Джеймс Эллрой - Brown's Requiem

I prodded him a little. “You ever caddy for Kupferman?”

Regaining his breath, Fat Dog gave me a quizzical look. “Are you kidding? He had a coon pack his bag. Jews and niggers are soul brothers.”

We were on Lincoln now, heading south. On Venice Boulevard we turned west, toward the beach. Within a few minutes we were on the edge of the Venice ghetto, known to Venetians as “Ghost Town.” Fat Dog told me to stop on a street named Horizon. It wasn’t much of a horizon, just dirty wood-framed four and eight flats with no front yards. It was trash night and garbage cans lined the sidewalk. Spanish voices and television battled for audial supremacy. There was no place to park, so Fat Dog told me to let him out and come back in ten minutes. I had other ideas.

He hopped out. Through my rear-view mirror, I watched him trot around the corner to my left. As soon as he was out of sight, I jumped out and tore after him, leaving the car double-parked. I slowed to a walk as I reached the corner. Fat Dog was nowhere in sight. I walked to the end of the block, looking in windows and checking out driveways. Nothing. I got back into my car and circled the streets surrounding Horizon at random. When I returned to the spot where I had dropped Fat Dog, he was standing there. He handed me a roll of bills as he got in.

I counted the money. There were twenty fifty-dollar bills. Nice new crisp U.S. Grants. “One week, Fat Dog. No more, no less. After that, it’s farewell.”

“It’s a deal. Fritz is a German name, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you German? Brown ain’t no German name.”

“I’m of German descent. My grandparents were born there. Their name was Brownmuller. When they came to America they shortened it to Brown. It was good they did. There was a lot of discrimination against Germans here during the First World War.”

“Fucking A!” Fat Dog said. I could feel him getting keyed up. “It was the Jews, you know that. The Germans wouldn’t take none of their shit. They owned all the pawnshops in America and Germany, and bled the white Christians dry! They—”

I started the car and pulled away, trying not to listen. I turned right on Main Street and headed north. It was getting to be too much; I was getting a headache. I turned to Fat Dog. “Why don’t you can that shit, and right now,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “You hired me to get information for you, not to listen to your racist rebop. I like Jews. They’re great violinists and they make a mean pastrami sandwich. I like blacks, too. They sure can dance. I watch Soul Train every week. So please shut the fuck up.” Fat Dog was staring out his window. When he spoke he was surprisingly calm. “I’m sorry, man. You’re my buddy. My friend is always telling me not to sound off on politics so much, that not everybody feels like we do. He’s right. You go around shooting off your mouth and everybody knows your plans. You got no surprises left for nobody. I’m the man with the plan, but I got to cool it for now.”

I was curious about his “plan,” maybe a Utopian vision of unionized caddy fleets, blacks and Jews excluded, but I decided not to ask. My headache was just abating; “Tell me about yourself, Fat Dog. I was a cop for six years and I never met anyone like you.”

“There ain’t much to tell. I’m the king of the caddies, the greatest fucking looper who ever packed a bag. I’m strictly a club caddy, and proud of it. Those tour baggies ain’t nothin’. Carrying single bags for a good player ain’t jack shit. Two on your back and two more on a cart, that’s the real test of a goat. I know every golf course in this city like the back of my hand. I’m a legend in my own time.”

“I believe you. That was a pretty hefty roll you whipped out on me yesterday. With that kind of dough, how come you sleep outside?”

“That’s personal, man, but I’ll tell you if you tell me something. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“How come you quit the police force?”

“They were about to can me. I was drinking heavily, and my fitness reports were shot to hell. I was too sensitive to be a cop.” It was approximately a third of the truth, but my remark about my “sensitivity” was an outright lie.

“I believe you, man,” Fat Dog said. “You got that look, nervous like, of a juicehead on the wagon. I could tell you was by all the coffee you was drinking the other day. Juicers on the wagon are all big coffee fiends.”

“Back to you, Fat Dog,” I said. “Why the outdoor living?”

He was silent for a minute or so. He seemed to be formulating his thoughts. We had made our way up to Sunset, and I was maneuvering eastbound in heavy traffic, around wide curves and abrupt turns. When he spoke his voice was tighter, less boisterous, like someone trying to explain something intrinsic and holy. “Do you dig pussy?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Have you ever wanted to have a broad that could give you everything you’ve ever wanted? That you never had to worry about? I mean, you never had to worry about her fucking no other guys, you just knew she was loyal? And this broad, she’s perfect. Her body is exactly like the one you’ve always dreamed of. And she’s even nice to be around after you’ve fucked her? That’s how I feel about golf courses. They’re beautiful and mysterious. I don’t sleep good inside. Nightmares. Sometimes when it rains, I sleep underneath this overhang next to the caddy shack at Bel-Air. It’s dry, but it’s outside. It’s peaceful on golf courses. Most of the ones in L.A. got nice homes next to them. Big old-fashioned ones. The people leave their lights on sometimes ’cause they think no one’s looking at them. I seen all kinds of strange shit that way. Once when I was camped out on Wilshire South, I saw some dame beat up her dog, just a little puppy, then get it on with another dame, right there on the floor. These rich cocksuckers who belong to these clubs, they think they own their golf courses, but they just play golf on them, and I live on them, all of them! The courses around here are the primo land in L.A., worth billions of bucks, and I’ve got them all for my personal crash pad. So I pack bags and I’m the best, and I know things that none of these rich assholes will never know.”

“What kind of nightmares do you have?”

Fat Dog hesitated before he answered. “Just scary shit,” he said. “Monsters, dragons, and animals out to get me. Never getting to see my sister again.”

“I tailed your sister today. She withdrew some money from a bank, then visited some people in the Valley and around Vermont and Melrose. Do you have any idea of who these people are?”

“No!” Fat Dog screamed. “You’re the private eye, you find out! I’m paying you a grand to find out! You find out about that Jew bloodsucker Kupferman, too! I’m paying you! You find out!”

I turned on to the golf course access road, stopped the car, and looked at Fat Dog. He was red-faced and shaking, his eyes pinpoints of fear and hated. My client was insane. I started to speak, something consoling, but he started screaming again. “You find out, you cocksucker! You’re working for the Fat Dog, don’t you forget that!” He got out of the car and walked up to the fence. He started to scale it, then turned around to give me a parting salvo. “You ain’t no German, you fuck. Nigger lover! Jew lover! You couldn’t even keep a job with the fuzz, you...”

My headache came back, full force, and I got out of the car. I ran to the fence and pulled Fat Dog off by his belt. As he landed, I spun him around and hit him in the stomach, hard. He doubled over, gasping, and I whispered to him, “Listen, you fucking low-life. Nobody talks to me that way, ever. I took a look at your rapsheet today, and I know you’re a weenie-wagger. You’ve got two choices as of now. You can apologize to me for what you said, and I’ll continue to work for you. If you don’t apologize, I’ll throw a citizen’s arrest on you for indecent exposure. With your two priors it means registration as a sex offender, which is not pleasant. What’s it going to be?”