by James Ellroy
Hull jiggled his glass. Booze sloshed on the tablecloth.
“Wonder away, Dud.”
Dudley said, “I’m monitoring Parker. I have no intention of upsetting the applecart of anything he or the two of you may be running outside of your normal duties. You hitched your star to the man a long time ago, and I am simply gathering intelligence to vouch my autonomy in the unfortunate event that grand Bill becomes Chief.”
Hull unclenched. He stirred his drink and licked the swizzle stick.
“You’re tweaking me for a reason. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Dudley said, “I have a left-wing psychiatrist turned out by the Feds, and his dope-fiend daughter sprung from Tehachapi. I have a leftist woman named Claire De Haven, and Officer Lee Blanchard’s inamorata, Katherine Lake.”
Hull smiled. “We’re operating the Lake girl. It was Bill and I, but I pulled out. We wanted to build a sedition profile on the De Haven woman and these Reds she lords it over. The real war starts when this one ends. You know that as well as I do. We wanted to get our feet wet and lay the groundwork for what’s coming. I had a pink sheet on the Lake girl. We knew she was out for kicks and malleable beyond our wildest dreams. We sent her in to collect dirt on Claire De Haven, but I had second thoughts.”
Dudley smiled. “And your second thoughts pertained to?”
Hull said, “Bill himself. The operation was a sweet deal, and justified all the way. Bill was out on a limb with it, though. He’d lost his sense of proportion, and I could tell that he was off the deep end on the girl.”
Dudley shook his head. “Such zealotry saddens me, Carl. It is always naïvely conceived and fatuously executed. I would call Miss De Haven and her cell harmless. They may prove to be convenient scapegoats for aesthetic reasons, but I find ‘sedition’ an uncomfortable stretch. I may or may not ask you to monitor this silly pogrom for me. If you inform Bill Parker of our conversation, I will kill you.”
4:34 p.m.
Sentry posts ran down the coast. MPs scanned southbound traffic. The beachfront was jammed with machine-gun nests.
Ashida felt Jap and looked Jap. He was too Jap to get cut and look Chink. It wouldn’t work anyway. The Lux-Smith plan was madness. He told Dudley that. The Japanese and Chinese were one race. Nationhood divided them. Biology did not. Terry Lux knew that. He simply wanted to cut.
The notion remained tantalizing. It was a controlled experiment spawned by world war. How would racially altered people behave? An all-new discipline of eugenic psychology results.
Ashida swerved inland. He couldn’t risk a stop-and-frisk. He was stretched thin. He might blurt the names of his many white patrons. They were the ones stretching him.
He said good-bye to Dudley and huddled with Kay. She was soon to join Claire for a mud bath. Claire gave Kay camera gear for Comrade Hideo. He secured permission to film the roundups. Comrade Dudley granted consent.
The canyon was narrow-laned and twisty. He oversteered and induced fishtails. His foot slipped off the clutch.
He was exhausted. He’d been up since dawn yesterday. Every moment stretched him.
Kay’s love charade stretched him. Claire stretched him. She cogently analyzed the roundups. She said, “Will you shoot some film for us, darling? Your eye would be invaluable.”
He said, “Yes.” It was easy. That fact astonished him.
He went home. He tried to sleep and failed. He got up and worked the Watanabe case.
He canvassed Japanese curio shops. He pressed on swords purchased by white men. Half the shop owners recognized him. They refused to converse. The other half said they knew zilch.
The roundups were on overdrive. He choked on the hate and fear. He saw Bill Parker, couched in his car. He appeared comatose. The Sunday-morning Parker was all raw-sober nerves. The Tuesday-morning Parker was half-dead.
He called the War Department and tried to track Jack Webb’s lead. Jack said a sailor saw the purple-sweatered white man. The sailor shipped out of L.A. that night. He pressed a clerk on troop movements for December 6. The clerk refused to divulge.
He called PC Bell. He requested records for the Santa Monica pay phones. The clerk told him to submit the proper forms.
He went to the morgue and talked to Nort Layman. They discussed The Knife found at the Griffith Park scene. They reexamined the wound photos of the four dead Watanabes. They reexamined the frozen cadavers nine days postmortem.
They agreed. It might be The Knife, replicated. The Knife might be the murder weapon.
They discussed the poison found in the victims’ livers. He detailed his tea-and-soiled-clothes theory. Nort found it credible. Nort identified the poison by its bond components. It was anachronistic and was not mass-produced under a brand name.
It could not be purchased wholesale or retail. A skilled chemist could manufacture it in large or small quantities. The killer was a skilled chemist or knew a skilled chemist. Said chemist was adept at ancient Asian chemistry.
The cut-through hit the Valley. Ashida took ranch roads to the Cahuenga Pass. Hollywood traffic was light. Full dusk was on. He could shoot Little Tokyo at twilight.
Sunset downtown, Alameda south. A sawhorse roadblock at 1st Street.
He pulled up short of the barricade. He rolled film into the camera. He screwed on a mid-range lens.
Metal wheels crunched. He tracked the sound to the far side of the roadblock. Four cops pulled a jumbo handcart into view. It was piled high with rifles and shotguns.
Small radios fell off and shattered. A fat Fed trailed the cart. He held a cocked revolver.
Ashida heard screams and smelled tear gas. A Japanese boy ran toward the cart, rubbing his eyes. The fat Fed fired over his head and blew out a second-floor window.
J. Edgar Hoover leaned on a government limo and watched. Hoover wore a camel-hair topcoat. His hair was pomaded. He was diminutive.
Ashida noticed a black-and-white parked three car lengths up. He knew that license plate. He walked up and checked the front seat.
Bill Parker sleeps again. He looks beyond half-dead now. A photograph rests on the dashboard.
A woman. Quite the stern beauty. Plaid shirt, jodhpurs, high boots.
Ashida studied the photo. It was sharp-contrast black-and-white. The woman was probably red-haired.
6:41 p.m.
My separate-bedroom terrace blazed with light. Lee had strung up Christmas bulbs and laid out scuffed furniture meant to be rained on. The motif acknowledged the weather and the war. I wanted to perch here on winter nights and watch festivities down on the Strip; I wanted to kill the lights on the blackout nights that were sure to come. Sirens would sound; the city would go dark within moments. I wanted to be here for that.
Scotty and I sat in deck chairs and sipped bourbon. Tinseled Christmas trees and REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR! signs were interspersed and backlit all along Sunset. We linked hands every so often and stayed in our separate selves.
We had both been out in the world today. I’d sat naked in steamed mud and plotted revolution with a woman I intended to betray; Scotty had plotted a “pervert sweep” with Dudley Smith’s boys. It was drudge work for the Watanabe case, an unfolding event that bewildered him—the boy who became a policeman less than a week ago. Still, he was a quick study. He was learning the rituals of the Los Angeles Police Department, and had begun to employ its vernacular.
Mike Breuning, Dick Carlisle and Buzz Meeks were “strong-arms.” Three new cops had been co-opted for a stint of “heavy work.” Their new duty was to “haul in Jap sex fiends,” “ex-cons with perv jackets” and “ding-farm runaways.” Bright boy, troubled boy—part pastor’s son, part thug. You’d be tussling with Catholic lads and fucking me at the best hotel in Aberdeen if you weren’t here with me now. The Bureau’s New Year’s dance is coming up. Wear your kilt and formal dinner jacket; I’ll wear a black silk dress and a tartan sash to match your ensemble. Rest your hand on my leg and call me “Katherine,” darling. You’re imperiously tall. You mak
e me wish that I was as tall as Claire Katherine De Haven.
Claire and I removed our robes and stepped into the mud bath; the mud was warm and caused us to get goose bumps. We took in each other’s bodies as we slid in.
Claire was depleted from her dope-purging treatments and was quixotically alive with notions of apostasy. I thought she’d try to draw me out and trap me in falsehoods and contradictions. I was wrong. She wanted to discuss our movie.
I wanted to make a film devoid of stated text. That tactic would foil Bill Parker’s attempts to deploy the film as evidence of sedition. It would nullify Parker’s mission, while I made his mission my grand moment in the overall grand moment of the war. Claire was fixated on the roundups as a grave and immediate injustice. She considered Hideo Ashida to be the deus ex machina of the male Japanese psyche, and believed that he should editorialize on film. I agreed, but stipulated that anything he said must be void of inflammatory content. Claire said she planned to speak at a rally in Pershing Square Thursday morning. The rally loomed as a populist free-for-all. Gerald L. K. Smith would spew hate for the Christian Nationalist Crusade; the Young Socialist’s Party and Bund would be there. Claire and Reynolds Loftis would speak themselves.
She said, “Darling, you should speak. I’m playing a hunch here. You could fire up our crowd, and the crew could film their reaction. You’re right about actual speeches undercutting the force of the mise-en-scène. But you can give the speech, and we can capture the response.”
I enthusiastically agreed. I would tell the crew to film my speech with full sound; I would make certain that that moment ran unexpurgated in the movie. The segment would mark my defiance of William H. Parker and would strike a blow to the heart of Claire’s tormentor. Claire would never know the intent of this design. The film would invalidate me as a courtroom witness and accuser. Parker would not risk the embarrassment of my official dishonor. He would never know that I conceived this plan while naked with the woman he sought to destroy.
I looked down at the Strip. Scotty kept a hand on my knee and brooded. I heard Lee park his car in the driveway. He stabbed the keyhole a half dozen times and unlocked the front door; I could tell that he was drunk.
Scotty stretched and laced his hands behind his head. Lee walked upstairs and stepped out on the terrace. His uniform was rumpled; I knew he’d been scrounging at Kwan’s.
Scotty turned around and looked at him. He said, “Hey, bub. How’s the world treating you?”
Lee said, “Not so good.”
Scotty said, “Why’s that, bub?”
Lee said, “Don’t call me ‘bub,’ you punk cocksucker.”
I started to step in. Scotty squeezed my knee and stopped me. Quick boy—he reached back and unhooked his holster.
“Blanchard, then. How’s the world treating you, Blanchard? How’s tricks in Little Tokyo, Blanchard? It’s a nice night, Blanchard. Why are you so bent on fucking it up?”
Lee unfastened his gun belt and lowered it to the floor. “Dudley hasn’t uttered a fucking word to me since he started creaming for you, Bennett.”
Scotty said, “You sound like a fucking homo.”
Lee balled his fists. Scotty stood up and gave me a look. It said I’m sorry/things go this way/it wasn’t my call. I moved to the far edge of the terrace. My legs fluttered and held.
Scotty pointed to me. “Any man who’d skate on a woman like that is a fucking queer in my book.”
They were three feet apart. I felt the pull go both ways. Scotty let his shoulder rig drop. They went for each other right there.
It was a three-foot charge and collision. They came in with their guards down and made no moves to block blows. Lee dropped two body shots below Scotty’s arms, ducked his head and let Scotty swing high. Scotty swerved off balance; Lee threw a right uppercut and snapped his head back. Scotty staggered; Lee threw a hard left elbow straight at his nose. I heard bones break. Lee raised his head and caught a faceful of Scotty’s blood. It blinded him. He flailed and rubbed his eyes. Scotty grabbed his head and bit off a piece of one ear. Lee screamed. Scotty spit the piece in his face and head-butted him. Lee’s nose cracked and gouted blood. He screamed again; his arms were low; he was wide open.
Scotty took one step back and dug his feet in. He threw a left hook to Lee’s rib cage and a right cross to his head. They connected; Lee reeled and stayed standing. He weaved and ducked his head. Scotty swung high and wide again, and got tangled up in his feet.
Lee had openings. Every Bucky Bleichert fight I’d seen gave me the diagram. I wanted it to end and didn’t care how. The science of it moved me and felt ghastly all at once.
Scotty stumbled and tried to gain his balance; Lee threw left-right body shots and an in-tight uppercut. Scotty reeled and hit a chair back. Lee cocked a wide left hook. He launched it, missed Scotty’s head and stumbled into him. Scotty had his balance now; they grappled and held each other upright.
Scotty jammed a knee between Lee’s legs and jackknifed him. Lee screamed and coughed blood. Scotty launched the wide left hook that Lee failed at. He aimed high and caught Lee’s head coming up.
His head snapped at a near-right angle. I heard bones shear and started to scream “No.” My throat closed up; I choked on that single word.
Lee pitched forward. His eyes rolled back. Scotty threw left-right body shots. I heard Lee’s ribs crack. He fell facedown on the terrace. Blood and tooth stubs poured from his mouth.
8:21 p.m.
Church inhibited The Thirst. He had The Shakes now. He sequestered himself and fought off Desire.
The sanctuary was all his. That night watchman let him in. Saint Vibiana’s, again.
Parker hogged a front pew. He gripped the pew back in front of him and numbed his arms. He was booze-free since Miss Lake’s tirade.
He couldn’t go home. Helen would be there. She’d see his tremors and propose a cure at some rummy priests’ farm. He couldn’t have it on his record.
Tremors hit his legs. He dug his feet into the floor and quashed them. He was ten times past exhausted. He spent the day dogging the Alien Squad. He kept falling asleep in his car.
His body and brain got disconnected. It induced all-day brainstorms. He called PC Bell and demanded the Santa Monica pay-phone records. A shift boss said they were buried in war work. Parker persisted. The shift boss caved. Look for a reply in two weeks.
His knees spasmed. Parker regripped the pew ledge. The Sweats would start soon.
He had an 8:00 a.m. meeting. He had eleven hours to ride The Hurt out and prepare. Fletch B.’s office. The now-standard Feds and politicos. J. Edgar Hoover and Preston Exley.
The Big G-man. The ex-cop turned construction king.
Preston ran Homicide during the mid-’30s. His cop son Thomas was killed on duty. Preston buried his grief in work. Preston gutted out recurring migraines. He built the Arroyo Seco Parkway. He built low-end houses for Negroes and high-end houses for whites. He’s got a local internment plan—and he’s got some high-level ears.
The Jitters hit. Parker roamed the pew rows. He picked up Bibles and read his way through the Psalms. He prayed for his neglected wife. He prayed for the success of the Lake/De Haven incursion and the destruction of Claire De Haven’s cell. He prayed for the courage not to drink. He prayed for Miss Conville and Miss Lake.
His prayers consumed seven hours. He roamed pews and worked his legs numb. He walked to the altar. He lit candles for his lost ones.
His congressman granddad. His irresolute father. The Okies he drove out of L.A. The people he hurt in his craven reign under Jim Davis.
He stretched out on a pew. He bypassed sleep and got up at dawn. He walked outside and got his black-and-white. The Shakes were internal now.
He drove to City Hall. He cleaned up and changed uniforms. Strong coffee stirred his blood. He wrote a manpower-shortage report. He hit Fletch B.’s office, on time.
The door was open. The office swelled.
Fletch, Call-Me-Jack,
Sheriff Gene. Ward Littell and Ed Satterlee. Fey Mr. Hoover. Handsome Preston Exley.
His skin itched. His bones ached. The de rigueur handshakes scared him. Here they come now.
He endured bone crushers. He endured de rigueur laughs. Mr. Hoover flashed cold eyes.
Preston said, “You’re working too hard, Bill. Demand a month’s vacation. I’ve got pull with the mayor.”
Fletch laughed. Hoover shot him a look. Fletch snapped to and arranged chairs.
Hoover took the lead chair. Preston sat beside him. The rest of them got bleacher seats. Parker dug his feet into the floor. Muscle cramps loomed.
Hoover said, “Tangential matters first. The van robbery of December 10 interests me. The Sumitomo Bank is in the Federal Reserve System, and its Jap provenance is irrelevant. Mr. Littell, you have the floor.”
Parker looked at Littell. Buzz Meeks had solved the case, sub rosa. The rubber bullets. Huey Cressmeyer’s prints.
Littell said, “It’s dead-stalled, sir. I don’t see a solve on this one.”
Hoover bristled. His nails were buffed. His shirt was stiff-starched. His Masonic pin was pink gold.
“No significant criminal cases directly or indirectly related to Federal cases or even remotely related to the current roundups of Japanese subversives are to go unsolved. No significant criminal cases directly or indirectly related to the internment of all Japs in the greater Los Angeles area are to go unsolved. The Bureau will be going after the Los Angeles Police Department in February of next year. The matter of the illegal phone taps strewn throughout City Hall will become public news. I am prepared to exonerate, absolve and push dirt under the rug in this matter. I would be more inclined to pursue that course if you heed my admonishings here.”
Jack said, “We all swim in the same stream, sir. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, and municipal and Federal law enforcement will be well served to present a unified front. You may or may not know that an entire Jap family was murdered here in L.A. the day before Pearl Harbor. The lead investigator thinks the case will be wrapped up by New Year’s. We’ve got a scribe for the Hearst rags by the nuts, and he’s going to run a series of puff pieces in the Herald. I’ll tell him to work in an FBI angle. Pork barrel, sir. One hand washes the other. Comme ci, comme ça on the phone-tap imbroglio. We fucked up, so now we pay the piper. That stated, I think we’ve come to a meeting of the minds on this one.”
