“Gretchen Farr. She took one of Clyde’s clients for some money, and I know you know her.”

Sal lit a cigarette. “Sure, I know her. I know that she fucks strings of men and rabbits with their money routinely, but I don’t know how you traced her to me. If you explain that to me convincingly, I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

That pout, that greasy dago hair-Crutch balled his fists.

“I ran a phone check. You called her service two weeks ago.”

Sal cracked the window and de-smoked the car. Sal tucked up his knees and went doe-eyed.

“I’d say Gretchen Farr is an alias. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. I don’t have a line on her whereabouts, because she never tells people where she lives. As I said, she fucks strings of men, steals or borrows coin from them and disappears. I called her service because she called my service. We didn’t actually speak. I’ve steered her to men before, but she usually develops her own prospects. She’s veeeery careful, our Gretch. She always makes sure that her fuckees don’t truck in the same circles.”

Fuck gigs, fuck strings, fuckees-

“Photographs?”

Sal shook his head. “No. The most camera-shy girl this girl ever met.”

“The ‘fuckees.’ Give me some names.”

“No. I am truly drawing a blank, and Gretch paid me to steer her, and I promised I wouldn’t tell on her, cross-my-heart, hope-to-die.”

Crutch slapped the wheel. Crutch slapped the dashboard. Sal made with the doe eyes and never flinched.

“Feel better, sweetheart?”

Crutch flexed his hands. His fingers and palms stung. Sal twirled his spit curl and sighed.

Crutch said, “Why do you think Gretchen Farr is an alias?”

“She’s too spic-looking to be a Farr. She’s a Spanglo type if she’s anything.”

“And she doesn’t live in L.A.?”

“No, she just passes through, causes travail and moves on.”

“Known associates? Do you know anyone who knows her?”

Sal doe-eyed him. “You sound resigned, so I’ll give you a nibble. I set Gretchie up with a realtor named Arnie Moffett, who is a horrible man who used to pimp for Howard Hughes. He bought a string of Hughes’s old fuck-pad houses in the Hollywood Hills, so maybe Gretchie is staying in one of them.”

Crutch cracked his knuckles. His head hurt. He couldn’t get situated. His thoughts jumbled and veered.

Sal said, “I’m waiting for the day, sweetheart.”

“What day?”

“The day that you figure out you’re not at all tough.”

Those caller-log names: “Al,” “Lew” and “Chuck.” They might be Gretchen fuckees. They might re-situate him. They might seed brainstorms.

Crutch de-torqued the dexies with red devils and Old Crow. He slept and called the three guys in the a.m. He dropped Gretchen’s name. He spooked them. He set up meets at the Carolina Pines-three fuckee prospects one hour apart. He hit the Pines early and hogged a back booth. He scarfed pancakes and coffee and re-cleared his head.

Al showed on time. He was pissed. Shitbird, I’m married. You lured me here to grill me on some illicit snatch I promoted. Crutch badgered Al. Al revealed this:

He met Gretch at Trader Vic’s. They had some nooners at his place and her place. She had a crib in Beachwood Canyon. Don’t ask me where, I always went there half in the bag.

Gretchie said she had resources. She mentioned import-export gigs. She hit him up for five G’s. He considered the request. He almost bounced. Something deterred him.

She emitted this stealth vibe. He snuck a look at her purse. He saw four different passports. He declined to front her the bread.

Passports for what countries? Jesus, I don’t know. Known associates? People she talked about? Kid, we just fucked.

Crutch pledged silence and told Al to split. Al split. Lew showed up. He was pissed. Dickhead, I’m married. You lured me here to grill me on some illicit snatch I promoted. Crutch badgered Lew. Lew revealed this:

He met Gretchen at Stat’s Char-Broil. They got a thing going. He drilled her at the Miramar Hotel and at some pad up by Beachwood Canyon. She tapped him for five grand. She splitsvilled. He tried to find the canyon pad. He failed. He was blotto every time he was there. He couldn’t find the goddamn place.

Known associates? Passports? Topics of talk? Kid, you’re not getting me-we hardly yakked.

Crutch pledged silence and told Lew to split. Lew split. Chuck showed up. He was pissed. Dipshit, I’m married. You lured me here to grill me on some illicit snatch I promoted. Crutch badgered Chuck. Chuck revealed this:

He met Gretchie at the Westward Ho Steak House. He boned her at a house a mile east of Beachwood Canyon. It was a rental deal. Price tags were still stuck to the furniture-I should have known.

He lent Gretchie five G’s. She absconded on him. He called that Bev’s Switchboard place and tried to find her. Old Bev was a sphinx. She rebuffed him. He got a gift in the mail the next day.

A Polaroid pic: Chuck and Gretchie Farr fucking. Chuck got the point: desist or your frau receives this.

Chuck desisted. Chuck knew goose egg about passports and known associates. What did you talk about? Kid, we just screwed.

Crutch pledged silence. Chuck split. Crutch bugged his waitress for a pencil and paper. She brought them. Crutch drew and re-drew Gretchen Farr.

The fuckees gave him slightly different descriptions. An Anglo with spic blood? Sure, maybe, maybe not. Bev heard her talk Spanish. She got calls from three consulates: Panama, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic. Latin countries. Spicfest ‘68. She’s wild, she’s dark-haired, she’s pale working on dark-go, pencil, go.

He drew Gretchie six ways. He gave her different hairstyles and made her smile and frown. He felt some wild spirit guiding him. His pencil broke. He got choked up and fucked-up when he saw where it all went.

He drew Gretchen Farr as Dana Lund, six times over. Gretchie was Dana writ dark.

Avco Jewelers was out at the beach. The window display featured high-line watches laid out on velvet blocks. Crutch perched under a striped awning. He was amped up. He was running on greasy pancakes and dope residue.

He walked in. A fussbudget type stood behind the counter, messing with some pearls. He sized Crutch up. Navy blazer and gray slacks-okay, you’ll do.

“Sir?”

“I had a few questions, if you’d be so kind.”

“Certainly. Is there a piece you had in mind?”

“Piece” hit him weird. “Gretchen Farr”-he just blurted it.

The fussbudget fussed with his pearls. “And this pertains to?”

“It’s an inquiry.”

“I gathered that, but you seem too young to be a police detective.”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Dubious, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Crutch got heat-prickly. “Look, someone called her answering service from your number. I’m just trying to-”

The door chime rang. An old lady waltzed in, swaddling a Chihuahua. She vibed hot-prospect-hot-for-some-pearls.

The fussbudget whispered. “Miss Farr came in two weeks or so ago, while I was out. She left a message for me to call her, which I did. We exchanged phone calls. She wanted advice on the recutting of a number of valuable emeralds she had in her possession. I asked about the provenance of the stones. She had no answer ready for me, which I found odd.”

The old lady de-swaddled the Chihuahua. The cocksucker hit the ground yapping. The fussbudget stepped around the corner and swooned.

Buzz dubbed the Hiltz job “the case.” Crutch dubbed it “my case” in his head. Dr. Fred had the bread to wind up Clyde’s time clock. Cherchez la femme-the Hate King had the big bone for Gretchie. Buzz called P.C. Bell and bribed a drone to trace that bootleg number. So far, no make. Buzz tapped Clyde’s cop contacts for dope on la belle Farr. So far, no make. Arnie Moffett was their one lead outstanding. Buzz called it “hot.” Crutch called it “a scorcher.”