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

Phil flicked his cigarette at a ’64 Olds. It smudged the nigger pink paint job.
    â€œOkay, so I filed a couple of ‘no lead’ reports with Dr. Fred, chiefly because I didn’t feel like chasing this fly-by-night Gretchen twist all over hell-and-gone and because I got bought off the job.”
    â€œBy who? Who paid you?”
    â€œIt was a cash deal. Anonymous. A messenger service sent me the bread, and I ran a trace on the sender. Dig, it was the Hughes Tool Company. I thought, Jesus,
that’s
interesting, then I lost interest myself and went on that bender.”
    Hughes again. Hughes man Farlan Brown. The Red World re-swerved
.
    Phil yawned. “That whole shot of time is fuzzy for me, but I’ve got this idea that I actually
saw
Gretchen Farr, somewhere up in the Hollywood Hills. She was with this older chick with a knife scar on her right arm. I’m also seeing a ’66 Comet, maybe white … partial plate ADF2 … Fuck, what do I know? I was stinko.”
    The Hollywood DMV ran a records desk twenty-four hours. Cops could scoot by and do file checks at whim. Crutch dropped twenty clams and Clyde Duber’s name on the night clerk. The guy let him into the file room.
    He had the year and model, plus
partial
-plate stats. That meant no quickie ID. Phil was a dipso. His memory was suspect. The Comet might be non-California registered. The registration cards were stuffed in large boxes. They were marked by county of origin and filed by the registree’s name. Start at L.A. County,
F
for Farr,
go
.
    Crutch hauled boxes down and finger-walked through them. No Gretchen Farr/’66 Comet in L.A. County—let’s go on from there.
    He worked. He pulled cards all night. He went county-to-county. He started at
F
for Farr and worked backward and forward. Gretch probably employed false names. Farr could be name sixteen or name forty-two. Dope dregs drizzled out of his system. He felt like one big ache and yawn. Cobwebs stuck to his hands. Mildew clogged up his head.
    He saw dawn out the window. He got to Kern County. No
F
-for-Farr listing, let’s go to
G
and
H
. He hit a run of Hertz rent-a-cars, dispersed to offices statewide. He hit
paydirt
.
    White ’66 Comet, ADF-212. Registered out of Kern County and sent to L.A. County. Rented out of the Sunset-and-Vermont office.
    Crutch pulled the card and ran outside to a pay phone. He called the Hertz number. He ID’d himself as Sergeant Robert S. Bennett, LAPD. The Hertz geek bought it. Scotty/Crutch laid out a spiel on the ’66 Comet and Gretchen Farr—“What can you give me on that?”
    The geek shuffled papers. The geek nixed Gretchen Farr—no surprise. Scotty/Crutch said, “Who’s had the car lately and who’s got the car now?” The geek said the Comet was due back at 10:00 tonight. Two-week rental. The rentee: a woman named Celia Reyes. Local address: the Beverly Hills Hotel. Driver’s license from the Dominican Republic, the Caribbean hot spot, the Swingin’ D.R.
    Crutch parked outside the Hate Hacienda. Shrieky opera blasted from the backyard. He walked down the driveway. The gate was unlocked. Birdsnested on the dictator statues. The music blared out the bomb-shelter door.
    He walked over and popped down the steps. He made noise on purpose. Dr. Fred was at a draftsman’s desk, drawing a cartoon. Dig that crazy jigaboo with the watermelon head.
    Dr. Fred wore a Klan robe and sandals. A Luger on a gun belt bunched up his sheet. The music was earsplitting loud.
    He saw Crutch. He hit a desk switch and killed an aria mid-shriek. He quick-drew the Luger and did some gunslinger shtick.
    â€œYou’ve got brown eyes. Are you Jewish?”
    â€œYou’ve got brown eyes, too.”
    â€œYes, but I
know
I’m not Jewish.”
    Crutch rubbed his ears—the shriek reverb lingered. Dr. Fred said, “You’ve got blood on your pants.”
    â€œIt