by James Ellroy
Recognition flashed into Ernie’s eyes. He grabbed for the twenty, but I pulled it away. “I seen that guy,” he said. “He unloaded some balls on me a couple of days ago.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Naw, he’s just a bum. A fly-by-night.”
“Did you talk to him about anything other than golf balls?”
“Yeah. He told me he wanted to buy racing dogs. I told him to go to the dog track. I thought he was shitting me. He didn’t look like he had the money to buy no racing dogs. Then he flashes this roll on me. A couple of grand. Fuck me. A loco, you know? That kind of dinero and he’s selling golf balls. Crazy.”
“So you sent him to the dog track, right?”
“Hell no, man. I sent him to see my cousin Armando. He’s got two litters of greyhound pups.”
I gave Ernie the twenty and pulled another one out of my billfold. “Where can I find Armando?”
“Who are you, man?”
“I’m a nice guy. I want that bastard who sold you the golf balls.” I pulled out another twenty.
“I’ll take you to see my cousin,” he said.
I followed Ernie’s ancient Ford pickup. We drove east, through a maze of dirt roads, through shanty towns and hobo jungles of abandoned cars. Armando lived in an incongruous red-brick house on the edge of a giant culvert. The place was enclosed with accordion wire and as I pulled up behind Ernie I could see and hear children and greyhound puppies frolicking behind the fence.
Ernie told me to wait by my car, that he would get his cousin. I waited, restlessly. I felt I was getting close, that Fat Dog was nearby and at my mercy. I could hear arguing from within the house. A few minutes later Ernie came out followed by an older, even fatter Chicano.
Armando disdained my offer of a handshake. “My cousin says you want to find the fat gringo I sold two dogs to.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“It will cost you fifty dollars,” Ernie interjected.
“You’ve got it. Where is he?”
“First you give me the money,” Armando said.
I was getting pissed, but reached for my billfold without hesitation. I handed Armando two twenties and a ten. He looked at me with contempt. “Where is he?” I asked angrily.
“You gonna fuck him up, gringo?”
“Maybe. Where is he?” I was ready to blow it all and trash the fat greasers right on the spot, but I held it in. I felt the blood start to pound in my head and the periphery of my vision blackened, but I said nothing, just let the two Mexicans play mind-fuck.
Finally Armando spoke: “That fat puto deserves what he gets. I got a feeling about him. About you, too, gabacho, so I tell you. I rented him a shack I got. You take the Ensenada Toll Road, past the first toll booth, about forty miles from Tijuana, half mile from the sign that says ‘Alisistos ½ mile.’ Then you drive past the lakebed till you see a dirt road cut in toward the mountains on your left. You got to bang your car on the divider in the middle of the road to cross. Then you take the dirt road for three miles, to a fork. Then you go left for half a mile to the shack.” I committed the information to memory while Armando and Ernie eyed me coldly. “Maybe you do me a favor, mano,” Armando said. “Maybe you take care of the fat puto and I rent the shack to someone else. A shack like that, how do you say? In the middle of nowhere? Who knows what happens.”
“Fuck yourself, greaseball.”
“I forget you said that, man. This guy got two pups of mine. You bring them back, I give you twenty dollars.” He spat in the dirt at my feet, an invitation for me to try something. I didn’t. It was their country, their rules. I got in my car and drove away.
I headed for the Ensenada Toll Road, driving through Tijuana on my way. Just outside of T.J. I found a side road that dead-ended. I pulled off and got my shotgun out of the trunk, loaded it, and placed it beside me on the front seat, covered by a blanket.
The toll road southbound was wide open and beautiful, with the sea yawning wide and bright blue off to my right and the hillside shanty towns thinning out as I moved away from Tijuana. I was adrenalin-expectation high, but put all thoughts of the future out of my mind and concentrated on the moment: sunny, seaside uncharted territory, untainted by the grimness of my mission here.
I passed through the first toll booth and a few minutes later I spotted the “Alisistos ½ mile” sign, then the dry lakebed. I saw the dirt road immediately, so I slowed down and got ready to jump the concrete divider. I came to a complete halt and scraped over it with what seemed like a minimum of damage to my underbody.
The road led up into greenish-brown mesquite country, past several garbage dumps and a shanty town of adobe huts where several old women were tending a collection of chickens and pigs. Soon I caught sight of the fork. The road to the right led higher up into the hills; the left—the one I was to take—led downward, into what looked like a box canyon.
I turned off my engine and coasted in, keeping a foot on my brake. After one quarter mile by my speedometer, the road leveled out and turned one last time. I could see a beaten-up wooden shack in the distance, about three hundred yards away. I got out of the car and locked it, taking the shotgun with me. There was no one in sight.
As I drew closer, staying to the side of the road along a stretch of bushes, I could see that the shack was encompassed by a low fence of unevenly matched pickets driven into the ground at irregular intervals and linked together by heavy wire. About fifty yards behind the shack was a large wooded area. Nailed to the wall of the shack was a bus sign, depicting a greyhound in full stride.
When I drew up alongside the picket fence a putrid smell hit my nostrils. I saw a large swarm of flies buzzing about a foot above the ground and a half dozen rats scrambling beneath them. When I saw what they were interested in, my stomach turned. Two dead greyhound puppies lay in the sandy makeshift front yard, their stomachs open and spilling guts.
I pumped a shell into the chamber, stepped over the fence and approached the shack. I felt the hackles on my neck rise and my skin started to tingle. I could see that the flimsy wooden door was ajar, so I found a large rock and hurled it. The door flew inward, the wood splintering and giving off a ghostly echo. But no other sounds came at me and I could see no movement inside.
I approached cautiously, my shotgun held in front of me at body level. The same stench that pervaded the yard doubled as I walked through the doorway, so I knew there was something dead inside. It was Fat Dog. He was lying on the floor, nude, in a lake of dried blood. His throat had been slit and there were puncture wounds all over his torso and legs. A large rat was nibbling at one fleshy thigh. His mouth had been ripped open from ear to ear, exposing cartilage and rotten teeth. His nose had been smashed.
I picked up an empty tin can and threw it at the rat. It scurried out the door, flesh hanging from its teeth. I surveyed the room: walls of the cheapest grade building material, floors of rough wood, a formica coffee table with a case of dog food underneath it, a duffel bag containing golf balls and nothing else. No furnishings, plumbing, or lighting. Nothing but the corpse of Frederick “Fat Dog” Baker, caddy and arsonist, and my would-be gravy train.
I walked outside to the far corner of the pathetic little yard, away from the dead puppies, in order to get away from the smell of the dead looper and collect my thoughts. I felt composed and detached as I thought about the last stand of this psychotic dreamer. I felt absolute pity that anyone should have to live as Fat Dog did and die as terribly; tortured for hours or maybe longer. For his money? For the roll he may have been flashing in T.J.? I went back into the charnel house to look for clues. I was right the first time. There was nothing. When I walked back outside, my memory jogged: Fat Dog never lived indoors. He was a notorious hobo and pack rat. I charged into the wooded area behind the shack. It was about one hundred-fifty yards deep and thick with desert pines that allowed almost no light to enter.
It took me three hours of poking in bushes and checking out the bases of t
ree trunks to find what I was looking for. It was behind an uprooted scrub bush, nestled in a hollow tree trunk and wrapped in three giant plastic bags: a sleeping bag, two books on the care of greyhounds, a wallet containing $1,600 and no identification, the May issue of Penthouse, a 6-iron, and a pebble-grained leather ledger, almost identical to the ones Omar Gonzalez had found in Richard Ralston’s house in Encino.
I opened the ledger, which was wrapped in its own smaller bag. It was set up in five columns, the first two containing lists of Latin and Anglo surnames followed by initials, the two columns separated by dashes in red ink. The third column held dates in no particular order. The fourth column listed amounts of money, ranging from $198.00 to $244.89. The fifth column was allotted the largest space: it held comments written in a minute hand in Spanish. The ledger had thirty-two pages set up this way and it spelled one thing: extortion, somehow featuring Richard Ralston.
I transferred the money from Fat Dog’s wallet to my own and tucked the ledger under my arm. I walked back to my car, skirting the death house, feeling certain that Fat Dog had been attempting to blackmail Richard Ralston, or someone, and had paid for the crime with his life; that somehow Sol Kupferman and the Club Utopia firebombing were also connected. What nagged at me was the missing link: Omar Gonzalez’s anonymous caller.
When I got back to the car I locked my shotgun and new evidence in the trunk and drove back to T.J. to find someone who could read Spanish.
It was almost six o’clock when I got back to Tijuana. The traffic was impossible, so I parked in the first space available in the downtown area. Street peddlers were out in force, hawking firecrackers and elaborate sets of fireworks: Roman candles, pin-wheels, “atom bombs,” and “houses on fire,” selling them out of large open boxes leaned up against parked cars. T.J. was going to rock with the antics of swinging expatriates tonight.
My first stop was at an Army-Navy store, where I purchased a sturdy-looking shovel. Fat Dog deserved a decent burial and I was the only one to see that he got it. His golf balls would accompany him. I returned to the car and locked the grave-digging tool in the front seat, then went looking for an educated Mexican who looked like he could keep his mouth shut.
As I walked, I kept pushing thoughts of Jane out of my mind. I was likely to be down in Mexico longer than expected. Fat Dog had mentioned a “rich friend” with a “big castle.” It would bear checking out. There was also the matter of Fat Dog’s killer or killers—I might be able to dig up some leads on people who had been searching for the late unlamented looper.
I turned into an alley to avoid the sidewalk bustle, and heard footsteps crunching on gravel immediately behind me. I swung around, but it was too late. A fist crashed into my jaw. I tottered, but kept my balance, the ledger flying out of my hand. It was dark in the alley, but as I recovered from the blow and put up my arms to ward off others I recognized my assailant. It was Omar Gonzalez. That made me angry. As recognition and amazement lit up my face, Gonzalez followed with a left to my head and a right to my rib cage. He was fast and strong. The left caught me high on the cheekbone, the ring on his finger drawing blood; the right I deflected with an elbow. He was wide open and overconfident. I feinted with my left shoulder and as he drew away I slammed a right cross to the side of his nose. He went down, but came up fast, his knees wobbling. As he struggled to get up, wiping the blood from his eyes, I kneed him in the chin, full force. He went down again and was still.
I caught my breath and patted him down for weapons. Nothing. How had he gotten here so fast? And how had he known to come here? He would be rousing soon, so I picked up the dusty ledger, hoisted him onto my shoulder and carried him out to the busy sidewalk, where I sat him down beside a fire hydrant. Being T.J., this got only a few curious stares from passersby. Keeping a hand on his shoulder to keep him from tipping over, I applied pressure to the cut on my cheek. It was deep, but razor sharp, and the blood was already starting to congeal.
Gonzalez came to with a start. He tried to stand up and start swinging, but was too woozy. He wiped blood torn his nose. I kept a firm hand on his shoulder. “No go, Omar. Too many people around. The T.J. jail is a bitch. But I’ve got some very good news for you, if you’ll listen …”
He didn’t want to listen. The expletives began, first in Spanish, ending in English. “… Filthy scum-sucking fascist pig! Parasite! …” I let him go on and on.
When he ran out of epithets and breath, I spoke soothingly: “The man who was responsible for killing your brother is dead. Murdered. He’s lying in an old shack outside of T.J. I’ll show him to you, if you want. No tricks this time. I’ll tell you the whole story of my involvement in this thing. The truth. You want to listen?”
“I’ll listen, puto. I got nothing better to do.”
“Good. It’s a long story. Let’s find a cantina.”
I gave Gonzalez a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his battered nose. It wasn’t broken, which made me feel good. After a block’s walk, we found a combination restaurant-bar that looked clean and wasn’t too crowded. From the window by our table we could see fireworks begin to light up the twilight sky. I told Omar everything—from the beginning, including the incredible coincidence of my recognizing Kupferman from a split-second meeting years before. The only thing I omitted was my involvement with Jane. Watching him as I recounted the tragedy that had been the central fact of his life for a decade I saw anger, grief, and fierce love light up his face. After I finished I sipped my coffee in silence and waited for his response. Finally it came, much more stoic than stunned. “Who do you think killed Fat Dog?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. He’s tied in to Ralston from Hillcrest, ten years ago. They’re connected by the similar ledgers they both had in their possession. It could well be that Fat Dog was trying to blackmail Ralston. I’m not sure. We’ll know more when we decipher this ledger.” I handed him the leather bound book. “You read Spanish, don’t you?”
“Of course, yo soy Chicano.” He said it with pride. We were moving toward becoming allies, but he was keeping his distance. I respected him for it.
“Read it,” I said, “then we’ll go and bury Fat Dog. Or I will, I should say. You can wait here.”
“No, I’ll go. I want to see this putrid piece of dog shit with its guts hanging out. I want to burn the sight into my brain.”
“Then hurry up and read the ledger. It’s getting dark. I want to be sure we can find the place.”
Omar read fast, his eyes skimming the pages, showing no emotion. He read page by page for several minutes, then closed the book and stared at me. “It’s not a bookie ledger like the ones I found at Ralston’s house,” he said. “The first four columns are the same thing. Names, some Latino, some Anglo, some that sound kind of black, followed by initials—R.R., that would have to be Ralston, J.L., H.H., D.D., G.V. Don’t ask me what that means. The next column is odd amounts of money, with a dash, then a date, no particular order. The dates go back eight years to ’72. After the dates, there’s all these really odd amounts of dough—211.83, 367.00, 411.10. Like that. Funny. With no dollar signs, just the decimal points. Weird. In the next column there’s another name, most of the time matching the one in the first column. Then, there’s comments—spooky stuff. For instance—‘Cousin, dead ten years,’ ‘Uncle, born here, valid D.O.B., died Mexico, ’55,’ ‘Played ball with R.R., died 6–21–59.’ Every line in this last column seems to refer to some dead person, or one of their relatives. Spooky. What do you think, repo?”
Another loose end seemed to be tying itself up. “I think maybe this ledger details some kind of welfare scam. Remember those blank checks stuck in the ledgers you ripped off of Ralston? Everything in this new ledger seems to bear it out—the names, the amounts of money—all small and within the range of a monthly Welfare payment, and the comments in the last column—died such and such a date. I think that Ralston is working a Welfare ripoff, and that Fat Dog was involved somehow, or found out about it, and tried to blackmail Rals
ton, and was killed.”
Omar was nodding his head, taking in the information and kicking it around. “What do we do now?” he said.
“Let’s bury Fat Dog and head back to L.A. Ralston is the key to this case, I’m sure of that. When we get back I’m going to brace him.”
We got up and left the cantina, my coffee and his beer practically untouched. We walked to the car, then headed for the En-senada Toll Road.
It was almost dark and cooling off. We drove south on the toll road, skirting the ocean. As we pulled out of Tijuana I could see bonfires being lit in the shanty towns that filled the canyons on the land side of the road. The people who lived in the makeshift communities had no electricity, but their fires provided light and a glow that swept all the way across the highway to illuminate the Pacific with strands of gold. Given the corruption of Tijuana, where most of them probably worked, I wondered if they were jaded beyond redemption, as I was, or innocent enough to fill their lives with the simple beauty that surrounded them. Omar was evidently thinking along parallel lines.
“So much fucking beauty, and so much fucking poverty. But it’s the poverty that finally gets you. So you come to America, meaning L.A., and you find some kind of chickenshit job and raise a big family, and stay poor. And you know what kills me, repo? There’s not a goddamned thing I can do about it. Except to help the kids who rebel at the poverty and look for the answer in dope. You win one, and you lose twenty. But you know, it’s worth the effort.”
“Yeah. One thing you haven’t mentioned: How the hell did you find me? How did you know to come to T.J.?”
“Easy. There was no place else to go. The only lead I had was those porno pictures, which spelled T.J. Also, you shanghaied me north, in the opposite direction. I cut through the rope about three in the morning and hitched into Santa Barbara. I caught the six o’clock bus to Dago and walked across the border. I been looking all over town for your car since eleven o’clock. Finally, I spotted it. Then I found you.
