by James Ellroy
Walter didn’t answer my ring and there was no response when I knocked loudly on the window of his room. This was surprising; maybe he was making the run to the liquor store. I walked back to the front steps to wait.
After five minutes his mother pulled up in her senile Mustang. She hates to spend money, unless it’s on spiritual artifacts of the Christian Science Church, like her Wedgwood bone china plates inlaid with drawings of the Mother Church. Over the years Walter has sailed a number of them off the twelfth floor of the Franklin Life Building at Wilshire and Western, but she keeps replacing them. She’ll withstand the greatest indignities with a stoic resolve to keep him under her thumb. Once Walter boiled her eighty-five dollar morocco-bound copy of “Science and Health—A Key To The Scriptures” in a pot that was equal parts water and Thunder-bird. He presented it to her on a silver chafing dish embossed with the likeness of Mary Baker Eddy—in front of her Wednesday night Bible Study class.
She saw me as she was locking her car and dredged up a smile from the dark recesses of the cold city that she lives in. “Well, Officer Brown, how nice to see you,” she said.
“I quit the police department a long time ago, Mrs. Curran,” I said, “you know that.”
“Yes, and such a pity, too. You were so handsome in your uniform.”
“No doubt. Where’s Walter?”
“Chief Davis is such a fine man. I was hoping you would follow in his footsteps and make the police force your career.”
“You would dig Davis. He’s as crazy as you are. Where’s Walter?”
“Walter? I think he’s on hiatus somewhere. He left last night. He’d gone to one of those terrible A.A. meetings where everyone smokes cigarettes and takes the Lord’s name in vain. You know how those meetings upset him. I’ll give you your due, Officer Brown, you are not a nice man and you have an evil tongue, but you do know my boy. Although not as well as I do.”
“Yeah, I do know old Walt pretty well. Do you know what I like most about him? His restraint.”
“His restraint?”
“Yeah, his restraint at not having strangled you in your fucking bed a long time ago. Good day, Mrs. Curran.”
I walked back to my car leaving Walter’s madre to catalogue my indignity for future use against him. I was worried now. I had been unavailable to my friend for several days and he was in one of his periodic descents into reality, with all the terror that brings. When Walter takes off on what he terms his “periodicals,” anything can happen. Once he bought two hundred tennis balls and hurled them at passing cars from the bus stop at Beverly and Van Ness. Another time he barricaded himself in a motel in Hollywood with a bag of weed and a supply of dexedrine and porno books, convinced he could kick booze that way. Both times I was able to effect some sort of reconciliation between Walter and the world before he was locked up.
But those were extreme examples of the “periodical.” His standard operating procedure was simply to walk west on Wilshire until he hit the beach, with beer stops on the way to detox himself and prepare for what he considered the long but necessary nightmare of sober life. So I drove west on Wilshire myself, as slowly as possible in the middle lane. I got all the way to Brentwood before I spotted him sitting on a bus bench at Wilshire and Bar-rington, drinking out of a paper bag with a straw. I pulled up, opened the passenger door and called to my friend. He got in.
“You had me worried,” I said. “I came by your place a few nights ago and you were passed out on the hard stuff.” I turned around the corner and parked in the lot of a small market. I checked Walter out: the pudgy frame and brilliant light blue eyes looked indent, but the face had the gauntness and fear that sets in when he has been sober a few days. “What are you drinking?” I asked.
Walter pulled the brown bag off of his libation. To my surprise it was Vernor’s Ginger Ale. “If you can do it, I can do it, you fascist motherfucker,” he said, punching me in the arm jokingly. “Cold turkey, unless I get the shakes. Then it’s the old tried-and-true twenty-four-hour beer detox.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know. Dope or A.A. There are advantages to both. The dope advantages are obvious: you fly. The disadvantages are the resultant paranoia of prolonged use and the illegality. I’m not cut out for jail. No science fiction, no T.V., and they make you work. The A.A. advantages are that you get healthy physically through abstinence, you meet people who might be potentially valuable business contacts, and you probably get laid.” It was perhaps the fiftieth time I had heard this routine, but I didn’t tell Walter that. He was close to the edge.
“There’s another alternative,” I said, “You can come and stay with me. We can fly up to San Francisco, go to the opera, hike in Golden Gate Park. I’ll see that you eat and make fucking-A sure you don’t drink.”
“I’ll consider it, but it probably won’t work. Aesthetically, we are polar opposites. You cannot see the profundity of television, while I am mentally evaluating it and its effect for a magnum opus that will shake the conscience of the free world. I will be spoken of in the same breath as Kant and Nietzsche, guys who, of course, you have never read. You are the man of action and limited thought, the pragmatic diamond-in-the-rough intellect who rips off dumb niggers for their Cadillacs, sold to them by the fascist vampire. The karmic consequences will one day become obvious: you are going to get royally fucked in the ass. I, on the other hand, am the man of pure thought. A thinking machine. But I run on fuel, like any good machine. And that fuel is alcohol. It’s Catch-22, my good friend. So what are we to do?”
“I don’t know, in the long run. Right now, though, we can make the Topanga run. Do you want to?”
“Let’s do it. It’s been a long time.”
The Topanga run had been a mainstay of our relationship since the time I got my first car. It consists of Wilshire west to Pacific Coast Highway, P.C.H. north to the Topanga Canyon turn-in, Topanga Canyon Road through to the Valley, and the Ventura and Hollywood freeways back to L.A. It takes about an hour and a half, and during these rides Walter and I have enjoyed some of our finest conversations and closest rapport. So I pulled a U-turn on Barrington and turned right on Wilshire, headed for the beach. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Walter sip his ginger ale and peruse the passing scene.
When we were a few blocks from the ocean, he started to shout in frustration. “Shit fuck, rat’s ass, motherfucker!! Shit fuck!!”
I locked over and his hands were shaking, tremors that seemed to start in his fingertips and work all the way up to his shoulders, where he braced his back to contain them. “Five minutes, Walter,” I said. “Hold on. Beer?”
“Fuck beer. Vodka. Kiddielands. I’m dehydrated.”
Kiddielands meant a 7–11 Store. I remembered one on 15th and Santa Monica and jammed a left hand turn and punched the accelerator. I bought two large cherry Slurpees, gooey concoctions of sugar, red dye number 7, and ice. In the parking lot I dumped out half of each one and trotted down the street to a liquor store, where I bought two half pints of Smirnoff 100.1 mixed the vodka and Slurpees—half pint to each container of red goo—while Walter watched hungrily, sitting on his hands to control his shaking. I handed him one of the large cups through the window. He held it between his knees and greedily sucked the dual poison into his system through a large straw.
I got into the car and waited. Walter sipped in silence for about ten minutes. When he spoke I knew he had been freshly restored to his old insanity. “Where have you been?” he said. “I’ve been calling you for days. I needed the dubious pleasure of your company.” He held up his hands and placed them a few inches from the windshield. They were perfectly still.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said. “Do you still want to make the run?”
“Of course.”
We rolled up the windows and I hit the air conditioning. Cold air flooded the car and we took off, awash in hazy sunshine that seemed to permeate everything from blacktop to billboards. As we drove north on P.C.H. the su
n reflecting off the ocean was blinding.
“How did it start this time?” I asked Walter.
“It all happened at once,” he said, throwing his straw and plastic lid out the window and drinking directly from the cup. “Dear is definitely going to marry the wop. It’s all set. She’s got him by the balls. She even got him to renounce his Catholicism, at least temporarily. A Christian Science Practitioner is going to perform the service. With his emphysema and Dear’s claws into him, he probably won’t last six months. He’s been making friendly overtures toward me, no doubt to curry favor with Dear. He even offered to set me up in my own fruit stand. He looks like a gila monster and he smells like garlic. Dear treats him like shit. It’s depressing beyond belief. And I’ve been without T-bird. Dear ripped off that C-note you put in my pocket. It was you, wasn’t it? Who else could it have been? She told me that I was in a blackout and offered her the money to pay for some of the damage I’ve done around the house. The usual threats ensued, on both sides, until she popped her final ace—’Walter, if you persist with this behavior, I shall have to call Judge Gray and have you committed.’ You know the bitch will do it if I push her far enough, and Judge Gray has had it in for me ever since I poured winter-green down his ugly daughter’s bra in the eighth grade. He’s Republican, Christian Science, and law-and-order militant: the trinity. So without funds, I have been ripping off Scotch from Thrifty’s. And it hasn’t been working. I drink and I drink and I’m not drunk, and then wham, I’m out like a light. And the music doesn’t help either. I heard the Bruckner Third the other night on KUSC. Haitink and the Concertgebouw. Lonely Anton at his peak, and I didn’t give a shit. Nothing’s working anymore, everything’s changing and it’s driving me fucking batshit.”
We entered Topanga Canyon with its green hills that resembled the Fjords. Knots of youthful hikers walked along a stream that runs parallel to the twisting blacktop, several of the women carrying babies papoose-style in specially rigged backpacks. Friendly dogs followed them, stopping frequently to explore interesting scents. Walter was staring out his window, where the edge of the roadside led to nothing but a steep drop.
“You want some advice, wino?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Don’t lose the momentum you’ve got going. I know exactly how you feel. It’s exactly how I felt ten months ago. The fear, the loss, the sense of slipping, the whole shot. Go with it. Don’t let the old illusions take hold of you again.”
“I think I’m really scared this time, Fritz.”
“Good. Look, I have to go down to Mexico for a few days. I’m on a case, a real one. Try not to drink until I get back. Hit some A.A. meetings. It works for some people. Read. Stay away from Dear. Try to eat. When I get back you can move in with me. My life is just as up in the air as yours is, but for different reasons. I don’t want to talk about it now. Things are looking up, for both of us. I’ve got a new friend that I’ll introduce you to. She’ll be your friend, too.”
“A woman?”
“Yeah, a woman.”
“Are you fucking her?”
“Shut up, Walter. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Silence implies consent. You are lucking her. Big tits?”
I had to laugh. Walter is totally guileless and adoring when it comes to women.”
“Average size. But beautiful. She’s a cellist.”
“No shit? Congratulations, Kraut. It’s about time. You deserve a good woman.”
“Thanks, wino. So do you. When was the last time you got laid?”
“The last time I dipped my wick was April 13, 1972. That cop groupie you fixed me up with. Small tits and pimples.”
“Eight years is a long time. No wonder you’re fucked up. If you want to get laid today, I can arrange it. In fact, it might be a good idea, help you keep your mind off the booze. I know a terrific-looking hooker, an ultra fox. She’s got an apartment up from the Strip.”
“Big tits?”
“Real melons. She loves intellectuals. I know you’ll hit it off with her. Do you want to do it?”
Walter drained off the last of his first Kiddieland and threw the cup out the window. He pulled the ltd off the second one and began sipping tentatively. “Fix me up when you get back,” he said, “for the next few days I want to detox and rest.” He gave me a smile that was equal parts love and fear of the unknown. Walter was in deep shit without a depth gauge.
When I dropped him off at his house an hour later, that smile still haunted me. But as I drove away, I wasn’t thinking of my beloved friend. I was thinking of what might lie ahead in Mexico.
I could tell something was wrong from a half a block away. As I pulled onto Bowlcrest, I could see that the French windows leading to my balcony were pushed open and the living room lamp was on, casting an orange glow into the twilight.
I parked cross ways in my driveway, blocking it, and grabbed my gun and handcuffs from the glove compartment. As I made for the stairway that led to my front door, I heard it slam and heard footsteps scurrying down to street level. Flattening myself against the stairwell, I counted the number of steps the intruder had taken and when he was five from the bottom I spun out from my hiding place and turned around to face him, my gun leveled at his head. He was a handsome Chicano in his late twenties, slender and athletic-looking. His black hair was fashionably long and styled. He didn’t look like a Hollywood burglar. He looked more like a rock musician or a high-priced fruit hustler; sensitive in an arrogant way. He was wearing a yellow tank top and bellbottom cords. When he zeroed in on my gun barrel, he froze.
“Hold it right there, motherfucker,” I said, “and give those eyes to me. Now put your hands on top of your head and lace your fingers.” He complied. “Now walk toward me and when you get to the bottom of the stairs, turn around, bend forward and touch your elbows to the wall.”
I patted him down thoroughly while keeping my gun aimed at his spine. Finishing my frisk, I pulled him into an upright position and had him place his hands behind his back, where I cuffed them. “Let’s take a walk up to my pad,” I said. I nudged him with my gun barrel and he moved up the stairs. I looked around for neighbors who might have viewed our confrontation; luckily, there were no telltale heads peeking out of windows.
I unlocked my front door and pushed him inside and over to an easy chair where I sat him down. I stuck my gun into my waistband and surveyed my living room. It was almost intact. Only my desk drawers had been gone through. Keeping an eye on my prisoner, I rummaged through my personal papers, work records, bank books, and memorabilia. Nothing seemed to be missing. I ducked a head into my bedroom and saw nothing amiss except a few open dresser drawers. Back in the living room I sat down on the couch directly across from the handsome young Chicano. He eyed me warily, stoically. He was no burglar. He didn’t walk the part, talk it, or act it in any way. He had shown remarkable consideration in his search of my apartment. Burglars do not hit second-story apartments at dusk in the less affluent part of the Hollywood Hills.
“Hello, Omar,” I said, “I was looking for you yesterday.” There was no response, so I tried again. “You are Omar Gonzalez, aren’t you? If you’re not, it’s the fuzz and the slammer. And maybe an ass-kicking, by me. I don’t like the idea of people fucking around with my pad. You probably feel the same way, if you’re Omar Gonzalez, that is. Somebody righteously trashed old Omar’s pad the other day. Really ripped it up. Looking for something. Bookie ledgers, maybe. Somebody righteously fried Omar’s brother back in ’68, too. I know who did it. Maybe you heard about the case, the Club Utopia firebombing? Three of the bombers were caught and executed, but the ‘Mastermind’ got away. You seen old Omar lately? I sure would like to talk to him.” I gave the Chicano my widest, most innocent smile, the kind that won me First Place in a Beautiful Baby Contest in 1948.
“I’m Omar Gonzalez, motherfucker,” he said.
“Good. I’m Fritz Brown. Don’t call me ‘motherfucker’ again. It’s not nice. Well, Omar, I think we
need to exchange some information. What do you say?”
“I say you broke into my car and ripped me off for two boxes of stuff, that’s what I say. The lock on my trunk is all fucked up. I had to tie it shut.
“Tough shit. You broke into my pad. I’d say we’re even. Besides, we were both looking for the same thing, right?”
“You tell me.”
“I know who instigated the Utopia torch. How I got involved isn’t important. James McNamara told me about you, and how you’ve been obsessed with the ‘fourth man’ for years. I have my own reasons for wanting the bastard. I’m a licensed private investigator. I can arrest him and make it stick. You need me, for that reason. You’ve been messing with this case for years, in an amateur fashion, and you’ve obviously discovered something. The ledgers, the porno photos. Our investigations have been running along parallel lines. We need to compare notes. Together we may be able to find this scumbag.” I watched Omar’s macho-stoic reserve crumble. I went to him and unlocked his handcuffs.
He rubbed his wrists and smiled. “Okay, repo-man, let’s do it.” He reached over and we shook on it.
“Tell me about this investigation of yours,” I said, “from the top.”
“From the top, I just knew something was wrong with the way the cops handled the case. They caught the guys wham, blam, thank you ma’am. It made the cops look good. The three guys confessed, but when they said that a fourth guy was the ringleader, the cops thought it was a plea to beat the death penalty. I talked to Cathcart, the cop who headed the investigation, about it. ‘What if it’s true?’ I asked. ‘Do you honestly think these three drunks were crazy enough to knock off six people just because they got kicked out of a fucking bar?’ I was a youngster then and Cathcart shined me on. I admit I was an imaginative kid. But at the trial I knew I was right. I mean, man, I knew. Those guys were telling the truth when they testified about the fourth man. The way they described him, it was just too real. The guy they described was just too fucking bizarre to be made up.