Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [108]
I believed what he said, absolutely, but he was morally wrong. Cathcart’s death was the only right denouement to this tragedy. “No, Sol,” I said finally, surveying the city again, “he dies. And a lot of people will live free as a result. That’s undeniable.”
Sol was shaking his head frantically, denying the truth. He looked like an Old Testament sage rebuking a young zealot. “No, no, no,” he said, “it’s wrong. Can’t you see that? How in the world do you expect to get away with it? Cathcart’s a shark and you’re a minnow. It won’t work.”
Suddenly I was angry. I grabbed both his trembling shoulders and pulled him toward me. “Don’t fuck with me, Sol! I can be just as bad as Cathcart. He dies. Maybe you’ve been on such a guilt trip for so long that you need Cathcart to punish you for your sins. That phony karma shit won’t wash. He dies, and if you try to warn him or fuck with me in any way, I’ll go public. I’ll blow the whole thing to the media, including the facts of your children’s births. I mean that, I’ve got a fail-safe operation going. If I don’t survive this case then it all goes public!” I released him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze in the process. I felt guilty myself, now. Sol Kupferman was an almost saintly man, but he carried guilt around with him like a contagion. He was very pale again.
I tried to lighten things up. “A couple of years from now, we’ll be laughing about this. Jane will wonder at our secret rapport, but she’ll never know. I’ll be your unannounced goy son-in-law.”
Sol didn’t even hear me. “I have to go,” he said, moving toward the downhill path.
We walked down to the parking lot in silence. When we got there, I said, “Tell Jane I’ll call her after this is all over, which should be soon. Tell her we spoke on the phone. I don’t want anyone to know I’m in L.A. And of course don’t tell her what we discussed.” Sol nodded, funereally pale. “Cheer up,” I continued, “soon this thing will be nothing but a giant evil memory, like a cancer successfully removed. Try to think of it that way.”
Sol said, “I will” and forced the beginning of a weak smile, but I didn’t believe him. He got into his Cadillac and drove away, his whole spirit conveying centuries of Jewish pessimism.
I drove back to my seaside motel and checked out, taking my traveling roadshow—tape deck, bankbooks, clothes, and hardware—north to Ventura, where I found another beachfront hideaway, a slightly nicer, more modern motel room.
I called Ralston at his house in Encino and told him our plans had been changed: he was to meet me at the Bank of America branch on Van Nuys and Tujunga in North Hollywood at ten o’clock Monday morning, and was to bring a list of all his D.P.S.S. contacts. I asked him if Cathcart had been in touch with him, and he said yes, that he had told Cathcart I was spotted, drunk, asking questions in Palm Springs. Cathcart had seemed to like that. Ralston was being a good scout, so I threw him a bone of encouragement, saying that he’d be in for a nice financial surprise on Monday, then hung up.
I killed the rest of the weekend fantasizing myself as a rich man. A quarter of a million in cold cash, carefully invested, would keep me off the streets for the rest of my life. I thought of possible investments, creative ones, and came up with a great idea: a classical music store. Records and tapes from the most prosaic to the most esoteric. A music book store second to none: biographies of composers, pictorial histories and sheet music. A Hollywood Boulevard cultural oasis. Rock-and-roll morons would be politely but firmly sent away. I would manage the store and Walter would be my aide-de-camp. I would retain my P.I.’s license and the