Schvartzes, schvantz, shvoogies, the beast with two backs. A potential threesky. A time-clock gig for Clyde Duber Associates.

Crutch drove to the lot and braced Phil Irwin. Phil was huddled up with Chick Weiss, per some divorce job. Crutch took him aside and asked the standard skip-job questions. Phil was blurry on Gretchen Farr. No shit-Phil was blurry after 10:00 a.m. daily. Yeah, Dr. Fred hired him. Yeah, he called LAPD and Sheriff’s R amp;I and learned that the Farr snatch had no rap sheet. He chatted up the desk guy at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The desk guy refused to check his guest file. He went on a bender in T.J. then. He took a Rotary group down to catch the mule show. Dr. Fred fired him.

Crutch asked the big question: Is Dr. Fred a Yid? Phil said, “No, but all his ex-wives are Jewish.”

Scratch Phil. Next stop: the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Crutch drove there and got situated. He whipped his fake cop’s badge on a fruit bellhop and made a sound impression. The fruit bellhop fetched the fruit desk guy. The fruit desk guy looked askance at Crutch’s low-rent attire. Crutch told him he worked for Clyde Duber. The fruit desk guy dug on that. Clyde had panache and je ne sais quois. Okay, kid, let’s talk.

Crutch asked the standard skip-job questions. The fruit desk guy responded. He called Gretch Farr “dicey.” She rented bungalow #21 for three weeks. He wondered where she glommed the bread. She tricked with wealthy European and Latin guests of both genders. She paid cash for her flop and extra charges every morning. Gretch supplied one check-in referral: a phone drop called “Bev’s Switchboard.” It was a message pickup service for the fly-by-night crowd. Gretch was a quintessential fly-by-night chick.

That was it. The fruit desk guy sashayed off to fawn on some dowagers with poodles. Crutch hit the phone bank and called information. Bev’s Switchboard: 8814 Fountain, West Hollywood.

He drove there and got situated. The address was a storefront adjoining a quick-script pharmacy. All the wheelmen copped uppers there.

He parked. He combed his hair. He pinned his bogus badge to his coat front and chewed some Clorets. He practiced winking а la Scotty Bennett. Memo: buy some tartan bow ties.

He walked in. An old girl was working a for-real switchboard. The place was claustrophobic-twelve by fourteen tops. Crutch caught a whiff of bug spray.

The old girl noticed him. He made her belatedly. Blow-job Bev Shoftel. An L.A. legend. She dispensed snout to all the big stars back in the ‘30s.

She said, “The badge is a fake. I eat my Rice Krispies every morning, so I know from giveaways.”

Crutch said, “I’m a private investigator. I work for Clyde Duber.”

Bev unhooked her headset and fluffed out her hair. Dandruff flakes flew.

“I blew Clyde Duber before you were born. I blew Buzz Duber on his twelfth birthday, so don’t think you’re intimidating me.”

Crutch winked. His eyelid twitched and spasmed. Blow-job Bev whooped.

“The answer is no. Whatever you want, that’s what you’re getting.”

“Gretchen Farr. I heard she’s dicey, and I need a little peek at her caller file.”

Bev said, “Nyet. And don’t even think of asking for a header, ‘cause I’m sixty-three years old and out of the biz.”

“I could help you, babe. Believe me, I’ve got that kind of clout.”

Bev whooped anew. “The comedy hour’s over, babe. But you made me grin, so I’ll shoot you a freebie. I overheard Gretchie speaking Spanish on the phone.”

A call hit the switchboard. Bev popped on her headseat. Crutch said, “Please.” Bev said, “Scram.”

Blow jobs. Blow-job Bev blows Buzz and Clyde. Buzz coerces blow jobs now. Scotty’s blow-job thieves.

It was too much. Crutch churned with it. He couldn’t situate himself.

He hit the quick-script pharmacy and scored some Dexedrine. He popped four with coffee, de-churned and re-churned. He drove to his pad and skimmed a few Playboys. He bopped up to the roof and eyeballed a girl sunbathing. The dexies coaxed memories. There’s Dana Lund poolside, in a strapless one-piece. There’s Dana playing chaperone at a prep school bash.

Dana. Gretchen Farr. Hotel assignations. Gretchen swings with men and women.

Crutch got that oooooold feeling and grabbed his oooooold tools.

The pharmacy was closed. Ditto Bev’s Switchboard. A walkway led back to a rear parking lot. Clouds absorbed moonlight. The side door looked weak.

Crutch stuck a #4 pick in the keyhole. Two jiggles eased the main tumblers back. He pushed a #6 in. He twisted in unison. The lock button slid. The door snapped.

He let himself in and shut the door behind him. Bug-spray fumes made him sneeze. He got out his penlight and adjusted the beam to shine narrow. He saw a file cabinet up against the switchboard-outlet plugs.

Three drawers set on sliding runners. Marked: “A to G,” “H to P,” “Q to Z.” He pulled the handles. All three were locked.

He zeroed in on the “A to G” lock. He punched a #5 pick in back to the drill point. One push and pop-

“A to G.” Aaronson, Adams, Allworth. Some B’s, C’s and D’s. Echert, Ehrlich, Falmouth. There, Gretchen Farr.

Crutch held the penlight in his teeth and grabbed the folder two-handed. It was skinny. It held one page. He quick-skimmed it. The call log went back three weeks, to late May ‘68.

No address notes or personal stats on Gretch Farr herself. Just incoming calls listed.

Avco Jewelers, Santa Monica-four calls total. Six calls from foreign consulates: Panama, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic. Huh? Whazzat?-this wild brew so far.

Three men first name-listed: “Lew,” “Al,” “Chuck.” A bunch of call-me-back calls to Gretchen-L.A.-prefix numbers all.

Du-32758/”Wouldn’t give name.” Sal/No-52808. He knew that name and number: Clyde’s actor pal.

Crutch got out his notepad and copied it all down. He got B amp;E sweaty. Bug-spray fumes tickled his nose. The fucking penlight hurt his teeth.

The Klondike Bar, 8th and La Brea. A Greek grail and a lavender lodestone for the limp-wristed set.

Crutch called Buzz from the outside pay phone. The sidewalk was a big K-Y cowboy cattle call. Crutch ran Du-32758 by Buzz and told him to check the reverse book. Buzz shagged the book, skimmed it and told Crutch “No sale.” Crutch told him to call P.C. Bell and request a bootleg-number trace.

The sidewalk action got too gamy. Crutch sat in his car and scoped the door. Sal’s Lincoln was back in the parking lot. Sal lived at the Klondike. He’d walk out sooner or later, with or sans the night’s quiff.

Sal Mineo. Paid informant for Clyde and Fred Otash. Two Oscar nominations and Skidsville. One trouble-prone fruit fly.

Crutch got re-situated. The dexies had him head-tripping. The Toho Theatre was just south. Hip couples were lined up for a doofus art flick. The girls had that long, straight hair. Every little head movement sent sparks aloft.

Someone drummed on his windshield. Crutch saw Sal Mineo-all spit-curled and tight-jeaned. He popped the door. Sal got in. He wore this look of wop-fruit enchantment.

Crutch pulled around the corner and re-parked. Sal said, “You could have come inside. You didn’t have to lurk all night.”

“I wasn’t lurking.”

“You always lurk.”

“Shit, man. I was waiting.”

“You were lurking.”

Crutch laughed. “Okay, I was lurking.”

Sal laughed. “Clyde wants something, right? You’d be lurking outside some chick’s window if you were on your own dime.”

Crutch gripped the wheel white-knuckled. Sal raised his hands-hey, no harm meant.

“Okay, I’ll start over. What can I help you and Clyde out with?”