James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 by Blood's a Rover

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.
    â€œDescription? 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.
    â€œWhat else can you tell me about her?”
    â€œ
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!!!!!
    â€œThe
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.
    â€œGretchen Farr. Tell me what you talked about. Tell me what she told you about herself. Tell me—”
    â€œWe didn’t talk, we
shtupped
. We went
soixante-neuf
and did the beast with two backs. We did not waste appreciable time with discussion.”
    â€œSir, 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.
    â€œHere’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