At 7:45 A.M., I was stationed across the street from Kup-ferman’s house. At eight-thirty Jane Baker walked out the front door, carrying her cello in a black leather case to her car and driving off down Elevado. I was close behind. She led me to the large park across the street from the Beverly Hills Hotel, where she parked and lugged her cello to a bench and set it up on its collapsible pod. I parked down the street. As I approached she was assembling her sheet music on its stand, and the first movement main theme of the Dvôrák “Concerto” followed. I stepped into Jane Baker’s life: “That concerto was Dvôrák’s best shot,” I said. “Nothing else he did came close to it. Have you been playing long?”
Jane Baker gave me a long, slow look and a slow smile, tinged with the slightest bit of resentment. “I’ve been playing for ten years,” she said.
I sat down on a bench facing her and she resumed her playing. I was uncertain as to whether to continue with small talk or drop my bomb. She took the decision out of my hands: “You were right about Dvoak,” she said. “The cello concerto is his masterpiece. I wish I were equal to it.”
“Maybe you will be someday.”
“Maybe. You never know.”
“Am I distracting you from your practice?”
“Not really, yet. Are you a musician? You don’t look like one.”
“I’m not. But I love great music more than anything in the world. I think it’s the closest we’ll ever get to pure truth.”
Jane Baker was measuring my words with a hard-edged light in her eyes. “I agree, more or less,” she said, “but I think maybe you are distracting me. This whole thing has the air of being rehearsed, on your part. I’m not afraid of you, but you’re trying to manipulate me, and I don’t like being manipulated through my music.”
“Shall I cut the rebop, and get to the point?”
“Please do. I’ll give you five minutes, then I have to practice.”
“Fair enough. My name is Brown. I’m a private investigator. Your name is Jane Baker, cellist and nonconjugal roommate of Sol Kupferman, late of the fur business. Earlier this week I was hired to investigate you and Kupferman. I did. I didn’t discover anything damaging or incriminating. About you two, that is. However, in the course of my investigation, I gathered a great deal of evidence that indicates that your brother Frederick, AKA Fat Dog, is a psychotic arsonist and is determined to wrest you away from Sol Kupferman, even if it means killing him. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hurt you—you’re his obsessive love object—but yesterday he burned Kupferman’s warehouse to the ground. Tomorrow he might torch Kupferman’s house and you may end up reduced to a pile of French-fried guacamole in the process. I don’t want that to happen. I want to find your brother and get him put away before he hurts anyone else. You can help me by getting Kupferman to talk to me, and by telling me everything you can about your brother.”
During the course of my monologue Jane Baker had gone white. She put her cello and bow on the bench beside her and wrenched her hands. There was a vein in her forehead pulsing with tension. I stared at the ground to make it easier for her to regain her composure. When I looked up she was staring at me. “Freddy,” she said, her voice quavering, “Jesus Christ. I always knew he was sick. But this. Oh, God! Can you prove what you’ve told me?”
“No.”
“But you’re certain?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
“How did you find all this out?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You said someone hired you to investigate Sol and me. Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that, either. I’m sorry.”
“Why can’t you?! You make all kinds of accusations against my brother, say that my best friend and I are in danger, and you won’t tell me a goddamn thing!”
I resisted the impulse to move to her bench and put my arm around her. “Do you believe what I’ve told you, Miss Baker?”
“Yes. Somehow I do.”
“Good. Will you help me then?”
She hesitated a moment. “I think so. How?”
“Tell me about your brother.”
“What about him?”
“A moment ago you said you always knew he was sick. You could start by elaborating on that.”
Jane Baker was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke her voice was steady. “Freddy and I were orphans. Our parents died when we were children. An auto wreck. I was four, which would have made Freddy twelve. There were no relatives to take us in, so we were shuffled around to various foster homes, always together. I was too young to really remember my parents, but Freddy remembered them and was convinced they had been killed by some sort of monster. He had terrible nightmares about this monster. We used to share the same bedroom in most of the foster homes, and Freddy was always waking up screaming about the monster. Once I asked him what it looked like, and he showed me a giant octopus in a horror comic book. Another time he showed me a photograph of a wolf and said it looked like that.
“He was a frightened and hateful boy, from the beginning. A sadist. We lived together for six years, until Freddy turned eighteen. I saw him torture animals many times, and it frightened me, but I shrugged it off. Burning ants with a magnifying glass, things like that. He was a very sullen boy and very fat, with terrible oily skin and acne. None of the foster parents we had could get close to him. His ugliness and meanness alienated the nicest of them, until they wanted to get rid of him. The childcare people wanted to keep us together, so I had to go where Freddy did. When he turned eighteen, he went off and lived by himself. He got worse. He used to come and visit me and tell me ugly stories about killing dogs and cats. Once he told me he shoved a whole litter of live kittens down a garbage disposal. It was true, too; I found out later from someone who saw it.
“When I was about fifteen, I went through a wild period and ended up in a Catholic orphanage. As I got older, Freddy started acting strange, sexually. Asking me all sorts of intimate questions. He was caddying at Hillcrest then and he would pester me to come out and look around, telling me how beautiful it was. So I did. Freddy was right. It was beautiful, especially after St. Vibia-na’s. So I started hanging out there. Hiding out with a book in the trees while the people played golf and taking long walks around the course at sunset. I was kind of a crazy, lonely, searching young girl and I felt at peace there. I hated to have to go back to the orphanage. I loved the golf course and the dreams I dreamed there too much.
“So I ran away. Freddy got me a sleazy room in Culver City and I spent all my spare time at Hillcrest, working in the caddy shack and roaming the course. There I met Sol, who is the kindest, most decent and compassionate person I’ve ever met. Genuinely altruistic. He took an interest in me. I had recently become interested in music—I would take my little portable radio with me out on the course for long concerts at night. I told Sol that I was an orphan, that I lived in a crummy room and picked up a few dollars cooking and cleaning out the caddy shack. I told him I wanted to learn to play the cello more than anything in the world. I remember his exact reply when I told him that. He said, ‘So be it.’ So I went to live with Sol. He had a big house and no family. I had my own room, my own tutor to help me with my education, and the best cello lessons money could buy. That was eleven years ago. I’m still there. Sol has never asked anything of me except that I seek beauty. This cello is a Stradivarius and almost priceless. Sol bought it for me. In no way am I equal to it, but Sol thinks I will be someday. That’s an example of how unqualified his love and respect for me is.
“But Freddy has hated Sol from the beginning, and it compounded the sickness that was already festering in him. While I was living in that crummy room in Culver City he used to come over and expose himself to me. Erect. It was sickening. I was frightened, but afraid to tell anyone for fear I’d get sent back to the orphanage. He was obsessed with me sexually then and I’m sure he still is. He writes me letters about how I’m his family and we should live together in Mexico and raise greyhounds, and about how Sol
is an Israeli-Communist agent. I always read the letters out of hope that he’s changed, somehow developed some degree of humanity; but there’s no change, just hate and ugliness. I haven’t seen my brother in four or five years. I want nothing to do with him, now or ever. And now you tell me he’s an arsonist and he wants to kill Sol! Oh God, oh Christ.”
I moved to Jane’s bench and placed an arm around her shoulder. She didn’t resist, just stared at the ground, her body clenched against an onslaught of tears. “Look,” I said gently, “I understand. You’ve got a good life going for you, then this crazy non sequitur comes along. I’m a stranger, but I’m all right, really. You can check me out. I was a police officer for six years. I got involved in this thing against my will, but now that I’m involved I’m going to see it through. But I need your help. Will you help me?” I relinquished my arm from her shoulders.
Jane looked up at me and smiled, then fumbled in her purse for cigarettes and matches. Her hands were shaking, so I lit her cigarette for her. She inhaled deeply and her whole body seemed to crash in acceptance as she exhaled. “I take it that smile implied consent,” I said. “Right?”
Jane stared at the ground and blew out another lungful of smoke. “Right,” she replied.
“Good.”
“Oh God, this is so fucking crazy! Look, I know you told me, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Fritz Brown.”
“Look, Mr. Brown—”
“Call me Fritz.”
“Okay. Look, Fritz, I haven’t seen my brother in five years or so. Apparently this hatred for Sol that he’s been harboring all these years has come to a head. Why now, I don’t know—you can’t expect a crazy man to act logically. The police were over at the house last night, talking to Sol. They told him the cause of the fire was arson. They asked him if he had any enemies, in business or otherwise. Sol said he didn’t know of any. Sol told me the police always suspect the owner of the business when the place of business burns down. You know, setting fire to the place for the insurance money, which is ridiculous in Sol’s case, because business was booming. But if you need help on this case and if you have circumstantial evidence pointing to Freddy, why don’t you just go to the police and tell them? Get them to handle it.”
“It won’t work. All my evidence is related to another case that was solved incorrectly over a decade ago. My evidence would be disregarded because it makes too many police agencies look bad. I know the cop mentality. If I persisted in trying to convince them, I might jeopardize my license and I can’t afford that. The only way to end this thing is for me to find your brother, arrest him, and secure a confession.”
“I believe you. I hate bureaucrats, for good reason.” Jane paused reflectively. “You said that you’ve investigated Sol. Then you probably know that a long, long time ago he was involved in the crime world. Big fucking deal. He told me about it. He never hurt anyone, but the cops and the district attorney hounded him, brought him up before the grand jury for nothing. Pure harassment. He almost got kicked out of Hillcrest because of it. So how can I help you?”
“First, some questions. Have there been any strange occurrences lately around your house? Strange phone calls? Someone calling, then hanging up when you answer? Any prowlers?”
“Nothing like that, but there has been something evil going on in the neighborhood, though I never connected it with Freddy. About a month ago there was a rash of animal poisonings. Someone was tossing poisoned hamburger into back yards. Four or five dogs and cats ate it and died. Our gardener’s dog ate some and got very sick, but lived. We called the police but nothing came of it. Do you think it could have been Freddy?”
“Maybe. Did your brother ever mention specifically where in Mexico he wanted to settle down?”
“Yes. Somewhere near Tijuana or Ensenada. Baja California. Not the real Mexico.”
“Did he ever mention a rich and powerful man that he was going to team up with? Maybe work for?”
“Yes. In his letters he was always mentioning a rich man who shared his anti-Semitic views. He was going to be this man’s partner. I put if off as pure fantasy.”
“Have you saved any of these letters?”
“I might be able to dig a few of them out of my wastebasket, if it hasn’t been emptied.”
“Will you try to find them for me?”
Jane put out her cigarette on the ground. “Yes,” she said.
“Good. I have to see Kupferman as soon as possible. Will you arrange a meeting?”
Jane was already shaking her head “no” vehemently. “That’s impossible, absolutely impossible, I can’t have him worried about what you’ve told me, at least not yet. The loss of the warehouse has worried him terribly. He’s not a young man, and he had a heart attack once. I’m afraid all of this will only …”
“It’s for his own safety. I just want to see if he can tie a few things together for me.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t allow it. Please back off on this for now. Sol has a bodyguard with him now, keeping watch on him and the house. I’m sure we’ll both be safe.”
It was a big setback, but I decided not to press the issue. I changed the subject slightly. “Has the fire hurt Sol financially?”
“Not terribly. His insurance covered everything. He’s still a very wealthy man. He has lots of other holdings, stocks and real estate. But the fire has hurt him emotionally. He loved his business and his customers and the people who worked for him. It will take a year to get it set up again. Sol is such a conscientious man. He cares so deeply. What a mess!”
We were silent for a few moments. Jane fingered the rich wood of her cello. “How do you feel, Jane?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I believe what you’ve told me, but another part of me is standing outside of it all, saying it can’t be happening. Do you think Freddy is in Los Angeles?”
“No, I think he’s run to Mexico. I’m going down there in a day or so to bring him back.”
“Be careful.”
“I will be. Look, what are your plans for the next few days?”
“I don’t know. Practice, of course. Keep an eye on Sol, see that he doesn’t fret too much about the insurance negotiations. I know he’ll be spending lots of time with the claims people. Why?”
“I don’t know, I was just thinking aloud. Would you like to go to the Hollywood Bowl tonight? I’ve got a box of four seats, practically right on stage. It might help keep your mind off this. It’s the Brahms First Symphony and Violin Concerto with Perlman. What do you think?”
“Are you asking me for a date?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
I fished the photostat of my P.I.’s license out of my billfold and handed it to Jane. “See,” I said, “the State Department of Vocational Standards says I’m a good guy, and if you want to check me out for a reference you can call Lieutenant Arthur Holland of the L.A.P.D. at the Wilshire Station. He’ll tell you I’m a sterling character. What do you say?”
Jane Baker sighed and smiled. “All right, Fritz. You’ve convinced me.”
“Great. We can get dinner, too. I know a great place. Shall I pick you up at seven?”
“That sounds fine.”
“In the meantime, please be careful and try not to worry okay?”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Try to find those letters for me, will you? They might be important. I have to go now, I have errands to run. I know it sounds stupid, but everything is going to be all right. You can trust me.” Jane looked at me, unsmiling. I stuck my hand out to her and we shook gently. “Tonight at seven,” I said as I got up to leave.
Jane smiled. “I take it you already know the address,” she said.
“Of course. I’m a big-time detective.”
When I got home I did some telephoning: I called the starters’ desks at Bel-Air, Wilshire, Brentwood, Los Angeles, and Lakeside Country Clubs and inquired after Fat Dog Baker. I told the caddy masters that I was an insu
rance adjuster who had a juicy check for Fat Dog from a rich old man he had caddied for years ago. The old man had croaked and left Fat Dog a bundle for improving his putting stroke. Amazingly, they all believed me. Not amazingly, none of them had seen Fat Dog recently. That was good. I had my heart set on pursuit south of the border.
After my sojourn on the telephone, I ran my errands. At an electronics store in Hollywood I bought a high quality reel-to-reel tape recorder, a supply of blank tape, and a state-of-the-art condenser microphone. From Hollywood I drove to the Pico and Robertson area and leaned on Larry Willis. Larry Willis is a small-time black shoplifter, dope dealer, pimp, and food stamp recipient. He used to hang out at the Gold Cup on the Boulevard in the early ’70s when I was working Hollywood Vice and I rousted him regularly. Once he called me a pig and I kicked his ass soundly. He fears me, for good reason, and thinks I still carry a badge. Fearing the worst when I came in his front door unannounced, he was only too happy to furnish me with what I needed: a dozen one-and-a-half-grain Seconal capsules.
My last stop was at a gun shop on La Brea, where I purchased a Browning 12-gauge pump shotgun and a box of shells. I had everything I needed for Mexico.
On the way to pick up Jane I reviewed the women in my life. There weren’t many. There was Susan, a hard line San Francisco leftist eight years my senior, who I shacked up with when I was twenty-three. We met when I ticketed her for an illegal left-hand turn on Melrose and Wilton. I ran a warrant check on her and she came up dirty: a slew of unpaid traffic citations. But I couldn’t bring myself to arrest her. She was too handsome and intelligent-looking. So I cited her and showed up at her apartment two days later with a bottle of Scotch, flowers, and a smile. She ditched the flowers in the toilet bowl and we killed the Scotch and became lovers. She could drink me under the table.
Our relationship lasted a hectic eight months. I met a lot of interesting people—old time San Francisco unionists, superannuated beatniks, and dopers of all stripes. I was Susan’s live-in curio: an outsized, crewcut cop who got drunk all the time and listened to Beethoven. Gradually, our cultural differences came to the fore and it was no go. Susan’s idea of a lover’s endearment was to call me her “sociopath with a gun.”