Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [105]
The parking lot of the observatory was filling up when I got there: buses filled with kiddie groups, sight-seeing families with small children in tow, bored high school loafers looking for an afternoon’s diversion. But nothing suspicious-looking. Los Angeles looked otherworldly from my mountaintop vantage point: a hot, shimmering valley shrouded in smog.
I took a bench seat near a drinking fountain and waited. At exactly 2:03, Kupferman’s white Cadillac pulled into view. There were no cars following him. I watched him park, lock his car, and get out and walk around. While he was doing this, I surveyed the crowded parking lot for telltale signs of surveillance. Nothing. I got up and walked toward him. He was craning his neck in every direction. He nearly jumped out of his skin when I spoke softly to him. “Mr. Kupferman? I’m Fritz Brown.”
He recovered fast, looked up at me and gave me a firm handshake. “Mr. Brown,” was all he said. I searched his face for signs of familial resemblance to Jane and Fat Dog. There was nothing but the pale blue eyes, but it was enough. In that respect, the three Kupfermans were all of a kind.
“Let’s take a walk, Mr. Kupferman,” I said. “We need some privacy.”
He just nodded, gravely, and let me lead the way. We walked north toward a hiking trail leading up into the Griffith Park Hills. Kupferman was immaculately dressed in a pale olive gabardine suit, linen shirt, and wide tie. He was the very picture of stoic dignity. Even his two-hundred-dollar alligator shoes did nothing to detract from this image. His face, sunlamp-tanned and Semitic, was a history of patience in the face of adversity, and the brilliant blue eyes spoke of a refined intelligence. I knew I was going to like him. We walked uphill on the dirt path. Kupferman was starting to pant and strain a little, so I slowed my pace. When we reached a plateau about one hundred yards up from the parking lot, with a view in all directions, I stopped. By way of introduction, I said: “We’ve met before, Mr. Kupferman. At the Club Utopia, about two weeks before it was bombed. You were sitting at the bar and spilled a drink on me. I’ve got exceptional recall. If it weren’t for that recollection, I wouldn’t have become involved in this affair to the extent that I am.”
Kupferman nodded. He didn’t seem shocked by my reference to the Utopia. “I see,” he said. “That is extraordinary. Of course, I don’t recall it. Exactly what do you know about this ‘affair,’ as you call it, Mr. Brown?”
“Call me Fritz,” I said. “I know everything, except for a few gaps I hope you’ll fill in for me. I know everything about the Utopia bombing, the Welfare scam, Haywood, Ralston, and the fact that Freddy and Jane Baker are really your children.”
Sol Kupferman went pale and for a second started to reel. I put a firm restraining hand on his shoulder. Gradually he calmed himself, the sunlamp tan returning. “And what do you intend to do with this information?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “It dies with me. Jane will never know. You don’t have to worry about Freddy. He’s dead.”
“I know. Jane told me.”
“Cathcart had him murdered.”
“I figured as much.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Relieved, somehow. Freddy was my son, but he was an animal, and it was all my fault. I gave him up as a child. I’m the guilty one. Freddy just followed his instincts, which were insane.”
“Tell me about that, Mr. Kupferman. There’s one gap in my investigation: you said you gave Freddy up as a child. Why? Who were his first foster parents? There was almost a nine year gap between the birth of your two children. What happened during that time?”
“What will you do if I don’t tell you?”
“Nothing. You’ve been pushed, bled, and tortured enough.