They stood on the roof at the Vivian and hashed it all out. It was twilight. It was hot. A late sun fuzzed the sky moss green. Buzz smoked a joint and talked a blue streak, all cars and cooze. Crutch messed with his telescope.

He caught an extra call at Paramount-slick dance-hall girls. He caught Lonnie Ecklund working on a ‘53 Merc. He saw some drunks weaving out of the Nickodell. He saw Sandy Danner sneaking a cigarette on her mom’s back porch. Lonnie/Sandy/Buzz/Crutch-Hollywood High, ‘62.

Dana Lund was out of range. Crutch swiveled the telescope west. He caught Barb Cathcart grilling hot dogs. She wore a tie-dyed top and a peace medallion. Her freckly cleavage showed. Barb sang with a group called The Loveseekers. They lost every Battle of the Bands that they played. Barb beaver-flashed him at Le Conte Junior High, spring ‘58. His world de-centralized then. Barb’s brother Bobby was a call boy. He allegedly possessed a fourteen-inch dick.

Emeralds, fuck pads, fuck lists, fuck logs, fuckees-

Buzz said, “You’re a bigger freak than I am.”

Crutch said, “Let’s lean on Arnie.”

Speedballs supplied oomph. Four dexies, two reds and firm jolts of Jim Beam. They levitated to the Miracle Mile. Crutch felt his eye sockets expand.

Moffett Realty was a hole-in-the-wall. It was right beside Ma Gordon’s Deli, the “Home of the Hebrew Hero.” The door was open. The lights were on. A skinny guy was kicked back at the one desk. He wore a red bowling shirt with a stitched-on ARNIE.

He was embroiled. He was staring into a swivel mirror, squeezing his blackheads. Crutch cleared his throat. Buzz cleared his throat. Arnie stayed transfixed.

Buzz said, “Uh, sir?” Crutch shushed him. Arnie said, “Frat boys, right? You want to rent one of my dumps for a kegger and lure in some gash.”

The room de-situated. Funny lights swirled. Crutch said, “We’re private detectives.”

Arnie stood up. Arnie grabbed his crotch and said, “Detect this.”

Crutch saw RED. RED room, RED room lights, RED world. He kicked Arnie in the balls. He jackknifed him. He rabbit-punched him. He threw him on the floor face-first. Arnie’s nose cracked. Blood spattered. Arnie flopped and flailed for his desk phone. Crutch pulled the cord out of the wall and threw the fucking phone across the room.

Buzz trembled. His lips did funny things. Crutch saw the piss stain on his jeans and smelled the shit in his shorts.

Arnie flailed. Blood pooled off his nosedive. Crutch put a foot on his neck and de-flailed him. Crutch said, “Gretchen Farr.”

Arnie gurgled. Buzz ran for the John, making like upchuck. Crutch threw down a handkerchief. Arnie rolled on his back, covered his nose and stanched the blood flow. Crutch pulled out his short dog. Arnie made a gimme sign and tilted his head. Crutch fed him little pops. Jim Beam, 100 proof.

Arnie sucked, gasped and coughed. Arnie dredged up savoir faire. Arnie said, “You evil little shit.”

Crutch squatted. He kept himself clear of the blood mess. He was all re-circuited while the room leaped and whirled.

“Gretchen Farr.”

“She’s a Commie. She’s some kind of left-wing transient with more names than half the world.”

“Keep going.”

“She heard I used to score snatch for Howard Hughes.”

Crutch said, “Keep going.” Arnie made the gimme sign. Crutch fed him three pops. Arnie sucked down blood-laced bourbon and took a big breath.

“She rented one of my pads. The Hollywood Hills, a half-ass little house. Two-week rental, in and out.”

“Keep going.”

“They’re skeeve pads. Fuck-film sets, keg-bust spots, short-term rentals.”

“Keep going, Arnie. The quicker you tell me, the quicker I’m gone.”

Blood soaked through the handkerchief. Arnie tossed it and wiped the excess spill on his pants. Buzz walked up, zipping his fly. He looked psychedelicized green.

Crutch said, “Give, Arnie.”

“Give what? She’s a Commie with some fucked-up agenda.”

“Arnie…”

“Okay, okay. She pumped me for dope on the Howard Hughes organization. She said she wanted to get next to a guy named Farlan Brown. I said I knew him. He’s this cunt man who plays Mormon to stay kosher with Hughes. When he passes through L.A., he always hits Dale’s Secret Harbor.”

TILT: Hughes, Gretchie, emeralds and that million-dollar-

“Dupe keys, Arnie. For the house Gretchen rented and all your other dives.”

Arnie nodded and stood up. Crutch steadied him. Arnie weaved for a full minute. Crutch dug his legs in and steadied himself. His Red World veered and swerved.

Buzz split to change clothes and hit Dale’s Secret Harbor. Crutch stayed swervy. He got the notion to re-brace Phil Irwin and run a driver’s license check. He stopped at a pay phone and called the DMV police line. He dropped Clyde Duber’s name and Gretchie’s approximate stats. Zero- just one eighty-two-year-old Gretchen Farr, up in Visalia. He called Dale’s Secret Harbor and paged Buzz. Buzz reported: Yeah, he asked around. He learned that Farlan Brown was a Hughes biggie. Hughes Airways was his main gig.

It was late. Crutch drove by the lot. Phil’s 409 was gone. Crutch got re-situated. His swerve was mutating to bad nerves and yawns. He tried Canter’s Deli, Linny’s Deli and Art’s Deli-Phil always late-nite noshed with Jew lawyer Chick Weiss.

Three stops, no Phil. He drove to Tommy Tucker’s Playroom, Washington and La Brea. Phil was a mud shark. He craved colored trim. The Playroom fronted a coon whorehouse. Phil might be there.

Yeah, he was. There’s his car by the back door. It’s parked. It’s rocking. There’s his white ass exposed in the backseat. There’s some fat dark legs spread wide.

It went on and on. Crutch parked and looked away. Phil and the spade chick supplied an “Oh, Baby” soundtrack. Crutch covered his ears at the crescendo. The spade chick climbed out of the car. She wore an Afro do and ran 220. She ambled back to the Playroom. Phil fell out of the car. He got up and homed in on Crutch’s GTO. Hey, I know that sled.

Crutch got out and stretched. Phil teetered up. His Dodger sweatsuit was all disheveled.

“Have you been tailing me?”

“Well, looking for you.”

“At 1:00 fucking a.m.?”

“Come on. Guys like us don’t keep regular hours.”

Phil lit a cigarette. It took four match swipes. He reeked of the spade chick’s perfume.

“We’ve got a job, right? We’ve got some work, and you went looking for me.”

Crutch shook his head. “No, it’s just a re-interview. I wanted you to run the Gretchen Farr gig by me again.”

Phil blew a weird-shaped smoke ring. “Okay, twenty bucks.”

“Twenty bucks?”

“Right. I keestered Dr. Fred on the job, and I’ll spill the straight dope for twenty.”

Crutch pulled out his roll and forked over two tens. Phil flicked his cigarette at a ‘64 Olds. It smudged the nigger pink paint job.

“Okay, so I filed a couple of ‘no lead’ reports with Dr. Fred, chiefly because I didn’t feel like chasing this fly-by-night Gretchen twist all over hell-and-gone and because I got bought off the job.”

“By who? Who paid you?”

“It was a cash deal. Anonymous. A messenger service sent me the bread, and I ran a trace on the sender. Dig, it was the Hughes Tool Company. I thought, Jesus, that’s interesting, then I lost interest myself and went on that bender.”

Hughes again. Hughes man Farlan Brown. The Red World re-swerved.

Phil yawned. “That whole shot of time is fuzzy for me, but I’ve got this idea that I actually saw Gretchen Farr, somewhere up in the Hollywood Hills. She was with this older chick with a knife scar on her right arm. I’m also seeing a ‘66 Comet, maybe white… partial plate ADF2… Fuck, what do I know? I was stinko.”