by James Ellroy
He went through the door. The desk sergeant saw him. Oh shit, Whiskey Bill, what’s this here—
Parker tumbled up to the desk. He got “Katherine Lake” out in one breath. The desk man got the heebie-jeebies. He double-clutched and slid a key across the desk.
He said, “The bin.”
Parker grabbed the key. He wheeled and saw a dozen plainclothesmen, all huddled up. They cordoned off the hallway and looked straight at him. He looked straight back.
Those looks traveled. Those looks talked. Parker caught his breath and walked toward them. They looked at one another and passed signals. They stood aside and let him walk.
He walked. He walked to a bisecting hallway and turned right. The padded cell—it’s that white door.
He jammed in the key and turned it. The door was dead-heavy. He shouldered it in.
She wore a straitjacket. Her arms were laced tight. Her face was blood-crust swollen. Her hair was patched black and matted red.
Parker went to her.
Her eyes told him to untie her.
Her eyes told him to brush that one crust off her cheek.
Her eyes said Lift me. You can do it. I’ll be light for you.
He did all of it.
Her eyes said Carry Me Now.
8:47 p.m.
Land grabs. War fever and cash schemes. Whores cut like movie stars.
Dudley inked a wall graph. Scotty Bennett and Dick Carlisle watched. The graph was a palliative. It subsumed Beth’s “horrible thing.”
He wallpapered his cubicle. The graph ran from floor to partition top. It was all shorthand-inked.
It detailed The Case and related cases. It detailed financial conspiracies and his Ace Kwan plans. Snoops would see it as gobbledygook.
Initials noted names. Proper nouns were initial-ID’d. Circles and rectangles blocked off business deals. He worked from his own memory and Hideo Ashida’s confession. Buzz Meeks’ spiel figured in.
The graph was a hospital chart. He caught the Watanabe case and contracted war fever. The graph was a prescription pad. He prescribed Benzedrine to keep himself going. He prescribed the graph to remember it all.
Dudley inked the graph. Bennies spiked his memory. The Parker-Lake fiasco was dead now. The Shudo case was big news. The graph was a crib sheet. The graph would expedite The Werewolf’s greenroom trek.
Names, dates, leads. Opportunities highlighted. Cash trails sensed and tracked. War fever. His fevered twelve-day pace.
The phone rang. Carlisle took the call. Dudley worked. Scotty watched him work. The lad was damnably acute and retentive.
Dudley worked. His brain buzzed. Distractions came and went.
Ruth Mildred called and reported. Tojo Tom Chasco was still under guard. Some crazy girl shivved Dot. Her sweetie pie was now ensconced at Queen of Angels. He eschewed lectures. Dot called the tune and paid the piper. She’d been fondling jail cooze for years. Ruthie wondered if Terry Lux would plastic up Dot’s kisser. He said he had a call in to Terry right now. Terry would stitch Dot’s snout.
Collusive circles. Pierce Patchett planned to run cut whores. He had to know Terry Lux. Terry was the L.A. cut man.
Scotty said, “I think I get it. ‘W.M.P.S.’ means ‘white man in purple sweater,’ right? He’s the guy who’s really good for the snuffs.”
Dudley said, “Hush, bright penny. We’ve got a Werewolf by the tail.”
Carlisle dumped the phone. “The Doc’s at Les Frères Taix. He’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
Dudley dropped his pen and grabbed his suit coat. Bette danced through his head. She was all vapors. He’d left her three messages. He got the “Miss Davis be out” brush-off.
He waltzed. Les Frères Taix was a frog joint in Echo Park. He popped two bennies and drove over. Terry was a gourmand. He kept a booth there.
Dudley joined him. Terry was immersed in truffled kidneys. His black bag was up on the table. He noshed and skimmed a medical chart.
A photo was clipped to the top page. Claire De Haven was wan. Her hairdo connoted Joan of Arc.
“I’ll hazard a guess, Terry. The Feds have allowed Miss De Haven a phone call, which means a house call for you.”
Terry waved his fork. “Jail call. The Feds think I can loosen Claire up to the point where she’ll talk.”
A waiter swished by. Dudley ordered a double scotch.
“I feel constellations aligning, Terry. I would guess that a man named Pierce Patchett has contacted you, and that it pertained to young women cut to resemble film stars.”
The waiter brought Dudley’s drink. Aesthete Terry sniffed his Bordeaux.
“He commissioned me, Dud. And I can cut his girls, because it’s not high-volume jobs, like your Japs-into-Chinks play with Ace. I’m betting you’ll slap me with too many patients and too little recovery time, and a lot of the high-tide Japs have had their assets confiscated, so it’s not like they’ve got the scratch to pay you, Ace and me. There’s that, and the fact that your deal plays nutty, beyond the whole admittedly seductive eugenic aspect.”
Dudley sipped scotch. “Tell me about Patchett, Terry. I’ve heard he’s quite the eclectic beast.”
Terry said, “In spades, Irish. You know me, and you know that I’m in with the cognoscenti, and that I run a mean Dun & Bradstreet on my potential Collaborationists. Patchett comes to me, so my first task is to determine if this scheme he’s proposing is on the come, or if he’s got the gelt to pay me.”
Dudley said, “Continue, please.”
Terry swirled his wine. “Patchett’s a race man, I’m a race man. We’re gemütlich in that regard, so it facilitates our chat. Patchett is also a fucking name-dropper, so he tells me that he’s hooked up with Preston Exley on some kind of furtive deal to grab Jap land in the Valley for chump change, but they’re short on hard cash right now, and Exley’s an ex-cop who wouldn’t countenance his running whores. I take all this under advisement—tell Patchett that I want a percentage of his overall biz in exchange for my medical services, and Patchett agrees.”
Dudley said, “Continue, please.”
Terry said, “So, I think of my pals Ace and Dud then. They’ve got this smut-movie notion that I’m privy to, Ace has got his tunnels, movie-star prosties to smut films isn’t too big a jump, and maybe there’s a way to combine the two. I started thinking, If Dud’s got a way to distribute the films, or leads on potential customers, this biz could fly, because we’re at war now, and white folks have got a perv deal going with the Japs, and seeing them fucking and being humiliated could be enticing to the right brand of geek.”
Dudley smiled. “Continue, please.”
“You follow my drift, Irish. We need sales leads, camera equipment and some white on-camera talent to offset our all-Jap acting stable until I cut those girls to look like Myrna Loy, Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, et-fucking-al.”
Dudley said, “I have mail-list leads and distribution, through a prominent hate merchant. I have leads on film equipment, and I’m raising money now.”
Terry said, “Raise more money. I told Ace that, just a few hours ago. He said he’s going to run another tile game at his place tomorrow night, to boost your revenues. I told him what I’ll tell you, Dud. If we create a lucrative cash funnel now, we can finance our Jap deals and get in for a cut of Patchett and Exley’s Jap deal at the gate, while they’re cash-strapped.”
The restaurant sparkled. The red banquettes glowed.
“The word convergence comes to mind, Terry. Miss De Haven has money and access to camera equipment, and she requires your services now. I would assume that she’ll bail out soon, she has a flair for performing, and is also quite attractive. Her bons frères Loftis and Minear share her acting flair, and are handsome, if effeminate, men. Do you require a more explicit summation?”
Terry shook his head. Terry came on très rapide.
Très rapide—he snarfed good-bye truffles. Très rapide—they walked out to their cars. Très rapide—Dudley took the pole
slot. Très rapide—they convoyed downtown.
Rain threatened. A werewolf’s moon beamed.
Dudley bayed. The moon brought back Belfast, 1921. He blew up a railroad car and killed fourteen Black and Tans. He took lorry routes back to Dublin and had a piss break on the moors. A wolf sidled close to him. They shared their life stories in snarls. He prayed for the wolf every night. He pined for their heavenly reunion.
Rain threatened. Dudley bayed and urged it on. Terry swerved ahead of him. They made Central Station, très rapide.
Terry beat him there. Dudley parked in the DB lot and went in the jail door. It was late. The station was quiet. He heard female sobs and male coos.
Follow them. Down the hall, veer left. The white door is open. The padded walls are blood-slick.
Claire De Haven wore a jail smock. She rode the floor, cross-legged. She made a hand tourniquet and watched Terry feed her arm.
The spike went in. The plunger went down. The spike went back out. Dudley stood in the doorway. He saw Claire levitate.
Her back arched. She untangled her legs and stretched. She threw her arms over her head and floated.
She levitated. It was real or it wasn’t. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He was back on the moors with his wolf.
She ignored them. She was somewhere else. He studied her. She was Joan of Arc.
Terry blathered. You’re a lovely woman, in a horrible jam. Your cooperation will vouch your safety and the safety of your comrades. You have equipment we require. I’ll continue to service your medical needs. You’re a born performer and a libertine. You might find the experience alluring.
She stretched. She levitated. She spanned the full room.
Terry said, “You love dirty films, Claire. I’ve been to screenings at your home. Do you recall that Peruvian film in the style of Cocteau? You could duplicate the wedding-night sequence. I can already picture your gown.”
Thunder cracked. The wolf brought them rain.
Terry blathered. It was fatuous. He preached to a she-wolf. The films will be distributed covertly. You will shape their radical content. Submission is active seduction. I’ve heard you say it. There’s quite the thrill in being coerced.
Dudley stood in the doorway. Claire turned and faced him. Such metamorphosis. Red Queen, She-Wolf, Joan of Arc.
“I’ve seen you in church. You’re friends with His Eminence. Monsignor Hayes told me that you’ve killed English soldiers. Belief is shaping this moment. It supersedes greed and perversion. Can you comprehend that?”
10:53 p.m.
She trumped them. He walked off, sans rejoinder. She knew who he was. She played to him. She nullified his coercive mission.
She levitated. A jail stint and an armful of hop left her blasé. He would not subject her to smut. A church girl and chum of Monsignor Joe Hayes? Proof that the wolf was out loose.
Dudley strolled through the station. Memo—send Dot Rothstein flowers. Memo—nail Fuji Shudo’s formal confession and brace Tojo Tom.
The front desk buzzed. Four Japs escaped from T.I. They tore down a fence and ran to a getaway car. The crashout occurred at 7:00 p.m. The Japs were loooooong gone. They were all biiiiiiiig fascist types.
Cops swamped the desk. The night sergeant blared his radio.
Massive San Pedro manhunt! Sheriff’s dragnet out! All-points bulletins! Door-to-door canvass! Roadblocks, traffic stops!
Sheriff Gene hit the air. He sounded Friday-night blitzed. He announced a massive posse.
Calling all policemen! Special duty waivers provided! Twelve dollars in riot pay per day!
Cops rushed off. They ran upstairs and stormed the squadroom phones. The desk sergeant grabbed his phone. Get the Japs! Get the Japs! Fuck incoming calls and L.A. Police business! Riot fun and twelve clams a day!
Dudley walked outside. The rain felt delightful. He lit a cigarette. He heard radio squawk and squadroom phone jabber. He looked up at the third-floor windows.
They were open. He heard more squawk. He saw Hideo Ashida.
The lad worked late. Calling all cops. Dragnet. Roadblocks. Hideo smiled through the squawk.
Tweak. The Irish wolf cocks one ear. The Irish wolf gets a scent.
Hideo lived at Beverly and Loma. He knew the building. It was three-minutes close.
Dudley shagged his car and drove there. Belmont High stood close. It faced a walk-up building. Note the high playing-field views.
Dudley parked and walked into the foyer. He clocked the mailbox bank. H. Ashida, no. 219.
He walked up. The JAP! on the door signaled hatred. The wolf cocks one ear. Why does Hideo let such blasphemy remain?
He snapped the lock with his pocketknife. He invaded the apartment. He hit the living room lights.
The front room was spotless. He knew it would be. A Bunsen burner on a pedestal? A très Hideo touch.
Two gizmos on an end table. One looks old, one looks new. Note the flanges on the new one. Hideo improved his own prototype.
The trip-wire device. Hideo exonerates Fuji Shudo. He employs mechanical means, self-devised.
Dudley pulled a chair up. Dudley studied the new device. Levers, shutters, trip wires. Hidden film rolls. Car tires activate a lens and snap pictures. The pix appear under magnified glass.
He tripped a lever. He saw a car’s rear license plate. A date mark appeared on the photo.
Snap—9:18 a.m., 12/6/41.
Dudley scrolled pictures. He tapped levers. He saw clock-marked images. Huey Cressmeyer showed. Stupid lad—such a shoddy heist.
Dudley scrolled through the day. Cars, cars, cars. Skewed sidewalk shots. Click/snap/click. 2:04, 2:17, 2:36 p.m. Brilliant lad—what thou hath wrought.
3:08 p.m., 3:18 p.m., 3:19 p.m. The Werewolf walks down Spring Street.
And he looks unkempt. And he might be lurching. And the square white folks around him do look perturbed.
But:
The square white folks walk separately. Fuji Shudo looks discomfiting. He does not look terrifying. Why do the square white folks look identically perturbed?
Tweak—the wolf cocks one ear. Tweak—something is wrong here.
Dudley studied the image. Dudley squinted at the image. Dudley moved his eyes around the frame.
There—the bottom-left corner. A square object. A white square, facing out.
Dudley squinted. He thought he saw it, he almost saw it, he saw it.
A sidewalk news rack. It faced the street. There’s the headline—JAPANESE ATTACK PACIFIC FLEET!
So, this.
The device malfunctioned. It’s not Saturday, December 6th. It’s Sunday, December 7th.
The Watanabes are one-day dead. The Pearl Harbor news hits L.A. at 11:30. It’s the rush-edition Herald. The square white folks are perturbed because we’re at war. The outré Fuji Shudo? A radar blip of History.
Hideo Ashida fucked up. Hideo Ashida acted in self-destructive haste. Hideo Ashida tried to clear a fellow Jap and revealed his eugenic identity.
Dudley bayed. Dudley let his mind drift. Dudley fiddled with the old device.
He got the hang of it. He tripped levers and saw pix under glass.
Tiled surfaces. A shower enclosure. A lanky youth, naked. He’s dark-haired, he’s muscular, he’s got big bucked teeth. A familiar lad. A local phenom. Dwight “Bucky” Bleichert.
Quite the light heavy. Soon to work the PD. He finked some Fifth Column Japs to get on.
Here’s Bucky, naked. Here’s Hideo’s squalid toy, hidden from view.
Rain drummed the windows.
Dudley bayed.
Dudley thought So, it’s this.
11:52 p.m.
Ashida wrote inside precut stencils. He cut them himself. He wrote with a fountain pen and red ink. The color symbolized Fuji Shudo’s psychosis. The Werewolf writes in simulated blood.
“You are the cowardly yellow dog of American fascism, Ryoshi. Our families have battled for centuries in the shadow land of our true nation—Imperial Japan. Now, I t
hrow down the gauntlet to you here in Los Angeles, where the white oppressor seeks to make all Japanese his yellow slaves.”
He age-spotted the paper and envelope. He used a 1933-vintage stamp. He drew the postal cancellation mark perfectly. He based the text on Dudley’s interview with Fuji Shudo.
Shudo was out to fuck Nancy and kill Ryoshi. An argument at the Shotokan Baths blew out of hand. Shudo was delusional in 1933. The fraternal clubs were big then. His clan and the Watanabe clan had warred for centuries. Shudo wanted to impregnate Nancy and leave her to bear his wolf cubs. He communed with talking animals. This letter was his first formal statement of intent.
He impregnated Nancy on his nuthouse leave. His lunacy escalated during his loony-bin years. Nancy got an abortion and destroyed his wolf-cub litter. He left Atascadero and went on a terp run. His madness exploded on December 6.
Ashida worked in the lab. The station was a nuthouse. The Feds booked Claire and her coven. Four men escaped from Terminal Island. It put the PD in a siege state.
Phone buzz ran incessant. Calling all cops. Sheriff’s posse. Duty waivers and twelve scoots a day.
Then this rumor spread. It spread up through the heat shaft. He heard it through the get-the-Japs roar. Lee Blanchard’s girlfriend shanked Dot Rothstein.
Yeah, the Lake twist. Yeah, that big lez. What’s Dot weigh—240? I heard the Lake twist bit her fucking nose off. Dot’s getting transfusions at Queen of Angels right now.
He believed it. He didn’t believe it. It was late. He was tired. He was Jap-overdosed.
Dead Japs in Highland Park. Jap werewolf Shudo. Jap jail suicides. The dead Jap in the phone booth. The dead Jap at the beach. Cops out to get escaped Japs.
He was tired. He locked his forgery kit in his briefcase. He walked down the back steps and ducked rain to his car.
He took 1st Street home. He dumped his car and walked upstairs. An envelope was taped to his door.
He opened it. He read the note inside.
You will testify for the Los Angeles County Grand Jury in the matter of the State of California versus Fujio Shudo. You will state under oath that you discovered the bloodstained fingerprint on the morning of December 7, 1941, and that you neglected to mention that fact in your initial reports.
