I parked my car at a gas station across the street from the Nuart and went looking for the Tap & Cap. I found it around the corner from the theatre? on Sawtelle. It was a dumpy beer bar with a neon sign advertising its hours: 6 A.M. to 2 A.M., the maximum the law allows. When I entered I was struck with a thousand deja vu’s. This place had been described by Fat Dog as a caddy hang-out, and the two dozen or so men sitting at the bar and hanging around the pool tables had to be caddies. They were dressed more or less alike: beat up golf-type slacks that had originally cost good money, knit shirts—most of them bearing mascots or symbols on the pockets—and hats—a wide variety of them, from sunvisors to baseball caps to Tyrolean pork pies. I had seen scores of men dressed like this over the years, sunburned and middle-aged, dressed too distinctly to be bums, yet not quite looking like indent citizens. Caddies.
I took a stool at the end of the bar. Behind the bar, above the shelves of beer glasses, was a giant photographic collage of blown-up photos of leading jockeys and their mounts interspersed with Polaroids of bar regulars playing softball and guzzling brew. I couldn’t pick out Fat Dog. I got the bartender’s attention. “I’m looking for Fat Dog Baker,” I said. “He told me I could get a line on him here.”
“I ain’t seen Fat Dog for a week or so,” the bartender said. “But if you wanna leave a message, I’ll see he gets it when he comes in.”
“No, I have to see him tonight.” I took a five spot out of my wallet and laid it on the bar in front of him. I gestured at the men behind me playing pool. “Do any of these guys know Fat Dog? Know where I could find him?”
He deftly snapped up the fiver and pointed to a scarecrow-like older guy playing around with the jukebox. “That’s Augie Dou-gall,” he said. “He loops with Fat Dog kind of semiregular. Ask him, he might know. Buy him a pitcher. He likes Coors.”
I thanked the bartender, awarding him one of my rare winks, and carried the chilled pitcher and a glass over to the jukebox. I tapped the scarecrow on the shoulder. He turned around and almost knocked the beer out of my hands. “This is for you,” I said and pointed to a small table a few feet away. “I’m a friend of Fat Dog Baker. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”
We sat down and he dove into his suds. He was about 55, and very tall, maybe 6'6". He couldn’t have weighed more than 140. He looked guileless and gentle, so I played it straight with him. “I’m doing a job for Fat Dog,” I said. “I know you’re an old looping buddy of his, so I thought maybe you could tell me where he’s staying.”
“Okay. You’re not a cop, are you?”
“No.”
“You kind of look like one.”
“I traded in my badge for a set of golf clubs. Fat Dog is going to teach me the game.” Augie didn’t laugh or change his expression. His eyes remained locked into mine. He slopped up some more beer. It struck me that he must be closed to retarded, with an idiot savant’s antenna for the heat.
“You picked a good teacher, buddy. Nobody knows golf like the Fat Dog. Nobody can read greens like him neither. You put that putt where he tells you, and whammo, it’s in the cup.”
“Fascinating, but what I’m interested in is where I can find him, tonight.”
Augie Dougall went on, “Fat Dog don’t like to sleep indoors. He says it’s bad for him. He has bad dreams. He’s been loopin’ Bel-Air lately and sleepin’ on the course on this little hill off of the eighth hole near this little lake they got. He …”
I interrupted, “You mean he sleeps on the grounds at Bel-Air Country Club?”
“Yeah. They got this gate off of Sunset near this girls’ school. There’s this big statue of Jesus there. Fat Dog hops the fence. He’s got a nice little place all set up for hisself …”
I didn’t let him finish. I tossed him a hurried thank you and left the bar. I could hear the beginning of an argument as I walked out the door. It had to do with the merits of Arnold Palmer’s swing versus Ben Hogan’s. It was picking up tempo as I strode up Sawtelle toward my car, looper voices trailing hero worship and anger into the night.
I knew the entrance Augie Dougall was talking about. Jesus stood guard over the student parking lot at Marymount Girls’ School.. I parked beside the gate Fat Dog would have to climb over to get to his retreat, and put on some music conducive to forming plans on a warm summer night: Mozart’s Fortieth Symphony, light and graceful, the antithesis of the nervous boredom my case was turning into.
When the music ended I waited in silence for an hour or so, then heard Fat Dog’s loud footsteps coming toward me on the driveway. He was muttering something unintelligible. I called out softly so as not to frighten him. “Yo, Fat Dog. You’ve got a visitor.”
“Who’s that?” he called back nervously. “Friend or foe?”
“It’s Fritz Brown, Fat Dog. I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Fritz baby! My buddy! The private-eye man! You got some good shit for the Fat Dog?”
I opened my passenger door. “I’ve got some information for you. I don’t know how good it is.”
He sat down beside me on the front seat, and gave me a warm handshake. His hand was greasy and he smelled of dry leaves and sweat, the price of outdoor living. “Shoot it to me, Jack,” he said.
“It’s like this,” I said, “I’ve been tailing your sister and Kupfer-man. Not long enough to establish any routine, but long enough to tell you there’s no hanky-panky going on.” It was a lie, but a kind one. “More importantly, I’ve talked to a former associate of Kupferman’s and checked him out with the fuzz. I can tell you this: a long time ago, Kupferman was a money man for organized crime. An accountant, actually, He was a material witness to the grand jury twice, when they were investigating bookmaking. That was back in the 50’s. I get the distinct impression that he’s been clean for a long time.”
“So where do you go from here? What else are you gonna do?”
“That’s up to you. I can subpoena the grand jury records. That takes time, plus money for an attorney. I can continue my surveillance, which will probably yield no dirt. I can talk to other people who know Kupferman and see what they have to say. That’s about it.”
“You go to it, man. This is important to me.”
“There’s the question of money, if you want me to continue. I’ll give you a flat rate. One week of my time, an even grand. That includes expenses. It’s a good deal. I’ll submit you a written report on all the shit I’ve dug up. One thing, though, I need the money tonight. And another, I’m going on vacation at the end of the week. No business, okay? You got the bread?”
“Yeah, but I’m not holding it. I never do at night. Too many psychos around. You ain’t safe, even sleeping outside. We got to take a ride for the moolah. Okay?”
“Okay. You’ve got it in cash, right?”
“Right.”
“Where do we go?”
“Venice.”
Venice, where the debris meets the sea. It figured my canine friend would do his banking there.
I took surface streets to give me time to converse with my client. He was far more interesting than either of the people I was investigating. Mob minions gone legit and amateur musicians were commonplace, but caddies who slept on golf courses and carried around six or seven thousand dollars were rare, and probably indigenous to only L.A. I decided to do some polite digging in the guise of small talk. “How’s the looping business, Fat Dog? You making any money?”
“I’m doing all right. I’ve got my regulars,” he said.
“When I was a kid, my dad used to drive us by Wilshire Country Club every Saturday on the way to the movies. I used to see these guys carrying golf bags on their shoulders. It looked like a lot of work. Don’t those bags get heavy?”
“Not really. You get used to it. You work Hillcrest or Brent-wood though and you break your balls. Them kikes got cement in their bags. And none of ’em can play golf. They just like to torture their caddy. They pay you a few bucks more, but it’s just so they can feel superior while they tor
ture you.”
“That’s an interesting concept, Fat Dog. Sadism on the golf course. Jewish golfers as sadists. Why do you dislike Jews so much?”
“Dislike ain’t the word. I never met one who kept his word, or could play golf. They rule the country and then complain how they can’t get into good clubs like L.A. or Bel-Air. When I’m rich though, I’m gonna have me a whole caddy shack full of Jewish goats. I’m gonna get me a big fat Spaulding trunk and load it down with umbrellas, golf balls, and extra clubs. The bastard’s gonna weigh about seventy-five pounds. I’m gonna have a nigger caddy pack it on the front nine, and a Hebe on the back. I’ve got a friend, a rich guy who feels like me. He’s gonna have a bag just like mine. We’re gonna make these fuckin’ Jews and niggers pack us double. Ha-ha-ha!” Fat Dog’s laughter rose, then dissolved into a coughing attack. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He stuck his head out the window to catch some air.
I prodded him a little. “You ever caddy for Kupferman?”
Regaining his breath, Fat Dog gave me a quizzical look. “Are you kidding? He had a coon pack his bag. Jews and niggers are soul brothers.”
We were on Lincoln now, heading south. On Venice Boulevard we turned west, toward the beach. Within a few minutes we were on the edge of the Venice ghetto, known to Venetians as “Ghost Town.” Fat Dog told me to stop on a street named Horizon. It wasn’t much of a horizon, just dirty wood-framed four and eight flats with no front yards. It was trash night and garbage cans lined the sidewalk. Spanish voices and television battled for audial supremacy. There was no place to park, so Fat Dog told me to let him out and come back in ten minutes. I had other ideas.
He hopped out. Through my rear-view mirror, I watched him trot around the corner to my left. As soon as he was out of sight, I jumped out and tore after him, leaving the car double-parked. I slowed to a walk as I reached the corner. Fat Dog was nowhere in sight. I walked to the end of the block, looking in windows and checking out driveways. Nothing. I got back into my car and circled the streets surrounding Horizon at random. When I returned to the spot where I had dropped Fat Dog, he was standing there. He handed me a roll of bills as he got in.
I counted the money. There were twenty fifty-dollar bills. Nice new crisp U.S. Grants. “One week, Fat Dog. No more, no less. After that, it’s farewell.”
“It’s a deal. Fritz is a German name, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you German? Brown ain’t no German name.”
“I’m of German descent. My grandparents were born there. Their name was Brownmuller. When they came to America they shortened it to Brown. It was good they did. There was a lot of discrimination against Germans here during the First World War.”
“Fucking A!” Fat Dog said. I could feel him getting keyed up. “It was the Jews, you know that. The Germans wouldn’t take none of their shit. They owned all the pawnshops in America and Germany, and bled the white Christians dry! They—”
I started the car and pulled away, trying not to listen. I turned right on Main Street and headed north. It was getting to be too much; I was getting a headache. I turned to Fat Dog. “Why don’t you can that shit, and right now,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. “You hired me to get information for you, not to listen to your racist rebop. I like Jews. They’re great violinists and they make a mean pastrami sandwich. I like blacks, too. They sure can dance. I watch Soul Train every week. So please shut the fuck up.” Fat Dog was staring out his window. When he spoke he was surprisingly calm. “I’m sorry, man. You’re my buddy. My friend is always telling me not to sound off on politics so much, that not everybody feels like we do. He’s right. You go around shooting off your mouth and everybody knows your plans. You got no surprises left for nobody. I’m the man with the plan, but I got to cool it for now.”
I was curious about his “plan,” maybe a Utopian vision of unionized caddy fleets, blacks and Jews excluded, but I decided not to ask. My headache was just abating; “Tell me about yourself, Fat Dog. I was a cop for six years and I never met anyone like you.”
“There ain’t much to tell. I’m the king of the caddies, the greatest fucking looper who ever packed a bag. I’m strictly a club caddy, and proud of it. Those tour baggies ain’t nothin’. Carrying single bags for a good player ain’t jack shit. Two on your back and two more on a cart, that’s the real test of a goat. I know every golf course in this city like the back of my hand. I’m a legend in my own time.”
“I believe you. That was a pretty hefty roll you whipped out on me yesterday. With that kind of dough, how come you sleep outside?”
“That’s personal, man, but I’ll tell you if you tell me something. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“How come you quit the police force?”
“They were about to can me. I was drinking heavily, and my fitness reports were shot to hell. I was too sensitive to be a cop.” It was approximately a third of the truth, but my remark about my “sensitivity” was an outright lie.
“I believe you, man,” Fat Dog said. “You got that look, nervous like, of a juicehead on the wagon. I could tell you was by all the coffee you was drinking the other day. Juicers on the wagon are all big coffee fiends.”
“Back to you, Fat Dog,” I said. “Why the outdoor living?”
He was silent for a minute or so. He seemed to be formulating his thoughts. We had made our way up to Sunset, and I was maneuvering eastbound in heavy traffic, around wide curves and abrupt turns. When he spoke his voice was tighter, less boisterous, like someone trying to explain something intrinsic and holy. “Do you dig pussy?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Have you ever wanted to have a broad that could give you everything you’ve ever wanted? That you never had to worry about? I mean, you never had to worry about her fucking no other guys, you just knew she was loyal? And this broad, she’s perfect. Her body is exactly like the one you’ve always dreamed of. And she’s even nice to be around after you’ve fucked her? That’s how I feel about golf courses. They’re beautiful and mysterious. I don’t sleep good inside. Nightmares. Sometimes when it rains, I sleep underneath this overhang next to the caddy shack at Bel-Air. It’s dry, but it’s outside. It’s peaceful on golf courses. Most of the ones in L.A. got nice homes next to them. Big old-fashioned ones. The people leave their lights on sometimes ’cause they think no one’s looking at them. I seen all kinds of strange shit that way. Once when I was camped out on Wilshire South, I saw some dame beat up her dog, just a little puppy, then get it on with another dame, right there on the floor. These rich cocksuckers who belong to these clubs, they think they own their golf courses, but they just play golf on them, and I live on them, all of them! The courses around here are the primo land in L.A., worth billions of bucks, and I’ve got them all for my personal crash pad. So I pack bags and I’m the best, and I know things that none of these rich assholes will never know.”
“What kind of nightmares do you have?”
Fat Dog hesitated before he answered. “Just scary shit,” he said. “Monsters, dragons, and animals out to get me. Never getting to see my sister again.”
“I tailed your sister today. She withdrew some money from a bank, then visited some people in the Valley and around Vermont and Melrose. Do you have any idea of who these people are?”
“No!” Fat Dog screamed. “You’re the private eye, you find out! I’m paying you a grand to find out! You find out about that Jew bloodsucker Kupferman, too! I’m paying you! You find out!”
I turned on to the golf course access road, stopped the car, and looked at Fat Dog. He was red-faced and shaking, his eyes pinpoints of fear and hated. My client was insane. I started to speak, something consoling, but he started screaming again. “You find out, you cocksucker! You’re working for the Fat Dog, don’t you forget that!” He got out of the car and walked up to the fence. He started to scale it, then turned around to give me a parting salvo. “You ain’t no German, you fuck. Nigger lover! Jew lover! You
couldn’t even keep a job with the fuzz, you …”
My headache came back, full force, and I got out of the car. I ran to the fence and pulled Fat Dog off by his belt. As he landed, I spun him around and hit him in the stomach, hard. He doubled over, gasping, and I whispered to him, “Listen, you fucking low-life. Nobody talks to me that way, ever. I took a look at your rapsheet today, and I know you’re a weenie-wagger. You’ve got two choices as of now. You can apologize to me for what you said, and I’ll continue to work for you. If you don’t apologize, I’ll throw a citizen’s arrest on you for indecent exposure. With your two priors it means registration as a sex offender, which is not pleasant. What’s it going to be?”
Fat Dog recovered his breath and muttered, “I apologize.”
“Good,” I said. “You’ve got one week of my time. I’ll leave a message at the bar if I need to get in touch with you. You’ll get my best job. At the end of the week I’ll submit a written report.” I gave him a boost and he managed to make it over the fence. I watched him walk into the darkness of his sanctuary, then drove away, my revulsion cut through with the strangest, sickest sense of fascination.
There was no place to go but Walter’s. I drove out Wilshire feeling numbed physically and caught on the horns of a moral dilemma: I had been hired by a vindictive lunatic to disrupt the lives of two decent people. I had the chance to bail out of my case but I didn’t. I couldn’t; I was spellbound by a madman. It seemed an insoluble problem, so I willed myself not to think, which only compounded my numbness.
I couldn’t find a parking space on Walter’s block, so I parked on his front lawn. If his mother saw my tire marks, she would resign me to Christian Science hell, but I decided to risk it. I walked into the back yard. The light in Walter’s bedroom was on, and through it I could see him passed out in his chair in front of the T. V. On the screen a giant reptile was attacking a Japanese metropolis, knocking over skyscrapers with his tail. I toyed with the idea of shooting Godzilla and watching the T.V. implode, but Walter would never forgive me. There were two empty pint bottles of Scotch on the floor beside his chair. That was ominous. Walter was a winehead, and when he couldn’t threaten or cajole his mother into wine money, he would rip off flat pint bottles from the Thrifty Drug Store on Wilshire and Western. Hard liquor was an oblivion trip for my beloved friend, and he was an inept shoplifter. I was afraid that if he were busted, the arresting officers would recognize his lunacy and railroad him to Department 95 and Camarillo.