by James Ellroy
Parker tossed out his cigarette. Kay Lake tossed hers. Their knees brushed. Fucking rain. The car was a steam room.
“Will your concern for our Japanese citizenry prevent you from accepting this assignment?”
“No.”
“Am I crossing your boundaries in any way?”
“No.”
Parker pointed to the backseat. “Los Angeles Police, Federal and state Subversive Squad reports on Claire De Haven, Reynolds Loftis, Chaz Minear, and some subsidiary scum. We’re going to build a derogatory profile on them. We’re going to see them indicted for sedition and/or treason and see to the destruction of their cell through coercive means. Your job is entrapment. You are to be a stool pigeon, a snitch, a rat and a fink. If those appellations offend you, c’est la guerre. You are an informant. You will collect incriminating information and report it to me. You are a wayward young woman with a traumatically checkered criminal past. I am betting that the Red Queen will find you irresistible.”
Kay Lake said, “It’s a matriarchy. I like that aspect.”
“Paul Robeson is appearing at Philharmonic Hall tonight. You will attend, sans escort. You will meet Claire De Haven and whatever fey men she brings as her escorts. You will steer the conversation to psychotherapy. The Communist Party psychiatrist in Los Angeles is a man named Saul Lesnick. He is a Federal informant. He tends to the psychic needs of Miss De Haven and her slaves, as he concurrently reveals the shallow breadth of those needs to his Federal handler. Dr. Lesnick is also a coerced informant, who is quite vividly susceptible to young women. You will endeavor to meet Dr. Lesnick. Do not tell him that you are also an informant. I want him to unwittingly collude with you.”
Kay Lake hugged the steering wheel. Her brown eyes were incongruous. They clashed with her auburn hair.
Parker said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She said, “I’m too thrilled to speak.”
8:53 a.m.
He walked down to Sunset. He walked for a chance to view Kay Lake on the sly. She cut across to her porch. He heard a radio. She tuned in Roosevelt’s congressional address.
The Bit O’ Sweden was overheated. The waitresses wore dirndl skirts. They looked like Nazi cheerleaders five thousand miles displaced. Beer steins dangled off wall pegs. The décor connoted Hitler at play.
Parker grabbed a window table. The sky cleared a bit. The Strip was lined with fake Christmas trees. Mock snow covered the sidewalk.
A tall redhead walked by. She looked like Joan from Northwestern. She was a Navy lieutenant j.g.
The blues, the gold sleeve bands. That stride, maybe it’s—
Parker ran outside. The woman was gone. A ’36 Dodge pulled away from the curb.
He walked back inside. A zaftig waitress brought coffee. The rain kicked back on. A Herald truck drove by. The side-panel blowup read WAR!
Parker sipped coffee. The wall clock tapped 9:00. Dudley Smith walked to the table.
They shook hands. Dudley said, “Good morning, sir.” Parker said, “Good morning, Sergeant.”
Etiquette. They observed it at work. Catholic fellowship. They called each other “Bill” and “Dud” around Archbishop Cantwell.
Parker said, “You missed Mass yesterday. His Eminence was peeved.”
“It was an inconvenient homicide, sir. I said a novena for the dead Japs, in acknowledgment of the Sabbath. I was up late writing you a first summary, by the way. I routed it to your office at Traffic.”
Parker stirred his coffee. “I read it this morning, so I assume I’m up-to-date. You lost crucial time on the canvass. Were you waiting for Nort Layman’s disposition?”
“Yes. I sent Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle out belatedly, last night. They got nothing. The dead Japs kept to themselves. They were polite and properly diffident to their white neighbors. They had extremely occasional Jap visitors. They did not string Jap lanterns across their property to celebrate their heathen holidays and did not comport in the mysterious ways we Occidentals have come to expect from our Jap brethren. No one noted anything suspicious near the house during the Saturday-afternoon time frame of the presumed homicides, and given yesterday’s events, I would surmise that the white stiffs of Highland Park will not tax their minds for those buried memories that sometimes reappear and solve murder cases.”
Parker said, “Background checks?”
Dudley said, “They’ll be undertaken, but I’d call them futile. Papa and mama were born in Japan, the children were native-born. They weren’t Christian, so you won’t find family, birth, death, baptismal and marriage records in any of the conveniently located Jap churches in Little Tokyo. Our bright colleague Dr. Ashida examined the religious geegaws in the house and anointed the dead Japs as of the Shinto persuasion. As Sergeant Turner ‘Buzz’ Meeks said last night, ‘I like broiled eel as much as the next man, but all of this is Greek to me.’ ”
Parker smiled. “Property-records check?”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Not applicable, for the moment. They own the house and a truck farm in the Valley, but Secretary of War Stimson has issued a Federal seizure order for the property of the Japs on the A-1 subversive list, which Ray Pinker tells me includes our very own dead Japs. With our country in its current state of agitation, I would say that we won’t be able to cut through the Federal red tape necessary to get at those records for some time.”
Parker lit a cigarette. “The son and daughter. Your description of their bedrooms was quite vivid.”
Dudley twirled his ashtray. “I don’t see their implicitly perverted relationship as being germane to the case, but that avenue is being explored. The dead lad and lassie attended Nightingale Junior High and Franklin High School, and Sergeants Breuning and Meeks roused the registrars of those lackluster institutions last night and grilled them per the dead Japlets. The registrars described them as ‘decent kids,’ ‘quiet kids,’ ‘kids who didn’t fraternize with white kids’ and ‘kids who got average grades and stuck to themselves.’ ”
Parker kicked it around. Parker looked out the window. Rain, rain and rain.
“The pharmacy heist, the gunshots at the two locations, the silencer threads?”
Dudley said, “We’ll be checking gun-sales records and robbery reports, but we’ll be coming up against the established fact that only one gun purchaser in six complies with state firearms-registration laws and actually registers their guns. That, and the established fact that Japs are clannish, that Japs sell guns to other Japs exclusively, and that the heist man at the drugstore yesterday was quite obviously a white man. Granted, I consider our dead Japs quite dicey. That stated, homicide is nearly always a closed racial circle, and I do not see a white heist man as a logical suspect in a feigned ritual-suicide murder case.”
Parker shook his head. “Hot potato. You’ve got forty-three Federal agents, Sheriff’s deputies and our Alien Squad working Little Tokyo. Nobody gives a shit about anything but the war, and why should they?”
Dudley said, “Why indeed?”
“Let’s go back to ‘quite dicey.’ I’m thinking of the hate tract and the Axis currency you found at the house.”
Dudley shook his head. “Hate tracts are fiendishly difficult to trace. The post office boxes listed on them are often designations for mail drops that hate merchants and pornographers use to muddle the trail of their filth. It’s a form of collusion that requires the aid of local postal carriers, and even the most seasoned postal inspectors find this sort of investigation problematic.”
Carl Hull knew hate tracts. He should call him and inquire. He should thank him for Kay Lake.
Parker said, “The currency.”
Dudley said, “Yes, I find it interesting as well.”
“Politics.”
“Yes, ‘politics.’ ”
“The A-1 list.”
“Yes. I think we should start there. I’ll be going down to Terminal Island. The Fort MacArthur MPs have a veritable invasion force of Japs in custody there.”
> Parker said, “It’s our logical first step.”
Dudley said, “ ‘Closed racial circle.’ We’re guided by that concept. We should keep an open mind and still cleave to it.”
“You’re the homicide man, Sergeant. How likely is a non-Jap suspect for this thing?”
“Very highly unlikely, sir.”
Parker looked out the window. Rain, rain, rain. War headlines, war on the radio. Kill-the-Japs table chat.
“Cold potato. The Japs sank the Arizona. They’re going for the Philippines now. You can’t run a homicide case in this kind of atmosphere.”
Dudley smiled. His eyes twinkled.
“It’s a dead-ender, sir. I’ll give it the old college try, but I’m not optimistic. In the end, we’ll find that the killings derived from a grave misdeed in feudal Japan. A Jap warlord fucked another Jap warlord’s goat without first seeking permission. That transgression has festered for centuries. It finally came to a head on Avenue 45 in Highland Park, the day before the Japs grievously erred and bombed our grand fleet at Pearl Harbor.”
Parker laughed. “Keep your boys leashed. Don’t frame or kill anyone. This case isn’t worth it.”
9:46 a.m.
Dudley walked out. Parker kicked blood back in his legs. He was nerve-cramped the whole time.
Rain, rain and rain. Drink, shut the world out, walk back up Wetherly. Sleep it off in the car. She might be out on the porch. She might strike poses.
Parker ordered a double bourbon. The first sip burned. He toasted the Pearl Harbor dead and replayed the test blackout.
He took his black-and-white. He traveled sans headlights. The blackout ran 5:00 to 7:00 a.m. He monitored the Department’s two coastline divisions. He drove the coast road from San Pedro to Venice and caught dawn on the sea. No streetlights or traffic lights. House lights and car lights were off. Aircraft spotters were out on the beach. No Jap planes hovered or streaked. They had no glow to sight by and no targets to seek.
He cruised inland and checked individual houses. They were per-guideline dark. He peered through window-shade gaps. He saw strips of light and heard radios. FDR defamed the Japs—over and over.
Twenty-odd houses, all guideline dark. Let’s reprise Deadwood in 1916.
Voyeur. The Lake girl called him that. He was fourteen in ’16. He peered in brothel windows while his father fought the Great War. William H. Parker II came home with The Thirst. He reprised William H. Parker I, after the Civil War truce. Two Army captains. Antietam and the Argonne. War begets The Thirst.
Parker stared out the window. The zaftig waitress brought refills. He thought about Joan and the Lake girl. He fed The Thirst and watched their faces merge.
11:17 a.m.
Visit cell block 9 at T.I. It’s the Jap hot spot in Pedro.
Four tiers. Twelve cells per. Two hundred and sixteen men and forty-two women.
Dudley brought Mike Breuning, Dick Carlisle and Buzz Meeks. They rehearsed interrogation skits on the ride down. The boys were war-fevered. Dudley nixed their enlistment plans.
“We’re the home-front vanguard, lads. We have meddlesome tasks to fulfill before we can run off to glory.”
They hogged a guard stand. They skimmed subversive lists. MPs lounged nearby. A catwalk adjoined the stand. Male Japs were sardine-packed, six per cell. They looked forlorn and fucked-up.
Breuning said, “This is a humbug job. The action’s in the Philippines. Who gives a shit who killed the fucking Watanabes?”
Carlisle said, “Jack Webb’s going for the Air Corps. He’ll be bombing Tokyo before we clear this case.”
Meeks said, “There’s Jap subs off the coast, as far south as Santa Barbara. KFI ran a spot on it this morning.”
Dudley skimmed the “A” summary. The Watanabes were listed. They were “known fascist sympathizers.” Two known associates were named.
Hikaru “Tachi” Tachibana. Born 4/29/03—Kyoto, Japan. Suspected Japanese spy. Popped near the Douglas Aircraft plant in Santa Monica. The date: 3/12/40. In his possession: a peewee camera loaded with infrared film.
Tachibana was released on bail and slated for deportation. Judicial proceedings occurred. Tachibana absconded. He was rumored to be lost in Mexico.
“Frequently seen at the Watanabe produce farm (San Fernando Valley) prior to his disappearance.”
KA no. 2: James “Jimmy the Jap” Namura. Born 11/9/07—L.A. “Known criminal and pro-fascist.” Preston Reform School grad, grifter, dope peddler. Pushed maryjane at Nightingale Junior High.
“Frequently seen at the Watanabe produce farm (San Fernando Valley) early 1941.”
Breuning said, “The check mark by Namura’s name means he’s in custody here. And the Watanabe kids went to Nightingale.”
Dudley said, “Find the tier sergeant. Have Mr. Namura placed in that interview room we passed on our way in.”
Breuning scrammed. Carlisle said, “The Feds are all over Little Tokyo. They’re tossing the Japs in our divisional jails. I talked to a guy on the Alien Squad. He said the Sheriff’s are clearing out the horse paddocks at Santa Anita. Call-Me-Jack thinks we’ll be at our booking capacity by next week.”
Meeks spat chaw juice in an ashtray. “It ain’t right. Most of these fuckers just want to eat broiled eel and put the boots to mama. This is one big upscut that don’t have to be.”
Carlisle slooooooow-burned. Breuning whistled and waved. They ambled to the sweat room.
The door featured a two-way mirror. Inside: a floor-bolted table and chairs. On the table: a fat phone book. By the table: Jimmy the Jap Namura, perched in a chair.
Note the duck’s-ass haircut and swastika tattoo. Note the hophead gaze.
They walked in and locked in. They hovered by the table. Jimmy the Jap giggled. Dudley signaled the lads.
Meeks said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.”
Breuning and Carlisle grabbed Jimmy the Jap and threw him against the wall.
He crashed and bounced. He was thin. It made a flyswatter sound. Breuning snatched the phone book and smacked him in the head. He curled up, centipede-style.
Meeks said, “Enough of that. Mr. Namura is an American citizen.”
Carlisle said, “Bullshit. This is a kangaroo court, and he’s the kangaroo.”
Jimmy the Jap pissed his pants. The lap lake spread to his knees.
Breuning arced the phone book. Dudley pulled his arm down and got in whisper tight.
“Have the tier sergeant locate Mr. Namura’s arrest log. It should include an inventory of the items found at his dwelling. We’re looking for phenobarbital, morphine paregoric, Axis monies, hate tracts, a silencer-fitted Luger and tools to fashion silencers.”
Breuning lammed. Meeks dumped Jimmy the Jap back in his chair. Carlisle smacked him with the phone book. The swat dislodged a gold tooth. It fell on the table and spun.
Jimmy the Jap giggled. Dudley signaled Carlisle and Meeks. Carlisle fed Jimmy the Jap a cigarette. Meeks fed him his hip flask. Jimmy the Jap sucked on the tit.
Note the grateful shudder. Note the now slow-pulsing veins.
Dudley straddled a chair. “Your known associate Ryoshi Watanabe and his family were killed Saturday afternoon. The manner of death was simulated hara-kiri. I’m looking for a convenient Japanese scapegoat, and recent geopolitical events have convinced me that you fit the bill. Your job is to dissuade me. Begin by exonerating yourself. Continue with a primer on the Watanabe family. Entertain me with your knowledge and perception, or you will die in the green room at San Quentin Prison within three months’ time.”
Jimmy the Jap sucked bourbon. His heathen pallor flushed.
“I was at a graduation party up at Preston. A kid I know topped out a three-spot. We got some Tulare gash and fucked them.”
Carlisle said, “Where did you fuck them?”
Jimmy the Jap giggled. “Where do you think? In the snatch.”
Dudley said, “The location, lad.”
Jimmy the Jap tee-heed. “The Sleepytime Lodge, right
off the 101. It’s a dodge the bulls at Preston work. They peddle twat for graduation parties. The girls cut them in for 20%.”
Meeks said, “What time did you check in?”
“About noon, Tex. I’ve seen you in pictures, you know. You’re always the fat guy on the spotted horse who never says anything.”
Dudley smiled. “Sergeant Meeks enjoyed a career as a cowboyfilm extra before he became a policeman. He had a grand speaking role in Shootout at Crested Butte.”
Jimmy the Jap tipped the flask. “I was in a two-reeler once. It was down in T.J. We fed a Mex girl some Spanish fly and got her all hopped-up. She took on me, two beaners and a Doberman pinscher named Rex.”
Meeks said, “What time did you check out of the lodge?”
“Rex had a big dick. It looked like a dousing rod.”
Carlisle waved the phone book. Jimmy the Jap mock-cringed.
“We checked out about 9:00. We clouted a ’36 DeSoto at an auto court off the ridge route and drove to L.A. We hit a Bund rally at Hindenburg Park and gassed on the fräuleins and beer. The gash and my pal peeled off in the DeSoto. I caught a ride with a Nazi cat named Fritz. We smoked a reefer and discussed the Jew question. He dropped me at my place about 1:00. I was still asleep when the Feds popped me. They said, ‘Your people bombed Hawaii, punk!’ I said, ‘So what? What’s that got to do with me?’ ”
Breuning walked in. He signaled Dudley: Nix, nein, nyet.
Carlisle said, “Give us some names. Your pal, the girls, the Nazi guy’s last name.”
Dudley flashed the cutoff sign. “The Watanabes, lad. What can you tell us about them?”
Jimmy the Jap went Light me. Carlisle fed him a cigarette. Jimmy the Jap drained the flask and tossed it to Meeks.
“Ryoshi was in with half the fraternal societies on the West Coast. You know, all those old-country feudal cats. I met him at a track meet at Lincoln High. We used to drink Ma Huang tea and gas on world events. Ryoshi was off the deep end on the Emperor, eugenics and eradicating the Chinks. He was gone on the notion of the worldwide Japanese hegemony. I told him all we needed was Asia, let the Führer take care of the Reds and the Jews, and don’t fuck with the United States. I’m embarrassed, boss. I got no beef with the American white man. Pearl Harbor wasn’t my idea.”
