by James Ellroy
Cantwell said, “We’ll have to have Bill explain this new war to us, Dud. Father Coughlin lays the blame on the coons and the sheenie bankers, and I tend to agree with him.”
Dudley said, “America and Ireland first, Your Eminence. You know where I stand on that.”
Cantwell said, “Let’s get shit-faced drunk and defame that Jew shitheel in the White House. Franklin Double-Cross Rosenfeld, his name is.”
Parker yawned. He was hungover. He craved a hair of the dog.
The phone rang. It hit him as gunshots.
He grabbed it. “Yes?”
“It’s Thad, Bill. Please put Dudley on.”
He passed the receiver. Dudley took it and dispensed winks.
He said, “Sergeant Smith.” He listened. He said, “Certainly.” He passed the phone back.
“There’s devilish mischief in Chinatown. My presence is required.”
Ignore the tone. Read his eyes. Dear God, such glee.
8:33 p.m.
White man’s fellowship diverted. Murder One in Chinatown.
Dudley shagged his K-car and ran Code 3. His roof lights strafed lawn lights and nativity scenes. The siren hurt his ears.
Back roads were best. Silver Lake and Echo Park—the hill route. It should go seven minutes, door-to-door.
It took six. His siren got him through bottlenecks. He skirted Chavez Ravine and hit Ord Street. Tong balloons bobbed sky-high.
This heathen custom. String balloons to fire escapes. It means War.
A crowd was cliqued up. Tong boys ran predominant. Three black-and-whites at the location. A four-floor building, all Chink.
Dudley skidded up, Code 3. Bluesuits flanked the entrance. The place was tight-sealed.
Firecrackers popped. Paper dragons flew. War with the Japs, and now this?
Dudley walked over. The bluesuits pointed up to the second-floor hall. He sailed there. He squeezed by a morgue man. Cigarette smoke blew out a doorway. It meant boocoo cops.
They spilled into the hallway. Thad Brown and Nort Layman. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle. Scotty Bennett with his gorgeous big-kid look.
Jim Davis was there. Two-Gun was Too-Fat now. His two .45’s bulged wide.
The gang greeted him and backed off. It’s the Dudster’s show.
He tipped his hat and sailed by them. Ace Kwan stood by the bedroom door. He saw Dudley and pointed him in.
Requiescat in pace. Dear girl, heaven-sent.
She was on the bed, naked. She was positioned facedown. Blood ran from her hips to her neckline. Note the blood-drenched coverlet. Note the blood-drenched sheets.
Ace said, “My niece. We were too late with our measures. The Japs fucked us up.”
Dudley embraced him. The old man was all sinew.
“I will avenge her, my yellow brother. I will be merciless.”
Ace squeezed Dudley and stepped back. Dudley signaled the living room. Breuning, Carlisle and Scotty B. ran up.
Dudley said, “We’re throwing out a dragnet for Four Families. Mike, call Elmer Jackson at the Bureau. Vice has sheets on all the known members. Get me ten patrol boys from Central, ten from Hollywood, and bring Elmer with you. Dick and Scotty, rouse the coppers downstairs. I want a display of force. Go out and roust all the blue-kerchief punks you see and string up a grand shackle line. I want four paddy wagons. We’re going to fill them with Four Families fucks and drive them to Temple and Alameda. There’s a grand vacant lot there. It’s a perfect interrogation spot.”
Breuning scrawled up his notebook. Carlisle buffed his glasses. Scotty plain loomed.
Ace knelt by the bed. He touched the dead girl’s hair. He fondled colored beads.
Dudley squared up Scotty’s tie. “Your suitability for this profession will be tested tonight. Can you assure me that you will rise to your tasks?”
“Yes, sir. I can.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ call me Dudley.”
Scotty grinned and cracked his knuckles. Jim Davis waddled up.
“Can I help, Dud? I was listening to radio calls and thought, That’s sure as shit a touchy homicide, in my old stomping grounds.”
Dudley bowed, Chink-style. “Of course, Chief. It’s going to be quite the heathen night, and I would be honored to have you join us.”
“It’s been ‘Jim’ since I retired, Dud.”
“The grand jury forced you out, sir. It was a heinously coerced retirement.”
Davis chomped a plug. “You’re very gracious, Dud.”
Ace screeched at the dead girl. Davis joined him and screeched in full Chink. Breuning and Carlisle ignored it. Scotty studied it. The dead girl left him unfazed.
Dudley said, “Lads, Chief Davis will be chaperoning you. Do what he says at all times. He will serve as your interpreter. The tong truce that he brokered has been violated, and we are witnessing the upshot now. Go, lads. God be with you on this garish night.”
The lads smirked and moved. Ace touched the dead girl’s hair and stood up. The blood on the sheets had gone stiff maroon. Ace bowed and stepped out of the room.
Dudley shut the door. Dudley circled the bed. Sirens scree-scree’d outside. He willed the room quiet. He got down and looked.
Her neck was unmarked. Her eyes were shut. He pulled up the lids and checked the pupils. No petechial hemorrhage. No exsanguination. The fuck did not strangle her.
The bedsheets were tucked smooth. Sex did not precede the death. It was not a lust crime. He stripped her to humble her. He wanted to humble the men who loved her. He wanted to violate them.
The dark races declared WAR in this manner. Ravaged women meant WAR. It was ghastly and cowardly.
Dudley studied the girl’s back. The blood had firmed up. The darker patches indicated severed arteries. Dried blood and wet blood covered the stab wounds. It was high-volume spill. It indicated numerous thrusts. It exceeded the standard kill-the-whore two or three thrusts.
He bent over the girl. He got out his handkerchief. He blotted up a dark blood patch. It soaked his handkerchief. He tossed it and grabbed a pillowcase. He swabbed the patch blood-free.
Multiple cuts, off a central puncture. A starburst pattern.
Just like Tachi Tachibana. Just like the photos in Ray Pinker’s book. The feudal warlord’s knife. Eighteenth-century Japan. Huey Cressmeyer’s spiel, yesterday.
Huey knew four crazy Japs. They packed knives that made this precise wound. They lived in Griffith Park. They hated the Chinks. They hated tong chiefs. They believed you must kill their female kin. This vile act bestowed transcendence.
Four Families did not kill Rose Eileen Kwan. Huey’s Jap pals did. Huey used the Japs in last night’s van heist. He made Huey do it.
Dudley slow-eyed the room. He went quadrant-to-quadrant—floor, walls, furniture. He caught a metal glint under a chair.
It was a knife. It was slick with Rose Kwan’s blood. Note the six blades. Note the starburst pattern. It’s not feudal vintage. It’s recently manufactured.
Dudley ripped off a sheet swatch and wrapped the knife up. The evil thing bulged his pocket.
Toss the room. Be thorough, be slow.
He rifled the closet. He went through every drawer. He pulled up the rug and looked under the bed. He saw clothes, books, phonograph records. He opened the books and ruffled the pages. One book, two books, three—
A photograph fell out. It was four by six and in color. The print had faded. It showed a young man.
He had dark hair. He was a pallid non-Caucasian. He might be a Jap-Mex half-breed.
Huey C., yesterday.
A Jap cell guy pregged up Nancy Watanabe. Said guy possessed acne cysts. He said he killed a family in Mexico. It might have been brag. He might have fled back to Mexico. He might be a Jap-Mex half-breed.
The Watanabe job was tidy. The Rose Kwan snuff was sheer sloth. The Watanabe job reeked of singular animus. This was an evil-boys mob. There were probably four killers. The death pose suggested it.
The wrists and ankle
s were not abraded. She did not thrash. Four boys subdued her. She was stripped, pinned prone and stabbed. She wasn’t gagged. One boy pushed her face into the mattress and quashed her screams.
Dudley pocketed the photo and walked out to the hall. Nort Layman and a morgue man perched there. He motioned them in. Ace leaned on the wall.
“What gives, my Irish brother?”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “It’s not Four Families. It’s a cabal of renegade Japs. We will kill them, and Four Families will provide us with a scapegoat that will serve to enhance your power.”
Ace bowed. Dudley grabbed the hallway phone and dialed the Bureau. He heard two rings and one click.
“Homicide, Breuning.”
“Yes, and Johnny-on-the-spot.”
Breuning laughed. “Go up on the roof and look north on Broadway in a few minutes. I wangled the vehicles and the manpower, so it should be some show.”
Dudley said, “I will surely savor it, lad.”
“What else have you got for me?”
“Find Huey Cressmeyer and make him available. Call Carlos Madrano in Tijuana and tell him to drive to Los Angeles immediately.”
Breuning rogered it. Dudley hung up and walked back in the bedroom. Ace waved his beads at dead Rose.
She was up on her side. Nort Layman held a speculum and a mirror. He mouthed “No rape.”
The living room was noisy. Crazy laughs bounced down the hall. Thad Brown swapped Jap jokes with some Chinamen. They were straight off a Bob Hope broadcast.
Dudley stepped out on the fire escape. A paper dragon sailed by him. He climbed up and stood on the roof.
Twenty blues quick-marched up Broadway. They packed shotguns and nightsticks. They smashed windows. They were advance-briefed. We’re out to get Four Families. Tell their affiliates that.
The cops surged north. Four paddy wagons tailed them. Southbound traffic U-turned and vanished.
They smashed windows. They rock-salted fleeing Chinks. They pulled tong punks out of gin mills and nigger-knocked them. Fireworks, dragons, festive music. Forget the Japs. Here comes the L.A. Police.
Cops tossed tongsters in paddy wagons. Cops stomped tongsters on the street. “Display of force.” Festive music and screams.
There’s Scotty Bennett. He’s got two punks by the neck. There’s Jim Davis. He’s a grand pistol-whipper. There’s some rooftop folk enjoying the show. They’re flying the red flag of Hop Sing.
Dudley lit a cigarette. What’s this? A blue-kerchiefed dragon, floating straight at him.
Nose-to-nose now. A fierce reptile. Curled lips and bared teeth.
Dudley held up his cigarette. The dragon bumped into it. Burning embers to dry paper—an instant flame. The dragon exploded. Dudley pushed him out toward the street.
The dragon flew four stories high. Chinks looked up and shrieked. Chinamen grabbed their Chinklets and held them on their shoulders. The fiery dragon swayed in the wind.
Dudley hopped the fire grates downstairs. Broadway reeked of spent cherry bombs. His K-car was unmolested. He got in and swooped to Temple and Alameda.
The lot was pure quiet. He perched there. He reclined his seat and went someplace hazy. He felt that postbennie wooze.
The world disappeared. Time went in a bucket. He heard engine rumble and opened his eyes. The world had relit, all too soon.
Mike B. had Huey C. cuffed. Four paddy wagons idled up ahead. Dick C. and Scotty B. stood with Jim Davis. Two-Gun’s shirt was blood-soaked.
Dudley got out and stretched. Huey quaked. Breuning shoved him in the backseat.
He moaned for his dyke mommies. The lad possessed initiative but lacked male dignity.
Dudley said, “Send the paddy-wagon boys home, Mike. They’ve served their purpose, and they might lack the stomach for this.”
Breuning lammed. Huey boo-hoo’d. Dudley got in the backseat and uncuffed him. Huey pulled out a Mars bar.
“Your Jap chums killed Ace Kwan’s niece. Do you know where in Griffith Park they reside?”
Huey unwrapped the Mars bar. “The hiking path up from the Observatory.”
“Would they be harboring evidence from the van job? Specifically, evidence that might come back to you?”
Huey munched the Mars bar. “Naw. I took everything incriminating with me. And they’re broke already. They gave all their gelt to some radio swami who’s gone on the Japs.”
The paddy wagons rocked on their axles. Dudley heard muffled screams.
“I’m treating you to a Mexican vacation, lad. My friend Carlos Madrano will be escorting you down. You are to remain out of sight as all of this resolves.”
Huey wolfed the Mars bar and licked his fingers. The paddy wagons shook on their axles. Dudley heard muffled screams.
He hit the roof light and held up the photograph. Huey eyeballed it.
“Is this the half-breed with the acne scars? The lad who bragged that he killed a family in Culiacán?”
Huey squinted. “I can’t tell, Uncle Dud. Maybe ja, maybe nein.”
The paddy wagons shimmied on their axles. Dudley heard muffled screams.
He cuffed Huey and walked over. The wagons stood four across. They swayed and banged one another. The screams got worse.
Dudley entered the first wagon. Six tong boys were cuffed on the bench. Dick Carlisle packed a rubber hose. The grip was friction-taped. The business end dripped blood.
Dudley stepped out. Dudley entered the next wagon. Eight tong boys were cuffed on the bench. Mike Breuning packed a beavertail sap. It was lead-stitched.
Dudley stepped out. Dudley entered the next wagon. Five tong boys were cuffed on the bench. Jim Davis packed a billy club and shrieked in Chinese.
Dudley stepped out. Dudley entered the next wagon. Nine tong boys were cuffed on the bench. Scotty Bennett packed his fists.
Scotty looked at Dudley. A skinny tong boy gave Dudley the finger. Dudley laughed. The skinny tong boy spit blood on his shoes.
Dudley said, “Uncuff him. Bring him outside for a bit.”
Scotty unhooked the boy. Dudley stepped outside. Scotty shoved the boy toward him. The rascal spit blood and swayed on his feet.
Dudley said, “Kill him.”
Scotty pulled his .45. Scotty blew his brains out, point-blank.
12:19 a.m.
Mold work. Tire-tread casting.
Difficult in the lab. Add this outdoor setting. Add the cold night and arc light. Add the kibitzers.
Lee Blanchard and Jack Webb. With a jug scrounged at the El Sombrero.
Ashida plastered up a tread trough. Arc light beams singed his neck. He had exemplar pix of the Watanabes’ car. They owned a ’36 Dodge.
He was two hours in. Bill Parker called and ordered the work. He called from Lyman’s. Sid Hudgens was with him. Parker said, “Nobody can sleep, so we might as well be working. I’ve talked Sid into writing a piece on the case. I’m working—so you should be, too.”
He didn’t say “And you’re drinking.” He didn’t say “And you’re buying off a corrupt newsman.”
Ashida worked. Dirt-and-gravel driveways made for good lifts. He’d confirmed the Dodge with six molds.
It was elimination work. He was looking for suspect car moldings. The odds: ten thousand to one against.
It was half-ass quiet now. The Chinatown ruckus had lulled. They heard shotgun blasts a mile southeast. Jack checked his police-band radio.
The Dudster ordered twenty cops out on a riot sweep. The fracas extended. It featured fireworks and high-flying debris.
Ashida daubed plaster. Lee Blanchard and Jack Webb were liquored up. Blanchard was scratched up from Kay Lake.
Jack said, “Scotty Bennett’s on the PD now. You know, that big fullback from Hollywood High.”
Blanchard said, “I think he’s messing around with Kay, not that I give a shit. I saw him going into Lyman’s after that scene she pulled with me.”
Jack said, “I don’t get it. You’re shacked up with Kay.”
Bl
anchard said, “You’re too young to get it. You ain’t figured out that the world is a strange and fucked-up place.”
Ashida daubed plaster. Yes—strange and fucked-up.
Submarines. The Goleta Inlet shed. He drove back to L.A. and developed the photos. He succumbed to fear. He destroyed the Watanabes’ radio with a ball-peen hammer. He burned the ledger. He mixed a sedative and slept for ten hours. He woke up, terrified. It was everything.
The roundups. His thefts. His lies. Crazy Kay and her crazy-girl agenda. Dudley Smith versus Bill Parker.
He studied the shed pix. Physiognomy, eugenics. Three dead men looked Chink. Two dead men looked Jap. They might all be mixed-race. He thought in racial slurs now. The world was this fucked-up place.
Blanchard said, “Hideo’s pals with Kay. They made quite the pair at Lyman’s. Thad Brown damn near shit a brick.”
Jack said, “Quit needling Hideo.”
Blanchard said, “Hideo’s okay. It’s Kay who ain’t—but I love her, anyway.”
Jack said, “Let it go, brother.”
Blanchard tipped the jug. “Scotty Bennett. Another cop. And now your old pal Bucky’s coming on the PD. Kay’ll have her hands full.”
It was cold. They wore their high school jackets. Belmont and Manual Arts. Track meets, the showers, Bucky.
Jack said, “I screwed up at the briefing. I shouldn’t have mentioned the purple-sweater guy. I think Dudley’s peeved at me.”
Ashida said, “You did the right thing. It’s a good lead.”
Blanchard tipped the jug. “It’s a shit lead. Nobody wants a white killer. That’s straight from Horrall.”
Jack snatched the jug. “I heard Mike Breuning and Sid Hudgens talking. I think they’re cooking up something with the DA.”
Blanchard unsnatched the jug. “McPherson’s a mud shark. He used to bring colored girls to my fights and cause a big stink.”
Jack resnatched the jug. “I did an errand for Mike, but he told me it was shitwork at the gate. I called PC Bell and checked those pay-phone calls that the Watanabes made. The clerk gave me the locations. The booths were out by those aircraft plants. You know—Lockheed, Douglas, Boeing.”
Blanchard said, “You’re right, shitwork. You follow these leads, and all you get is shit.”
