Blood's a Rover Page 6

  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.”

  Crutch slapped the wheel. Crutch slapped the dashboard. Sal made with the doe eyes and never flinched.

  “Feel better, sweetheart?”

  Crutch flexed his hands. His fingers and palms stung. Sal twirled his spit curl and sighed.

  Crutch said, “Why do you think Gretchen Farr is an alias?”

  “She’s too spic-looking to be a Farr. She’s a Spanglo type if she’s anything.”

  “And she doesn’t live in L.A.?”

  “No, she just passes through, causes travail and moves on.”

  “Known associates? Do you know anyone who knows her?”

  Sal doe-eyed him. “You sound resigned, so I’ll give you a nibble. I set Gretchie up with a realtor named Arnie Moffett, who is a horrible man who used to pimp for Howard Hughes. He bought a string of Hughes’s old fuck-pad houses in the Hollywood Hills, so maybe Gretchie is staying in one of them.”

  Crutch cracked his knuckles. His head hurt. He couldn’t get situated. His thoughts jumbled and veered.

  Sal said, “I’m waiting for the day, sweetheart.”

  “What day?”

  “The day that you figure out you’re not at all tough.”

  Those caller-log names: “Al,” “Lew” and “Chuck.” They might be Gretchen fuckees. They might re-situate him. They might seed brainstorms.

  Crutch de-torqued the dexies with red devils and Old Crow. He slept and called the three guys in the a.m. He dropped Gretchen’s name. He spooked them. He set up meets at the Carolina Pines—three fuckee prospects one hour apart. He hit the Pines early and hogged a back booth. He scarfed pancakes and coffee and re-cleared his head.

  Al showed on time. He was pissed. Shitbird, I’m married. You lured me here to grill me on some illicit snatch I promoted. Crutch badgered Al. Al revealed this:

  He met Gretch at Trader Vic’s. They had some nooners at his place and her place. She had a crib in Beachwood Canyon. Don’t ask me where, I always went there half in the bag.

  Gretchie said she had resources. She mentioned import-export gigs. She hit him up for five G’s. He considered the request. He almost bounced. Something deterred him.

  She emitted this stealth vibe. He snuck a look at her purse. He saw four different passports. He declined to front her the bread.

  Passports for what countries? Jesus, I don’t know. Known associates? People she talked about? Kid, we just fucked.

  Crutch pledged silence and told Al to split. Al split. Lew showed up. He was pissed. Dickhead, I’m married. You lured me here to grill me on some illicit snatch I promoted. Crutch badgered Lew. Lew revealed this:

  He met Gretchen at Stat’s Char-Broil. They got a thing going. He drilled her at the Miramar Hotel and at some pad up by Beachwood Canyon. She tapped him for five grand. She splitsvilled. He tried to find the canyon pad. He failed. He was blotto every time he was there. He couldn’t find the goddamn place.

  Known associates? Passports? Topics of talk? Kid, you’re not getting me—we hardly yakked.

  Crutch pledged silence and told Lew to split. Lew split. Chuck showed up. He was pissed. Dipshit, I’m married. You lured me here to grill me on some illicit snatch I promoted. Crutch badgered Chuck. Chuck revealed this:

  He met Gretchie at the Westward Ho Steak House. He boned her at a house a mile east of Beachwood Canyon. It was a rental deal. Price tags were still stuck to the furniture—I should have known.

  He lent Gretchie five G’s. She absconded on him. He called that Bev’s Switchboard place and tried to find her. Old Bev was a sphinx. She rebuffed him. He got a gift in the mail the next day.

  A Polaroid pic: Chuck and Gretchie Farr fucking. Chuck got the point: desist or your frau receives this.

  Chuck desisted. Chuck knew goose egg about passports and known associates. What did you talk about? Kid, we just screwed.

  Crutch pledged silence. Chuck split. Crutch bugged his waitress for a pencil and paper. She brought them. Crutch drew and re-drew Gretchen Farr.

  The fuckees gave him slightly different descriptions. An Anglo with spic blood? Sure, maybe, maybe not. Bev heard her talk Spanish. She got calls from three consulates: Panama, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic. Latin countries. Spicfest ’68. She’s wild, she’s dark-haired, she’s pale working on dark—go, pencil, go.

  He drew Gretchie six ways. He gave her different hairstyles and made her smile and frown. He felt some wild spirit guiding him. His pencil broke. He got choked up and fucked-up when he saw where it all went.

  He drew Gretchen Farr as Dana Lund, six times over. Gretchie was Dana writ dark.

  Avco Jewelers was out at the beach. The window display featured high-line watches laid out on velvet blocks. Crutch perched under a striped awning. He was amped up. He was running on greasy pancakes and dope residue.

  He walked in. A fussbudget type stood behind the counter, messing with some pearls. He sized Crutch up. Navy blazer and gray slacks—okay, you’ll do.

  “Sir?”

  “I had a few questions, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Certainly. Is there a piece you had in mind?”

  “Piece” hit him weird. “Gretchen Farr”—he just blurted it.

  The fussbudget fussed with his pearls. “And this pertains to?”

  “It’s an inquiry.”

  “I gathered that, but you seem too young to be a police detective.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Dubious, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  Crutch got heat-prickly. “Look, someone called her answering service from your number. I’m just trying to—”

  The door chime rang. An old lady waltzed in, swaddling a Chihuahua. She vibed hot-prospect-hot-for-some-pearls.

  The fussbudget whi
spered. “Miss Farr came in two weeks or so ago, while I was out. She left a message for me to call her, which I did. We exchanged phone calls. She wanted advice on the recutting of a number of valuable emeralds she had in her possession. I asked about the provenance of the stones. She had no answer ready for me, which I found odd.”

  The old lady de-swaddled the Chihuahua. The cocksucker hit the ground yapping. The fussbudget stepped around the corner and swooned.

  Buzz dubbed the Hiltz job “the case.” Crutch dubbed it “my case” in his head. Dr. Fred had the bread to wind up Clyde’s time clock. Cherchez la femme—the Hate King had the big bone for Gretchie. Buzz called P.C. Bell and bribed a drone to trace that bootleg number. So far, no make. Buzz tapped Clyde’s cop contacts for dope on la belle Farr. So far, no make. Arnie Moffett was their one lead outstanding. Buzz called it “hot.” Crutch called it “a scorcher.”

  They stood on the roof at the Vivian and hashed it all out. It was twilight. It was hot. A late sun fuzzed the sky moss green. Buzz smoked a joint and talked a blue streak, all cars and cooze. Crutch messed with his telescope.

  He caught an extra call at Paramount—slick dance-hall girls. He caught Lonnie Ecklund working on a ’53 Merc. He saw some drunks weaving out of the Nickodell. He saw Sandy Danner sneaking a cigarette on her mom’s back porch. Lonnie/Sandy/Buzz/ Crutch—Hollywood High, ’62.

  Dana Lund was out of range. Crutch swiveled the telescope west. He caught Barb Cathcart grilling hot dogs. She wore a tie-dyed top and a peace medallion. Her freckly cleavage showed. Barb sang with a group called The Loveseekers. They lost every Battle of the Bands that they played. Barb beaver-flashed him at Le Conte Junior High, spring ’58. His world de-centralized then. Barb’s brother Bobby was a call boy. He allegedly possessed a fourteen-inch dick.

  Emeralds, fuck pads, fuck lists, fuck logs, fuckees—

  Buzz said, “You’re a bigger freak than I am.”

  Crutch said, “Let’s lean on Arnie.”

  Speedballs supplied oomph. Four dexies, two reds and firm jolts of Jim Beam. They levitated to the Miracle Mile. Crutch felt his eye sockets expand.

  Moffett Realty was a hole-in-the-wall. It was right beside Ma Gordon’s Deli, the “Home of the Hebrew Hero.” The door was open. The lights were on. A skinny guy was kicked back at the one desk. He wore a red bowling shirt with a stitched-on ARNIE.

  He was embroiled. He was staring into a swivel mirror, squeezing his blackheads. Crutch cleared his throat. Buzz cleared his throat. Arnie stayed transfixed.

  Buzz said, “Uh, sir?” Crutch shushed him. Arnie said, “Frat boys, right? You want to rent one of my dumps for a kegger and lure in some gash.”

  The room de-situated. Funny lights swirled. Crutch said, “We’re private detectives.”

  Arnie stood up. Arnie grabbed his crotch and said, “Detect this.”

  Crutch saw RED. RED room, RED room lights, RED world. He kicked Arnie in the balls. He jackknifed him. He rabbit-punched him. He threw him on the floor face-first. Arnie’s nose cracked. Blood spattered. Arnie flopped and flailed for his desk phone. Crutch pulled the cord out of the wall and threw the fucking phone across the room.

  Buzz trembled. His lips did funny things. Crutch saw the piss stain on his jeans and smelled the shit in his shorts.

  Arnie flailed. Blood pooled off his nosedive. Crutch put a foot on his neck and de-flailed him. Crutch said, “Gretchen Farr.”

  Arnie gurgled. Buzz ran for the john, making like upchuck. Crutch threw down a handkerchief. Arnie rolled on his back, covered his nose and stanched the blood flow. Crutch pulled out his short dog. Arnie made a gimme sign and tilted his head. Crutch fed him little pops. Jim Beam,100 proof.

  Arnie sucked, gasped and coughed. Arnie dredged up savoir faire. Arnie said, “You evil little shit.”

  Crutch squatted. He kept himself clear of the blood mess. He was all re-circuited while the room leaped and whirled.

  “Gretchen Farr.”

  “She’s a Commie. She’s some kind of left-wing transient with more names than half the world.”

  “Keep going.”

  “She heard I used to score snatch for Howard Hughes.”

  Crutch said, “Keep going.” Arnie made the gimme sign. Crutch fed him three pops. Arnie sucked down blood-laced bourbon and took a big breath.

  “She rented one of my pads. The Hollywood Hills, a half-ass little house. Two-week rental, in and out.”

  “Keep going.”

  “They’re skeeve pads. Fuck-film sets, keg-bust spots, short-term rentals.”

  “Keep going, Arnie. The quicker you tell me, the quicker I’m gone.”

  Blood soaked through the handkerchief. Arnie tossed it and wiped the excess spill on his pants. Buzz walked up, zipping his fly. He looked psychedelicized green.

  Crutch said, “Give, Arnie.”

  “Give what? She’s a Commie with some fucked-up agenda.”

  “Arnie …”

  “Okay, okay. She pumped me for dope on the Howard Hughes organization. She said she wanted to get next to a guy named Farlan Brown. I said I knew him. He’s this cunt man who plays Mormon to stay kosher with Hughes. When he passes through L.A., he always hits Dale’s Secret Harbor.”

  TILT: Hughes, Gretchie, emeralds and that million-dollar—

  “Dupe keys, Arnie. For the house Gretchen rented and all your other dives.”

  Arnie nodded and stood up. Crutch steadied him. Arnie weaved for a full minute. Crutch dug his legs in and steadied himself. His Red World veered and swerved.

  Buzz split to change clothes and hit Dale’s Secret Harbor. Crutch stayed swervy. He got the notion to re-brace Phil Irwin and run a driver’s license check. He stopped at a pay phone and called the DMV police line. He dropped Clyde Duber’s name and Gretchie’s approximate stats. Zero—just one eighty-two-year-old Gretchen Farr, up in Visalia. He called Dale’s Secret Harbor and paged Buzz. Buzz reported: Yeah, he asked around. He learned that Farlan Brown was a Hughes biggie. Hughes Airways was his main gig.

  It was late. Crutch drove by the lot. Phil’s 409 was gone. Crutch got re-situated. His swerve was mutating to bad nerves and yawns. He tried Canter’s Deli, Linny’s Deli and Art’s Deli—Phil always late-nite noshed with Jew lawyer Chick Weiss.

  Three stops, no Phil. He drove to Tommy Tucker’s Playroom, Washington and La Brea. Phil was a mud shark. He craved colored trim. The Playroom fronted a coon whorehouse. Phil might be there.

  Yeah, he was. There’s his car by the back door. It’s parked. It’s rocking. There’s his white ass exposed in the backseat. There’s some fat dark legs spread wide.

  It went on and on. Crutch parked and looked away. Phil and the spade chick supplied an “Oh, Baby” soundtrack. Crutch covered his ears at the crescendo. The spade chick climbed out of the car. She wore an Afro do and ran 220. She ambled back to the Playroom. Phil fell out of the car. He got up and homed in on Crutch’s GTO. Hey, I know that sled.

  Crutch got out and stretched. Phil teetered up. His Dodger sweatsuit was all disheveled.

  “Have you been tailing me?”

  “Well, looking for you.”

  “At 1:00 fucking a.m.?”

  “Come on. Guys like us don’t keep regular hours.”

  Phil lit a cigarette. It took four match swipes. He reeked of the spade chick’s perfume.

  “We’ve got a job, right? We’ve got some work, and you went looking for me.”

  Crutch shook his head. “No, it’s just a re-interview. I wanted you to run the Gretchen Farr gig by me again.”

  Phil blew a weird-shaped smoke ring. “Okay, twenty bucks.”

  “Twenty bucks?”

  “Right. I keestered Dr. Fred on the job, and I’ll spill the straight dope for twenty.”

  Crutch pulled out his roll and forked over two tens. Phil flicked his cigarette at a ’64 Olds. It smudged the nigger pink paint job.

  “Okay, so I filed a couple of ‘no lead’ reports with Dr. Fred, chiefly because I didn’t feel li
ke chasing this fly-by-night Gretchen twist all over hell-and-gone and because I got bought off the job.”

  “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?”