Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [116]
He stared some more, then finally nodded. I brought him two glasses of sink water. The first I threw in his face. It served its purpose. He yelled, spit out some more blood, and raised himself to his elbows, gritting his teeth against the pain. Crouching beside him, I placed a hand in back of his head and raised the glass to his lips. He took a tentative sip, then spit the water out, with a blood chaser, and gulped the rest of it down, regaining a degree of what I took to be his former malevolence. When he spoke the voice was rich, cold, and almost stentorian: “You realize that you are in way above your head, don’t you, Brown?”
“No, Captain, I don’t. I’d say you are.”
“I checked your personnel file, Brown. You were the worst scumbag ever to con his way into the department.”
“I’d say that’s relative, Captain. I’d say I was a bush league pinch hitter compared to you.”
“Comparing low-life scumbags doesn’t concern me. What exactly do you want?”
“You mean as the price for my silence?”
“Yes.”
“A million-dollar Welfare check. To be presented to me by you on national T.V. After the ceremony, you can make a little speech on your theory of nigger containment. You can retire from the department and begin a new career in politics.”
“Brown, literal-minded people like you often make good policemen, but you weren’t even that. How does it feel to know that what you’ve done with me will ultimately be judged as the biggest fuck-up of your fucked-up life?”
“I’d say that’s relative too, Captain, I’d say what I’ve done with you is the one saving grace of my fucked-up life. I’d say I’ve fucked over a lot of people in my life. Hurt a lot of people. Caused a lot of pain. But compared to you? Unleashing Fat Dog Baker on the world? That you can even compare the two of us is beyond comprehension. Can’t you see what you are?”
Cathcart smiled and spit out some more blood. “We all have saving graces, Fritz,” he said, “even you. I was struck by one of your fitness reports. One of your superiors wrote: ‘This officer seems to be interested in only two things: getting drunk and listening to classical music.’ I felt a strange affection for you when I read that. I love great music, too.”
“So did Hitler,” I said.
Cathcart nodded. “What exactly do you want, Brown? Revenge for your life?”
“I want to wipe you off the face of the earth.”
“I see. Will you take me into my den? There’s something I want to show you.”
I considered it for a second, then decided to do it. One final act of mercy. I helped him to his feet, my gun in his side. He reeled, but managed to limp the twenty feet or so to the den. I went in first, keeping him covered, and flicked on the light. It was a wood-paneled room, with an ornate walnut desk and two overstuffed leather chairs. I shoved Cathcart into one of them. He winced. I looked around the room. The walls were covered with framed photographs of police groups: groups of smiling patrolmen in uniform standing next to early 50’s vintage black-and-whites, groups of stern-looking plain-clothesmen in front of station houses, candid shots of cops at their desks writing reports. A wave of nostalgia hit me. This had been my life once. I pointed to the walls. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” I asked.
“No,” Cathcart said.
“That’s good,” I said, “because I’ve been there. Although there is one photograph I’d love to see.”
“What’s that?”
“You and Fat Dog with your arms around each other outside of a burning house. You and your ‘genius little boy.’ Tell me one thing: how did you nail him for the Utopia torch?”
“Very easy. I am a good police officer, unlike you. I had been seeing Freddy in the neighborhood for weeks. From his garb I knew he had to be a caddy. When the three men I caught described the ‘fourth man,’ I knew