Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [104]
“I’m sorry, Cal, really. But all I told him was the date. Did you give him the money?”
“Reluctantly. I figured he had to know you. What was it all about?”
“I can’t tell you. But thanks. If it’s any consolation, you helped Augie out of a lot of trouble.”
“Some consolation. You know, I think I’ve seen him before. Is he a caddy? I think he packed my bag at Lakeside.”
“He’s a caddy. How’s business? How’s Irwin doing?”
“Business is dandy. Irwin is doing a good job. He’s a nice guy, for a Jew. That nephew of his is a natural repo-man. He don’t take shit from nobody. When are you coming back to work?”
“I’m not, Cal. Consider that grand you gave Augie as my severance pay.”
“You can’t do that, Fritz! You’re my man! We’ve been together for a long time. Look …”
I broke in on his sudden panic, trying to sound firm: “Yes, I can, Cal. I have to. The last time you saw me I had a different life. It’s changed now, and I’ve changed. I don’t want to do repos anymore. I’m going to get married. I’ve come into some money. I want a new life. I’ve got to cut our ties or my new life won’t work. Keep Irwin and his nephew. They’ll do you proud. And Cal? I’ve never told anyone about you and those two girls. I burned those photographs the night it happened. All your fears all these years have been groundless. I would never fuck you over, for anything. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been a good friend, but it’s time to move on, and ripping off used cars isn’t part of the kind of life I want to live. Can you accept that?”
“I don’t know, Fritz, I …” his voice was very soft.
“You’ll have to, Cal. Goodbye and thanks.” I hung up, closing a long chapter of my life.
When I walked out of the phone booth I realized for the first time that maybe Cal, in his own fashion, loved me and liked having me around for reasons totally unrelated to fear. When things change, everything changes. It’s a new game entirely and suddenly you know what you had all along.
I drove into downtown L.A., taking the Santa Monica Freeway, to Mark Swirkal’s office. I left him the master tape containing my complete verbal record of the Baker-Cathcart case and the tape with Richard Ralston’s confession and told him what I wanted: storage of the tapes in his safe deposit box at the bank, in perpetuity or until I told him otherwise. Should I fail to contact his answering service once during every twenty-four hour period with the message “Crazy, Daddy-O!” he should immediately re-tape three copies and have them delivered by hand to the office of the L.A. District Attorney, the Crime Desk of the L.A. Times, Internal Affairs Division of the L.A.P.D., and the news desk of KNXT T.V. His fee for this would be one hundred and fifty dollars a month, hopefully for life. He agreed readily, fascinated by the mystery. I told him under no condition was he to play the tapes. He nodded, gravely. I trusted him. He was a solid, good man.
I called Sol Kupferman from Mark’s office. His maid answered and told me she would get him. He answered a second later. He had a soft, New Yorkish voice. “Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Kupferman, this is Fritz Brown. Has Jane Baker told you about me?”
“Yes, she has.”
“Good. I need to see you. Today. It’s very important. Can you meet me this afternoon?”
“I think so. Where?” His voice sounded distant and worried.
“In Griffith Park, in the parking lot by the observatory at two o’clock.”
“Why there, Mr. Brown? Why not my home or your office?”
“Mr. Kupferman, to be frank, because Haywood Cathcart may be having you followed, and I can’t afford a run-in with old Haywood just yet.”
“I see you know quite a bit about my life, don’t you?”
“I know everything about what’s transpired in the past ten years. Will you meet me?”
“Yes. How will I know you?”
“I’ve seen you before. I’ll meet you at the observatory at two o’clock.”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Come alone.”
“I will. Goodbye, Mr. Brown.”
“Goodbye.” I hung up and checked my watch. Ten forty-five. I said goodbye to a mystified Mark Swirkal and drove to Griffith Park. I wanted to get there