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

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 file 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
—
    â€œA 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.
    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.”
    â€œI wasn’t lurking.”
    â€œYou always lurk.”
    â€œShit, man. I was
waiting.
”
    â€œYou