Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [101]
“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 undertstand?” 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,