“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 lid 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.
7
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.