Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [16]
He hopped out. Through my rear-view mirror, I watched him trot around the corner to my left. As soon as he was out of sight, I jumped out and tore after him, leaving the car double-parked. I slowed to a walk as I reached the corner. Fat Dog was nowhere in sight. I walked to the end of the block, looking in windows and checking out driveways. Nothing. I got back into my car and circled the streets surrounding Horizon at random. When I returned to the spot where I had dropped Fat Dog, he was standing there. He handed me a roll of bills as he got in.
I counted the money. There were twenty fifty-dollar bills. Nice new crisp U.S. Grants. “One week, Fat Dog. No more, no less. After that, it’s farewell.”
“It’s a deal. Fritz is a German name, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you German? Brown ain’t no German name.”
“I’m of German descent. My grandparents were born there. Their name was Brownmuller. When they came to America they shortened it to Brown. It was good they did. There was a lot of discrimination against Germans here during the First World War.”
“Fucking A!” Fat Dog said. I could feel him getting keyed up. “It was the Jews, you know that. The Germans wouldn’t take none of their shit. They owned all the pawnshops in America and Germany, and bled the white Christians dry! They—”
I started the car and pulled away, trying not to listen. I turned right on Main Street and headed north. It was getting to be too much; I was getting a headache. I turned to Fat Dog. “Why don’t you can that shit, and right now,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “You hired me to get information for you, not to listen to your racist rebop. I like Jews. They’re great violinists and they make a mean pastrami sandwich. I like blacks, too. They sure can dance. I watch Soul Train every week. So please shut the fuck up.” Fat Dog was staring out his window. When he spoke he was surprisingly calm. “I’m sorry, man. You’re my buddy. My friend is always telling me not to sound off on politics so much, that not everybody feels like we do. He’s right. You go around shooting off your mouth and everybody knows your plans. You got no surprises left for nobody. I’m the man with the plan, but I got to cool it for now.”
I was curious about his “plan,” maybe a Utopian vision of unionized caddy fleets, blacks and Jews excluded, but I decided not to ask. My headache was just abating; “Tell me about yourself, Fat Dog. I was a cop for six years and I never met anyone like you.”
“There ain’t much to tell. I’m the king of the caddies, the greatest fucking looper who ever packed a bag. I’m strictly a club caddy, and proud of it. Those tour baggies ain’t nothin’. Carrying single bags for a good player ain’t jack shit. Two on your back and two more on a cart, that’s the real test of a goat. I know every golf course in this city like the back of my hand. I’m a legend in my own time.”
“I believe you. That was a pretty hefty roll you whipped out on me yesterday. With that kind of dough, how come you sleep outside?”
“That’s personal, man, but I’ll tell you if you tell me something. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“How come you quit the police force?”
“They were about to can me. I was drinking heavily, and my fitness reports were shot to hell. I was too sensitive to be a cop.” It was approximately a third of the truth, but my remark about my “sensitivity” was an outright lie.
“I believe you, man,” Fat Dog said. “You got that look, nervous like, of a juicehead on the wagon. I could tell you was by all the coffee you was drinking the other day. Juicers on the wagon are all big coffee fiends.”
“Back to you, Fat Dog,” I said. “Why the outdoor living?”
He was silent for a minute or so. He seemed to be formulating his thoughts. We had made our way up to Sunset, and I was maneuvering eastbound in heavy traffic, around wide curves and abrupt turns. When he spoke his voice was tighter, less boisterous, like