Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [98]
I drove to an electronics store in Century City and purchased three hours worth of blank tape, then drove to my motel. I dug through the shopping bag that contained Fat Dog’s horror journal and bankbooks, then burned the contents of the journal in the bathroom sink, watching a history of unsung malfeasance go up, appropriately, in flames. When the evil words were obliterated, I doused the pages with water and carried the sodden mess outside to a dumpster. I put two of the bankbooks in my pocket and stashed the rest under the mattress.
I called the manager and told him to buzz my room at ten that evening. Then I lay down and slept dreamlessly.
At eleven-thirty that night I was sitting on the cool grass of the first hole at Hillcrest Country Club, waiting for Hot Rod Ralston and armed for bear. The night was warm, but the wet grass brought the temperature down a good ten degrees. I felt solidly good, confident that my case was winding down, armed now with facts as well as weaponry. And my motives had changed. What had begun as self-aggrandizement would have to end as anonymous moral victory, for I had no intention of publicizing my involvement in the case, or paying for the killing of Cathcart.
I waited over three hours. At two-forty by the dial on my watch I heard a man coughing, coming toward me from the direction of the caddy shack. He was whistling and turning toward my resting place in the trees. It was obvious he couldn’t see or hear me, but I backed into the woods, giving him a wide berth, then swooped silently up on him as he entered the ninth fairway, jamming my gun into his back and reaching a containing arm across his chest. He bolted reflexively, but stopped when he realized it was hardware digging into his backside. He said “What the fu …” then stopped.
We stood still a moment, him bewildered, but catching on and me high on adrenalin. “That’s right, Ralston,” I said, “It’s a gun. It’s loaded, but I’m not. We’re going to do some walking and talking. Next stop the maintenance shack. Move.” I grabbed his belt with my left hand, keeping my gun in my right, pointed at spine level. We walked.
“I want you to know that I only have sixty-five dollars on me,” Ralston said. “I lost tonight. You would have done better to catch some of the other guys in the parking lot. I’m almost flat, buddy.”
I didn’t like the remark. It was condescending and indicated a lack of respect for my intelligence. I didn’t answer him until we were on the paved roadway leading to the shed. Then I yanked his belt back hard, sending him down to the concrete head first. While he was down, stunned and squirming to get up, I kicked him in the head, back, and ribs. He stifled his cries. He was trying very hard to maintain his composure. I squatted next to him, the barrel of my gun resting on his now bloody nose. “Resign yourself to two things, Ralston. One, that tonight you are going to pay for some past sins, and two, that you are going to tell me everything you know about Haywood Cathcart, Fat Dog Baker, Omar Gonzalez, Sol Kupferman, Welfare rip-offs, and arson. And Ralston—if you don’t talk, you die. Now let’s have a seat in your little room. Get up.”
He got to his feet. I grabbed his belt again and he moved forward, then fumbled in his pockets as we reached the door. As his key entered the lock and the door opened, I released his belt and kicked him full-force in the small of the back with the flat of my foot, thrusting him airborne into the dark room. He crashed into something wooden. This time he screamed. I found a light switch and flicked it on. I looked at Ralston’s handsome, bloodied face.