James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (25 page)

Dwight flinched. “He seems to relish his time on the southside.”

“He does, yes. He's ‘Mr. Scotty' south of Washington Boulevard.”

“This decorously expressed hatred of his. Is he well known for it?”

“Oh yes.”

Dwight cracked his knuckles. “Scotty's the bait in your expulsion scenario. Tell me how you think we should play it.”

Marsh did a pantomime. He squinted through a viewfinder. He framed the shot. He spoke through a megaphone.

“Vince & Paul's Steak House. The bar in full swing. Officer Marshall E. Bowen hits on Sergeant Robert S. Bennett's torrid waitress girlfriend with the man himself right there.”

Dwight stuck his hand out. Marsh let it hang there. The moment built and fizzled. They both saw how dumb it looked. They laughed at the same time.

(Las Vegas, 9/14/68)

H
ow
suite
it is.

His killer pals lived in hotel suites. Freddy O. had the Cavern. The Frogman had new Fontainebleau digs. Wayne Tedrow had this spread at the Stardust. Dwight Holly crashed in suites nationwide.

Crutch waited for Wayne T.
His
suite featured four rooms and a chemistry lab. His killer pals had college degrees.
He
got expelled from high school. He snapped that pic of Gail Miller's bush and blitzed his shot at a higher education.

Crutch waited. The foyer was velvet-flocked and gilt-mirrored. Caustic fumes wafted from the next room. The Vegas paper sat on a table. Wayne made the headline, secondhand.

The LVPD hung a posthumous beef on a shine named Pappy Dawkins. Said beef: the Wayne Senior snuff. “Heart attack”—bullshit. It was a sop to appease the family.

His killer pals made headlines. His killer pals
rigged
headlines. The inside rumor:
Wayne
offed his old man.

Crutch leaned against the wall. The flocking made him sneeze. Wayne and Froggy let him live. Yeah, he bluffed them. Yeah, he built the fail-safes. But, he had to
spill
.

He'd spilled
partial
. He spilled that Dr. Fred Hiltz hired him. Go, kid—goose Farlan Brown and Count Dracula. It's a thieving girlfriend gig. They grokked that part of it and believed him. He did not spill on Gretchen Farr as Celia Reyes or on Joan Rosen Klein. He did not reveal the foreign passports or Sam G.'s calls to Gretchen/Celia or the dead woman in Horror House.

Wayne opened the door and walked past him. No nod, fuck you, you're this bug I don't see. Crutch chased his shadow. A stink announced the chem lab. It was all vats and beakers on shelves.

Crutch hovered in the doorway. Wayne pressed a beaker up to his hairline. It was a
Shit, I've got a headache
thing.

“You wanted in. Okay, you're in. If you do what Mesplede and I tell you to do, you
may
survive. If you lie to us or steal from us or double-deal us or withhold information from us, we will kill you and bluff our way out of the jeopardy that you placed us in.”

Crutch gulped. His Adam's apple popped. He stretched out his tie. Let those little 2's show.

“I've killed two men. I'm committed to the Cuban Freedom Cause.”

Wayne gave him This Look. “The ‘Cuban Freedom Cause' is right-wing bullshit. Mesplede is a deluded firebrand, I am not, and I would advise you not to become one. If indeed you did kill two men, it was out of your kid desire to suck up to Mesplede or your fear that
he
would kill
you
if you disobeyed him. Don't jerk my chain with your kid bullshit. Don't give
me
a reason to kill
you
.”

Crutch said, “Okay.” He smirked like Scotty B. He willed his voice octaves deep.

Wayne said, “You work with Mesplede. Your job is to disrupt Hubert Humphrey's campaign rallies, for three hundred dollars a week. Humphrey's travel schedule is coming, so you talk to Clyde Duber, get a left-wing front list and find some politically motivated fools to help you out. You do not indulge your extracurricular kid activities on my time card. Do you understand me?”

Powder fumes swirled. The lab felt toxic. Crutch wiped his nose. Wayne laughed at him.

“I talked to Farlan Brown this morning. He's willing to forgive you for any kid shit you might have pulled while you were working for Fred Hiltz. He told me to tell you that Gretchen Farr took him for $25,000, and you can keep half if you find her and make restitution. He told me that at one point he bribed an alcoholic chum of yours off the case with an anonymous payment, because he feared unfavorable publicity, but now that you're working for me, you might as well stick with it, on a contingency basis.”

Crutch grinned. Wayne revived This Look. Crutch
un
-grinned quick.

Wayne swallowed three aspirin. “Brown told me to forward this information to you. He said he got suspicious of Gretchen once and went through her closet. He saw an airline stewardess' uniform, with no airline designation and a name tag with the first name Janet. That's all he told me, and now I'll tell you. Do what you want with this, on your own time. Do
not neglect your duties for me, and tell Dr. Fred and Clyde Duber that you're withdrawing from this idiot ‘case' as of now.”

Crutch held off a sneeze. Wayne said, “Get out of here. Common sense keeps telling me to kill you.”

“Work F.B.'s stewardess lead.”

“Giancana bootleg #—???”

“To date: no viable police paperwork on GF. Can't ask Scotty B. about JRK's ('51 & '53) armed-robbery arrsts (no #s to indicate convictions) without alerting Clyde. Likewise, can't request JRK Fed file. Per GF/CR: check nationwide birth recs or assume foreign parentage?”

“GF/CR & victim: check local PD Intelligence, Vice & missing person files while on campaign trip.”

Crutch drew on his wall graph. His head bounced—L.A. to Vegas and back in four hours. His nose still itched. Wayne dismissed him with “Good-bye, Dipshit.”

He needed more graph paper. He needed more file boxes. He might need a
third
file pad. Wayne warned him: do not withhold information. His case was high-risk now.

Crutch scanned the graph. Words swam. Through lines and clue nuggets cohered. He studied Joan's mug shots. He pulled a floor lamp up and made her gray streaks glow.

Brainstorm
.

He got out his sketch pad. He drew a facial likeness of Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes. He added an airline stew's outfit with the Janet name tag.

The Yellow Pages—there by the phone.

Airlines. Compile a list. Canvassing duty on tap.

Something was fucked. It was Beverly Hills, it was 2:00 p.m., it vibed major grief.

A bottleneck in Fat City. BHPD black & whites peeling out, lights and sirens. Two K-cars, two meat wagons, two news vans.

Crutch followed the cop cars. They peeled up through the biz district and hit the rare-air zone. The grief vibe intensified: more K-cars, choppers, cops with leashed bloodhounds. He cut west on Elevado. Traffic was dead-stalled. He saw a big bluesuit swarm outside Hate House.

He ditched his car and ran there. He dodged stalled cars and cut across front lawns. He sprinted down the neighbor's driveway and monkey-climbed the fence. The bluesuit swarm expanded. There's the
statues and the bomb shelter and Dr. Fred. He's on a blood-soaked gur-ney. He's got shotgun pellets and scorched bone for a face.

The bluesuits saw him. He recognized some guys. Someone yelled, “Crutchfield, go to the station!”

Clyde was there. Ditto Phil Irwin. Ditto Phil and Clyde's Jew lawyer, Chick Weiss.

The Detective Bureau hall was packed. BHPD murders ran one per decade. It was a roundup. The fuzz were hauling in Dr. Fred's KAs.

Clyde said, “It's just routine. They saw my name, Phil's name and Crutch's name in Dr. Fred's appointment book.”

Chick said, “It's got to be one of his ex-wives. He was married seven times. I did all his divorces. He was the biggest alimony defaulter on the planet.”

Phil said, “Live by the sword, die by the sword. I think it's black militants. He wrote all these anti-coon tracts, so the coons waxed his hate-monger ass.”

Crutch flashed on Gretchen/Celia. Crutch flashed on Joan. Crutch flashed on the cash-stuffed clothes bin.

Clyde said, “Nix on the militants, but it plays like a shine caper. I talked to the watch commander. He thinks it's that boogie heist team that robbed those people in Brentwood.”

Chick said, “I'm a boogie art connoisseur. I dig Caribbean statuary. That doesn't mean I dig boogie 211 PC's.”

Phil said, “Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

Clyde rolled his eyes. Chick said, “As your lawyer, my advice is don't reveal shit. Dr. Fred was dirty in countless fucking ways. You don't want guilt by association.”

The intercom buzzed: “Donald Crutchfield. Captain's office, please.”

Crutch walked over. The door was ajar. He stepped inside. Dwight Holly was standing there.

“Hello, Dipshit.”

Crutch shut the door.
Confluence
, Clyde's word,
it's who you know and who you blow and how you're all linked
.

“People keep calling me that. I keep trying to show them otherwise.”

“It's the bow tie with the polo shirt. It's hard to see through to the real, dynamic you.”

Crutch leaned on the door. His chest throbbed. Bile crept up. He felt like he looked green. Dwight Holly tossed him an antacid mint. He caught it and popped it. Dwight Holly winked.

“Wayne explained the stalemate you created. I said, ‘Let's kill him anyway,'
but softer minds prevailed. If you want to look for that woman who skimmed Farlan Brown, swell. Obey orders, you live. Disobey them,
c'est la guerre
.”

Crutch shut his eyes and saw Dr. Fred faceless. Triple-aught buckshot. Big game–stopping loads. He tasted blood in his mouth. He'd bit his gums raw.

Dwight Holly said, “Mr. Hoover wants this homicide short-shrifted. Some jigs pulled a robbery and it got out of hand. Dr. Fred was a Bureau informant, a hate peddler, a dope fiend and a compulsive pussy hound. It was a high-risk lifestyle, and the world will not mourn. Are you starting to see your role in this?”

Crutch opened his eyes. “He had a bomb shelter. There was a big hamper full of—”

“The shelter was ransacked and the money is gone.
Some jigs pulled a robbery and it got out of hand
. They'll blow the money on dope, Cadillacs and mink coats for their bitches, they'll continue pulling robberies until some white cops shoot and kill them. Now, are you starting to see your—”

“Don't tell BHPD about the Gretchen Farr gig. Don't mention Dracula or Farlan Brown. Lie. Dissemble. Prevaricate. Don't bring up you, Wayne, Freddy O., Mesplede, or any other dipshit-killer friends you might have. Don't embarrass your pansy boss, Mr. Hoover.”

Dwight Holly grinned. “I thought I detected a brain there.”

Crutch swallowed some blood. Dwight Holly tossed him another mint. It fell short and hit the floor.

“May I ask you a question about your tie and your haircut?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have an unseemly crush on Sergeant Robert S. Bennett?”

Crutch said, “Fuck you.”

Dwight Holly roared.

(Las Vegas, 9/15/68)

F
iles, graphs, lists. His suite was a chem lab/paper mill.

Teamster Fund book loan defaulters. Deadbeats and stiffs. Transaction files and credit sheets. Debit-projection files and cost-analysis studies.

Wayne read files and jotted figures. He worked with a scratch pad and three different pens. His back hurt from hunkering down and his fingers hurt from writing. His eyes hurt from file reads and column-figure scans.

Let's co-opt the Steve's Kingburger chain in Akron, Ohio. Let's buy a mall site in Leawood, Kansas. Let's co-opt the Pizza Pit chain and wash casino skim through it. Let's annex three low-life clubs in South L.A.: The Scorpio Lounge, Sultan Sam's Sandbox and a dyke den named Rae's Rugburn Room. Let's grab the Peoples' Bank of South Los Angeles, for its laundry potential. Let's usurp Black Cat Cab. It's an all-cash biz, it's near the Peoples' Bank, it's close to the border and our foreign-casino sites.

Wayne put his pen down. He was wiped. He got off the dope that got him through West Vegas and the Grapevine. He got through his sobbing fits over Janice. He was getting fit again. He was getting impervious, because—

He was working
.

He was mediating and colluding. He was working for Carlos Marcello and for and against Howard Hughes. Drac's hotel spree was forestalled by Justice Department edict. Tricky Dick would put the skids to that, should he prevail at the polls. His dirty-tricks squad would lend support.

He was dispatching. Jean-Philippe Mesplede was set to scout casino-site countries. Mesplede was a mixed-bag
grande plus
. He was tireless and
competent and prone to sentimental gaffes. He let the numbnuts kid live. The kid's fail-safes were borderline sound. Borderlines were tenuous. He projected Dipshit's life span as roughly six months.

The kid was a shit magnet. So was he. So was Dwight Holly.

Dwight called him yesterday. His news: the Fred Hiltz homicide. Mr. Hoover wanted it entombed. That was good: Drac and Farlan Brown might get offshoot publicity. He told Dwight his Don Crutchfield story. Dwight said, “Should I kill him?” Wayne said, “Not yet.”

He yawned and grabbed
The File
. It ran four pages. Dwight pulled strings and shagged it for him.

LVPD–Clark County Sheriff's: Missing Person Case #38992. Reginald James Hazzard/male Negro/DOB 10/17/44.

Scant and bleak. Pro forma: missing colored kids rated zilch.

Reginald Hazzard was a high school honors grad. He took college classes, worked in a car wash, kept his snout clean. The cops interviewed a few neighbors, learned zero, case closed.