Read Online James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 by Blood's a Rover - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œOkay, I’ll start over. What can I help you and Clyde out with?”
    â€œGretchen 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’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—
    â€œPhotographs?”
    Sal shook his head. “No. The most camera-shy girl this girl ever met.”
    â€œThe ‘fuckees.’ Give me some names.”
    â€œ
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.
    â€œFeel 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?”
    â€œShe’s too spic-looking to be a Farr. She’s a Spanglo type if she’s anything.”
    â€œAnd she doesn’t
live
in L.A.?”
    â€œNo, she just passes through, causes travail and moves on.”
    â€œKnown 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.”
    â€œWhat day?”
    â€œThe 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