Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [21]
“Skip it. I’ve got enough.”
“Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Tell me about the owner of the Utopia.”
“Okay. His name is Wilson Edwards. There was no mention of his address in the transcript.”
I gave Mark Swirkal a big nervous smile and handed him two of Fat Dog’s fifties. “Good work, Daddy-O,” I said.
Mark stuck the money into his pocket. “You want to tell me what this is about?” he asked. “The Utopia bombing is a dead issue.”
“I can’t now. Someday I will, though. Right now, I’d like to use your phone.”
“You go right ahead. I’ve got to split. Lock the door behind you.”
“I will.”
We shook hands again, then Mark thanked me and gave me a puzzled look as he headed out the door. When I heard him get into the elevator I let out a giant whoop of joy and reached for the telephone.
I called Prudential Insurance at their main office on Wilshire. Yes, James McNamara still worked for them. No, he was not in at the moment. I convinced his secretary to relinquish his home phone number. He answered on the second ring. I told him I was a writer doing a book on famous Los Angeles crimes. Would he consent to an interview on the Utopia case? He would indeed. He sounded almost eager. We agreed to meet at a restaurant near his home in Westchester at eight-thirty tonight. When I hung up I let out another whoop of joy, this one even louder.
I pulled into the parking lot of the steakhouse on Sepulveda at exactly eight twenty-five. I inquired after McNamara with the maitre d’, and he pointed out a large man drinking alone at the bar. I walked up and introduced myself. McNamara grasped my hand warmly. He had the lonely, desperate look of a brother juicehead hungry for company. I judged him to be in his late forties, and about a quarter of the way drunk. We adjourned to a table, where I laid out a spiel about the book I was writing. When our waitress came, he ordered a double martini and opened up.
“The Club Utopia firebombing was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” McNamara said. “I went all through Korea with the infantry company and saw nothing to compare to it. The fire itself was no big deal. It was out by the time I got there. It was the bodies that were so terrifying. They were roasted beyond recognition and swollen up like pork sausages. There was a liquor store that was still open down the street, and there was a big crowd of rubber-neckers hanging around, guzzling out of paper bags. When the stiffs got carted out and the smell hit, there was a regular epidemic of puking. Booze puke all over the street and the smell of those bodies. Jesus.”
“It was funny,” he said, “I was a claims investigator in those days, but I was selling policies on the side. I sold a full coverage policy to Edwards, the owner: damage, vandalism, fire, theft, comprehensive—strange for a cheapshit little bar like that, but what the hell? I was watching T.V. when the news bulletin came on. ‘Bar bombed! Six dead!’ Naturally, I hotfooted it down there fast since I knew it would be on my caseload.”
“And Edwards survived the bombing and collected a settlement, right?”
“Right. He wasn’t there that night. He got the thirty-five-thousand total coverage payment. Since it was an open and shut case, the cops nabbing the bombers so quick, we paid off fast.”
“What happened to Edwards?” I asked.
“Beats me,” McNamara said. “He took the money and ran. Wouldn’t you? He was a character, in and out of trouble all his life. When I sold him the policy, I attached a note to the file recommending thorough investigation of all claims he submitted. Of course, the bombing was the only claim he submitted, and it was legit.”
My steak arrived and I dug in. McNamara ordered another double martini. He was on his way.
“Can you give me a full description of Edwards?” I asked. “Full name, D.O.B., last known address?”
“Can do,” he said. “After you called, I stopped by the office and picked up the file. What I don’t remember, this baby does.” He rummaged through some papers on his lap. “Here it is. Wilson