Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [54]
“Yeah, I speak English,” he replied, with a purely American-Chicano accent, “but it won’t do you no good. You get one beer in the package deal and that’s it. Two Margaritas and a golf cart. Todos. Comprende?”
“I dig you. What I’m looking for is the caddy master.”
He stopped and stared at me as if I were an idiot child. “Caddy master? Are you jiving me? This dump don’t have no caddies. Only class clubs have caddies.”
“I should have known. Listen, I’m looking for a caddy. I know he’s somewhere near Tijuana. He’s hard to miss: an Anglo, about forty, short, sunburned, and very fat. He always wears dirty golf clothes. Have you seen him?”
“I ain’t seen him. But we get lots of golf course bums around here. Ask Ernie in the pro shop.” He pointed to a white one-man cubicle, where a fat Chicano was handing out golf balls. I walked over and got in line. All the golfers seemed to be high on some new drug I knew nothing about, chattering in English and Spanish about incomprehensible matters. I felt as out of place as Beethoven at a rock concert.
The tournament, or whatever it was, was starting and interest shifted to the first tee. The beer line had petered out and the golf ball line I was in had ended. Ernie gave me a harsh look that softened somewhat when he saw the twenty dollar bill I waved flag-like in front of him. “I don’t want golf balls, I want information,” I said, as he nodded, his eyes fixed on my money. I described Fat Dog.
Recognition flashed into Ernie’s eyes. He grabbed for the twenty, but I pulled it away. “I seen that guy,” he said. “He unloaded some balls on me a couple of days ago.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Naw, he’s just a bum. A fly-by-night.”
“Did you talk to him about anything other than golf balls?”
“Yeah. He told me he wanted to buy racing dogs. I told him to go to the dog track. I thought he was shitting me. He didn’t look like he had the money to buy no racing dogs. Then he flashes this roll on me. A couple of grand. Fuck me. A loco, you know? That kind of dinero and he’s selling golf balls. Crazy.”
“So you sent him to the dog track, right?”
“Hell no, man. I sent him to see my cousin Armando. He’s got two litters of greyhound pups.”
I gave Ernie the twenty and pulled another one out of my billfold. “Where can I find Armando?”
“Who are you, man?”
“I’m a nice guy. I want that bastard who sold you the golf balls.” I pulled out another twenty.
“I’ll take you to see my cousin,” he said.
I followed Ernie’s ancient Ford pickup. We drove east, through a maze of dirt roads, through shanty towns and hobo jungles of abandoned cars. Armando lived in an incongruous red-brick house on the edge of a giant culvert. The place was enclosed with accordion wire and as I pulled up behind Ernie I could see and hear children and greyhound puppies frolicking behind the fence.
Ernie told me to wait by my car, that he would get his cousin. I waited, restlessly. I felt I was getting close, that Fat Dog was nearby and at my mercy. I could hear arguing from within the house. A few minutes later Ernie came out followed by an older, even fatter Chicano.
Armando disdained my offer of a handshake. “My cousin says you want to find the fat gringo I sold two dogs to.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“It will cost you fifty dollars,” Ernie interjected.
“You’ve got it. Where is he?”
“First you give me the money,” Armando said.
I was getting pissed, but reached for my billfold without hesitation. I handed Armando two twenties and a ten. He looked at me with contempt. “Where is he?” I asked angrily.
“You gonna fuck him up, gringo?”
“Maybe. Where is he?” I was ready to blow it all and trash the fat greasers right on the spot, but I held it in. I felt the blood start to pound in my head and the periphery of my vision blackened, but I said nothing, just let the two Mexicans play mind-fuck.
Finally Armando spoke: “That fat puto deserves what he gets. I got a feeling about him. About you, too, gabacho, so I tell you. I rented him a shack I got. You take the Ensenada Toll Road, past the first toll booth,