Джеймс Эллрой - Brown's Requiem

“How much money does it bring in a month?”

“I don’t know. Thousands. Cathcart is filthy rich.”

“Who killed Fat Dog Baker?”

“Two Mexican guys. Cathcart ordered it.”

“Why?”

“Fat Dog was going insane. He was making insane demands on Cathcart. He told Carthcart to make Solly give up Jane. They live together, you know. She’s his daughter, only she doesn’t know it. He kept telling Cathcart he would blow the whole thing sky-high if he didn’t order Solly to cut Jane loose. When Fat Dog torched Solly’s warehouse, it was the last straw. Cathcart had him killed.”

“Exactly what ‘lever’ has Cathcart been holding over Kupferman?”

“Jane. He knows she’s Solly’s daughter. He’ll spill the whole sordid story to her, if Solly ever balks at cooperating. She knows a little about Solly’s past, the grand jury investigations, that he was a mob moneyman and all that. But it would kill her if she knew Solly was really her father. Also, Jane’s mother was a dope addict, a crazy woman. She committed suicide right after Jane was born. Solly worships the ground Jane walks on. He’d never blow it with Cathcart and risk Jane finding all those things out.”

Thoughts of Jane cut through me like a knife. “Cathcart’s a nice guy, isn’t he?”

“Cathcart is a fucking iceberg. He knows it, too. He told me once, ‘I’m like an iceberg — cold and seven-tenths below the surface.’”

“Have you ever heard of Omar Gonzalez?”

“Yeah.”

“He burglarized your pad. Someone tried to kill him here in L.A. Who was it?”

“Cathcart. I told him my house had been burglarized and my ledgers swiped. He dusted the place for prints and came up with Omar Gonzalez’s. He knew Omar from the Utopia investigation. He had some guy go after him with a shotgun, but the guy blew it.”

“How did Fat Dog steal your ledger in Spanish?”

“I don’t fucking know! Fat Dog could do things you wouldn’t believe!”

“Who killed the three caddies in Palm Springs?”’

“Cathcart had some professionals do it. He knew Fat Dog had the scrapbook. I was sure Fat Dog would never entrust it to Augie Dougall and I had had his cousin’s place in Cathedral City checked out. Cathcart figured Hansen or Marchion had it. I checked out Hansen’s trailer myself. It wasn’t there. His old lady wasn’t the type to get involved and Marchion was a transient. I told Cathcart all this, but he still ordered the hit.”

Warily, I asked my next question: “Who told you I was involved in this case?”

“Jane Baker. We’ve been friends for years. She’s not involved in any of this. She calls me up when she gets worried about things. She...”

I arced my right hand and slammed Ralston hard in the neck. The teeth of the brass knuckles made small puncture wounds that shot little streams of blood. Ralston screamed. I shut off the tape machine. “You never mention her to me, scumbag,” I said, “not ever. You understand?” Ralston nodded, cowering against another blow. “Now tell me this,” I demanded, “does Cathcart know me?”

“Yes,” he whimpered.

“Does he plan on having me hit?”

“Yes. He’s got a guy out looking for you. Staking out your place.”

“Has he checked out my record with the police department?”

“Yeah,” Ralston said, rubbing his bloody neck. “He thinks you’re holed up somewhere drunk. And afraid.”

“You and Cathcart are good buddies, aren’t you?”

“He trusts me. He knows I’m afraid of him.”

“Right now your survival depends on two things: doing what I tell you and maintaining Cathcart’s trust. This case is never going to go before the cops or the law. This is my case. Cathcart is mine. This tape is going somewhere safe. If I don’t check in at regular intervals at certain places, the media gets my whole file, which includes a complete report of your complicity in the Welfare scam, your accessory to murder, your knowledge of the Utopia fire and your bookmaking racket. If I stay healthy, you stay safe. I want you to call Cathcart and tell him that someone called you and told you I was seen asking questions in Palm Springs. Drunk.” Ralston nodded, almost eagerly.

“Now. I have a load of bankbooks with Fat Dog’s name on them,” I said, “but the signatures aren’t his. Do you know anything about them?” When he shook his head, I knew he was lying. “That’s a pity,” I said, “because there’s a fortune in cash waiting to be had. Just for the hell of it, why don’t you sign ‘Frederick R. Baker’ a few times for me.”

I dug a notepad and pen out of my pocket and handed them to Ralston. He wrote the name three times, then backed off, fearing a blow. I took out one of the bankbooks and compared the signature to Ralston’s; a perfect match. “Don’t worry, Hot Rod,” I said, “I won’t hit you again. You managed Fat Dog’s money for him, is that it?” He nodded. “Where did he get the money?” I asked.

“He played the horses. He was a good handicapper. He got money from Cathcart. He looped. He never spent a dime. He was a cheap, stingy fuck.”

“I believe it. On Monday we’re going to withdraw the bulk of the money. I’m going to keep most of it, but I’ll lay a substantial sum on you. I’ll be at your pad at ten Monday morning. Right now I’ll drive you to that little hospital down the street. They’ll fix you up real nice. You might have to call in sick, but what the hell, you’ve been on the job twenty-two years, you can afford to take a day off now and then.”

I found a towel on the nightstand and handed it to Ralston, who wiped his face. I gathered up my tape deck, turned off the light in the little room and we left, walking all the way to my car on Century Park East. I dropped Ralston at the L.A. New Hospital on Pico and Beverly Drive. He didn’t say a word the whole time. I didn’t blame him. He was in the deadliest of limbos.

As I pulled up at the emergency entrance, I said: “You call Cathcart tomorrow. Tell him what I told you to. Make it convincing. I’ll be by your place at ten Monday. Be ready.”

He just nodded as he got out of the car. He was very pale.

I spent the next morning engaged in some soul searching. I did it during a long walk on the beach, the ideal, most cinematic locale for soul searchers. The beast kept rearing its ugly head, but I fought it off. I was entirely justified in what I did to Ralston; he wouldn’t have broken otherwise and I needed him to get at Cathcart. Still, it was my most vicious episode of violence since breaking Blow Job Anderson’s legs, and unsettling because Richard Ralston would never be the same. The hard-voiced manipulator who had seemed so formidable during his interrogation of Augie Dougall had broken fast under physical duress. If he had a well-developed image of himself as a stoic pragmatist, it was now leaking water.

But these things were secondary to the crucial point: in order to survive, Richard Ralston was now going to be my ally, not Haywood Cathcart’s. He would help me bring down Cathcart’s well-constructed house of Welfare checks forgery, extortion, and murder, and that was all that mattered.

While on my journey of soul searching, I decided to quit working for Cal Myers. I bore him no rancor for his low opinion of me, which, expressed to Fat Dog, had set the incredible events of the past month into motion. In a strange sense, I was grateful: he had been the catalyst that put Jane Baker in my life and awakened in me a power to deal with horrendous happenings that I didn’t know I possessed. The knowledge of that power and the viability of the moral decisions I had recently been forced to make convinced me of one thing: I was too good to be a repo rip-off man. Besides, I would soon be rich from Fat Dog’s ill-gotten gains, which I deserved as a tribute to my good work that would regretfully have to remain anonymous.