Blood's a rover

2

Don Crutchfield

(Los Angeles, 6/15/68)

WOMEN:

Two bevies walked by the lot. The first group looked like shop girls. They wore Ivy League threads and modified bouffants. The second group was pure hippie. They wore patched-up jeans, peacenik shit and long straight hair that swirled.

They came and went. The wheelmen waved. The shop girls waved back. The hippie chicks flipped off the wheelmen. The wheelmen wolf-called.

The Shell Station lot, Beverly and Hayworth. Four pumps and a service bay/office. Three wheelmen sprawled in their sleds.

Bobby Gallard had a Rocket Olds. Phil Irwin had a 409 Chevy. Crutch had a ‘65 GTO. He was the rookie wheelman. He had the boss ride: 390, Hurst 4-speed, coon maroon paint.

Bobby and Phil were midday-blitzed on high-test vodka. Crutch was residual torqued on the girl show. He scanned the street for more walk-bys. Ziltch-just some old hebes loping to shul.

Back to the paper. Yawn-more jive on James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan. Snore-”America Grieves”/”Accused Assassin’s Lair.” Ray vibed pencilneck. Sirhan vibed towelhead. Hey, America, I got your grief swingin’.

Crutch flipped pages. He hit flyweights at the Forum and a grabber- Life magazine offers million scoots for Howard Hughes pix! A redhead walked by. Crutch waved at her. She scowled like he was a dog turd. Wheelmen emitted baaaad vibes. They were low-rent and indigenously fucked-up. They perched in the lot. They waited for work from skank private eyes and divorce lawyers. They tailed cheating spouses, kicked in doors and took photos of the fools balling. It was a high-risk, high-yuks job with female-skin potential. Crutch was new to it. He wanted to groove the job forever.

The paper called Howard Hughes a “billionaire recluse.” Crutch got a brainstorm. He could starve himself down to bones and shimmy up a heat shaft. Snap-one Polaroid and vamoose.

The lot dozed. Bobby Gallard skimmed beaver mags and slurped Smirnoff 100. Phil Irwin wiped his 409 with a chamois cloth. Phil worked tail jobs and stooge gigs for Freddy Otash. Freddy O. was a shakedown artist and freelance strongarm. He was ex-LAPD. He lost his PI’s license behind some horse-doping caper. Phil was his pet wheelman/lapdog.

The lot dozed. No work, no walk-by cooze, gas station ennui.

It was hot and humid. Crutch yawned and aimed the AC vent at his balls. It perked him up and got him head-tripping. Gas station blahs, adieu.

He was twenty-three. He got expelled from Hollywood High for candid-camera stunts in the girls gym. His old man lived in a Goodwill box outside Santa Anita. Crutch Senior panhandled, bet all day and ate pastrami burritos exclusive. His mom vanished on 6/18/55. Crutch was ten. She up and split and never returned. She sent him a Christmas card and a five-spot every year, different postmarks, no return address. He built his own missing person file. It filled up four big boxes. He killed time with it. He called around the country and ran PD checks, hospital checks, obit checks. He kicked off the quest in junior high school.

Nothing-Margaret Woodard Crutchfield was still stone gone.

The wheelman gig fell on his head. It happened like this:

He kept up with his high-school pal Buzz Duber. Buzz shared his passion for pad prowls. Soft prowls, like this:

Hancock Park. Big dark houses. Preppy girls’ lairs. Knock, knock. Nobody’s home? Good.

You enter undetectably, you carry a penlight, you dig some plush cribs. You walk through girls’ bedrooms and exit with lingerie sets.

He did it a few times with Buzz. He did it a lot by himself. Buzz’s dad was Clyde Duber. Clyde was a big-time PI. He did divorce jobs and got celebs out of the shit. He installed college kids in left-wing groups and got them to rat out subversion. The fuzz popped Crutch on a panty prowl. They snagged him with some black lace undies and a sandwich he glommed from Sally Compton’s fridge. Clyde bailed him out and got his record expunged. Clyde got him wheelman and chump surveillance gigs. Clyde said window-peeping was kosher, but nixed B amp;E. Clyde said, “Kid, I’ll pay you to peep.”

The lot dozed. Bobby Gallard spray-painted an iron cross on his Olds. Phil Irwin popped some yellow jackets with an Old Crow chaser. Crutch daydreamed per Howard Hughes. Brainstorm: assault his swank penthouse! Gain entry by grappling hook!

An unmarked cruiser pulled in. The lot revitalized. Crutch caught a flash of a red tartan tie and smelled pizza.

Beeline-Crutch followed Bobby and Phil. Scotty Bennett got out of the car and kicked blood in his legs. He was six-five. He weighed 230. He worked LAPD Robbery. His tie had 18’s stitched in the weave.

The backseat was stuffed with six-packs and pizza. Bobby and Phil jumped in and helped themselves. Crutch looked in the car and checked the dashboard. Still there: the crime-scene photos, all taped up and yellowed.

Scotty’s fixation: that big armored-car job. Winter ‘64. Still unsolved. Dead guards and scorched heist men-still unidentified. Looted cash bags and emeralds.

Scotty pointed to the photos. “Lest I forget.”

Crutch gulped. Scotty always loomed. He carried two.45’s and a beaver-tail sap on a thong. Bobby and Phil guzzled beer and snarfed pizza. They turned the backseat into a zoo trough. Crutch pointed to Scotty’s tie.

“You had 16’s last time.”

“Two male Negroes robbed a liquor store at 74th and Avalon. I just happened to be in the back, holding a Remington pump shotgun.”

Crutch laughed. “It’s the record, right? Fatal shootings in the line of duty?”

“That’s correct. I’m six up on my closest competitor.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was shot and killed by two male Negroes.”

“What happened to them?”

“They robbed a liquor store at Normandie and Slauson. I just happened to be in the back, holding a Remington pump shotgun.”

The air smelled like ripe cheese and sud spray. Scotty wrinkled his nose. Phil was hunkered down to nosh, legs on the pavement. His pants rode low. His ass crack was exposed. Scotty pulled him up by his waistband.

Phil went airborne. Phil got that “Save me” look that Scotty inspired. Phil came to earth feetfirst and snapped to attention. Bobby gulped and snapped to. Scotty winked at Crutch.

“I’m looking for two male Caucasians driving a powder blue ‘62 T-Bird with dark blue fender skirts. They’re clouting steak houses, they’re robbing cash receipts, they’re holding patrons hostage and forcing women to give them blow jobs. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your eyes peeled.”

Crutch said, “Physical descriptions?”

Scotty smiled. “They wore masks. The female victims described them as being ‘normally endowed.’ ”

“Endowed”-huh?-Bobby and Phil slack-jawed it. Crutch smirked. Scotty grabbed the beer and pizza debris and fobbed it off on him. A sausage morsel hit Scotty’s suit coat. Phil trembled and flicked it off.

Scotty got in his car and peeled out eastbound. Crutch eyeballed a blonde at the gas pumps.

Phil said, “He thinks he’s tough, but I know I could take him.”

The lot re-dozed. Bobby landed a rope job. His pet Jew lawyer came by and fed him the gist. It’s a horny hubby-hooker parlay. The wife’s the client. Rent a hot-sheet room and find hubby at his favorite gin mill. Facilitate a chance meeting. Get me snapshots and film.

Buzz Duber cruised by. Crutch ran the Hughes deal by him. Buzz got a brainstorm. He said he knew this nigger midget. The guy played pygmies in jungle flicks. They could send him up to Howard Hughes’ lair in a room-service cart.

Freddy Otash cruised by. He’d lost some weight. He bragged up this low-roller hotel he’d bought in Vegas. He threw Phil a tail job. Phil drove off, half-blitzed.

Crutch and Buzz got dozy from too much beer and pizza. Crutch got doze blips of Dana Lund, softly window-lit.

A horn blared way too loud. Crutch opened his eyes. Shit-there’s Phil’s pet shyster, Chick Weiss.

With his kike-kayak Cadillac. With his frizzy-ass hairdo and his British fop suit. With his fucked-up Caribbean-art fixation.

Weiss said, “I got a fruit gig for you. The guy likes to brown well-hung Filipinos, and I got a mutant packing 10Ѕ inches. The wife wants a divorce, and who can blame her?”

The hubby had a fuck pad at the Ravenswood. Crutch brought a Rolleiflex with a flashbulb bar. Buzz wore door-kicker shoes.

The Mutant met them in the lobby. He had a door key. Crutch was miffed. He craved some kick-the-door-in action. They huddled. Crutch told the Mutant to get hubby in the sack pronto. Buzz told him to provide decent lighting. The Mutant told them to get his schvantz in the pix. He serviced spouses of both genders. He wanted more divorce work. He wanted his heavy-hung status proclaimed.

They cooked up a four-minute countdown. The Mutant skedaddled to apartment 311. Crutch futzed with the camera and secured it A-OK. Buzz ticked seconds off on a stopwatch.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,1-go.

They ran up the stairs. They cut down hallways and found 311. Buzz opened the door. Crutch hoisted the camera. They followed love grunts to a doorway and let fly.

It was all Greek. The Mutant poured hubby the pork with his monster meat in plain view. Crutch tripped the shutter. Pop pop pop pop-the bedroom went flashbulb-white blind. Hubby wailed the fruit-gig standard How Could You? blues. The Mutant pulled on his pants and went out the fire escape. Buzz saw a bag of weed on the dresser and swiped it. Crutch thought, This is the life.

Buzz said, “It had to be a yard long.”

Crutch said, “Under a foot. Remember, Chick Weiss gave us the measurement.”

Clyde Duber said, “We could use him again. Did you get his number?”

Buzz said, “We can find him through the Screen Actors Guild. He’s playing the sidekick on some TV show.”

Clyde Duber’s office, Beverly Hills. Knotty-pine walls, golf trophies and red leather. Dig the wall frieze:

It pertained to that big armored-car heist. Clyde grooved on it. The case was one big bug up his ass. There’s an ink-stained bill behind glass. There’s framed photos of blowtorched stiffs and loose emeralds. There’s Sergeant Scotty Bennett. He’s manhandling two male Negroes.

Clyde kept an amateur file on the case. It was his pet project. Scotty indulged him with knickknacks. Clyde loved Scotty’s sweat-room tapes. They featured male Negroes screaming.

Crutch said, “Freddy Otash bought some hotel in Vegas.”

Clyde poured a triple scotch. “Freddy’s a dipshit. Rumors are circulating, and that’s all I can say about that.”

Buzz said, “Tell Dad about the Hughes deal.”

Crutch scratched his balls. “Life magazine’s offering a million bucks for a photo of Howard Hughes. I think we can do it.”

Clyde made the jack-off sign. Kids-this white man’s burden. Kid wheelmen, kid infiltrators, kid stakeout geeks.

Buzz nudged Crutch. “You got plans tonight?”

“I thought I’d drive around.”

“Shit, you’re going to peep Chrissie Lund.”

Clyde said, “Who’s Chrissie Lund?”

“She’s USC frosh. She’s got Crutch all wired.”

Clyde sipped scotch. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Like 459 PC, breaking and entering.”

Crutch blushed and checked the wall frieze. Memo: buy some tartan bow ties and get a Scotty Bennett crew cut.

Buzz seltzer-spritzed his scotch. “Get us a decoy job, Dad. Send us in to some Commie group.”

“Nix that. You’re too green and you look too square. You’ve got to be able to talk Commie lifestyle shit to make those gigs work. You kids don’t know from social upheaval. All you kids know from is this college-girl gash you can’t get.”

Buzz laughed. Crutch blushed. Memo: study your file and prowl for Scotty’s blow-job freaks.

“Who commissions those infiltration jobs?”

Clyde kicked his chair back. “Right-wing nuts with gelt. They’re all doctors and kings. You’ve got Dr. Charles S. Toron, the Eugenics King. You’ve got Dr. Fred Hiltz, the Hate-Pamphlet King, and Dr. Wesley Swift, the Nazi-Bible King.”

Buzz said, “Dr. Fred’s a dentist. The other guys have mail-order degrees, like all those coon preachers.”

Clyde said, “Defrocked dentist. He got strung out on anesthetic cocaine and started fucking peoples’ teeth up.”

Crutch thought of Dana Lund. Memo: bring a soft-focus lens. Buzz whipped out that bag of weed. Clyde rolled his eyes-kids.

“That reminds me. Dr. Fred’s got a job for us. A woman stole some money from him and absconded.”

Buzz looked at Clyde. Crutch looked at Clyde. Both looks said Me. Clyde flipped a coin. Buzz called tails. The coin hit the floor heads.

Crutch had a flop at the Vivian Apartments. It was a walk-up dive just south of Paramount. Grips and stagehands lived there. Bit players turned lunchtime tricks in a jumbo mop closet. Crutch crammed all his shit into two rooms.

His file shit, his camera shit, his car shit, his bug-and-tap shit. Clyde taught him surveillance. He had phone cords and wire mounts up the ying-yang. He had a full run of Playboy magazine. He had Car Craft back to ‘52. His wallpaper was forty-one Playboy Playmates.

He settled in for the night. He updated his notes on his mother’s last known location. Christmas ‘67-Margaret Woodard Crutchfield writes from Des Moines. Every known records check-zero. Backtrack to ‘66-a Christmas card from Dubuque. Every in-between town, full records checks, zero.

Crutch got antsy. Buzz was who-knows-where, blitzed on who-knows-what. Buzz had this mean streak that he lacked. Buzz carried a fake cop’s badge and coerced head out of hookers. Nix that. Holding it in was better.

It was warm out. A summer storm brewed. Crutch took a drive. He circled up to Hollywood Boulevard and out to the Strip. He looked at people. The longhaired girls jazzed him and the longhaired guys rubbed him wrong. He trawled for that ‘62 Bird and Scotty’s blow-job bandits. He saw two fags in a ‘61 Bird and no more.

He drove east to Hancock Park. He cut his lights and perched at 2nd and Plymouth. That big Spanish house held him.

Window glow flickered, upstairs and down. He saw Chrissie in USC sweats-one glimpse and gone. He saw Dana tie her hair back in the kitchen.

Buzz didn’t get it. Nobody got it. That’s why he never told anyone. It wasn’t Chrissie Lund. It was always Dana Lund, and she was fifty-three years old.