Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [50]
“Anyway, gradually I got into some other gigs—heavy-weight scenes, the Chicano Movement, and this drug recovery program I work at—and I put my investigation on the back burner. I mean my hermano, Tony, was a righteous dude; I never loved anybody the way I loved him and I wanted to kill the puto who masterminded the torch, but I got my own life to think about, right? I’m twenty-seven years old. No fucking spring chicken. So anyway, I got involved in some other scenes and didn’t think about revenging Tony so much.
“Then I got this phone call. What’s the word? Anonymous. This dude asks me if I’m the Omar Gonzalez who used to be on the Joe Pyne Show. I say yes. Then he asks me if I’m still interested in the Utopia case. I say yes. Then he said ‘I got some information.’ And he tells me to get a pencil. So I do. He said: ‘Richard Ralston, 8173 Hildebrand Street, in Encino. He was one of the bookies at the Utopia around the time of the bombing. Check out his house, maybe you’ll find something to lead you to the fourth man.’ Then he hangs up. Man, did that call shake me up!
“So I burglarize this guy Ralston’s pad. At first, I find absolutely nothing suspicious. A bunch of old baseball souvenirs, photographs, T.V. set, records. A bag of weed. Nothing hot. Then I find this phone wall. I push it open and find these two boxes. I figure they got to be hot, so I rip them off. When I get home I check them out. Only the bookie ledgers make sense. The blank checks and the fuck pictures don’t mean nothing. So I lock the boxes up in my trunk. Then I start checking this guy Ralston out—I tail him to work one day. He works at this fancy golf club. I start thinking, holy shit, one of the bombers described the fourth man as wearing one of those golf shirts with the alligator on it! Maybe he plays golf at this club.
“I was about to check it out when I got shot. I was in Echo Park one night and I had this feeling I was being followed. I was driving to a friend’s place. All of a sudden this car pulls up. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Three of the shots missed, but one grazed my shoulder. Somehow I knew it was coming, so I ducked and punched the gas. I lost them. I hid out at a friend’s place. He drove my car to the station. I figured it would be safe there. But he forgot to take the boxes out of the trunk, like I told him to. Pinchey puto! The puto wouldn’t go back for them! So I laid up at another friend’s crib. My shoulder healed up good. I figured it was some punks I kicked out of the recovery house who shot at me, and that it was safe to come out of hiding, that they were probably fucked up on stuff somewhere.
“Then I went back to my apartment. It was destroyed. I went to get my car and the attendant tells me about this crazy repo-man who broke into my trunk. Then he gave me your card. I thought it was a trap. Somebody wants me dead. Maybe this cabron Ralston found out I’m onto him. That’s why I broke into your place, to check you out. Now you talk, repo-man.”
My mind was racing, divided between trying to place Ralston in the context of this new offshoot of the case and developing a cover story to keep Omar Gonzalez at bay while I nabbed Fat Dog. I gave Omar my most sincere look and lied big. Fuck him. He could read about the capture of his brother’s killer in the papers.
“You were getting close, Omar,” I said. “The fourth man is a member at Hillcrest. He had it in for Wilson Edwards, the owner of the Utopia. His wife ran away with Edwards. He masterminded the killing of six people for nothing. Edwards wasn’t even at the bar that night. Ralston is blackmailing this guy. I’ve got an informant up near Santa Barbara who’s got some evidence for me. Some tapes. I’m going there tonight to pick them up. Want to