Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [18]
I couldn’t find a parking space on Walter’s block, so I parked on his front lawn. If his mother saw my tire marks, she would resign me to Christian Science hell, but I decided to risk it. I walked into the back yard. The light in Walter’s bedroom was on, and through it I could see him passed out in his chair in front of the T. V. On the screen a giant reptile was attacking a Japanese metropolis, knocking over skyscrapers with his tail. I toyed with the idea of shooting Godzilla and watching the T.V. implode, but Walter would never forgive me. There were two empty pint bottles of Scotch on the floor beside his chair. That was ominous. Walter was a winehead, and when he couldn’t threaten or cajole his mother into wine money, he would rip off flat pint bottles from the Thrifty Drug Store on Wilshire and Western. Hard liquor was an oblivion trip for my beloved friend, and he was an inept shoplifter. I was afraid that if he were busted, the arresting officers would recognize his lunacy and railroad him to Department 95 and Camarillo.
I pried off the windowscreen and climbed into his room. I lifted Walter onto his bed and stuffed two fifties into his shirt pocket. As I shut off the T.V., Godzilla was getting blasted by some sort of atomic death-ray. “I love you, you crazy bastard, but you break my heart,” I said, turning off the lights, and going out the window. It was getting chilly. I drove home and fell asleep on the couch with my clothes on.
II
Loopers and Cellists
The moral imperative of my case hit me when I woke up the next morning. Was Fat Dog Baker dangerous? Was he a physical threat to Sol Kupferman and Jane Baker? Exhibitionists are the most docile of sex deviates, but Fat Dog had shown a volatile streak. If he were planning to harm either his sister or Kupferman, it was my duty to stop him. Investigating Fat Dog with his own money struck me as wildly ironic, absurdist theatre in L.A. I decided to start in Venice.
I drove down LaBrea and caught the Santa Monica Freeway westbound. It was ten o’clock and the smog was starting to roll in. Maybe soon the environmentalists would outlaw cars, and I would have to find work repossessing horses. Fortunately for me, Cal Myers would see it coming and corner the market on beasts of burden. I could see it now: Cal’s Casa De Caballo, Cal’s Imports (Arabian horses, naturally) and Cal’s Palomino. Cal would be cutting his T.V. commercials knee deep in horseshit.
When I arrived in Venice, I parked in the exact spot where Fat had got out last night. I had a simple plan: Check out every vacant house, lot, and garage for four blocks south, and question whomever I ran into. Fat Dog was hard to miss, and someone in the area might be able to give me a lead. I walked. It was getting hot, and the coat and tie I was wearing didn’t help. I was getting wary looks from people sitting on their porches, taking the air. I looked like a cop. In Venice, no one but the fuzz wears a coat and tie.
The first two blocks were fruitless. On the third block I saw a wino wandering down the street, drinking from a brown paper bag. He had a wily, lucid look about him, so I gave him a toss. Whipping out my phony badge, I committed a misdemeanor: “Police officer,” I said. “Maybe you can help me.”
The wino gave me a frightened nod. When I finished describing Fat Dog, he practically screamed at me: “I seen that shitbird! Does he wear a shirt with a little crocodile on it? And a baseball cap?”
“That’s the guy.”
“What are you after him for?”
I made it good: “Molesting little boys.”
“I knew it! Once I was sittin’ on this driveway and the shitbird tells me to move my ass. He said it was his property. He looked like a crazy, so I moved. Shitbird.”
“Do you remember where you were?” I asked.
“Sure. The place is around the corner.”
“Take me there. Now.” We turned the corner and the wino led me to a small wood frame house. There was a dirt driveway that ran back into a yard overrun with weeds and high grass. In the rear of the yard