Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [70]
I almost died right there. Cruz. Ralston. Fat Dog. Kupferman. Hillcrest. The woman was cooing into the mouthpiece, her voice melding into my colossal adrenalin rush. “May I help you? This is Hillcrest. May I help you?” I hung up. There was nothing to say.
Henry Cruz, one of Fat Dog’s killers, had been calling someone—undoubtedly Richard Ralston—at Hillcrest. Fat Dog was blackmailing Ralston and had been knocked off for his perfidy. On impulse I called Hillcrest back. The same operator answered. “Richard Ralston, please,” I said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the voice returned, “the first tee is closed for the day. Did you wish a starting time for mixed foursomes tomorrow? … I …” She wanted to continue her sing-song helpfulness, but I cut her off:
“Is Ralston the starter there? The caddy master?”
“Yes, sir, he is. If you’ll …”
“Thank you,” I said, and hung up.
I paid my check and cruised the Ensenada streets, killing time before dark. The seaside town was coming alive with the setting sun—servicemen in civvies beginning an evening of barhopping, Mexican Nationals out for a stroll en familia, the curio shops jammed. As the sun dropped below the ocean horizon, I headed toward the high bluff north of town. This time it didn’t take me long to find the place. I parked in the same spot and walked across the dirt road to the darkened house.
I had good cover; the night was dark and Mexi-rock was blasting from the adjoining houses. I knocked on the front door and then the back, getting no response. Looking both ways for signs of trouble, I picked the back door lock with a straight pin, sliding the bolt back with a jammed-in credit card. I entered into a room that was part service porch, part playroom. A beat-up washing machine and dryer competed for space with a huge welter of dolls and broken model airplanes.
Keeping my flashlight low to avoid creating glare, I walked into the living room. I had to laugh. It was crammed with T.V. sets and cheap stereo consoles, at least two dozen of them, covering every bit of floor space. It was safe to assume the late Reyes Sandoval was a burglar and/or a fence. I flashed my light into corners. Nothing. No dressers, no tables, no shelves.
To the right of the living room was a kiddie-room-sewing-room combo. More broken toys and an elaborate loom of the kind that turns out Mexican souvenir blankets. On the floor were a dozen Singer sewing machines. Reyes was an inept killer, but a good thief. I checked the closet, tearing through racks of gaudy dresses and men’s suits. Nothing. Nothing in the pockets except cleaning tags.
I saved the bedroom at the end of the narrow hall for last. It slept the whole family: there was a set of children’s bunk beds against the wall and a jumbo canopied bed in the middle of the room. I closed the door and risked turning on the light. A score of cheap oil paintings of Jesus stared down at me from every wall. The artists had all portrayed Him as a Mexican. Above the bed a different, more somber holy man gave me the eye. I couldn’t place him. He was a tough-looking Biblical Chicano with a shepherd’s staff. Maybe he was the patron saint of low-lifers.
There were three sets of dresser drawers against one wall and a large walk-in closet. I dug into the dressers first and hit pay dirt. Pay stubs, a big pile of them, made out to Reyes Juan Sandoval and bearing the imprimatur of the Baja Nacional Cannerio de Pescado. Mrs. Galino’s high school Spanish class finally did me some good: Reyes was a recent employee of the Baja Fish Cannery. I put one pay stub into my pocket. The job designation seemed to be “laborero,” but the numerical computations were beyond my comprehension. The walk-in closet contained fishing gear: rods, poles,