James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 Read Online Free PDF Page A

blitzed on who-knows-what. Buzz had this mean streak that he lacked. Buzz carried a fake cop’s badge and coerced head out of hookers. Nix that. Holding it in was better.
    It was warm out. A summer storm brewed. Crutch took a drive. He circled up to Hollywood Boulevard and out to the Strip. He looked at people. The longhaired girls jazzed him and the longhaired guys rubbed him wrong. He trawled for that ’62 Bird and Scotty’s blow-job bandits. He saw two fags in a ’61 Bird and no more.
    He drove east to Hancock Park. He cut his lights and perched at 2nd and Plymouth. That big Spanish house held him.
    Window glow flickered, upstairs and down. He saw Chrissie in USC sweats—one glimpse and gone. He saw Dana tie her hair back in the kitchen.
    Buzz didn’t get it. Nobody got it. That’s why he never told anyone. It wasn’t Chrissie Lund. It was always Dana Lund, and she was fifty-three years old.

3
    Dwight Holly
    (Washington, D.C., 6/16/68)
    S
POOKS:
    The restaurant was thick with them. Mr. Hoover ran a head count. Dwight watched his eyes click. Colored waiters, colored lobbyist, colored baseball ace. The old poof was frail. He slurped his soup palsy-style. He’d lost some beats, his brain still sparked, his circuits cranked on
HATE
.
    Harvey’s Restaurant, midtown D.C., the big lunch rush. A big be-seen spot. Big eye-click action.
    Mr. Hoover said, “Did Wayne Tedrow Jr. kill Wayne Tedrow Sr.?”
    â€œYes, Sir. He did.”
    â€œExtrapolate, please.”
    Dwight pushed his plate back. “Carlos Marcello bought off LVPD and the Clark County coroner. A blunt-force trauma homicide was ruled a heart attack.”
    Mr. Hoover smiled. “Stroke would have affirmed the golf aspect.”
    Dwight lit a cigarette. “I won’t ask for more details, Sir. I’ll commend your sources and move on.”
    â€œCaptain Bob Gilstrap and Lieutenant Buddy Fritsch viewed the crime scene. They were aware of the animus between Tedrow
père
and
fils
, and both officers are beholden to Mr. Marcello.”
    â€œMr. Marcello is a wonderful friend to the Nevada law-enforcement community, Sir. He sends lovely gift baskets at Christmas.”
    Mr. Hoover
beamed
. “Really?”
    â€œYes, Sir. The false bottoms cover casino chips and hundred-dollar bills.”
    Mr. Hoover
glowed
. “Did Junior take part in any recent Memphis operations that you might have heard about?”
    Dwight winked. My lips are sealed. Mr. Hoover snagged a toast point and shooed off a waiter.
    â€œYou are an eloquent man, Dwight. You understand your audience and play to them inimitably.”
    â€œI rise to the occasion of you, Sir. There’s no more to it than that.”
    Spook action stage left. A spook waiter sucked up to the spook baseball cat. Mr. Hoover tuned the banter out and tuned in to the spooks. He was seventy-three. His breath reeked. His cuticles bled. He lived off digitalis and skin-pop amphetamine. A Dr. Feelgood supplied daily injections.
    Click—he’s back again. Click—he’s back to
you
.
    â€œOur other homicides. The gaudier and more scrutinized ones likely to inspire loose talk.”
    Dwight stubbed out his cigarette. “Ray and Sirhan are psychopaths, Sir. Their statements confirm their paranoia, and the American public has come to expect grandstanding delusion in its assassins. There
will
be loose talk, but it will be replaced by public indifference over time.”
    â€œAnd the Tedrows? Are we exposed there? Reassure me in your most bluff-hearty manner.”
    Dwight said, “Senior’s death is in no way suspect. Yes, he ran Klan ops for us, but it’s never become public knowledge. Yes, he peddled hate pamphlets, but he was never as publicly voluble as our hate-pamphleteering chum, Fred Hiltz. Yes, he was slated to take over Ward Littell’s job for Howard Hughes, which might have created speculation. Yes, I think Junior will