Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  “Here’s my first question. Gentlemen, do you comprise a combine that has purchased, has attempted to purchase and is currently attempting to purchase Japanese-owned house properties in Highland Park, Glassell Park and South Pasadena, along with Japanese-owned farm property in the San Fernando Valley?”

  Exley said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “Is it your intention to raze those house properties in order to build ramps to the Arroyo Seco Parkway and shopping centers near the Arroyo Seco Parkway?”

  Patchett said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “Exley Construction has a proposal before the mayor’s office and the City Council at this moment. The proposal theoretically supplants preexisting plans currently being implemented by the Federal government. Mr. Exley wishes to construct prison work camps to house Japanese subversives for the duration of the war, in the San Fernando Valley. Mr. Exley, have you purchased Japanese-owned farm property, and are you attempting to purchase Japanese-owned farm property in order to raze said properties to create prison work camp sites?”

  Exley said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “Are you employing illegal Mexican farm workers to pick your crops?”

  Exley and Patchett leaned toward Rummel. Patchett’s shirt cuffs slid up. Note his Asian-symbol tattoos.

  Rummel said, “Point of order, Captain. Those workers have been granted temporary visas by Captain Carlos Madrano of the Mexican State Police.”

  Cluster fuck. El Capitán Carlos. El Jefe, muy fascista.

  “I’ll rephrase. Gentlemen, are your workers systematically destroying crop acreage by the application of shrimp oil upon topsoil, in an attempt to provide a baseline for the cement foundations of your prison work camp structures?”

  Exley said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “Have you created a dummy corporation and secretly recorded your purchases of the house and farm properties?”

  Patchett said, “Yes.”

  “Will you present documentation of your purchases to the Los Angeles County grand jury?”

  Rummel said, “Only in the event of a full-scale grand jury inquiry, and under official subpoena only.”

  Parker said, “Did you purchase the Highland Park home and the East Valley farm of Ryoshi Watanabe?”

  Exley said, “Yes.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Watanabe and/​or members of his family to walk the acreage behind the house with shrimp oil and/​or glass shards applied to their feet, in order to aerate the acreage and provide a baseline for the pouring of cement?”

  Patchett said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “The property behind the houses you have purchased or have attempted to purchase is public land deeded to Los Angeles County, with first-purchase rights of refusal granted to Exley Construction, due to its proximity to the Arroyo Seco Parkway. Gentlemen, were you systematically attempting to reduce the value of those properties by your topsoil-destroying machinations, and had you realized that people walking the acreage would stand a better chance of going undetected than a mechanized application of shrimp oil would?”

  Exley said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “Did you murder Ryoshi, Aya, Johnny and Nancy Watanabe on December 6, 1941?”

  Patchett said, “No.”

  “Do you know who killed them?”

  Patchett said, “No.”

  “Do you have verifiable alibis for 2:00 to 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, December 6th? I would like both of you to answer, please.”

  Exley said, “Yes.”

  Patchett said, “Yes.”

  Parker said, “Will you present valid third-party proof of those alibis?”

  Rummel cleared his throat. “In the event of a full-scale and official inquiry only, and only under direct subpoena.”

  Twelve questions. Added clarifications. Thirty-four minutes, door-to-door.

  Parker looked at McPherson. “As your deputy, I call for a full-scale inquiry.”

  McPherson stood up. “Request denied. The Wolf’s good for those homicides. Shrimp oil, farms and parkway ramps—who gives a shit?”

  8:53 a.m.

  “BET-TE! BET-TE!”

  They stormed the Miracle Mile. They commandeered parking lots and blitzed Christmas shoppers. Buy war bonds. Meet Miss Davis. She’s Aunt Sam—and she wants YOU!

  The late-shopping rush. Hollywood. War fever.

  The big department stores ran down Wilshire. Desmond Silverwood’s, Coulter’s. The lots ran straight behind them. Platforms were set up by the exits. Bette stood above the crowds and worked off microphones.

  She wowed the fans. Army color guards flanked her. Cops monitored the bond-purchase lines. Bette shook everyone’s hand. Bette posed for photos. MPs handled the pledge slips and cash.

  Beth and Tommy stuck close to Bette. Dudley stood not too close. Bette deadpanned him. Last night shrouded them.

  His hand hurt wicked bad. Claire picked glass out of the cuts for two hours. She mummified his hand. He couldn’t touch her with it. They made love awkwardly.

  He put the onus on a cop’s bash. He heard a grand joke and squeezed his glass too hard. The Red Empress seemed skeptical.

  They discussed their Mexican plans. They talked blue streaks. She gave him a painkilling pill. They fell out, entwined.

  He left her bed at 7:00. She inquired about his day. He said he’d been assigned to guard Bette Davis. Skeptic Claire roared.

  “It was her I smelled on you Sunday. I met her once, at a premiere. I remember her perfume.”

  He laughed. Claire grabbed an atomizer and marked him with her scent.

  “BET-TE! BET-TE! BET-TE!”

  Dudley watched the crowd. Cops linked arms and held back the crowd. Silverwood’s was Stop no. 2. Five hundred people showed up for Desmond’s. Diehards slept in the lot overnight.

  “BET-TE! BET-TE!”

  The crowd shouted her name. A crowd shouted his name yesterday. Bette deadpanned him. You inconvenienced me.

  “BET-TE! BET-TE!”

  He worked the store cop’s phone back at Desmond’s. He called Huey. Huey reported. Huey said Tojo Tom was still tucked in tight. He talked to Tojo Tom. He quizzed him per Carlos Madrano’s dope and cash stash. Tojo credibly reported and begged to be sprung. He said, “Merry Christmas, lad. You’ll be released at New Year’s.”

  He started seeing it. The raid itself. Let’s utilize those Jap subs glimpsed in Baja.

  Call-Me-Jack was sub-fixated. He feared attacks off the L.A. coast. Dudley called Call-Me-Jack and snow-jobbed him.

  Chief, I fear sub raids. Let me liaise with the Staties. I’ll take my boys down.

  It all clicked his way then. Fate intervened.

  Carlos Madrano was sub-fixated. He’d called Call-Me-Jack. Those Baja sub spottings spooked him. Call-Me-Jack played right in.

  “Go down on the QT, Dud. Don’t tell Carlos you’re there. Chart scuttlebutt on the sub front. Ellis Loew presents to the grand jury today, and we’ll get our indictment on Monday. You’ll be commissioned at New Year’s, and I know you want a Mexican posting. Lay the groundwork and poke some señoritas. Let me know what you hear.”

  Roger, Chief. I’ll do just that.

  “BET-TE! BET-TE! BET-TE!”

  She deadpanned him. You inconvenienced me. She would not look his way.

  Beth played to him. She kept glancing over. His hand throbbed. The crowd yelled for Bette.

  Cops walked stiffs up to meet her.

  She smiled at each and every one.

  She posed for pictures and dispensed hugs.

  She was an American. He was immigrant scum. She was native-born Protestant. He was papist rabble. It was her war—not his.

  He thought of the Red Empress. He thought of Mexico and money. Schoolchildren stormed the platform. They waved American flags on sticks.

  11:04 a.m.

  Ashida saw smoke. It billowed northeast. It might be a brush blaze. It might be morgue soot off the Watanabes.

  Who is the white man in the purple sweater? He
walked in Ryoshi’s blood. He wears cashmere socks and has very small feet.

  He sat outside Mariko’s building. She was upstairs, asleep. Little Tokyo was peaceful. The Feds took a holiday breather. No street rousts, no bank raids.

  A depleted population. Sidewalk Christmas trees.

  Ashida read the morning Herald. It was his breather. He was due back at Kwan’s after lunch.

  They were disassembling the death car. It was make-do work. The escaped Japs had been preconvicted. Dudley would brutalize Hop Sing busboys and nail the finger man. It was all fait accompli.

  He missed Dudley. He wanted to sit beside him. He wanted to see him wink.

  The Herald was all Japs and Christmas. SHOPPERS SWARM MIRACLE MILE! BETTE DAVIS DUE AT COULTER’S! ARROW SHIRT SALE AT THE WILSHIRE MAY COMPANY!

  Dudley and Bette. He’d love to see it. His camera, a wall peek.

  Jap sub alerts in Baja. It’s only a hundred miles. It could happen here.

  The escaped Japs were spotted down in San Diego County. They skirted the dragnet. The posse was on its way.

  Ashida tossed the paper. Hardy locals swept the street. The population was two-thirds dispersed. Padlocked buildings vouched that figure. February was coming. The papers euphemized “Concentration Camps.”

  A cab pulled up. Bucky Bleichert got out. He wore his Belmont jacket.

  The cab U-turned. Bucky jiggled the coins in his pockets and looked over.

  He was taller than Dudley. They both had small brown eyes. Bucky’s arms were longer. Dudley’s hands were twice his size.

  Bucky walked up. He hemmed and hawed that Bucky way. He forked over an envelope. It felt like money.

  “Is it a penance payment? You informed on my family, and you think this will erase that?”

  Bucky shrugged. It was quintessential. His most dismissive poses evinced grace.

  “It’s my life savings. I think you’ll be needing it.”

  “Complete the thought, Bucky. Why will I be needing it?”

  Bucky said, “I was playing basketball at the Academy, and I heard these Feds talking. They were saying that you were involved in making some kind of Red-type movie, but their case against you and the Reds got blown somehow. They’re looking for dogs to kick, so they’re bypassing your pal Ward Littell and picking up you and your family after Christmas. They said all of you were Fifth Column from way back.”

  “Thanks, Bucky. You didn’t have to tell me, but you did.”

  Bucky jiggled coins. “I always knew how you felt about me. I didn’t care, until you got in my way.”

  Ashida said, “There’s a woman looking for you. I’m sure she’ll find you someday.”

  11:45 a.m.

  He lunged. He blew off Bucky and the car job at Kwan’s.

  He drove to City Hall and lunged upstairs. Homicide was all Japs and Chinks. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle worked adjoining sweat rooms. Ashida scoped the hall mirrors.

  Hop Sing boys were cuffed to drainpipes. The lads tossed phone-book shots.

  Thad Brown worked the main briefing room. He traced routes on a wall map. He preached to forty hunting-garbed men.

  The Japs dashed down to Dago. It’s a border crashout. The Mex Staties are waiting. Spotter planes are up. They’re camped in the boonies. They’ll hit southbound roadways. We’ll take them then.

  Ashida counted shrunken heads. He got to twenty-three and stopped. Half the men carried hacksaws.

  Enough.

  Ashida walked to Bill Parker’s office. The door was open. Parker wore Army fatigues.

  He was posse-bound. Check his office. It’s a loading zone.

  Gas masks, grenades, Ithaca pumps. The spotter planes would gas hillsides. They’d flush out the Japs.

  Ashida said, “Have you done anything? Is there anything more we can do?”

  “I tried a play with Exley, Patchett and the grand jury. McPherson declined to pursue.”

  Cashmere socks. Bloody socks. Who is the white man in the—

  “Is there anything more we can do?”

  “We can wait for a callback on the pay-phone records.”

  Ashida scanned the room. He counted twenty Thompson submachine guns.

  “The Feds are coming after my family.”

  Parker said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anyone you can call?”

  Parker checked the wall clock. “I’ve worn out my welcome with the Feds, Doctor. That shouldn’t surprise you.”

  Two MPs rolled an ammo cart down the hallway. The metal wheels gouged the floor.

  Ashida lunged. He cut down the hall. He made Homicide. He made the cubicle.

  Dudley sat at his desk. His right hand was bandaged. He wore a tweed suit and brown brogues.

  No man should be so deadly. No man should be so handsome. No man should be so adroit and so debonair.

  Dudley smiled. Graph sheets enclosed him. Ink strokes covered all four sheets.

  “WATANABE CASE CLEARED/12-7 TO 12/23/41.”

  Dudley said, “Hello, lad.”

  Ashida fluttered. “The FBI is coming after my family and me. I thought you could help.”

  Dudley said, “I’ll take care of it immediately. In recompense, I will require your presence on a grand Mexican foray.”

  12:39 p.m.

  Nothing before this moment exists. The war is coming. I’m going to enlist.

  I wrote those words in this same spot, seventeen days ago. I knew the war to be inevitable, and believed that I could control the onslaught with self-directed actions and statements of intent. Callow girl. Look at your face in the mirror and convincingly state that you believe it now.

  Scotty Bennett has enlisted. I doubt that Pacific duty can match his two weeks as a wartime-hire policeman. I received a letter from Scotty a few hours ago; he wrote it en route to the Marine Corps recruit depot. There was no mention of Dudley Smith, the Watanabe murder case, the alleged killer he shot in Chinatown, his daring raid on The Werewolf’s den or any other heinous errands he might have undertaken while under the Dudster’s spell. He did not mention the graph summary that he sent to Hideo Ashida at great risk, or reveal that his flight to the war was a horrified repudiation of evil and his own compliance with it. He stated that he will seek to serve his country as a combat chaplain’s assistant and thanked me for the love I gave him the month America entered the war and he became a policeman.

  I wept then. I retrieved the Saint Christopher medal that I received at Trinity Lutheran Church in 1929. I know that I will never see Scotty Bennett again. I will wear the medal until I learn that he has returned safely or that he has died.

  I did not know Scotty seventeen days ago. I did not know William H. Parker, Hideo Ashida or Claire De Haven. I had not enlisted in a political pogrom and had not maneuvered at a dozen levels of allegiance and betrayal. I had not perpetrated a shakedown on a noted public official, nor had I fought for my life with a jailhouse shiv. The war gave me this. It came to me in the form of a man who misread the war with his own self-directed actions and statements of intent. I am in no way comforted by the knowledge that Captain William H. Parker was every bit as reckless and foolish as I.

  I’ve called Hideo’s apartment repeatedly and gotten no answer. He betrayed me, he betrayed Claire, he betrayed a film venture that would have exposed the brutal blood libel of his people. I called him because we’re at war and I’ve been imbued with a heightened understanding of instant allegiance and sudden betrayal. I’ve called Claire repeatedly and gotten no answer. I betrayed her. I betrayed my best ideals. I betrayed Claire’s courage to confront injustice and her ability to surmount sophistry and acute dissipation.

  I’ve called Saul Lesnick’s office. I’ve left messages with his secretary, and gotten no calls back. I called Reynolds Loftis and talked to him. He told me that Claire came to believe that I was a police informant. Reynolds said, “Claire thought you possessed stunning artistry, but no character or conviction.” He asked me if I was a police informant. I said, “Y
es.” He said, “You silly thing,” and hung up.

  I cannot cite the war to rebuff Claire’s indictment. It’s an accurate brief of my life to date.

  The war. This storm. This storm that now indicts me.

  Dudley Smith and his graph. Land grabs and the dead Watanabes. Lee Blanchard kills a gangland witness. Fletch Bowron’s drunken goose step. A rumor Brenda shared with me. Dudley smokes opium in Ace Kwan’s basement.

  I miss Scotty. I miss Hideo. I miss Claire. The Passion of Joan of Arc is playing at the Filmarte Theatre. I’m going to see it and think of her.

  I think of Dudley. He shadows me. I keep seeing him trading looks with Bette Davis. Lovers’ glances across a dance floor.

  The war. My own Japanese invasion. Hideo. The Goleta Inlet. Submarines, from Monterey to Mexico. The jail suicides. Goro Shigeta in the phone booth. I don’t know where Lee is. I would guess that he’s out with the posse. The men are wearing shrunken heads. Lee bought one for a car ornament.

  I don’t know where Hideo is. We share a love for a perfidious boxer with big buck teeth.

  The war. Rash acts and injustice. I possess stunning artistry, but no character or conviction. I miss the people I’ve betrayed and who’ve betrayed me. I know only two things. America will win the war, and I’m alone with William H. Parker.

  2:06 p.m.

  Posse. Convoy. Pincer attack. Twenty vehicles and a crop-dusting biplane.

  They moved south. Two hundred Jap hunters. The topography favored them.

  They moved in two flanks. They held the high-vantage-point edge. Paved roads overlooked a north-to-south gulch. Thick foliage, scrub mounds, half-paved roadways. Tree cover and a shot to Mexico.

  The Japs were down there somewhere. They were outnumbered and outflanked.

  By jeeps and Army half-tracks. By black-and-whites rigged with off-road axles. By shotguns, tommy guns and grenades. By decapitation gear. By baaaaad shrunken-head voodoo.

  The flanks pushed south. Pincers. Left-side/​right-side canyon roads looked down on that gulch. The biplane flew low behind them. It sprayed yellow shit from a hundred feet up.