Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [97]
I rose the next morning from a troubled sleep populated by my old patrol partner Deverson, a mad collector of Fab 40 records and women’s pubic hair. The songs were all there in my dreams: “Runaway” by Del Shannon, “Chanson D’Amour” by Art and Doddie Todd, “Blue Moon” by the Marcells. I took three Exedrin to knock them out, and drove to a clothing store on Santa Monica Mall and bought four changes of clothing—short-sleeved shirts, pants and socks, and shaving gear. At a phone booth I dialed Information and got Richard Ralston’s address: 8173 Hildebrand Street, Encino.
Then I thought: brace him at his pad? Too risky. At Hillcrest? Too many people around. Surveillance—wait and pick my shot? Also too risky. Ralston was on edge and would spot me sooner or later. I needed an “in,” someone who knew Ralston and his modus operandi. After a moment I remembered the resentful old looper I had talked to at the Hillcrest caddy shack two days ago.
I placed another phone call, this time to Hillcrest, and learned that Ralston would not be in today, that Friday was his day off, and that his assistant, Rudy, would be acting as starter. Divine providence. I drove to Hillcrest, parking on a side street off Pico.
Pops was easy to find—he was the only caddy left in the shack, an indication of his low status. He saw me approach and grimaced. “Hi, Pops. Remember me?”
“I remember you,” he said, “I’m not senile. And don’t call me Pops or I’ll call you Sonny Boy.”
I laughed. “Fair enough. What should I call you?”
“Call me Alex.”
“Okay, Alex, call me Jack. What’s the matter? No loop today?”
“Fuck no. That punk Rudy puts all the duck loopers out before me. He wouldn’t know a good caddy from a rhinoceros. Dirty cocksucker.”
“You hurting for cash?”
“I’m always hurting for cash.”
“Want to make a quick loop with me? The fastest loop of your life? Maybe ten minutes for twenty-five scoots?”
“You’re talking my language, Jackie-Boy. What do I got to do?”
“Just talk to me. Let’s go out on the porch.” Alex followed me, licking his lips. “You hate Ralston, don’t you, Alex?” I said.
“I hate the cocksucker’s guts. Why?”
“I don’t like him myself. He ripped me off on a bet. I want to get even. I’ve got to get him alone to do this. I need to find out something about his routine, so I’ll know when to make my move.”
Alex looked at me fearfully, nodding his head slowly. “And you’ll pay me for providing you with this info?”
“Right.”
“And Hot Rod ain’t gonna find out about me tellin’ you this?”
“You have my word.”
“You got anything against trespassin’ late at night?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you. I know the time and I know the place. But I need thirty-five clams. My rent’s due.”
“You’ve got it. Talk to me.”
“Tonight’s the night, big fella. Hot Rod plays poker every Friday night, here in the shack with all his pet goats. The game usually lasts until about two in the morning. The loopers go home and Hot Rod stays here ’cause he lives way out in the Valley and he’s gotta be on the first tee at six-thirty Saturday morning for all the heavy play. So he sleeps in the maintenance shed off of the eighth hole. He’s got a little room there with a cot. There’s no one around. No one shows up until six in the morning. You can have him all to yourself.”
It sounded good, so Alex took me on a little tour. When we were about two hundred yards from what I assumed was our destination, Alex halted and grabbed my arm. “That’s it,” he said, “that’s the maintenance shed. Hot Rod’s gotta come this way. You see that first little door? That’s where he craps out. I don’t wanna go no further. I don’t want nobody to see me showing you around. Okay?”
“Okay.” I got out my wallet and handed Alex two twenties. “Thanks, you’ve been a big help. Take care.”
Alex grinned toothlessly. “You too, big fella, and if you’ve gotta get rough, kick him once in the balls for me, only don’t tell him where it came from.” He smiled again and took off running in the direction of the caddy shack.
I stayed behind and watched a twosome