Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [48]
“A woman?”
“Yeah, a woman.”
“Are you fucking her?”
“Shut up, Walter. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Silence implies consent. You are lucking her. Big tits?”
I had to laugh. Walter is totally guileless and adoring when it comes to women.”
“Average size. But beautiful. She’s a cellist.”
“No shit? Congratulations, Kraut. It’s about time. You deserve a good woman.”
“Thanks, wino. So do you. When was the last time you got laid?”
“The last time I dipped my wick was April 13, 1972. That cop groupie you fixed me up with. Small tits and pimples.”
“Eight years is a long time. No wonder you’re fucked up. If you want to get laid today, I can arrange it. In fact, it might be a good idea, help you keep your mind off the booze. I know a terrific-looking hooker, an ultra fox. She’s got an apartment up from the Strip.”
“Big tits?”
“Real melons. She loves intellectuals. I know you’ll hit it off with her. Do you want to do it?”
Walter drained off the last of his first Kiddieland and threw the cup out the window. He pulled the ltd off the second one and began sipping tentatively. “Fix me up when you get back,” he said, “for the next few days I want to detox and rest.” He gave me a smile that was equal parts love and fear of the unknown. Walter was in deep shit without a depth gauge.
When I dropped him off at his house an hour later, that smile still haunted me. But as I drove away, I wasn’t thinking of my beloved friend. I was thinking of what might lie ahead in Mexico.
I could tell something was wrong from a half a block away. As I pulled onto Bowlcrest, I could see that the French windows leading to my balcony were pushed open and the living room lamp was on, casting an orange glow into the twilight.
I parked cross ways in my driveway, blocking it, and grabbed my gun and handcuffs from the glove compartment. As I made for the stairway that led to my front door, I heard it slam and heard footsteps scurrying down to street level. Flattening myself against the stairwell, I counted the number of steps the intruder had taken and when he was five from the bottom I spun out from my hiding place and turned around to face him, my gun leveled at his head. He was a handsome Chicano in his late twenties, slender and athletic-looking. His black hair was fashionably long and styled. He didn’t look like a Hollywood burglar. He looked more like a rock musician or a high-priced fruit hustler; sensitive in an arrogant way. He was wearing a yellow tank top and bellbottom cords. When he zeroed in on my gun barrel, he froze.
“Hold it right there, motherfucker,” I said, “and give those eyes to me. Now put your hands on top of your head and lace your fingers.” He complied. “Now walk toward me and when you get to the bottom of the stairs, turn around, bend forward and touch your elbows to the wall.”
I patted him down thoroughly while keeping my gun aimed at his spine. Finishing my frisk, I pulled him into an upright position and had him place his hands behind his back, where I cuffed them. “Let’s take a walk up to my pad,” I said. I nudged him with my gun barrel and he moved up the stairs. I looked around for neighbors who might have viewed our confrontation; luckily, there were no telltale heads peeking out of windows.
I unlocked my front door and pushed him inside and over to an easy chair where I sat him down. I stuck my gun into my waistband and surveyed my living room. It was almost intact. Only my desk drawers had been gone through. Keeping an eye on my prisoner, I rummaged through my personal papers, work records, bank books, and memorabilia. Nothing seemed to be missing. I ducked a head into my bedroom and saw nothing amiss except a few open dresser drawers. Back in the living room I sat down on the couch directly across from the handsome young Chicano. He eyed me warily, stoically.