by James Ellroy
He ran. He made the Hall and took the freight lift. He hit the sixth floor. All-man rollout—Four dead at Kwan’s!
Dudley was gone. His cubicle was empty. All-Bureau rollout. Four dead at—
There’s the graph. It’s genius. This brutish boy decoded it.
He studied the graph. He knew advanced mathematics. He knew cryptology. He read two full sheets and got nothing.
He walked to the washroom. He soaked his head and toweled off. He tossed his dime—heads, heads, tails. He blinked. Dudley kills people. Who is the white man in the purple sweater? Impotent Bill Parker kills no one.
He walked to Parker’s office. The door was open. Parker sat at his desk. He stared at a binder. It matched the one from Jim Larkin’s place.
The top page is kanji script. That’s good. Parker can’t read it.
Parker saw him. Ashida tossed Scotty’s envelope on his desk. Parker began reading. Ashida swiveled the binder and read standing up.
Parker read. Ashida read. They flipped pages in near sync. Parker finished first.
He got up and shut the door. He leaned against it. He watched Ashida read.
Ashida finished. Parker flipped the door lock.
“Who wrote this?”
“Scotty Bennett. He got Horrall’s okay to enlist. I think he wanted to get square with all of this before he left.”
Parker said, “Thad Brown told me about the graph. Dud told him it was his crib sheet.”
Ashida nodded. Parker lit a cigarette.
“It’s all there. So far as I know, the only facts missing are two things I’ve never revealed.”
Ashida said, “Tell me.”
Parker said, “I witnessed that shrimp-boat fracas down in Pedro. The men on the boat were Collaborationists. I saw them burn Axis currency with bookmaker’s flash paper right before the suicides, and I got a lead on the warehouse where they off-loaded their shrimp. I broke in, but the place had been cleaned out and print-wiped. I saw discarded shrimp cans and smelled shrimp oil.”
Ashida teethed on it. Parker pointed to the binder.
“I’m listening, Doctor. Don’t make me coax you.”
Ashida said, “Larkin wrote the diary, and we now know him to be Gerald L. K. Smith’s Japanese-fluent author of those tracts that kept turning up in this aggregation of cases. He writes of his friendships with high-ranking officers of the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy, and states that he knew that the attack on the U.S. Fleet would occur on December 7, but that he’d become ambivalent about America’s assured entry into the war. Larkin did not want to see a Japanese-American conflict, simply because he loved both peoples. He was stridently anti-Semitic, and did not want to see Japanese and American lives ‘squandered’ in what he viewed as ‘a war to protect Jewish business interests.’ ”
Parker said, “Go on.”
Ashida cleared his throat. “Larkin had a friend on the far-right flank. He doesn’t name the man, but I can tell that he’s white. The man was a rabid eugenicist, as Larkin was, and he owned a shortwave radio, as Larkin did. Like Larkin, the man was Japanese-fluent.”
Parker said, “Go on.”
“The man picked up early Japanese-language radio reports of the forthcoming Pearl Harbor attack, as I know the Watanabes did. The man wanted to see a U.S.-Japanese war and coerced Larkin into silence as the attack drew near. Larkin dumped his radio the day before the attack and wrote of his urgent desire to take the boys of the Santa Monica Cycleers someplace peaceful for the time that the news of attack would most likely occur. The rest of the entries are Larkin’s views on eugenics. He repeatedly states that the science itself had been ‘contaminated by the Jew left-wing intelligentsia,’ who wanted to breed healthier human beings, rather than create a master race. Members of his ‘cell’ and their ‘satellites’ had engaged in a philosophical dialogue with various leftists, which infuriated Larkin. The concluding entries show Larkin succumbing to lunacy. The diary devolves into profane ramblings and a treatise on Mein Kampf as the lost book of the Holy Bible.”
Parker checked the wall clock. He had that I’ve-got-to-go look.
“Larkin’s shortwave pal is the purple-sweater man. He probably killed the Watanabes, and he sure as shit mowed down Larkin.”
Ashida said, “Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Parker scoped the clock. “We might get something off those pay-phone records. Pay phones are our one circumstantial Larkin-to-Watanabe link. The records are coming, but I’d guess that they’re a good week away.”
Ashida coughed. “And there’s the print match. It probably wasn’t Larkin, but someone touched one of Larkin’s Lugers and left a print at the Watanabe house. The print establishes a relationship between that man, Larkin and the Watanabe family.”
Parker said, “The purple-sweater man.”
Ashida nodded. “The Watanabes had a shortwave radio and were tuned in to the same frequency. I would conclude that, like Larkin, they began to feel ambivalent about the Pearl Harbor attack, and threatened to rat it out. They were allied with Larkin and his shortwave-radio pal, and it went bad between the three of them.”
Parker checked the wall clock. Parker checked his watch.
“And, there’s this. No one working independently or in concert on this case has been able to link the Watanabes or Jim Larkin to Preston Exley, Pierce Patchett and their buyout-internment prison scheme. And now Dudley and company are attempting to buy in with them.”
Ashida shook his head. “We’re not going to know. The Werewolf will burn, and we’ll never get the pieces to click.”
Parker shook his head. “Don’t say ‘we’ll,’ Doctor. I can’t afford to indulge independent action on this, and neither can you. I don’t judge you for naming me in your confession, because I know how persuasive Dudley Smith can be. I’ve taken some steps to protect you, but that’s over. I won’t break the law for you. Dudley Smith will. If your options are him or me, I think you’d be well advised to take the former route.”
Ashida shook his head. “You’re not him. You’ve never been him and you’ll never be him. Does it gall you to know that he’s more powerful than you, and that he’ll always supersede you, however erratically hard that you try to put yourself on top?”
Parker said, “You’re pouting, Doctor. You’re simpering. I would advise you to examine what you’re saying and to consider your effeminate tone.”
9:41 a.m.
Parker was late. I’d left the message with his duty sergeant and got no return call. Citizen Brenda had spruced up her house and had laid out a breakfast buffet. Citizen Elmer talked a blue streak on the Chinatown killings.
“It was an all-Bureau callout, so I went. You got four dead Chinamen in one automobile, and an eyeball in some splattered chicken chow mein. Close-range fire, Citizens. They rob the Chinks, they kill them. One guy’s got a money bag cuffed to his wrist, so they cut off his hand. Ray Pinker says it’s them Japs who escaped from T.I. They drop a car and steal a car, right there in C-town. Ray found matching bullets in the trunk of the drop car and trace elements from the drop car in the Chink car. You had brains and shredded egg rolls all over the seats. There’s roadblocks all the way up to the San Gabriel hills. The posse’s up at four hundred men now. The Feds are passing out tommy guns. Ace Kwan’s offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward, and Mr. Hearst’s matching it. Dud Smith and Thad Brown got the lead slots on the investigation. Ace told Call-Me-Jack that he’ll pay a hundred grand for their heads in a sack. The Hearst Rifle Team boys bought some Jap shrunken heads from this loony Chink doctor, Lin Chung. Lin’s the boss Chink eugenics man. He’s been peddling shrunken Jap heads since the Rape of Nanking. The Hearst Rifle boys are wearing them around their necks.” Brenda said, “Citizen Elmer knows how to stir a girl’s appetite. Citizen Bill’s twenty-four minutes late, and the eggs are getting cold. I’m starting to think that Citizen Kay’s been barking up the wrong tree with this deal of hers, and we should just go ahead and let Citizen Fletch get his a
shes hauled.”
Elmer said, “Fletch is a whip-out man. It’s not like Kay has to go up to the doorway of being screwed, or anything close to it. Fletch just whips it out, and expects certain comments to follow. I’ll be kind here. Fletch likes his girls to exaggerate.”
I laughed and lit a cigarette. I’d spent the night swaddled in ice packs; my bruises had smoothed out and faded; a smattering of powder on and around my nose camouflaged the extent of my recent injuries. I could convincingly play a call-service girl for one night.
Elmer waved his cigar. “Lin Chung’s got a stand set up outside Kwan’s. He’s peddling them shrunken heads for two clams apiece. I got one for my civilian car. I named it ‘Tojo’ and got it all dangled up on my rearview mirror. Lin’s doing a land-office biz. Call-Me-Jack’s on this whole shrunken head business like a rabid dog. He’s issued chain saws and gunnysacks to them Hearst Rifle boys. Once the grand jury indicts our boy Shudo, Lin and Jack are going to start peddling twoskies. You get a shrunken head and a photo of yourself with The Werewolf in handcuffs. Five bucks a pop, three for ten. Christmas is Thursday, Citizens. See Doctor Chung and Chief C. B. Horrall for your wholesome shopping needs.”
Brenda said, “I’m in the market for a wholesome, 10:00 a.m. eye-opener. I brought the maid in from browntown to doll the place up, but I don’t see hide nor hair of Citizen Bill.”
The bell rang. Elmer got up and opened the door. Bill Parker walked in. He wore a crisp uniform and new glasses.
Elmer said, “Morning, Cap.” Parker looked over. He noted my appearance. He said, “Miss Allen, Miss Lake.”
Elmer said, “We put on the dog for you, Cap.” Parker registered the liquor on the buffet and reeled his eyes back.
I hadn’t thanked him yet. I needed to thank him for myself, and for Claire. I needed time alone with him.
Parker tapped his watch. “I appreciate the trouble you went to, but I have a briefing back at the Hall.”
Elmer said, “Okay, then.” Brenda said, “Jack Horrall and Fletch Bowron are working up a ‘derogatory profile’ on you, Cap. I think—”
Parker cut her off. “I know. Hideo Ashida called and told me. If the three of you have concocted a countermeasure, I’d appreciate a summary.”
Brenda said, “Citizen Kay has cooked something up. The floor’s all hers.”
I took the floor. I stressed Brenda and Elmer’s self-interest. Pierce Patchett’s cut-girl plan would deep-six their biz. I would portray a prostie tonight. A wall peek would be set up in Brenda’s spot at the Roosevelt Hotel. We’d squeeze Fletch. No Patchett call-service sanction. No derogatory profile. Parker’s sanction for Brenda and Elmer—should he become Chief.
Parker said, “Yes.”
No hesitation. No qualms expressed.
Parker looked at me. “I’ll be on the other side of the peek. Keep it to words, please. I don’t want him to touch you.”
11:09 a.m.
She waved from the door. Her smile was off-kilter. He liked her new bumpy nose.
Parker took Crescent Heights south. He was late for the briefing. The briefing was three-pronged. The coastal sub attacks, escaped Japs, the Kwan’s slaughter.
He observed the callout alarm. He rerouted traffic by Kwan’s. It was a hellish 187.
It oozed inside job. Some Hop Sing busboy got miffed at Uncle Ace. Tong tiff. The busboy fingered the tile game to Four Families. Four Families clued in some Collaborationist fucks. The fucks had a line on The Japs.
The job oozed hybrid. It was Fifth Column meets loot-and-slay. The Japs bolt their hillside hideout and hit C-town. Drop cars, getaway cars. Do they head back north or head south? The posse’s all over the hills. The job oozed oddball and skewed.
Parker cut east on Beverly. He felt oddball-skewed. He had six days booze-free. He endorsed a sex shakedown. It revised his vow before God.
It did not abrogate it. It did not breach Dudley’s stipulations. It gave him a loophole to crawl through.
He was splitting moral hairs. He knew why.
It was the war and his beloved Pueblo Grande. The war made everyday life life in extremis. Expedient gestures and moral stands stood a hairsbreadth apart. L.A. blazed with common cause in stark contradiction. L.A. would build up and out after the war. It would become unrecognizable. The war gave him L.A. ablaze with crazy purpose. The war let him love L.A. one last time as it was.
Parker hit City Hall. Posse men lounged on the steps. Kudos to Lin Chung. The boys wore shrunken heads on chains.
He parked in the basement. A Navy ensign ran the mayor’s freight lift. They zoomed up to Fletch B.’s floor. The briefing spread out to the hallway.
Army brass schmoozed with reporters. Cops and politicos swarmed a doughnut tray. Parker stepped into the conference room. A Navy commander flanked a lectern and wall map.
Pins denoted coastal waters and recent sub attacks. The Navy man swept a pointer. Subs Jap U.S. freighters. Subs Jap U.S. tankers. Subs threaten the Mex coast. Our Mex Statie amigos are scaaaaared.
Remember the Goleta Inlet. These are rogue subs. L.A.’s shoreline waters could be next.
Ace Kwan and Lin Chung walked in. They wore shrunken heads. Call-Me-Jack and Sheriff Gene hugged them. The Navy man sat down. Mild applause trickled. Dudley Smith took the lectern.
The Merry Mick. Church pulpit–trained. He scanned the room. He let chitchat subside. He took the room, full brogue.
“Chaos attends our fair city. We rebuff invaders as havoc is cried and the dogs of war are let slip. ‘The bay trees in our country are all withered, and meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven. The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth, and lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change.’ ”
The room got it. Big cop, big words. He ain’t no American. It makes this shit okay.
“Would you have our city be less fair? Should we retract the nets of beauty that lure such a collage of splendid peoples and wolfen monsters here? December 7th is Genesis in the Unholy Bible. The normal phases of the moon have been canceled. Werewolves walk among us, sans lunar compass. They are lost. They know only that they must destroy the beauty that unites each one of us, the beauty that has brought each one of us here.”
Dudley paused. He scanned the room. He saw Parker. He looked straight at him.
“I spoke to a wolf, twenty years ago. I commune with him in prayer and have enjoyed earthly visitations of late. The wolf told me that wolves are visible only to a scant few. My duty is to detect them and follow them to points where only one of us may survive. We carry weapons and wear heads that were once men around our necks. We carry the wolfen deeply within us. They are invisible as we become visible to destroy them. We love beauty in a way that they cannot. It subsumes our basest urges and sends us their way. ‘I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.’ The wolf told me that there is no Fifth Column, because the Fifth Column is each one of us. We will track down the wolfen. We are mad with godly allegiance and now see the invisible plainly. We have drunk from the chalice of unholy blood and have become them that we might slay them.”
Parker walked out to the hallway. Dudley sermonized and segued to cop talk.
There’s laughter. He’s cracking jokes now. He’s issued his sermon. His sermon supplants his Satanic exchange of vows.
I am but mad north-north-west. I have exploited blood libel for profit. We are as one, William. You will let it all be.
1:29 p.m.
“DUD-LEY! DUD-LEY!”
Backslappers stormed the lectern. Grown men wolf-howled and waved shrunken heads.
Dudley scrammed for the freight lift. Fans blocked his path. They held up pens and Werewolf pix. He signed D. L. Smith twenty times.
The heads were de rigueur now. Call-Me-Jack wore one. Fletch B. wore two. Two-Gun Davis wore three.
Dudley made the lift and blew kisses. A woman slipped him her phone number. The doors slid shut.
He pushed B. The lift dropped. Ace had a limo waiting. T
he Pagoda—chop, chop.
Benzedrine and Shakespeare. 83 grand in the trunk. Ace retrieved his house stake, plus 41. He was mildly peeved and exuberant. You should have warned me, Dudster. You shot up my parking lot.
The doors slid open. The Lincoln idled close. Dudley ran over and got in the back. Ace was waiting. A partition sealed them off. The driver waved a shrunken head and pulled out.
Ace said, “My Irish brother never fails me. He gets the gelt, and he’ll get the Japs.”
What Japs? There were no Japs. He braced the eyeball wit on the car snatch. The man thought he saw Japs. He was war-fevered. Japs, Chinks—what’s the diff? War fever served a purpose here. We’ll make it The Japs.
Beth and Tommy were due. He sent a taxi to fetch them. Harry Cohn was meeting him. The Pagoda—chop, chop.
Dudley lit a cigarette. “How much does Harry owe you now, my brother?”
Ace stroked his shrunken head. “The Jew beast owes me one hundred and sixteen thou. He is the pus in the boil on my yellow ass.”
“I will barter with Harry and secure us equipment in lieu of money. I have my friend Claire’s donation, and I’ll speak to my friend Bette tonight. We must accrue ready cash, in order to close Messrs. Exley and Patchett. Our friend Terry assures me that they are cash-strapped, and will be willing to let us partner in with them.”
They hit the Pagoda. The lot was roped up. Bluesuits flanked the death car. Ray Pinker measured tread marks. Hideo Ashida vacuumed the backseat.
Mike B. and Dick C. played watchdog. Lin Chung peddled shrunken heads on the sidewalk. Harry Cohn bought a head and waddled in.
The limo swerved curbside and dropped them. Ace ran inside and tore for the kitchen. Blood of the Infidel! He always spit in Harry’s soup.
Dudley strolled through the lot. Bluesuits saluted. He walked by the death sled. It reeked of solvents. Hideo Ashida glanced up.
