by James Ellroy
“Go home, Lee.”
“Really, sweetheart. I’m enlightened when you keep to white men. But a goddamn Jap?”
I slapped him. My nails raked his cheek. He leaned into my hand and made it worse. Blood trickled over his lips.
Somebody gasped. The whole room gasped. Somebody said, “Oh,” and dropped their drink. I heard glass shatter. Somebody said, “Shit.”
Lee walked out. He bumped a waiter and capsized his tray. A birthday cake with glowing candles fell.
I sat down and looked down. Dr. Ashida bolted my drink.
The hubbub subsided. I heard exhales and dish clatter. A man went Whew!
Dr. Ashida looked at me. His eyelids fluttered. The veins in his neck pulsed dark blue.
“I’ve seen you at the Olympic. You’re always drawing pictures of my friend Bucky.”
“Yes. And I saw you at the fight Sunday night. Bucky waved to you.”
“We’ve been friends for years. We went to high school together.”
I said, “I have a very bad crush on him. It’s all too unseemly.”
A hand touched my shoulder. My rough boy—prompt and dear.
Scotty loomed. Dr. Ashida stood up and stood dwarfed. Scotty said, “Hello, sir. My name’s Bennett.”
Dr. Ashida muttered good-byes. He kept his eyes down and walked away. I nuzzled Scotty’s hand.
He said, “Lee Blanchard’s out on the sidewalk, crying. I’m not complaining, but you sure spread yourself thin.”
The war was two days old. I consorted with suspect aliens and created public scenes. Pinch me—I could be home practicing Chopin.
7:09 p.m.
Mayor Fletch served prime scotch. Parker pledged just one and quick-marched to three. The office was geared for bullshit and booze. Walnut panels, green leather chairs and spittoons.
Jack Horrall said, “The Bureau looks like the Philippines is supposed to look. The fucking Japs invaded today.”
Bowron said, “I heard it was ‘Jap,’ singular.”
Jack said, “Lee Blanchard’s girlfriend was helping out. Jesus, there’s stories on her.”
Parker sipped scotch. His world was upside down. He was losing weight. He’d been living on cigarettes and pretzels.
The roundups verged on unkosher now. The Alien Squad was running amok. Those kids with the rock-blasted legs.
He said, “We can’t fire Dr. Ashida. He’s essential to the Watanabe job.”
Bowron said, “So, it’s ‘Dr.’? Jesus, they’ll let anyone into Stanford.”
Jack said, “You’ve got to concede this one, Fletch. The Jap kid pulled us out of this shit on those taps. We were all on them. I used to call Brenda Allen from Homicide.”
Bowron sipped scotch. “I don’t like it. I already issued the order. ‘All Japs city-employed’ means ‘all Japs city-employed.’ It doesn’t mean we make Charlie Chan an exception.”
Parker sipped scotch. “He pulled all the taps and erased all the wires. The Feds will be coming through in February. He spared us a lot of grief.”
Bowron nibbled a pretzel. “ ‘Fed probe,’ shit. Any probe that isn’t directed at Fifth Columnists will be laughed out of town at its inception.”
Parker said, “We owe the kid, Mr. Mayor. And that means we can’t roust his mother and brother.”
Bowron laced his scotch with Bromo-Seltzer. He rubbed his stomach—goddamn ulcers, shit.
“All right, I’ll concede. Never let it be said that Mayor Fletcher Bowron isn’t an enlightened white man.”
Call-Me-Jack said, “Hear, hear.”
Bowron belted his voodoo drink. The Feds were due at 7:30. Dick Hood, Ed Satterlee, Ward Littell.
Bowron belched. “Lay it out, Bill. You know what we’re here for. The roundups and tomorrow night’s blackout.”
Parker lit a cigarette. “It’s been all over the papers and the radio. The curfew, the specific instructions, the works. Our officers will be working the checkpoints, along with Army sentries. Fleeing vehicles will be fired upon. That’s straight from the CO at Fourth Interceptor.”
Jack whistled. Bowron flashed V for Victory. Spotlights swooped off the City Hall lawn and crisscrossed the windows.
Parker said, “We’ve got Sheriff’s reservists stationed at key intersections. They’ll be looking for drunks and erratic drivers. On the roundups, we’ve got T.I., the Hall of Justice jail, the city jails, and the county honor farm booked to near capacity. It’s starting to feel out of hand. Given the volume, I don’t see how the Feds can accurately assess the innocence or guilt of these people, and we need to accept that it’s highly likely that most of the people being detained are in fact blameless.”
Jack whistled. Fletch B. rubbed his temples—goddamn headache, shit.
“As mayor of the great city of Los Angeles, I am officially anointing Captain William Henry Parker the Third as ‘Comrade Bill.’ ” Jack went Take a bow. Parker bowed sitting down.
“I think we’re headed for a full-scale wartime internment. From what I’ve read, Roosevelt’s leaning that way. This poses the question—where do we house the goddamn Japs?”
Bowron belched. “We implement Federal property-seizure laws and grab all their houses and land. We lease it out and use the money to offset the cost of stockade-type housing.”
The Feds walked in. They filled the doorway. Homo Hoover favored tall men with jawlines. These men personified that.
Bowron served up booze and club chairs. It set a gabfest tone. Dick Hood said, “The Navy sunk two Jap destroyers, and the Reds are bleeding Hitler dry. We’re on the rebound.”
Bowron sipped scotch and Bromo. “The Navy’s got the high seas, but we’re landlocked in L.A. So, gentlemen, if it goes to internment, where do we house the goddamn Japs?”
Ed Satterlee futzed with his cuff links. “Wherever we put them, they pay for it. And why mince words? If they’ve got dough, we house them commensurate with their ability to pay. If they’re short on cash, we fill up the Marine Corps brigs.”
Ward Littell shook his head. “There’s job furlough. The women work in defense plants for a suitable wage. FDR gets his draft bill through Congress, and the men have the option to enlist.”
Hood mimed masturbation. Satterlee rolled his eyes. Littell lit a cigarette and blew smoke his way.
Call-Me-Jack laughed. “The fucking draft. We’ll lose all our best men. All we’ll have left is illiterate thugs.”
Parker said, “That’s all we’ve got now, Chief.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone slugged scotch. Parker’s glow went to a flush.
Satterlee said, “We seized sixty grand at the Sumitomo Bank. A Sheriff’s van is taking it down to the T.I. vault tomorrow night.”
Littell crushed his cigarette. “Is the money itemized? Will it be properly returned to the account holders?”
Satterlee said, “Who gives a shit? We’re at war with these fuckers.”
Hood went Ixnay. “I hate to say it, but Ward’s right. We’ll itemize.”
Satterlee sighed. Bowron mixed a fresh scotch and Bromo. Parker jumped on Hood’s concession.
“All our jails are hitting capacity, and we’re only two days into this. I think we should have the agents conducting the interviews compile a list for habeas. If we release some low-risk Japs, we’ll have more jail space if the real shit hits the fan.”
Bowron said, “I like the sound of it. You divert overcrowding and get the low-risk Japs to go home and snitch the bad apples.”
Hood went Comme ci, comme ça. “It flies, up to a point. Habeas might work, but if we go to full-scale internment, they’re all going back in stir anyway.”
Parker checked his watch. It was pushing 8:00. A Dudster briefing loomed.
Littell said, “You should transfer over to our shop, Bill. We need more clear thinkers.”
Satterlee said, “Comrade Ward, meet Comrade Bill.”
Hood said, “He’s not Mr. Hoover’s type.”
Call-Me-Jack said, “The head G-man�
�s a fairy. I still can’t get over it.”
Parker winked at him. “There’s no way I’d transfer. There’s a job I want right here.”
7:59 p.m.
The briefing was set for the cot room. Hurricane Hideo had blitzed the squad pens. Parker took service stairs down. Dudley sat with Ashida and Buzz Meeks.
Parker took a cot. Meeks passed him an ashtray. Dudley said, “Your play with the taps was brilliant, sir. You were both muckraker and protector of the corrupt status quo. You furthered your personal agenda and enhanced your reputation as a company man. Bravo, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. It was a two-edged sword as a compliment, but I’ll take it.”
Dudley smiled. “Did you play the recordings, sir? Were you stricken by the sound of your own voice and dismayed that you didn’t hear mine?”
Parker winked. “Is that a roll of phone slugs in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
Dudley roared. Meeks yawned. Ashida sat prim.
Parker said, “We’re going back to fundamentals. Yes, the Watanabes possessed an anti-American tract. Yes, Dr. Ashida presents a vivid case for the alleged suicide note being coerced. Yes, the note refers to a ‘looming apocalypse,’ which might indicate either Sunday’s attack or the inevitable American-Japanese conflict. I would doubt that the family had specific foreknowledge of the attack, and the crime itself seems to be more of a familial blood feud than a geopolitical matter. Dr. Ashida, would you care to offer comments from a Japanese-American perspective?”
Ashida nodded. “I would agree and disagree, Captain. The killer or killers had to have been Japanese-fluent, or they wouldn’t have been able to read the suicide note. The ‘looming apocalypse’ line might have been a ruse within a ruse, and one intended to shift attention from a family motive to a political motive, should the suicide come to be revealed as having been staged. More pressingly, we have the spent round and the silencer shards, along with the astonishingly unlikely coincidence of the spent round and silencer shards at Whalen’s Drugstore the same day.”
Dudley beamed. “Doctor, you are a very bright penny.”
Ashida blushed. Meeks unwrapped a cigar. Parker said, “The Watanabes were on the ‘A’ list. I don’t consider it applicable, because I believe the Feds were overzealous in compiling the names in the first place. There were two known associates of the family listed. The first was a reputed spy named Tachibana, who allegedly fled to Mexico. The second was a man named Namura, who’s in custody at Terminal Island. Sergeant, did you follow up on this during your visit to T.I. yesterday?”
Dudley said, “We interviewed Mr. Namura, sir. In point of fact, he was not a KA of the family, and had no true Fifth Column leanings himself. The sergeant of the guard had been complaining of overcrowding, so I took it upon myself to secure his release.”
Meeks eyeballed Dudley. Meeks emitted strange brain waves. Meeks scowled a bit.
A patrol cop walked in. He said, “Phone call for you, Sergeant Smith.”
Dudley followed him out. Searchlights strafed the windows. Somebody outside yelled, “Banzai!”
Meeks high-signed Ashida. “Don’t take it rough, kid. It’s your fucked-up people, not you.”
Ashida blushed. “We keep coming back to the silencers and Lugers.”
Parker said, “Yes, compounded by the fact that Sergeant Smith and his lads killed a man on Saturday afternoon. The man might or might not have fired the gun at the pharmacy, and he was dead himself by the time the Watanabes were killed. It’s a pity, because he might have given us some insight as to that bullet hole on the second-floor landing.”
Meeks whooped—mother dog! Ashida sat prim.
Parker said, “There’s a lesson here. Don’t abrogate due process. The act creates more problems than it solves.”
The Dudster walked back in. Meeks fish-eyed him. Ashida sat prim.
Dudley smiled. “Did I miss anything?”
Parker lit a cigarette. “I told Nort Layman to do advanced blood work on the bodies, and I want Dr. Ashida to do molds on the loose dirt in the Watanabes’ driveway. We had rain yesterday morning, but there’s a corrugated roof over the driveway, so we might get some protected lifts. Fundamentals, gentlemen. I want detailed biographies on the victims and a backup house-to-house canvass.”
A Teletype clattered somewhere. The echo dispersed. The sixth floor was an evacuation zone.
Parker yawned. “There’s been a good deal of anti-Japanese rancor in Los Angeles lately.”
Meeks said, “Imagine that.”
Parker said, “I want Dr. Ashida to have a full-time bodyguard. I was thinking of two men in twelve-hour shifts. Meeks, do you have any ideas?”
Meeks said, “How’s Lee Blanchard and Elmer Jackson grab you? Lee drools for plainclothes jobs, and Elmer’s tired of standing around 2nd Street, sniffing broiled eel. It’s sitting-down work, and both them boys enjoy a good magazine.”
Parker nodded—done. Meeks waved his cigar.
“On the gun angle. One, we know it was a silencer-fitted Luger at both locations. Two, dead heist suspect or no dead heist suspect, it’s the only real lead we got. Three, let’s take a leap and say there’s a fascist slant to this job. The Deutsches Haus over on 15th Street sells Lugers illegally. It’s all over a whole shitload of Subversive-Squad reports.”
Ashida twitched a tad. Parker blurry-eye yawned.
“We’ll raid the place later tonight. I’ll call the Feds. Sergeant Smith, I want you and your boys.”
Dudley smiled. “I bear our Teutonic kin no animus, but we’ll be there with bells on.”
Meeks goose-stepped off his cot. Dudley went Lad, you slay me. Parker shut his eyes.
Get it? I’m half in the bag. I’m bored. I’ve had enough.
Footsteps moved out. Somebody killed the lights. The room spun. The floor dropped under his feet.
The drop might have been a dream. The drop might have been sleep.
8:34 p.m.
Tong skirmish—Four Families versus Hop Sing.
They fought behind Kwan’s. Dudley parked his K-car and watched.
He knew the opponents. Dewey Leng pumped gas at Chuck’s Chevron. He was Four Families. Danny Wong fry-cooked at the Pagoda. He was Hop Sing.
The lads parried with switchblades. They grunted in their brusque language. They scampered and slashed.
Dewey Leng closed the gap. Danny Wong was winded. His knife hand fluttered. Dewey Leng feinted and chopped at his fingers. Danny Wong screamed.
Uncle Ace bossed Hop Sing. Danny was a stellar cook. No killing, please.
Dudley pulled his piece and fired above them. A fence board exploded. The noise spooked the lads. They scurried away.
The kitchen door was off the alley. Dudley opened it and followed a large rat in. Cooks and busboys bowed. He bowed back. Cats chased rats across scrub sinks. Peking ducks cooled.
Dudley walked down to the basement. Ace lounged in his office. A woman hand-stitched armbands. They were red, white and black—pure Deutschenationale. “I am not a Jap!” replaced the swastika.
Ace said, “We sell them to Chinese, Koreans and Jap beasts trying to pass. I foresee brisk business.”
Dudley laughed. Ace signaled the woman: You go. She vanished like female slaves worldwide.
Ace said, “What gives, Dudster?”
“I have many grand notions to share with you, my yellow brother.”
Ace rubbed all ten fingers. “You tell me. Grand notions mean money.”
Dudley snatched the desk chair and swirled it. The office went wheeeee.
“A few questions, first. Tell me again, what does Harry Cohn owe you?”
“Jew cocksucker. It is still nineteen grand. The Jew beast owes Ben Siegel forty-eight.”
“Two grand sums, two grand Jew beasts. Second, have you found the Four Families boy who insulted your niece? Your rivals have been misbehaving of late, and I had pledged death to the lad.”
Ace said, “My boys find him, Dudster kill h
im.”
Dudley tilted the chair. “In due time, my brother. Most pressingly, a Jap lad named Jimmy Namura will be visiting us in a half hour. We spoke on the telephone a short while ago. I hope I wasn’t precipitous in extending the invitation.”
Ace rubbed his palms. He was aglow. Greed became him.
Dudley said, “I believe that the entire Jap population of our city will be interned within sixty days’ time. This provides us with an opportunity to implement your own grand notion to provide them with room and board in your tunnels and coerce them into performing in naughty films. It had occurred to me that the Japs would feel better if they actually looked Chinese, and that you know a morally sketchy plastic surgeon named Lin Chung. He’s no Terry Lux, but he’s a competent man.”
Ace said, “Sounds like a dud deal, Dudster. Japs, Chinamen—the white man cannot tell us apart.”
Dudley said, “Yes, but you had told me that Dr. Chung was a noted eugenicist who had studied racial surgery as performed by Herr Hitler’s regime. I thought he might appreciate a chance to indulge his curiosity.”
Ace shrugged and grabbed the phone. Ace dialed a number and spieled rabid Chink. A busboy walked in Jimmy Namura. Jimmy the Jap wore khakis and a silk bowling shirt.
He Sieg Heil!ed Dudley and scowled at Uncle Ace. The busboy scrammed. Uncle Ace dumped the phone and scrammed with him. Japs brought home the Rape of Nanking.
Jimmy the Jap clicked his heels. Dudley said, “You’ve worn out the joke, lad. It was amusing the first time, but no more.”
“I’ve learned something, boss. I told you you wouldn’t regret springing me.”
Dudley pointed to a chair. Jimmy the Jap got comfy. He had that eager-snitch look.
“Here’s the windup and the pitch, boss. El Jefe Madrano isn’t a partner with that white stiff buying up all the Japanese properties. All that skinny I told you about the stiff owning the Watanabe house and all that ‘phantom ownership’ jive es la verdad, but El Jefe’s just a scout, and there’s really two white stiffs. The ‘phantom ownership’ is officially recorded somewhere, but that’s all I’ve got on that.”
Dudley said, “Continue, please.”
“That first pitch was a strike, boss—and I got another fastball coming. You’ve got two white stiffs, but I’ve got no names. They’ve bought city properties and farms from families named Ugawa, Hiroki, and Marusawa. They own the Watanabe farm and their flop in Highland Park, all through some ‘dummy corporation.’ That cat we talked about, Hikaru Tachibana, was the two guys’ bird dog, and he allegedly got the deal on the Watanabe farm done. Tachi was out on bail and had some deportation hearing pending, but he absconded and started running a string of chippies up in Hollywood. Now, he gets arrested under a phony name, gets bailed and goes absconding again. Remember, he’s supposed to be hiding in Mexico—but I heard that a Japanese guy snuffed him right after he brokered the deal on the Watanabe farm. So, allegedly, Tachi’s muerto, anchored with lead weights and buried in some dirt-covered well hole out there in that farm stretch.”
