James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (7 page)

(Los Angeles, 6/18/68)

“C
lyde tells me you like looking for women.”

Bam
—the Hate King's first words.
Bam
—at the door, no handshake or introduction.

Crutch said, “Yes, sir. That's true.”

Dr. Fred Hiltz laughed. “He said, ‘Looking
at
women,' but I won't press the point.”

The Hiltz hate hacienda—a big Spanish manse. Beverly Hills, prime footage, Jew neighbors galore. A jumbo sunken living room festooned with hate art.

Fine oils. The masters reconsidered. A van Gogh lynching. A Rembrandt gas-chamber tableaux. Matisse does Congolese atrocities. Paul Klee does Martin Luther King charbroiled.

Crutch scoped the walls. Man Ray did Bobby Kennedy dead on a slab. Picasso did Lady Bird Johnson muff-diving Anne Frank.

Fuck
—

Crutch fought off a dizzy spell. Hiltz said, “I met a cooze at Lawry's Prime Rib. Her name was Gretchen Farr. She shot me some trim and got me addicted. She stole fourteen grand from the bomb shelter in my backyard. You find her, you get me back my money.”

Devil-horned kikes by Frederick Remington. Grant Wood does LBJ drawn and quartered.

“Description? Last known address? A photograph, if you've got one.”

Hiltz fast-walked Crutch out back. The bum's rush:
Raus! Mach schnell!
They cut down long corridors. They dodged cats and cat boxes. JFK morgue pix were taped to the walls.

The yard featured a statue garden. A wetback hosed down a life-size Klan-klad Christ. Hiltz said, “I've got no pictures. Gretchen was photophobic. She's a tall, stacked cooze with a slight Latin tinge. She was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so I made her as kosher. I put Phil Irwin on her, but he went on a bender and blew me off. I tried to hire Freddy Otash, but he's not taking skip jobs these days.”

The wetback hose-spritzed Hitler and Hermann Goering. Bird shit and dirt decomposed.

“What else can you tell me about her?”

“
You're not listening
. I know
buppkes
. I lead with my
schvantz
and it cost me fourteen big ones.
Get it? I'm
hiring
you
, because
you
know how to find people, and
I
don't.”

A cat scaled Mussolini and sat poised for birds. Hiltz quick-marched Crutch over to some underground steps and shoved him down them. They hit a steel-reinforced door. Hiltz unlocked it and tapped a light switch. Fluorescent bulbs lit a twelve-by-twelve hate hive.

Hate-tract wallpaper. Hate-niggers, hate-Jews, hate-Papists, hate-Japs, hate-Chinks, hate-spics, hate-Commies, hate-the-muthafuckin' white oppressor. Hate placards stacked on the floor. Boxes full of Nazi armbands. Hate voodoo-doll pincushions: Jackie Kennedy Onassis, Pope Paul, Martin Luther Coon.

Hiltz grabbed a placard. A giant buck slave stabbed a cowering Jew merchant. The buck had a mammoth crotch bulge. The hebe had clawed feet and a rat tail. The banner read
GENOCIDE IS THE SACRED MANDATE OF ALLAH!!!!!

“The
schvartzes
eat this shit up. You wouldn't believe the market all this black-militant
tsuris
has created. I've got a whole sideline going. It's
shvoogie
prison tracts, allegedly written by these radical shines in San Quentin. You know who really writes them? This kike nigger-lover guy I play golf with.”

Crutch sneezed. The hate hive reeked of mildew and cat piss. That dizzy spell revived.

“Gretchen Farr. Tell me what you talked about. Tell me what she told you about herself. Tell me—”

“We didn't talk, we
shtupped
. We went
soixante-neuf
and did the beast with two backs. We did not waste appreciable time with discussion.”

“Sir, can you give me
anything
I can—”

Hiltz pulled the lid off a king-size clothes hamper. The inside was crammed full of C-notes. The tally had to veer toward a half mil.

“Here's the enduring mystery,
schmendrick
. She only nailed me for fourteen G's. I know, because I count my gelt every night. You want my opinion? Gretchen was subtle. The cunt ganef nailed me for what she thought I wouldn't miss.”

Crutch looked in the hamper. Hiltz grabbed a bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

“Lunch is on me. Find her, and I'll get you a threesky with Brigitte Bardot and Julie Christie. Believe me, I've got that kind of clout.”

Schvartzes, schvantz, shvoogies
, the beast with two backs. A potential threesky. A time-clock gig for Clyde Duber Associates.

Crutch drove to the lot and braced Phil Irwin. Phil was huddled up with Chick Weiss, per some divorce job. Crutch took him aside and asked the standard skip-job questions. Phil was blurry on Gretchen Farr. No shit—Phil was blurry after 10:00 a.m. daily. Yeah, Dr. Fred hired him. Yeah, he called LAPD and Sheriff's R&I and learned that the Farr snatch had no rap sheet. He chatted up the desk guy at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The desk guy refused to check his guest file. He went on a bender in T.J. then. He took a Rotary group down to catch the mule show. Dr. Fred fired him.

Crutch asked the
big
question: Is Dr. Fred a Yid? Phil said, “No, but all his ex-wives are Jewish.”

Scratch Phil. Next stop: the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Crutch drove there and got situated. He whipped his fake cop's badge on a fruit bellhop and made a sound impression. The fruit bellhop fetched the fruit desk guy. The fruit desk guy looked askance at Crutch's low-rent attire. Crutch told him he worked for Clyde Duber. The fruit desk guy dug on that. Clyde had panache and je ne sais quois. Okay, kid, let's talk.

Crutch asked the standard skip-job questions. The fruit desk guy responded. He called Gretch Farr “dicey.” She rented bungalow #21 for three weeks. He wondered where she glommed the bread. She tricked with wealthy European and Latin guests of both genders. She paid cash for her flop and extra charges every morning. Gretch supplied one check-in referral: a phone drop called “Bev's Switchboard.” It was a message pickup service for the fly-by-night crowd. Gretch was a quintessential fly-by-night chick.

That was it. The fruit desk guy sashayed off to fawn on some dowagers with poodles. Crutch hit the phone bank and called information. Bev's Switchboard: 8814 Fountain, West Hollywood.

He drove there and got situated. The address was a storefront adjoining a quick-script pharmacy. All the wheelmen copped uppers there.

He parked. He combed his hair. He pinned his bogus badge to his coat front and chewed some Clorets. He practiced winking à la Scotty Bennett. Memo: buy some tartan bow ties.

He walked in. An old girl was working a for-real switchboard. The place
was claustrophobic—twelve by fourteen tops. Crutch caught a whiff of bug spray.

The old girl noticed him. He made her belatedly. Blow-job Bev Shoftel. An L.A. legend. She dispensed snout to all the big stars back in the '30s.

She said, “The badge is a fake. I eat my Rice Krispies every morning, so I know from giveaways.”

Crutch said, “I'm a private investigator. I work for Clyde Duber.”

Bev unhooked her headset and fluffed out her hair. Dandruff flakes flew.

“I blew Clyde Duber before you were born. I blew Buzz Duber on his twelfth birthday, so don't think you're intimidating me.”

Crutch winked. His eyelid twitched and spasmed. Blow-job Bev whooped.

“The answer is no. Whatever you want, that's what you're getting.”

“Gretchen Farr. I heard she's dicey, and I need a little peek at her caller file.”

Bev said, “
Nyet
. And don't even think of asking for a header, 'cause I'm sixty-three years old and out of the biz.”

“I could help you, babe. Believe me, I've got that kind of clout.”

Bev whooped anew. “The comedy hour's over,
babe
. But you made me grin, so I'll shoot you a freebie. I overheard Gretchie speaking Spanish on the phone.”

A call hit the switchboard. Bev popped on her headseat. Crutch said, “Please.” Bev said, “Scram.”

Blow jobs. Blow-job Bev blows Buzz and Clyde. Buzz coerces blow jobs now. Scotty's blow-job thieves.

It was too much. Crutch churned with it. He couldn't situate himself.

He hit the quick-script pharmacy and scored some Dexedrine. He popped four with coffee, de-churned and re-churned. He drove to his pad and skimmed a few
Playboys
. He bopped up to the roof and eyeballed a girl sunbathing. The dexies coaxed memories. There's Dana Lund poolside, in a strapless one-piece. There's Dana playing chaperone at a prep school bash.

Dana. Gretchen Farr. Hotel assignations. Gretchen swings with men
and
women.

Crutch got that
oooooold
feeling and grabbed his
oooooold
tools.

The pharmacy was closed. Ditto Bev's Switchboard. A walkway led back to a rear parking lot. Clouds absorbed moonlight. The side door looked weak.

Crutch stuck a #4 pick in the keyhole. Two jiggles eased the main tumblers back. He pushed a #6 in. He twisted in unison. The lock button slid. The door snapped.

He let himself in and shut the door behind him. Bug-spray fumes made him sneeze. He got out his penlight and adjusted the beam to shine narrow. He saw a file cabinet up against the switchboard-outlet plugs.

Three drawers set on sliding runners. Marked: “A to G,” “H to P,” “Q to Z.” He pulled the handles. All three were locked.

He zeroed in on the “A to G” lock. He punched a #5 pick in back to the drill point. One push and
pop
—

“A to G.” Aaronson, Adams, Allworth. Some
B
's,
C
's and
D
's. Echert, Ehrlich, Falmouth. There, Gretchen Farr.

Crutch held the penlight in his teeth and grabbed the folder two-handed. It was skinny. It held one page. He quick-skimmed it. The call log went back three weeks, to late May '68.

No address notes or personal stats on Gretch Farr herself. Just incoming calls listed.

Avco Jewelers, Santa Monica—four calls total. Six calls from foreign consulates: Panama, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic. Huh?
Whazzat
?—this wild brew so far.

Three men first name–listed: “Lew,” “Al,” “Chuck.” A bunch of call-me-back calls to Gretchen—L.A.-prefix numbers all.

Du-32758/”Wouldn't give name.” Sal/No-52808.
He
knew that name and number: Clyde's actor pal.

Crutch got out his notepad and copied it all down. He got B&E sweaty. Bug-spray fumes tickled his nose. The fucking penlight hurt his teeth.

The Klondike Bar, 8th and La Brea. A Greek grail and a lavender lodestone for the limp-wristed set.

Crutch called Buzz from the outside pay phone. The sidewalk was a big K-Y cowboy cattle call. Crutch ran Du-32758 by Buzz and told him to check the reverse book. Buzz shagged the book, skimmed it and told Crutch “No sale.” Crutch told him to call P.C. Bell and request a bootleg-number trace.

The sidewalk action got too gamy. Crutch sat in his car and scoped the door. Sal's Lincoln was back in the parking lot. Sal
lived
at the Klondike. He'd walk out sooner or later, with or sans the night's quiff.

Sal Mineo. Paid informant for Clyde and Fred Otash. Two Oscar nominations and Skidsville. One trouble-prone fruit fly.

Crutch got re-situated. The dexies had him head-tripping. The Toho Theatre was just south. Hip couples were lined up for a doofus art flick.
The girls had that long, straight hair. Every little head movement sent sparks aloft.

Someone drummed on his windshield. Crutch saw Sal Mineo—all spit-curled and tight-jeaned. He popped the door. Sal got in. He wore this look of wop-fruit enchantment.

Crutch pulled around the corner and re-parked. Sal said, “You could have come inside. You didn't have to lurk all night.”

“I wasn't lurking.”

“You always lurk.”

“Shit, man. I was
waiting.
”

“You were
lurking
.”

Crutch laughed. “Okay, I was lurking.”

Sal laughed. “Clyde wants something, right? You'd be lurking outside some chick's window if you were on your own dime.”

Crutch gripped the wheel white-knuckled. Sal raised his hands—hey, no harm meant.

“Okay, I'll start over. What can I help you and Clyde out with?”

“Gretchen Farr. She took one of Clyde's clients for some money, and I know you know her.”

Sal lit a cigarette. “Sure, I know her. I know that she fucks strings of men and rabbits with their money routinely, but I don't know how you traced her to me. If you explain that to me convincingly, I'll tell you what you need to know.”

That pout, that greasy dago hair—Crutch balled his fists.

“I ran a phone check. You called her service two weeks ago.”

Sal cracked the window and de-smoked the car. Sal tucked up his knees and went doe-eyed.

“I'd say Gretchen Farr is an alias. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. I don't have a line on her whereabouts, because she never tells people where she lives. As I said, she fucks strings of men, steals or borrows coin from them and disappears. I called her service because she called my service. We didn't actually speak. I've steered her to men before, but she usually develops her own prospects. She's
veeeery
careful, our Gretch. She always makes sure that her fuckees don't truck in the same circles.”

Fuck gigs, fuck strings, fuckees—

“Photographs?”

Sal shook his head. “No. The most camera-shy girl this girl ever met.”

“The ‘fuckees.' Give me some names.”

“
No
. I am
truly
drawing a blank, and Gretch
paid me
to steer her, and I promised I wouldn't tell on her, cross-my-heart, hope-to-die.”