The wheelman gig fell on his head. It happened like this:

He kept up with his high-school pal Buzz Duber. Buzz shared his passion for pad prowls. Soft prowls, like this:

Hancock Park. Big dark houses. Preppy girls’ lairs. Knock, knock. Nobody’s home? Good.

You enter undetectably, you carry a penlight, you dig some plush cribs. You walk through girls’ bedrooms and exit with lingerie sets.

He did it a few times with Buzz. He did it a lot by himself. Buzz’s dad was Clyde Duber. Clyde was a big-time PI. He did divorce jobs and got celebs out of the shit. He installed college kids in left-wing groups and got them to rat out subversion. The fuzz popped Crutch on a panty prowl. They snagged him with some black lace undies and a sandwich he glommed from Sally Compton’s fridge. Clyde bailed him out and got his record expunged. Clyde got him wheelman and chump surveillance gigs. Clyde said window-peeping was kosher, but nixed B amp;E. Clyde said, “Kid, I’ll pay you to peep.”

The lot dozed. Bobby Gallard spray-painted an iron cross on his Olds. Phil Irwin popped some yellow jackets with an Old Crow chaser. Crutch daydreamed per Howard Hughes. Brainstorm: assault his swank penthouse! Gain entry by grappling hook!

An unmarked cruiser pulled in. The lot revitalized. Crutch caught a flash of a red tartan tie and smelled pizza.

Beeline-Crutch followed Bobby and Phil. Scotty Bennett got out of the car and kicked blood in his legs. He was six-five. He weighed 230. He worked LAPD Robbery. His tie had 18’s stitched in the weave.

The backseat was stuffed with six-packs and pizza. Bobby and Phil jumped in and helped themselves. Crutch looked in the car and checked the dashboard. Still there: the crime-scene photos, all taped up and yellowed.

Scotty’s fixation: that big armored-car job. Winter ‘64. Still unsolved. Dead guards and scorched heist men-still unidentified. Looted cash bags and emeralds.