Free Blood on the Moon by James Ellroy Page A

I hope.”
    â€œNone,” Lloyd said. “I’m here about the robbery of October 6th. Were you tending bar that night?”
    â€œYeah, I was here. You got any leads? Two detectives came in the next day, but that was it.”
    â€œNo real leads yet. Do…”
    Lloyd was distracted by the sound of the jukebox snapping on, beginning to spill out a disco tune. “Turn that off, will you?” he said. “I can’t compete with an orchestra.”
    The barman laughed. “That’s no orchestra, that’s ‘The Disco Doggies.’ Don’t you like them?”
    Lloyd couldn’t tell if the man was being pleasant or trying to vamp him; homosexuals were hard to read. “Maybe I’m behind the times. Just turn it off, okay? Do it now.”
    The bartender caught the edge in Lloyd’s voice and complied, creating a small commotion as he yanked the cord on the jukebox. Returning to the bar he said warily, “Just what was it you wanted to know?”
    Relieved by the music’s termination, Lloyd said, “Only one thing. Are you certain the two robbers were Mexican?”
    â€œNo, I’m not certain.”
    â€œDidn’t you…”
    â€œThey wore masks, officer. What I told the cops is that they talked English with Mexican accents. That’s what I said.”
    â€œThank you,” Lloyd said, and ran out to his car.
    He drove straight to 2269 Tracy Street–Gangster Manor. As he expected, the old house was deserted. Cobwebs, dust, and used condoms covered the warped wood floor, and sets of footprints that Lloyd knew had to be recent were clearly outlined. He followed them into the kitchen. All the fixtures were ripped out and the floor was covered with rodent droppings. Lloyd opened cabinets and drawers, finding only dust, spider webs, and mildewed, maggot-infested groceries. Then he opened a floral patterned bread basket and jumped into the air, dunking imaginary baskets and whooping when he saw what he found: a brand new box of Remington hollow point .38 shells and two pair of Sheer Energy pantyhose. Lloyd whooped again. “Thank you, o’ nesting grounds of my youth!” he shouted.
    Phone calls to the California Department of Motor Vehicles and L.A.P.D. Records and Information confirmed his thesis. A 1979 Pontiac Firebird, license number HBS 027 was registered to Richard Douglas Wilson of 11879 Saticoy Street, Van Nuys. R. & I. supplied the rest: Richard Douglas Wilson, white male, age thirty-four was a two-time convicted armed robber who had recently been paroled from San Quentin after serving three and a half years of a five year sentence.
    Heart bursting, and snug in his soundless phone booth, Lloyd dialed a third number, the home of his one-time mentor and current follower, Captain Arthur Peltz.
    â€œDutch? Lloyd. What are you doing?”
    Peltz yawned into the mouthpiece, “I’m taking a nap, Lloyd. I’m off today. I’m an old man and I need a siesta in the afternoon. What’s up? You sound jazzed.”
    Lloyd laughed. “I am jazzed. You want to take a couple of armed robbers?”
    â€œAll by ourselves?”
    â€œYeah. What’s the matter? We’ve done it a million times.”
    â€œAt least a million–more like a million and a half. Stake out?”
    â€œYeah, at the guy’s pad in Van Nuys. Van Nuys Station in an hour?”
    â€œI’ll be there. You realize that if this thing is a washout, you’re buying me dinner?”
    â€œAnywhere you want,” Lloyd said, and hung up the phone.
    Arthur Peltz was the first Los Angeles policeman to recognize and herald Lloyd Hopkins’s genius. It happened when Lloyd was a twenty-seven year old patrolman working Central Division. The year was 1969, and the hippie era of love and good vibes had dwindled out, leaving a backwash of indigent, drug-addicted youngsters floating through the poorer sections of Los Angeles, begging for