James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  “Shit, Wayne. I’m not asking you for the world, I’m just asking for—”

  “Seepage? Memphis? Come on, don’t string me out on that.”

  Dwight reached for a cigarette. The pack was empty. He threw it into the crowd.

  “The St. Louis SAC called me this morning. There’s talk coming out of the Grapevine Tavern.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It’s a shitkicker joint. One of Jimmy Ray’s brothers owns a piece. I had it bugged. A bullshit rumor was circulating there, and Jimmy bought into it. A fifty-grand bounty on King. Otash lured Ray in off the rumor and worked him behind it.”

  “Senior/racist, Junior/killer, Senior/rac—”

  “Keep going. I didn’t work that part of the job.”

  “Some rednecks found the bug. They figured out that it was FBI-issue, and now there’s talk that the hit was Bureau-adjunct.”

  Wayne prickled. “Talk’s talk, Dwight. Rumors are rumors.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a little too close to Jimmy and these crazy stories he’s telling.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means it might or might not go away, and if it doesn’t, we’ll have to do something about it.”

  “ ‘We’ or you?”

  Dwight grabbed his necktie. “Us, son. Wendell Durfee wasn’t for free.”

  The IV drip had run out. The nurse was on the couch, sleeping. Janice fell asleep watching TV.

  Wayne checked her pulse. It ran weak-normal. The p.m. news was on, with the sound low. A reporter did the standard King/Bobby number and segued to Nixon and Humphrey.

  Upcoming conventions: Miami and Chicago. Two first-ballot nods assured. Potential protests at both convention sites. The Nixon-Humphrey poll status—now a dead heat.

  Wayne watched Tricky Dick and Hearty Hubert strut and mug. He had Farlan Brown on tap. The Grapevine news torqued him. “Talk” and “Rumors” might mean witness trouble. Dwight wanted to see Wayne Senior’s mail lists. They were stashed in a bunker outside Vegas. Senior always called it his “Hate Hut.” A shitload of hate lit was stored there.

  Janice stirred and winced. Wayne rigged a fresh IV bag. Nixon and Humphrey talked blahblah. Janice opened her eyes.

  Wayne said, “Hi.”

  Janice pointed to the TV. “They’re homely men. If I’m alive, I won’t know who to vote for.”

  Wayne smiled. “You’ve always erred on the side of looks.”

  “Yes. Which explains my bad luck with men.”

  The bag started draining. The juice hit the tube. Wayne flicked the dial and regulated the flow. Janice shuddered. The juice hit her arm and fed her a slight burst of color.

  She said, “Buddy Fritsch called today.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s scared. He said there’ve been some rumors.”

  Wayne turned the TV off. “About that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And Buddy said some neighbors have been talking. They said they saw a man and woman outside the house.”

  Wayne took her hands. “We’re covered. You know who I know, and you know how these things get taken care of.”

  Janice shook her head and pulled her hands free. She got some strength up. The bed slid. Wayne clamped her arm to keep the needle in.

  “I’ll be gone soon, but I don’t want people to know that we did it.”

  “Sweetheart …”

  “We shouldn’t have done it. It was hateful and vindictive. It was wrong.”

  Wayne flicked the dial. The bag puckered and fed the tube. Janice went out in an instant.

  He took her pulse. It ran short of weak-normal.

  Farlan Brown said, “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  “These things happen, sir. He had a bum ticker and indulged bad habits.”

  “ ‘Bad habits’? A clean-living Mormon man like that?”

  Wayne smiled. “Mormons drink and fuck more than the rest of the world combined, as I’m sure you know from personal experience.”

  Brown slapped his knees. He was tall and faux-hayseed friendly. His Michael Caine glasses magnified bad eyes. His suite was done up mock-Tudor. The Hughes group had the top six floors of the D.I. The big guy reposed in the penthouse.

  Brown said, “You’re a hot sketch, sir.”

  “Just think of me as my father’s son. Give me the job, and I’ll take it from there.”

  Brown lit a cigarette. “Tell me why I should give you the job, and convince me in under one minute.”

  Wayne said, “Collusion.” Brown tapped his watch. Wayne shot his cuffs and displayed his gold Rolex. Wayne Senior taught him the trick.

  “Howard Hughes is a delusional xenophobe addicted to pharmaceutical narcotics and vitamin-laced blood transfusions. His employees refer to him as ‘Dracula.’ Mr. Hughes relies upon lucid men like you to mediate the world for him and to facilitate his dealings with the venal politicians and organized-crime figures who run the state of Nevada and, arguably, the whole country. I am Carlos Marcello’s liaison to the business community. I am a brilliant chemist who can cook up compounds that will zonk Dracula out of his fucking gourd. I will be Mr. Marcello’s bagman to Richard Nixon and hopefully to the Nixon presidential administration. Dracula is bribing Mr. Nixon to the tune of five million dollars, and I will raid my late father’s assets to match that amount. I will deliver it, along with Mr. Marcello’s fifteen million, to Mr. Nixon personally, at the GOP Convention. I am charged with overseeing the upcoming grand design of Mr. Marcello and his organized-crime cohorts, which is the building of lavish hotel-casinos in a friendly, dictator-run banana republic somewhere south of here, and I will guarantee you that Hughes Airways will have the exclusive rights to fly the suckers in. You should carefully consider me for the job, because you know who I know and what I know, and because you have the utilitarian common sense to know that I will make you look good at all junctures.”

  Brown checked his watch. “Fifty-six seconds. You had the edge with Mr. Hughes going in, and now you’ve got the edge with me.”

  “Why did I have the edge with Mr. Hughes?”

  “Because you shot some burrhead dope fiends in 1964, and Mr. Hughes thinks you’d be a good man to scare the coloreds out of his hotels.”

  Wayne said it soft. “I’m out of the hate business, sir. Please tell Mr. Hughes that I won’t be willing to do that, and please tell him that I’ll require an in-person meeting with him before you hire me.”

  Brown said it soft. “Sir, you are drastically impaired at this moment.”

  Wayne tossed four capsules in his lap and walked out of the room.

  Two hours. Three tops.

  He went back to his suite and stretched out. He pictured Dracula twirling around the rings of Saturn and moon-hopping Jupiter. Maybe he’s flying or crashing airplanes. Maybe he’s fucking Kate Hepburn on the back lot at RKO.

  The phone rang. Wayne picked up. Brown cut him off at “Hello.”

  “The job is yours. And Mr. Hughes will see you.”

  5

  (Los Angeles, 6/18/68)

  “Clyde 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 Far
r. 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 f
ile 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.