Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [109]
I would buy a big rambling house in the hills and several friendly dogs. Jane and I would have our separate lives, each revolving around music—Jane’s cello lessons and constant practice, my taking care of the store. At night we would sit in our living room and listen to music, then go upstairs and make love. Eventually, we would have children, preferably daughters. It would be a good life. It was possible now.
I left Ventura at seven-thirty Monday morning. Nine forty-five found me stationed across the street from the B. of A. at Van Nuys and Tujunga in North Hollywood. I was nervous, but felt safe: there was nothing transpiring outside the bank that resembled a setup. Ralston was securely under my thumb.
He showed up a few minutes later. He pulled into the bank parking lot, got out, and stood nervously by his car. He was wearing sunglasses, presumably to hide his battered face. I walked across the street and joined him. He didn’t say anything, just stared at me through his dark glasses. “Good morning, Ralston,” I said.
He cocked his head. “Good morning,” he replied.
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked. He nodded again. “Good,” I said. “Take off your glasses. We’re going to be making some heavy withdrawals and I don’t want you looking like a gangster about to split the country.”
He did it and I was amazed: his nose was hardly swollen, although it was purple-tinged, and his eyes were barely blackened.
“Let me outline my plan,” I said. “I want you to drive your car. We will hit every bank I have passbooks to. You will withdraw all but five hundred dollars from each account. In hundreds and fifties. Twenties are okay, too, if it’s all they have. Try to be inconspicuous. Tellers are required to report large deposits, but not withdrawals. You deposited the money, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. Then some of the tellers will remember you. I’ve got our itinerary all mapped out. We’ve got a long day ahead. Did you bring the information I asked for?”
“Yes.” Ralston fished in his coat pocket and handed me a neatly printed list of names. I winked at him and gave him a blue cardboard passbòok, pointing to the front door of the bank.
“Do your stuff, Daddy-O,” I said.
While he took care of business, I scanned the list of names, which were set up in columns, as in the manner of bookie ledgers I had seen. The names, all men’s, in one column followed by phone numbers in the other. Since several of the numbers were identical, I concluded they were office phones.
Ralston returned after a few minutes and motioned nervously for me to get into the car. Once inside, he reached into his pocket and handed me a roll of crisp new bills. I counted them, then broke out laughing: ninety-three C-notes. He started up the car. “Onward, Hot Rod,” I said.
We drove from one end of the Valley to the other, then over Coldwater Canyon to Beverly Hills and from there to the Miracle Mile, becoming richer and richer in the process. Before we left the Valley, I stopped at a supermarket and grabbed a large brown shopping bag. Soon it was jammed with cash.
While Hot Rod was making a withdrawal on Wilshire in Beverly Hills, I stashed the bag under my suitcoat and walked across the street to the Mark Cross Leather Goods Shop and bought a huge leather suitcase, paying for it with four crisp, brand-new C-notes. Back in the car, I lovingly transferred the bills from paper bag to suitcase. I felt very high, much like I did the first few times I got drunk.
Hot Rod returned, dumped $7,400 in centuries and fifties in my lap and gave me a pained look. We had been conversing very little. He had confirmed what I thought about the phone numbers—miracle of brevity, they were the actual at work phone numbers of the Welfare contacts—but all my other attempts at conversation went sullenly ignored. I had emasculated this man and he would not kiss my ass or give me the satisfaction of compounding