“You had 16’s last time.”
“Two male Negroes robbed a liquor store at 74th and Avalon. I just happened to be in the back, holding a Remington pump shotgun.”
Crutch laughed. “It’s the record, right? Fatal shootings in the line of duty?”
“That’s correct. I’m six up on my closest competitor.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was shot and killed by two male Negroes.”
“What happened to them?”
“They robbed a liquor store at Normandie and Slauson. I just happened to be in the back, holding a Remington pump shotgun.”
The air smelled like ripe cheese and sud spray. Scotty wrinkled his nose. Phil was hunkered down to nosh, legs on the pavement. His pants rode low. His ass crack was exposed. Scotty pulled him up by his waistband.
Phil went airborne. Phil got that “Save me” look that Scotty inspired. Phil came to earth feetfirst and snapped to attention. Bobby gulped and snapped to. Scotty winked at Crutch.
“I’m looking for two male Caucasians driving a powder blue ‘62 T-Bird with dark blue fender skirts. They’re clouting steak houses, they’re robbing cash receipts, they’re holding patrons hostage and forcing women to give them blow jobs. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your eyes peeled.”
Crutch said, “Physical descriptions?”
Scotty smiled. “They wore masks. The female victims described them as being ‘normally endowed.’ ”
“Endowed”-huh?-Bobby and Phil slack-jawed it. Crutch smirked. Scotty grabbed the beer and pizza debris and fobbed it off on him. A sausage morsel hit Scotty’s suit coat. Phil trembled and flicked it off.
Scotty got in his car and peeled out eastbound. Crutch eyeballed a blonde at the gas pumps.
Phil said, “He thinks he’s tough, but I know I could take him.”
The lot re-dozed. Bobby landed a rope job. His pet Jew lawyer came by and fed him the gist. It’s a horny hubby-hooker parlay. The wife’s the client. Rent a hot-sheet room and find hubby at his favorite gin mill. Facilitate a chance meeting. Get me snapshots and film.
Buzz Duber cruised by. Crutch ran the Hughes deal by him. Buzz got a brainstorm. He said he knew this nigger midget. The guy played pygmies in jungle flicks. They could send him up to Howard Hughes’ lair in a room-service cart.
Freddy Otash cruised by. He’d lost some weight. He bragged up this low-roller hotel he’d bought in Vegas. He threw Phil a tail job. Phil drove off, half-blitzed.
Crutch and Buzz got dozy from too much beer and pizza. Crutch got doze blips of Dana Lund, softly window-lit.
A horn blared way too loud. Crutch opened his eyes. Shit-there’s Phil’s pet shyster, Chick Weiss.
With his kike-kayak Cadillac. With his frizzy-ass hairdo and his British fop suit. With his fucked-up Caribbean-art fixation.
Weiss said, “I got a fruit gig for you. The guy likes to brown well-hung Filipinos, and I got a mutant packing 10Ѕ inches. The wife wants a divorce, and who can blame her?”
The hubby had a fuck pad at the Ravenswood. Crutch brought a Rolleiflex with a flashbulb bar. Buzz wore door-kicker shoes.
The Mutant met them in the lobby. He had a door key. Crutch was miffed. He craved some kick-the-door-in action. They huddled. Crutch told the Mutant to get hubby in the sack pronto. Buzz told him to provide decent lighting. The Mutant told them to get his schvantz in the pix. He serviced spouses of both genders. He wanted more divorce work. He wanted his heavy-hung status proclaimed.
They cooked up a four-minute countdown. The Mutant skedaddled to apartment 311. Crutch futzed with the camera and secured it A-OK. Buzz ticked seconds off on a stopwatch.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,1-go.
They ran up the stairs. They cut down hallways and found 311. Buzz opened the door. Crutch hoisted the camera. They followed love grunts to a doorway and let fly.
It was all Greek. The Mutant poured hubby the pork with his monster meat in plain view. Crutch tripped the shutter. Pop pop pop pop-the bedroom went flashbulb-white blind. Hubby wailed the fruit-gig standard How Could You? blues. The Mutant pulled on his pants and went out the fire escape. Buzz saw a bag of weed on the dresser and swiped it. Crutch thought, This is the life.
Buzz said, “It had to be a yard long.”
Crutch said, “Under a foot. Remember, Chick Weiss gave us the measurement.”
Clyde Duber said, “We could use him again. Did you get his number?”
Buzz said, “We can find him through the Screen Actors Guild. He’s playing the sidekick on some TV show.”
Clyde Duber’s office, Beverly Hills. Knotty-pine walls, golf trophies and red leather. Dig the wall frieze:
It pertained to that big armored-car heist. Clyde grooved on it. The case was one big bug up his ass. There’s an ink-stained bill behind glass. There’s framed photos of blowtorched stiffs and loose emeralds. There’s Sergeant Scotty Bennett. He’s manhandling two male Negroes.
Clyde kept an amateur file on the case. It was his pet project. Scotty indulged him with knickknacks. Clyde loved Scotty’s sweat-room tapes. They featured male Negroes screaming.
Crutch said, “Freddy Otash bought some hotel in Vegas.”
Clyde poured a triple scotch. “Freddy’s a dipshit. Rumors are circulating, and that’s all I can say about that.”
Buzz said, “Tell Dad about the Hughes deal.”
Crutch scratched his balls. “Life magazine’s offering a million bucks for a photo of Howard Hughes. I think we can do it.”
Clyde made the jack-off sign. Kids-this white man’s burden. Kid wheelmen, kid infiltrators, kid stakeout geeks.
Buzz nudged Crutch. “You got plans tonight?”
“I thought I’d drive around.”
“Shit, you’re going to peep Chrissie Lund.”
Clyde said, “Who’s Chrissie Lund?”
“She’s USC frosh. She’s got Crutch all wired.”
Clyde sipped scotch. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Like 459 PC, breaking and entering.”
Crutch blushed and checked the wall frieze. Memo: buy some tartan bow ties and get a Scotty Bennett crew cut.
Buzz seltzer-spritzed his scotch. “Get us a decoy job, Dad. Send us in to some Commie group.”
“Nix that. You’re too green and you look too square. You’ve got to be able to talk Commie lifestyle shit to make those gigs work. You kids don’t know from social upheaval. All you kids know from is this college-girl gash you can’t get.”
Buzz laughed. Crutch blushed. Memo: study your file and prowl for Scotty’s blow-job freaks.
“Who commissions those infiltration jobs?”
Clyde kicked his chair back. “Right-wing nuts with gelt. They’re all doctors and kings. You’ve got Dr. Charles S. Toron, the Eugenics King. You’ve got Dr. Fred Hiltz, the Hate-Pamphlet King, and Dr. Wesley Swift, the Nazi-Bible King.”
Buzz said, “Dr. Fred’s a dentist. The other guys have mail-order degrees, like all those coon preachers.”
Clyde said, “Defrocked dentist. He got strung out on anesthetic cocaine and started fucking peoples’ teeth up.”
Crutch thought of Dana Lund. Memo: bring a soft-focus lens. Buzz whipped out that bag of weed. Clyde rolled his eyes-kids.
“That reminds me. Dr. Fred’s got a job for us. A woman stole some money from him and absconded.”
Buzz looked at Clyde. Crutch looked at Clyde. Both looks said Me. Clyde flipped a coin. Buzz called tails. The coin hit the floor heads.
Crutch had a flop at the Vivian Apartments. It was a walk-up dive just south of Paramount. Grips and stagehands lived there. Bit players turned lunchtime tricks in a jumbo mop closet. Crutch crammed all his shit into two rooms.
His file shit, his camera shit, his car shit, his bug-and-tap shit. Clyde taught him surveillance. He had phone cords and wire mounts up the ying-yang. He had a full run of Playboy magazine. He had Car Craft back to ‘52. His wallpaper was forty-one Playboy Playmates.