“I got a lot of publicity out of my crusade, even though everyone thought I was a crank. I was almost a regular on the old Joe Pyne Show. I developed a theory — that the mastermind was only after one of the victims — and that he torched the bar to hide his motive. I checked out the backgrounds of all the victims — except for my brother Tony, they were dull. Working stiffs, juiceheads, that type. The Gaffany dame was a semipro b-girl. I checked out Edwards, the owner of the joint — a dope fiend. I checked him out real good. Nothing on any of them.
“For a while I hung out with a guy who wrote for True Detective magazine. He found out that the Utopia had a bookie wire going — small-time. So I checked out some bookies who operated in the Normandie-Slauson area. They told me, yeah, there was a wire going, but it was amateur. They said Edwards ran it. So I checked out Edwards again. Nothing but a smacked-back junkie, all fucked-up on stuff. I got a lead on a big spade who used to make collections and payoffs — and he turned out to be doing five to life in Quentin for armed robbery with violence. Another dead end.
“Anyway, gradually I got into some other gigs — heavy-weight scenes, the Chicano Movement, and this drug recovery program I work at — and I put my investigation on the back burner. I mean my hermano, Tony, was a righteous dude; I never loved anybody the way I loved him and I wanted to kill the puto who masterminded the torch, but I got my own life to think about, right? I’m twenty-seven years old. No fucking spring chicken. So anyway, I got involved in some other scenes and didn’t think about revenging Tony so much.
“Then I got this phone call. What’s the word? Anonymous. This dude asks me if I’m the Omar Gonzalez who used to be on the Joe Pyne Show. I say yes. Then he asks me if I’m still interested in the Utopia case. I say yes. Then he said ‘I got some information.’ And he tells me to get a pencil. So I do. He said: ‘Richard Ralston, 8173 Hildebrand Street, in Encino. He was one of the bookies at the Utopia around the time of the bombing. Check out his house, maybe you’ll find something to lead you to the fourth man.’ Then he hangs up. Man, did that call shake me up!
“So I burglarize this guy Ralston’s pad. At first, I find absolutely nothing suspicious. A bunch of old baseball souvenirs, photographs, T.V. set, records. A bag of weed. Nothing hot. Then I find this phone wall. I push it open and find these two boxes. I figure they got to be hot, so I rip them off. When I get home I check them out. Only the bookie ledgers make sense. The blank checks and the fuck pictures don’t mean nothing. So I lock the boxes up in my trunk. Then I start checking this guy Ralston out — I tail him to work one day. He works at this fancy golf club. I start thinking, holy shit, one of the bombers described the fourth man as wearing one of those golf shirts with the alligator on it! Maybe he plays golf at this club.
“I was about to check it out when I got shot. I was in Echo Park one night and I had this feeling I was being followed. I was driving to a friend’s place. All of a sudden this car pulls up. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Three of the shots missed, but one grazed my shoulder. Somehow I knew it was coming, so I ducked and punched the gas. I lost them. I hid out at a friend’s place. He drove my car to the station. I figured it would be safe there. But he forgot to take the boxes out of the trunk, like I told him to. Pinchey puto! The puto wouldn’t go back for them! So I laid up at another friend’s crib. My shoulder healed up good. I figured it was some punks I kicked out of the recovery house who shot at me, and that it was safe to come out of hiding, that they were probably fucked up on stuff somewhere.
“Then I went back to my apartment. It was destroyed. I went to get my car and the attendant tells me about this crazy repo-man who broke into my trunk. Then he gave me your card. I thought it was a trap. Somebody wants me dead. Maybe this cabron Ralston found out I’m onto him. That’s why I broke into your place, to check you out. Now you talk, repo-man.”
My mind was racing, divided between trying to place Ralston in the context of this new offshoot of the case and developing a cover story to keep Omar Gonzalez at bay while I nabbed Fat Dog. I gave Omar my most sincere look and lied big. Fuck him. He could read about the capture of his brother’s killer in the papers.
“You were getting close, Omar,” I said. “The fourth man is a member at Hillcrest. He had it in for Wilson Edwards, the owner of the Utopia. His wife ran away with Edwards. He masterminded the killing of six people for nothing. Edwards wasn’t even at the bar that night. Ralston is blackmailing this guy. I’ve got an informant up near Santa Barbara who’s got some evidence for me. Some tapes. I’m going there tonight to pick them up. Want to come along?”
Omar thought about it. He was eyeing me suspiciously. “How did you get into this thing, anyway?” he asked.
“Good question. A car dealer I worked for hired me to repo a car off a woman named Sanders. She’s the fourth man’s ex-wife. When I came around to get the car, she invited me into the house to talk. She asked me if I had heard of the Club Utopia firebombing. I said yes. Then she told me how her ex-husband planned the whole thing. I believed her. This guy I’m going to see tonight was in on the blackmail scheme with Ralston.” I could tell that he believed me. It was typicaclass="underline" members of minorities consider repossessors to be the scum of the earth — motivated by the basest of desires. The repo angle had convinced Gonzalez that I was telling the truth. He was no dummy, but he was easily manipulated through his prejudices.
“All right,” he said, “it’s crazy, but I believe you. All the fucking work I’ve done looking for this guy and you stumble onto him accidentally. Where do we go? Santa Barbara?”
“Right. South of there. Near Carpenteria, on the beach. There’s a deserted motel where we’re going to make the trade. He wants a thousand dollars, but he’s not getting it. I’m ripping him off. You can come along as back up. We leave now. What do you say?”
“I say you’re a nice guy. Repo ripoff in the night. You do much work in the Barrio?”
“Yeah. Taco wagons are my specialty. Also foxy Chicanas. Every time I do a repo in Hollenbeck, I stop for a jumbo burrito and a piece of Mexican tail. It’s charming talking to you, Omar, you’re a lovely conversationalist, but our rapport is getting a little strained. So let’s take care of business.”
I tucked my .38 into my waistband and got my newly purchased shotgun and tape recorder from the bedroom and threw four days worth of clean shirts and pants into a suitcase. I handed it to Omar. He didn’t say anything about it, his eyes were riveted to the shotgun. He was impressed. I was speaking his language now. As we walked out the door, he didn’t notice me jam a blackjack and a length of nylon cord into my windbreaker.
We drove north on 101. The suitcase, shotgun, and tape machine were nestled in the trunk, the other goodies on my person. Omar was quiet. I had been expecting a lot of militant jive talk and needling, but he was too sensitive for that; he was lost in contemplation, thinking he was approaching the culmination of a ten-year crusade. He was, but I would be the reaper of all glories to be had.