They got into a ‘63 Fairlane. Crutch zoomed in ultra-close. Mud streaks on the license plate, no way to read numbers. Why switch cars? They’re vibing pros.

The car pulled out on Sunset westbound. Crutch tailed it. He drove one-handed. He leapfrogged. He changed lanes and let a cab get between them. The car cut north on Berendo, west on Franklin, north on Cheremoya. Crutch hit the turn too close and double-clutched too fast. He stalled out. The Fairlane sped away, northbound.

He kicked the engine, tapped the gas too fast and flooded the carbs. Easy now-don’t blow this. He waited a full minute. He checked out the addresses on Arnie’s key fob. Gretchen Farr’s ex-rental pad was one mile up the hill. Three more party pads were laced within a half-mile radius. The Gretchie pad was one of the four.

Easy now. Re-situate. Turn the key sloooooow.

He did it. The engine caught. He drove up into Beachwood Canyon and window-peeped en route. He saw loads of TV glare. He saw a pot party. He saw a flower-power chick doing the wah-watusi all by herself.

Snaky roads up the canyon. First address: 2250 Gladeview. There it is-a small Craftsman-style house.

Dark. No lights, no ‘63 Fairlane. Hit the other party pads-they drove up here for a reason.

The closest pad was six blocks southwest. Crutch drove there and idled at the curb. Shit-no lights, no Fairlane. He swung down to the next pad-four blocks due south. That’s it-a small stucco house. There’s window light and the sled in the driveway.

He parked curbside and walked over. The front window was curtained up. Dull light filtered through. He saw shapes moving. He cut down the driveway and eyeball-tracked them toward the back of the house. The side windows were cracked for air and uncurtained. He hunkered below the sills and followed shadows.

He heard muffled words. Word stew: “Tommy,” “grapevine,” “plant.” Shadows hit the fast window. The two women showed. They shared a look. They embraced and kissed.

Crutch blinked. It isn’t real-yes it is. The image held and burned.

Gretchen/Celia ran her hands under the knife-scar woman’s shirt. The knife-scar woman untied her hair and tossed it. Window light beamed off the gray streaks.

They stepped back toward the hallway. They became shadows again. Crutch blinked and walked window-to-window. He ducked low. He saw shadows melded, but no flesh-and-blood them.

He walked back to his car and waited. He couldn’t get re-situated. His breath and pulse kept re-circuiting.

They walked out a half hour later. They carried luggage to the Fairlane and placed it in the trunk. Moonlight gave him some detail. Gretchen/Celia looked dreamy. The knife-scar woman had kissed all her lipstick off.

They got in the car and drove away. It was late. There was no cover traffic. He couldn’t tail them. He just sat there and watched their lights disappear.

There was nothing he could do.

They just left him.

He knew he’d never sleep. He decided to keep moving. He drove by the other party pads and saw keg bashes starting up. It was a mйlange: hip kids, college kids and long hair all around. He drove back to the stucco place, picked a side-door lock and entered. He felt brazen. He turned the inside lights on.

The bedroom drew him first. The bed was warm. He touched the pillows and imagined their shapes on the sheets. He saw a single gray hair on the coverlet. He pressed his cheek to it and let it rest.

Something told him to go then. He left the house, got his car and just drove. He stayed up in the canyon. He did lazy figure eights all around the stucco pad. Time de-materialized. His beams hit a white Spanish house. The front door was wood-paneled and covered with strange markings. Something told him to get out and look.

He did it. He parked curbside and walked up. He ran his penlight over the door and studied the markings. Wild: geometric patterns etched in dark red.

Vertical lines down to the porch. A ripped-apart bird on the doormat.

You belong here. This could be yours.

Something told him the door would be open and to turn right inside. He did it. The living room was pitch-dark and musty. Plastic sheaths covered the furniture. He followed a metal-chalky smell to the kitchen. His breath went haywire. His hands shook. His penlight jerked. He steadied the beam with two hands and saw it.

The entrails in the sink. The severed arm/the missing hand/the brown skin, pure female. The geometric tattoo on the biceps. The deep gouge through and beside it. The crumbled green stones embedded bone-deep.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/21/68. Los Angeles Herald Express head-line and subhead:

ACCUSED ASSASSIN SIRHAN: “I’M A POLITICAL PRISONER”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/24/68. Milwaukee Sentinel headline and subhead:

FBI CALLS HIS CONSPIRACY TALK “FANCIFUL”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/27/68. Los Angeles Times subhead:

”ZIONIST GUARDS POISONED MY FOOD,” ACCUSED ASSASSIN SAYS

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/2/68. Hartford Courant headline and subhead:

RAY’S EXTRADITION LIKELY

ACCUSED KING ASSASSIN DESCRIBES “WIDESPREAD CONSPIRACY

TO EXPLOIT ME”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/8/68. San Francisco Chronicle subhead:

FBI ASSURES PRESIDENT: KING ASSASSINATION WORK OF LONE GUNMAN

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/12/68. Nashville Tennessean subhead:

HOOVER TO AMERICAN LEGION: “RAY WAS THE LONE GUNMAN,

PURE AND SIMPLE”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/13/68. Des Moines Register headline and subhead:

CONVENTION OFFICIALS PREDICT TROUBLE FROM “SUBVERSIVES

AND HIPPIE YOUTH”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/16/68. Seattle Post-Intelligencer headline and subhead:

NIXON VS. HUMPHREY-IT’S TIGHT

MIAMI AND CHICAGO GEAR UP FOR “CONVENTION HIJINX”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/18/68. Las Vegas Sun article:

He’s been a Los Angeles policeman and a celebrity private eye, as well as a World War II marine drill instructor. The plucky Lebanese-American kid from small-town Massachusetts has lived more than nine lives in his 46 years, and now he’s starting out Life Number Ten as the owner-operator of the Golden Cavern Hotel-Casino.

Welcome to Las Vegas, Mr. Fred Otash!

He bought the Golden Cavern from “Big” Pete Bondurant, quite a colorful character himself, also a former L.A. cop, private eye and soldier of fortune. “Pete B. wanted to retire,” Otash told this reporter. “I picked up the Golden Cavern for a song, and that song is ‘Vegas Is My Lady.’ ”

Freddy O. has worn many hats in his lifetime. “That’s true,” he said. “And I’ve had a few hats knocked off my head.” When asked to explain, he replied, “I was run out of the LAPD unjustifiably. I got my Pi’s license and verified scandal stories for Confidential magazine, but Confidential went down behind libel suits. That rumor that I doped a racehorse named Wonder Boy?-100% false. Yeah, I lost my license behind it, but when Hollywood celebs are in a jam, they still yell, “Get me Otash!,” so I’m still the man to see in L.A.”