Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  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. Birds nested 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.

  “You’ve got brown eyes. Are you Jewish?”

  “You’ve got brown eyes, too.”

  “Yes, 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.”

  “It was on your time card, sir.”

  “You’re dying to tell me something. You want my opinion? I think you smell money.”

  The shelter smelled: must, mildew, money for sure.

  “Gretchen, Arnie Moffett and Farlan Brown. Tell me what you haven’t told me.”

  “Why should I do that, schmendrick? You know what schmendrick means? It’s a synonym for schlemiel.”

  “I’m trying to help you, sir. I’m just—”

  “—a kid adventurer who fell into some shit with Clyde Duber. And now you’ve fallen into some shit with me. Clyde’s paying you six dollars an hour, but I’m going to split a full million with you.”

  A squirrel sat on the steps. Dr. Fred aimed the Luger and plugged it. The shot sonic-boomed the shelter. The squirrel vaporized. Dr. Fred snagged the ejected shell in mid-twirl.

  “I knew Gretchen was working me, but I didn’t think she’d steal from me. A snatch is a snatch, but a ganef’s a ganef.”

  Crutch rubbed his ears. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Why do you say that? You’re a schmendrick. You’re Phil Irwin minus the snootful of juice.”

  “Don’t shit a shitter, sir. I’m putting some names together, and they’re all going one place.”

  Dr. Fred said, “Dracula.” Crutch went huh? Sonic-boom remnants banged his eardrums.

  Dr. Fred re-holstered. “So, I got suspicious of Gretchie. So, I rifled her purse and found Arnie Moffett’s number. So, I called Arnie. So, Arnie was pliable. So, I paid him for the scoop on Gretchie. So, he told me that Gretchie was trying to get next to a Howard Hughes macher named Farlan Brown.”

  Crutch said, “So?” A last boom-warble faded.

  “So, I wanted to get next to Hughes. We’ve got the same racial sensibility, and I’ve got a purification plan he can bankroll. I had a rival named Wayne Tedrow Senior. Between the two of us, we had the hate-tract biz dicked. He just died, and his numbnuts kid Wayne Junior may be Dracula’s new point man. I want to get my hands on Senior’s hate-mail stash and get next to Dracula, and I’m thinking this Mormon hump Farlan Brown is the key. I’m too controversial to make the approach, but a kid loser like you could breeze in innocuous. Life magazine is offering a million bucks for a snapshot of Hughes, and a kid opportunist like you could get close.”

  Tilt, swerve, veer and blood on his pants—Crutch said, “Yessir.”

  6

  (Las Vegas, 6/20/68)

  Another hotel suite. Another bum room-service meal.

  Mr. Hoover told him to stay perched in Vegas. The Wayne Senior snuff vexed him. He wanted Wayne Junior mollified and assessed. Thus the bullshit layover. Thus the time at LVPD. Thus the limp salad and gristly steak.

  Dwight pushed his plate away. Food taxed him. It slowed him down and sapped the jolt he got off nicotine and coffee. The Chicago guys owned the Stardust. The FBI was allegedly anti-mob. They kept a vouchered suite there anyway. Mr. Hoover had no beef with organized crime. That was strictly Bobby K.’s bête noire and downfall. Mr. Hoover hated Commies, jigs and lefty gadflies. Mr. Hoover probably loved limp salads and gristly steaks.

  The fucking Stardust. Four thousand slot machines and velvet-flocked suites. The Chicago guys were hot to dump the joint on Howard Hughes. Count Dracula was hot to buy it. The guys would skim the Count blind.

  And Wayne Tedrow Junior is facilitating it. Wayne’s fucking his dying stepmom. They killed Wayne Senior. Dwight and Senior went waaaaay back. Dwight grooved Junior as a wiiiiild piece of work. Now he’s out to get Junior a skate on Murder One.

  Cluster fuck.

  It was 114° outside. The wall vents spritzed ice. Dwight got that hotel-captive feeling and paced the suite.

  Shit kept crisscrossing. Buddy Fritsch was too nervous. The Vegas SAC said Junior-killed-Senior rumors were fouling the desert air. Mr. Hoover was losing it. Mr. Hoover still had it to some degree. Sirhan Sirhan was foaming at the mouth in L.A. Jimmy Ray was foaming and fighting extradition. The Grapevine Tavern issue was percolating. He saw an ATF teletype this morning. Mr. Hoover telexed it in a tizzy. ATF might put the Grapevine under surveillance. Cracker habitués were moving dope and guns. Interagency grief. The Grapevine bug backfired and inspired conspiracy talk. Most conspiracy talk was dismissible. This might not be. It might require interdiction. Interdiction would not work with ATF hovering.

  Proximity. Jimmy Ray’s loose talk. Loose talk at the Grapevine. Valid loose talk—Jimmy Ray’s brother owned a piece of the place.

  Cluster fuck.

  His nerves were frayed. His sleep was thin. Memphis spiked through at 3:00 a.m. nightly. Car noise sounded like gunshots. Little bed aches felt like someone hitting him.

  Dwight walked to the bedroom window. Hotel suites made him miss Karen. Hotel suites got him torqued for real bedrooms. He’d black-bagged Karen’s house a half dozen times. He wanted to stand still there with her absent. He wanted instinctive evidence that she had no other lovers. He found the quiet he was looking for and got his evidence confirmed. She tapped his D.C. suite once. He found some entry signs, rolled for prints and got two Karen Sifakis latents. She saw his anonymous check-writing kit. She read through his journal. He wrote “I fucking love her” just two days before.

  They’ve told each other “I’ve prowled you” obliquely. He’s read her journal. She probably hides the pages she doesn’t want him to see. She’s pestered him about the checks. He might tell her one day.

  Dwight poured his one drink a night early. Twilight came and went. The dark sky pulsed and clashed with all the Vegas neon.

  January ’57. Icy roads on the Merritt Parkway. He was working the New York City office. He was driving a Bureau car, blitzed. He was en route to a Cape Cod weekend with his girlfriend. He plowed a divider and hit an oncoming car. He killed the two teenaged daughters of Mr. and Mrs. George Diskant.

  He suffered minor injuries. Mr. Hoover chilled all inquiries with the Connecticut State Police. He checked into a sanitarium near New Caanan. He segued from sobbing fits to long stints of silence. He stayed at Silver Hill for one month and four days. He got his nerves back and returned to work. He stayed away from women until Karen.

  Dwight sipped his one drink slowly. The sky show started chafing him. He got out his black-militant file and read through it.

  The second read confirmed the first. The Panthers and US—too known and too infiltrated. The Black Tribe Alliance and Mau-Mau Liberation Front—obscure, with big exposure potential.

  Karen could find him an informant. He or she could be white or Negro. He or she could rat out both groups politically. The infiltrator had to be a male Negro. He could rat out all criminal actions justified politically.

  Maybe a cop.
Maybe an ex-cop. Maybe a cop or ex-cop with a dicey past. Again, that notion: check hate-mail subscriber lists.

  Wayne Junior had access to Wayne Senior’s lists. Wayne Junior said he was out of the hate biz. Dr. Fred Hiltz was a Bureau informant. He was tight with that L.A. private eye Clyde Duber. Clyde was tight with the L.A. SAC.

  A doorbell rang down the hallway. Dwight jumped out of his skin.

  7

  (Las Vegas, 6/20/68)

  The Count chased pills with a red drink concoction. It looked like fruit juice and blood. He wore surgical scrubs and Kleenex-box shoes. His hair was long. His nails were claws. He wore a wool watch cap and a card dealer’s shade.

  Wayne made eye contact. It was rough. Farlan Brown made eye contact. He had more practice. He emceed the interview.

  The Desert Inn penthouse. Chez Dracula. A hospital room with big wall-to-wall TV sets. Three screens of news chat. Martyred legends. Accused assassins. Nixon versus Humphrey and flashed-on poll stats.

  The sound murmured low. Wayne tuned it out. His chair abutted Drac’s bed. He smelled industrial-strength disinfectant.

  Brown said, “Mr. Tedrow knows you have questions.”

  Drac slipped on a surgical mask. His voice eked through.

  “Sir, do you believe that a lone gunman shot President John F. Kennedy?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Do you believe that a lone gunman shot Senator Robert F. Kennedy?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Do you believe that a lone gunman shot the Reverend Martin Luther King?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  Dracula sighed. “He’s a realist, Farlan. He’s a stout Mormon, and he’s not prone to whimsy.”

  Brown folded his hands prayerlike. “You picked wisely, sir. Wayne has all the right skills and knows all the right people.”

  Drac coughed. His mask puffed. Phlegm dripped down his chin.

  “You know our Italian friends. Is that true?”

  “It is, sir. I know Mr. Marcello and Mr. Giancana quite well.”

  “They’ve sold me some wonderful hotel-casinos, and I intend to purchase several more.”

  “They’ll be happy to sell them to you, sir. They welcome your presence in Las Vegas.”

  “Las Vegas is a breeding ground for Negro bacteria. Negroes have high white-cell counts. You should never shake hands with them. They emit pus particles through their fingertips.”

  Wayne deadpanned it. Seconds crawled. Brown smiled and stepped in.

  “Wayne is matching your contribution to Mr. Nixon, sir.”

  Drac nodded. “Slippery Dick. I lent his brother some money in ’56. It came back and bit Dick on the ass. It might have thrown the election to Jack Kennedy.”

  Wayne said, “I’ll deliver the envelope at the convention. Mr. Marcello wants to be sure he has the nomination cinched.”

  Brown smiled. “I’m a delegate. Miami in August, my Lord.”

  Drac said, “The Negroes will riot and will require mass sedation. Animal tranquilizer might be the ticket. Mr. Tedrow could oversee the manufacture of the formula and test the dosage out on some Negro derelicts already in custody.”

  Wayne deadpanned it. Seconds slogged. Brown smiled and stepped in.

  “Wayne has said that he’ll monitor the convention for us. That’s affirmative, isn’t it, Wayne?”

  “It is. I’d be happy to look around and do what I can to protect our interests.”

  Drac sipped his red drink. “It’s Chicago that concerns me. Youth factions are mobilizing to create mass dissension that will discredit the Democrats. Would you be willing to help them play a few tricks?”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “Hubert Humphrey is dough-faced and porcine. I would guess that he has a high white-cell count. He was born to lose presidential elections and die of leukemia.”

  Wayne nodded. Brown nodded. A male nurse entered the room. He placed a piping-hot pizza pie on Drac’s bedside table. Brown shooed him off.

  “Sir, did you read my memo? Our Italian friends are developing a hotel-casino plan for Central America or the Caribbean. Wayne will be overseeing it, and Hughes Air will have the exclusive charter rights.”

  Drac sniffed the pizza. “Which countries?”

  Wayne said, “Panama, Nicaragua or the Dominican Republic.”

  “Good locations. Low cell-count zones all. Mr. Tedrow, will you confirm or refute a rumor I’ve been hearing? It’s been troubling me.”

  Wayne smiled. The pizza pie bubbled. Drac said, “Was your father murdered?”

  Brown squirmed a little. Wayne said, “Emphatically not, sir.”

  8

  (Los Angeles, 6/20/68)

  Stakeout:

  The Hertz parking lot. 9:56 p.m. Brisk drop-off biz running late. The ’66 Comet: due in four minutes or penalties would accrue.

  Crutch sat in his GTO. He wore a tartan bow tie and a Scotty Bennett hairdo. He bought the tie and got the crew cut today. They celebrated his case and the Dr. Fred deal. They honored last night’s ass-kicking.

  He held his zoom-lens Rolleiflex. He had Arnie Moffett dupe-key fob. The tie clashed with his polo shirt. The haircut clashed with current trend. L.A. guys wore their hair long. Fuck that shit—he and Scotty were avant-garde.

  It was hot. He ran the AC and aimed the air at his balls. He talked to Buzz an hour back. Bad news: no trace on that bootleg number yet. Memo: Don’t tell Buzz or Clyde about the Dr. Fred deal. Get the Hughes pic and cut them in then.

  Cars hit the lot: Buicks, Fords, Dodge Darts. People got out and schlepped their keys into the office. Countdown: 9:57, 9:58, 9:59. On time by seconds: that Comet, ADF-212.

  It pulled in off Sunset eastbound. Steam whooshed out the hood slits. The radiator probably blew.

  Two women got out. Crutch zoomed his lens and got them up close.

  Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes—tall and Latin-tinged. It had to be her. She was white, with that spic-pizzazz Something. She wore a tan shirt and flared jeans. She was stunning and stacked-statuesque. About thirty-two. Overmatched by her companion.

  Maybe ten years older. More of all Somethings. Smaller, with a rolling-slouchy walk. Pale. Glasses. Near-black hair with gray streaks. Bare arms and a knife scar—Phil Irwin caught that.

  They walked into the office. Crutch snapped photos. High-speed film—six frames walking in, six frames walking out.

  They got into a ’63 Fairlane. Crutch zoomed in ultra-close. Mud streaks on the license plate, no way to read numbers. Why switch cars? They’re vibing pros.

  The car pulled out on Sunset westbound. Crutch tailed it. He drove one-handed. He leapfrogged. He changed lanes and let a cab get between them. The car cut north on Berendo, west on Franklin, north on Cheremoya. Crutch hit the turn too close and double-clutched too fast. He stalled out. The Fairlane sped away, northbound.

  He kicked the engine, tapped the gas too fast and flooded the carbs. Easy now—don’t blow this. He waited a full minute. He checked out the addresses on Arnie’s key fob. Gretchen Farr’s ex–rental pad was one mile up the hill. Three more party pads were laced within a half-mile radius. The Gretchie pad was one of the four.

  Easy now. Re-situate. Turn the key sloooooow.

  He did it. The engine caught. He drove up into Beachwood Canyon and window-peeped en route. He saw loads of TV glare. He saw a pot party. He saw a flower-power chick doing the wah-watusi all by herself.

  Snaky roads up the canyon. First address: 2250 Gladeview. There it is—a small Craftsman-style house.

  Dark. No lights, no ’63 Fairlane. Hit the other party pads—they drove up here for a reason.

  The closest pad was six blocks southwest. Crutch drove there and idled at the curb. Shit—no lights, no Fairlane. He swung down to the next pad—four blocks due south. That’s it—a small stucco house. There’s window light and the sled in the driveway.

  He parked curbside and walked over. The front window was curtained up. Dull light filtered through. He saw sha
pes moving. He cut down the driveway and eyeball-tracked them toward the back of the house. The side windows were cracked for air and uncurtained. He hunkered below the sills and followed shadows.

  He heard muffled words. Word stew: “Tommy,” “grapevine,” “plant.” Shadows hit the last window. The two women showed. They shared a look. They embraced and kissed.

  Crutch blinked. It isn’t real—yes it is. The image held and burned.

  Gretchen/Celia ran her hands under the knife-scar woman’s shirt. The knife-scar woman untied her hair and tossed it. Window light beamed off the gray streaks.

  They stepped back toward the hallway. They became shadows again. Crutch blinked and walked window-to-window. He ducked low. He saw shadows melded, but no flesh-and-blood them.

  He walked back to his car and waited. He couldn’t get re-situated. His breath and pulse kept re-circuiting.

  They walked out a half hour later. They carried luggage to the Fairlane and placed it in the trunk. Moonlight gave him some detail. Gretchen/Celia looked dreamy. The knife-scar woman had kissed all her lipstick off.

  They got in the car and drove away. It was late. There was no cover traffic. He couldn’t tail them. He just sat there and watched their lights disappear.

  There was nothing he could do.

  They just left him.

  He knew he’d never sleep. He decided to keep moving. He drove by the other party pads and saw keg bashes starting up. It was a mélange: hip kids, college kids and long hair all around. He drove back to the stucco place, picked a side-door lock and entered. He felt brazen. He turned the inside lights on.

  The bedroom drew him first. The bed was warm. He touched the pillows and imagined their shapes on the sheets. He saw a single gray hair on the coverlet. He pressed his cheek to it and let it rest.

  Something told him to go then. He left the house, got his car and just drove. He stayed up in the canyon. He did lazy figure eights all around the stucco pad. Time de-materialized. His beams hit a white Spanish house. The front door was wood-paneled and covered with strange markings. Something told him to get out and look.