Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [6]
“You do that. It’s the only one I got.”
“Now tell me about this guy. Anything and everything you know.”
“His name’s Sol Kupferman. He owns Solly K’s Furriers. His address is 8914 Elevado. That’s in Beverly Hills up north of Sunset, near the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s about sixty-five, skinny, curly gray hair. Big nose. A typical Hebe.”
I wrote down the information, such as it was. “What can you tell me about Kupferman? I take it your plan is to confront your sister with whatever dirt I can dig up on him.”
“You got the picture. That’s my plan. I heard lots of things about Solly K. All bad, but all rumors. Caddy yard stuff, you got to consider the source. It’s feelings I got about him. Like intuition, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah. How did your sister meet Kupferman?”
“I was loopin’ Hillcrest, maybe ten, twelve years ago. That’s right down the street where all the Hebes play golf. She used to visit me in the caddy shack; sometimes she worked the lunch-counter there. But I didn’t like her to. Loopers got dirty mouths. Anyway, that’s where she met Solly K. He’s a member there. He met her out on the golf course. She used to take walks out there. He got her interested in music, got her to start taking lessons. She’s been living with him ever since. She says he’s her best friend and her benefactor. She hates me now. That Jew bastard made her hate me!”
Fat Dog was close to losing control, close to tears or some sort of outburst. His anti-Semitism was repulsive, but I wanted to know more about him. Somehow his insane rage grabbed and held me.
I tried to calm him down. “I’ll give this my best shot, Fat Dog. I’m going to stick close to both of them and find out everything I can on Kupferman. You hang loose and don’t worry.”
“Okay. You want some bread now?”
The iconoclast in me trusted there was some kind of logic in his lunacy. “No, if you’re holding as heavy as you say you are, I’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m going to give this thing a week or so. You can pay me then.”
Fat Dog whipped out the fat old Mexican wallet again, and this time pulled out his roll. He fanned it in front of me. There must have been sixty or seventy C-notes. I wasn’t surprised. A lifetime in Los Angeles had taught me never to take anything at face value, except money. Fat Dog wanted me to be impressed. I hated to disappoint him, so I tossed him a bone. After all, he was tossing me a big one. “Woo! Woo!” I said. “I’m ditching this racket and becoming a caddy! Get me a hot-looking mama with a nice swing who likes to fuck. I’ll give her the old nine-iron on the course and off. Woo! Woo!” Fat Dog was laughing like a hyena, threatening to fall off his chair. I had delivered. I hoped he didn’t want more. Acting like a buffoon tires me quickly.
After a minute or so, he regained his composure and got serious again. “I know you’ll do me good, man. The Fat Dog can judge people, and you’re okay.”
“Thanks. What’s your phone number and address? I’ll be needing to get in touch with you.”
“I move around a lot, and in the summertime I sleep outside. I’m hard to find. L.A.’s full of fucking psychos, and you never know if one of ’em has your number. You can leave messages for me at the Tap and Cap—that’s a beer bar at Santa Monica and Sawtelle. I’ll get them.”
“Okay, one last thing. You said your sister is a musician. What instrument does she play?”
“One of those big wooden things that stand up on a pole.” The cello. That was interesting. As Fat Dog waved and walked out my office door, I found myself wondering if she could be any good.
I called an old friend who worked L.A.P.D. Records and Information and gave him three names, descriptions, and approximate years of birth: Solomon “Solly K” Kupferman, Frederick “Fat Dog” Baker, and Jane Baker. I told him I would call later for whatever info he had dredged up.
I got my Cutlass demo out of the lot. It looked prosperous enough for surveillance in Beverly Hills. I