Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  His “boys.” His Catholic Archbishop, his lesbian doctor chum and her vicious paramour. More than anything else, his sincerely deep regard for Hideo Ashida.

  I sat on my separate bedroom terrace and nursed a highball. Lee was off somewhere; I had the house to myself and was grateful for the spell of silent ponder. Dudley Liam Smith had severely underestimated the mental powers of Robert Sinclair Bennett, just as I had. I now knew everything that he had written on that astoundingly comprehensive and heedlessly conceived wall graph.

  It was all police work and criminal business. Dudley Smith did not scheme or kill from petty rancor or from anything other than expeditiousness viewed as his sole option. He operated at an astoundingly complex level of deception. He adhered to family loyalty and did not name his minion who robbed Whalen’s Drugstore and the Sheriff’s van full of hijacked Japanese money. Scotty surmised that Dudley and Ace Kwan killed the three men in Griffith Park—but Dudley’s partner in those killings was designated as “UA,” for “unidentified accomplice.” Those killings derived from his fatherly ethos and desire to avenge a ravaged young woman. Scotty ran through the graph three full times. He told me that Dudley had created this document so that he might be able to recall everything that he had done since the Whalen’s robbery, the Watanabe homicides and the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was conceived as a study sheet and memory tool. It now burned within me, as a quintessentially bad and gifted man’s confession. I had been teething on it for hours. I’ve come away thinking that Dudley has omitted something—perhaps horrifying, perhaps mundane, and surely revelatory—and that it derives from his relationship with Bette Davis.

  And, I’m astonished that I don’t hate this astonishingly bad man. And that I am as beholden to him as I am beholden to Bill Parker. Their exchange of vows secured me my freedom. And Claire’s freedom, and the freedom of all the others. Sergeant Smith and Captain Parker will honor their vows before God—I have no doubt of that. This shared vow feels grand to me. The vow—however expedient, corrupt and self-interested—acknowledges the power of the infinite to mediate worldly order. That such brutal men would accede to that power belittles my own recent machinations and renders me tiny in my soul.

  Graph details keep unfurling. I’m stuck on Pierce Patchett and his plan to surgically re-create women as film stars. My nose is broken and splinted; I’ve achieved a partial re-creation myself. My fight with Dot Rothstein mirrors Dot’s molesting of Claire. I learned of that act through a tract that Claire wrote. She wrote it for G. L. K. Smith—Dudley’s graph said so.

  The telephone rang. I walked inside and picked up the call.

  “Hello?”

  Hideo Ashida said, “Kay? I hope it’s not too late to be calling.” Dudley’s lackey oozed deference.

  “I’m always surprised to hear from you. And I’m always happy to talk, so the time doesn’t really matter.”

  He said, “I overheard two phone calls. Mayor Bowron made them, but I can’t tell you how I know.”

  Because you don’t know what I know about you? Because you think I’ll believe whatever you say?

  I said, “Please tell me, anyway.”

  “I overheard Mayor Bowron and Chief Horrall talking. They’re planning to create a ‘derogatory profile’ on Captain Parker, to prevent him from becoming Chief. There’s that, and that Mayor Bowron ordered a girl from your friend Brenda, for Monday night.”

  So you called me. Because Captain Parker knows who you’ve thrown in with. So you called me. Because Captain Parker would refute this call. So you called me. Because you might need Captain Parker one day and this clumsy warning might somehow serve you.

  I hung up. I thought about Pierce Patchett; I got an idea and picked the phone up again.

  I called Brenda. She was still awake at midnight. She started to quiz me on my hospital stay. I cut her off, told her to round up Elmer and meet me at Dave’s Blue Room, immediately.

  Brenda blurted good-byes. I hung up, grabbed my coat and headed down to the Strip. The Blue Room was quiet; I found a booth in the back. The waiter gave my nose splint a double take. I ordered a highball and said, “You should see the other girl.” He grinned and left me alone. I listened to a wall-radio newscast.

  Japanese subs had been spotted near Monterey. Subs had fired on freighters above San Francisco. The reports brought me back to the graph and the Goleta Inlet attack.

  My drink came. I pulled out my compact and examined myself in the mirror. I was badly bruised below my eyes; the cuts on my nose had congealed into scabs. I took a belt of my drink and pulled off my nose splint. It hurt—but there was no blood.

  Brenda and Elmer walked over. Elmer said, “I liked you better in the gauze. It gave you panache beyond your years.” Brenda said, “This better be worth it, Citizen.”

  I made room for them in the booth. I reported, with a rigorous degree of omission.

  Jack Horrall and Fletch Bowron were colluding against Bill Parker. I’d come across valid information that might drastically undercut their biz. A police-protected businessman planned to run a string of girls cut to look like movie stars. Brenda whooped at that. Elmer fumbled his cigar.

  Jack and Fletch were building a “derogatory profile” against Parker. Jack would surely sanction the businessman’s operation. Parker would be a damn good ally for them. Parker might well become Chief. Fletch had ordered a Monday-night girl from them. Think shakedown. Think threat of misconduct exposed. Think “Put the skids to the cut-girl racket before it gets off the ground.” Your options are do everything or do nothing.

  Elmer said, “There’s no guarantee that Parker makes Chief, which means we got no protection then.”

  I said, “That’s a risk you take. In the meantime, you’ll quash this racket, and we’ve made sure that Fletch doesn’t tell Jack he’s been squeezed. This is a future-safety gambit. If you squeeze Fletch now, he’ll be able to lay the groundwork to say, ‘Jack, I’m not so sure about this.’ ”

  Brenda said, “Shake down the mayor of Los Angeles, now. Stall this rival now, and punt if your pal Bill don’t get the job and worse comes to worse.”

  I said, “Yes. And this deal is going forward, and with all the right people to make it happen.”

  Elmer said, “If Parker’s in it from the git, with a convincing handshake, I’d be inclined to say okay.”

  Brenda lit a cigarette. “I can’t risk one of our girls for the bait. Miss Katherine Lake, fresh off the KO victory over the Dotstress, is feeling her oats—but she won’t name names on this deal. I’m skeptical, Citizens.”

  I said, “There’s names you’ll recognize and names you’ll respect. You’ll want someone like Parker on your side. You’ll want him because you don’t trust him now, but you’ll trust him if he gives you his word.”

  Elmer relit his cigar. “I’m inclined to say yes, then. Since this racket sounds like a big-name sure thing, we’d be stupid not to try something.”

  I lit a cigarette. “I’ll be the bait. A little Helena Rubenstein no. 9, and Fletch won’t know this girl’s been in a tiff.”

  12:52 a.m.

  Parker cruised the Palisades. Shoreline blackout—night fifteen.

  Ocean Avenue was fortified. Sub alert, sniper alert. Sub spotters lined the bluffs. Big searchlights swooped.

  That fiend sniper lurked somewhere. Ocean Avenue was triple-manpowered. Thad Brown worked liaison with SaMo PD. The sniper packed a sawed-off carbine. Thad was running gun-sales checks.

  Soldiers camped on the bluffs. Pup tents ran from Pico to Wilshire. Sub spotters perched every ten yards. Sub fear was weird juju. It connoted werewolves of the sea.

  Wolf fear. Parker thought of Fujio Shudo. Sub fear. Parker thought of Hideo Ashida and the Goleta attack.

  He cut east on Wilshire. There was zero traffic. Stop and go lights were cellophane-wrapped. The blackout ran to the L.A. city line. He cruised, aimless. His house was booby-trapped.

  His wife nagged him. Phone calls plagued him. He couldn’t sleep. T
hat last call Japped him.

  Hideo Ashida called. The truce rumor had spread. Ashida apologized for snitching him. He fawned and came on disingenuous.

  He came on brusque. The Dudster had surpassed him as a patron. He told Ashida that. Ashida spieled two phone calls that he’d overheard.

  Call-Me-Jack and Fletch Bowron talked. They hatched a “derogatory profile” to scotch his career. Fletch and Brenda Allen talked. Fletch ordered a girl.

  Ashida was tizzied. He was playing angles. He threw in with Dudley. It canceled out his rogue actions. It would not cancel out his internment.

  Sub fear. Derogatory profile. Parker cruised. Parker recalled Dudley Smith.

  “You, with or without Dr. Ashida, may have a grand time searching for white men in purple sweaters, but you may not publicly present evidence that anyone other than Mr. Shudo killed the Watanabe family.”

  Parker turned north and parked. It was cold. He idled the engine and ran the heat.

  He read Teletypes. Traffic deaths were up. The escaped Japs were Japped-in north of Monrovia. Cops swarmed the hillsides. The Hearst Rifle Team prowled.

  Derogatory profile. Moral boomerang. His profile of Claire De Haven. God now indicts him.

  Parker drove to SaMo Canyon. Larkin’s bungalow was still there. The street was still still.

  He grabbed his crowbar and a carton of fish food. He walked up and shouldered the door in.

  He closed it behind him. He tapped the lights and got light. PG&E was swamped. Dead men got free utilities.

  The living room koi stream sparkled. The koi darted to the surface and peered up at him. He sprinkled half the fish food on the water. The koi gobbled it.

  Who is the white man in the purple sweater?

  Parker walked into the bedroom. He tapped the lights and saw the koi pond outside. He opened the terrace door. The pond sparkled. The koi peered up at him.

  He fed them. He emptied the container. The koi swarmed and chowed.

  The toss was a long shot. Hidey-holes were rare. The Watanabes had a hidey-hole. Ashida’s confession described it.

  Who is the white man in the purple sweater?

  Parker walked through the house.

  He opened cabinets. He looked in drawers. He tapped the walls and listened for thunks.

  He got angry. He got impatient. He told the koi that he’d build them a nice pond in his backyard. He’d keep them safe from dogs and cats.

  All right, then.

  He walked to the middle of the living room. He grabbed his crowbar and hurled it down at the floor.

  He splintered the boards. It killed his arms. He saw nothing but dirt underneath.

  He did it again.

  He did it again.

  He did it again.

  He threw crowbar shots at the living room floor and the living room walls. He stopped at forty-three. He saw nothing but gypsum board and dirt. He worked his way back to the bedroom. He ran his body numb. He wheeled into the bedroom and destroyed it.

  He threw crowbar shots at the bedroom floor and the bedroom walls. He saw nothing but gypsum board and dirt. He tore his hands bloody. He cracked the boards around the bed and put the bed down in the dirt.

  He soaked himself black wet and ran his body numb. He smashed his way up to the terrace. He smashed the walls through to empty spaces and the floors through to wood chips and dust.

  He saw dawn break. It meant shit-all-zero. He hit the floor, he smashed the floor, he fucking Japped the floor. He counted crowbar shots. He went to 286.

  And there’s a binder. It’s flat in the dirt. It looks like that first binder. He was here with Ashida. They found it.

  Parker picked it up and went through it. The writing was in Japanese.

  9:17 a.m.

  He wore a chalk-stripe suit and brought flowers. He came straight from Mass. Whiskey Bill failed to show. The Archbishop was peeved.

  Such a grand home. A plantation manse, sans darkies. A tall man mowed the neighboring lawn. It was Sergei Rachmaninoff.

  Dudley rang the bell. Claire De Haven opened the door. Her hair was cut short. She wore a blue scarf over it.

  He smelled church on her. She lit altar candles and covered her head before God.

  She smiled and accepted the flowers. He took off his hat.

  He said, “Miss De Haven.”

  She said, “Sergeant Smith.”

  He smelled her bath scent. Did she smell Bette? They made love all night. She left him for a studio breakfast. He left her for Mass.

  Claire stood aside. Dudley walked in. Her habitat stunned.

  Silk brocade, ebony, jade. Modernist paintings. The classical, the exquisite, the chic.

  “Would I disapprove of the revelry that occurs here?”

  Claire closed the door. “No, because you see through disapproval to bemusement. You might enjoy the spirit of the revelry, but you’d be enraged at the chat.”

  He passed her his hat. She sailed it across the room. It landed square on a hat rack.

  Dudley whooped. Claire touched his arm and pointed to a red leather couch. She’d laid out tea. Service for two. She’d anticipated a guest.

  Dudley sat to her right. Claire held his bouquet in her lap.

  “I knew you’d appear in person, rather than call.”

  “I would have sent the flowers, if you hadn’t called and left that message.”

  Claire tossed the bouquet. It sailed across the room. It landed square on a love seat.

  Dudley said, “You’re deft. You’re an equestrienne of some note, a grand tennis player and a low-handicap golfer. Were you disappointed when those skills came to you so easily? You revel in the gilded as you despise it and plot against it. Were debauchery and revolution the only roads left to you?”

  Claire said, “You’re glib. You’re an inquisitor and interlocutor of sterling gifts, and you fully understand that I do not accept compliments without reservations. You could have gleaned my sporting résumé from the Los Angeles Blue Book, or from Terry Lux, as I gleaned yours from Terry and Joe Hayes. You didn’t, though. You went straight to well-reasoned surmise, and I am flattered and much impressed.”

  Her scarf matched her eyes. She saw him notice it. She untied the scarf and tossed it. Her Joan of Arc hair glowed.

  “I’ve seen the Dreyer film a great many times. It created quite the stir in Dublin, my cousins tell me. Religious ecstasy and martyrdom, suffused with Marx. The Church apparatchiks didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

  Claire said, “They did both. And Dreyer was a Protestant. They smelled Luther all over it.”

  “Has there ever been a greater tyrant than Luther?”

  “Hitler comes to mind.”

  “And not Uncle Joe Stalin?”

  “The current Russian-front war comes to mind. ‘Uncle Joe’ will bleed Hitler dry in the East, and facilitate the Western alliance in the ultimate division of European property. That must displease you, given your own revolutionary efforts levied against Great Britain.”

  “The Irish lit bonfires to create a flight path to London for Hitler’s bombers. Gerald L. K. Smith reminded me of that recently. He also told me that you’ve purchased many of his left-wing tracts, and that you wrote one yourself.”

  Claire poured tea. “It very much rebutted the ways of your police department. I singled out a colleague of yours and portrayed him as emblematic. I won’t tell you who he is, but I’m sure you know him. If you haven’t read the tract, I’m sure you can extrapolate.”

  Dudley smiled. “I haven’t read the tract, and I won’t indulge guesses. Perhaps you’ll string me along and tell me in good time.” Claire passed him his teacup and saucer. The herb scent braced him.

  “I’ll overconfide to you before you leave today, Sergeant. I’ll be most curious to see what you don’t ask.”

  Dudley said, “Pastor Smith and I discussed populism, utility and the blurred self-interest that supersedes and largely defines left and right. I would say that the two of us coexist wi
thin that orbit. I’m honored that you place my unruly actions in Ireland within a context of workers’ revolt, but I must state that I’m as much of a czarist as Mr. Rachmaninoff next door.”

  Claire smiled. Her few harsh lines vanished.

  “Have you heard the Opus 32 Prelude, number 10? It’s very much a referendum on that.”

  Dudley sipped tea. “I play the piece on my phonograph, repeatedly. It’s his treatise on exile. I play it when I begin to miss Ireland unduly. The maestro reminds me that I can never go back.”

  Claire opened an ebony box. Dudley removed two cigarettes. Claire produced a lighter. Dudley lit them up.

  That grand pleasure. They’d been craving it. They laughed and blew smoke in the air.

  Claire said, “Was Kay Lake a police informant?”

  Dudley said, “Yes, but very much one entrapped.”

  “And who entrapped her?”

  “The policeman you described as ‘emblematic,’ but judiciously declined to name.”

  “Do you think that my tract initiated his interest in me?”

  “I doubt that he’s read it. The man is powerfully given to provocative women and charts reckless courses through them.”

  Claire said, “And who secured my release?”

  “That man and I sealed a pact, in the Archbishop’s presence. Your release was part of it, at that man’s instigation. He is given to effusive gestures in a way that I am not.”

  Claire crushed her cigarette. “I will contest the last part of your statement in time, and cite our meeting in that padded cell Friday night. What interests me now is why you acceded to the man’s stipulation.”