James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (9 page)

“By who? Who paid you?”

“It was a cash deal. Anonymous. A messenger service sent me the bread, and I ran a trace on the sender. Dig, it was the Hughes Tool Company. I thought, Jesus,
that's
interesting, then I lost interest myself and went on that bender.”

Hughes again. Hughes man Farlan Brown. The Red World re-swerved
.

Phil yawned. “That whole shot of time is fuzzy for me, but I've got this idea that I actually
saw
Gretchen Farr, somewhere up in the Hollywood Hills. She was with this older chick with a knife scar on her right arm. I'm also seeing a '66 Comet, maybe white … partial plate ADF2 … Fuck, what do I know? I was stinko.”

The Hollywood DMV ran a records desk twenty-four hours. Cops could scoot by and do file checks at whim. Crutch dropped twenty clams and Clyde Duber's name on the night clerk. The guy let him into the file room.

He had the year and model, plus
partial
-plate stats. That meant no quickie ID. Phil was a dipso. His memory was suspect. The Comet might be non-California registered. The registration cards were stuffed in large boxes. They were marked by county of origin and filed by the registree's name. Start at L.A. County,
F
for Farr,
go
.

Crutch hauled boxes down and finger-walked through them. No Gretchen Farr/'66 Comet in L.A. County—let's go on from there.

He worked. He pulled cards all night. He went county-to-county. He started at
F
for Farr and worked backward and forward. Gretch probably employed false names. Farr could be name sixteen or name forty-two. Dope dregs drizzled out of his system. He felt like one big ache and yawn. Cobwebs stuck to his hands. Mildew clogged up his head.

He saw dawn out the window. He got to Kern County. No
F
-for-Farr listing, let's go to
G
and
H
. He hit a run of Hertz rent-a-cars, dispersed to offices statewide. He hit
paydirt
.

White '66 Comet, ADF-212. Registered out of Kern County and sent to L.A. County. Rented out of the Sunset-and-Vermont office.

Crutch pulled the card and ran outside to a pay phone. He called the Hertz number. He ID'd himself as Sergeant Robert S. Bennett, LAPD. The Hertz geek bought it. Scotty/Crutch laid out a spiel on the '66 Comet and Gretchen Farr—“What can you give me on that?”

The geek shuffled papers. The geek nixed Gretchen Farr—no surprise. Scotty/Crutch said, “Who's had the car lately and who's got the car now?” The geek said the Comet was due back at 10:00 tonight. Two-week rental. The rentee: a woman named Celia Reyes. Local address: the Beverly Hills Hotel. Driver's license from the Dominican Republic, the Caribbean hot spot, the Swingin' D.R.

Crutch parked outside the Hate Hacienda. Shrieky opera blasted from the backyard. He walked down the driveway. The gate was unlocked. Birds
nested on the dictator statues. The music blared out the bomb-shelter door.

He walked over and popped down the steps. He made noise on purpose. Dr. Fred was at a draftsman's desk, drawing a cartoon. Dig that crazy jigaboo with the watermelon head.

Dr. Fred wore a Klan robe and sandals. A Luger on a gun belt bunched up his sheet. The music was earsplitting loud.

He saw Crutch. He hit a desk switch and killed an aria mid-shriek. He quick-drew the Luger and did some gunslinger shtick.

“You've got brown eyes. Are you Jewish?”

“You've got brown eyes, too.”

“Yes, but I
know
I'm not Jewish.”

Crutch rubbed his ears—the shriek reverb lingered. Dr. Fred said, “You've got blood on your pants.”

“It was on your time card, sir.”

“You're dying to tell me something. You want my opinion? I think you smell money.”

The
shelter
smelled: must, mildew, money for sure.

“Gretchen, Arnie Moffett and Farlan Brown. Tell me what you haven't told me.”

“Why should I do that,
schmendrick
? You know what
schmendrick
means? It's a synonym for
schlemiel.
”

“I'm trying to help you, sir. I'm just—”

“—a kid adventurer who fell into some shit with Clyde Duber. And now you've fallen into some shit with me. Clyde's paying you six dollars an hour, but I'm going to split a full million with you.”

A squirrel sat on the steps. Dr. Fred aimed the Luger and plugged it. The shot sonic-boomed the shelter. The squirrel vaporized. Dr. Fred snagged the ejected shell in mid-twirl.

“I knew Gretchen was working me, but I didn't think she'd steal from me. A snatch is a snatch, but a ganef's a ganef.”

Crutch rubbed his ears. “There's more to it than that.”

“Why do you say that? You're a
schmendrick
. You're Phil Irwin minus the snootful of juice.”

“Don't shit a shitter, sir. I'm putting some names together, and they're all going one place.”

Dr. Fred said, “Dracula.” Crutch went
huh
? Sonic-boom remnants banged his eardrums.

Dr. Fred re-holstered. “So, I got suspicious of Gretchie. So, I rifled her purse and found Arnie Moffett's number. So, I called Arnie. So, Arnie was pliable. So, I paid him for the scoop on Gretchie. So, he told me that
Gretchie was trying to get next to a Howard Hughes
macher
named Farlan Brown.”

Crutch said, “So?” A last boom-warble faded.

“So,
I
wanted to get next to Hughes. We've got the same racial sensibility, and I've got a purification plan he can bankroll. I had a rival named Wayne Tedrow Senior. Between the two of us, we had the hate-tract biz dicked. He just died, and his numbnuts kid Wayne Junior may be Dracula's new point man. I want to get my hands on Senior's hate-mail stash and get next to Dracula, and I'm thinking this Mormon hump Farlan Brown is the key. I'm too controversial to make the approach, but a kid loser like you could breeze in innocuous.
Life
magazine is offering a million bucks for a snapshot of Hughes, and a kid opportunist like you could get close.”

Tilt, swerve, veer and blood on his pants—Crutch said, “Yessir.”

(Las Vegas, 6/20/68)

A
nother hotel suite. Another bum room-service meal.

Mr. Hoover told him to stay perched in Vegas. The Wayne Senior snuff vexed him. He wanted Wayne Junior mollified and assessed. Thus the bullshit layover. Thus the time at LVPD. Thus the limp salad and gristly steak.

Dwight pushed his plate away. Food taxed him. It slowed him down and sapped the jolt he got off nicotine and coffee. The Chicago guys owned the Stardust. The FBI was allegedly anti-mob. They kept a vouchered suite there anyway. Mr. Hoover had no beef with organized crime. That was strictly Bobby K.'s bête noire and downfall. Mr. Hoover hated Commies, jigs and lefty gadflies. Mr. Hoover probably
loved
limp salads and gristly steaks.

The fucking Stardust. Four thousand slot machines and velvet-flocked suites. The Chicago guys were hot to dump the joint on Howard Hughes. Count Dracula was hot to buy it. The guys would skim the Count blind.

And Wayne Tedrow
Junior
is facilitating it. Wayne's fucking his dying stepmom. They killed Wayne
Senior
. Dwight and Senior went
waaaaay
back. Dwight grooved Junior as a
wiiiiild
piece of work. Now he's out to get Junior a skate on Murder One.

Cluster fuck.

It was 114° outside. The wall vents spritzed ice. Dwight got that hotel-captive feeling and paced the suite.

Shit kept crisscrossing. Buddy Fritsch was
too
nervous. The Vegas SAC said Junior-killed-Senior rumors were fouling the desert air. Mr. Hoover was losing it. Mr. Hoover still
had
it to some degree. Sirhan Sirhan was
foaming at the mouth in L.A. Jimmy Ray was foaming and fighting extradition. The Grapevine Tavern issue was percolating. He saw an ATF teletype this morning. Mr. Hoover telexed it in a tizzy. ATF might put the Grapevine under surveillance. Cracker habitués were moving dope and guns. Interagency grief. The Grapevine bug backfired and inspired conspiracy talk. Most conspiracy talk was dismissible. This might not be. It might require interdiction. Interdiction would
not
work with ATF hovering.

Proximity. Jimmy Ray's loose talk. Loose talk at the Grapevine.
Valid
loose talk—Jimmy Ray's brother owned a piece of the place.

Cluster fuck.

His nerves were frayed. His sleep was thin. Memphis spiked through at 3:00 a.m. nightly. Car noise sounded like gunshots. Little bed aches felt like someone hitting him.

Dwight walked to the bedroom window. Hotel suites made him miss Karen. Hotel suites got him torqued for real bedrooms. He'd black-bagged Karen's house a half dozen times. He wanted to stand still there with her absent. He wanted instinctive evidence that she had no other lovers. He found the quiet he was looking for and got his evidence confirmed. She tapped his D.C. suite once. He found some entry signs, rolled for prints and got two Karen Sifakis latents. She saw his anonymous check-writing kit. She read through his journal. He wrote “I fucking love her” just two days before.

They've told each other “I've prowled you” obliquely. He's read her journal. She probably hides the pages she doesn't want him to see. She's pestered him about the checks. He might tell her one day.

Dwight poured his one drink a night early. Twilight came and went. The dark sky pulsed and clashed with all the Vegas neon.

January '57. Icy roads on the Merritt Parkway. He was working the New York City office. He was driving a Bureau car, blitzed. He was en route to a Cape Cod weekend with his girlfriend. He plowed a divider and hit an oncoming car. He killed the two teenaged daughters of Mr. and Mrs. George Diskant.

He suffered minor injuries. Mr. Hoover chilled all inquiries with the Connecticut State Police. He checked into a sanitarium near New Caanan. He segued from sobbing fits to long stints of silence. He stayed at Silver Hill for one month and four days. He got his nerves back and returned to work. He stayed away from women until Karen.

Dwight sipped his one drink slowly. The sky show started chafing him. He got out his black-militant file and read through it.

The second read confirmed the first. The Panthers and US—too known and too infiltrated. The Black Tribe Alliance and Mau-Mau Liberation Front—obscure, with big exposure potential.

Karen could find him an informant. He or she could be white or Negro. He or she could rat out both groups politically. The infiltrator had to be a male Negro. He could rat out all criminal actions justified politically.

Maybe a cop. Maybe an ex-cop. Maybe a cop or ex-cop with a dicey past. Again, that notion: check hate-mail subscriber lists.

Wayne Junior had access to Wayne Senior's lists. Wayne Junior said he was out of the hate biz. Dr. Fred Hiltz was a Bureau informant. He was tight with that L.A. private eye Clyde Duber. Clyde was tight with the L.A. SAC.

A doorbell rang down the hallway. Dwight jumped out of his skin.

(Las Vegas, 6/20/68)

T
he Count chased pills with a red drink concoction. It looked like fruit juice and blood. He wore surgical scrubs and Kleenex-box shoes. His hair was long. His nails were claws. He wore a wool watch cap and a card dealer's shade.

Wayne made eye contact. It was rough. Farlan Brown made eye contact. He had more practice. He emceed the interview.

The Desert Inn penthouse. Chez Dracula. A hospital room with big wall-to-wall TV sets. Three screens of news chat. Martyred legends. Accused assassins. Nixon versus Humphrey and flashed-on poll stats.

The sound murmured low. Wayne tuned it out. His chair abutted Drac's bed. He smelled industrial-strength disinfectant.

Brown said, “Mr. Tedrow knows you have questions.”

Drac slipped on a surgical mask. His voice eked through.

“Sir, do you believe that a lone gunman shot President John F. Kennedy?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Do you believe that a lone gunman shot Senator Robert F. Kennedy?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Do you believe that a lone gunman shot the Reverend Martin Luther King?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

Dracula sighed. “He's a realist, Farlan. He's a stout Mormon, and he's not prone to whimsy.”

Brown folded his hands prayerlike. “You picked wisely, sir. Wayne has all the right skills and knows all the right people.”

Drac coughed. His mask puffed. Phlegm dripped down his chin.

“You know our Italian friends. Is that true?”

“It is, sir. I know Mr. Marcello and Mr. Giancana quite well.”

“They've sold me some wonderful hotel-casinos, and I intend to purchase several more.”

“They'll be happy to sell them to you, sir. They welcome your presence in Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas is a breeding ground for Negro bacteria. Negroes have high white-cell counts. You should never shake hands with them. They emit pus particles through their fingertips.”

Wayne deadpanned it. Seconds crawled. Brown smiled and stepped in.

“Wayne is matching your contribution to Mr. Nixon, sir.”

Drac nodded. “Slippery Dick. I lent his brother some money in '56. It came back and bit Dick on the ass. It might have thrown the election to Jack Kennedy.”

Wayne said, “I'll deliver the envelope at the convention. Mr. Marcello wants to be sure he has the nomination cinched.”

Brown smiled. “I'm a delegate. Miami in August, my Lord.”

Drac said, “The Negroes will riot and will require mass sedation. Animal tranquilizer might be the ticket. Mr. Tedrow could oversee the manufacture of the formula and test the dosage out on some Negro derelicts already in custody.”

Wayne deadpanned it. Seconds slogged. Brown smiled and stepped in.

“Wayne has said that he'll monitor the convention for us. That's affirmative, isn't it, Wayne?”