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.