Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [14]
“I ain’t seen Fat Dog for a week or so,” the bartender said. “But if you wanna leave a message, I’ll see he gets it when he comes in.”
“No, I have to see him tonight.” I took a five spot out of my wallet and laid it on the bar in front of him. I gestured at the men behind me playing pool. “Do any of these guys know Fat Dog? Know where I could find him?”
He deftly snapped up the fiver and pointed to a scarecrow-like older guy playing around with the jukebox. “That’s Augie Dou-gall,” he said. “He loops with Fat Dog kind of semiregular. Ask him, he might know. Buy him a pitcher. He likes Coors.”
I thanked the bartender, awarding him one of my rare winks, and carried the chilled pitcher and a glass over to the jukebox. I tapped the scarecrow on the shoulder. He turned around and almost knocked the beer out of my hands. “This is for you,” I said and pointed to a small table a few feet away. “I’m a friend of Fat Dog Baker. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”
We sat down and he dove into his suds. He was about 55, and very tall, maybe 6'6". He couldn’t have weighed more than 140. He looked guileless and gentle, so I played it straight with him. “I’m doing a job for Fat Dog,” I said. “I know you’re an old looping buddy of his, so I thought maybe you could tell me where he’s staying.”
“Okay. You’re not a cop, are you?”
“No.”
“You kind of look like one.”
“I traded in my badge for a set of golf clubs. Fat Dog is going to teach me the game.” Augie didn’t laugh or change his expression. His eyes remained locked into mine. He slopped up some more beer. It struck me that he must be closed to retarded, with an idiot savant’s antenna for the heat.
“You picked a good teacher, buddy. Nobody knows golf like the Fat Dog. Nobody can read greens like him neither. You put that putt where he tells you, and whammo, it’s in the cup.”
“Fascinating, but what I’m interested in is where I can find him, tonight.”
Augie Dougall went on, “Fat Dog don’t like to sleep indoors. He says it’s bad for him. He has bad dreams. He’s been loopin’ Bel-Air lately and sleepin’ on the course on this little hill off of the eighth hole near this little lake they got. He …”
I interrupted, “You mean he sleeps on the grounds at Bel-Air Country Club?”
“Yeah. They got this gate off of Sunset near this girls’ school. There’s this big statue of Jesus there. Fat Dog hops the fence. He’s got a nice little place all set up for hisself …”
I didn’t let him finish. I tossed him a hurried thank you and left the bar. I could hear the beginning of an argument as I walked out the door. It had to do with the merits of Arnold Palmer’s swing versus Ben Hogan’s. It was picking up tempo as I strode up Sawtelle toward my car, looper voices trailing hero worship and anger into the night.
I knew the entrance Augie Dougall was talking about. Jesus stood guard over the student parking lot at Marymount Girls’ School.. I parked beside the gate Fat Dog would have to climb over to get to his retreat, and put on some music conducive to forming plans on a warm summer night: Mozart’s Fortieth Symphony, light and graceful, the antithesis of the nervous boredom my case was turning into.
When the music ended I waited in silence for an hour or so, then heard Fat Dog’s loud footsteps coming toward me on the driveway. He was muttering something unintelligible. I called out softly so as not to frighten him. “Yo, Fat Dog. You’ve got a visitor.”
“Who’s that?” he called back nervously. “Friend or foe?”
“It’s Fritz Brown, Fat Dog. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Fritz baby! My buddy! The private-eye man! You got some good shit for the Fat Dog?”
I opened my passenger door. “I’ve got some information for you. I don’t know how good it is.”
He sat down beside me on the front seat, and gave me a warm handshake. His hand was greasy and he smelled of dry leaves and sweat, the price of outdoor living. “Shoot it to me, Jack,” he said.
“It’s like this,” I said, “I’ve been tailing your sister and Kupfer-man. Not long enough to establish any routine, but long enough to tell you there’s no hanky-panky