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

Farr.”
    â€œShe’s a Commie. She’s some kind of left-wing transient with more names than half the world.”
    â€œKeep going.”
    â€œShe heard I used to score snatch for Howard Hughes.”
    Crutch said, “Keep going.” Arnie made the gimme sign. Crutch fed him three pops. Arnie sucked down blood-laced bourbon and took a big breath.
    â€œShe rented one of my pads. The Hollywood Hills, a half-ass little house. Two-week rental, in and out.”
    â€œKeep going.”
    â€œThey’re skeeve pads. Fuck-film sets, keg-bust spots, short-term rentals.”
    â€œKeep going, Arnie. The quicker you tell me, the quicker I’m gone.”
    Blood soaked through the handkerchief. Arnie tossed it and wiped the excess spill on his pants. Buzz walked up, zipping his fly. He looked psychedelicized green.
    Crutch said, “Give, Arnie.”
    â€œGive
what
? She’s a Commie with some fucked-up agenda.”
    â€œ
Arnie …
”
    â€œOkay, okay. She pumped me for dope on the Howard Hughes organization. She said she wanted to get next to a guy named Farlan Brown. I said I knew him. He’s this cunt man who plays Mormon to stay kosher with Hughes. When he passes through L.A., he always hits Dale’s Secret Harbor.”
    TILT:
Hughes, Gretchie, emeralds and that million-dollar—
    â€œDupe keys, Arnie. For the house Gretchen rented and all your other dives.”
    Arnie nodded and stood up. Crutch steadied him. Arnie weaved for a full minute. Crutch dug his legs in and steadied himself. His Red World veered and swerved.
    Buzz split to change clothes and hit Dale’s Secret Harbor. Crutch stayed swervy. He got the notion to re-brace Phil Irwin and run a driver’s license check. He stopped at a pay phone and called the DMV police line. He dropped Clyde Duber’s name and Gretchie’s approximate stats. Zero—just one eighty-two-year-old Gretchen Farr, up in Visalia. He called Dale’s Secret Harbor and paged Buzz. Buzz reported: Yeah, he asked around. He learned that Farlan Brown
was
a Hughes biggie. Hughes Airways was his main gig.
    It was late. Crutch drove by the lot. Phil’s 409 was gone. Crutch got re-situated. His swerve was mutating to bad nerves and yawns. He tried Canter’s Deli, Linny’s Deli and Art’s Deli—Phil always late-nite noshed with Jew lawyer Chick Weiss.
    Three stops, no Phil. He drove to Tommy Tucker’s Playroom, Washington and La Brea. Phil was a mud shark. He craved colored trim. The Playroom fronted a coon whorehouse. Phil might be there.
    Yeah, he was. There’s his car by the back door. It’s parked. It’s rocking. There’s his white ass exposed in the backseat. There’s some fat dark legs spread wide.
    It went on and on. Crutch parked and looked away. Phil and the spade chick supplied an “Oh, Baby” soundtrack. Crutch covered his ears at the crescendo. The spade chick climbed out of the car. She wore an Afro do and ran 220. She ambled back to the Playroom. Phil
fell
out of the car. He got up and homed in on Crutch’s GTO. Hey, I know that sled.
    Crutch got out and stretched. Phil teetered up. His Dodger sweatsuit was all disheveled.
    â€œHave you been tailing me?”
    â€œWell, looking for you.”
    â€œAt 1:00 fucking a.m.?”
    â€œCome on. Guys like us don’t keep regular hours.”
    Phil lit a cigarette. It took four match swipes. He reeked of the spade chick’s perfume.
    â€œWe’ve got a job, right? We’ve got some work, and you went looking for me.”
    Crutch shook his head. “No, it’s just a re-interview. I wanted you to run the Gretchen Farr gig by me again.”
    Phil blew a weird-shaped smoke ring. “Okay, twenty bucks.”
    â€œ
Twenty bucks
?”
    â€œRight. I keestered Dr. Fred on the job, and I’ll spill the straight dope for twenty.”
    Crutch pulled out his roll and forked over two tens.