Suicide Hill (10 page)

McManus felt old notions of duty crumble in the pit of his stomach. “Yes.”

“Good. Do you have an appropriate assignment for him?”

“Not right now. But something should come up soon. It always does.”

8

D
uane Rice stood in a phone booth adjoining a 7-11 store in Encino. He was wearing a three-piece suit bought for ten dollars at a Hollywood thrift shop, and a curly-haired wig and beard/mustache combo purchased at Western Costume. His shoulder holster held a silencer-attached .45; his rear waistband a tranquilizer dart gun loaded with PCP darts. His hands were covered with surgical rubber gloves. He was ready.

At exactly 7:45 the phone rang. Rice picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”

The gloating voice was unmistakably Bobby Garcia's: “Got her. Broke in the side door. Nobody saw us, nobody's gonna see us. She's scared shitless, but the kid is playing Mr. Nice Guy and sweet-talking her. Have lover boy call.”

Rice said, “Right,” then hung up and dialed the home number of Robert Hawley. The phone rang twice, then a female voice yawned, “Hello?”

“Robert Hawley, please,” Rice said briskly.

The woman said, “One minute,” then called out, “Bob! Telephone!” There was the sound of an extension being picked up, then a male voice calling, “I've got it, Doris. Go back to sleep.” When he heard the original line go dead, Rice said, “Mr. Hawley?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“It's a friend of Sally Issler.”

“What the he—”

“
Listen to me
and be real, real cool and we won't kill her.
Are
you listening?”

“Yes, oh God … What do—”

Rice cut in, “What do you think we want, motherfucker! The same thing you rip off from your own fucking employer!” When he heard Hawley start to blubber, he lowered his voice. “You want to be cool or you want Sally-poo to die?”

“B-be cool,” Hawley gasped.

“Then here's the pitch: One, I've got photographs of you pilfering the B. of A. tellers boxes, with the clock in the background, showing that you're on the job when you're not supposed to be, and some juicy infrared shots of you and Sally fucking. If you don't do what I want, my buddies chop Sally to pieces and the pictures go to your wife, the L.A.P.D., the bank and
Hustler
magazine. Dig me, dick breath?”

The gasp was now a whimper. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Good. Now, I want you to call Sally and have her introduce you to my colleagues. I'll call you back in exactly three minutes. There's a tap on your phone, so if you call the cops, another colleague will know and call Sally's roommates and tell them to do some chopping. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

Rice said, “Three minutes or chop, chop,” then hung up. He watched the second hand on his Timex, pleased that his spontaneous bullshit about the photographs and phone tap had been so easy. When the hand made three sweeps, he again dialed Hawley's number.

“Yes?” A
groveling
whimper.

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want you to get in your car and take your usual route to the bank. I've been tailing you for days, so I know the route. Park on the west side of Woodman a half block north of Ventura. I'll meet you there. You're being tailed, so don't fuck up. I'll see you there in twelve minutes.”

Hawley's reply was a barely audible squeak. Rice hung up and walked very slowly to his Pontiac, forcing himself to count to fifty before he hit the ignition and eased the car into traffic. When he was six blocks from Hawley's house, he resumed counting, figuring that the bank manager would pass him in the opposite direction before he hit twenty-five. He was right; at twenty-two, Hawley's tan Cadillac approached at way over the speed limit, swerving so close to the double line that he pulled to the right to avoid a head-on. There were no cop cars anywhere. Nothing suspicious. Just business going down.

Rice cut over to side streets paralleling Ventura, pushing the car at forty-five, so that he wouldn't get stuck waiting for Hawley to arrive. At Woodman he turned right and parked immediately, a solid hundred and fifty yards from the spot where the bank man was to meet him. Just as he set the brake and grabbed a briefcase from the back seat, Hawley's Caddy hung an erratic turn off Ventura and slowed. Rice checked his fake mustache in the rearview mirror. Mr. Solid Citizen out for a stroll.

The bank man was acting like Mr. Solid Citizen on a trip to Panic City. Rice walked toward the bank parking lot, watching Hawley scrape bumpers as he parallel-parked his Caddy, plowing into the curb twice before squeezing into an easy space. When he finally got out and stood by the car, he was shaking from head to foot.

Rice approached, swinging the briefcase casually. Hawley frantically eyeballed the street. Their eyes locked for an instant, then Hawley turned around and checked out his blind side. Rice grinned at his protective image and came up on the bank manager and tapped him on the shoulder. “Bob, how nice to see you!”

Hawley did a jerky pivot. “Please, not now. I'm meeting someone.”

Rice clapped Hawley on the back and spun him in the direction of the bank, keeping an arm around his shoulders as he hissed, “You're meeting
me
, dick breath. We're going straight to the tellers boxes, then straight back to your car.” He dug his fingers into the bank man's collarbone and gouged in concert with sound effects: “Chop, chop, chop.” Hawley winced with each syllable and let himself be propelled toward the bank.

At the front door, Hawley inserted keys into the three locks while Rice stood aside with one eye cocked in the direction of Ventura Boulevard. No patrol cars; no unmarked cruisers; nothing remotely off. The doors sprung open and they stepped inside. The bank man locked a central mechanism attached to the floor runner and looked up at the robber. “F-fast, please.”

Rice pointed toward the teller area, then stepped back and let Hawley lead the way. When the manager's back was turned, he opened his briefcase and took out a pint bottle of bourbon and stuck it into his right front pants pocket. Hawley stepped over a low wooden partition and began unlocking and sliding open drawers. Rice glanced down and saw rows of folding green, then looked closer and saw that it was
off-green
—fancy traveler's checks done up in a Wild West motif. “The cash,” he hissed. “Where's the fucking
money
?”

Hawley stammered, “T-t-time-locked. The vault. You said on the phone you wanted—”

Ignoring him, Rice opened the rest of the drawers himself, finding nothing but fat stacks of B. of A. “Greenbacks” in denominations of twenty, fifty and a hundred. Replaying his casing job in his mind, he snapped to what happened. Hawley was pilfering the traveler's checks. The paperwork he saw him doing was some sort of ass-covering. Seeing the banker outlined in red, he said, “
There's no cash in these drawers?
”

“N-nn-no.”

“You've been ripping off
traveler's checks
?”

Shooting a panicky glance at the window, Hawley said, “Just for a while. I've got bad gambling debts, and I'm just trying to get even. Please don't kill me!”

Rice held the briefcase open, thinking of Chula Medina and twenty cents on the dollar tops. When Hawley started stuffing the rows of Greenbacks inside, he said, “Talk, dick breath. Give me a good line on your scam, and maybe I'll let you slide.”

Hawley fumbled the packets into the briefcase, his eyes averted from Rice, his voice near cracking as he spoke. “The Greenbacks are tallied by the week. I've got duplicate bankbooks for two old lady customers—they're senile—and I transfer cash from their accounts to the bank and take it out in Greenbacks. I can't do it for much longer, it's wrong, and the paperwork juggling has got to come back on me.” He opened the last drawer and transferred its contents to the briefcase, then held up supplicating hands and whispered, “Please, fast.”

Rice took in the bank man's “scam,” feeling it sink in as truth, knowing that Eggers' pilfer scene was probably something similar—he was a fool to think bank pros would leave cash out overnight. Noting wraparound tabs on the Greenbacks, he flashed a psycho killer smirk and held his jacket open to show off his .45. “I know about exploding ink packets, dick breath. You ink me and I'll come back and chop-chop your whole family.”

Hawley shook his head and mashed his hands together. “We do ink only on cash, only on payroll days.
Please.
”

He looked up doglike for instructions. Rice closed his briefcase and said, “Back to your car. Stay calm. Think about your golf game and you'll be cool.”

Hawley moved toward the front doors in spastic steps; Rice was right behind. When they hit the street and the manager locked the door behind them, he threw his left arm over his shoulders and shifted the tranq gun from his waistband to his right jacket pocket.

They approached the Cadillac from the street. Rice pointed to the driver's-side door, and Hawley got in behind the wheel. Terror hit his face as he saw Rice reach into his waistband, and he squeezed his eyes shut and began murmuring the Lord's Prayer.

Rice shot him twice point-blank: once in the neck, once in the chest just below his left collar point. Hawley jerked backward in his seat, then bounced forward into the steering wheel. Rice watched him slump sideways, his eyes fluttering, his limbs going rubber. Within seconds he was sleeping the open-mouthed sleep of the junkie. Rice leaned into the car and poured the pint of whiskey over his chest and pants legs. “
Bon voyage.
” he said.

After driving to a pay phone and giving Bobby Garcia the all-clear and setting up plans for the split, Rice removed his facial disguise and hit the 405 Freeway to Redondo Beach, the briefcase full of bank checks on the seat beside him. He did another replay of the Eggers case job as he drove, remembering that he had only seen him rummage through the tellers boxes—he'd never seen him with money in hand. That heist had to be a cash rip, and that meant the Garcias couldn't know about the Greenback fuckup. Turning off the freeway onto Sepulveda, he beat time on the dashboard. The melody was a Vandy/Vandals tune; the words he murmured were, “Be home and be flush, Chula.”

Chula Medina was at home.

After bolting the door behind him, Rice unceremoniously opened the briefcase and dumped the contents on the floor, then said, “Quarter on the dollar, cash. And fast.”

Chula Medina smiled in answer, then sat down cross-legged beside the pile of bank checks. Rice watched him lick his lips as he counted. When he finished, he said, “Nice, but consecutive serial numbers and an off-brand check. These are gonna have to be frozen, then sent east. You've got sixty-four K here. My first, last, final and only offer is a dime on the dollar; here, now, cash, you walk out and we never met. Deal?”

Rice fingered his “Death Before Dishonor” tattoo and knew it was a fucking he had to take. “Deal. Put the money in the briefcase.”

Chula got up, gave a courtly Latin bow and went into his bedroom. Rice had the briefcase held open when he returned. Chula dumped in a big handful of real U.S. currency, bowed again and pointed to the door. “
Vaya con Dios
, Duane.”

Rice took the 405 to the Ventura to the Hollywood, wondering how the Garcias would react to the low numbers, and if Eggers could be intimidated into the vault for the real stuff. At Caheunga he exited the freeway, and within minutes he was at his new “home,” the Bowl Motel, seventy scoots a week for a room with a sink, toilet, shower and hot plate. Too expensive for dope fiends; too far up from the Boulevard for hookers; too jig-free to interest the local fuzz. A good interim pad for a rising young criminal. He parked in his space, grabbed the briefcase and walked to his room, threading his way past groups of beer-guzzling pensioners. Inside, he tossed the briefcase on the bed and flopped down beside it, grabbing the snapshot of Vandy off the nightstand. “Coming home, babe; coming home.”

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. Rice put the photo in his shirt pocket, then walked over and squinted through the peephole, seeing Joe and Bobby Garcia standing there looking hungry: Joe itchy and anxious, like he couldn't believe what he'd just done, but drooling for the payoff; Bobby in a gang-stered-back thumbs-in-belt stance, drooling for
more
, the butt of his .45 clearly outlined through his windbreaker.

Rice opened the door and pointed the brothers inside, then bolted it shut behind them. He grabbed the briefcase and dumped the money onto the bed and said, “Count it; it's a little less than I figured.” Bobby started to giggle while Joe made a beeline for the cash and began separating it into piles. Rice locked eyes with Bobby and said, “Tell me about it.”

Bobby let his giggle die slowly; Rice saw that the ex-welter was closer to stone loon than he thought—he couldn't play anything straight.

“Went in easy like I told you,” Bobby said. “Wham, blam, thank you, ma'am. Kept our masks and gloves on, tied her up good, taped her mouth shut. I think maybe she dug it. Her nipples were all pointy.” He went back to giggling, then segued into sex noises while he jabbed his right forefinger into a hole formed by his left thumb and pinky. When he started making slurping sounds, Rice said, “Ease off on that, will you?”

Bobby kiboshed the slurping and started fondling the religious medals that encircled his neck. “Okay, Duane-o. But she was fine as wine, I'll tell you that. It go good for you?”

Rice watched Joe stack the loot according to denomination, realizing that he liked the tagalong as much as he despised his brother. Joe hummed as he counted, a tune that sounded like “Blueberry Hill.” Listening to the humming made it easy to talk to Bobby without wanting to vomit. “Yeah, it was pie. Day after tomorrow for Confrey/Eggers. I've got a recon job for you guys in the meantime.”