James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (10 page)

“It is. I'd be happy to look around and do what I can to protect our interests.”

Drac sipped his red drink. “It's Chicago that concerns me. Youth factions are mobilizing to create mass dissension that will discredit the Democrats. Would you be willing to help them play a few tricks?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Hubert Humphrey is dough-faced and porcine. I would guess that he has a high white-cell count. He was born to lose presidential elections and die of leukemia.”

Wayne nodded. Brown nodded. A male nurse entered the room. He placed a piping-hot pizza pie on Drac's bedside table. Brown shooed him off.

“Sir, did you read my memo? Our Italian friends are developing a hotel-casino plan for Central America or the Caribbean. Wayne will be overseeing it, and Hughes Air will have the exclusive charter rights.”

Drac sniffed the pizza. “Which countries?”

Wayne said, “Panama, Nicaragua or the Dominican Republic.”

“Good locations. Low cell-count zones all. Mr. Tedrow, will you confirm or refute a rumor I've been hearing? It's been troubling me.”

Wayne smiled. The pizza pie bubbled. Drac said, “Was your father murdered?”

Brown squirmed a little. Wayne said, “Emphatically not, sir.”

(Los Angeles, 6/20/68)

S
takeout:

The Hertz parking lot. 9:56 p.m. Brisk drop-off biz running late. The '66 Comet: due in four minutes or penalties would accrue.

Crutch sat in his GTO. He wore a tartan bow tie and a Scotty Bennett hairdo. He bought the tie and got the crew cut today. They celebrated his case and the Dr. Fred deal. They honored last night's ass-kicking.

He held his zoom-lens Rolleiflex. He had Arnie Moffett dupe-key fob. The tie clashed with his polo shirt. The haircut clashed with current trend. L.A. guys wore their hair long. Fuck that shit—he and Scotty were avant-garde.

It was hot. He ran the AC and aimed the air at his balls. He talked to Buzz an hour back. Bad news: no trace on that bootleg number yet. Memo: Don't tell Buzz or Clyde about the Dr. Fred deal. Get the Hughes pic and cut them in then.

Cars hit the lot: Buicks, Fords, Dodge Darts. People got out and schlepped their keys into the office. Countdown: 9:57, 9:58, 9:59. On time by seconds: that Comet, ADF-212.

It pulled in off Sunset eastbound. Steam whooshed out the hood slits. The radiator probably blew.

Two women got out. Crutch zoomed his lens and got them up close.

Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes—tall and Latin-tinged. It had to be her. She was white, with that spic-pizzazz Something. She wore a tan shirt and flared jeans. She was stunning and stacked-statuesque. About thirty-two. Overmatched by her companion.

Maybe ten years older. More of
all
Somethings. Smaller, with a rolling-slouchy
walk. Pale. Glasses. Near-black hair with gray streaks. Bare arms and a knife scar—Phil Irwin caught that.

They walked into the office. Crutch snapped photos. High-speed film—six frames walking in, six frames walking out.

They got into a '63 Fairlane. Crutch zoomed in
ultra-close
. Mud streaks on the license plate, no way to read numbers.
Why switch cars? They're vibing pros
.

The car pulled out on Sunset westbound. Crutch tailed it. He drove one-handed. He leapfrogged. He changed lanes and let a cab get between them. The car cut north on Berendo, west on Franklin, north on Cheremoya. Crutch hit the turn too close and double-clutched too fast. He stalled out. The Fairlane sped away, northbound.

He kicked the engine, tapped the gas too fast and flooded the carbs.
Easy now
—don't blow this. He waited a full minute. He checked out the addresses on Arnie's key fob. Gretchen Farr's ex–rental pad was one mile up the hill. Three more party pads were laced within a half-mile radius. The Gretchie pad was one of the four.

Easy now
. Re-situate. Turn the key
sloooooow
.

He did it. The engine caught. He drove up into Beachwood Canyon and window-peeped en route. He saw loads of TV glare. He saw a pot party. He saw a flower-power chick doing the wah-watusi all by herself.

Snaky roads up the canyon. First address: 2250 Gladeview. There it is—a small Craftsman-style house.

Dark. No lights, no '63 Fairlane. Hit the other party pads—
they drove up here for a reason
.

The closest pad was six blocks southwest. Crutch drove there and idled at the curb. Shit—no lights, no Fairlane. He swung down to the next pad—four blocks due south. That's it—a small stucco house. There's window light and the sled in the driveway.

He parked curbside and walked over. The front window was curtained up. Dull light filtered through. He saw shapes moving. He cut down the driveway and eyeball-tracked them toward the back of the house. The side windows were cracked for air and uncurtained. He hunkered below the sills and followed shadows.

He heard muffled words. Word stew: “Tommy,” “grapevine,” “plant.” Shadows hit the last window. The two women showed. They shared a look. They embraced and kissed.

Crutch blinked. It isn't real—yes it is. The image held and burned.

Gretchen/Celia ran her hands under the knife-scar woman's shirt. The knife-scar woman untied her hair and tossed it. Window light beamed off the gray streaks.

They stepped back toward the hallway. They became shadows again.
Crutch blinked and walked window-to-window. He ducked low. He saw shadows melded, but no flesh-and-blood
them
.

He walked back to his car and waited. He couldn't get re-situated. His breath and pulse kept re-circuiting.

They walked out a half hour later. They carried luggage to the Fairlane and placed it in the trunk. Moonlight gave him some detail. Gretchen/Celia looked dreamy. The knife-scar woman had kissed all her lipstick off.

They got in the car and drove away. It was late. There was no cover traffic. He couldn't tail them. He just sat there and watched their lights disappear.

There was nothing he could do.

They just left him.

He knew he'd never sleep. He decided to keep moving. He drove by the other party pads and saw keg bashes starting up. It was a mélange: hip kids, college kids and long hair all around. He drove back to the stucco place, picked a side-door lock and entered. He felt brazen. He turned the inside lights on.

The bedroom drew him first. The bed was warm. He touched the pillows and imagined their shapes on the sheets. He saw a single gray hair on the coverlet. He pressed his cheek to it and let it rest.

Something told him to go then. He left the house, got his car and just drove. He stayed up in the canyon. He did lazy figure eights all around the stucco pad. Time de-materialized. His beams hit a white Spanish house. The front door was wood-paneled and covered with strange markings. Something told him to get out and look.

He did it. He parked curbside and walked up. He ran his penlight over the door and studied the markings. Wild: geometric patterns etched in dark red.

Vertical lines down to the porch. A ripped-apart bird on the doormat.

You belong here. This could be yours
.

Something told him the door would be open and to turn right inside. He did it. The living room was pitch-dark and musty. Plastic sheaths covered the furniture. He followed a metal-chalky smell to the kitchen. His breath went haywire. His hands shook. His penlight jerked. He steadied the beam with two hands and saw it.

The entrails in the sink. The severed arm/the missing hand/the brown skin, pure female. The geometric tattoo on the biceps. The deep gouge through and beside it. The crumbled green stones embedded bone-deep.

DOCUMENT INSERT:
6/21/68.
Los Angeles Herald Express
headline and subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
6/24/68.
Milwaukee Sentinel
headline and subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
6/27/68.
Los Angeles Times
subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/2/68.
Hartford Courant
headline and subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/8/68.
San Francisco Chronicle
subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/12/68.
Nashville Tennessean
subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/13/68.
Des Moines Register
headline and subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/16/68.
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
headline and subhead:

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/18/68.
Las Vegas Sun
article:

He's been a Los Angeles policeman and a celebrity private eye, as well as a World War II marine drill instructor. The plucky Lebanese-American kid from small-town Massachusetts has lived more than nine lives in his 46 years, and now he's starting out Life Number Ten as the owner-operator of the Golden Cavern Hotel-Casino.

Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Fred Otash!

He bought the Golden Cavern from “Big” Pete Bondurant, quite a colorful character himself, also a former L.A. cop, private eye and soldier of fortune. “Pete B. wanted to retire,” Otash told this reporter. “I picked up the Golden Cavern for a song, and that song is ‘Vegas Is My Lady.' ”

Freddy O. has worn many hats in his lifetime. “That's true,” he said. “And I've had a few hats knocked off my head.” When asked to explain, he replied, “I was run out of the LAPD unjustifiably. I got my PI's license and verified scandal stories for
Confidential
magazine, but
Confidential
went down behind libel suits. That rumor that I doped a racehorse named Wonder Boy?—100% false. Yeah, I lost my license behind it, but when Hollywood celebs are in a jam, they still yell, “Get me Otash!,” so I'm still the man to see in L.A.”

Beverly Hills divorce lawyer Charles “Chick” Weiss confirms Freddy O.'s statement. “Freddy's the king of the L.A. private eyes, even though he lost his license and has gone into the hotel biz now. Listen, I do divorce work, and sometimes it's not pretty. Freddy's my liaison to the wheelman community, these hot-car guys who tail the cheating spouses to their extramarital rendezvous. He's a battle-trained urban warrior, just the kind of guy to make it big in a high-stress burb like Las Vegas.”

“Howard Hughes can buy up all the big joints on the Strip and Glitter Gulch,” Otash told this reporter. “I'm here to play to the junket crowd and the working Joe who wants to have fun without
losing his shirt. Don't call my place a ‘carpet joint' or a ‘low-roller joint,' either. Call me the friend of the discerning gambler on a budget who appreciates a bang for his buck.”

Los Angeles private investigator Clyde Duber offers a dissenting view of Fred Otash, which he claims is
not
the minority one. “Freddy is strictly shakedown,” he said. “His only friend is the almighty dollar, so you might say that Vegas is the perfect place for him.”

Ouch! Tell me, Fred O., what do you say to
that
?

“Clyde's just jealous,” Otash said with a grin. “He always played second banana to me, and it's always rankled him. Yeah, I'm colorful, and I've got a few rough edges. You know my motto? ‘I'll do anything short of murder, and I'll work for anyone but Communists.' How can you quibble with that?”

How indeed—and spoken like a true Las Vegan! So, once again, welcome to the Jewel of the Desert, Mr. Fred Otash!

DOCUMENT INSERT:
7/20/68. FBI telex communiqué. From: SAC Wilton J. Laird, St. Louis Office. To: Special Agent Dwight C. Holly. Marked:
“Confidential 1-A: Recipient's Eyes Only.”

SA Holly,

Per our phone conversation and your preceding memo (Confidential 1-A memorandum #8506) requesting an update on rumors pertaining to the M. L. King homicide circulating at the Grapevine Tavern, St. Louis, the following may warrant your attention: