“Where were you last night between 10:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M.?” Larkin asked. He was wearing an offensive and shiny yellow dress shirt that must have set him back all of $2.98. It was giving me a headache.
“I was here. In bed. Why?”
Cavanaugh took over. “Were you ever a police officer, Mr. Brown?”
“Yes, I was. I was with the L.A.P.D. for six years.”
Cavanaugh gave me a wide smile. Its phoniness told me he already knew the answer to his question. “So we were old colleagues,” he said. “What divisions did you work?”
“Wilshire Patrol, Hollywood Patrol, and Hollywood Vice.”
Cavanaugh and Larkin gave me identical half-smiles and nods of the head. They were a smooth pair, like Abbott and Costello. Larkin leaned forward confidingly. “Do you know a man named Stanley Gaither? AKA ‘Stan The Man?’” he asked.
“I met him once, briefly, a short while ago. Why?”
“We found your business card on his body.”
“Jesus Fucking Christo. Was he murdered?”
“Yes, last night in palm Springs. Along with two other men. Caddies. They were found shot to death under a freeway overpass.”
“Oh, shit. Shotgun?”
“Yes. Six expended shells from a 10-gauge were found. The three guys were blown to shit. How did you meet Gaither? What was the basis of your relationship with him?”
“What ‘relationship’? I met him in a bar. He bought me a drink and told me about himself, how he was a compulsive car thief, and how he was in therapy to learn to control his compulsion. I told him I was in the repo business and I might be able to help him get started ripping off cars legally. He took my card. I haven’t seen him since.”
Larkin and Cavanaugh stared at me impassively. I couldn’t tell if they believed me. “Have you ever met a George Hansen, AKA ’Hamburger’ or a Robert ‘Bobby’ Marchion?” Larkin asked.
“No. Are they the other two stiffs?”
“That’s right. Do you know any other caddies?”
“No, I don’t play golf. It’s not my idea of kicks.”
“What is your idea of kicks?”
“Great music and beautiful women. What’s yours?”
“Have you got a problem, Brown?” Cavanaugh interjected. “Indent people don’t go around shooting T.V. sets.”
“What’s normal? I have an aesthetic soul. I’m the hit man for an international cartel of aesthetic souls who hate T.V. I get paid ten thou a hit. That’s how I’m able to live in luxury in the Hollywood Hills.”
“Don’t fuck with us, Brown,” Cavanaugh said. “I checked your personnel file this morning. You were a fuck-up and a disgrace to the department. We’re investigating a multiple homicide and we don’t have to take shit from some repo asshole. You watch yourself. The State Board of Vocational Standards doesn’t like P.I.’s to go around shooting off shotguns. You could lose your license.”
“If that’s all you have to say to me, why don’t you leave?”
Cavanaugh couldn’t resist a parting shot. “You watch your step, Brown. We’ll probably check you out again.”
“I wait with bated breath,” I said as they walked out the door.
Ralston. Cathcart. Fat Dog. Augie Dougall. Now three dead loopers in Palm Springs. There are no coincidences. Caddies do not get knocked off Mafia-style. Augie Dougall was the place to start.
When I arrived at Hillcrest, Augie Dougall was not in the caddy shack. The fry cook at the lunch counter told me he hadn’t shown up today. Try the Tap & Cap, he said. I took him up on it and split. As I walked out of the shack, the place was afire with talk about the looper killings, which had made the morning papers.
I drove west toward the Tap & Cap, stopping first on Pico and Veteran to buy the L.A. Times. It was on the second page:
(A.P., U.P.I.) July 16–Palm Springs Police and Riverside County Sheriff’s spokesmen announced today that there are no clues in last night’s brutal slaying of three men, found shotgunned to death under a freeway embankment on Interstate 6 near the Palm Springs-Cathedral City border. Sheriff’s Department spokesman Sgt. A.D. Larkin said that the three men, all of whom were employed as caddies, were drinking and taking drugs at their campsite under the embankment.
“We found several empty whisky bottles and a cache of quaalude capsules,” Larkin said. “Right now we’re thinking that the killings are tied in to a drug rip off. The killer came back for the drugs and panicked after he did the killing. We’re checking out all known intimates of the deceased and expect a break at any time.”
The dead men are Stanley Gaither, 41, of West Los Angeles, Robert Marchion, a transient, and George Hansen of the Desert Flower Trailer Park, Palm Springs. The bodies were discovered by a group of Boy Scouts and their leader returning to Cathedral City from an overnight camping trip.
Not much. But the address of one George Hansen might be worth something. I ripped the article out of the paper and put it in my shirt pocket.
The Tap & Cap was almost deserted when I got there. The bartender and a crippled old black news vendor were reading the Times article aloud at the bar as I walked in. “Po’ motherfuckas,” the old newsy was saying, “po’ fuckin’ ‘Burger’ Hansen. Hungriest fuckin’ goat I ever did see. I remember when...”
I interrupted him with a stern look and an abrupt gesture. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, “I’m with Amalgamated Insurance and I’m looking for a Mr. Augie Dougall on a matter of urgent importance. I was told he frequents your establishment.”
The old news vendor started to say something, but the barman cut him off. “You got that all wrong, mister. Augie Dougall lives here. He gets a free room for cleaning the place up.”
“Excellent. Is Mr. Dougall here now?”
“No. He left early this morning. He said he was going up to Palm Springs on the bus. He got real shook up about those three caddies who got killed up there. He knew ’em. He said he’s gonna crack the case. He’s cracked himself. He ain’t gonna crack nothin’.”
“I see. How terrible. I have a sizeable check from a dead uncle for Mr. Dougall. Very sizeable. Do you know where Mr. Dougall will be staying in Palm Springs?”
“I don’t know, but he’s got a cousin up there, in Cat City. In fact, Augie’s got a letter from him that he forgot to pick up this morning, he was in such a hurry.” The barman rummaged beneath the bar and came up with an envelope.
I grabbed it out of his hand and tore out the door, adding theft of government property to my list of crimes. A moment later I saw the crippled newsy hobbling after me. He didn’t have a chance. When I got to my car, I tore open the envelope and read:
Dear Augie,
I hope you are doing good. I am, but it is too dam hot in Cat City. My air conditioner went on the bum and now I am roasting. Is it hot in L.A.? I bet it is. No releef for the wicked, ha! ha! Hows caddying? Do people play golf in hot weather? You wouldn’t catch me on a golf course without a six pak of cold ones and a fan. Ha! Ha! Listen. Something funny happened yesterday. This guy came by the house and said he was looking for some things that crazy fat buddy of yours might of left here. Fat Dog, the guy who wouldn’t use the spare room, who slept in the yard? The guy offered me 50 clams to let him look for the stuff. He said Fat Dog stole some valuable stuff with sentimental value from him and he wanted it back. I told him forget it!!!!! Fat Dog didn’t leave nothing here. It was real suspicious. He told me he used to caddy with you and Fat Dog, but he wouldn’t tell me his name. I went out later and when I got back, my house had been gone through. It wasn’t tore up, but I could tell that someone had searched the place. But it ain’t going to happen again!!!!! Jerry Plunkett is going out of town, and I’m going to borrow his mean old doberman!!!! Anyone tries to mess with my house and Rudolf will chew his ass off!!!!! Ha! Ha! What kind of crazy people are you hanging out with anyway? What was this joker looking for? Solid gold golf balls!!!! Ha! Ha! Next time you go on a toot come on up. I know a barmaid who likes tall guys. She’s about 6'2‘ herself. Ha! Ha!