Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [9]
I went around to the back yard, where Walter’s room jutted out from the house proper onto the dead brown grass. Walter is a lousy gardener. I could hear the TV going inside. I rapped on his window. “Yo, wino Walt,” I said. “I’m here. I brought gifts. Come on out.” I walked back into the yard, pulled up a lawn-chair, popped a can of ginger ale for myself, and arranged the three short dogs symmetrically on the old metal table beside me.
Walter shuffled out five minutes later, wearing cut-off jeans and a Mahler sweatshirt. He is about 5'11" with curly light-brown hair and extremely light-blue eyes. Though not fat, he tends to waddle.
“Welcome, Fritz. You did bear gifts. How thoughtful.” He sat down beside me, grabbed a short dog, and drained it in one gulp. Color came into his face, his eyes seemed to expand and his whole body gave a slight twitch. He was on his way. He pulled out a pack of Marlboros, lit one, and inhaled deeply. I wondered what direction our conversation would take. “You look pensive, Fritz. Troubled also, somewhat. Thinking about your future again? You look like you could use a drink. I know you won’t go for it though; only half of you wants it. Whether or not it’s your better half, I can’t say. I only know you better than anyone, including yourself.”
“Fuck you. You’re right, though, I have had my future on my mind. It’s been a strange day so far. A crazy caddy is paying me a hundred twenty-five dollars a day plus to dig up dirt on some rich guy his sister is living with. He looks like a bum, but he carries a six-thousand dollar roll. Crazy, Daddy-O!”
“You’ll do a good job. You’re a born dirt-digger. You have no morality whatsoever. A boyish-looking shark. We are the same age, and you look twenty-five while I look forty. This I attribute to your refusal, even at your most desperate, to drink cheap wine. Fritz, who do you really think killed the Black Dahlia?”
I groaned at the mention of this mutual obsession from our boyhood drinking days. “I don’t know. And you know what? I don’t care. Change the subject, will you?”
“Okay, for now. Toss me another dog, will you? I’m thirsty.” He downed this one in two gulps. His face was downright florid now. His eyes were getting maniacal, and I knew he was going to start talking either science-fiction or his mother. The two are more or less synonymous.
“The old girl has finally reached her zenith, Fritz. She’s senile but cagey, and still a master game player. She intends to live forever and is on the lookout for new victims. My father, God rest his soul, and I were just the beginning. She’s been prowling these senior citizen’s dances and she’s picked up this fruit vendor, a dago, kind of semi-rich—he owns about a dozen produce stands out in the Valley. And I think the old girl is going to marry him! Seventy years old, hasn’t fucked since I was conceived, and now this. I can’t believe it. He can hardly talk, he just grunts. He’s got emphysema, he carries around a little oxygen shooter—it looks like a raygun. Jesus! She’s set financially; she doesn’t need his dough. I’ve told her that within five years the antimatter credit card will be in operation, that all she’ll have to do is walk up to any bank, lay her rap into the loudspeaker, insert her card and get all the bread she needs. Within eight years we’ll all be transported to the sublunar void, where the controlled environment will enable us to live for centuries in perfect health. The dumb cunt can’t see it coming, and she’s going to throw it all away for some wop fruit vendor. She’s afraid to be alone. You know that, don’t you, Fritz? When she’s got the wop sewed up, she’ll give me the boot, like she did my old man, and I’ll have to get a job. I still can’t believe it.” He reached for the last bottle, but I grabbed it first.
“Not yet. You’ll be into your ‘moon to earth, moon to earth’ routine in a minute. I’ve got to split. I’ve got this case I’m working on and a big load of repo’s, so I probably won’t see you for a week or so. Right now, I want to go home and listen to some music. Remember