Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  Dudley crushed his cigarette. “I do not consider you and your comrades ‘seditious’ or in any way traitorous. The current wartime hysteria and its related racial animus offends me. Since Monsignor Hayes has given you a primer on my early history, and I first viewed you in a moment of acute dissolution that you deftly transcended, I ascribed a meaning to the moment that I now know to be true. It was about ‘belief.’ You told me that, and you were right. I knew that the ever-opportunistic Terry Lux would describe my present endeavors with Ace Kwan, Preston Exley and Pierce Patchett to you, and that you would want to indulge significant risk and a clash of ideals and invest.”

  Claire touched her hair. Claire pointed to a lacquered box on the coffee table.

  “Kay Lake unnerved me. I knew that she was fraudulent, but I was powerless to resist her. She reinstilled and served to revise a performer’s sense within me. I’ve been taken with a desire to perform in perilous contexts that challenge my beliefs but allow me to retain my native integrity. Terry told me that you would be commissioned in Army Intelligence at New Year’s. Whatever your conflicts of belief, you are going off to fight this war. I was hoping that my natural skills and scrutiny of Kay Lake might be put to good use in the Anti-Axis cause, and that we both might profit from it, personally and financially.”

  Dudley sipped tea. He was levitating. The cup and saucer shook.

  “And what led you to this? Beyond your just-stated rationale?”

  “I saw mercy in your eyes Friday night. I saw rebuke for Terry Lux in them, along with a desire not to hurt me.”

  The box was red and gold. Dragons and courtesans adorned it. Claire opened the top. Hundred-dollar bills were stacked in.

  “It’s fifty thousand. It’s not that I approve of your schemes, it’s just that I see the internment as inevitable. I will insist on safeguards to ensure that Messrs. Kwan and Exley don’t bleed the fugitives from internment dry, and I trust that you’ll treat them more humanely than the United States Government.”

  Dudley lowered his cup. The saucer rattled.

  Claire said, “I smell a woman on you.”

  Dudley said, “There’s a beast in me. I destroy those I cannot control. I must be certain that those close to me share my identical interests. I’m benevolent within that construction. I’m ghastly outside of it.”

  Claire said, “I know that.”

  “I’m hoping for a posting in Mexico. I’m Spanish-fluent, and there’s considerable Fifth Column activity in Mexico City, as well as German rightist cells in the stunningly lovely Acapulco. Mexico is quite the place.”

  Claire smiled. “I’m Spanish- and German-fluent.”

  They looked away from each other. Dudley saw things.

  The Kandinsky painting. A gold-framed piece of sheet music. It was Rachmaninoff’s prelude of exile. He knew it.

  They looked back at each other. He saw the flanking bumps on her nose. She wore glasses on occasion. His guess was tortoiseshell.

  She said, “I think you’d be a good man to spend this war with.”

  He said, “Really, you?”

  10:27 a.m.

  Claire had freckles. It delighted him more than the rest.

  The tour of the house. The things she said. The bedroom, saved for last.

  Every furnishing and accoutrement stunned him. The aesthetic satirized her wealth and canonized her embrace of the Left. The effect was both seamless and discordant. Her library ran to the classics and Social Realist tomes. She owned the collected works of Saint Augustine. She had studied religious poetry and conceded that Marx was wrong about God. She’d read Stanislavski on acting and asserted that Kay Lake had, as well. Her phonograph records were alphabetized from Bach to Wieniawski. She loved Bruckner’s symphonies as much as he did.

  She rented a room to two of her slaves. It kept them close at hand. She disdained weak men and deployed them to facilitate her whims. She brought up Hideo Ashida and said that he undermined Kay Lake’s verisimilitude. Dr. Ashida rang warning bells on Miss Lake. He was an unconvincing lover. She fell prey to La Grande Kay. She was La Grande Joan and given to a flawed egalitarianism. Kay Lake was South Dakota trash. She knew it going in. Kay was probably told to attend that Paul Robeson concert. She should never have lit the girl’s cigarette.

  Nao Hamano and La Grande Joan adorned Claire’s bedroom. The suicide woman recalled Goro Shigeta. The recollection brought the echoes of gunshots and shattered glass.

  There was no “G.S.” on his graph. He was saving it for Bette. She said, “Kill a Jap for me.” He’d tell her at an appropriate time. He wondered if Claire still smelled Bette.

  She showed him the tract she wrote for Gerald L. K. Smith. It was convergence in the spiritus mundi. Her bête noire policeman was William H. Parker. His Catholicism sparked her leftist-humanist conversion. Her anti-Parker crusade was confined to this one tract. His anti-Claire crusade did not acknowledge the tract or the historical event that spawned it. Parker went looking for women to entrap and decided on Kay and Claire. It was serendipity or malign fate. Claire De Haven attended the same church as D. L. Smith and W. H. Parker. Sergeant Smith and Captain Parker did not notice Miss De Haven. Miss De Haven noticed them.

  They shared an adversary. He decided not to tell her. It would encumber what might emerge between them. It might impinge upon his vow with the man.

  He read the tract as Claire stood beside him. He marveled at her sharp précis of the jackbooted oppressor. The spiritus mundi coheres. Dot Rothstein fondles Claire in a Central Station cell. Kay Lake shivs Dot. Claire lies comatose, one cell away.

  They walked out to the terrace. The view took in Beverly Hills and the Santa Monica Mountains. He described his moorside colloquy with the wolf. Claire described a spot of mischief, circa ’24.

  Her father took her to a gala at the Annandale Country Club. She was aghast that no Jews belonged. She sneaked out to the groundskeeper’s shack and stole a sack of quicklime. She burned a six-point star into the ninth green.

  It wasn’t enough. She’d heard of a Silver Shirts rally up the Angeles Crest. She stole her father’s car and drove there with arson in mind. A case of bootleg rye sat in the trunk. She found the Shirts’ campground and uncorked the bottles in their equipment shed. She formed a cord with newspaper strips. One match torched dozens of hate screeds and nativist robes.

  He laughed. She touched his arm. She said, “I have freckles.” He said, “Show me, please.”

  2:17 p.m.

  She did. He lost count at two hundred something. He kissed them in groups.

  The terrace windows faced a high sun. The warmth off the glass became an early-dusk chill. They kept their eyes open and told each other why. We must not miss a first-time anything.

  He showed her his scar from an Ulster jail riot. It came from a Black and Tan’s cell key held over a flame. She took him back to Pershing Square in 1935. His blue comrades wore brownshirts that day. Horses bore down. A bridle bit gouged her shoulder. A stirrup flange cut her leg.

  She was bigger and stronger than Bette. She kissed him harder. She refitted him to suit herself. She said his name more.

  She flushed more than Bette. Her skin burned warmer. They kissed every moment they were locked together. She threw sweat like she threw sweat that time he saw her in the steam room. It turned her hair black and pooled on their lips.

  He kissed her underarms. He brushed the stubble with his nose. He took her fingers in his mouth.

  They passed a fever back and forth. She was grateful for him. She told him that. She said his name and “I’m grateful.” He lost track of the times she said it. She held him close every time he said, “You, Claire.”

  10:27 p.m.

  She fell asleep beside him. His name faded off in a whisper. He knew she was out then.

  He dressed in the dark and walked downstairs. He replaced the lacquered box with Shakespeare. He folded the volume open. She’d see the page and go straight to the quote.

  Othello. The mad Irishma
n as mad Moor. “Perdition, catch my soul, / But I do love thee.”

  He levitated out to the car. He drove straight to Chinatown.

  Breuning and Carlisle were meeting him. That lot on Alameda was their rendezvous spot. Breuning and Carlisle would bring shotguns. Jack Webb would buzz the corner pay phone.

  The tile game should go all night. Pesky Jack would report the cash ebb. The house cash didn’t count. It was Kwan-Smith cash to begin with. They had to get the stake cash the marks brought with them.

  They were tong Chinks out of Frisco. They were tile game–touring their way down to T.J. They had New Year’s Eve plans. Let’s ring in ’42. We’ll catch the midnite donkey show.

  Ace predicted a sixty-grand cash stake. They might bring it all with them. They might leave a reserve in their car.

  Dudley hit Chinatown. He caught a blockade at Alpine and Broadway. Four bluesuits stood around. Ray Pinker perused a deuce coupe. It featured chopped windows and flared fender skirts.

  A bluesuit waved Dudley over. Dudley pulled up and badged him. The bluesuit snapped a salute.

  “It’s the Japs, sir. Four Japs dumped that jalopy and clouted a Chinked-up ’36 Ford. Mr. Pinker’s doing the forensic, and we got an eyeball wit. You want my take? They stole a Chinatown car to help themselves pass for Chink.”

  Japs. The Japs. Down from the San Gabriels.

  Dudley saluted. The bluesuit slid a sawhorse back and waved him through. Dudley drove to the lot. Breuning and Carlisle stood by their K-car. Breuning walked over.

  “Good night for it, boss.”

  Dudley said, “I think we’ll be out until sunrise, but yes.”

  “Where’s Scotty? This would be a sweet deal for him.”

  “He’s running fraught, lad. He’s seen a vexing amount of grief for a two-week rookie. I’m granting him the Marine Corps vacation he so richly deserves.”

  “We’ll be reading about him. He’ll storm some pissant island and eat the Japs whole.”

  “Or not, lad. He’s a tortured boy, and he’s only twenty years old.”

  Breuning lit a cigarette. “I cruised the game an hour age. Ace was taking a bath, there was a shitload of cash on the table, but I don’t know about the tong guys’ reserve.”

  Dudley pointed north. “Ray Pinker is working a heap at Alpine and Broadway. Those escaped Japs dumped it, or it’s Chinks, off a bad eyeball wit. Go over, act unobtrusive and bag some trace evidence. The Japs are far better suspects than rampaging jigs.”

  Breuning winked and scrammed. Dudley checked his watch and popped three bennies. 10:58, 10:59—11:00 exactly.

  The sidewalk phone rang. Like clockwork—Jack Webb.

  Dudley walked over. He caught it four rings in.

  “Hello, lad.”

  Jack was eager. He was a Hearst/​PD lapdog. He lived to fetch.

  “The Chinks are taking Ace to the cleaners. They’re talking about playing all night, and I haven’t seen those colored guys you told me about.”

  “Did you see the car the Chinks arrived in? I know you’ve got a grand eye for license plates.”

  Jack said, “It’s a ’39 Caddy sedan. Mint green, with whitewalls and some Chink flag on the antenna. California license BHO44.” Dudley said, “Grand work, lad. Go home, now. Create some mischief for Mr. Hearst, or get a good night’s sleep.”

  Jack said, “Roger, boss.”

  Dudley hung up. Carlisle ambled over and went What gives?

  “It’s the morning, lad. The out-of-town fucks are winning, so I would assume that their reserve will be in the car. I predict a dozing Chinaman in the front seat, with a briefcase cuffed to his wrist.”

  “I figured that. We don’t want loose cash, so I brought a hacksaw.”

  Dudley winked. Carlisle ambled back to the K-car and played dashboard solitaire. Dudley ambled to his prowler and tipped the seat full stretch.

  Bette/Claire, Bette/​Claire, Bette/​Claire. He saw them naked. He smelled them. Claire said, “I’m grateful.” Bette said, “You inconvenienced me.”

  He chain-smoked and orbed the headliner. New Year’s, the Army. Comrade Claire and Acapulco. Mexican boys cliff-dive for pesos. Fetch, muchachos, fetch.

  Time whizzed. Bennies did that. Breuning walked up. Note his paper bag.

  “I got carpet fibers and dust. Pinker had his back turned, so I wedged three bullets behind the spare tire. They’ll match our spent rounds.”

  “Have you been by Kwan’s?”

  “I checked the parking lot. The lookout’s in the backseat. He’s cuffed up to a big satchel, and he’s got a belt piece.”

  Dudley said, “I’ll take him. We’ll get them all in the car. You and Dick take the other three.”

  Breuning whistled. Carlisle locked the K-car and lugged their wares over. Silencered Magnums. One shark-tooth hacksaw.

  The lads piled in. They drove to Kwan’s. It was 3:16 a.m. The Caddy was the sole sled tucked in the lot.

  Dudley parked three slots over. Carlisle unplugged his flask. The lookout had to be supine. No yellow head showed.

  They hunkered in. They bullshitted. It was all women and war.

  Breuning was a native-born Kraut. He wanted to slay Krauts under George S. Patton. Carlisle craved flyboy action. He had an eight-year-old son. They built toy Jap Zeros and blew them up with cherry bombs.

  Stray talk. Lee Blanchard’s skirt shivved the Dotstress. Terry Lux stitched her Jew beak. Breuning harped on Bette. Holy shit—Bette Davis talked to me!

  That New Year’s Eve. That dance floor. “Perfidia.” Claire says, “I’m grateful.” Bette says, “You inconvenienced me.”

  They settled in. They bullshitted. Dick revealed his murky crush on Ellen Drew. He saw her in some oater—man, that’s a dish!

  Breuning dropped the wet blanket. She bunks at the Los Altos. She whores for Brenda Allen. Elmer J.’s poking her.

  They resettled. They killed the flask. Breuning played sentry. Dudley rewired his bennie surge with Jim Beam.

  The sun came up. The tong sled just sat there. All four windows were down. The lookout remained supine.

  6:09, 6:21, 6:43.

  They got ready. Carlisle passed out bandannas. Breuning loaded the Magnums. They covered their faces, snout-high.

  Dudley palmed his Magnum and saw. 6:44, 6:45, 6:46. There—the rear kitchen door.

  Three Chinamen walked out.

  They beamed. They swerved and bumped one another. Ace served knockout mai tais.

  They carried Kwan’s take-out boxes. Yankee greenbacks bulged out. They carted two each.

  The lookout stirred and sat up. One wrist was cuffed. The Chinks bumped to the car and got in.

  Three doors slammed. Dudley said, “Now.”

  They wheeled out. Two strides got them there. Breuning took the driver. Carlisle took the passenger fuck.

  It was head-to-muzzle tight. Dumdum blasts tore off faces and blew the steering column out. Dudley shot the lookout in the ear and the other fuck in the neck. Silencers went kick-thud.

  There’s the skull shrapnel. There’s the eyelid flutter. Now they convulse.

  Breuning and Carlisle scrambled. Get the doors, get the boxes, get the fuck out.

  The lookout convulsed. Dudley opened the door and grabbed his wrist. Dudley sawed his hand off.

  Breuning and Carlisle scrambled. They sprinkled trace evidence, they got the boxes, they looked back at the boss.

  Dudley grabbed the satchel. It was cash heavy. A severed hand twitched on the grips.

  6:49 a.m.

  Sirens kicked on. It sounded all-points. Ashida pegged the distance. Call it close by, northeast.

  Maybe Chinatown. Maybe Lincoln Heights.

  He stood in the lab. He was the first Monday log-in. Ray Pinker spent the night at Alpine and Broadway.

  It was Code 3 work. The escapees ditched a deuce coupe and stole a ’36 Ford. “Probable” escapees—Pinker stressed that.

  Squadroom jabber hit the vents. Quadruple homicide outside Kwan
’s. It’s hot, hot, hot. Calling all cars, now.

  Ashida sipped coffee. He had no real work. His real job was wait. He was the Yellow Spot, dispossessed.

  A man weaved by the doorway. He was a stumblebum. He reeked of rotgut muscatel.

  “If you’re Dr. Ashida, I got a package. This great big kid gave me a buck and a jug to find you.”

  He slurred it. He wore a drunk-tank wristband. He waved a manila envelope.

  Ashida snatched it. The bum did a double take. Hey, you’re a Jap.

  “Tell me about the kid.”

  “Well, the funny thing was he was a kid, but he was a cop. He was about six six, and he was wearing a gun. He had on a brown suit and a plaid bow tie.”

  Ashida slid the bum a dollar. The bum about-faced away. Ashida closed the door and leaned on it.

  He slit the envelope. It contained four typed pages. Scotty used a Bureau typewriter. The stroke marks nailed that.

  He skimmed the pages. He got it. Scotty deciphered Dudley’s graph.

  He’d seen the graph. It made no sense. Scotty B. decoded Dudley’s mad hieroglyphs.

  The Watanabe case. “Related opportunities.” The land grab. The “two white stiffs” named. His own confession, recounted. Bill Parker, coindicted. Dudley and Ace Kwan’s war-profit schemes.

  Ashida read the pages. Ashida slid down the door and jammed it shut.

  The war. Fifth Column overtones. Spycraft. Graphs, diaries, ledgers. Suicide notes, stenciled letters. Coerced confessions. Notarized statements. Doodles deciphered. Vows exchanged before priests.

  Who is the white man in the purple sweater? We have ALL OF THIS. Why don’t we know who he is?

  Someone pushed against the door. Someone said, “Hey.”

  Ashida dug out a dime and tossed it. Scotty broke ranks. Tell someone. Don’t think beyond the toss. Heads for Dudley, tails for Whiskey Bill.

  He tossed the coin. It hit on heads. He stood up and got the door. The day-watch men filed in and fish-eyed him.

  He walked.

  He got downstairs and outside. He jaywalked across 1st. People glanced at him. They held up newspapers and moved at half his clip. They were off in the morning Herald and JAP SUBS PROWL COAST!