And I wanted to be close to her gentleness and beauty. I decided to tell her about the two men I killed. She deserved to know that, too, and wouldn’t condemn me for it. She was a clearheaded, practical woman. One night doesn’t lay claim to a person’s life, but our one night was a promise of a commitment and a future together in more stable times. And I wanted another loving night with her before the unpleasant, possibly violent job of bracing Hot Rod Ralston.
A car pulled into the circular driveway—a full pig Chrysler convertible—and a large solidly built man in his middle forties got out and rang the bell. It was a quiet afternoon and I could hear the chimes from my post across the street. The man had a hard-edged look about him, like a cop or an insurance investigator. Maybe he was a business associate of Kupferman.
I was thunderstruck when Jane Baker opened the door and walked outside, carrying her cello case. She locked the door behind her, greeted the man with a warm smile and walked with him to his car. Whatever he was, he wasn’t any cello teacher.
When they pulled out. I decided to follow. I found myself getting jealous. Jane knew my car, so I had to stay behind for at least a full minute, then head after them on the route they would most likely take—Beverly Drive South. I waited, trying to quash a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. Walter Curran: everything is connected. The man Jane drove off with had the mien of a cold, manipulative ex-athlete, like Richard Ralston. I didn’t want it to be.
I picked up their trail on Beverly Drive and Burton Way, inside the Beverly Hills shopping district. I came up right behind them, watching them huddle in conversation. The man pulled up to the curb on Beverly just south of Wilshire and Jane got out, lugging her cello. She didn’t notice me as I drove by, continuing to follow the man in the Chrysler. He turned right on Pico, heading in the direction of Hillcrest Country Club. I started to pray for it not to be, but when we came up on Century City and Hillcrest and he flashed his left-hand directional, I knew, and was resigned.
There was a uniformed guard in the parking lot who admitted Ralston, so I had no chance of following him directly in. I turned right on the corner of Century Park East and parked in a No Parking Zone. I locked the car, placed a “Physician On Call” notice under my windshield wipers and ran across Pico toward a small gate off to the right of the parking entrance. A group of four scruffy-looking caddies were entering the gate, two of them sharing a pint of vodka. I walked in right behind them, staying a few yards back, hoping they would lead me to the caddy shack. They did. It was off to the left of a concrete walkway that bordered a large putting green.
There weren’t too many golfers about; Tuesday afternoon was probably a dead time for golf. The shack was slightly below ground level, a white clapboard job with a green tar-papered roof, built on a slope that led downhill to what looked like an oil drilling site.
I walked inside and was greeted by a shrieking cacophony of noise: there were half-a-dozen card games going on at wooden picnic tables, and the players—for the most part poorly dressed, sunburned, middle-aged men—were gesturing frantically, throwing cards and shouting good-natured obscenities. The concrete floor was littered with trash, cigarette butts, and empty beer cans. Rows of lockers lined the walls; a T.V. blasting out a game show at full volume went unnoticed.
I walked through a smaller room that held nothing but lockers and dressing benches and found the can, passing along the way Scarecrow Augie Dougall, all six foot six of him, reading a comic book as intently as if his soul depended on it. The bathroom was filthy beyond description, with a row of showers that looked as if they hadn’t been used in years. The floor was carpeted with urine-soaked copies of the Daily Racing Form and the walls were adorned with beaver photos of outrageously large breasted women.
I splashed some water on my face and recombed the part in my hair. I walked back through the shack and out onto a back service porch overlooking the oil digs. There was an old man sitting on an overturned trash can reading a Louis L’Amour novel and smoking a pipe. I walked to the railing of the porch and watched the oilmen working, checking out Pops out of the corner of my eye. He seemed to have trouble concentrating on his book. The noise of the card play distracted him. He looked like a lonely, opinionated old coot, so I asked: “Does that oil property belong to the club?”
He gave me a disgusted look. “Of course it does,” he said, “providing more money for people who already got too much fucking money. They say it helps defer the cost of membership, but shit, when you got the moolah these Hebes got, who gives a rat’s ass for a few chickenshit million a year divided by five hundred fucking members? Can you tell me that?”
I said it was a mystery to me. I could see a windy monologue coming on, so I started popping questions, simple ones. “Do you loop here?”
Pops gave me another disgusted snort. “You could say that,” he said, “but I’d rather not. I’m on Hot Rod’s shit list, so I’m lucky to pick up a nine-hole single once in a while. Are you a caddy? You don’t look like one. Too healthy.”
“I’m a traveling caddy. They call me Coast-to-Coast Johnny. I’m in town checking out the accommodations of the various caddy shacks for an article I’m writing for Golf Digest. How come you’re on Hot Rod’s shit list?”
“I don’t bet with the cocksucker. I don’t drink at the cocksucker’s bar, or live at his cocksucking fleabag hotel. Does that answer your question?”
“Vividly. I take it you don’t like Hot Rod.”
“You got that dead right. You oughta write an article on the caddy masters of America. They’re all corrupt—bookies, pimps, and worse. They’re all tyrants and shitheels and Hot Rod Ralston is the worst.”
There was a general uproar inside the caddy shack, the sound of boxes slammed down, followed by excited voices. Pops got up from his trash can and rushed into the fray. I joined him. Boxes full of clothes were laid out on the concrete floor, and dozens of old suits covered two of the picnic tables. A horde of loopers had descended on them like a pack of wolves, gathering them indiscriminately, irrespective of size. Pushing and shoving ensued, and the caddies’ favorite verb, noun, adjective, and modifier, “cocksucker!” was heard many times with many different inflections. Within two minutes everything was snatched up and the loopers were proudly examining and displaying their booty.
Pops came back out on the porch gleefully bearing an old sharkskin suitcoat. He took off the ratty cardigan he was wearing, threw it out in the direction of the oil digs, and donned the suitcoat, strutting like a rooster. “Them Hebes is all right,” he said. “They take care of us! This is a three-hundred-dollar coat. Look inside here, it says ‘Made in U.S.A.’! This ain’t no Taiwan piece of shit, this is the real goods! Goddamn,” Pops went on, “now all I need me is a loop to make my day. Then I’ll be hopping.”
A loudspeaker crackled inside the caddy shack. “Augie Dougall, first tee, right away.” That was interesting. There were dozens of hardier looking loopers around to pack bags. Pops thought it was interesting, too. “Cocksucking Hot Rod,” he said. “I been here since six-thirty this morning. That beanpole gets here at noon, and he loops before me. Cocksucker.”
I went back into the caddy shack in time to see Augie Dougall walking out the front door toward the first tee, stuffing his comic book in his pocket. I followed. The first tee was evidently a squat one-man cubicle where Hot Rod made his caddy assignments and sent players off. It was at the end of the large putting green I had passed by earlier. I stayed well behind, not wanting Ralston to see me. Dougall joined Ralston, and after a moment’s conversation they walked together downhill past rows of parked golf carts to a large barnlike building. I followed again, slowly.
I could hear what had to be Ralston’s voice as I came up on the side of the barn. It was slow, deep, and explaining patiently: “Trust me, Augie. I’ve always taken care of you, haven’t I?” Dougall muttered something in answer that I couldn’t quite hear.
I decided to risk a look inside. I flattened myself up against the c
orrugated iron side of the barn and craned my head inside. The barn was for storing golf carts, and there were dozens of them neatly lined up, with long rubber cords attached to electrical chargers that were mounted on hangers suspended from the high ceiling. Ralston and Dougall were sitting together in a cart midway down the line, with their backs to me, too far away from me to hear. I hunkered down and crept into the barn, then squatted behind a cart several rows in back of the two men. From my vantage point it looked like a bizarre father-son relationship—Ralston the father speaking in placating tones to his outsized ungainly son, Dougall. Dougall’s head was turned sideways to catch every well-measured word Ralston offered. I found myself reluctantly admiring Ralston. He was a formidable manipulator. I picked their conversation up in midsentence: “So … things are changing, Augie. It’s nothing we can’t handle, though. But Fat Dog got himself in some big trouble. He fucked with the wrong people and he got hurt. You’re not going to see him again, Augie. Not ever.”
“What did he do, Rod?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. A long time ago he got away with a heavyweight scene. Some people got hurt. I took care of Fat Dog. A friend of mine got him out of some heavy shit. This was years ago when you and Fat Dog were tight. Heavy-duty shit, Augie. Heavy-duty. Did he tell you about it? He told someone, because it got back to the wrong people. And the only people who knew about it before were my friend and I and Fat Dog, of course. And he wouldn’t tell the wrong people, Augie, because his ass would be up shit’s creek if he did.”
“He didn’t tell me no heavy-duty shit, Rod. Just loopin’ and racetrack stuff. Nothin’ bad.”
Ralston put an arm over Dougall’s bony shoulders and squeezed tightly. “You’re sure of that, Augie? You knew Fat Dog better than anyone. You were the closest thing he had to a friend.”
“I’m sure, Rod. Honest.”
“Because someone told a Mexican guy about what Fat Dog did. The Mexican guy hated Fat Dog. The Mexican guy went looking for Fat Dog and he got hurt, Augie. Hurt badly. Whoever told the Mexican about Fat Dog wanted to see Fat Dog hurt, Augie, and I’ve always thought you carried a lot of hatred around for him, even though you hung out together. Fat Dog made fun of you, Augie, I know that. You were his lackey, kind of. Did you want to hurt him, Augie?”
“I never wanted to hurt Fat Dog, Rod. He was my friend. Sometimes he was nasty, but I just got used to it. I never told no one nothin’ about Fat Dog. You got to believe me, Rod.” Dou-gall’s voice was rising to a wail and his shoulders were shaking.
Ralston tightened his grip around them. “Because if you told anyone about Fat Dog, you could get hurt, too. You could get hurt as bad as Fat Dog or the Mexican guy. You read me, Augie?”
“Yes. I read you, Rod. I didn’t tell nobody nothing.”
“Okay Augie. Now, I happen to know that Fat Dog kept a scrapbook. A scrapbook that told about all the bad things he did in his life. He also ripped me off for a ledger, Augie, with writing in Spanish. I need that ledger. You know that Fat Dog was rich, don’t you, Augie? Loaded. Heavy bread. And it’s rightfully mine. I want that money. What do you know about that, Augie?”
“I know he used to have this scrapbook where he kept these clippings from all these tournaments he looped. Is that what you mean, Rod?”
“No, Augie, not that. You’re sure you never saw any other scrapbook? A big thick one full of clippings and writing? Or a leather ledger book?”
“No, never.”
“Okay, Augie. There may be some other guys Fat Dog hung out with who remember it. We’ll let that one slide for now. One more thing, Augie, then I’ll let you go. I’ve got a juicy nine-holer waiting for you. There’s a detective nosing around. He’s very interested in Fat Dog and his dealings. His name is Brown, do you know anything about that?”
“I seen him, Rod. I seen him. He was at the Tap and Cap askin’ about Fat Dog. Said he was lookin’ for him, that Fat Dog hired him. I …”
Ralston cut in sharply. “When was this, Augie?”
“Maybe two weeks ago.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That Fat Dog’s a tough man to find. That he sleeps outside. That’s all, Rod, I swear.”
“That’s good, Augie.”
“But I know more, Rod. Once me and Fat Dog was out on this loop at Lakeside and this car guy, the one who does them commercials on T.V. with the dog, was telling Fat Dog about this private eye he knew who was a real fuck up, who wasn’t a real private eye, but was good for rippin’ niggers off for their cars. That’s what he said. He was real nasty about it, like the guy was workin for him, but he was laughin’ at the guy. You know what I mean? Anyways, later Fat Dog tells me, ‘Someday I’m gonna have a use for that fuck-up private eye, yes sir.’ That’s what he said, Rod. Honest.”
“That’s good, Augie, and very interesting. You keep quiet about that, and everything else we’ve talked about. You’re a good man, Augie, and a good caddy. I’ve never regretted taking care of you. Don’t do anything now to make me regret it. Keep your mouth shut and life will be smooth. A lot of people have gotten hurt recently by talking too much and fucking around with the wrong people. Don’t let it happen to you, okay?”
“Okay, Rod.”
Augie Dugall was practically blubbering and shaking with relief. He had escaped censure and punishment from the sternest and most menacing of fathers.
“Good,” Ralston said. “Now go get Dr. Goldman and Sid Berman. They want to go a quick nine.”
“Berman and Goldman, wow! A twenty dollar nine-holer. Thanks, Rod.” Augie Dougall ran off. Hot Rod Ralston waited a moment and walked out slowly. I squatted lower as he passed me. When I rose to my feet after a few minutes, my legs were stiff and I was very angry.
I drove to Beverly Drive just south of Wilshire and checked out the lobby directory of the building Jane had walked into. There was a simple listing for suite 463—R. Weiss, Stringed Instruments. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked down the hall to 463. Through the oak door I could hear cello chords followed by a patient European voice offering criticism. It was enough. I went back down to the lobby to wait.
I waited half an hour, until Jane came out of the elevator followed by an ascetic looking oldster with a cane who was gesturing as though he longed for a baton and a podium. Jane had her back turned to me and was eating up everything the oldster had to say. I wanted to run to her, but stayed seated. The old man concluded his lengthy farewell and retreated back into the elevator. Jane was just about out the door when she turned in my direction and saw me. I stood up and smiled. “Hello, dear,” I said.
She placed her cello gently on the floor. “Fritz, I …”
I walked to her and took her hands. “I’m back,” I said, “belatedly.”
She looked shocked, but finally managed a smile. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I followed you.”
“You—”
“I followed you here. I rang your doorbell and when no one answered, I decided to wait. When Ralston picked you up, I tailed you here.”
“Am I a suspect in this thing you’re investigating?”
She was pulling away, so I let go of her hands. “Of course not. Don’t be angry. We have a lot to talk about. My car’s outside.”
We walked to the car. Jane was scrutinizing me the whole time, quite directly. I couldn’t understand her resentment. It went beyond my invading her privacy. When we settled into my car, she placed a tentative hand on my arm. “You look different,” she said. “It’s hard to place, but your features have changed. What happened in Mexico?”
“I killed two men. And I got drunk.”
“Oh, God!”
“Yeah. Where do you know Ralston from?”
“Richard? What does he have to do with this?”
“A lot. Will you answer my question?”
“From Hillcrest. We’ve known each other for years.”
“What’s the basis of your relationship?”
&nbs
p; “What do you mean?”
“I mean have you slept with him?”
“How dare you ask me that! One night doesn’t give you a claim on me. I’ve had enough. I’m going to leave.”
“No. Not yet. Please. I’m sorry. I’m pissed off because this reunion isn’t coming off the way I expected, and Ralston is in this thing up to his ears.”
“You didn’t have to cross-examine me the way you did.”
“I was hurt, jealous. Ralston is a notorious well-endowed cunt-hound and he’s had years to work on you.”
“What an ugly thing to call someone. For your information, Richard is a business associate of Sol’s and a very decent person and yes, we did have an affair, briefly, several years ago.”
“That’s all you had to say.”
“You’ve changed, Fritz. You’ve gotten harder. Did you really kill two men?”
“Yeah. They were trying to kill me. Brace yourself: they killed your brother.”
“What did you …”
“I found his body outside Tijuana. In a scuzzy little shack that’s going to give me nightmares for the rest of my life. The killers came back for something and I killed them.”
Jane looked out the window, watching the passing parade on Beverly Drive. When she spoke again it was very softly. “I don’t feel anything. He got what he paid for. Don’t tell me the details, I don’t want to give form to the thing. But it was terrible, wasn’t it?”
“Beyond words.”
“Is it why you got drunk?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re sober again, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted today, Fritz, but what you told me about Richard Ralston upset me. He’s been very supportive of Sol since the warehouse fire.”
“In what way?”