by James Ellroy
Hudgens chortled. “Did you read my piece in yesterday’s Mirror? If you didn’t, the postscript is a scorcheroo.”
Ashida said, “I’m listening.”
“It’s about your old pal Bucky the B. The Buckster wants to mothball his mitts and come on this white man’s police force. I suggested that he might have to fink out some Fifth Column fucks in order to secure the gig.”
Ashida flushed. “And?”
“And, Bucky snitched you and your family. And, he starts the Academy next May.”
The hallway shook—avalanche, earthquake, flash flood.
Hudgens ghoul-grinned. Ashida about-faced. Room 614 was two doors down. He walked over and straight in.
Parker stood near a wall map. Hammer-and-sickle pins covered Russia. Swastika pins covered Deutschland. A bottle and shot glass were out in plain view.
Ashida cleared his throat. Parker turned around. His gun belt slid down his hips.
“Yes?”
“I was hoping I could talk to you, sir.”
“I’ll venture a guess. You think I can help you retain your city employment.”
“I know you can.”
Parker tapped his wristwatch. “One minute, Doctor. Brevity affords you your best chance to convince me. Don’t repeat yourself. I find repetition taxing.”
Ashida said, “I overheard two detectives talking. They said that you had a woman transcribing the Dictograph taps here at the Bureau. They found it amusing, because you were on the recordings yourself, which implies that you made self-incriminating statements. The two detectives went on to say that Chief Horrall had been informed of your actions, but that he was too cocky and lazy to intercede. The implication was that the taps were an open secret, which does not negate the verifiable evidence of your easily identified voice on the recordings.”
Parker poured a shot and downed it. He’s the Man Who Would Be Chief. He’s belting hard liquor at 12:16 p.m.
“Who were the detectives?”
Ashida said, “Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle. Since they know, it’s safe to assume that Dudley Smith knows the gist of your statements.”
Parker tapped his watch. “Tell me what you want. Do not employ flattery or threats.”
“I want to thank you for stationing Agent Littell at my mother’s apartment. I want to prove myself essential to this police department. I want to keep my job and remain on the Watanabe case.”
Parker took another pop. “What can you do for me?”
“I can pull the taps, trace the wires to the listening posts and erase the recordings.”
Parker dug through his desk and pulled out a folder. Circuit diagrams, certainly.
“Do it now, Doctor. Do it openly. I’m too valuable for Jack Horrall to fuck with. I’ll try to impart that same value to you.”
Ashida bowed.
Parker threw the folder at him.
Parker said, “You heathen cocksucker.”
12:21 p.m.
It’s worse today. It feels more embittered. There are more Federal men and more cop sentries stationed on 2nd Street rooftops. I saw FBI agents swarm a vegetable market. They shackled the proprietor and dragged him to a paddy wagon. A Fed fired his shotgun into the sidewalk vegetable displays. Rock salt shredded rows of cabbage into pulp.
I walked up 2nd Street. I felt invisible as a white woman and anomalous as a police-world provocateur. I’d called Dr. Lesnick’s office and secured an appointment. I’d rehearsed my mockimpromptu meeting with Claire De Haven. 2nd Street registered as official chaos. It was sanctioned by justified outrage and perpetrated in the spirit of racial bias and war hysteria. I was here as Captain William H. Parker’s pawn. I needed to see this within that context.
2nd Street was packed with pedestrians and prowl cars. Sheriff’s deputies milled outside the Sumitomo Bank and loaded money bags into a van. The deputies held machine guns and scanned the sidewalk; an FBI man nailed a government-seizure notice to the door. “God Bless America” echoed from a storefront one block west. I saw red-white-and-blue bunting draped across the façade and men distributing pamphlets by the doorway.
I heard an explosion. It was a shotgun blast. I heard a second burst and saw two Japanese boys prone in the street. They were directly across from me; their trouser legs were torn to bloody strips.
A third boy dashed across the street. I caught a side view of a cop raising his shotgun. Then Captain Bill Parker stepped out of a crowd and yanked the cop’s arms into the air. The rock-salt round exploded at nothing but sky; the boy escaped into an empty building.
The boys in the street flailed at their wounds; a man and woman ran over with rolls of gauze. Captain Parker snatched the cop’s shotgun and ejected the remaining shells. He looked outraged. The cop trembled at his display of assertion. Captain Parker threw the shotgun at him and stepped back out of sight.
He never saw me. It happened very quickly. I walked toward “God Bless America” and the tricolored bunting. I hardly felt my footsteps.
The storefront was the “Anti-Axis Committee.” It was a dispensary for pro-American regalia. The merchandise could not have been made from scratch since Sunday’s attack. Shelves held stars-and-stripes armbands, Uncle Sam hats and anti-Emperor polemics. Browsers browsed. There were Japanese locals, robe-clad Shinto priests and Japanese pastors in dark suits with Protestant collars. A man and woman stood behind a case full of geegaws. They wore AVENGE PEARL HARBOR buttons. Hawaiian leis were draped around their necks; the flowers had been dyed mourning black. The Anti-Axis Committee and everything in it had to have been planned and executed well in advance of Sunday’s events. It did not indicate foreknowledge of the attack. It acknowledged the bloodthirsty designs of Imperial Japan and predicted this moment of response.
The music came from a phonograph perched by the door. A pastor manned the recording disk. “God Bless America” repeated, loud and close-quarters shrill.
A man waved a jar at me; I dug into my purse and dropped in a twenty. The man tossed a red-white-and-blue lei over my head. I bowed and felt idiotic.
The man bowed off and accosted other browsers. I dawdled by a revolving book rack filled with tracts. The place felt like a vaudeville tent.
Reynolds Loftis and Chaz Minear walked in.
I looked down and feigned interest in a “Nisei Heroes” screed. Loftis and Minear saw me; little nods and nudges affirmed it. That crazy girl from the recital. She sure caused a scene!
The jar man sideswiped me again. I sensed Loftis and Minear within range and performed an encore. I deployed a stage whisper this time.
“These tracts are inherently unradical and fail to critique the systematic bigotry that has fueled this counteraggression for the past two horrible days. This cravenly jingoistic display of yours is an insufficient response to the injustice currently being perpetrated on this very street.”
The man cringed. Loftis and Minear heard every word.
I walked outside and turned north on Main. My car was parked at City Hall. I recalled then—the gas gauge was down near empty, and I just gave all my money away. Lee was probably holed up at the Bureau. I could dun him for gas money or visit Elmer Jackson at Vice.
Downtown L.A. was all war and Christmas. Flags, faux fir trees, Salvation Army Santas. Aircraft spotters surrounded City Hall. They resembled dotty bird-watchers. They brought picnic baskets and wore funny hats.
I walked up to the Bureau. The cot room and Vice squadroom were dead. A crowd hovered by the Homicide pen. Call-Me-Jack Horrall, Gene Biscailuz, Sid Hudgens.
I joined them. They ignored me and stared into the squadroom. I tracked their eyes and saw a man disassembling a desk phone. He wore a lab smock and had his back to us. The floor was strewn with detached parts.
The man was removing tap mounts. It was weirdly synchronous. It brought back Bill Parker’s tap-transcription ploy.
The man pulled wires. He turned around and faced the hallway. I recognized him immediately.
The young Japanese. Th
ere at Bucky Bleichert’s fight. There in Little Tokyo yesterday.
Sid Hudgens noticed me. “What gives, Katherine? And what’s with the lei? Were you over at Pearl for the fireworks?”
I removed the lei, dropped it over Sid’s head and pulled him to a spot down the hall. Sid said, “Not here, sugar. Big Lee could show up any second.”
Call-Me-Jack and Gene Biscailuz drifted. I said, “Sid, what is this?”
Sid sniffed the lei and leered. “I’m writing it up as a pro-Horrall piece. Bill Parker talked the Chief into letting that Jap kid do a little wire pulling. The Feds are planning some kind of farkakte probe. The Bureau’s full of recording posts, and the shit on the wires could get half the Department indicted. Parker’s plan is to plant some phony taps and wire rigs after New Year’s and lay in some innocuous jive, which’ll send the Feds home with buppkes. The Jap kid’s name is Hideo Ashida. The Department’s in a bind, ’cause he’s the best crime-lab man in the West, but in case you ain’t noticed, he’s a furshtinkener Jap.”
Hideo Ashida. Hideo Ashida at Bucky’s fight. Bucky rats out Hideo Ashida. I transcribe Bureau taps Sunday morning. Hideo Ashida removes them now.
“Another time, huh, sugar? You, me and a bottle of Courvoisier while Lee’s out of town with the Dudster?”
I blew Sid off and walked into the squadroom. Hideo Ashida snipped wires on a fuse box. He saw me. His smock and pants were grease-smeared and streaked with Spackle dust.
I said, “My name is Kay Lake. Captain Parker had me transcribing the taps.”
Form of address seemed to stump him. A bow or a handshake? This girl discomfits me.
He said, “Dr. Ashida.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets—so there.
“Is your doctorate in electrical engineering?”
He said, “I have two doctorates. I’m a research chemist and a microbiologist. I’m also a criminologist, but that’s a self-bestowed title.”
The whole business vexed him. The Homicide pen was a junk heap. Three detectives lurked by the door. What’s Lee Blanchard’s twist doing with this haughty Jap?
Hideo Ashida squirmed. Decorum flummoxed him. His limbs were impediments. He was diverted from his task.
I said, “I could show you the listening post I worked in.”
“Captain Parker gave me a list of the locations. I have all the information I require.”
He would refuse all offers. I had to state my intent.
“There’s a good deal of work here. I’m going to help you.”
He twitched. He almost bowed. He almost screamed “No.”
He said, “Yes. As you wish.”
2:06 p.m.
It was hard work. I worked in a tweed skirt, silk blouse and cashmere sweater. My stacked-heel pumps slid on the floor. I kicked them off and worked in my stockings.
We unscrewed telephone disks, pulled cords and removed microphones. We worked at close quarters. Dr. Ashida retained an ever-decorous distance. He explained the task of tap removal entirely with gestures. His gestures were ever graceful and fluent.
We went from squadroom to squadroom, listening post to listening post. We lugged boxes; we filled them with transcription logs and yanked wires. Jack Webb followed us for a good two hours. He was a Belmont High chum of Dr. Ashida and Bucky Bleichert. Dr. Ashida went queasy every time Jack mentioned Bucky; I wondered if he knew of Bucky’s betrayal. Jack managed the Belmont track team. “High-Jump Hideo” and “Bucky the Bullet” went to the All-City finals.
Dr. Ashida was deft. Athletics partially explained it. I screened mental snapshots of Bucky and Hideo, Belmont ’35. Pep rallies, cheerleaders, laps on that hilltop track. Locker-room camaraderie and soapy Bucky in the showers.
It was filthy work. I tore my nails, ravaged my stockings and stained up my sweater and skirt. We communicated with nods and hand signals. I smelled his sweat and my own sweat; we lifted, yanked, carried and hauled. Bureau men dropped by and made conversation; they looked askance but refrained from editorializing. I explained the work as Bill Parker’s gambit to thwart a Fed probe; I heard “open secret” a good dozen times. The taps went back to Two-Gun Davis. Cops kept tabs on other cops in a corrupt copocracy. The taps were a perennial pain in the ass. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Dr. Ashida clenched every time I said “Parker.” Bucky Bleichert was the phantom male presence in my life; Captain Parker was the most provocative. Dr. Ashida possessed histories with both men. He was wet-eyed at Bucky’s farewell fight. His association with Captain Parker was all police intrigue.
I wanted his perceptions. I wanted to crack his reserve. I was the interrogator and cop with the rubber hose. Who are these two men? You must tell me what you know.
We worked. We pulled wires, removed microphones, cleaned out listening posts. The kibitzers drifted off at end of watch. I was jittery, hungry, exhausted. We blitzed through and finished our work.
We were disheveled. We were one collective mess.
I suggested a drink at Mike Lyman’s. Scotty was meeting me there later. I knew exactly what Dr. Ashida would say.
He said, “Yes, as you wish.”
5:51 p.m.
We took the freight lift. We went out the 1st Street door as the Hill Street bus pulled up. Dr. Ashida stood aside and let me board first. I dropped two nickels in the fare box. We stood at the front and held the rail. Every passenger on the bus stared.
We were dirty and dramatically unkempt. Yellow man, white woman, war. Did they think we were plotting treason or fucking on the City Hall lawn?
The driver turned south on Hill. We made good time. I yanked the cord and signaled a stop at 8th Street. The driver pulled over and let us off.
The bus pulled away. A man yelled, “Goddamn Jap!” A woman yelled, “White whore!”
We walked into Mike Lyman’s. The supper rush was just starting; Thad Brown stood at the bar. He did a double take and waved to us; I curtsied and waved back. Dr. Ashida preferred seclusion. I knew that. I led him to a back booth.
We settled in. Dr. Ashida said, “Black coffee,” and sanctioned me to fetch it. He didn’t want to risk a pissy waiter. I knew that. I walked to the bar, ordered the coffee and a Manhattan.
The barman served me quickly. I carried the drinks to the booth and interrupted Dr. Ashida. He was daubing his shirt collar. He saw me and dropped the napkin. I stifled a laugh.
“Cheers, Doctor.”
“Yes … Miss …”
“Lake. My name is Katherine Lake, and I’ve gone by ‘Kay’ for years.”
Dr. Ashida said, “Cheers, Miss Lake.” He fiddled with his cup and saucer. He spilled coffee and doused his hands. He wiped them and tucked them under his legs.
I asked him where he attended college. He said, “Stanford.” I told him that I went to UCLA and waited for a response. He nodded. It told me this:
He knew nothing of my Big Lee’s shack-job reputation. He knew Lee but had no dirt on the Boulevard-Citizens job.
“I saw you wave to Lieutenant Brown.”
“I know him through my boyfriend. He works Central Patrol, and his name is Lee Blanchard.”
“Yes. I know Officer Blanchard.”
I said, “Not ‘Lee,’ Dr. Ashida? You certainly outrank him in the police hierarchy.”
He shook his head. “I only use first names by invitation. I know you’re thinking it, so I’ll say it. It’s a commendable Japanese trait.”
I laughed and raised my glass. “Yes, it occurred to me, but I was thinking of that commendable trait within the context of police work.”
“Yes?”
“You have a hierarchy and nonmeritocracy, offset by a paramilitary ethos and casual social codes. Close personal and professional bonds are formed within this oddly flexible structure.”
Dr. Ashida sipped coffee. “Captain Parker commands formality. I would always employ the most rigorous form of address with him.”
I said, “Captain Parker is subtle. He’s using me for an intelligence foray, and ‘using�
�� doesn’t begin to tell the story. He knows that my loyalties will be stretched, because he recruited me with a certain foreknowledge of my likely ambivalence. He’s banking that my ambivalence will grant me credibility with the people I’ve been engaged to entrap.”
Dr. Ashida sipped coffee. I was baiting him. He knew it. He was aroused by the challenge of provocation and response. But, he didn’t see the point. But, the notion of rapport vexed him. He was a scientist. He scorned everything but quantifiable results.
“You transcribed the taps for Captain Parker. I’m wondering how he convinced you to do it.”
I lit a cigarette. “That’s all I’ll be telling you, Doctor. I wanted to see if police intrigue interests you as it does me. You confirmed that it does.”
Dr. Ashida smiled. It delighted me. I sipped my cocktail and smiled back.
He said, “I think Captain Parker has misgivings about the roundups. He assigned an FBI man to look after my mother.”
“I witnessed his misgivings today. And his action with your mother must mean that he values your work.”
“I’m hoping to prove myself indispensable.”
“Yes, but you’re employed by the city, so you’ll be losing your job.”
“I think my position is safe. For now, Captain Parker is my guardian—”
He stopped. I traced his eyes and saw why. Lee was standing there. He was wearing civvies and holding a highball. His shirt was darkly spotted. It looked like congealed blood.
He said, “Aloha, baby. You too, Hirohito.”
I said, “Go home, Lee. Sleep it off. There’s a roast you can heat up.”
“Go home to what? My girl’s out entertaining the Axis powers.”
A hubbub began building close by us. Lee’s slur, my raised voice. People looked over. They poked one another. They strained for better views.
I said, “Shut up, Lee.” Dr. Ashida stared at his hands. Lee pointed to the stains on his shirt.
“Jap blood. A guy named Takahashi ran on me. He’s at Georgia Street Receiving now.”
I stood up. The hubbub built and spread to a whole string of tables. Two waiters stopped to look.
