Perfidia

by James Ellroy

The boys whistled and cheered.

  She squeezed off the full clip. Seven rounds, lucky seven, big noise. Muzzle smoke and cordite stink.

  Plaster chips blew down from the ceiling. Dudley stood up and brushed silt out of her hair.

  Bette’s smile acknowledged his touch. The boys applauded. He took off his suit coat and laid it down. Bette took his arm and curtsied to the floor.

  She said, “Mr. Smith.”

  He said, “Miss Davis.”

  They shook hands, mock-formal. The boys made with the oooh-la-las.

  They returned to the game. Dudley emptied out his wallet, Bette emptied out her clutch. Dudley engineered their losses. The throws went boy to boy. House take, house take. The boys got nigger rich. They were up on Cloud 9.

  His flask went around. Her flask replaced it. Bette brushed plaster off his trousers. Sweet intervals, then her touch.

  The boys started yawning. They were boozed and too lucky to live. Dudley cited the time. The boys groaned. Bette laid down a long and sweet brush-off.

  Dudley passed out toy badges. The boys hugged Miss Davis. She hugged them back and urged them to buy war bonds. She left big lipstick prints on their cheeks.

  They were wobbly-kneed. They wheeled their bicycles out to the parking lot and pedaled off, whooping. Dudley helped Bette into her coat and walked her outside. His prowler was the only car in the lot.

  He lit cigarettes. They stood close and looked at the sky. “Perfidia” ebbed someplace soft inside him.

  Well, then.

  They tossed their cigarettes. They brushed bullet dust from each other’s hair and came in tight for the kiss.

  2:24 a.m.

  Ashida wrote on flash paper. Invisible ink, flammable page stock. His own secret language.

  It was his secret document. It would scald in common sunlight. Kanji script, English, shorthand. Five layers of obfuscated text.

  Mariko’s kitchen table did desk duty. Mariko geisha-girled in the living room. Elmer Jackson was stinko. Ward Littell ballyhooed Bill Parker. Captain Bill secured his berth on the Sheriff’s-van job and shitcanned his roundup work.

  The roundups disgusted Ward. He insistently critiqued the FBI’s “racial agenda.”

  The roundups disgusted Elmer. He called them a “plain old raw deal.”

  Mariko disgusted Ashida. She blabbermouthed to the Japanese papers. Both his T.I. trips proved fruitless.

  Kanji, English, shorthand. Impromptu hieroglyphics.

  He drew the knife scar on the man at Goleta. He drew the knife found in Griffith Park. He drew the faded knife scar on Ryoshi Watanabe.

  He drew the severed foot at Goleta. He drew wavy lines off the sole. The lines signified the smell of fish oil.

  He smelled fish on the man at the farm. He caught a fish-oil scent on broken glass in the Watanabes’ kitchen. Nort Layman noted shrimp oil on the Watanabes’ feet.

  Ashida drew shrimp. His pen wandered. He drew Kay Lake at the Rosslyn Hotel. He drew Bucky and Kay as phantoms, intertwined. He drew Jim Larkin’s koi. He wrote ? He translated: “What did I miss at the Watanabe house?”

  Mariko toasted Nao Hamano. Good American, good mother. Dead at the Lincoln Heights jail.

  Elmer said, “Hear, hear.”

  Ward said, “The Navy’s calling me. Maybe sub duty. I could hibernate and fight the war.”

  Mariko tee-heed. “Ward ladies’ man. Girl in every port.”

  Explosions on 2nd Street. Ploosh, blam and screams.

  Elmer said, “Rock-salt rounds.”

  Ward said, “They’re lacing it with bird shot now. It knocks anything human flat.”

  Mariko tee-heed. “No girls on submarines. I send Ward dirty books.”

  Ward and Elmer haw-hawed. Ashida looked out the window. He saw two boys with shredded jackets, knocked flat in the street.

  Two cops dragged the boys to a K-car. Bucky Bleichert weaved across the street.

  Ashida walked downstairs. Bucky was blotto on the front steps. He beat Bucky up on Wednesday. He still bore contusions.

  Ashida said, “Hello, champ.”

  Bucky said, “You’re the champ, and I’ve got the lumps to prove it.”

  Ashida sat beside him. Their knees brushed. Ashida slid back.

  “You’ve been to the Shotokan Baths. The Harada brothers had a bottle. You’ve been talking boxing for hours.”

  Bucky said, “I retired undefeated. I’m either a chickenshit or the world’s luckiest white man.”

  Ashida smiled. “You’re a little of both.”

  Bucky smiled. “The brothers think I could take Lee Blanchard. I told them they’re nuts.”

  Ashida said, “It’s a toss-up. He’s stronger, you’re faster.”

  Bucky smiled. “Beat me up again, will you? I said I’m sorry, but it sure as shit wasn’t enough.”

  Ashida smiled. “You’ll pummel yourself from here on in.”

  Bucky drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees. It was such a lovely thing.

  “I’ll graduate the Academy in July. We’ll be working together then.”

  Ashida said, “I’ll be in prison. Unless the right white man owes me.”

  2:36 a.m.

  I tended to Lee in the kitchen. His back and arms were covered with small cuts. He stood over the sink, stripped to the waist. I stood behind him with alcohol, tweezers and swabs.

  The new tong truce was rigged for Hop Sing. Many Chinatown residents knew this. They gathered on rooftops and hurled bottles down on the cops. A dozen men were rushed to Queen of Angels; Lee’s uniform shirt was now rags.

  I extracted a shard and daubed the cut. Lee said, “It hurts, but it feels good. Tell me what that means.”

  “It means that your nerve endings were injured in a certain way. Your brain is receiving conflicting signals of pleasure and pain.”

  “Sioux Falls or UCLA? Where you learned it, I mean.”

  “I read an anatomy text. I studied the diagrams of the skin.”

  Lee smoked. I held his head down to get purchase on his wounds. I kept thinking of lovelorn Hideo. Bucky was in the room with us then, Bucky stayed with me now. Hideo was crucial to my documentary-film plan. He was my inside source and device to shape the film into a conflicting political statement. Parker wanted the film to explicate Claire De Haven’s seditious designs. It would do that—while it showed these designs manifested as the exposure of a grave injustice. The film would portray the roundups as systematic brutality, war profiteering and racial hysteria of inescapable dimension. I would convince Claire to shape the film sans editorial comment. She and her comrades would not be permitted to speak on film, and thus validate Parker’s assessment of their treasonous intent. I saw the film as my film and my codicil to Claire’s tract defaming Parker himself. One person would speak to the world in my film—and that would be Dr. Hideo Ashida. He would exposit my ambivalent view of the police world I both loved and despised; he would speak from deep professional knowledge and his deeper personal experience as an oppressed Japanese. This film would nullify Parker’s attempt to further maim Claire De Haven and would liberate Claire from her grandiose martyrdom.

  Lee said, “Scotty B. wasn’t hurt. I bet you’re happy to hear that.”

  “Don’t move your head. I’ve got a deep one here.”

  Lee said, “Did you screw him?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “Did you screw Hideo Ashida?”

  “I offered, but he declined.”

  Lee laughed. “He probably goes for Jap girls exclusive. I’ll hand it to him there. He knows there’s lines you don’t cross.”

  I pulled out the sliver and swabbed blood off the cut. Lee said, “The war’s this license to fuck like rabbits. Not that you’ve ever needed one.”

  2:42 a.m.

  La Guardia said, “These Japs are fat and sassy. I see no mistreatment here.”

  They toured the Fort MacArthur stockade. It was all politics. Mayor Fiorello, Mayor Fletch, dipshit Ed Satterlee. A 1:00 a.m
. call roused Parker.

  The gang was up at Brenda A.’s trick spot. They’d worn out the girls. They still felt jazzed.

  Fletch insisted. “I know it’s late, Bill—but nobody sleeps these days. And it can’t do your career any harm. This guy’s got Roosevelt’s ear.”

  Hence the tour. Hence the Pedro jaunt. Hence the bored MPs and gloomy Japs.

  They were two tiers in. Most of the Japs slept through it. La Guardia jived with the insomniacs. He called them “papa-san.” He said he looooved Mr. Moto. He’d seen all those movies.

  Parker walked with El Jefe. Bowron and Satterlee hung back with the MPs. Parker detailed his blackout work. La Guardia gassed on him. Bowron and Satterlee bristled.

  La Guardia said, “That Jap lady who killed herself had a Jap war bond on her. It sounds Fifth Column to me.”

  Parker said, “It was an unnecessary death, sir. I’m sure she was despondent, but that doesn’t justify the act.”

  La Guardia said, “Live by the sword, die by the sword. The Navy just sank three more Jap destroyers. Those cocksuckers will rue the day they dropped those eggs on Pearl Harbor.”

  They hit the last tier. Parker felt sandbagged. Griffith Park, the morgue and Chinatown. No sleep and this bullshit.

  Bowron said, “All the commandeered Jap real estate will leave the city fat and sassy. So you tell me. Where do we house the Japs?” Satterlee said, “The Army’s got scouting teams combing the Southwest. You’ve got abandoned Army installations that can house six thousand Japs at a pop.”

  Bowron said, “I ran into Preston Exley in Beverly Hills yesterday. We see the same doctor for migraines. You know Preston, right? He was on the PD, and now he’s a land developer.”

  Satterlee said, “Right. The retired inspector who made good in real estate. I’ve jawed with him a few times.”

  Bowron said, “Right. And if you’ve jawed with him recently, you know that he presents a persuasive case for interning some high-line Japs within the L.A. city limits, because a mass incarceration of that magnitude will promote a civilian job boom and keep the Japs close at hand for interrogations.”

  Satterlee said, “Preston’s got the Midas touch. He knows what to buy and where to buy, and he knows how to squeeze a buck.”

  Bowron said, “His people may go back to the Mayflower, but I think he’s got some kike blood.”

  Satterlee said, “He thinks there’s money in Jap property. The question is, Who oversees the property while the Japs are in stir?” Parker yawned and kept pace with El Jefe. Bowron and Satterlee yawned and lagged back. “Hey there, papa-san!”

  “How’s the world treating you?”

  “That Mr. Moto—ain’t he a sketch?”

  They killed off the cell block and hit the fresh air. They lit cigarettes and got revitalized. El Jefe pressed to see a gun placement. Mayor Fletch and Agent Ed suppressed groans.

  They piled into their jeep. Shoreline blackout—the driver drove by roadway Braille. They got up flush to a cliffside. They hit a sandbagged bunker perched there.

  Six men with binoculars. Two tripod-mounted machine guns. Radar gizmos. Deck chairs prearranged.

  The gang piled out of the jeep and into the bunker. La Guardia backslapped the soldiers. Bowron and Satterlee crashed into chairs. Parker lugged a file box Call-Me-Jack gave him.

  He grabbed a chair. El Jefe lubed the soldiers with raw jokes. Fletch and Agent Ed dozed. Parker cracked the file box. He brought a small-beam flashlight.

  Oh, shit. Call-Me-Jack’s new brainchild. The “Wartime Auxiliary Police.”

  Application forms. Applicant dossiers.

  Parker scanned the pages. Call-Me-Jack plays Uncle Sam. He wants YOU! He wants air-raid wardens, airplane spotters, parking-ticket drones.

  The applicants were low-tide. Pensioners, cop buffs, draft dodger types. Boris “Frankenstein” Karloff. Bantamweight Manny Mendez. Nightclub buffoon Lou Costello and the “Hearst Rifle Team.”

  Eight sharpshooters. Regulars at tycoon Hearst’s San Simeon shack. Sheriff Biscailuz endorsed the team. They assisted his mounted posse and corralled jail runaways. All eight men were in the San Berdoo Klan.

  Misanthropes, movie monsters, misfits. The wartime Keystone Kops. Call-Me-Jack drooled for publicity. He’d sign up every one.

  Parker shut his eyes. He tried to doze. It was hopeless. El Jefe had some live ones. He wouldn’t let go.

  Joan Woodard Conville, white female American, age 26.

  She wouldn’t let go. She kept sideswiping him. He called the Motor Vehicle Office and tried to trace her address. No go—she had no driver’s license. He called four nurses’ directories. No go—she wasn’t listed.

  It felt foolish. He felt foolish. He called the Northwestern cops back. He told them to send an ID pic of Miss Conville. It was police-sanctioned peeping.

  His graph work stood in arrears. He was behind on Watanabe Case/​Details-Chronology. He’d been disrupted. Tangential cases stacked up. The Griffith Park triple. The Larkin hit-and-run.

  It was fucked-up. He was fucked-up. The Watanabe case got to him. He cared more than he should.

  A guard hut adjoined the bunker. Parker walked over. The guard boss was out. Parker grabbed the desk phone and dialed the morgue.

  Nort picked up. “Morgue, Dr. Layman.”

  “It’s Bill Parker, Nort.”

  “You can’t let it go, can you? It’s only been four hours.”

  Parker laughed. “Let’s just say I can’t sleep.”

  “You’re not alone there. We’re at war, or haven’t you noticed?”

  Parker said, “You’re still thawing the cadavers, right? I thought you might have more information.”

  Layman said, “Roger that. You read my initial report, right? Shrimp oil on the victims’ feet?”

  “Right, I remember.”

  “All right, then catch this curveball. The freezing and thawing isolated particles in the subcutaneous tissue, under the soles of their feet. I found ground glass covered with shrimp oil on eight feet out of eight. Their feet were heavily callused, which isn’t surprising, because Japs tend to walk around barefoot. What did surprise me was the even distribution of the particles. It was as if they were walking on the glass deliberately.”

  Curveball. Sinker. Wild pitch.

  “Will you issue a statewide coroner’s bulletin on that? Hospitals, infirmaries, doctors’ offices. It’s a long-shot parlay, but put my name and office number on it for callbacks.”

  Layman said, “You’re way out in center field on this one, but I’ll do it.”

  Parker said, “Thanks, Nort. You’ll be rewarded, in this life and the next.”

  “I’ve already been rewarded, Bill.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a hell of a treat to see you obsessed.”

  5:09 a.m.

  This grand manse, this grand lady.

  They made love and talked. The bedroom was tucked in a parapet. Fireplace, dark beams, brushed-cement walls.

  The bed was four-postered. The sheets were peach satin. Casement windows overlooked the Brentwood hills. A handsome Airedale lolled beside them.

  The house was mock medieval. Stained glass and rough wood loomed throughout. Bette loved to fight. Her home portrayed her as embattled.

  Her husband lived above the garage. Bette caught hubby blowing the chauffeur on their wedding night. She banished him then. He escorted her to events and attended queer masquerade balls. He fulfilled her studio morals clause. The chauffeur had a big dick.

  Bette said, “Dudley Liam Smith. Are you surprised to be here?”

  Dudley stroked the Airedale. “Delighted, more than surprised. I would have contrived another form of introduction if tonight hadn’t resolved so serendipitously.”

  The Airedale stretched and kicked up his legs. Bette scratched his back.

  “Do you miss Ireland, Dudley?”

  “No, lass. I do not.”

  “No family there?”

  “British soldi
ers killed my father and brother. My mother drank herself to death. My one aunt ran off to London with a Protestant. He was quite the dashing fellow. He looked like Leslie Howard in Gone with the Wind.”

  Bette laughed. “I screwed Leslie Howard. He looks like a fairy, but I assure you he’s not.”

  Dudley laughed. “Who else have you screwed?”

  Bette said, “Most of the men on the Photoplay eligible-bachelors list. Warner’s made me host the Hamilton High prom party. I was bored, so I screwed the president of the Lochinvars Social Club.”

  The Airedale curled up between them. Dudley laid an ashtray on his back and lit cigarettes.

  “I’m picking Jack Kennedy up at noon. His dad and I go quite far back.”

  Bette laced up their fingers. Dudley stretched the full length of the bed.

  He’d kissed off her lipstick. She was smaller than he thought she’d be. She thrashed a way he’d never seen before.

  “Joe Kennedy made a pass at me once. He was running RKO then. I heard Jack’s an even bigger chaser, but he’s hung like a cashew.”

  Dudley laughed. It shook the bed. The Airedale glared at him. Bette snatched the ashtray and scooted him down to the footboard. He flashed his fangs and went to sleep.

  “Dear girl. How did this occur?”

  “You got lucky. We shouldn’t mince words about that.”

  “Should we give a nod to the war? I sense appetite in the air.” Bette kissed him. “My appetite preceded the war. Ask the boys in Lowell, Massachusetts.”

  “I’m afraid they would make me quite jealous.”

  “I wouldn’t want to see you jealous.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re brutal. Because you’re all enticement and threat.”

  Dudley kissed her. She held his face and rubbed their noses, Eskimo-style.

  “When I saw you, I thought, Oh, the big cop with the crush on me. And he dressed for the role.”

  Dudley crushed their cigarettes and put the ashtray on the nightstand. Dawn beamed outside. The big backyard glowed.

  “Are you always that quick-witted?”

  “Yes. I live by immediate perception. It’s how I’ve survived.”