by James Ellroy
“The Ashida kid keeps popping up and making himself useful. He’s like a fucking jack-in-the-box. He helped us on the phone-tap deal, and he threw down against Parker with Ace. He’s chummy with Parker, then he comes in for the other guy. They had to be working rogue on the Watanabe job, which constituted another good reason to cut our fucking losses.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Ace and I have conceived a wartime plan, sir. You’ll be in for 5%. Young Hideo is essential to our endeavors.”
Call-Me-Jack ghoul-grinned. “Tell me as much as you think I should know. You understand how I operate. I’m a see-no-evil/hear-no-evil sort of guy.”
Dudley glanced out the window. Bette’s bond line covered the lawn.
“The internment will produce a significant backlog of affluent Japs, indignant and anxious to avoid incarceration. Ace has tunnels under the Pagoda. They could house a hundred Japs, easily.”
Call-Me-Jack sniffed the air. “I smell green. Give me a little taste, and cut me off before I start drooling.”
Dudley smiled. “I know you know Terry Lux, sir. He hosts our softball games and dries out the film colony elite.”
“Sure. Terry does nose jobs for Yids trying to pass. That, and he’s a do-gooder. He did free work on those kids who got scorched in that pileup on the coast road.”
“Terry’s a face man, sir. He has quite the avid interest in eugenics and other advanced forms of racial science. My plan is to have him cut Japs to look Chink, which may or may not work, given that most white folks can’t tell them apart. The fees will be quite lucrative, and the cut Japs will be able to comport openly in Chinatown, under Ace’s high-priced protection. The procedure itself has not been perfected, but I am optimistic. There’s also a smut-film angle that will certainly play out.”
Jack buffed his badge. “I’m on the hook, Dud. Get to Ashida before I know too much.”
Dudley said, “He is an astonishingly gifted forensic scientist. His gifts far exceed the legendary Ray Pinker’s. I do not wish to see Dr. Ashida or any members of his family imprisoned, and I wish to vouch his sub-rosa employment with the Los Angeles Police Department for the duration of the war. I intend to ensure Dr. Ashida’s services and employ him in my endeavors with Ace Kwan. He is unpopular in the Japanese community at this moment, but that will change when the Japs are hauled off en masse, and a handsome young Japanese man appears to explain the alternatives.”
Jack tapped his wristwatch. “See-no-evil/hear-no-evil. That fucking stated, I will reiterate. I want a Jap killer indicted by New Year’s—no-tickee, no-washee, and I’ll sign your Army release papers the second the grand jury complies. I talked to Sid H. before the rally. He’s going over to the Herald. The Hearst Rifle Team boys are tight with Mr. Hearst, and they set it up. Mr. Hearst has been running hot since that Citizen Kane picture came out, and he’s got a thermometer so far up his ass that it hurts. He’s looking to make friends with some cops not adverse to cracking heads in Hollywood, and your name quite naturally came up. Sid plans to write some front-page spreads once you’ve got a suspect, so don’t shilly-shally. He’s bringing Jack Webb in as his legman, so we’ve got a friendly press on this one.”
A ruckus erupted next door. Dudley checked the wall peek. Mike Breuning waved a Nazi flag. The new men had that caged-beast look. Call-Me-Jack waddled over.
“What gives? What’s with the goddamn flag?”
Dudley said, “You know my boys, so I’ll introduce the other lads. Left to right, we have Bill Koenig, Fritz Vogel and Douglas Waldner. The former two work the 77th Street DB. Waldner is on the Sheriff’s. Their early-wartime loyalties are suspect, and properly so. The Bund, the Shirts, the Klan, the Christian Nationalist Crusade. I would say that my boys have just fulfilled their worst fears of exposure.”
Jack went Tut-tut. “You’re co-opting muscle. It’s slick, son. Dudley Smith knows you fight fire with fire, so he brings in reinforcements.”
“Just so, sir.”
“Go to it, then. I’ve got an early lunch with Mayor Fletch and Ed Satterlee. We’ve got our own Jap shit to sort through.”
Dudley clicked his heels, Kraut-style. Call-Me-Jack yukked and went out a side door. Laughter drifted up. Bette wooed the yokels. Men stretched tall. Their wives glared.
Call-Me-Jack sucked in his gut and stretched to his tiptoes. Bette saw him and made with the smiles. Dudley opened a connecting door. The lounge ruckus died.
He didn’t know the new lads. They made him, fast. It’s the Dudster. He’s Jack Horrall’s hard boy.
Koenig was Scotty Bennett size. Vogel exuded mean. Waldner had that fetching storm trooper look. It urged Jews to flee.
Dudley strolled up to them. He snatched the flag from Breuning and ripped it to tatters. Nobody moved, nobody breathed.
“You’ve heard the threat, and you know that I’ll implement it. Raise your hands if you’re in.”
Vogel raised his hand. Koenig raised his hand. Waldner raised his hand. Scotty stood by and looked young. Meeks stood by and looked sullen. Breuning and Carlisle stood by. They issued subdued mean.
Dudley said, “You are now detached to the soon-to-be-celebrated Watanabe homicide case. You will work under my supervision and the direct orders of Sergeants Breuning and Carlisle. Your job is to locate and help us select a range of suitably coercible eyewitnesses, along with a range of suitably perverse Japanese suspects. For the latter, you will scour the Fort McArthur stockade, the Terminal Island penitentiary, the Hall of Justice jail, the Lincoln Heights jail and the various L.A. Police and Sheriff’s divisional jails for politically incarcerated suspects with no alibis for the afternoon of Saturday, December 6. See Sergeants Breuning and Carlisle for more specific details.”
They took it in. Koenig cracked his knuckles. Vogel snapped his suspenders. Waldner went Ja, mein Führer.
Vogel said, “I’m not squawking, and I don’t mind this kind of work. You coming down on us feels indiscriminate, though. I know a lieutenant at Wilshire who’s twice as jungled up as any of us.”
Dudley said, “You’re speaking of?”
“Carl Hull. I worked the Red Squad with him, under Jim Davis. He’s a 100% America First. How’s this? He wrote that speech that put Charles Lindbergh in the shit.”
Indeed.
Hull was Bill Parker’s confrère. Hull was a scholarly rightist. Bill Parker peruses a Deutsches Haus tract: This looks like a left-wing tract in an outside deal I’m working.
Waldner went antsy. Dudley goosed him. Waldner said, “Hull was in the Shirts. I used to see him at rallies.”
Indeed.
Koenig went antsy. Dudley goosed him. Koenig said, “I saw Hull with that twit Bill Parker, over at Wilshire. It was the day before the Japs hit Pearl. It looked like they were cooking something up.”
Carlisle said, “Nobody move. I know that look. The boss’s wheels are turning.”
Dudley winked at him. “Dick, lad. You and Mike find a copy of Colonel Lindbergh’s grand speech of September 11, and deliver it to Lieutenant Hull at Wilshire Station. Tell him to meet me at the Malibu Rendezvous restaurant at 4:00 p.m. today.”
Breuning and Carlisle lit out. The new lads went Huh? Dudley shut his eyes. It quashed distractions.
He’d talked to Ed Satterlee. Ed said the L.A. Feds owned a fink psychiatrist. Kay Lake was seen leaving his office. A Red shrew named Claire De Haven befriended her. Kay Lake attended a party at the shrew’s home last week. The shrew invited her to a second party held just last night. He was initially tweaked. Ben Siegel got him a guest list. Ace Kwan said Terry Lux was drying out Claire De Haven. Parker. Initial suspicions, strategic concerns. Confluence—the Feds and Dr. Saul Lesnick. The De Haven shrew and Kay Lake. Carl Hull and Bill Parker, “cooking something up.” “Outside deal I’m working.” All instinctive—and all unverified.
Dudley opened his eyes. Scotty Bennett loomed.
“Yes, lad?”
“I’ve got to tell someone. It’s driving me nuts.”
&n
bsp; Dudley said, “Tell them what, lad?”
Scotty said, “I fucked Joan Crawford.”
11:06 a.m.
He just missed Bette. He stepped outside and saw her Packard laying tracks.
She left the place gaga. Men fanned themselves—whew! Little boys compared lipstick-smacked cheeks.
Dudley lit out. He took the parkway-Valley route. He chased three bennies with cold coffee.
He hooked through Pasadena and Glendale. Ranch roads shot him to the Malibu hills. Ace Kwan and Lin Chung did the advance work. Terry Lux approved their guinea pig.
A Jap wino. Strong Jap physiognomy. A eugenicist’s dream.
He phoned Hideo Ashida and told him 1:00 p.m. He said, “Lad, you can’t afford to miss this show.”
The Malibu hills played peekaboo with the ocean. The Channel Islands dipped off a cloud bank. The hill road hit the coast road and dead-ended. Dudley drove north to the spot.
Pacific Sanitarium. Right there, on the land side. Quite the grand spot.
A converted hacienda. Plush acreage. Lovely lawns and a putting green. Robed patients, out strolling. Lourdes for the dissolute rich.
Dudley parked in the porte cochère. Dr. Terry strolled out. Dressed in tennis whites, per always. Terry could play.
Terry closed out Big Bill Tilden once. Big Bill was in for shock treatments. It failed to curb his yen for young boys.
Dudley got out and stretched. Terry ambled up. Women found him enticing. He allegedly bounced both ways.
They shook hands. Terry dispensed a bone crusher. He squeezed tennis balls for a Grip of Steel.
“Dud. Always a pleasure.”
“For me, as well, Doctor.”
“Lin Chung said you observed the cut on a man named Namura.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “I did, yes. Lin was less than satisfied with the results.”
Terry said, “Lin’s a nose-job man. If your Jew daughter’s got a big beak, Lin’s the surgeon for you. Beyond that, he’s a butcher. Beyond that, I don’t know if mass-scale cuts on fugitive Japs is feasible. It might end up being a three- or four-step procedure, with ambiguous results. What I dig is the psychology and race science. The Japs and Chinks hate each other, and it’s virtually impossible to tell them apart. You know the drill on Nanking, right? The Japs dumped Chink babies out of airplanes. All Japs feel superior to all Chinks. Now, you cut Japs to look Chink. I’m a eugenicist. The potential ramifications here wow me.”
Dudley smiled and tossed his cigarette. Terry went After you.
They toured the grounds. Terry furnished narration. Hopheads and boozehounds strolled by them. They sipped purgative potions and cleansed their sapped souls.
There’s Lupe Vélez. There’s that L.A. loop. Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer scraped her. There’s Ellen Drew. Jack Kennedy breezed through her life last weekend.
There’s a frail quail. She’s Andrea Lesnick. Her daddy’s a psychiatrist and left-wing race man. Race science crossed political lines. God was dead. Let’s build Übermenschen to replace him.
That loop again. Saul Lesnick, M.D. Kay Lake was seen at his office.
They entered the main building. Note the long corridor. Note the swank bedrooms and wide-open doors. Note the hopheads lashed to their beds. Watch them writhe and kick white horse.
That loop again. White horse was scarce in L.A. now. His coontown pushers were vexed. Carlos Madrano ran horse in Mexico. That loop—an insiders’ cluster fuck.
The corridor hooked into an ell. Both sides were lined with steam rooms. Note the portholes. Dr. Terry liked to peep.
Dudley peeped. The patients’ names and allotted times were taped to the doors.
There’s Raoul Walsh. He’s gouting sweat in the buff. There’s Anita O’Day, pacing in steam clouds. There’s a tall woman, perched on a ledge.
She’s desiccated but regal. Her ribs show on one side only. Her breasts are asymmetrical. She’s awash in sweat.
“Claire Katherine De Haven.”
Kay Lake’s new friend. Saul Lesnick’s analysand. That loop as ratchet gear.
Click, one more notch. Claire De Haven, leftist dilettante. Fed informant Lesnick. Enter Miss Lake. Click—she could be a snitch herself.
Click—the irregular loop. Click—let’s brace Carl Hull. Click—do I sense Bill Parker here?
He studied Claire De Haven. Her nipples were dark for such a fair woman. Dark veins ran through her breasts.
Terry smiled. Who’s the peeper now? They walked down the hall. The cut room was small. A wizened Jap was strapped to a table-bed.
He was out cold. A plastic bag and feeder tube were hooked to his left wrist. Cutting tools were laid out on a tray.
Hideo Ashida stood by. He clasped his hands that classic Jap way.
Dudley said, “Dr. Lux, Dr. Ashida.”
Terry said, “Doctor, a pleasure.”
Ashida said, “A mutual pleasure, sir.”
Terry donned rubber gloves. “Stand back five feet. There’ll be blood.”
Dudley stepped back. Ashida stepped back. The Jap wino dozed on.
Terry quick-raked his hair with barbers’ shears and got close to his scalp. Terry alcohol-daubed his face and grease-pencil marked it. Terry clamped his head in a vise gadget clamped to the table.
He poked the man’s face. A nurse walked in. Terry mock-growled at her.
She blushed. She placed a sponge tub between the wino’s legs. Terry nodded. She rolled the tool tray over.
Knives, scalpels, skin peelers. Four bone saws. Skin clamps that resembled hair clips.
Terry dispensed winks. He flexed his fingers and picked up a scalpel. He leaned in and cut.
He peeled cheekbone flesh down to muscle strands and rolled it onto a clamp. The nurse sponged blood. Terry studied the strands.
“Maybe, maybe not. If you’re looking for a quick assessment, you’re out of luck. For this to work, we might need something like an assembly line. I think this man might need resinous injections to puff out his cheeks and alter his skin tone—and even then, you’d have more luck fixing him up with a ‘Joe Wong’ ID card.”
A fly buzzed through the room. It circled Ashida’s face. Ashida ignored the fly and studied the wino.
Terry went back in. He cut and stretched tendons. He sopped up blood and fixed studs to ledged bone. The nurse smeared absorbent putty below the wino’s eyes.
Ashida watched. Dudley watched him watch. His eyes dipped to a window at precise intervals. The lad embodied astounding focus. Dudley checked his watch and timed the glances. Three minutes, exactly. Eyes right, eyes left. The procedure to the window and back.
The window framed a picnic lawn. Robed hopheads lingered. The lad glanced out with intent.
Terry cut and sawed bone. Blood sprayed the room. Ashida tracked the window. Five, six, seven times. There, now—see him blink.
There’s Kay Lake, at a picnic table. She’s embroiled with Andrea Lesnick.
Young Hideo and round-heeled Kay. Still chummy past their phone-tap pulls. That loop. Another ratchet click.
Terry sawed. Loose skin hit Dudley’s shoe. He shook his foot and divested it. He walked out to the hallway.
Ashida walked out. Dudley read his gleam.
“Are you impressed? I would assume that this part of our plans would work to safeguard a fair number of your people.”
Ashida said, “It can’t possibly work, but I’m impressed.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Tell me why, please.”
“I’m impressed because it’s a bold and radical measure. I’m impressed because it both acknowledges and plays hell with racial purity, and because it affirms the ultimate separation that defines race.”
Dudley tingled. “You are a very bright penny, Hideo.”
“Thank you, Dudley.”
The saw noise escalated. Terry said, “Shit.”
Ashida said, “I would like to shoot some movie footage with a friend of mine. She gave me a camera. Our intent is to expose the injustice of t
he roundups.”
Ratchet click.
“They are indeed unjust. Proceed, then. You have my consent.”
The saw noise escalated. Terry said, “Shit. I nicked the occipital ridge.”
Ashida hovered close. Their coat sleeves brushed.
Dudley said, “My Japanese brother.”
Ashida said, “My Irish brother.”
3:41 p.m.
The saw noise got to him. Malibu ’41 meets Dublin ’19. Grafton Street—screams and sirens. The noise quashed his good-byes and pushed him outside.
The Malibu Rendezvous was straight across the road. Dudley jaywalked over. Army spotters had commandeered the parking lot. They manned machine guns and searchlights.
Dudley walked in. The motif was lacquered trophy fish and driftwood. Carl Hull had the place to himself. His head poked above a back booth.
A jukebox blared noise. Dudley pulled the plug. The bam! silence spooked Hull. He looked over and saw the Dudster. He bolted his drink and waved on a refill.
Dudley sat down across from him. Hull wore Navy ensign’s blues. Call-Me-Jack okayed his enlistment. He’d heard the scuttlebutt.
“The getup surprises me, Carl. I didn’t think you approved of this war.”
The barman brought a triple. Dudley waved him away. Hull knocked back half of the juice.
“You don’t, either. You don’t sit things like this out, though. You know how it works.”
“I do, yes.”
Hull said, “So does Colonel Lindbergh. I wrote that speech for him, and so what? We both know the Jews engineered this war to put us in hock to the Reds. Your implied threat isn’t much of a threat, and I can’t figure out for the life of me why you’re shaking me down.”
Dudley smiled. “We weren’t at war when you wrote that speech, but we’re at war now. That fact renders my implied threat golden. The Jews are the Jews, and they are a grand scapegoat for all manner of the world’s ills, although I hardly think that their shoddy business practices mandate genocide. You are politically sound only up to a point, Carl. You do not possess the sterling mind and brilliant acumen of your dear friend Bill Parker, and you are blinded by unintelligent hatred in a way that he is not. You flinched when I said ‘Bill Parker,’ Carl. I’m wondering why.”
