Lloyd Hopkins 3 - Suicide Hill Read online

  “Speak.”

  “Louie, it’s Duane.”

  “Already? Don’t tell me, the car broke down and you’re pissed.”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Another favor?”

  “Yeah. I want three .45s and one of those dart guns. You’ve got darts, too?”

  “Yeah. Before we go any further, I don’t wanna know what you got in mind. You got that?”

  “Right. Silencers?”

  “I can get them, but they cut down the range to practically zilch.”

  “They’ll never be fired; it’s just an extra precaution.”

  “Mr. Smooth. Seven bills for the whole shot. Deal?”

  “Deal. One more thing. I need two men, smart, with balls, who want to make money. No niggers, no dopers, no trashy gangster types, nobody with robbery convictions.”

  Louie whistled, then laughed. “You want a lot, you know that? Well, today’s your lucky day. I know two Chicano dudes, brothers, who’re looking for work. Smart—one righteous vato, one tagalong. Pulled hundreds of burglaries, only got popped once. Righteous burglars, righteous con men. They just hung up this phone rip-off gig and they’re hurtin’ for cash.”

  “You vouch for them?”

  “I fenced their stuff for seven or eight years. When they got busted, they didn’t snitch me off. What more you want?”

  “Any strong-arm experience?”

  “No, but one of them is downright mean, and I’ll bet he’d dig it. Used to fight welterweight, ten, twelve years ago. All the top locals stomped on him.”

  “Can you set up a meet?”

  “Sure. But I’m tellin’ them and I’m tellin’ you: I don’t want to know nothin’ about your plans. Comprende?”

  “Comprende.”

  “Good. I’ll call Bobby and set it up. When you meet him, tell him how you saw him knock Little Red Lopez through the ropes with a right cross. He’ll eat it up.”

  The phone went dead. Rice walked back to his car. When he stuck the key in the ignition, he was trembling. It felt good.

  5

  Even as the dream unfolded, he knew that it was just a dream, one of the stock nightmares that owned him, and if he didn’t panic, it would run its course and he would wake up safe.

  Sometime back in ’67 or ’68, when he was working Hollywood Patrol, he and his partner Flanders got an unknown trouble call directing their unit to an old house in a cul-de-sac off the Cahuenga Pass, a block of ramshackle pads rented out dirt cheap because noise from the freeway overpass made living there intolerable.

  When no one answered their knocks and shouted “Police officers, open up!” he and Flanders kicked in the door, only to be driven back outside by the stench of stale cordite and decomposing flesh. While Flanders radioed for backup units, he drew his service revolver and prowled the pad, discovering the five headless bodies, brain-spattered walls, expended shotgun rounds and the note taped to the TV set: “I keep hearing these voices thru the freeway noise telling Peg and the kids about me and Billy. It’s a lie, but they won’t believe it was just one time when we was drunk, and that don’t count. This way nobody’s going to know except Billy, and he don’t care.”

  The man who wrote the note was slumped by the TV set. He had jammed the sawed-off .10 gauge into his crotch and blown himself in two. The shotgun lay beside him in a pile of congealed viscera.

  Then the dream speeded up, and he wasn’t sure if it was happening or not.

  Flanders came back inside and yelled, “Backup, detectives and M.E. on their way, Hoppy.” He saw him reach for a cigarette to kill the awful stink, and was about to scream about gas escaping from stiffs, but knew Flanders would call it college boy bullshit. He ran toward him anyway, just as the match was struck and the little boy’s stomach exploded and Flanders ran out the door with his face on fire. Then he was screaming, and ambulances were screaming, and he knew it wasn’t a dream, it was the telephone.

  Lloyd rolled over and reached for it, surprised to find that he had fallen asleep fully clothed. “Yes? Who is it?”

  A familiar voice came on the line. “Dutch, Lloyd. You all right?”

  “You woke me up.”

  “Sorry, kid.”

  “Don’t be; you did me a favor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. What is it, Dutch?”

  When there was a long silence on the L.A. end of the line, Lloyd tensed and shook off the last remnants of sleep. He heard the bustle of Hollywood Station going on in the background, and pictured his best friend getting up the guts to tell him something very bad.

  “Goddammit, Dutch, tell me!”

  Dutch Peltz said, “So far it’s just a rumor, but it’s an informed rumor, and I credit it. That shrink you saw last month recommended you be given early retirement. You know, emotional disability incurred in the line of service, full pension, that kind of thing. I’ve heard that Braverton and McManus are behind it, and that if you don’t accept the plan, you’ll be given a trial board for dereliction of duty. Lloyd, they mean it. If the trial board finds you guilty, you’ll be kicked off the Department.”

  A kaleidoscope of memories flashed in front of Lloyd’s eyes, and for long moments he didn’t know if he was back in a dream or not. “No, Dutch. They wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Lloyd, it’s true. I’ve also heard that Fred Gaffaney has got a file on you. Nasty stuff, some sex shit you pulled when you worked Venice Vice.”

  “That was fifteen fucking years ago, and I wasn’t the only one!”

  Dutch said, “Sssh, sssh. I’m just telling you. I don’t know if Gaffaney is in with Braverton and McManus on this, but I know it’s all coming down bad for you. Retire, Lloyd. With your master’s, you can teach anywhere. You can do consulting work. You can—”

  Lloyd screamed, “No!” and picked up the phone, then saw the framed photograph of his family on the nightstand and put it back down. “No. No. No. If they want me out, they’ll have to fight me for it.”

  “Think of Janice and the girls, Lloyd. Think of the time you’d have to spend with them.”

  “You’re talking shit, Dutch. Without the Job, there’s nothing. Even Janice knows that. So fuck ‘em all except six, and save them for the pallbearers. See you in L.A., Captain Peltz.”

  Dutch’s voice was soft and hoarse. “Until then, Sergeant Hopkins.”

  Lloyd hung up and walked into the bathroom, cursing when he saw the daintily wrapped soap bars and his disposable razor crusted with shaving cream. Muttering “Fuck it,” he soaked a washcloth in cold sink water and wiped his face, then straightened his necktie, wondering why he always wore one, even when he didn’t have to. When he looked in the mirror, the answer came to him, and he prepared to do battle with the institution that had given him all of his nightmares and most of his dreams.

  At a stand of pay phones in the lobby, Lloyd found a copy of the San Francisco yellow pages and leafed through the “A’s” until he hit “Attorneys.” Dismissing the shysters who had full-page ads mentioning their low rates and drunk-driving experience, he got out a pencil and notepad and started jotting down names and addresses at random, filling up half a page before he noticed Brewer, Cafferty and Brown at an address on Montgomery that was probably only a half dozen blocks from where he was standing. Again muttering “Fuck it,” he smoothed his necktie and walked there, jamming his hands into his pockets to keep from running.

  The waiting room of Brewer, Cafferty and Brown was furnished in the old-line California style of leather armchairs and brass floor lamps; the photographs on the walls blew the sense of tradition apart. Lloyd walked in and knew immediately that chance had directed him to either the best or the worst law firm ever to be considered by a defendant in an interdepartmental police trial.

  Bobby Seale, Huey P. Newton and Eldridge Cleaver glared down at him, giving the clenched-fist salute; a group photo of the United Bay Area Gay Collective beamed down. Hanging over the reception desk was a purple wall tapestry with �
�Power to the People!” embroidered in the center, and beside it there was a photographic blowup of dozens of Oriental men in karate stances. Lloyd examined the picture, figuring it for an outtake from a martial arts movie. He was wrong; it was the Boat People’s Political Action Army. Sitting down to wait for someone to welcome him, he felt like he had been given the D.T.s without benefit of booze.

  After a few minutes, a tall black woman in a tweed suit walked in and said, “Yes, may I help you?”

  Lloyd stood up, noticing the woman catch sight of the .38 strapped to his belt. “I came to see an attorney,” he said. “Your office was close to my hotel, so I came here.”

  “Then you don’t have an appointment?”

  The woman was staring openly at his gun. Lloyd took out his I.D. holder and badge and showed it to her. “I’m a Los Angeles police officer,” he said. “I’m looking for an attorney to represent me at a police trial board. An out-of-town lawyer is probably a good idea. I’ve got forty thousand dollars in the bank, and I’ll spend every dime to keep my job.”

  The woman smiled and walked back out of the room. Lloyd held eye contact with Huey Newton until she returned and said, “This way, please, Mr. Hopkins,” and led him to an inner office. A pale man was sitting behind a desk reading a newspaper. “Mr. Brewer, Mr. Hopkins,” the woman said, then exited and closed the door behind her.

  Brewer looked up from his paper. “L.A.P.D., huh? Well, we know they didn’t bring you up on charges of excessive force, because they don’t recognize that concept.” He stood up and extended his hand. Lloyd shook it, measuring the man’s words, deciding his abrasiveness was a test. “I like your office,” he said as he took a chair next to the desk. “Out of the low-rent district. You do a lot of oil-leasing contracts on the side, take down the pictures of the niggers when the fat cats come to call?”

  Brewer filled a pipe with tobacco and tamped it down. “So much for light conversation. I don’t have to agree with a client’s ideology in order to represent him. Why are you getting a trial board?”

  Lloyd forced himself to talk slowly. “The overall charge will probably be dereliction of duty. I’m currently on a six-week suspension, with pay. The specific charge or charges will have to do with a recent perjury I committed at a murder trial arraignment. I—”

  Brewer jabbed the air with his pipe stem. “Why did you commit perjury? Is this a common practice of yours?”

  “I lied to protect a woman innocently involved in the case,” Lloyd said softly, “and I’ve lied previously only to circumvent probable-cause statutes in regard to hard felonies.”

  “I see. By any chance were you intimately involved with this woman?”

  Lloyd grasped the arms of his chair. “That’s none of your business, Counselor. Next question.”

  “Very well. Let’s backtrack. Tell me about your career with the L.A.P.D.”

  Lloyd said, “Nineteen years on the Job, fourteen as a detective-sergeant, eleven in Robbery/Homicide Division. I’ve got a master’s in criminology from Stanford, I’m considered the best homicide detective in the Department, I’ve earned more commendations than I can count, I’ve successfully investigated a number of highly publicized murder cases. My arrest record is legendary.”

  Brewer lit his pipe, then blew smoke at the ceiling. “Impressive, but what’s more impressive is that someone with such an outstanding record should have incurred such departmental disfavor. I should think that one perjury slipup wouldn’t have been sufficient to jeopardize your career. I know the L.A.P.D. looks after their own.”

  “There’s other stuff. Minor fuckups over the years. The high brass sent me to a shrink. I shot my mouth off about things I shouldn’t have.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to get rid of it! Because I never thought they’d try to do this to me!”

  “Please calm down, Sergeant. There are ways to get around one psychiatrist’s report, usually by mitigating it with the report of a different analyst, one with a superior reputation.”

  Lloyd gripped the sides of the desk until he felt his hands go numb. “Counselor, this isn’t a trial in a court of law, this is a kangaroo cop trial, and academic credentials don’t mean shit. Saving my job is a long shot from the gate, and making a department employee look bad would only make the odds worse.”

  Brewer slid back in his chair and stared past Lloyd at the far wall. “Well … there are other approaches. You have a family?”

  “Wife and three daughters. I’m separated from them.”

  “But you remain cordial?”

  “Yes.” Lloyd stared at the attorney, who kept his eyes fixed on a point just above his head and said, “Then we can exploit them as character witnesses, gain sympathy for you that way. You yourself present an interesting picture, one that can be used to advantage. Are you aware that your clothes don’t fit? They’re at least two sizes too large. We can portray you in court as a victim of your own conscientiousness, a man driven to radical weight loss by overzealous dedication to duty! If you were to lose even more weight, that sympathy factor would be increased. With the proper coaching your daughters would elicit the mo—”

  “Look at me,” Lloyd hissed, holding down a picture of his hands around Brewer’s throat, squeezing until the lawyer’s averted eyes popped out of his skull. “Look at me, you cocksucker.”

  Brewer closed his eyes. “Control your language, Sergeant. I want you to get used to wearing a penitent expression, one that wi—”

  Lloyd stepped around the desk, grabbed Brewer by the arms and shoved him into a glass bookcase. The glass shattered; law texts spilled to the floor. Lloyd took hold of Brewer’s neck with his left hand, and balled his right hand into a fist and aimed it at the lawyer’s squeezed-shut eyes. Then he heard a scream, and his peripheral vision caught the receptionist with her hands clasped over her mouth. He pulled the punch at the last second, sending his fist through an unbroken pane of glass. Shoving Brewer aside, Lloyd held his bloody hand in front of him. “I … I’m sorry, goddamn you … I’m sorry.”

  6

  Duane Rice looked at Bobby “Boogaloo” Garcia and knew two things: that, ex-welterweight or not, he could take him out easy; and that the little taco bender was incorrigibly mean. After a jailhouse handshake, Rice looked around his living room, saw quality stuff and pegged him as a non-doper who gangsterized because he was too lazy to work and in love with the game. Thinking, so far so good, he threw out a line to test his smarts: “I think I saw you fight once. You knocked Little Red Lopez through the ropes at the Olympic about ten, twelve years ago.”

  Bobby grinned and pointed to the couch; Rice sat down, seeing smarts up the wazoo and a big determination to milk the game. “Likable Louie must have told you that,” Bobby said. “Told you I’d dig it. Louie’s gotta be the dumbest smart guy I know, because only about six people in the world know about that, and I’m the only one cares, just like you’re the only one gives a rat’s ass about how you ragged that judge. Fucking Louie. How’d he manage to stay alive so long?”

  “He can do things we can’t do,” Rice said, reaching into the back of his waistband and pulling out a silencer-fitted .45 automatic. “Like this.” He worked the slide and ejected the clip, catching the chambered round as it popped into the air. “Dum dum. Likable Louie has stayed alive for so long because guys who can get nice things are likable. Right, Bobby?”

  Laughing, Bobby held out his hands. Rice tossed the .45 up to him, and he grabbed it and did a series of quick draws aimed at the Roberto Duran poster above the fireplace. “Pow, Roberto, pow! Pow! No más! No más!” Grinning from ear to ear, he handed the gun back butt first and slumped into a chair across from Rice. “Louie ain’t likable, Duane. He’s lovable. He’s so lovable that I’d suck his daddy’s dick just to see where he came from. How many of those you got?”

  “Three,” Rice said. “One for you, one for me, one for your brother. Is he coming?”

  “Any minute. Wanta trade pedigrees?”

&nb
sp; “Sure. The vehicular manslaughter conviction you already heard about, three years at Soledad because I lost my temper and reverted to my white trash origins; a bust on one count of G.T.A., a bullet in the County, reduced to six months. Y.A. parole and County probation, both of which I’m hanging up, because car thief/mechanic is what my P.O. calls a ‘modus operandi—occupational stress combination.’ In other words, he expects me to sling burgers at McDonald’s for the minimum wage. No way.”

  Bobby nodded along, then flashed a grin and said, “How many cars you boost before you got busted?”

  “Around three hundred. You and your brother did B&Es, right?”

  “Right. At least four, five hundred jobs, with one bust, and that was a fluke.”

  “What did you do with the money? Louie pays a good percentage, and he said you guys aren’t into dope.”

  Bobby cracked the knuckles of his right hand. “I own this house, man. Joe and I used to own a coin laundromat and a hot-dog stand, and I bankrolled a couple of fighters after I quit myself. What about you? Three hundred G.T.A.s and you drive up in an old nigger wagon looks like something the cat dragged in. What’d you do with your money?”

  “I spent it,” Rice said, boring his eyes into Bobby’s, testing for real now, wondering if retreating was the smart thing to do. The two-way stare held until Bobby’s eyelids started to twitch and he smiled/winced and said, “Shit, man, I like women as much as the next man.”

  Stalemate; Bobby had backed off, but returned with a good shot, right on target. Rice tasted blood in his mouth, and felt his teeth involuntarily biting his cheeks. The bloody spittle lubed his voice so his next shot sounded strong to his own ears. “You think you can be cool with that gun? You think you can hold on to it and not shoot it?”

  Three seconds into a new eyeball duel, the front door opened and Joe Garcia walked in carrying a bag of groceries. Rice broke the stare and stood up and stuck out his hand. Joe shifted the bag and grabbed the hand limply, then said, “Sorry I’m late,” and reached into the bag and pulled out a can of beer. He tossed it at Bobby, who shook it up, then popped the top and let the foam shoot out and spray his face. Chugalug ging half the can, he cocked a thumb and forefinger at the Roberto Duran poster and giggled, “Pow! Pow! No más! No más!” Rice watched Joe Garcia watch his older brother. He seemed wary and disgusted, a smart reaction for a tagalong criminal. Bobby killed his beer and plugged Roberto Duran a half dozen more times. Rice knew the charade was a machismo stunt to hide his fear. To hid his own contempt and relief, he watched Joe walk into the kitchen, then joined Bobby in laughing. When Joe returned looking outright scared and Bobby gazed over at him and wiped his lips, Rice said, “Let’s talk business, gentlemen.”