Suicide Hill by James Ellroy Page B

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.
    â€œWent 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