I took Myers into the kitchen and read him off. When he realized I wasn’t going to bust him he genuflected wildly before me. I told him never, ever, to fuck around on my beat again. I collected the snapshots and put them in my pocket. This scared him, but he was so relieved at being spared the law that anything short of castration would have seemed merciful. He asked me my name several times and I told him. Dimly, my reptile mind was beginning to perceive that he might want to show his gratitude for my mercy. So I told him: Officer Fritz Brown, L.A.P.D., Hollywood Division, Badge number 1193. He committed it to memory and rushed out the door.
I dropped the two girls off on the Boulevard, near The Gold Cup. The evening was young and they had plenty of time to look for other action.
I got a call at the station about a month later. An unidentified caller had left his number. I called it and it was Cal Myers. He suggested we get together. We did. He wanted to give me a car. I said forget it, I didn’t begrudge or condemn him for his interest in young girls. He insisted. I relented, but I told him I would rather have a good stereo system. I also told him that I had ripped up the photos and had no intention of ever blackmailing him, but if he wanted to lay some goodies on me out of gratitude, then, what the hell, I would be gracious and accept. He smiled, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.
A week later he called me at home and told me I had carte blanche at a prestigious stereo equipment store in the Valley. I went there with Walter and ordered my dream system, which arrived at my pad two days later, along with a technician to set it up.
I called Cal to thank him and assure him that his secret was safe with me. I could tell he still didn’t believe me. I desperately wanted him to, and thereafter I would call him up, drunk, and offer my assurances, which were never really accepted. Gradually, we became friends, although I knew he harbored a deep fear of me and we met every few weeks or so and got drunk together. Our relationship was a strange mixture of mutual respect and attributing qualities to each other that we didn’t possess: Cal thought I was cold, hard, intelligent, and impenetrable, which was horseshit. I convinced myself that he was deeply sensitive beneath his businessman’s exterior and a potential aesthete, which was also pure horseshit. All we both wanted to do was get by, which meant markedly different things to each of us.
When I got kicked off the police department in ’75, there was never any question what I would do for a living. As soon as I was out of work, Cal’s paranoia regarding me was given full rein. I went to work repossessing for him to assuage that fear, as well as for the money.
It had been a good relationship in some respects, but now it was dead. And Cal had been mistaken from the beginning. I had destroyed the snapshots, almost immediately.
When Cal came to the phone bluff-hearty, I knew he was upset. Augie Dougall and the thousand dollar kick-out, perhaps. “Well, well,” he said. “Man about town Fritz Brown. Where the hell have you been?”
“Around,” I said. “Has Augie Dougall been in touch with you?”
“He sure has. Fucking beanpole Abraham Lincoln. That was dirty pool, Fritz, mentioning that thing to him. Fucking unworthy of you.”
“I’m sorry, Cal, really. But all I told him was the date. Did you give him the money?”
“Reluctantly. I figured he had to know you. What was it all about?”
“I can’t tell you. But thanks. If it’s any consolation, you helped Augie out of a lot of trouble.”
“Some consolation. You know, I think I’ve seen him before. Is he a caddy? I think he packed my bag at Lakeside.”
“He’s a caddy. How’s business? How’s Irwin doing?”
“Business is dandy. Irwin is doing a good job. He’s a nice guy, for a Jew. That nephew of his is a natural repo-man. He don’t take shit from nobody. When are you coming back to work?”
“I’m not, Cal. Consider that grand you gave Augie as my severance pay.”
“You can’t do that, Fritz! You’re my man! We’ve been together for a long time. Look...”
I broke in on his sudden panic, trying to sound firm: “Yes, I can, Cal. I have to. The last time you saw me I had a different life. It’s changed now, and I’ve changed. I don’t want to do repos anymore. I’m going to get married. I’ve come into some money. I want a new life. I’ve got to cut our ties or my new life won’t work. Keep Irwin and his nephew. They’ll do you proud. And Cal? I’ve never told anyone about you and those two girls. I burned those photographs the night it happened. All your fears all these years have been groundless. I would never fuck you over, for anything. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been a good friend, but it’s time to move on, and ripping off used cars isn’t part of the kind of life I want to live. Can you accept that?”
“I don’t know, Fritz, I...” his voice was very soft.
“You’ll have to, Cal. Goodbye and thanks.” I hung up, closing a long chapter of my life.
When I walked out of the phone booth I realized for the first time that maybe Cal, in his own fashion, loved me and liked having me around for reasons totally unrelated to fear. When things change, everything changes. It’s a new game entirely and suddenly you know what you had all along.
I drove into downtown L.A., taking the Santa Monica Freeway, to Mark Swirkal’s office. I left him the master tape containing my complete verbal record of the Baker-Cathcart case and the tape with Richard Ralston’s confession and told him what I wanted: storage of the tapes in his safe deposit box at the bank, in perpetuity or until I told him otherwise. Should I fail to contact his answering service once during every twenty-four hour period with the message “Crazy, Daddy-O!” he should immediately re-tape three copies and have them delivered by hand to the office of the L.A. District Attorney, the Crime Desk of the L.A. Times, Internal Affairs Division of the L.A.P.D., and the news desk of KNXT T.V. His fee for this would be one hundred and fifty dollars a month, hopefully for life. He agreed readily, fascinated by the mystery. I told him under no condition was he to play the tapes. He nodded, gravely. I trusted him. He was a solid, good man.
I called Sol Kupferman from Mark’s office. His maid answered and told me she would get him. He answered a second later. He had a soft, New Yorkish voice. “Hello?” he said.
“Mr. Kupferman, this is Fritz Brown. Has Jane Baker told you about me?”
“Yes, she has.”
“Good. I need to see you. Today. It’s very important. Can you meet me this afternoon?”
“I think so. Where?” His voice sounded distant and worried.
“In Griffith Park, in the parking lot by the observatory at two o’clock.”
“Why there, Mr. Brown? Why not my home or your office?”
“Mr. Kupferman, to be frank, because Haywood Cathcart may be having you followed, and I can’t afford a run-in with old Haywood just yet.”