Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [57]
I turned into an alley to avoid the sidewalk bustle, and heard footsteps crunching on gravel immediately behind me. I swung around, but it was too late. A fist crashed into my jaw. I tottered, but kept my balance, the ledger flying out of my hand. It was dark in the alley, but as I recovered from the blow and put up my arms to ward off others I recognized my assailant. It was Omar Gonzalez. That made me angry. As recognition and amazement lit up my face, Gonzalez followed with a left to my head and a right to my rib cage. He was fast and strong. The left caught me high on the cheekbone, the ring on his finger drawing blood; the right I deflected with an elbow. He was wide open and overconfident. I feinted with my left shoulder and as he drew away I slammed a right cross to the side of his nose. He went down, but came up fast, his knees wobbling. As he struggled to get up, wiping the blood from his eyes, I kneed him in the chin, full force. He went down again and was still.
I caught my breath and patted him down for weapons. Nothing. How had he gotten here so fast? And how had he known to come here? He would be rousing soon, so I picked up the dusty ledger, hoisted him onto my shoulder and carried him out to the busy sidewalk, where I sat him down beside a fire hydrant. Being T.J., this got only a few curious stares from passersby. Keeping a hand on his shoulder to keep him from tipping over, I applied pressure to the cut on my cheek. It was deep, but razor sharp, and the blood was already starting to congeal.
Gonzalez came to with a start. He tried to stand up and start swinging, but was too woozy. He wiped blood torn his nose. I kept a firm hand on his shoulder. “No go, Omar. Too many people around. The T.J. jail is a bitch. But I’ve got some very good news for you, if you’ll listen …”
He didn’t want to listen. The expletives began, first in Spanish, ending in English. “… Filthy scum-sucking fascist pig! Parasite! …” I let him go on and on.
When he ran out of epithets and breath, I spoke soothingly: “The man who was responsible for killing your brother is dead. Murdered. He’s lying in an old shack outside of T.J. I’ll show him to you, if you want. No tricks this time. I’ll tell you the whole story of my involvement in this thing. The truth. You want to listen?”
“I’ll listen, puto. I got nothing better to do.”
“Good. It’s a long story. Let’s find a cantina.”
I gave Gonzalez a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his battered nose. It wasn’t broken, which made me feel good. After a block’s walk, we found a combination restaurant-bar that looked clean and wasn’t too crowded. From the window by our table we could see fireworks begin to light up the twilight sky. I told Omar everything—from the beginning, including the incredible coincidence of my recognizing Kupferman from a split-second meeting years before. The only thing I omitted was my involvement with Jane. Watching him as I recounted the tragedy that had been the central fact of his life for a decade I saw anger, grief, and fierce love light up his face. After I finished I sipped my coffee in silence and waited for his response. Finally it came, much more stoic than stunned. “Who do you think killed Fat Dog?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. He’s tied in to Ralston from Hillcrest, ten years ago. They’re connected by the similar ledgers they both had in their possession. It could well be that Fat Dog was trying to blackmail Ralston. I’m not sure. We’ll know more when we decipher this ledger.” I handed him the leather bound book. “You read Spanish, don’t you?”
“Of course, yo soy Chicano.” He said it with pride. We were moving toward becoming allies, but he was keeping his distance. I respected him for it.
“Read it,” I said, “then we’ll go and bury Fat Dog. Or I will, I should say. You can wait here.”
“No, I’ll go. I want to see this putrid piece of dog shit with its guts hanging out. I want to burn the sight into my brain.”
“Then hurry up and