Джеймс Эллрой - Brown's Requiem

I took a stool at the end of the bar. Behind the bar, above the shelves of beer glasses, was a giant photographic collage of blown-up photos of leading jockeys and their mounts interspersed with Polaroids of bar regulars playing softball and guzzling brew. I couldn’t pick out Fat Dog. I got the bartender’s attention. “I’m looking for Fat Dog Baker,” I said. “He told me I could get a line on him here.”

“I ain’t seen Fat Dog for a week or so,” the bartender said. “But if you wanna leave a message, I’ll see he gets it when he comes in.”

“No, I have to see him tonight.” I took a five spot out of my wallet and laid it on the bar in front of him. I gestured at the men behind me playing pool. “Do any of these guys know Fat Dog? Know where I could find him?”

He deftly snapped up the fiver and pointed to a scarecrow-like older guy playing around with the jukebox. “That’s Augie Dou-gall,” he said. “He loops with Fat Dog kind of semiregular. Ask him, he might know. Buy him a pitcher. He likes Coors.”

I thanked the bartender, awarding him one of my rare winks, and carried the chilled pitcher and a glass over to the jukebox. I tapped the scarecrow on the shoulder. He turned around and almost knocked the beer out of my hands. “This is for you,” I said and pointed to a small table a few feet away. “I’m a friend of Fat Dog Baker. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

We sat down and he dove into his suds. He was about 55, and very tall, maybe 6'6‘. He couldn’t have weighed more than 140. He looked guileless and gentle, so I played it straight with him. “I’m doing a job for Fat Dog,” I said. “I know you’re an old looping buddy of his, so I thought maybe you could tell me where he’s staying.”

“Okay. You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No.”

“You kind of look like one.”

“I traded in my badge for a set of golf clubs. Fat Dog is going to teach me the game.” Augie didn’t laugh or change his expression. His eyes remained locked into mine. He slopped up some more beer. It struck me that he must be closed to retarded, with an idiot savant’s antenna for the heat.

“You picked a good teacher, buddy. Nobody knows golf like the Fat Dog. Nobody can read greens like him neither. You put that putt where he tells you, and whammo, it’s in the cup.”

“Fascinating, but what I’m interested in is where I can find him, tonight.”

Augie Dougall went on, “Fat Dog don’t like to sleep indoors. He says it’s bad for him. He has bad dreams. He’s been loopin’ Bel-Air lately and sleepin’ on the course on this little hill off of the eighth hole near this little lake they got. He...”

I interrupted, “You mean he sleeps on the grounds at Bel-Air Country Club?”

“Yeah. They got this gate off of Sunset near this girls’ school. There’s this big statue of Jesus there. Fat Dog hops the fence. He’s got a nice little place all set up for hisself...”

I didn’t let him finish. I tossed him a hurried thank you and left the bar. I could hear the beginning of an argument as I walked out the door. It had to do with the merits of Arnold Palmer’s swing versus Ben Hogan’s. It was picking up tempo as I strode up Sawtelle toward my car, looper voices trailing hero worship and anger into the night.

I knew the entrance Augie Dougall was talking about. Jesus stood guard over the student parking lot at Marymount Girls’ School.. I parked beside the gate Fat Dog would have to climb over to get to his retreat, and put on some music conducive to forming plans on a warm summer night: Mozart’s Fortieth Symphony, light and graceful, the antithesis of the nervous boredom my case was turning into.

When the music ended I waited in silence for an hour or so, then heard Fat Dog’s loud footsteps coming toward me on the driveway. He was muttering something unintelligible. I called out softly so as not to frighten him. “Yo, Fat Dog. You’ve got a visitor.”

“Who’s that?” he called back nervously. “Friend or foe?”

“It’s Fritz Brown, Fat Dog. I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Fritz baby! My buddy! The private-eye man! You got some good shit for the Fat Dog?”

I opened my passenger door. “I’ve got some information for you. I don’t know how good it is.”

He sat down beside me on the front seat, and gave me a warm handshake. His hand was greasy and he smelled of dry leaves and sweat, the price of outdoor living. “Shoot it to me, Jack,” he said.

“It’s like this,” I said, “I’ve been tailing your sister and Kupferman. Not long enough to establish any routine, but long enough to tell you there’s no hanky-panky going on.” It was a lie, but a kind one. “More importantly, I’ve talked to a former associate of Kupferman’s and checked him out with the fuzz. I can tell you this: a long time ago, Kupferman was a money man for organized crime. An accountant, actually, He was a material witness to the grand jury twice, when they were investigating bookmaking. That was back in the 50’s. I get the distinct impression that he’s been clean for a long time.”

“So where do you go from here? What else are you gonna do?”

“That’s up to you. I can subpoena the grand jury records. That takes time, plus money for an attorney. I can continue my surveillance, which will probably yield no dirt. I can talk to other people who know Kupferman and see what they have to say. That’s about it.”

“You go to it, man. This is important to me.”

“There’s the question of money, if you want me to continue. I’ll give you a flat rate. One week of my time, an even grand. That includes expenses. It’s a good deal. I’ll submit you a written report on all the shit I’ve dug up. One thing, though, I need the money tonight. And another, I’m going on vacation at the end of the week. No business, okay? You got the bread?”

“Yeah, but I’m not holding it. I never do at night. Too many psychos around. You ain’t safe, even sleeping outside. We got to take a ride for the moolah. Okay?”

“Okay. You’ve got it in cash, right?”

“Right.”

“Where do we go?”

“Venice.”

Venice, where the debris meets the sea. It figured my canine friend would do his banking there.

I took surface streets to give me time to converse with my client. He was far more interesting than either of the people I was investigating. Mob minions gone legit and amateur musicians were commonplace, but caddies who slept on golf courses and carried around six or seven thousand dollars were rare, and probably indigenous to only L.A. I decided to do some polite digging in the guise of small talk. “How’s the looping business, Fat Dog? You making any money?”

“I’m doing all right. I’ve got my regulars,” he said.

“When I was a kid, my dad used to drive us by Wilshire Country Club every Saturday on the way to the movies. I used to see these guys carrying golf bags on their shoulders. It looked like a lot of work. Don’t those bags get heavy?”

“Not really. You get used to it. You work Hillcrest or Brent-wood though and you break your balls. Them kikes got cement in their bags. And none of ’em can play golf. They just like to torture their caddy. They pay you a few bucks more, but it’s just so they can feel superior while they torture you.”

“That’s an interesting concept, Fat Dog. Sadism on the golf course. Jewish golfers as sadists. Why do you dislike Jews so much?”

“Dislike ain’t the word. I never met one who kept his word, or could play golf. They rule the country and then complain how they can’t get into good clubs like L.A. or Bel-Air. When I’m rich though, I’m gonna have me a whole caddy shack full of Jewish goats. I’m gonna get me a big fat Spaulding trunk and load it down with umbrellas, golf balls, and extra clubs. The bastard’s gonna weigh about seventy-five pounds. I’m gonna have a nigger caddy pack it on the front nine, and a Hebe on the back. I’ve got a friend, a rich guy who feels like me. He’s gonna have a bag just like mine. We’re gonna make these fuckin’ Jews and niggers pack us double. Ha-ha-ha!” Fat Dog’s laughter rose, then dissolved into a coughing attack. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He stuck his head out the window to catch some air.