by James Ellroy
Parker said, “74th and Broadway. I saw the Teletype.”
Meeks licked his cigar. “The gang fired rubber bullets, so the deputies survived just fine. Here’s the kicker, Cap. Huey the C. was a suspect for the 459 of a guard shack when he was up at Preston. You know what got clouted? Rubber bullets and 12-gauge riot guns.” Parker kicked it around. “You’re a Robbery man. I’ll get you a liaison spot on the job. I’ll see if Dick Hood will bring in my friend Ward Littell.”
Meeks said, “Dudley?”
“It’s a check and balance. There’s no stopping him in the short run, but we can minim—”
Meeks jabbed Parker’s chest. “Minimize the grief to your career?”
12:57 a.m.
Call-Me-Jack snarfed Pearl Harbor duck. It was Peking duck dolled up with pineapple rings.
“I like the kid. Thad told me he dusted those shines with aplomb.”
“He did, sir. He’s a fearsome young man, and I hope we won’t lose him to the draft. He’d put in his papers for the Marine Corps, but I think our friend Fletch can get him declared ‘Police-essential.’ ” Call-Me-Jack yocked. “Send him to the Philippines. He’ll dust those Japs with aplomb.”
Kwan’s was deadsville. They dined by themselves. The blackout deterred late-night trade.
Dudley tossed an envelope on the table. “A business venture bore fruit, sir. I want you to share in it, but I shouldn’t divulge the details.” Jack palmed the pouch. “Thanks, Dud. I appreciate the thought, and you know I never require the details.”
Dudley sipped bennie tea. Jack snarfed egg rolls. He was fat and prone to night sweats.
“Give me the rundown, Dud. What have you got, where’s it going, and how can we wipe this off our plate?”
Dudley said, “It’s going nowhere, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the possible opportunities that may well appear.”
“Music to my ears, so keep going.”
“Two unidentified white men have been buying up and attempting to buy up Jap house and farm property, which may prove or not prove to be germane to the case. I’m the only one who has up-to-date knowledge of this, although my boys and the blabbermouth Turner Meeks know some of it. Meeks spilled information to Whiskey Bill tonight, but nothing alarming. Grand William requested a second summary report from me, which I will supply him with in due time. The report will be a masterpiece of ellipsis and omission. Grand William will be satisfied and nullified.”
Jack picked his teeth. “You’ve always had a bug up your ass about Parker. Why do you think I assigned him to ride herd on this case? You and your boys are constrained to a certain point, but you and I pull the strings. I blame the Catholic Church for Bill Parker. He’s blotto on altar wine, and he’s out to punish the world for his own fucked-upedness.”
Cogent, but heretical.
“Parker knows that the Jap internment is a fait accompli, sir. He seems to have some misgivings about the roundups, but he will comply with all official orders and the Department’s version of events, which includes the Watanabe case. It is not within his moral makeup to take any kind of vigilante action. He understands the necessity of a Jap-on-Jap solution, and further understands that failing a wholly verified arrest and indictment, the only proper outcome is to bag a vile Jap pervert and interdict his certain future perversions with Murder One and a gas-chamber bounce. The evidence must be compellingly doctored. The pervert must be a horrifying individual, who must explicate the mad designs of the entire Jap race and thus justify a full-scale racial imprisonment.”
Call-Me-Jack clapped. “Two things, Dud. One, I applaud your summation and wholeheartedly agree. Two, you couched the whole fucking thing in Bill Parker. I blame the Catholic Church again. You men are fucked-up on mystical juju straight out of papist Rome.” Dudley laughed. Ho, ho—you cocksucking heretic.
Call-Me-Jack said, “The roundups are a crock of shit, and we both know it. Most of your local Japs are fine folks, but they should be sequestered until the war veers our way. What I fear is a press backlash. We shouldn’t have to take it—not at a time when the draft will be taking our best men. I’m not worried about losing my job, to Whiskey Bill or anyone else. As long as Fletch B. is in, I’m in. And when I’m out, the City Council will rubber-stamp Thad Brown. What I want is the fucking Japs tucked away, a peaceful wartime city and jerkoff reformers like Parker stalemated until I retire, head to Puerto Vallarta, get shit-faced drunk every night and fuck comely señoritas on my yacht. I want the fucking press to extoll our fucking clean city and clean police department, and I wouldn’t mind making a few bucks out of it. We both know how to carve a buck, Dud. We want the same things, straight down the line, and you’ve got free rein, within reason, to get us what we both want.”
Dudley clap-clapped. “A brilliant summation, sir. I will inform you, to the proper degree of accountability, as events progress.” Jack wiped duck grease off his necktie. “I want the Watanabe case solved and a grand jury indictment rubber-stamped by New Year’s.”
“You shall have it, sir. Although, I should add that our narcoleptic district attorney troubles me. Mr. McPherson is shamefully compelled by the dark races. He frequents bar-b-q establishments south of Jefferson Boulevard, and enjoys the company of Negro prostitutes. I fear that he might dally or equivocate on our indictment.”
Jack went So?
Dudley said, “I would like your permission to sandbag him.” Call-Me-Jack nodded. “New Year’s, Dud. I want a closed-chambers, four-count grand jury indictment. Throw in kidnapping, because the perv held the Japs hostage before he chopped them. That way we get Little Lindbergh and another gas-chamber bounce.”
“You shall have it, sir.”
“New Year’s. That’s unequivocal. That Fed probe on the phone taps is coming up, and I want the Department looking squeaky clean on all matters specifically Jap in advance of that.”
“You shall have it, sir.”
Jack burped. “Parker trumped us and saved our bacon on those phone taps. It’s a fucked-up world we live in.”
Dudley smiled. “It is, sir.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“The prospect of a white suspect has emerged, but I’m sure the lead will play out as fruitless.”
“I know it will.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Sid Hudgens should write up the case, sir. There’s been no ink on it thus far. The war has very badly upstaged us.”
“I’ll talk to Sid. Brenda’s having a poker game tomorrow night. I’ll tell Sid about McPherson. He’ll love that.”
“He’s a grand columnist, our Sid.”
Jack said, “Parker. Any final words?”
“We’ll be having our monthly dinner with Archbishop Cantwell tonight. Whiskey Bill will be playing host. I’ll take gentle digs at him and reinstill a sense of our stalemates.”
Call-Me-Jack smirked. “Will Cantwell wear red robes? Will he tell you how he keesters little boys?”
Nun-raping Protty beast. Vile spawn of Luther and his vile church. “No, sir. His Eminence is far too secularized for all of that.” Call-me-Jack lit a cigar. “What can I do for you, Dud? It’s a two-way street we’ve got here, and you’re doing a damn good job on your side of it.”
“I want to go to war, sir. I have some designs that I’ll share with you in due time, but I’ll leave the implementation to Ace Kwan and my boys. Joe Kennedy has pledged me a commission in Army Intelligence.”
Call-Me-Jack drummed the table. “New Year’s, Dud. Fulfill your duties for the Department, and I’ll grant you a leave of absence.”
A bennie wave hit. He’s in uniform. He’s twirling Bette Davis at the Coconut Grove.
Jack thumbed the envelope. That’s five grand, you Prod fuck.
“Carlos Madrano is embroiled in the case, sir. He’s playing scout for the men buying the properties and running wetbacks to Jap farms.”
“Carlos is sacrosanct, Dud. Don’t rattle his cage.”
Gunshots popped outside
. Call-Me-Jack said, “Fucking tongs. The fucking Chinks are worse than the fucking Japs.”
1:49 a.m.
Tongs, indeed.
He left Kwan’s. Tong jalopies rolled down Broadway. They flew tong antenna flags. Tong boys rumbled in a gas-station lot.
Dudley got his car and U-turned. He smelled tong stink bombs. He saw a tong chain fight. The tongs are restless. They’re all mischief.
He was all mischief. He dropped by Huey’s place before Lyman’s. Huey’s Jap cohorts had lammed somewhere. He told Huey to fetch them and set up a powwow. He had some questions to ask.
Tachi, the Watanabes, deadly feudal knives. Please elaborate on that.
Rain hit the windshield. Dudley pulled into the Hall of Justice lot. A door guard ran over with an umbrella. Ben Siegel had a staff of flunky cops.
The guard served as a lift operator. They elevatored up to the jail. White piss bums and Fifth Column Japs shared cell space.
They turned a corner. There—the Penthouse.
Six cells combined. No bars. Wall-to-wall carpets and cashmere-tufted chairs. A privately enclosed bathroom. Paneled walls and a four-poster bed.
A fully equipped wet bar. The pajama-clad lad himself.
Handsome Ben. Don’t call him “Bugsy.” He’s the Jew Cary Grant.
They shook hands. Ben slid the guard a sawbuck and dismissed him. Dudley lounged on the catwalk wall. Ben stretched out on the bed.
“You’re gaunt, Dud. Jack Horrall must be working you.”
“He is, Ben. I could use a grand retreat, such as this.”
“Gene Biscailuz is the best innkeeper in town. All this for three yards a night. McPherson stalled my release papers, but I’ll be out at noon. I could have stayed to New Year’s, but they don’t celebrate Hanukkah here.”
Dudley laughed. “Ben, you’re a pisser.”
“ ‘The canary has wings, but he can’t fly.’ I was looking at a gas-chamber jolt. You and that Blanchard hump put the skids to it.” Dudley said, “An honor, Ben. Superb compensation and train fare. I bought my daughters Indian beads in Bisbee, Arizona.”
“They’re dumber than the schvartzes, the Indians. They sold Manhattan Island for peanuts. I should have bought L.A. off the beaners when I had the chance.”
Brass tacks now. It’s late. He knows it’s about gelt.
“I’ll be paying off Harry Cohn’s debt to Ace Kwan, and I have a way for Harry to get you your forty-eight. It will most likely take some finagling, but I should have it to you soon.”
Ben studied the ceiling. Salvador Dalí painted the mural swirling across it. Rabid unicorns fucked naked gash.
“Finagle away, Dud. It’s what you do best.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “I have a bone to pick with the DA. He stalled your release, and I’m sure you’d like to see him compromised.”
“I would, Dud. Spare me the details before, so I can enjoy them after. You’ll have a favor on the books while you finagle me the forty-eight.”
“Harry needs to break some union heads at Columbia.”
“I’ll send Mickey Cohen and Hooky Rothman over. They’ll pull Harry out of the shit lickety-split.”
That bennie tea surged. Dudley caught a dizzy spell.
“There are five domestic Nazis two tiers over. They were entombed here on Tuesday night. I would like to have Mickey and Hooky briefly jailed on gun-carry charges. While ensconced, they will beat the Nazis to the point of near extinction. I am attempting to secure the names of every Bundist, Silver Shirt, Klansman and pro-Axis shitheel on my Department and the Sheriff’s.”
Ben studied the ceiling. Dalí owed him. He was stretched thin with cocaine. Ben set him up with Terry Lux. Dr. Terry dried him out.
“Sure, Dud. It’ll inconvenience Mickey and Hooky, but the Dudster will owe them one. It’s all quid pro quo with us guys, and it all comes out in the wash.”
“There’s one more thing, Ben.”
“There’s always ‘one more thing’ with you, Dud.”
“It directly pertains to our chum Lee Blanchard.”
Ben cracked his knuckles. “That cocksucker does nothing but owe me. If he thinks Reles paid it off, he’s got another fucking think coming.”
Dudley said, “I have a swell acquaintance on the Feds, a man named Ed Satterlee. The Feds have a leftist psychiatrist reporting to them, and Agent Satterlee told me that Lee Blanchard’s girlfriend, one Katherine Lake, was seen leaving the good doctor’s office. She has apparently been befriended by a seditious shrew named Claire De Haven, who threw a swell party last night and was overheard inviting Miss Lake to a second party upcoming. You know the Hollywood crowd, Ben. It would please me to get an advance peek at the party invitations.”
Ben cracked his thumbs. “Quid pro quo?”
“Of course.”
“I want to watch Mickey and Hooky slug on the Nazis. I want them to wear sap gloves.”
2:19 a.m.
JAP hordes overrun Philippines! U.S. fliers sink JAP destroyer! JAP parachutists swarm Luzon!
The radio blasted it. Linny’s all-night deli—blackout Beverly Hills.
Kay Lake smoked and ignored her food. She wore a black dress and a trench coat. People stared at them.
Ashida sipped coffee. The British soldier’s brandy had worn off. He still smelled Dudley Smith.
Kay said, “You’re distracted.”
Ashida said, “I have to leave soon. There’s something I need to see.”
“At this time of night? In a blackout?”
“Time has a new meaning now. It’s why there’s so many people here. They can’t sleep, and they’re afraid they’ll miss something.”
Kay stubbed out her cigarette. She ignored the radio and the gawkers. It was très Kay.
He checked Bureau Teletypes and got the word on Goleta. The sub attack did occur. A fishing village got blitzed yesterday morning. It was très hush-hush. The Santa Barbara Sheriff’s sealed it there at the spot.
He took a big risk. He called the Sheriff’s Office and impersonated Ray Pinker. “Can I send a man up?”
They said sure. He didn’t say the man was a JAP.
Kay said, “Thanks for meeting me. I know it’s not really your style.”
“I don’t have a style. I met you because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and because we have engaging conversations.”
Kay smiled. Her teeth were lipstick-smudged.
“You’ll say ‘What do you want?’ to me sooner or later. If I’ve figured it out, I’ll tell you.”
Ashida heard Jap and white girl. The place was full of late-night touts. The place reeked of steamed meat.
“I know what you want. You want to trade perceptions about the world we live in and discuss Captain Parker. He’s given you a task that makes you feel important, and he’s proven himself important to me. You were invited to a party in Beverly Hills, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep. You don’t know what you want from one moment to the next, and now the war’s gotten under your skin.”
The radio erupted. Ashida heard dead and JAPS. The touts cheered and flashed V for Victory.
“I’m acquainted with both of your bodyguards. That fact intrigues me.”
“Yes. Because you see everything as you.”
“On that note, then. I know some people that you might find engaging. We want to film a documentary exposing the roundups, and I thought you might like to help us.”
Ashida shrugged. The radio blared an advertisement. Hacienda Homes in Sherman Oaks! Another Exley Construction smash!
The newscast resumed. JAPS perish as bombed destroyer sinks! Ashida said, “The City Council approved a building plan last year. It was a proposed block of homes in Baldwin Hills, and Exley Construction was given the contract. The buyers’ covenant permitted the Nisei to bid on home sites, but the City Council redlined the provision. The Nisei sued in district court. They won, and a few families moved in. They saw they weren’t wanted and sold their homes back to Exley Construc
tion for a pittance.”
Kay looked around. Ashida traced her eyes. One wall featured Jewish-fighter photos. Barney Ross, Benny Leonard, Maxie Rosenblum. The Lutheran Bucky Bleichert, crouched below them.
Kay blew him a kiss. “I saw Preston Exley, just yesterday. He was leaving an office four blocks from here.”
Their booth adjoined a window. Ashida pulled up the shade. Beverly Hills was blackout dark and flatland flat.
Kay looked out. She stared at a parked car. A big man leaned against it. Ashida recognized him—Officer R. S. Bennett.
It startled Kay. Ashida lowered the shade.
“He’s on the Department now. I was at his swearing-in a few hours ago. He’s our first emergency hire.”
“Do you think he’s following me?”
Ashida smiled. “He’s twenty years old, and you’re nothing but seduction. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were.”
Kay laughed and touched his hand. It shock-waved him. He pulled his hand back. He stood up and toppled his chair.
He walked outside. JAP, JAP, JAP trailed him. The Bennett boy was gone. Beverly Drive was 3:00 a.m. still.
He got his car and drove west. He kept the windows down. It dried his sweat and rewired his adrenaline. Beverly Hills, Westwood, Brentwood. Blackout-dark enclaves.
Santa Monica, the coast road. A clear shot north.
Soldiers patrolled the beachfront. They manned searchlights and scanned the wave break. Sandbagged bunkers, machine-gun nests.
He was risking coastal checkpoints. There’s a blackout, he’s a JAP, he’s got a hot radio in his trunk.
He hid the radio gear from Dudley. They sat in his car and talked. Their shoulders brushed. He skimmed the JAP-language tracts and lied per their contents.
They were anti–L.A. Police. He soft-soaped that aspect and harbored the lead for himself.
Ashida drove north. Raw nerves and sea spray kept him revived. He passed Zuma, Oxnard, Ventura. He saw beach sentries and aircraft spotters. He lucked out on checkpoints—none, none, and none.
