Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [15]
“So where do you go from here? What else are you gonna do?”
“That’s up to you. I can subpoena the grand jury records. That takes time, plus money for an attorney. I can continue my surveillance, which will probably yield no dirt. I can talk to other people who know Kupferman and see what they have to say. That’s about it.”
“You go to it, man. This is important to me.”
“There’s the question of money, if you want me to continue. I’ll give you a flat rate. One week of my time, an even grand. That includes expenses. It’s a good deal. I’ll submit you a written report on all the shit I’ve dug up. One thing, though, I need the money tonight. And another, I’m going on vacation at the end of the week. No business, okay? You got the bread?”
“Yeah, but I’m not holding it. I never do at night. Too many psychos around. You ain’t safe, even sleeping outside. We got to take a ride for the moolah. Okay?”
“Okay. You’ve got it in cash, right?”
“Right.”
“Where do we go?”
“Venice.”
Venice, where the debris meets the sea. It figured my canine friend would do his banking there.
I took surface streets to give me time to converse with my client. He was far more interesting than either of the people I was investigating. Mob minions gone legit and amateur musicians were commonplace, but caddies who slept on golf courses and carried around six or seven thousand dollars were rare, and probably indigenous to only L.A. I decided to do some polite digging in the guise of small talk. “How’s the looping business, Fat Dog? You making any money?”
“I’m doing all right. I’ve got my regulars,” he said.
“When I was a kid, my dad used to drive us by Wilshire Country Club every Saturday on the way to the movies. I used to see these guys carrying golf bags on their shoulders. It looked like a lot of work. Don’t those bags get heavy?”
“Not really. You get used to it. You work Hillcrest or Brent-wood though and you break your balls. Them kikes got cement in their bags. And none of ’em can play golf. They just like to torture their caddy. They pay you a few bucks more, but it’s just so they can feel superior while they torture you.”
“That’s an interesting concept, Fat Dog. Sadism on the golf course. Jewish golfers as sadists. Why do you dislike Jews so much?”
“Dislike ain’t the word. I never met one who kept his word, or could play golf. They rule the country and then complain how they can’t get into good clubs like L.A. or Bel-Air. When I’m rich though, I’m gonna have me a whole caddy shack full of Jewish goats. I’m gonna get me a big fat Spaulding trunk and load it down with umbrellas, golf balls, and extra clubs. The bastard’s gonna weigh about seventy-five pounds. I’m gonna have a nigger caddy pack it on the front nine, and a Hebe on the back. I’ve got a friend, a rich guy who feels like me. He’s gonna have a bag just like mine. We’re gonna make these fuckin’ Jews and niggers pack us double. Ha-ha-ha!” Fat Dog’s laughter rose, then dissolved into a coughing attack. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He stuck his head out the window to catch some air.
I prodded him a little. “You ever caddy for Kupferman?”
Regaining his breath, Fat Dog gave me a quizzical look. “Are you kidding? He had a coon pack his bag. Jews and niggers are soul brothers.”
We were on Lincoln now, heading south. On Venice Boulevard we turned west, toward the beach. Within a few minutes we were on the edge of the Venice ghetto, known to Venetians as “Ghost Town.” Fat Dog told me to stop on a street named Horizon. It wasn’t much of a horizon, just dirty wood-framed four and eight flats with no front yards. It was trash night and garbage cans