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

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. Hecaught 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.
    â€œGretchen