Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [32]
I had no idea how large Kupferman’s warehouse had been. The facade was deceiving—the structure itself had extended back a quarter of a city block. From what I could see, no other buildings had been even singed by the fire. Fat Dog’s arson skills had improved since his Molotov Cocktail days. I was impressed.
One of the detectives was walking out of the rubble, brushing soot from his pants and looking worried. He was a burly cop, about fifty. I watched him move away from the crowd of onlookers toward an unmarked police car. I intercepted him as he unlocked the door. “Excuse me,” I said, “my name is Brown. I’m a private investigator.”
I handed him my photostat to prove it. He checked it out carefully and handed it back. “What is it, Mr. Brown? I’m very busy.”
I ran off my hastily prepared cover story: “I won’t keep you long. Sol Kupferman has hired me to look into the fire. He trusts the police and firemarshals to do a thorough investigation, but he wants this thing covered from all angles. Right now I only want to know one thing. Was it arson?”
The cop looked me over from head to toe. “You should know that police officers at crime scenes do not give out confidential information to civilians. We will be in touch with Mr. Kupferman. Good day.”
I watched him get into his car and drive off. He had the drawn, abstracted look of a veteran cop just handed a tough one. His worried expression was more than enough confirmation. I walked back to my car, then headed for the gas station at Franklin and Argyle to see Omar Gonzalez, conspiracy buff.
Franklin and Argyle was a blast from my past; one of the big ones. In June of 1972, on information supplied by Jack Skolnick, I led a raid on the notorious Castle Argyle, methedrine capitol of the West Coast. An eight-story Moorish apartment house built in the 20’s, the Castle Argyle was a hotbed of hippie intrigue in the early 70’s. Skolnick had told me he had been approached by one “Cosmo,” a UCLA chemistry major and resident of the castle, with an offer to sell him three gallons of liquid meth amphetamine for $5,000. The street value was close to half a million. I was hot for adventure and began staking the castle out, along with an obnoxious rookie patrolman named Snyder. We never told our superiors or the guys in Narcotics what we were doing. We were rogue cops, out for the big kill.
Cosmo lived on the sixth floor and had dozens of visitors nightly. Hiding behind some towering hibiscus plants, Snyder and I heard Cosmo’s departing guests remark on the great quality of his stuff. After three nights of this, we decided we had enough to act on and scheduled our raid for the following evening. We could have pulled it off low-key, dressing in hippie disguises of beard, moustache, and love beads from Bert Wheeler’s Magic Store on the Boulevard, and making a discreet buy before lowering the boom; but fueled by large quantities of Old Grand Dad, we decided to break the door down and go in with shotguns.
We did and it worked. Until Snyder got disappointed. Cosmo and his girlfriend submitted quietly, scared shitless by the two oversized short-hairs with badges pinned to their chests and wielding heavy firepower. They led us to their stash, let us handcuff them, and waited meekly as we phoned for a patrol car and a matron for the girl. But Snyder wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to shoot off his shotgun. He was heartbroken that he had missed his opportunity. He said the bust was like getting laid without getting your dick sucked first.
He rumbled through the apartment opening drawers and knocking over chairs. Then he saw the Che Guevara poster, life-size, taped to a gilt-covered bedroom mirror. “Brownie,” he called, “look at this.” I came into the bedroom, leaving my handcuffed prisoners unguarded. Snyder, late of the U.S. Marine Corps was aghast with indignation.