Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  The clerk hung up. Dudley yawned. He felt schizy and itchy. He popped three bennies and popped his briefcase.

  Watanabe/187 P.C.

  He skimmed reports. He keyed on the tracts at the house. The case hexed him. They had Fuji Shudo now. A true solve was irrelevant.

  Still—

  Dudley repacked his briefcase. Thad Brown walked in and pulled a chair up.

  “I’ve got a Teletype coming. The Fourth Interceptor Command’s got me on those snipings.”

  Dudley said, “It appears indiscriminate. He’s shooting Japs and soldiers.”

  Brown lit a cigar. “He’s indiscriminate. It’s like the phone-booth snuff. Some crazy fucker sees a Jap and 86’s him. You want my opinion? It’s all a nutty string of dead-enders.”

  The Teletype clacked and spooled paper. It’s a ballistics sheet. There’s a photograph. Lands and grooves on a spent bullet.

  Dudley grabbed the sheet. A margin note grabbed him. “.30-06 carbine/​sawed barrel.”

  He saw the land-groove pattern. He saw the barrel nicks common to sawed-offs. He passed the sheet to Brown. He ID’d the sheet, he made the gun, he made the assailant right there.

  Brown studied the sheet. “Sawed-off rifles are from hunger. The shells tumble. I’m betting on some Army punk with a hard-on for the world. You check armory thefts and take it from there.”

  Dudley said, “I should be going, Thad.”

  “Go, Dud. Get Jack H. his solve on your Jap caper. We should get at least one Jap solve before this fucking war ends.”

  Dudley waltzed. The bennies kicked in and perked him. He ducked out the side door and shagged his K-car. He drove to City Hall and elevatored up to six.

  The Bureau was lunchtime-lulled. He hit his cubicle and unlocked the bottom-left desk drawer.

  Aaaaah—

  His throwdown guns and spare handcuffs. His Huey Cressmeyer file.

  He had Huey’s rap sheet and reform-school transcript. He injected Huey with Pentothal last summer. The dope made him talk. Huey blabbed all his 459’s and 211’s. He recorded and transcribed the confessions. He test-fired Huey’s fourteen pistols and four rifles. He had the result sheets right—

  Here.

  Huey’s sawed-off carbine. Identical lands and grooves. A match to Thad Brown’s sheet. Trigger-happy Huey—back from Mexico.

  His tests were run covertly. Thad’s sheet would never match any on-file gun.

  Dudley locked the file up and elevatored back down. He popped two more bennies and ran to his car.

  He took 1st Street to Boyle Heights. The Heights was a grand weave of kikes and cholos. Ruth Mildred ran her scrape clinic there. Right there—an ex-warehouse behind an auto-wreck yard.

  Two full floors—all Girls, Girls, GIRLS. Girls-on-benders, girls-on-the-run, girls-in-a-jam.

  Floor no. 1 was a dormitory. Ruth and Dot rented rooms to lezbo Marines. They went AWOL from Camp Pendleton. The lezbo grapevine drew them here. Hey, Butch—Ruth and Dot want You!

  Floor no. 2 was a scrape shack. It was cop-protected. It featured deluxe scrape gear and recovery rooms. It catered to Harry Cohn’s stars and the L.A. elite. The exam rooms featured wall peeks. Sapphic sisters paid to watch.

  Dudley parked in the auto yard. CARRO MONTEZUMA—SE HABLA ESPAÑOL. He walked through the dorm. Girls with crew cuts scowled. He went up to the waiting room. Plain janes with bulging bellies pitched boo-hoo.

  He knew the receptionist. He always forgot her name. They coupled in a parked car once. It lingered for her.

  “Huey, darling? I know he’s here. Where else would he go?”

  “Number four, love. I’ve never been able to say no to you.”

  Dudley winked and walked down the hall. The door was shut. He pushed it open. The room was Huey’s lair now.

  Note the bedroll on the table. Note the skivvies hooked to the stirrups. Note the der Führer pinups. Note the model airplane–glue stench.

  Note Huey. He’s building a toy panzer tank by the scrub sink. He’s wearing a jockstrap and a Nazi armband. Note the Mossberg .30-06, propped on the wall.

  Huey saw Dudley. Huey guuuuuuuulped. Huey said, “Please don’t hurt me, Uncle Dud.”

  Dudley grabbed Huey and slapped him. Dudley ripped off his armband and crushed the toy tank. Huey squealed. Dudley picked him up and threw him against the far wall.

  The effort taxed him. He gasped for air. Huey crashed and fell on the floor. Huey crawled up on mommy’s gyno table.

  Dudley said, “Carlos Madrano stashed you in Mexico, last Friday. You were instructed to stay there, without complaint. You have returned, against my wishes, and you have performed a string of unconscionable misdeeds. Explain yourself. Be thorough.”

  Huey burrowed into a blanket. He tucked his knees up to his chin. The blanket was fluffy pink.

  I was holed up in T.J. I was going squirrelshit. I was drinking 151 rum and sniffing cocaine. I was going to the donkey show every night. I was reading comic books and anti-Jew tracts. Uncle Carlos gave me films of bossman Hitler’s speeches. I bought a projector and screened them on my Klan sheet.

  I got the urge to KILL. I shot a Jew tourist outside the Agua Caliente racetrack. He was wearing a beanie, so I knew he was a Yid. I got the URGE TO KILL a jigaboo. I drove to San Diego and shot a coon outside the El Cortez Hotel. I read about that Jap who got shot in that phone booth. I got the URGE TO KILL a Jap. I drove to Oceanside and shot a Jap mowing some white stiff’s lawn.

  I got the URGE TO KILL soldiers and at least one more Jap. I drove up to L.A. and cruised Santa Monica. I shot a Jap sitting on a bus bench. I sniped some soldiers on the Palisades, but the cocksuckers survived.

  Dudley pulled down the blanket. Huey sucked his thumb. Dudley ruffled the lad’s hair.

  “No more, son. I can’t have you causing such grief.”

  “Okay, Uncle Dud.”

  “I’ll have to destroy your trusty rifle. We can’t risk it being traced back to you.”

  Huey said, “I brought you a gift from Mexico. It’s something you’ll like.”

  Dudley said, “A souvenir trinket? A key fob shaped like a sombrero?”

  Huey blew his nose on the blanket. “Better than that. Something you want.”

  Dudley jabbed his arm. “Get to it, lad.”

  “Okay. It all goes back to what we were talking about last week. You know, I was trucking with some Japs on the far-right flank.”

  “Yes. Including the late Johnny Watanabe.”

  “Right, Johnny. There’s him, and there’s this guy that said he got Nancy preg. I said I didn’t know his name. Remember? I told you he was a half-Jap, half-Mex breed.”

  “I recall it vividly, lad.”

  “Okay, so here’s the rest of the drift. I get a bee in my bonnet down in T.J. I think, I should locate this halfbreed fucker, shanghai his ass and bring him home to Uncle Dud. Maybe he sliced the fucking Watanabes, maybe he didn’t. It don’t matter, because kicks are kicks, and I’ve never pulled a kidnap before. However it plays out, I’ll bet Uncle Dud sure would like to talk to him.”

  “Continue, please.”

  “Okay, so I go out looking. It don’t take too long, because Jap-spic half-breeds stand out. I find the guy in a whorehouse in Ensenada, and I Mickey Finn his ass and toss him in the trunk of this jalopy I bought for thirty clams. Then I drive him over the border and up here to L.A. His name’s Tojo Tom Chasco, and I’ve got him stashed in the next room right now. This lezzie nurse has got him knocked out on a morph and phenobarb drip.”

  The Night Creature fetches. Such initiative.

  Dudley scanned the room. He saw syringe kits on a shelf. He saw a wall-bolted phone.

  He grabbed the receiver and dialed-up the Bureau. He went straight to Mike Breuning’s desk.

  “Homicide, Sergeant Breuning.”

  “Send Scotty to Ruthie’s clinic, lad. I’ve got an errand for him.”

  Breuning said, “Roger, boss.”

  Dudley hung up and snatched a
syringe. Huey plucked at him. He resembled Renfield in Dracula. Master, come look.

  They walked next door. Dudley looked.

  Tojo Tom was friction-taped to a gyno table. He was stripped to his boxer shorts and out cold. He was muscular and about twenty-eight. Eugenics. He was equally Jap and Mex.

  ¿Qué pasó, Tomás?

  They needed a full-blood Jap killer. Fuji Shudo fit that bill. The case was twelve days old. Tojo Tom was their first hard suspect.

  Huey hovered and made like Renfield. Dudley jammed the syringe in Tojo Tom’s arm.

  He hit a fat vein. He extracted a full sample. Tojo Tom slept through it. He was off on Cloud 29.

  Dudley reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of bennies. He made a fist and crumbled them to powder. He poured it into Tojo Tom’s drip bag. It merged with the extant liquid. Rise and shine, Tojo Tom.

  Huey patted Tojo’s dick. He went Greek in reform school. It complied with the Ruth-Dot gestalt.

  Tojo Tom slept in hophead heaven. Dudley and Huey stood by. Young Scotty walked in. Huey swooned, just a tad.

  Dudley passed him the syringe. “Good Samaritan, lad. There’s a lab man named Samuels. Get me a quick typing and call me back here.”

  Scotty vamoosed. Huey sulked and picked his nose. Dudley watched the dope-bag liquid recede. He felt slightly off. His pulse stuttered. His breathing hitched.

  He stared at the dope bag. The liquid drained. The wall phone rang and startled him. He snatched the receiver.

  “I’m listening, lad.”

  Scotty said, “It’s O-positive blood. He couldn’t have impregnated Nancy, if that’s what this is about.”

  Dudley said, “Go back to the Bureau, lad. We’ve a busy night ahead.”

  Scotty hung up. Dudley hung up. The dope bag drained out. Tojo Tom twitched.

  His veins pulsed. He broke a sweat. He electroshock-spasmed. Dope contravention. He’s on a snootful of new hop.

  Tojo Tom opened his eyes.

  Tojo Tom flexed his body.

  Tojo Tom saw his old pal Huey. Tojo Tom saw an obvious cop.

  He eyeball-tracked the room. He’s getting it. He’s been shanghaied. It’s not Mexico. It’s not a whorehouse. It’s some rogue hospital.

  He flexed. He thrashed. He sprayed piss and soaked his shorts. He thrashed a strip of tape loose. Blood trickled down his arm.

  He gleamed a tad. He eyed the drip bag. He’s getting it. Why do I feel gooooood? Because there’s a needle stuck in my arm. Because there’s hop in that bag.

  He coughed. His eyes traveled. He zeroed in on the big cop. He Jap-zeroed in on Huey. He said, “You sandbagged me, you hump.”

  Dudley said, “Hola, Tomás. ¿Qué pasó? Ojalá que se mejore pronto.”

  Tojo Tom coughed. “White cops who speak Spanish don’t impress me. There’s lots of you. You always want information, and you always say there’s an easy way and a hard way. If you want to impress me, speak Japanese.”

  Dudley smiled. “I’m Spanish-fluent, lad—but that’s as far as my linguistic gifts go. I’ll bring in my friend Ryoshi Watanabe, if you like. I’m sure he’d be willing to translate for me.”

  Tojo Tom said, “Ryoshi es estúpido. Es el pinche cabrón.”

  “You’ve employed the present tense, Tomás. I find that interesting.”

  “It’s correct usage, pendejo. I’m half-Mexican, so I know. And what’s with that funny accent of yours? Are you some limey homo?”

  Dudley laughed. “Did you impregnate Nancy Watanabe, Tomás? Huey told me you knocked up a Japanese girl.”

  “Huey licked Nancy’s snatch at the Nightingale prom. He told me that. I knocked up a twist named Shirley Yanagihara in ’39, and I’ve got mongoloid triplets somewhere to prove it. Why are you so hipped on the estúpidos Watanabes, pendejo? There’s a war on. Why aren’t you off fighting for the wrong side?”

  “Huey thought you meant Nancy Watanabe. Huey also said that you bragged of killing an entire family in Culiacán.”

  Tojo Tom laughed. “I remember that night. We were drinking with some Collaborationist boys in Griffith Park. I said I killed a family in Culiacán and fucked Betty Grable. Huey said he pistol-whipped Clark Gable and raped Carole Lombard. This Chinese-Japanese half-breed said he firebombed a nigger church in 1912, but I don’t think he was born until 1918. These Collaborationist boys ended up getting snuffed, but that’s the only action of that sort that any of us ever saw.”

  Dudley smiled. Huey pouted. Wild-goose chase. The Night Creature, disdained.

  Tojo Tom said, “You’ve got me on some sort of rocket-ship fuel. I feel so good that I’m not half as pissed off as I should be. I’m in a whorehouse in Ensenada one moment, and strapped to a table at some undisclosed location the next. I was drinking mescal one moment, and now I’m jawing with my ex-pal Huey and some limey cop. I’m curious about all of this, but I don’t want to spoil the fun.”

  Dudley said, “The Watanabe family was murdered on Saturday, December 6. The crime occurred here in Los Angeles. I’m sure you didn’t kill them, so I will apologize for the outrageous inconvenience of your abduction, which Mr. Cressmeyer undertook without my consent. While I have you, I would love to hear your insights on the family itself.”

  Tojo Tom tee-heed. “Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

  “I understand the concept, but please elaborate.”

  “It means they were Fifth Column. It means they pissed off some Fifth Column humps, who took it out on them. Fifth Column’s Fifth Column. None of us do much, except meet on the sly and jaw treason. Once in a while, you get rivalries. You want my bet, limey? Somebody said something or did something that didn’t seem like anything, but it festered. That’s the way it is with Fifth Column humps. They know someone who knows someone who knows someone who plants a bomb. Something happens once in a blue moon, but most of it’s all in our minds.”

  Dudley said, “You’re a bright penny, Tomás.”

  Huey huffed. “He’s not as bright as me, Uncle Dud. If he’s so bright, how come he’s here?”

  Tojo Tom squirmed. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Momentarily, lad. In the meantime, please tell—”

  “—tell you the book on the Watanabes, which isn’t much of a book. If it was a book, the title would be Screwy Jap Family. Nancy was a round heel, and Johnny was window-shopping all over the far right. He was palling with those Collaborationists, pulling crimes and donating the takes to the Emperor’s cause. Ryoshi and Aya pushed hate tracts and laundered Axis money. They were shortwave-radio pals with some white American and English fascists whose names I don’t know, but all they did was talk, talk, and talk. The only thing I could ever give them credit for was knowing that Hirohito would hit Pearl Harbor first. It was the last time I saw them, about eight months ago. Ryoshi said something like ‘We will strike first at the naval base in Hawaii.’ I had the feeling that he picked it up off his radio chats. Then what he said came true, and now you’re telling me the whole family got clipped the day before.”

  Huey said something dumb. Dudley shushed him. Huey clammed up.

  The Watanabes possessed no shortwave radio. The Watanabes possessed no radio at all. The house had been tossed. The garage had been tossed. There was no basement. There was no attic. There was no shortwave hookup.

  Tojo Tom said, “My teeth are floating. I need to use the can.”

  Huey said, “I’m hungry. Do you think Kwan’s delivers this far?”

  Dudley said, “Think, Tomás. Where did the Watanabes keep their shortwave set?”

  Tojo Tom said, “Ryoshi had a hidey-hole rigged to the second-floor ceiling. He kept all his secret stuff there.”

  Ransack the hidey-hole. It might be undisturbed. It might have been tossed already. There might be no radio. That would mean this:

  Hideo Ashida got there first.

  Ashida might have heard broadcasts. Ryoshi might have kept broadcast logs. Ashida might have read them. Ashida might have suppressed c
rucial leads from the start.

  “Secret stuff.” Irrelevant stuff. Fuji Shudo would burn. A true solve was irrelevant. Tojo Tom supplied a relevant lead. The lead rendered him irrelevant.

  Dudley pulled his ankle piece. It was silencer-rigged. The ammo pierced skulls and lodged in brain tissue. Minimum leak resulted.

  Huey giggled.

  Tojo Tom shit his shorts. A big stink resulted.

  Dudley cocked the gun.

  Tojo Tom said, “I know where there’s money.”

  Dudley aimed the gun.

  Huey squealed.

  Tojo Tom said, “I was running horse for Carlos Madrano. I know where he stashes his money and dope.”

  Dudley lowered the gun.

  Huey pouted.

  Captain Carlos and heroin. That rumor, redux.

  “Is there more, lad? You’ve been credible up to this point. I would advise you to continue.”

  Tojo Tom said, “Carlos has got some kind of land-grab deal going with some rich gringos, here in L.A. I’ve got no names for them. I think it’s a good tip, but that’s all I’ve got.”

  Land grabs. That rumor, redux.

  Dudley walked to Huey’s room. He grabbed the wall phone. He called his man at PC Bell and placed a rush order.

  Trace job. Long-distance calls. Start at the Mex Statie HQ in Baja. Check Carlos Madrano’s line. Cull all L.A. calls, going back three months.

  He pledged a C-note. Rápidamente, por favor. Huey taunted Tojo Tom next door. Dudley hung up and walked back.

  Huey said, “Let me kill him, Uncle Dud. I’ve never killed a halfbreed before.”

  Dudley threw Huey against the far wall. Huey pinwheeled and crashed. Tojo Tom whooped.

  “You may not kill Mr. Chasco, or anyone else. You will baby-sit Mr. Chasco while I attempt to verify his statement. I am quite busy, and will call for an expanded statement later. You will cater to Mr. Chasco, Huey. I will kill you if you do not.”

  2:51 p.m.

  The dorm lezzies blew kisses. He hit the auto yard and walked up to his car.

  He dry-swallowed three bennies. His brain perk-perk-perked.

  Hate tracts, redux. Across all case lines. Ashida filched the Jap-language tracts. Did he lie about the contents?