Suicide Hill by James Ellroy

Author:James Ellroy
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781613160169
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

14

Clockwork.

Rice looked at his watch as he nosed the ’78 Malibu into the shade of a stand of trees by the freeway off-ramp. At 9:43 he’d glommed the car; at 9:56 he’d picked up the brothers, who were outfitted for bear and looking greedy. At 10:03 he stopped at a 7-11 on the edge of Hollywood for a last-minute acquisition—a brainstorm—and now, at 10:22, there was nothing left but to do it. He glanced at Bobby and Joe as he set the brake. Their suits fit, and their off-color facial hair made them look almost non-Mexican. Their briefcases were big and scuffed. It was all running perfect. “Now,” he said.

They walked the half block to the corner of Pico and Westholme and waited for the light. When it turned green, Rice took the lead, striding ahead of the brothers. In front of the bank, he peered through the window and framed the scene inside: six tellers stations on the left, roped-off waiting line with no one standing in it, the execs at their desks in the carpeted area on the right. No armed guards; no sign of Gordon Meyers; the surveillance camera sweeping on its tripod above the doors. Perfection.

The brothers caught up, and Rice let them go through the doors first. When they were halfway to the teller area, he took a can of 7-11 shaving cream from his jacket pocket, shook it and fired a test spritz at the ground. When it hit the pavement, it hit him: when you look into his eyes, you’ll know.

Rice pushed the doors open, wheeled and extended his right arm at the camera, missing his first spray, catching the lens on-center with the second. Coming off his toes, he saw that no one in the desk area had seen him, and that Joe and Bobby were dawdling by a cardboard display near the rear teller’s station. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out his .45, then let the spray can drop to the floor. The man at the front desk looked up at the noise and saw the gun. Rice shouted, “Robbery! Everybody be real quiet or you’re gonna be real dead!”

For a second, everything froze. Heads darted up behind the tellers’ counter; the Garcias pulled out their .45s and moved into position, their briefcases held open. Then little gasps and flutters took over, and Rice saw everything go blackish red. Swallowing, he heard a scream from a woman staring at Joe Garcia’s silencered piece; “Oh my Gods” were bombarding him from every corner of the bank. Swallowing what tasted like blood, he ran to Bobby, shoved his briefcase at him and said, “Three minutes. Fill it up.”

Bobby flashed his shark grin and leveled his gun at the teller directly in front of him, hissing, “Feed the shark, motherfucker, or you die.” The man fumbled packets of currency into the briefcase, and Bobby shoved Rice’s briefcase over to the next station, growling, “You, too, bitch—you fucking too.” The woman dumped in whole cash and change drawers, and coins spilled over the counter onto the floor.

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