Brown's Requiem

10

I had changed during my stay South of the Border and expected to find L.A. changed when I returned. I was wrong. As I passed through the far-flung Southern suburbs of L.A. proper around dawn on the 405, it was as familiar as the sigh of an old lover: the same hazy sunshine, smog, billboards, blacktop, and boredom. Even the Santa Monica Freeway eastbound, with its view of West L.A. as a green plateau and the Wilshire Boulevard skyscrapers and the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance, yielded nothing but a dull verisimilitude. But it was good to be back.

It was too early to call the DMV to check out the license numbers of the cars at La Casa Grande, so I took a shower and fell into bed to wait for nine o’clock. It was noon when I woke up, frightened. I didn’t know where I was. I looked around for the wake-up bottle I kept by the bed when I was drinking, then realized I had been sober for four days. Then it hit me: I was back in L.A. and the case was active. But I hesitated in reaching for the phone. I thought of Jane and couldn’t picture her face, just her body as it looked our one night together.

I went into the kitchen and made coffee. That helped. My head was clearing. Midway through my first cup, I dialed the DMV. I was reaching out to the top of my case and I was scared. For perhaps the fourth time since Fat Dog hired me, I impersonated a police officer. It worked again. I read the numbers off to an abrupt woman and she came back with the registration information after only a moment’s wait.

When I got the news my head started to crackle and I began to laugh. It was too perfect; beyond poetic justice, beyond logic and reason. All three cars belonged to Haywood Cathcart, 11417 Saticoy Street, Van Nuys. Cathcart. The L.A.P.D. lieutenant who “cracked” the Club Utopia firebombing case in record time in 1968. I felt calm, but my hands were shaking. I had to hold my coffee cup with both hands to take a sip.

I dug out my old Academy yearbook from the bedroom and looked for mention of Cathcart. He was posed with several other officers listed as “guest lecturers,” and his lecture was given as, Crowd Control — Techniques of Containment and Disbursement. I didn’t recall the lecture. Cathcart was a tall, stern-looking, sandy-haired man of about forty-five.

I got on the phone again, this time to Parker Center. I wanted to find out if Cathcart was still with the department. I gave the information officer I spoke to a line of shit about media revival of the Utopia firebombing case, with emphasis on the fine work of Lieutenant Haywood Cathcart. Was Lieutenant Cathcart still with the department? The desk dummy bought it. Cops love to have their asses kissed in print.

“Yes,” he said, “Lieutenant Cathcart is now Captain Cathcart, stationed right here at Parker Center with the Narcotics Division.”

I thanked the cop and hung up. Cathcart. Cathcart. Haywood Cathcart. Captain Haywood Cathcart. I liked the euphonious ring of the name. It would look good in print when his world came tumbling down at his feet. Cathcart was not only veteran L.A.P.D. brass, but a murderer, heroin dealer, evidence suppressor, and — given the size of his pad in Baja — a tax-evader. He had to be the top man in this upward spiral of arson, murder, drugs, and dirty money.

I was right. One look at his cold face in the yearbook photograph taken a scant eight months before the Utopia blast told me that. Logic told me that the bombing was the genesis of his involvement. He was linked to Ralston, Ralston had set him up with Sandoval and Cruz; and the only possible motives that could tie this disparate, far-reaching case together were blackmail and money, something beyond the chickenshit bookie operations of Kupferman and Ralston.

As adrenalin and irony coursed through my bloodstream, I gloated on the moral perfection of a high-ranking L.A.P.D. bimbo being brought to justice by a former L.A.P.D. minion out of moral limbo. I was getting restless. I dressed and got out the car. Driving would kill my vengeful fantasies and bring me back to earth. I headed west, toward Jane’s.

She wasn’t there. Neither Cadillac was in the driveway, but I knocked anyway. There was no answer, which was surprising. I had expected someone to answer, a maid, perhaps. I went back to the car to wait. I had a lot to tell her — mixed tidings about her brother’s death and the other things that transpired in Mexico. She deserved to know the whole story, and be kept up to date on my progress.

And I wanted to be close to her gentleness and beauty. I decided to tell her about the two men I killed. She deserved to know that, too, and wouldn’t condemn me for it. She was a clearheaded, practical woman. One night doesn’t lay claim to a person’s life, but our one night was a promise of a commitment and a future together in more stable times. And I wanted another loving night with her before the unpleasant, possibly violent job of bracing Hot Rod Ralston.

A car pulled into the circular driveway — a full pig Chrysler convertible — and a large solidly built man in his middle forties got out and rang the bell. It was a quiet afternoon and I could hear the chimes from my post across the street. The man had a hard-edged look about him, like a cop or an insurance investigator. Maybe he was a business associate of Kupferman.

I was thunderstruck when Jane Baker opened the door and walked outside, carrying her cello case. She locked the door behind her, greeted the man with a warm smile and walked with him to his car. Whatever he was, he wasn’t any cello teacher.

When they pulled out. I decided to follow. I found myself getting jealous. Jane knew my car, so I had to stay behind for at least a full minute, then head after them on the route they would most likely take — Beverly Drive South. I waited, trying to quash a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Walter Curran: everything is connected. The man Jane drove off with had the mien of a cold, manipulative ex-athlete, like Richard Ralston. I didn’t want it to be.

I picked up their trail on Beverly Drive and Burton Way, inside the Beverly Hills shopping district. I came up right behind them, watching them huddle in conversation. The man pulled up to the curb on Beverly just south of Wilshire and Jane got out, lugging her cello. She didn’t notice me as I drove by, continuing to follow the man in the Chrysler. He turned right on Pico, heading in the direction of Hillcrest Country Club. I started to pray for it not to be, but when we came up on Century City and Hillcrest and he flashed his left-hand directional, I knew, and was resigned.

There was a uniformed guard in the parking lot who admitted Ralston, so I had no chance of following him directly in. I turned right on the corner of Century Park East and parked in a No Parking Zone. I locked the car, placed a “Physician On Call” notice under my windshield wipers and ran across Pico toward a small gate off to the right of the parking entrance. A group of four scruffy-looking caddies were entering the gate, two of them sharing a pint of vodka. I walked in right behind them, staying a few yards back, hoping they would lead me to the caddy shack. They did. It was off to the left of a concrete walkway that bordered a large putting green.

There weren’t too many golfers about; Tuesday afternoon was probably a dead time for golf. The shack was slightly below ground level, a white clapboard job with a green tar-papered roof, built on a slope that led downhill to what looked like an oil drilling site.

I walked inside and was greeted by a shrieking cacophony of noise: there were half-a-dozen card games going on at wooden picnic tables, and the players — for the most part poorly dressed, sunburned, middle-aged men — were gesturing frantically, throwing cards and shouting good-natured obscenities. The concrete floor was littered with trash, cigarette butts, and empty beer cans. Rows of lockers lined the walls; a T.V. blasting out a game show at full volume went unnoticed.

I walked through a smaller room that held nothing but lockers and dressing benches and found the can, passing along the way Scarecrow Augie Dougall, all six foot six of him, reading a comic book as intently as if his soul depended on it. The bathroom was filthy beyond description, with a row of showers that looked as if they hadn’t been used in years. The floor was carpeted with urine-soaked copies of the Daily Racing Form and the walls were adorned with beaver photos of outrageously large breasted women.

I splashed some water on my face and recombed the part in my hair. I walked back through the shack and out onto a back service porch overlooking the oil digs. There was an old man sitting on an overturned trash can reading a Louis L’Amour novel and smoking a pipe. I walked to the railing of the porch and watched the oilmen working, checking out Pops out of the corner of my eye. He seemed to have trouble concentrating on his book. The noise of the card play distracted him. He looked like a lonely, opinionated old coot, so I asked: “Does that oil property belong to the club?”

He gave me a disgusted look. “Of course it does,” he said, “providing more money for people who already got too much fucking money. They say it helps defer the cost of membership, but shit, when you got the moolah these Hebes got, who gives a rat’s ass for a few chickenshit million a year divided by five hundred fucking members? Can you tell me that?”

I said it was a mystery to me. I could see a windy monologue coming on, so I started popping questions, simple ones. “Do you loop here?”

Pops gave me another disgusted snort. “You could say that,” he said, “but I’d rather not. I’m on Hot Rod’s shit list, so I’m lucky to pick up a nine-hole single once in a while. Are you a caddy? You don’t look like one. Too healthy.”

“I’m a traveling caddy. They call me Coast-to-Coast Johnny. I’m in town checking out the accommodations of the various caddy shacks for an article I’m writing for Golf Digest. How come you’re on Hot Rod’s shit list?”

“I don’t bet with the cocksucker. I don’t drink at the cocksucker’s bar, or live at his cocksucking fleabag hotel. Does that answer your question?”

“Vividly. I take it you don’t like Hot Rod.”

“You got that dead right. You oughta write an article on the caddy masters of America. They’re all corrupt — bookies, pimps, and worse. They’re all tyrants and shitheels and Hot Rod Ralston is the worst.”

There was a general uproar inside the caddy shack, the sound of boxes slammed down, followed by excited voices. Pops got up from his trash can and rushed into the fray. I joined him. Boxes full of clothes were laid out on the concrete floor, and dozens of old suits covered two of the picnic tables. A horde of loopers had descended on them like a pack of wolves, gathering them indiscriminately, irrespective of size. Pushing and shoving ensued, and the caddies’ favorite verb, noun, adjective, and modifier, “cocksucker!” was heard many times with many different inflections. Within two minutes everything was snatched up and the loopers were proudly examining and displaying their booty.

Pops came back out on the porch gleefully bearing an old sharkskin suitcoat. He took off the ratty cardigan he was wearing, threw it out in the direction of the oil digs, and donned the suitcoat, strutting like a rooster. “Them Hebes is all right,” he said. “They take care of us! This is a three-hundred-dollar coat. Look inside here, it says ‘Made in U.S.A.’! This ain’t no Taiwan piece of shit, this is the real goods! Goddamn,” Pops went on, “now all I need me is a loop to make my day. Then I’ll be hopping.”

A loudspeaker crackled inside the caddy shack. “Augie Dougall, first tee, right away.” That was interesting. There were dozens of hardier looking loopers around to pack bags. Pops thought it was interesting, too. “Cocksucking Hot Rod,” he said. “I been here since six-thirty this morning. That beanpole gets here at noon, and he loops before me. Cocksucker.”

I went back into the caddy shack in time to see Augie Dougall walking out the front door toward the first tee, stuffing his comic book in his pocket. I followed. The first tee was evidently a squat one-man cubicle where Hot Rod made his caddy assignments and sent players off. It was at the end of the large putting green I had passed by earlier. I stayed well behind, not wanting Ralston to see me. Dougall joined Ralston, and after a moment’s conversation they walked together downhill past rows of parked golf carts to a large barnlike building. I followed again, slowly.

I could hear what had to be Ralston’s voice as I came up on the side of the barn. It was slow, deep, and explaining patiently: “Trust me, Augie. I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?” Dougall muttered something in answer that I couldn’t quite hear.

I decided to risk a look inside. I flattened myself up against the corrugated iron side of the barn and craned my head inside. The barn was for storing golf carts, and there were dozens of them neatly lined up, with long rubber cords attached to electrical chargers that were mounted on hangers suspended from the high ceiling. Ralston and Dougall were sitting together in a cart midway down the line, with their backs to me, too far away from me to hear. I hunkered down and crept into the barn, then squatted behind a cart several rows in back of the two men. From my vantage point it looked like a bizarre father-son relationship — Ralston the father speaking in placating tones to his outsized ungainly son, Dougall. Dougall’s head was turned sideways to catch every well-measured word Ralston offered. I found myself reluctantly admiring Ralston. He was a formidable manipulator. I picked their conversation up in midsentence: “So... things are changing, Augie. It’s nothing we can’t handle, though. But Fat Dog got himself in some big trouble. He fucked with the wrong people and he got hurt. You’re not going to see him again, Augie. Not ever.”

“What did he do, Rod?”

“I can’t tell you exactly. A long time ago he got away with a heavyweight scene. Some people got hurt. I took care of Fat Dog. A friend of mine got him out of some heavy shit. This was years ago when you and Fat Dog were tight. Heavy-duty shit, Augie. Heavy-duty. Did he tell you about it? He told someone, because it got back to the wrong people. And the only people who knew about it before were my friend and I and Fat Dog, of course. And he wouldn’t tell the wrong people, Augie, because his ass would be up shit’s creek if he did.”

“He didn’t tell me no heavy-duty shit, Rod. Just loopin’ and racetrack stuff. Nothin’ bad.”

Ralston put an arm over Dougall’s bony shoulders and squeezed tightly. “You’re sure of that, Augie? You knew Fat Dog better than anyone. You were the closest thing he had to a friend.”

“I’m sure, Rod. Honest.”

“Because someone told a Mexican guy about what Fat Dog did. The Mexican guy hated Fat Dog. The Mexican guy went looking for Fat Dog and he got hurt, Augie. Hurt badly. Whoever told the Mexican about Fat Dog wanted to see Fat Dog hurt, Augie, and I’ve always thought you carried a lot of hatred around for him, even though you hung out together. Fat Dog made fun of you, Augie, I know that. You were his lackey, kind of. Did you want to hurt him, Augie?”

“I never wanted to hurt Fat Dog, Rod. He was my friend. Sometimes he was nasty, but I just got used to it. I never told no one nothin’ about Fat Dog. You got to believe me, Rod.” Dougall’s voice was rising to a wail and his shoulders were shaking.

Ralston tightened his grip around them. “Because if you told anyone about Fat Dog, you could get hurt, too. You could get hurt as bad as Fat Dog or the Mexican guy. You read me, Augie?”

“Yes. I read you, Rod. I didn’t tell nobody nothing.”

“Okay Augie. Now, I happen to know that Fat Dog kept a scrapbook. A scrapbook that told about all the bad things he did in his life. He also ripped me off for a ledger, Augie, with writing in Spanish. I need that ledger. You know that Fat Dog was rich, don’t you, Augie? Loaded. Heavy bread. And it’s rightfully mine. I want that money. What do you know about that, Augie?”

“I know he used to have this scrapbook where he kept these clippings from all these tournaments he looped. Is that what you mean, Rod?”

“No, Augie, not that. You’re sure you never saw any other scrapbook? A big thick one full of clippings and writing? Or a leather ledger book?”

“No, never.”

“Okay, Augie. There may be some other guys Fat Dog hung out with who remember it. We’ll let that one slide for now. One more thing, Augie, then I’ll let you go. I’ve got a juicy nine-holer waiting for you. There’s a detective nosing around. He’s very interested in Fat Dog and his dealings. His name is Brown, do you know anything about that?”

“I seen him, Rod. I seen him. He was at the Tap and Cap askin’ about Fat Dog. Said he was lookin’ for him, that Fat Dog hired him. I...”

Ralston cut in sharply. “When was this, Augie?”

“Maybe two weeks ago.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That Fat Dog’s a tough man to find. That he sleeps outside. That’s all, Rod, I swear.”

“That’s good, Augie.”

“But I know more, Rod. Once me and Fat Dog was out on this loop at Lakeside and this car guy, the one who does them commercials on T.V. with the dog, was telling Fat Dog about this private eye he knew who was a real fuck up, who wasn’t a real private eye, but was good for rippin’ niggers off for their cars. That’s what he said. He was real nasty about it, like the guy was workin for him, but he was laughin’ at the guy. You know what I mean? Anyways, later Fat Dog tells me, ‘Someday I’m gonna have a use for that fuck-up private eye, yes sir.’ That’s what he said, Rod. Honest.”

“That’s good, Augie, and very interesting. You keep quiet about that, and everything else we’ve talked about. You’re a good man, Augie, and a good caddy. I’ve never regretted taking care of you. Don’t do anything now to make me regret it. Keep your mouth shut and life will be smooth. A lot of people have gotten hurt recently by talking too much and fucking around with the wrong people. Don’t let it happen to you, okay?”

“Okay, Rod.”

Augie Dougall was practically blubbering and shaking with relief. He had escaped censure and punishment from the sternest and most menacing of fathers.

“Good,” Ralston said. “Now go get Dr. Goldman and Sid Berman. They want to go a quick nine.”

“Berman and Goldman, wow! A twenty dollar nine-holer. Thanks, Rod.” Augie Dougall ran off. Hot Rod Ralston waited a moment and walked out slowly. I squatted lower as he passed me. When I rose to my feet after a few minutes, my legs were stiff and I was very angry.

I drove to Beverly Drive just south of Wilshire and checked out the lobby directory of the building Jane had walked into. There was a simple listing for suite 463 — R. Weiss, Stringed Instruments. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked down the hall to 463. Through the oak door I could hear cello chords followed by a patient European voice offering criticism. It was enough. I went back down to the lobby to wait.

I waited half an hour, until Jane came out of the elevator followed by an ascetic looking oldster with a cane who was gesturing as though he longed for a baton and a podium. Jane had her back turned to me and was eating up everything the oldster had to say. I wanted to run to her, but stayed seated. The old man concluded his lengthy farewell and retreated back into the elevator. Jane was just about out the door when she turned in my direction and saw me. I stood up and smiled. “Hello, dear,” I said.

She placed her cello gently on the floor. “Fritz, I...”

I walked to her and took her hands. “I’m back,” I said, “belatedly.”

She looked shocked, but finally managed a smile. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I followed you.”

“You—”

“I followed you here. I rang your doorbell and when no one answered, I decided to wait. When Ralston picked you up, I tailed you here.”

“Am I a suspect in this thing you’re investigating?”

She was pulling away, so I let go of her hands. “Of course not. Don’t be angry. We have a lot to talk about. My car’s outside.”

We walked to the car. Jane was scrutinizing me the whole time, quite directly. I couldn’t understand her resentment. It went beyond my invading her privacy. When we settled into my car, she placed a tentative hand on my arm. “You look different,” she said. “It’s hard to place, but your features have changed. What happened in Mexico?”

“I killed two men. And I got drunk.”

“Oh, God!”

“Yeah. Where do you know Ralston from?”

“Richard? What does he have to do with this?”

“A lot. Will you answer my question?”

“From Hillcrest. We’ve known each other for years.”

“What’s the basis of your relationship?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean have you slept with him?”

“How dare you ask me that! One night doesn’t give you a claim on me. I’ve had enough. I’m going to leave.”

“No. Not yet. Please. I’m sorry. I’m pissed off because this reunion isn’t coming off the way I expected, and Ralston is in this thing up to his ears.”

“You didn’t have to cross-examine me the way you did.”

“I was hurt, jealous. Ralston is a notorious well-endowed cunt-hound and he’s had years to work on you.”

“What an ugly thing to call someone. For your information, Richard is a business associate of Sol’s and a very decent person and yes, we did have an affair, briefly, several years ago.”

“That’s all you had to say.”

“You’ve changed, Fritz. You’ve gotten harder. Did you really kill two men?”

“Yeah. They were trying to kill me. Brace yourself: they killed your brother.”

“What did you...”

“I found his body outside Tijuana. In a scuzzy little shack that’s going to give me nightmares for the rest of my life. The killers came back for something and I killed them.”

Jane looked out the window, watching the passing parade on Beverly Drive. When she spoke again it was very softly. “I don’t feel anything. He got what he paid for. Don’t tell me the details, I don’t want to give form to the thing. But it was terrible, wasn’t it?”

“Beyond words.”

“Is it why you got drunk?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re sober again, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted today, Fritz, but what you told me about Richard Ralston upset me. He’s been very supportive of Sol since the warehouse fire.”

“In what way?”

“He’s been conferring with Sol a lot, driving him places, cheering him up.”

“You don’t believe me about Ralston, do you? Would you believe me if I told you he was responsible for your brother’s death?”

“No, I don’t, and no I wouldn’t! Look, you admitted you were a lousy cop and maybe you’re a lousy detective. Richard is a good man. He loves Sol. If they were both involved in bookmaking, I don’t care. It doesn’t hurt anyone. And listen to me, Fritz: If you hurt Richard in any way, I will never speak to you, ever again. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. I understand that you aren’t capable of accepting reality. Richard Ralston is a thieving, fucking, low-life predator. Your brother was just murdered, your former lover is responsible, your best friend is probably being blackmailed and all you can think about is your fucking insulated Beverly Hills lifestyle.”

Jane turned red and swung at me clumsily with her closed fist. I let her hit me. “Do it again,” I screamed. She hit me again and again, each time harder, then collapsed into tears. I pulled her to me and stroked her head. “Good, darling, good. Get it out. I understand, really. Just try to understand me. I’ve been waiting for this thing for a long time. It’s mine and I’m not going to blow it. But it’s no good without you. Ten people have been killed since this thing started and I’m the only one who can end it. But there’s got to be some kind of decency and kindness waiting for me when it’s over.”

Jane looked up at me. Her tears had stopped and she looked strangely composed. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean that I love you. We can have a good life together when this is over.”

“But I don’t know you.”

“Do you care about me?”

“I don’t know you!”

“Ssshh. We’ll have time to court properly when all this is over.”

“Oh, God, don’t you...” Jane started to sob again, and again I held her, very gently. We stayed that way for a minute, then I tucked a hand under her chin and lifted her head toward me. Her face was mottled and her eye makeup was streaked. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it off.

“Will you do a few things for me, sweetheart?” I asked.

“I guess so.”

“Good. One: stay away from Ralston, and two: tell Kupferman I’ll be calling him, probably tomorrow. Tell him who I am and what I’ve been doing. Tell him it’s very important.”

“All right.”

“Good. Will you have dinner with me tonight? At my place?”

“I can’t. I have to study and practice. And I want to be near Sol and have time to think.”

“All right. I’ll drive you home.”

“No. I want to be alone. A walk home carrying my cello will clear my head. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll call you soon.”

I leaned over and we kissed. Jane’s lips brushed distractedly against mine. She maneuvered her cello out the car door. “Be careful,” she said.

I nodded and watched through the rear-view mirror as She lugged her cello up Beverly Drive and out of sight. When she was gone I realized I had forgotten to give her the armadillo purse I had bought in Tijuana.

I was tired. My encounter with Jane had diffused my anger into a vague hope that was enervating in itself. Sleep was what I needed, but I was too tired for that. My only recourse was the tried-and-true run to Walter’s place. I wanted to commit an act of symbolic liberation and his back yard was the place for it.

It was sweltering when I pulled into his driveway. His mother’s Mustang was gone, thank God, and I found Walter sitting on a lawn chair in his back yard, his feet immersed in a kiddies’ wading pool. He was reading a science fiction novel and sucking on a short dog. Several more short dogs were cooling in the pool. He looked about half-bombed. “Moon to earth, moon to earth,” he said as he saw me coming. “The noble private eye returneth from his search for the Holy Grail in Mexico. Chastened, methinks.” Leave it to Walter to throw in one solid perception in his line of horseshit. “Was it fruitful, Fritz? Did you see the mule act? Did you ‘eat out’ at the Blue Fox? Did you score me some dope so I can get off the sauce?”

“Negative to all that rebop. I did learn one interesting thing, though. I found out who killed The Black Dahlia.”

“Oh, yeah? Who was it? The Ayatollah? It has to be him. That clown looks exactly like a fag who tried to grab my dick in the swimming pool at the Hollywood Y when I was twelve. It has to be him.”

“Wrong. It’s you, you bastard, because all that mystical Buddhist shit you’ve been whipping on me for all these years about everything being connected is true. I congratulate you. The twenty-five or thirty I.Q. points you have on me has never been more evident. Since everything is connected, the concept of karma must be valid, too. Ergo, it’s time to clean up my act and get out of the repo racket. After I clean up a big mess I’m involved in. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. Maybe get Cal to set me up in my own classical record store, something like that. There’s a woman in my life now that I have to consider. And since karma is a valid concept there’s probably some nigger who’s looking for me right now with a Saturday Night Special for ripping off his Cadillac. I can’t risk that. Jane needs me. So you were right. I salute you, reluctantly.

“But there’s no victory without pain. You have to pay the price. The one thing that I resent most about you, as much as I love you, is your insane addiction to television. The booze, the music, the sci-fi are all understandable. But the T.V. shit is beneath you. It’s even beneath me. So your T.V. set has to die. Today. Right here in your back yard. I will perform the execution. You will be compensated. I have over six hundred dollars in dirty money that I have to get rid of before I begin my new life. So we do it. Now.”

I had expected high-flying resistance from Walter, but he just smiled. He fished out a short dog from the pool and drained it in one gulp. He shuddered and smiled again. “Let’s do it,” he said. “I’m resigned. Six hundred scoots will get me a half-pound of Columbian and that hooker you told me about. It’s time I got back into the mainstream myself. Let’s do it.”

We went into the house and lugged the old G.E. console back out into the yard. We placed it in a preeminent spot next to old lady Curran’s rose garden. Then I got the Browning pump and a box of shells out of my trunk. Walter was practically jumping up and down in anticipation, “three shots,” I said, “then we get the hell out of here before the fuzz shows up. Stand in back of me. Glass is going to fly.” I paced off twenty yards from the T.V. to Walter’s back porch. Walter sat on the steps behind me, sipping T-Bird in silent glee. I slipped a shell into the breach and pumped it into the chamber, took aim, and fired. The TV. screen imploded with a huge, reverberating kawhoosh! Glass, wood, and metal fragments flew out the back and filled the air before coming to rest in the smoke-filled back yard. The air smelled like burning technology. I squeezed off another shot at the wooden carcass and blew it in half.

People were coming to their windows now in the apartment building across the alley and Walter was whooping and yelling like some new alcoholic species of loon. I pumped another shell into the chamber and handed it to him. “Your turn,” I said, “anywhere but in my direction.”

He nodded and tore throughout the yard, searching for a target. He ended up settling for the garage wall and blew a hole in it the size of a Volkswagen, the recoil knocking him to the ground. I helped him up and we tore for my car, through a driveway littered with T.V. detritus and smelling of cordite.

When we got to my place I made espresso and sent out for a giant anchovy pizza and a fifth of vodka and mixer for Walter. When it arrived we scarfed the pizza in two minutes flat and sat back and talked, and it was the best, the sanest talk we had had in a long time.

Around midnight I gave Walter his six hundred clams and sent him off in a cab. He was going to get a motel room on the Strip until his mother cooled off and I concluded my case. Then it would be sobriety. I believed him this time. There were distinct flashes of the old Walter and flashes of remorse for what he had become.

Before I went to bed a dire thought crossed my mind. Ralston knew about me and probably wanted to silence me. He knew where I lived and had the wherewithal to have me killed. But I quashed the thought. I knew now: I was going to do more than hold in life. I was going to win.

11

I woke up the next morning feeling hung over. Drifting in and out of sleep, I felt a dull persistent banging somewhere, like blows muffled by acoustical padding. I tried to think of Jane’s face. Forming the image was easy this time. Gradually, I realized that the banging wasn’t inside my own head, but was a loud rapping at my front door. I threw on a T-shirt and a pair of Levis and went to greet my caller.

When I opened the door I knew immediately that they were cops: their size, stern demeanor, and eighty-dollar suits were as good as a neon sign proclaiming “officious city flunkies on a power trip.” I greeted them warmly. “Good morning,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you Fritz Brown?” the taller and more forceful-looking of the two asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Sergeant Larkin, Riverside County Sheriffs Department. This is Sergeant Cavanaugh, L.A.P.D.” They both flashed badges at me. “Could we talk to you? Inside?”

“Sure. Come in.”

They entered and gave my living room a quick perusing. Cavanaugh’s eyes fell on my holstered.28 lying on a lamp table. “Do you have a permit for that weapon, Mr. Brown?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. And I have a permit to carry it concealed. I’m a licensed private investigator.”

“I see,” Larkin said, as they both sat down on my couch, uninvited. “Do you own any other weapons?”

So that was it. Old lady Curran had blown the whistle on me. But why was a Riverside County dick involved? “Yes, I own a Browning 12-gauge pump shotgun.”

“Could we see it?” Cavanaugh asked.

“Sure. One minute.” I walked into my bedroom. Maybe the jig was up, and I was going to get popped for discharging a firearm within the city limits. But I didn’t think so. These guys were too reserved and ominous. I brought the shotgun into the living room and handed it, butt first, to Larkin.

He slid open the breech and chamber and took a healthy sniff. “This gun has been fired recently,” he said.

“Last night,” I answered. “I assassinated a T.V. set. With the owner’s permission. If you want to bust me for shooting off a gun in the city, let’s do it now so I can bail out.”

“That’s not what we’re here for, Brown,” Cavanaugh said.

“I didn’t think so. Riverside County doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I do with my shotgun in L.A. What is it then?” I sat down in my easy chair across from them.

“Where were you last night between 10:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M.?” Larkin asked. He was wearing an offensive and shiny yellow dress shirt that must have set him back all of $2.98. It was giving me a headache.

“I was here. In bed. Why?”

Cavanaugh took over. “Were you ever a police officer, Mr. Brown?”

“Yes, I was. I was with the L.A.P.D. for six years.”

Cavanaugh gave me a wide smile. Its phoniness told me he already knew the answer to his question. “So we were old colleagues,” he said. “What divisions did you work?”

“Wilshire Patrol, Hollywood Patrol, and Hollywood Vice.”

Cavanaugh and Larkin gave me identical half-smiles and nods of the head. They were a smooth pair, like Abbott and Costello. Larkin leaned forward confidingly. “Do you know a man named Stanley Gaither? AKA ‘Stan The Man?’” he asked.

“I met him once, briefly, a short while ago. Why?”

“We found your business card on his body.”

“Jesus Fucking Christo. Was he murdered?”

“Yes, last night in palm Springs. Along with two other men. Caddies. They were found shot to death under a freeway overpass.”

“Oh, shit. Shotgun?”

“Yes. Six expended shells from a 10-gauge were found. The three guys were blown to shit. How did you meet Gaither? What was the basis of your relationship with him?”

“What ‘relationship’? I met him in a bar. He bought me a drink and told me about himself, how he was a compulsive car thief, and how he was in therapy to learn to control his compulsion. I told him I was in the repo business and I might be able to help him get started ripping off cars legally. He took my card. I haven’t seen him since.”

Larkin and Cavanaugh stared at me impassively. I couldn’t tell if they believed me. “Have you ever met a George Hansen, AKA ’Hamburger’ or a Robert ‘Bobby’ Marchion?” Larkin asked.

“No. Are they the other two stiffs?”

“That’s right. Do you know any other caddies?”

“No, I don’t play golf. It’s not my idea of kicks.”

“What is your idea of kicks?”

“Great music and beautiful women. What’s yours?”

“Have you got a problem, Brown?” Cavanaugh interjected. “Indent people don’t go around shooting T.V. sets.”

“What’s normal? I have an aesthetic soul. I’m the hit man for an international cartel of aesthetic souls who hate T.V. I get paid ten thou a hit. That’s how I’m able to live in luxury in the Hollywood Hills.”

“Don’t fuck with us, Brown,” Cavanaugh said. “I checked your personnel file this morning. You were a fuck-up and a disgrace to the department. We’re investigating a multiple homicide and we don’t have to take shit from some repo asshole. You watch yourself. The State Board of Vocational Standards doesn’t like P.I.’s to go around shooting off shotguns. You could lose your license.”

“If that’s all you have to say to me, why don’t you leave?”

Cavanaugh couldn’t resist a parting shot. “You watch your step, Brown. We’ll probably check you out again.”

“I wait with bated breath,” I said as they walked out the door.

Ralston. Cathcart. Fat Dog. Augie Dougall. Now three dead loopers in Palm Springs. There are no coincidences. Caddies do not get knocked off Mafia-style. Augie Dougall was the place to start.

When I arrived at Hillcrest, Augie Dougall was not in the caddy shack. The fry cook at the lunch counter told me he hadn’t shown up today. Try the Tap & Cap, he said. I took him up on it and split. As I walked out of the shack, the place was afire with talk about the looper killings, which had made the morning papers.

I drove west toward the Tap & Cap, stopping first on Pico and Veteran to buy the L.A. Times. It was on the second page:

Not much. But the address of one George Hansen might be worth something. I ripped the article out of the paper and put it in my shirt pocket.

The Tap & Cap was almost deserted when I got there. The bartender and a crippled old black news vendor were reading the Times article aloud at the bar as I walked in. “Po’ motherfuckas,” the old newsy was saying, “po’ fuckin’ ‘Burger’ Hansen. Hungriest fuckin’ goat I ever did see. I remember when...”

I interrupted him with a stern look and an abrupt gesture. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, “I’m with Amalgamated Insurance and I’m looking for a Mr. Augie Dougall on a matter of urgent importance. I was told he frequents your establishment.”

The old news vendor started to say something, but the barman cut him off. “You got that all wrong, mister. Augie Dougall lives here. He gets a free room for cleaning the place up.”

“Excellent. Is Mr. Dougall here now?”

“No. He left early this morning. He said he was going up to Palm Springs on the bus. He got real shook up about those three caddies who got killed up there. He knew ’em. He said he’s gonna crack the case. He’s cracked himself. He ain’t gonna crack nothin’.”

“I see. How terrible. I have a sizeable check from a dead uncle for Mr. Dougall. Very sizeable. Do you know where Mr. Dougall will be staying in Palm Springs?”

“I don’t know, but he’s got a cousin up there, in Cat City. In fact, Augie’s got a letter from him that he forgot to pick up this morning, he was in such a hurry.” The barman rummaged beneath the bar and came up with an envelope.

I grabbed it out of his hand and tore out the door, adding theft of government property to my list of crimes. A moment later I saw the crippled newsy hobbling after me. He didn’t have a chance. When I got to my car, I tore open the envelope and read:

Charlie, my friend, if you knew the kind of people your erstwhile cousin hung out with, you wouldn’t be Ha! Ha!’ing quite so much. Bad-ass dobermans are not much use against shotguns, arsonists, and crooked cops.

I tossed the letter into the glove compartment. Augie Dougall was headed to Cathedral City now, running from the frying pan into fire. If he traveled by bus his most logical point of departure would be Santa Monica Greyhound on 5th and Broadway. I drove there, fast.

The woman at the counter told me an extremely tall funny-looking man aged about fifty had purchased a ticket for the 7:15 bus for Palm Springs. That was enough for me. I hit the Santa Monica Freeway to the Harbor, to the Pomona. Soon I was passing through the depressing Eastern suburbs of L.A. with my top up, air conditioner on full and cassette player blasting Wagner. I was filled with expectancy and the calm certainty that whatever awaited me in the desert would not be dull.

I stopped in Riverside for gas, then switched on the radio for the rest of my journey. I found a Palm Springs station and lucked into a news report on the caddy killings. It was obvious they had taken the desert resort community by storm. The newscaster went on dramatically: there were no clues, the motive was still “up in the air,” Gaither and Marchion had no known next of kin, while George Hansen’s wife had been informed of his death. Another newscaster took over and announced that he had a Special Report on the world of caddies. I turned the volume up.

The newsman, his voice dripping with sentiment, began:

I couldn’t think for my sudden anger. My mind was seized with a boundless hatred for America. America, with its optimism, boosterism, and yahooism that opted for sentiment over truth every time. America, that would turn the truth of the lives and deaths of three men into a cheap advertisement for an infantile game.

After a few moments my anger subsided. I was in the desert now, the smog was behind me. It was sweltering outside, but the arid landscape was beautiful. I was snug in my air-conditioned cocoon, and in the matter of the people versus Haywood Cathcart, Richard Ralston, and Fat Dog Baker, I was the arbiter of justice, not America.

Palm Springs shot up in the distance, a green shimmering oasis in my tinted windshield. Cathedral City, if my memory served me, was to the southeast of the Springs, a working-class community on the edge of the desert mountain range. I got Augie Dougall’s letter out of the glove compartment and checked the return address: Charles Dougall, 18319 Eucalyptus Road, Cathedral City.

I passed through Palm Springs on Palm Canyon Drive, the ritzy main drag. The expensive boutiques and gift shops that lined its immaculate sidewalks were closed for the summer. Only a few restaurants, coffee shops, and gas stations seemed to be open. The few people about seemed in a hurry, rushing toward some air-conditioned sanctuary. I took Palm Canyon out of town to where it turned into a desert highway, winding around to Cathedral City and Indio.

Cathedral City was as I remembered it — dusty residential streets crowded with old wood frame and faded stucco houses reaching up toward some scrub-covered mountain too insignificant to name. I bumbled on to Eucalyptus Road, almost missing it, jamming right at the last second. I put my car in low and climbed up slowly, scanning the house numbers.

18319 was midway between highway and mountainside. It was white with aluminum siding, the dream house of a modest dreamer. There were small statues of forest animals guarding both sides of the narrow walkway. They had been pink once, but were now faded almost white by the sun. I parked and alighted from my car, shedding my suitcoat as the sun hit me like a blast furnace. I rang the doorbell and was answered by a dog’s furious barking. Old bad-ass Rudolf, no doubt. I rang again. There was no one but Rudolf at home.

I drove to a gas station, and asked the attendant if he knew where the freeway embankment was where the three guys got shot. I gave him a big ghoulish smile. He returned it and we related, one ghoul to another. Before giving me detailed instructions on how to find it, he elaborated his theory of the killings: the “Mafia” was responsible. The three dead caddies wouldn’t cut them in on their golf course dope action, so they had to be “snuffed.”

I thanked him for his help and took off for the scene of the crime. I was there within five minutes. It was just an innocuous freeway off-ramp, the wide overpass providing shelter from the sun. It looked like a good place to get drunk and shoot the shit. Only today the sand flats on both sides of the roadway were jammed with cars, working-class men in Bermuda shorts, housewives with children in tow and low-rider types in tank tops and cut-offs, spilling forward to see the place where death and drama happened. I joined them and right away found my prey in the middle of the crowd, standing a head taller than everyone else.

I walked up behind him and tapped his shoulder. He turned around. I could tell he recognized me immediately. “Hi, Augie,” I said, “remember me?” He looked around for a means of escape. I glimpsed an eerie intelligence in his eyes.

“I remember you,” he said, “from the Tap and Cap. You were looking for Fat Dog. What do you want?”

“I want to make sure the thing that happened to Fat Dog doesn’t happen to you.”

“What happened to Fat Dog?”

“He’s dead.” I grabbed my necktie, twisted it up to form a hangman’s noose and contorted my face. Augie grimaced. He was very scared. “A lot of people have been dying, Augie. Thanks to your old buddy, Hot Rod Ralston. You’re next unless you talk to me.”

“Hot Rod said that Fat Dog just got hurt.”

“The big hurt, the final one. Talk to me.”

Augie gulped and moved his feet in a little dance of fear. He was sweating now, but not from the heat, and I sensed that he wanted to talk. I went on. “I talked to the barman at the Tap and Cap this morning. He said you came up here to help the cops find out who killed those three caddies. The barman thought you were crazy, acting like a kid. But I don’t. I think you’re a good man and you’ve got a lot of guts. If we work together we can crack this thing. What do you say?”

“I say right on! I say Augie Dougall’s taken enough shit in his life. I say fuck ’em all and save six for the pall-bearers.”

“Good man. Let’s get out of this heat. I’ve got a car with air conditioning.”

We walked to the car. I locked us in and put the air on full. Augie fiddled with the seat release, finally pushing it all the way back to provide adequate leg room. He had at least three inches on me.

“A lot of people think you’re nothing but a big dummy, don’t they, Augie? But I know different. I’m a trained observer and I can tell intelligence when I see it, I’ll tell you what I’m interested in: Fat Dog, Ralston, some sort of Welfare scam and how it all ties in to Sol Kupferman. Be honest, Augie. I heard that conversation you had with Ralston yesterday. He means to hurt you, he thinks you’ve been lying to him. We can’t let that happen. I’ll start by laying my cards on the table. Fat Dog Baker firebombed the Club Utopia back in ’68. Let’s go from there.”

Augie went ashen faced. He started to cough and lit a cigarette. When he spoke his voice was breaking. “Jesus God. You know. And Hot Rod knows and God knows who else. Jesus.”

“How did you find out, Augie?”

“Fat Dog told me, when he was drunk. I believed him. He hated Kupferman because Kupferman was taking care of his sister. He used to get his rocks off by starting fires. I believed him.”

“Did you put Omar Gonzalez onto Ralston?”

“Yeah. I knew something funny was going on between Fat Dog and Hot Rod. Fat Dog gave Hot Rod a lot of shit, and Hot Rod’s a bad man to fuck with. Once they was having an argument at the first tee and Hot Rod says ‘Don’t forget what I know about you, you bastard.’ So I figured he knew. I figured if he knew, he might have written it down somewhere. That’s why I called Gonzalez. I remembered him from the Joe Pyne Show. I figured maybe I could get at Fat Dog and Hot Rod through him.”

“Why did you want to get back at them?”

“For treating me like a slave! Like a retardo! Always laughing at me for being so tall! Augie, the stick! But I’ll show them! I’ll get the scrapbook and name names! I’ll go to the police and be a hero! I’ll...”

I placed a gentle hand on his arm. “What do you know about this scrapbook, Augie? The first I heard about it was yesterday.”

“I don’t know nothing about it, except Burger Hansen and Bobby Marchion was killed for it. They was both old running partners with Fat Dog. Burger used to be in the golf ball business with him. That’s why they was killed. It’s got to be. They was just drunks and loopers. Nobody murders people like that. They used to get drunk and smoke dope under that embankment. They never hurt nobody. Now they’re dead. That’s wrong! It’s evil!”

“I agree. And the evil is about to stop.” I tried a stab in the dark: “Tell me about Ralston’s Welfare scam, Augie.”

Augie’s face went blank. “What Welfare scam?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about no Welfare scam. Hot Rod’s got this hotel he owns where all these bums on Welfare live. Winos. He collects their checks each month and takes out for their rent and bar tab. Is that what you mean?”

“No, Augie. I was just thinking out loud.”

“Hot Rod’s evil. You got to be evil to do something like that. Hot Rod don’t care about nothin’ but money and fucking women. Once he showed me these naked pictures he took of Fat Dog’s sister with her legs open. He told me he fucked her. I knew her. She was a sweet young girl. She used to cook really good spaghetti at the caddy lunchstand. And Hot Rod talked about her like she was scum.”

“You mark my words, Augie, within one week Hot Rod Ralston is not going to have a pot to piss in. Four people that I know of are dead because of him and he’s going to pay for it.” Augie looked at me with unabashed hero worship. “One last thing,” I said, “you told Ralston yesterday that Cal Myers told Fat Dog about me on the golf course. Exactly what did he say?”

Augie screwed his face in a memory search: “That you was a private eye in name only. That you was on the sauce. That you weren’t as smart as you thought you was. That you liked to give people shit.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I can remember.”

“And Fat Dog said he was going to ‘use’ me for something, right?”

“Right. But he didn’t tell me what it was.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I remember I asked him, but he said never mind. Fat Dog could be real silent and crafty like. What are you gonna do now?”

“Talk to Burger Hansen’s widow, look for the scrapbook. What about you?”

“Hide out with my cousin. When you go to the cops, will you tell them I helped you?”

“In spades, Augie. But you can’t stay here in Cat City. Someone was looking for the scrapbook at your cousin’s place. You’ve both got to blow town. You got bread?”

“Not much.”

I checked my wallet and laughed. Forty-three dollars. In the course of the last three weeks I had dished out more money to informers and victims and to assuage my guilty German soul than I had earned in my first year as a cop. “I’m Tap City, Augie,” I said, “but I’ll tell you what to do. Cal Myers owes me one — you get back to L.A. and call him. Tell him Fritz Brown said for him to lay a grand on you. Don’t mention this case or what it’s for. If he won’t give you the bread, say this: January 29, 1971. That will pry it out of him.”

“Ain’t that like blackmail? I know Cal Myers. he’s a hard case and a cheap loop. Catbox Cal they call him, ’cause he’s always in the sand trap.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll kick loose. I’ll take you back to your cousin’s pad. When he gets back, tell him you’ve both got to split for a few weeks. Has he got a car?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Get in it and take off.” I started up my own battered chariot, pulled it off the shoulder and pointed it towards Charlie Dougall’s house. “Do you know Hansen’s wife, Augie?” I asked.

“Well enough,” he said. “She’s a good old girl. Loopers who get hitched up have a knack for picking loyal women. She put up with a lot of shit from old Burger. She didn’t like his drinking, though. She’s in A.A. herself, that’s why Burger used to get bombed under the freeway. Marguerita wouldn’t let him drink at home. You know, Fritz, I feel good. It’s real funny. I don’t know what’s going to happen, where I’m going to, but I feel like I’ve done something. Something real. For the first time.”

“You have, Augie. You’ve done something very few people could have done.”

“You really think so, Fritz?”

“I know so, Augie.” I pulled up in front of his cousin’s house and handed him one of my business cards. “Here’s my card, Augie. Call me in two weeks and I’ll tell you how this thing came out. In the meantime, get out of town and be careful.”

We shook hands solemnly, then Augie broke into a big loving grin and extricated his Abraham Lincoln frame from my Camaro. I waited until he was safely inside the house, then split.

The Desert Flower Trailer Park was in Section 14, Palm Springs’ poverty pocket. I had been hearing about Section 14 for years. Middle-class elitist cops, connoisseurs of low-life, spoke with awe of the tawdry, unpaved collection of tarpaper shacks, trailer parks, and abandoned cars that existed just half a mile off of Palm Canyon Drive. Every commercial center has to have a slum to house its destitute, and Palm Springs was no exception. Only here the dichotomy was more obvious and the center of desolation more isolated: two minutes from downtown Palm Springs in the middle of a gigantic sand flat, Section 14 stood, not quite visible from the broad streets that formed its perimeter, lest it ruin some tourist’s vacation with intimations of reality. Dog packs were rumored to roam through it at night, searching out cats and desert rodents for food. Most of its population — drunks, Welfare recipients, car washers and restaurant workers at two dollars an hour — sought air-conditioned refuge during the summer days and returned to swelter at night.

As I pulled off Ramon Road and drove north on Section 14’s garbage-strewn dirt access road, I felt timeless, like a Steinbeckian capitalist exploiter. The Desert Flower Trailer Park was on the south border of Section 14, saving me a trip into its dark inner sanctum. There were no flowers to be seen, desert or otherwise; only a permanently-grounded fleet of beat up, tarnished, small traders, most of them sans cars. I looked at my watch. It was 7:04 and getting dark. There was no one around. I parked my car and locked it, surveying it in the process. It was nine model years old and dusty. It blended right in. If I was lucky no one would deface it out of envy or resentment.

At the head of the two long lines of trailers was a shack marked “Office.” I banged on the door. An elderly woman in a robe answered, smelling of gin. I inquired after Marguerita Hansen. The old woman perused me from head to toe. “Cop?” she said. I nodded affirmatively. “At the very end on the left, number twenty-three.” She slammed her door, blowing dust on my trouser leg.

Marguerita Hansen’s trailer was one of the nicer ones, a chromium “air-stream” of the type popular in the early 50’s. It looked well kept-up, the chrome carrying a minimum of dust. It had an electric buzzer next to the door that went off resoundingly when I pushed it. A woman of about fifty came to the door a minute later.

My first thought upon seeing her was that twenty years ago she must have been a real beauty. She was a honey blonde, tall and plump. Her face was blotched from crying. She held on to the door for support and looked down at me. “Yes?” she said. “Are you from the police? They said I could wait for a few days before making my statement.”

“I’m not with the police, Mrs. Hansen,” I said. “My name is Brown, I’m a private investigator. I’m investigating the murders here in Palm Springs and some other things that may be related. Could I speak to you for a minute?”

When she hesitated, I handed her my billfold, open to the photostat of my license. She took it, checked it briefly, and handed it back. “All right,” she said, “come in.”

The interior of the trailer was spotlessly clean. There was a couch, a coffee table, and two chairs arranged neatly. Up against one wall were boxes full of men’s clothes. Standing next to them were three golf bags, filled with clubs. Marguerita Hansen caught my gaze. “Those were George’s things,” she said. “I don’t want them around anymore.”

I nodded as I took a seat on the couch. “I’ll try to make this brief. First, I don’t think the deaths of your husband, Marchion and Gaither had anything to do with drugs, as the police have been suggesting.” She sat down in a chair across from me. I continued: “I think their deaths can be traced directly to two men — Richard Ralston and Frederick ‘Fat Dog’ Baker. I...” I stopped. Marguerita Hansen came alive at the mention of the two names. “Do you know these two men, Mrs. Hansen?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. George and I have known Dick Ralston for years. He and George used to play minor league baseball together when they were teenagers. He got George his start as a caddy. And George and I were foster parents to Freddy Baker and his sister when they were little children.”

“What?” Suddenly I was shaking.

“I said Dick Ralston and George were old friends and that we were foster parents to Freddy Baker and his sister. My God, why are you staring at me that way?!” She began to sob. I let her cry while I tried to clear the gathering storm clouds in my own mind. After a minute she controlled herself. She looked at me guiltily, as if ashamed for her show of emotion.

“Mrs. Hansen,” I said, “I understand your connection to Richard Ralston. But you tell me that you and your husband were foster parents to Fat Dog Baker and his sister?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“His sister, Jane Baker?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s about twenty-eight years old now?”

“Yes, that’s about right.”

“My God. When was this?”

“In 1955. Freddy was twelve and Jane was three.”

“How did this come about?”

“A man I knew arranged it. Why I’ll never know. He was a wonderful man, an old friend, and he knew George and I wanted children, but couldn’t have any. He paid us very well to take care of them. We loved them so much. They were orphans. We were their second foster parents. Their first died in a fire the year before.” A fire. Jesus God.

“What was this man’s name, Mrs. Hansen? It’s very important.”

She hesitated. “Sol Kupferman,” she said.

Oh, God. Oh, shit, “And this was in 1955?” I almost screamed it.

“Yes. Why are you getting so upset?”

“I’m sorry, but what you’ve told me — and I believe you — contradicts most of the evidence I’ve gathered so far. How did you know Kupferman?”

“My brother introduced us. Sol was a very rich, glamorous, considerate man. He was supposed to be in the rackets, but I didn’t care. He had just lost the woman he had been living with for years. She committed suicide. He was heartbroken. We comforted each other. Why he was interested in the Baker kids, I’ll never know. He was always doing nice things for people. Anonymously. He told George and I that we must never mention him to the children.”

“And he arranged the adoption through an adoption agency?”

“Yes. The County Agency.”

“And what happened? Finally you gave up the children?”

“We had to. George was drinking heavily and Freddy became a wild, terrible boy. The adoption people took them away from us.”

“And that was the last you saw of the children? Or of Kupferman?”

“No. Sol and Dick Ralston fixed George up with a job cad-dying at Hillcrest. He sent us money at Christmastime. He still does. But I haven’t seen him for over ten years.”

“And Freddy and Jane were sent to other foster homes?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen them since?”

“Not Jane. Freddy once in a while throughout the years. Not recently. He turned into a terrible, vicious-minded man, and I wanted nothing to do with him. He and George used to caddy at the same tournaments and sometimes he brought Freddy home, but I told him not to. Freddy scares me.”

“So you haven’t seen him recently?”

“No, but I knew he and George still saw each other. They even did ‘business’ together, if you can call it that. About ten days ago Bobby Marchion came by. He dropped off some keys for George from Freddy to his golf ball business. Freddy had sold George thousands of golf balls for four hundred dollars. They were in this cheap hotel room in L.A.”

“Do you still have the keys?”

“Yes.”

“Could I have them? I’ll gladly pay for them.”

“You can have them for free. I’ve had enough of golf bums, golf, and golf balls. I’ve been sober for three years in A.A.; I’ve got a Higher Power in my life, and George, as much as I loved him, was a terrible burden. It’s God’s will now that I move away from my old acquaintances. With George gone, I can do that. So you take the keys, with my best wishes.” She went to a drawer and handed them to me, three of them on a rabbit’s foot chain.

“What’s the name of the hotel?” I asked.

“It’s the Westwood Hotel in West L.A. The room number is on the big key.”

I thanked her and pocketed my prize. “One thing before I go,” I said. “Do you know of a scrapbook that Freddy Baker had?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ve been a tremendous help.” We shook hands. I walked out the trailer door.

“God bless you,” she called out after me.

I didn’t take the blessing to heart. I couldn’t. I was flying high on my own omnipotence. I got a cheap motel room in Indio. It was dirty, but air-conditioned, and in the morning I got up and drove back to L.A.