Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [42]
“And you decided to become a musician? And it didn’t work out?”
“Wrong. I decided to become a cop.”
It was Jane’s turn to laugh and she did, heartily. “That’s so funny! What a non sequitur! Why did you quit the police force?”
“That’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you later tonight, if the music moves me to confession. I love Brahms and the L.A. Philharmonic isn’t half bad, but I can’t stand Mehta.”
She could tell that I didn’t want to talk about my police experiences, so she let it pass.
I turned north onto Highland. The Bowl traffic was already heavy. By the time we reached Franklin, we were crawling at a snail’s pace. As we arrived at the vast expanse of parking area, I looked out with affection at the throngs of music lovers, nightlife lovers and just plain lovers all hurrying toward a summer rendezvous with Brahms.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jane dig into her purse for cigarettes and matches. She lit a cigarette nervously, inhaled, and threw it out the window. I pulled to the curb, my spirits sinking.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Reality, I guess. I just know I can’t take the goddamned Hollywood Bowl.” I felt my spirits hit bottom.
“Shall I take you home?”
“No. I just don’t want to be around people.”
“A drive, then?”
Jane smiled. “All right.”
We ended up in Ferndell Park, with its eucalyptus-shaded walkways and fish ponds. I was at a loss for small talk, so I impulsively took Jane’s hand as we walked uphill toward the picnic grounds. Jane squeezed mine, and when I turned to look at her she gave a warm smile. “I love this place,” she said. “You know L.A., don’t you, Fritz?”
“I’ve lived here all my life. I think I know it. But it’s changing. Every time I look around another landmark from my childhood is gone. Are you from L.A., Jane?”
“More or less. I was born here. My parents moved to Monterey when I was one. They died there, and the foster homes I lived in were here. Do you have a family?”
“No, my parents died within six months of each other when I was twenty. You know, it’s funny. Most of the people I know are orphans or come from fragmented families—you and I, my friend Walter, the man I do a lot of work for. All strays awash in a sea of neon, all trying to survive and find a little more than survival.”
Jane smiled at my half-hearted attempt at poetry. “You said earlier that you’d tell me why you quit the police force,” she said.
“It’s an ugly story, Jane. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
She squeezed my hand briefly. “Yes,” she said. “I called Lieutenant Holland this afternoon, to check you out. I didn’t tell him why I needed the information, just that we had met and you offered him as a reference. He said that you were a good man, but when I asked him if you were a good police officer, he was ambiguous. You can tell me, Fritz.”
“All right. I was a shitty cop. I was drunk a good deal of the time, so I got shunted off to Hollywood Vice. A sympathetic sergeant told me I’d fit right in with the kind of people the Vice Squad dealt with: drunks, dopers, hookers, bookies, pimps, homosexuals, and perverts. The cream of Hollywood society. I did fit in and I enjoyed the job for a while. But gradually the despair of hassling people who should have been left alone got to me. I was depressed so I drank and popped uppers to kill the depression. Which brings us to Blow Job Anderson. He was a character out of my youth, from the old neighborhood, a legendary pervert who was seducing twelve-year-old boys