I ate my lunch outside my car and reviewed my options. I decided to concentrate on Sol Kupferman. He was probably just a nice old fart with a hard-on for a beautiful young cellist, but it was Fat Dog’s C-note-and-a-quarter a day.
Driving away, I remembered yesterday’s phone call to R&I. I found a pay phone on 3rd and Vermont and buzzed my old buddy Jensen. It took him a few minutes to get to the phone, “Yo, Jensen,” I said, “this is Fritz Brown. You got that information for me?”
“Hold on, Brownie. You got a pencil?”
“Yeah, shoot it.”
“Okay, on Jane Baker, no criminal record. We got a whole shitload of Jane Bakers here, but none of them could possibly be her, according to the age and description you gave me. I checked D.M.V. and they gave me this: Jane Margaret Baker, D.O.B. 3–11–52, L.A., brown and blue, 5'9‘, 130. The usual numbers of the usual citations, except for two reckless-driving citations, no booze or dope involved. Does that sound like her?”
“That’s her. Shoot me the other two.”
“Okay. On Frederick ‘Fat Dog’ Baker, we got some interesting shit. Three vandalism beefs as a juvie, all three times the judge recommended counseling. That figures. Two weenie wagger convictions as an adult: 8–14–59 and 2–9–64. Not registered as a sex offender, probably drunk, just got the urge to whip out his cock and take a piss. Under employment, we got him down as a caddy, and believe me, for a caddy that’s par for the course, no pun intended. They’re the low-lifers of the world. Give the asshole his due, though, he ain’t been in no trouble for sixteen years. He...”
I butted in. Jensen was a loudmouth and this could go on all day. “We have to speed this up, Daddy-O, I’m parked in the red and there’s a metermaid checking out my Doctor On Call sign suspiciously. I don’t want a ticket, I’ve got no way to fix them anymore.”
“You’re still a crazy fucker. Okay, Sol Kupferman. D.O.B. 5–13–15. No criminal record, per se. Twice a material witness for the grand jury. Both times they were investigating bookmaking. This was in ’52 and ’55. That’s it.”
That was enough. I thanked Jensen and hung up. Nothing surprised me, except the dope on Kupferman. Jane Baker’s two reckless driving convictions indicated nothing but youthful verve. That Fat Dog was an exhibitionist was no shocking revelation. He was a disturbed man. But Solly K existing on the edge of, or in, the vice game twenty years ago was interesting, doubly so when coupled with my knowledge of his presence at the Club Utopia in ’68. Small bars like that were often fronts for bookie operations.
It was time to go and talk to the one person I know who is profoundly knowledgeable of the dark secrets of Los Angeles. I headed toward the Sunset Strip to see Jack Skolnick. In honor of Jane Baker I played the Dvorak “Cello Concerto” on the way.
Jack Skolnick has had a checkered past. For over forty years he has maneuvered on the fringes of L.A.’s high society, entertainment monolith, and underworld with the finesse and discernment of some sort of rare animal. Like a pig snorting truffles, he knows just where to look, and dig. Under his euphemistic title of “agent” he has pimped, supplied rigged game shows with “contestants,” served as a tour guide for visiting dignitaries (showing them the “real” L.A.), sold information to the cops, run mail order scams, solicited funds for political candidates of all persuasions, pushed gourmet marijuana brownies, and operated a canine obedience school. His knowledge of Los Angeles and the eccentricities of its moneyed people is astounding. I had a feeling he could tell me something about Sol Kupferman.
Jack’s office was on the sixth floor of a big apartment building on Sunset, a block east of Fairfax. His home was the apartment next door. The place wasn’t zoned for business, but “Jack Skolnick Enterprises” was so vague he got away with it.
I gave his foxy young secretary my name and she sent me directly in to Jack’s office. Jack was sitting behind his desk, reading the newspaper. He looked good. I told him so.
He was surprised to see me. He put down his paper and stood up to shake my hand. “Fritz, baby, so do you! You’ve put on some weight. Sit down. How’s tricks. Fritzie? Still got the repo gig? Hatchet man for Cal Myers?”
It wasn’t quite a jibe, so I let it pass. “More or less. I’ve still got my P.I.’s license though, and the agency going on the side. Right now I’m on a case. What about you? What’s your latest scam?”
“Currently, I’m in the escort business. I provide businessmen with an attractive, intelligent woman to be seen with at various functions.”
“In other words, you’re pimping.”
Jack shook his head in mock dismay. “Fritz, baby! Would I do a thing like that?”
“Only if it made money.”
“I protest, Fritzie! My girls are all in college!”
“Yeah, majoring in fucking. Enough bullshit. I’ve got a client who’s interested in a man you may know something about. Sol Kupferman. You heard of him?”
Jack gave me a cagey look and nodded his head. “I knew him slightly, maybe twenty years ago when I had my chauffeur gig. I used to fix him up with a limo and a driver. We used to talk sometimes.”
“About what?”
“Just rebop. The weather, that kind of shit. Nothing too heavy. But I heard talk about him.”
“Such as?”
“Such as he was a money man, tax advisor to organized crime in the 40’s. Such as he was a noncombatant, some kind of tax wizard. He made the mob a bundle.”
“That’s it?”
“What are you fishing for, Fritzie?”
“Kupferman was subpoenaed as a material witness to the grand jury, back in the 50’s. They were investigating bookmaking. What do you know about that?”
“I know that back in the 50’s the grand jury was convened every time someone laid a fart. It was the McCarthy era. If the grand jury called up Kupferman, it was probably because he knew somebody who knew somebody. That kind of thing.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
Jack smiled again. “That he had a lot of heart and a lot of class. A real mensch. I bought my daughter a mink stole from him a few years ago. He remembered me and gave me a good deal. He’s a mensch.”
“You remember the Club Utopia firebombing?”
“Yeah. A bunch of people got fried, then the State fried the fryers. What about it?”
“I heard Kupferman used to frequent the place. I thought it was a funny coincidence. Can you put a handle on that?”
“Yeah, I can. Life is filled with funny coincidences.” I was digging for more questions when the phone on Jack’s desk rang. He picked it up and bellowed into it: “Liz, baby! How did it go?!” I got up and we shook hands across his desk. He placed a free hand over the receiver. “Let’s get together soon, Fritz. Dinner, what say?”
“Sounds good, Jack. I’ll call you.”
He nodded goodbye. As I walked out his door I could hear him exclaiming gleefully, “A congressman? And he wanted to do that with you?”
When I got down to street level, the city was cooling off. I decided to drive home, and then go looking for Fat Dog. The case was turning into an exercise in futility, and I would feel better about it with some of Fat Dog’s money in my pocket. I put the top on my car down and cruised east on Sunset. Knots of young hookers were starting to appear, sitting on bus benches and giving male motorists the eye. I toyed with the idea of picking one up, but only briefly; they looked too sad.
At home, I watched the sunset from my balcony. The nicest thing about nighttime is the clarity, and in L.A. that means shadows and neon. The night was alive now. I went looking for my client.
Santa Monica Boulevard and Sawtelle Avenue, one-half mile south of the Veteran’s Administration complex, is the nadir of West Los Angeles. It’s a strange bottom, not too dangerous unless you’re waxing profane about the masses of wetbacks who live in the fleabag hotels there. Chilled short dogs dominate the refrigerated sections of the half dozen liquor stores on this compact skid row, and the doomed old men from the V.A. who scarf them up are the saddest things I’ve ever seen. But “Graveyard West” has its positive side: the Nuart Theatre is a great revival house and the Papa Back Bookstore is a mecca for counter-culture literati. All in all, despair wins out by a nod, and the neighborhood is the ideal place for a thirty-five-year-old hippie on the sauce.