tenuously emerge. She dressed and ap-

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  preciated her image in the full-length mirror: She was perfect, and pleased to note that dressing in such nostalgic garments caused her not a hint of remorse. The bell range at seven. Kathleen turned off the stereo and threw open the door. Seeing Lloyd standing there, huge and somehow graceful, jerked her back to her fantasy. When he smiled and said, “Jesus, are you stoned,”

  she returned to the present, laughed guiltily and said, “I’m sorry. Weird thoughts. Do you like my outfit?”

  Lloyd said, “You’re beautiful. Traditional clothes become you. I didn’t think you were a doper. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  *

  *

  *

  Dutch Peltz and his wife Estelle lived in Glendale, in a ranch-style house adjoining a golf course. Lloyd and Kathleen drove there in tense silence, Lloyd thinking of desperation tactics and killers and Kathleen thinking of ways to regain the parity she had lost by appearing loaded. Dutch greeted them in the doorway, bowing to Kathleen. Lloyd made the introductions.

  “Dutch Peltz, Kathleen McCarthy.”

  Dutch took Kathleen’s hand. “Miss McCarthy, a pleasure.”

  Kathleen returned the bow with a satirical flourish. “Should I call you by your rank, Mr. Peltz?”

  “Please call me Arthur or Dutch, all my friends do.” Turning to Lloyd, he said, “Circulate for a while, kid. I’ll show Kathleen around. We should talk before you leave.”

  Catching the edge in Dutch’s voice, Lloyd said, “We need to talk sooner than that. I’m going to get a drink. Kathleen, if Dutch gets too boring, have him show you his boot trick.”

  Kathleen looked down at Dutch’s feet. Although dressed in a business suit, he was wearing thick-soled black paratrooper boots. Dutch laughed and banged the back of his right heel on the floor. A long, double-bladed stiletto sprang out of the side of his boot. “My trademark,” he said. “I was a commando in
Korea.” He nudged the knife point into the carpet, and the blade retracted.

  Kathleen forced a grin. “Macho.”

  Dutch smiled. “Touché. Come on Kathleen, I’ll show you around.”

  Dutch steered Kathleen toward the dining room buffet, where women were readying dishes of salad and standing over steaming hot trays of corned beef and cabbage, laughing and lauding the food and party preparations. 146

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  Lloyd watched them depart, then walked into the living room, whistling when he saw that every inch of floor space was eclipsed by heavyweight high brass: commanders, inspectors, and up. He counted heads—seven commanders, five inspectors, and four deputy chiefs. The lowest ranking officer in the room was Lieutenant Fred Gaffaney, standing by the fireplace with two inspectors wearing cross-and-flag lapel pins. Gaffaney looked over and caught Lloyd’s eye, then turned quickly away. The two inspectors followed suit, flinching when Lloyd stared straight at them. Something was off.

  Lloyd found Dutch in the kitchen, regaling Kathleen and a deputy chief with one of his dialect anecdotes. When the chief walked away shaking his head and laughing, Lloyd said, “Have you been holding out on me, Dutchman? Something’s got to be up; I’ve never seen this many heavy hitters in one place in my whole career.”

  Dutch swallowed. “I took the commander’s exam and passed high. I didn’t tell you because I—” He nodded toward Kathleen.

  “No,” Lloyd said, “she stays. Why didn’t you tell me, Dutch?”

  “You don’t want Kathleen to hear this,” Dutch said.

  “I don’t care. Tell me, goddamnit!”

  Dutch spat it out. “I didn’t tell you because with me on the commander’s list there would be no end to the favors you would have asked. I was going to tell you if I passed and when I got assigned. Then I got the word from Fred Gaffaney—They’re going to offer me the command of Internal Affairs when Inspector Eisler retires. Gaffaney is on the captain’s list; he’s almost certain to be my exec. Then you blew up at him, causing me to lose a great deal of face. I patched it up; old Dutch always looks out for his temperamental genius. Things are changing, Lloyd. The department has been taking a beating from the media—shootings of blacks, police brutality, those two cops busted for possession of coke. There’s a shake-up coming. I.A.D. is filled with born-agains, and the chief himself wants a crackdown on officers shacking up, fucking whores, chasing pussy, that kind of bullshit. I’m going to have to go along with it, and I don’t want you to get hurt! I told Gaffaney that you’d apologize to him, and I expected you to show up with your wife, not one of your goddamned girlfriends!”

  “Janice left me!” Lloyd screamed. “She took the girls with her, and I wouldn’t apologize to that sanctimonious cocksucker to save my life!”

  Lloyd looked around. Kathleen stood rigid against the wall, shock-stilled, her hands balled into fists. A group of officers and wives filled the dining

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  room door. When he saw nothing but awe and self-righteous judgment in their eyes, Lloyd whispered, “I need five men, Dutch. For thirty-one suspect interviews. Just for a few days. It’s the last favor I’ll ever ask you for. I don’t think I can get him by myself.”

  Dutch shook his head. “No, Lloyd.”

  Lloyd’s whisper became a sob. “Please.”

  “No. Not now. Sit on it for a while. Take a rest. You’ve been working too hard.”

  The crowd in the doorway had spilled over into the kitchen. Moving his eyes over the entire assembly, Lloyd said: “Two days, Dutch. Then I’m taking my act on TV. Watch for me on the six o’clock news.”

  Lloyd turned to walk away, then hesitated. He about-faced and swung his open right hand at Dutch’s face. The crack of flesh on flesh died into a huge collective gasp. “Judas,” Lloyd hissed.

  *

  *

  *

  Kathleen snuggled close to Lloyd in the car, abandoning herself to wanting his reckless courage. She was afraid of saying the wrong thing, so she stayed silent and tried not to speculate on what he was thinking.

  “What do you hate?” Lloyd asked. “Be specific.”

  Kathleen thought for a moment. “I hate the Klondike Bar,” she said.

  “That’s a leather bar on Virgil and Santa Monica. A sadist hangout. The men who park their motorcycles in front frighten me. I know you wanted me to say something about killers, but I just don’t feel that way.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s a good answer.”

  Lloyd pulled a U-turn, throwing Kathleen off to the other side of the seat. Within minutes they were parked in front of the Klondike Bar, watching a group of short-haired, leather-jacketed men snort amyl nitrate, then throw rough arms around each other and walk inside.

  “One other question,” Lloyd said. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a cut-rate Emily Dickinson or do you want to go for some pure white light?”

  Kathleen swallowed. “Pure white light,” she said.

  Lloyd pointed to the neon sign above the swinging bar doors. A muscular Yukon adventurer, wearing nothing but a Mountie hat and jock strap, glared down at them. Lloyd reached into the glove compartment and handed Kathleen his off-duty .38. “Shoot it,” he said. Kathleen shut her eyes and fired blindly out the window until the gun was empty. The Yukon adventurer exploded with the last three shots, and 148

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  suddenly Kathleen was breathing cordite and pure white light. Lloyd gunned the car and peeled rubber for two solid blocks, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on the squealing Kathleen’s tartan lap. When they pulled up in front of her bookstore, he said, “Welcome to the heart of my Irish Protestant ethos.”

  Kathleen wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and said, “But I’m an Irish Catholic.”

  “No matter. You’ve got heart and love, and that’s what matters.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “No. I have to be alone and figure out what I have to do.”

  “But you’ll come by soon?”

  “Yes. In a couple of days.”

  “And you’ll make love to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Kathleen closed her eyes and Lloyd leaned over and kissed her alternately soft and hard, until her tears ran between their lips and she broke the embrace and ran from the car.

  *

  *

  *

  At home, Lloyd tried to think. Nothing happened. When plans, theories, and contingency strategies wouldn’t coalesce in his mind he had a brief moment of panic. Then the classic simplicity hit him. His entire life had been the prelude to this breathless pause before flight. There was no turning back. His divine instinct for darkness would take him to the killer. The rabbit had gone down the hole and would never return to daylight.

  PART FOUR

  MOON DESCENDING

  12

  His intended was named Peggy Morton, and she was chosen for the challenge her consummation presented as much as for her persona. Since Julia Niemeyer and her manuscript and his curbside assignation he had been feeling slippage on all fronts. His lean, strong body looked the same, but felt sluggish and flaccid; his normally clear blue eyes were evasive, clouded with fear when he stared at himself in the mirror. To combat these little crumblings the poet had resurrected several of his pre-Jane Wilhem disciplines. Hours were spent practicing judo and karate and firing his handguns at the N.R.A. range, doing push-ups and chin-ups and sit-ups until he was one mindless ache. They worked only as a picayune holding action, and nightmares still gnawed at him. Fetching young men on the street seemed to be pantomiming obscene overtures; cloud formations twisted into bizarre patterns that spelled his name for all of Los Angeles to read.

  Then his tape recorder was stolen and he gained a faceless nemesis: Sergeant Lloyd the homicide fisherman. In the eleven hours since first hearing the man’s voice on the tape he had exploded four times, progressively more graphic Boy’s Town fantasies driving him into a ne
ar stuporous state that would evaporate within minutes, leaving him ready to explode again, but afraid of the price. Looking at the memorabilia on his walls didn’t help; only the voice excited him. Then he thought of Peggy Morton, who lived only a few blocks from a street filled with young men for hire, young men to match the shame-including voice on the tape, young men who shared the hideous lifestyle of Officer Pig and his lackey. He drove to West Hollywood and consummation.

  Peggy Morton lived in a “security” building on Flores Avenue, two blocks south of the Sunset Strip. He had followed her home one morning from the 152

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  all-night market on Santa Monica and Sweetzer, staying along the treeshrouded sidewalk, listening as she conjugated verbs in French. There was something very simple and wholesome about her; and in the traumatic aftermath of Julia he had seized on that simplicity as the basis for his ardor. It had taken him a scant week to establish the pretty young redhaired woman as an extreme creature of habit: She left her cashier’s job at Tower Records at precisely midnight, and her lover Phil, the night manager of the store, would walk her down to the market, where she would buy groceries, then walk her home. Phil would sleep over only on Tuesdays and Fridays.

  “It’s our deal, sweetie,” he heard Peggy say a half dozen times. “I have to study my French. You promised you wouldn’t press me.”

  The good-natured, doltish Phil would protest briefly, then grab Peggy and her shopping bag in an exasperated embrace and walk away shaking his head. Peggy would then shake her head as if to say, “Men,” and dig a bunch of keys out of her purse and unlock the first of the many doors that would take her up to her fourth-floor apartment.

  The apartment building fascinated and challenged him. Seven stories of glass and steel and concrete, advertised by signs in its entrance foyer as “a 24-hour total electronic security environment.” He shook his head at the sadness of people needing such protection and rose to the challenge. He knew that there were four keys on Peggy’s key ring, and that they were all necessary to gain access to her apartment—he had heard Phil joke about it. He knew also that wall-mounted electronic movie cameras patrolled the foyer constantly. The first step had to be to obtain keys . . . It was easily accomplished, but gained him only partial access. After three days of studying Peggy’s routine, he knew that when she arrived at work at four o’clock she went first to the employees’ “breakroom” at the back of the store. She would then leave her purse on a table next to the Coke machine and walk to the adjoining storeroom to check out the incoming supply of albums. He observed this through a sliding glass door for three days running. On the fourth day he made his move—and botched it when Peggy’s returning footsteps forced him to run back into the store proper with only one key in his hand.