Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [75]
Surprisingly, there was no fence or surrounding wall. Whoever owned this palatial rancho evidently believed in the safety of the wide open spaces, so I walked right up to the cars and examined them: A ’76 Ford Ranchero wagon, a four-wheel drive Toyota Landcruiser, and a late model Volvo sedan. All bore California plates, which I committed to memory.
I circled the house at a radius of fifty yards or so, to avoid being seen from the darkened rooms. The rancho was set on a foundation of concrete that extended out into the mesquite land that bordered it. By my watch it took me seven minutes to make a complete circuit of la casa grande. There was nothing out of the ordinary, only an eerie desert stillness. Suddenly music cut the night. It was unmistakable: the Schumann Fourth Symphony, the opening movement, the brass pounding up and down like a drum roll. My adversary was an aesthetic and he possessed a stereo system even better than my own, sending shock waves of German romanticism into mesquite land and canyons for miles around.
Dori was frightened, dropping her cigarette into her lap and burning herself as I opened my car door. I put the shotgun into the back seat and hit the ignition. “What’s that creepy music?” she said. “It scared the shit out of me.”
“That’s the good stuff,” I said, digging into the glove compartment and writing down the license numbers. “Learn to dig it, it’ll set you free. The guy who owns that pad has taste.”
“I think his taste sucks. Give me rock any day.”
“Rock causes cancer, acne, and the creeping crud. Back to Ensenada. I’ll help you move some more of your stuff up to the Sandoval place. Then I’m taking off.”
“What about the money you promised?”
“You’ll get it. A grand for you and a grand for Tina. I’m feeling magnanimous.”
Dori grabbed me, hugged me fiercely and planted a big wet one on my cheek. “You’re really a nice shit. You know that?”
“Thanks.”
I pulled a U-turn and we began our return trip. Walter had indeed been right. Everything was connected. But was it decipherable? For the first time since Fat Dog knocked on my office door over two long weeks ago, I wondered if anything was.
When we got back to Dori’s apartment, I gave her fifteen minutes to move as much of her stuff out as would fit into both our cars. She went about it hurriedly, hauling large armloads of clothes out the door and running down the stairs. I followed suit, not running. I noticed that she left untouched the men’s clothing I had seen earlier. Within twenty minutes, both our cars were packed with feminine goodies and a lurid library of pop writers.
We then headed north, toward Sandoval Bluff. When we arrived at the Sandovals’, I hurried to unload my car, stacking Dori’s things neatly on the ground. No lights were on in the house. That was good; it would be easier to drop my bad news. I dug into my wallet, bloated with other men’s money, pulled out two thousand in fifties and C-notes and placed them in Dori’s hand. She just looked at me. A period in her life was over and she knew it. “Henry’s dead, Dori,” I said. “Reyes Sandoval, too. I saw their bodies. There’s a big time bad scene going on and it’s going to get worse. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening, but you and Tina had better get the hell out of here and don’t come back. Go to San Francisco, or Phoenix, or some place you’ve never seen before. Thanks for helping me.”
She didn’t say anything. When I kissed her cheek, I felt a slow trickle of tears. I got in my car and headed for the border, leaving behind in my room the cheap phonograph and an assortment of soiled clothes.