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

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.
    â€œLunch 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 placewas 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThe answer is no. Whatever you want, that’s what you’re getting.”
    â€œGretchen 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.”
    â€œI 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