(Los Angeles, 3/4/71)
Fruit loop:
He’d hit the Manhole, the Cockpit, the Anvil, the Tradesman, the Forge. It was Creeps-ville. Sicko Sids ogled his booty. Amyl-nitrate poppers, leather, bare chests in chain mail.
Sal was never home. Sal habituated homo hives and all-nite coffee shops. Pancake loop: the Pines, Arthur J.’s, Biff’s Char-Broil.
Crutch drove back to the Klondike. It was Sal’s home base. The barman cashed his residual checks. Sal got his regular schlong there. He was banging the owner, two busboys and the fry cook.
Crutch double-parked out front. Lounging fags swooned for his kab. Lenny Bernstein walked out with two sailors. Fags called sailors “sea food.”
Lenny waved to Crutch. Crutch waved to Lenny. Crutch thought, It all started here.
Summer ’68. Dr. Fred hires him. Find me Gretchen Farr. His case is almost three years old. It might be breaking.
Fingerprints. Joan touched one of Reggie Hazzard’s books. That’s validated. A second person touched the book and Sonny’s envelope. Good guess: Reggie H. A third person touched the envelope. Print confirmed: Lionel Thornton.
Question:
Does Reggie forward the emeralds to the black folks in need?
Answer:
Probably, yes.
Reggie survived the heist. Reggie had a portion of the cash and the emeralds. Reggie doesn’t live in L.A. Reggie’s elsewhere or Wayne would have found him. Reggie’s secretive. L.A. postmarks might attract heat. Reggie’s long gone.
A biiiiiig lead—now cluster-fucked by the fruit squeeze.
Crutch watched the door. Rock Hudson walked out with Arthur-Arlene Johannsson. Arthur-Arlene pushed Dilaudid and maryjane brownies. Chick Weiss did all his divorces. The wives paid alimony. You married a drag queen? Fuck you.
Rock waved to Crutch. Crutch waved to Rock. A Tiger kab pulled up. Phil Irwin drove. Chick Weiss rode shotgun. Arthur-Arlene pushed Rock in the back. His pressed-hair wig was askew.
Crutch twirled his red flag. Joan was gone. He couldn’t find her. He got a she’s-in-L.A. gestalt anyway. L.A. was L.A. L.A. was the Joan Zone. He tailed Dwight Holly twice. Dwight might be Joan’s lover. Dwight was tail-savvy and lost him.
There’s Sal. He’s got Natalie Wood and a butch bitch in tow. Natalie was a show lez. She muff-munched at Hollywood parties. Clyde rescued her from a dyke slave den, circa ’60.
Crutch whistled. Sal caught it and walked over. Natalie and the dom dyke French-kissed. Two limp-wristed lover boys clapped.
Sal leaned in the kab. “Don’t tell me. Clyde’s got a rope job.”
“Not exactly.”
“No girls. We tried that once, remember?”
Crutch said, “Freddy Otash. I know he’s got something on you, so it’s not like you can say no.”
Sal sighed. His spit curl wiggled. Crutch popped the door. Sal got in and lit a Kool menthol. Crutch smelled the hash/mint blend.
He pulled around the corner and parked. Sal said, “I hope he’s hung.”
“You get three and a half.”
Sal toked his quasi-joint down to the filter. Sal did his doe-eyed thing.
“We’ve been here before. I’ve parked with lots of men, but with you it wasn’t the least romantic.”
Crutch said, “Don’t start with me.”
“Believe me, I’m not.”
“The mark’s a guy named Marshall Bowen. He’s that cop who’s half-assed famous.”
Sal groaned. “Another spade. With Freddy, it’s always a spade. I like dark meat, but not as a steady diet.”
Crutch popped the glove box and pulled out his flask. Sal grabbed it and snatched a quick hit.
“So, sweetie. Did you ever find the erstwhile Gretchen Farr?”
Crutch re-grabbed the flask. “No. Close, but no cigar.”
Sal grabbed it back. He took a hit and re-passed it. Crutch took a hit. Sal re-grabbed it and held it in his lap.
“I haven’t seen her, either. Gretchie was strictly fly-by-night, in her own unique way.”
Crutch grabbed the flask. Sal relinquished it, reluctant.
“You told me everything you knew, right?”
“Well …”
“Come on, man.”
“Well …”
Crutch balled his fists. Sal went oooo, I’m scared. Crutch drained the flask. Sal rubbed his thumbs and forefingers. Crutch laid out a yard. Sal held up two fingers. Crutch re-dipped his wallet and re-laid him.
Sal cranked the seat back and stared at the headliner. He snuggled and futzed with his spit curl.
“Well … you know our Gretchie’s MO. She fucked strings of men, borrowed bread from them and disappeared. Are we up-to-date now, sweetie?”
Crutch nodded. “Yeah. You introduced her to guys, but you can’t remember their names. She was always careful not to bang guys in the same social circle, so they couldn’t compare notes.”
Sal nodded. “That’s riiiiiiight.”
Crutch punched his seat bolster. Sal jiggled. It made him laaaaaugh.
“You don’t scaaaare me, Crutchy. And, frankly, I don’t believe all those silly rumors about those Communists you killed.”
A headache freight-trained him. Behind the eyes, a beaut. He dug out his aspirin and dry-popped three. Keep it zipped/do not fucking blow this.
Sal kicked off his sandals and toe-curled the dash. Miss Froufrou had big, smelly feet.
“So, right before we talked about her the first time, I saw Gretchie at a party. I didn’t tell you about it because it all seemed so unreal.”
“And?”
“Well … Gretchie said there was this chick named María, also known as ‘Tattoo.’ She bought her way out of the ‘book of the dead,’ she betrayed “the Cause,” but she ‘did penance.’ Believe me, none of it made the leeeeast bit of sense to this girl, until Gretchie told me that María was coming to L.A., she was ‘wild,’ could I set her up with some movie-biz guys? That was more my language, so I said I’d ask around, which I did not do, because Gretchie owed me money for some referrals I gave her, but she never paid me, so where was the incentive if she was just going to rip me off again? Soooo, it all just went away. Gretchie never mentioned María again, but she sort of paid me for the referrals. She gave me this teeny little emerald and this herb stash. It was Haitian dope, and it was a bummer.”
Deep breath now.
Sal said, “Really, dear heart. Have you ever heard such fantasia?”