Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  Ashida gulped brandy. “And you won’t?”

  Dudley said, “I’m a detective. Bill Parker is an administrative drone. I have a long-term need for a brilliant criminologist, Bill Parker does not. I am impervious to frivolous rules, Bill Parker is hamstrung by them. I suspect that you and I are quite alike in that way.”

  Ashida said, “He saved my job. He’s kept my mother out of jail. For now, he’s vouching our freedom.”

  Dudley touched his arm. “Say it, lad. I know you’re thinking it. ‘What can you do for me?’ ”

  A peekaboo moon passed over. The big Irishman took on a glow.

  “Yes, I was thinking it.”

  A woman walked a dog by. Dudley tipped his hat.

  “My good friend Ace Kwan has a plan to provide comfortable shelter to harassed Japanese and safeguard their holdings until the hysteria subsides. William H. Parker will always comport within legal guidelines, even if it means enforcing racial bias. I am in no way constrained by the law.”

  The moon vanished. Ashida felt moonstruck. He had bodyguards. He had patrons. He’d called Kay Lake and arranged to meet her later. He was tête-à-tête with the Dudster.

  “All these covenants and agendas. They supersede common human logic.”

  “It’s a confounding world we live in, lad. It makes the loyalty of gifted men that much more essential.”

  10:19 p.m.

  The black cashmere dress was a knockout. Captain William H. Parker: couturier to stylish informants. Pinch me—am I really here?

  The Red Queen’s home was magnificent and filled with gilded folk celebrating themselves. The windows were covered with velvet drapes specifically purchased for blackout revels. Light itself had been redesigned for this one evening. We cavorted in slashes of light; we were extras in a German Expressionist film about the captives of the Beverly Hills Blitz. This was a bunker! These were some guests for the end of the world!

  The lighting scheme was designed by Gregg Toland, the cinematographer who shot the current Hearst-censured film Citizen Kane. Toland went on a bender when Citizen Kane tanked. He ended up in a Tijuana whorehouse; Claire De Haven and Orson Welles rescued him. They got him to Terry Lux’s dry-out farm and brought him down off Cloud 9. This lighting gig was occupational therapy.

  I circulated, I listened, I talked when compelled. I heard praise for Uncle Joe Stalin and his brave Red troops; the Japanese roundups received properly outraged attention. I left a trail of conversational bait. I dropped my name, my leftist résumé, my anomalous cop-world credentials. Remember me. I’m young and unaccomplished. I’m desperate to impress you.

  The party was now in high gear; I hadn’t yet spoken to Claire De Haven. We drifted in overlapping circles and tracked each other with looks that said Let’s talk later. She’d already researched me—I was certain of it. Dr. Lesnick would have spilled everything that he knew and might have suspected. We needed time alone—and I knew she wanted it.

  I circulated, I listened, I talked when compelled. Dr. Lesnick saw me, acknowledged me and ignored me. Kurt Weill and Lotte Lenya appeared and created a stir. Vladimir Horowitz played a Bach partita on a piano bathed in a searchlight. The sound was smothered by people talking.

  They talked about the war, exclusively. They urgently made their points and were heedless of the points of their interlocutors. It was one huge roar of venomous insight. Everyone had to be more acute in their critique of worldwide slaughter. They were all of the Left and all seeking to upstage their companions and a reigning maestro. They were shrill, didactic, correct about most things. They were heedless of the fact that they’d gain more converts if they just stopped talking.

  Bertolt Brecht cruised by and made a pass at me; I told him The Threepenny Opera was a yawn and sidled off. Reynolds Loftis cruised by and mentioned seeing me at the Anti-Axis Committee. I gave him a my-big-mouth-again response and blushed with a blackout spotlight on me. Loftis seemed charmed; I segued to the war and milked it. Egalitarian L.A., the fellowship of shared catastrophe. Loftis praised my performance at the Robeson show; I told him how the evil cops blasted the Japanese boys—but did not mention the gallant intervention of Captain William H. Parker.

  Loftis left me abruptly; I saw that a handsome young man had magnetized him. I got an idea. It took hold and flourished. Thoughts of Hideo Ashida had sparked the brainstorm—and it would surely ingratiate me with the Red Queen.

  I looked around for her and found her. She stood alone, in zigzagged light. The light was in her eyes; she couldn’t see me watching. She had to have gone to a hairdresser directly from Dr. Lesnick’s office. She wore a Joan of Arc do now; it was straight out of the Dreyer movie. The short crop, the fuck-you bluntness. She wore a velvet dress earlier; she wore a peasant shift now. I scanned the room and gauged her audience. Terry Lux was watching her. Gregg Toland was aiming a camera.

  Her pose, my poses. I got the urge to do something now.

  I took side stairs up to a second-floor landing. The bedrooms were off a long hallway. I tried all four doors; just one was open.

  It was her bedroom. I knew it immediately.

  The room was a clash of color and fabric. The bedspread was plum satin; the walls were flocked green. The armoire and dresser were ebony. The dress she’d worn earlier was there on the floor. Her stockings had been rolled off and tossed.

  Four pewter-framed movie stills centered the room. They displayed Renée Falconetti in The Passion of Joan of Arc. That hairdo/her hairdo. Falconetti’s martyr eyes; Claire posed in zigzag light.

  I felt it. I felt her. I touched the discarded dress and saw that Claire had sweated it through. I was sweating—dark cashmere in a warm room.

  I rifled the nightstand drawers. I found a political tract and tucked it into the back of my dress. I saw a hypodermic syringe and a dozen ampules.

  Falconetti. The short hair, the fierce eyes. Claire’s light-show homage.

  I left the room and brazenly walked downstairs. Claire was gone. Her slaves were setting up a movie screen and projector. I struck a Falconetti pose under those zigzag lights.

  It was my homage to Claire’s homage. I gazed up at the infinite. Someone tossed a shadow on me. It was Claire. She’d changed clothes again.

  She wore a dark skirt and an elegant cardigan. She seemed floaty. Her blue eyes popped with much too much black.

  She said, “La Grande Joan. I’m not surprised that you got it, and that you had to try it yourself.”

  I stepped out of the light. “I’m a ham, but I can’t compete with you in the role.”

  Claire said, “You may or may not be a ham, but you’re like the bad penny. You keep turning up.”

  “I’m here at your invitation.”

  “The Robeson concert, the Anti-Axis Committee, Saul’s office. Where next? I first saw you on Monday, and you’re satirizing me in my own home Wednesday night.”

  I reached into her pocket and stole her cigarettes. I lit up and extended the pose.

  “Invite me to another party. I’ll never turn down anything this seductive.”

  Claire smiled. “Who referred you to Saul Lesnick?”

  “I heard some YSA people discussing him.”

  “Are you a police informant?”

  “I wouldn’t betray my beliefs for the sheer adventure of it. And the few cops who might know that you exist wouldn’t risk putting us together.”

  Claire motioned for her cigarettes. Our hands brushed as she took them. She lit up. I leaned in and cupped her hand.

  “I’m having another party, next Monday night.”

  “I hope you’ll invite me, and I hope there’ll be another blackout.”

  Someone whistled. Someone yelled, “It’s movie time!” Chaz Minear yelled, “I wrote the script, so Reynolds and I will act all the parts!” Vladimir Horowitz called out, “I will provide the all-Russian soundtrack. It will be Prokofiev and Rachmaninoff!”

  Claire’s slaves arranged floor cushions facing the screen. Claire steered me over to
a front-row seat. A man flipped a switch and killed Gregg Toland’s light show. The projector rolled. Oh shit—Storm Over Leningrad.

  Applause, whistles. Good-natured raspberries, boos. The film rolled. Loftis and Minear read over the dialogue; Horowitz soared over them.

  Claire sat close beside me. I moved my lips in sync with the actors and felt her watching me. She understood. I knew the film. It was a cultural artifact of my youth.

  She touched my arm. The gesture meant Thank you. I leaned toward her and whispered.

  “I want to make a documentary exposing the roundups. I have a friend. He’s Japanese. He has police protection, and he could help us.”

  Claire squeezed my hand. Loftis and Minear kowtowed to Horowitz and shut up. The maestro killed off the rest of the movie. The Rachmaninoff Études-Tableaux transcend pap.

  The lights went on. Claire was gone. A handsome young man had replaced Horowitz at the piano. Bertolt Brecht said, “That’s Lenny Bernstein.”

  I went over and stood beside the keyboard. Lenny Bernstein said, “Pick a composer.”

  I said, “Chopin.”

  Lenny Bernstein made room on the bench. I sat down and started playing one of my slow nocturnes. Lenny placed his hands over mine and dictated the tempo. His hands interpreted, my hands made the keys drop.

  12:08 a.m.

  The back room bounced. Waiters laid out booze and corn chips. The PD ran ’round the clock now. Blackouts, late-night briefings.

  It was all justified. The war turned time topsy-turvy. This was unjustified. Dudley had a new pit dog. Ergo—his service oath.

  Call-Me-Jack waved a cocktail and Holy Bible. Parker stood with the gallery. The Dudster, Buzz Meeks, Hideo Ashida. The ratlike Jack Webb.

  Hurricane Kay. She stirs, ubiquitous. Dud’s pit dog was her Sunday-night lover.

  Call-Me-Jack held out the Bible. The pit dog placed a paw on it and held a paw high.

  “Do you, Robert Sinclair Bennett, solemnly swear to protect the lives and property of the citizens of Los Angeles and uphold the bylaws of the Los Angeles Police Department, so help you God?”

  Scotty Bennett said, “Yes, sir. I do.”

  Dudley clapped. Jack Webb whistled. Ashida fish-eyed Scotty. Meeks picked his nose.

  The kid was twenty. He radiated pliability. The Dudster hits paydirt.

  Call-Me-Jack passed out goodies. Scotty grabbed his badge, cuffs and .45. Handshakes circulated. Call-Me-Jack high-signed Dudley and went out the door.

  Webb built highballs. The gang flopped on couches and chairs.

  Scotty was starstruck. Don’t I go to police school? No, you’re a war cop. You break heads for Dudley Smith.

  Parker straddled a chair. “You read my memo. Nancy Watanabe was recently pregnant and had an abortion. So far, the father’s unknown. Let’s take it from there.”

  Meeks said, “We canvassed again. Everybody said the same thing. ‘They’re good wholesome folks.’ ”

  Parker nodded. Scotty looked bewildered. Ashida sat prim. Meeks said, “What about that tract we found at the house? It laid all that Bolshevik shit on the PD.”

  Parker said, “I don’t think it’s germane. It looks like a left-wing tract I’ve seen recently, and I think you’ll trace it to a post office box and determine that it’s nothing but some unscrupulous guy who writes tracts from all positions for a buck. Mail fraud’s Federal, and it seems like a dead end to me.”

  Dudley said, “I agree, sir.”

  Parker said, “We’re four days in now. Sergeant Smith, I want a second summary report. List everything that you and your men have learned. Feel free to extrapolate and state your impressions.”

  Dudley sipped his highball. “Yes, Captain.”

  Meeks sipped his highball. “I talked to Doc Layman. He told me he’s frozen the stiffs. He thinks he might learn some new shit that way.”

  Ashida said, “Stray histamines lie dormant in dead tissue. Freezing cadavers serves to isolate cells. Dr. Layman might be able to tell us something about their degree of panic. We might be able to surmise how long they had foreknowledge of their deaths.”

  Parker lit a cigarette. “Where’s your bodyguard, Dr. Ashida? I want you covered at all times.”

  “I couldn’t locate Sergeant Jackson, sir. I’ve been alone since I got back from T.I.”

  Meeks said, “Elmer was off somewhere, sleeping. He gets all tuckered out auditioning Brenda’s girls.”

  Dudley laughed. Scotty looked dumbstruck. This shit was all Greek to him.

  Meeks lit a cigar. “There’s a rumor floating around, from about a year ago. The pitch is that some folks were looking to buy the Watanabes’ house and their farm in the Valley. We’ve got a second rumor that the house and farm were sold, but it wasn’t officially recorded nowhere, and since the Watanabes were on the ‘A’ list, the Feds have seized all their property records. The Hall of Records didn’t log it, but that don’t mean it didn’t occur. The Watanabes were the only Japanese folks in Highland Park, so I canvassed the Japanese folks in Glassell Park and South Pasadena. I got vague scuttlebutt that some guys—and nobody could put names or races to them—were throwing out sales feelers to the Japanese folks in them areas.”

  Dudley tensed up. He glanced at Meeks and glanced away. It went by rápidamente.

  Meeks waved his cigar. “I took a run by that whole stretch of farmland, out in the Valley. You got Mex Staties riding herd on the Watanabes’ wetbacks and a whole lot of others. Since the Watanabes are muertos, it makes me think that someone else owns their property.”

  Dudley winked at Parker. “I have wonderful friends on the Mexican State Police, just as our dear captain did at one time. It would serve us poorly to harass them. They are invaluable to our extradition efforts.”

  Open secret. He ran bag for Two-Gun Davis. Dudley knew it. They both ran bag to the Staties. It’s his self-loathing sin. It’s the Dudster’s blithe status quo. Call-Me-Jack and Two-Gun had yachts stashed in Puerto Vallarta. Carlos Madrano maintained them.

  Meeks said, “The Watanabes’ phone bills were a bust. They called their farm suppliers and nobody else. They made some calls to pay phones in Santa Monica, which I can’t figure out, but it’s probably just a fluke.”

  Parker looked at Ashida. “Again, Doctor. I want you to do molds on the tire tracks in the Watanabes’ driveway. Their car’s in the city impound, and there’s a Teletype exemplar on the tire treads. Let’s see if we can get some fresh lifts.”

  Ashida nodded. Jack Webb raised his hand.

  Parker said, “You’re not a policeman, Mr. Webb. You’ve ingratiated yourself at the Bureau, but please don’t interfere in this.”

  Jack Webb gulped. His Adam’s apple bob-bobbed.

  “You should hear me out, Captain. I was doing some man-in-the-street interviews yesterday morning, and I think I picked something up.”

  Parker sighed. “Go ahead, then. Air it, and get it over with.”

  Jack Webb gulped. “A sailor told me he saw a black car pull up in front of the Watanabe house at about 2:30 p.m. on Saturday. A middle-aged white man got out and entered the house. He was heavyset and was wearing a purple sweater.”

  The room froze.

  Dud’s first summary. Mauve fibers on the victims. Dr. Ashida’s theory. The killer stood behind the victims and guided their hands on the swords.

  The room unfroze. Meeks relit his cigar. Scotty went I don’t get it. Ashida sat prim.

  Dudley said, “Purple is not automatically mauve.”

  Webb said, “I didn’t get a better description, and the sailor shipped out of L.A. last night.”

  Scotty said, “I don’t understand any of this.”

  Meeks said, “Why should you? You were at the Hollywood High prom when the Watanabes bought it.”

  Scotty evil-eyed Meeks. Dudley grinned. His pit dog showed fang.

  Meeks shot Parker a look. Call it Okie-shrewd.

  Dudley stood up. “I have an engagement, gentlemen. I will bid you a lat
e good evening and take my leave.”

  It had to be Kwan’s. Mark it late chow and collusion.

  The Dudster walked out. Jack Webb shuffled his feet. Scotty stared at his badge. Ashida sat prim.

  Parker said, “Dismissed.”

  The room thinned out. Parker got Meeks alone. Meeks shut the door. Parker walked to the bar and poured bourbons.

  Meeks said, “I never know when you’re on the wagon.”

  Parker said, “Don’t be impertinent. Tell me what the look meant.” Meeks slugged bourbon. “I’m thinking Dud wants to bury this. More than we all do, with a war on.”

  Parker slugged bourbon. “You’re giving me old news.”

  “Bowron and Horrall want a Jap-on-Jap killer. They’re afraid of a backlash on the roundups, which you can’t blame them for.”

  “You’re giving me old news.”

  Meeks booze-dunked his cigar. “Here’s the new news, for what it’s worth. I saw Pinker and Ashida’s full run of trip-wire photos from the pharmacy heist. Aside from the picture that caught the license plate, all the photos I had in my desk were too blurred to make sense. I came into the squadroom yesterday and saw that the negatives had been disrupted, so I braced the photo-lab man. He told me that Dudley went through my desk and had him take another stab at developing them pictures. The guy struck gold that second time, and I saw dupes of the pix. The heist guy is Dudley’s snitch, Huey Cressmeyer. That punk is well known in certain circles.”

  Parker bolted his drink. Meeks refilled him.

  “Is he heavyset and middle-aged? Does he fit for the purple-sweater man?”

  “He don’t, Cap. He’s nineteen, and he was in the Lincoln Heights jail when the Watanabes got sliced. He blew a traffic light and got popped for twelve unpaid tickets. That Sheriff’s butch Dot Rothstein bailed him out at 6:15. She’s Huey’s mama’s main girl.”

  Parker bolted his drink. Meeks refilled him.

  “I got more news, Cap. You ready for it?”

  “Don’t string me along, Meeks.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. That stated, did you read that bulletin on the Sheriff’s van robbery last night? It’s a Fed job. You’ve got the blackout, a hijack and sixty grand in Jap cash gone.”