by James Ellroy
His legs held.
Someone stepped into the men’s room. That someone killed the lights.
It was 6:11 p.m. More doors slammed. No doors slammed. It went quiet and thick dark.
6:21, 6:37, 6:49 p.m., 6:53, 6:58, 7:00.
Do it now.
Ashida stepped off the toilet. He stomped blood back in his legs. He got out his penlight and threw out a beam. Patchett, first. He’s the Unknown Someone.
He breezed out of the men’s room and walked down the hall. It was deep dark. The carpet hushed his footsteps.
There’s 217. It’s got a spring-keyhole door lock.
He jiggled a no. 4 pick and breezed in. He bit down on the penlight. He swiveled his head and aimed the beam. He locked himself into the waiting room. He put light on this:
A reception desk, two chairs, one couch. A wall print depicting Mount Fuji. Heedless Patchett. We’re at war now. Mount Fuji is Japanese.
Phone records. Rolodex or address book. Financial books. Toss for those things.
The inner-office door stood ajar. Ashida walked in and penlight-strafed. Wall prints depicted geisha girls and snow monkeys. Heedless Patchett, redux.
Heedless Patchett had a large desk. A standing cabinet flanked it. The desk drawers were half-open. The cabinet door was unlocked and cracked a half inch.
Ashida walked back to the waiting room. He sat in the receptionist’s chair and rifled the desk.
Nothing was locked. It felt unkosher. The office felt like a front. Pierce Patchett was a crooked “Entrepreneur.” Pierce Patchett oozed incompetence.
Ashida beamed the top drawer. He saw pencils, pens, carbon sheets, paper clips, postage stamps, erasers. He shut the top drawer and beamed the middle drawer. He saw the August to December phone bills.
PC Bell envelopes. Note the postmarks. PC Bell sent out partial bills for December. He got his bill this morning. It covered his calls up to 12/21. It was a holiday-rush strategy.
He went through the envelopes. August, September, October, November, December. The bills tagged calls from 8/1 to now. He folded out the call lists. He arranged them by month. He started in August and scanned up to now.
He looked for familiar names first.
He saw innocuous names. He saw florists, haberdashers, drugstores and radio-supply stores. He got to the familiar names quick.
Familiar names. Confirming names. But to what end?
Patchett called Preston Exley. He called his home and office many times. The calls went back to 8/3/41.
Patchett called Dr. Saul Lesnick. He called his home many times. The calls went back to 8/4/41.
Patchett called Dr. Terry Lux. He called his home and dry-out farm many times. The calls went back three months only. They began 9/9/41.
Ashida read the bills. He went line by line. He held back the partial December bill and saved it for last. August, September, October, November. Innocuous calls. Calls to Exley, Lesnick, Lux. One number kept popping up. It was incongruous. No surnames or business names were logged beside it.
GLadstone-4782.
Think now.
It’s familiar.
Think now.
Spark that brainstorm. Fuse that lightbulb.
Pop.
Snap.
Click.
Tick, tick, tick. That’s no clock. That’s your craaaaaaazy heartbeat.
GLadstone-4782.
There, there, yes—that’s it.
The number denoted a pay phone. The booth was on Lincoln Boulevard. It was in Santa Monica. It was near Boeing, Lockheed and Douglas. The Watanabes called that pay phone. Jim Larkin lived near that pay phone. Jim Larkin might have/probably used it. Bill Parker requested records for that pay phone, plus two others. PC Bell was currently backlogged.
Ashida trembled. Sweat rolled into his eyes. His teeth chattered. The penlight dropped.
He picked it up. He wiped his face. He tore into the December bill. Where’s GL-4782?
It’s right there. There’s nine calls—December 1, 2, 3. There’s six calls December 4 and 5. There’s no calls from 12/5 on.
We’re up to 12/6/41. The Watanabes are murdered that day.
Ashida scanned the bill. Patchett’s calls to Exley decrease. Patchett’s calls to Lesnick increase and stop at 12/6/41. Patchett’s calls to Lux run sporadic. They stop at 12/19/41.
Then, we have this:
Patchett calls Lux sixteen times—December 19, 20, 21.
Confluence, convergence, coincidence. Craaaaazy chronology. No proof of anything.
Here’s more convergence. It’s December 19, 20, 21. Patchett calls Lin Chung, M.D.
Dr. Chung is a plastic surgeon. He met Dr. Chung at Claire De Haven’s party. Dr. Chung sparred with Saul Lesnick. The argument pertained to eugenics.
Eugenics. Plastic surgery. Scotty’s graph summary. Dudley’s plan to cut Japanese to look Chinese. Lin Chung’s botched cut on Jimmy Namura. Lin Chung, entrepreneur. A thriving shrunken-head merchant.
Convergence. Confounding, in its—
Ashida caught his breath.
He put the bills back in the envelopes. He put the envelopes back in the drawer. He rifled the other drawers. He saw more desk clutter. He walked to the inner office. He rifled the desk drawers there.
Fancy fountain pens. Stationery. Pornographic playing cards. A box of Sheik prophylactics. A letter opener with embossed swastikas.
A pervert trove. Some new eeeeeeverything confirmed. No hard evidence.
Ashida shut the drawers and faced the standing cabinet. The door was cracked. He popped it wide and beamed in.
Heedless Patchett—just like that.
A shortwave radio. A leather-bound ledger. It matched the Watanabes’ ledger—just like that.
Ashida trembled. The penlight beam swerved. He hit the radio dials and tried to raise a signal. No sound issued. No bands lit up.
He followed the cord to a wall hitch. The radio was plugged in, the radio was dead.
He saw a clipped paper sheaf. It was just-like-that there on a shelf.
He grabbed it and skimmed it. It was a geologist’s report.
It detailed soil components. It charted the East Valley, South Pasadena, Glassell Park and Highland Park. It confirmed the land grab. It echoed Parker’s grand jury play.
Ashida put the pages back. Ashida picked up the ledger and leafed through it. All the pages were blank.
A folded sheet dropped out. He unfolded it and beamed his penlight. It was a mad child’s map.
The West Coast, pencil-sketched. Sharks and submarines along the wave line. The sharks scream “Kill the Jews!” The speech balloons are twice their size.
Swastikas dot the waters. They’re haphazardly scrawled. There’s X marks along the coast. Submarines prowl. Note their rising suns.
The drawing is one-dimensional/stick-figure quality. Heedless Patchett. Craaaazy Patchett now.
There’s inland L.A. County. There’s jotted numbers and X marks. There’s small subs up and down the coast. There’s a giant shark swimming in Mexican waters.
He’s screaming “Kill the Jews!” A submarine patrols beside him. The hull is scrawled with rising suns and dollar signs. It’s headed for the Colonet Inlet.
Ashida caught something. Ashida went Not so fast.
Yes, it’s madness. But I see something. It signifies design.
The numbers. They’re megahertz and kilohertz listings. The X marks denote real locations. The small subs note coastal inlets.
That’s the properly sketched and proportioned L.A. County. Now, look at this:
Northeast L.A. was mapped in detail. An X mark notes the Watanabe house. Santa Monica and Malibu are mapped in detail. There’s an X mark near the Terry Lux nut farm.
There’s an X mark by the Lincoln Boulevard pay phones. The little sub above Santa Barbara? It denotes the Goleta attack.
Ashida popped sweat. It dripped on the map. He wiped his eyes and pressed the map against the wall.
He beamed do
wn for a close-up. He scanned north/south and east/west. He saw that sub drawn by the Colonet Inlet. The papers predicted Baja sub raids. Confluence. Call-Me-Jack told Dudley to scout the area. Dudley said he’d laughed. The scout run buttressed their “Mexican mission.”
Here—double X mark. Here—the San Gabriel hills. Here—a possible convergence. The escapees hid here—and then broke for Mexico.
Ashida wiped his hands on his pant legs. He refolded the map. He tucked it back in the ledger and scanned the room.
He rechecked the room. He triple-checked the room. He walked into the waiting room and triple-checked it.
Intact? Yes.
He cracked the hallway door and looked out. Safe? Yes. All dark at 8:14.
He stepped out of Mad Patchett’s office. He hugged the hallway wall. He toed the door shut and got out his no. 4 pick.
He wheeled and faced Doc Lesnick’s door. He put light on the knob. Butterfingers—he dropped the pick.
He retrieved it. Butterfingers—he dropped it again. He retrieved it. He bit down on the penlight and cracked a tooth. He held the pick two-handed and stabbed the keyhole.
Eight stabs hit the slot. He wiped his hands and slid the tumblers. Twelve swipes popped the door.
Vertigo.
He stepped inside and shut the door. He caught some equilibrium. He swiveled his head and light-swept the room. This office looked professional. This office was well furnished. This office did not look like a pimp-fascist’s front.
A sofa. A magazine rack. Bookshelves and filing cabinets. The receptionist’s desk. The inner-office door—reinforced-steel locks.
He jiggled the cabinet doors. They were all locked. He jiggled the desk drawers. They were all locked. He checked the inner-office door. It was keyhole-locked tight.
Doc Lesnick was careful. His locks were pickproof. This office was tossproof.
Ashida sat on the couch. He caught his breath. He penlight-strafed the room. The shelf books were all Marx and Freud.
He saw four books on the desk. He got up and scanned the spines.
Medical books. Nazi medical books. Eugenics texts. He knew some German. He skimmed the books and got the gist.
Nazi surgical guides. Race science. “Reconstructive surgery.” Cut Slavs to look Aryan.
A note, tucked below the books.
“Lynn—I know it’s rather ghastly, but would you pls. messenger these to Dr. Chung? It’s about a dialogue we’ve been having.”
Pop.
Snap.
Click.
Ashida walked out of the office. He shut off his penlight and moved downstairs in the dark. The street door had a quaint snap-in-place lock. He walked out and click-snapped it shut.
It was 9:08. He walked to his car. The cool air burned his lungs and froze his sweat.
He drove through Beverly Hills and out Coldwater Canyon. He hit the Valley. He doubled back to Malibu. He had the map memorized. The X marks were surely shortwave-radio spots.
He had the perspectives memorized. He could calibrate the X’s to near-exact spots.
He drove out to the coast road. He calibrated. Yes—Pacific Sanitarium is a shortwave-radio spot.
Convergence. Terry Lux and Pierce Patchett are shortwave-radio chums.
The coast road ran straight to Santa Monica. He should avoid it. Army spotters clogged the beachfront. He was an out-at-night Jap.
He doubled back inland and hit Lincoln Boulevard. He drove by the three pay phones. Yes—the booths matched X-marked shortwave-radio spots.
Someone close by had a shortwave radio. He was Pierce Patchett’s radio chum.
Ashida U-turned and drove east. He made good time. He caught the Arroyo Seco above Chinatown. He drove two miles north. He hit the Watanabe house.
It matched the broadcast map. The certainty and fatality amazed him. The Watanabes were Pierce Patchett’s shortwave-radio chums.
One X-marked spot remained. It was double-X-marked. It would confirm or refute his approximations.
He drove to a pay phone first. He checked the central directory. He found a home/office address for Lin Chung, M.D. The doctor lived at 282 Ord. It was four blocks from Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda.
Ashida hooked back to the parkway. He got off and cut east through San Marino. The double X mark clocked the Monrovia hills. Thad Brown should still be there. The campsite was one big search scene.
He caught an access road to the foothills. He climbed straight up in low gear. He saw light way ahead. It had to be cop arc-light glow.
The glow went bright bright. He swooped over a hill and saw the campsite. There’s Thad. There’s cops bagging evidence.
Ashida parked and got out. Thad saw him and waved. Ashida waved back. Two cops boxed a busted-up radio.
Pierce Patchett was tied to the escaped Japanese. They were all shortwave-radio pals.
A hubbub drifted over. The posse got the Japs at Blood Alley! They were crashing out to Mexico!
Yes, they were. Here’s why. They had a hot date with a submarine. Call it a saboteur’s landing. See that X mark on that Nazi child’s map? It denotes a cove in Baja, Mexico.
Thad doffed his hat and waved. Ashida waved back. Thad looked happy.
The posse got the Japs. It cleared the Kwan’s job. The Werewolf cleared the Watanabe caper.
It was pushing midnight. Ashida drove to Chinatown. He cruised by Kwan’s. The parking lot was cop-free. The search ropes were down. The death sled was gone.
Case cleared. The posse got the Japs at Blood Alley.
Ashida drove to 282 Ord. The front windows glowed. Lin Chung was a night owl. Ashida parked and ran a sit-tight stakeout.
Lin Chung lived medicine. His front room was wallpapered with anatomy charts. Maxillofacial charts. Occipital charts. Skin-flaps-pulled-all-the-way-back charts.
Ashida stared at the windows. Inside lights beamed. Lin Chung and Saul Lesnick appeared.
It did not surprise him. Nothing surprised him. The war is sixteen days old. The world is dark and flat. Cars are submarines.
Lin Chung and Saul Lesnick walked chart to chart. They argued and stabbed pointers. Lesnick paced the room. Ashida clocked his small feet. It did not surprise him. Nothing surprised him.
They strutted and argued all night. They pounded the charts and smoked ten million cigarettes. Ashida watched them. Contentious pals. The shrunken-head-peddling Chinaman and left-wing Jew.
Land grabs, plastic surgery, blood libel. Rogue cops, sub attacks, a lynch-mob massacre. Pay phones. A white man in a purple sweater. Secret radios and feigned seppuku. The haughty Left and the bellicose Right. A grand alliance of war profiteers.
He’ll tell it all to Dudley Smith or to William H. Parker. He’ll tell no one if it suits his needs. He has uncovered the real Fifth Column. It is not what anyone thinks.
9:16 a.m.
I was bored. I “possessed stunning artistry, but no character or conviction.” I was tired of looking at my new face. My leftist friends refused to talk to me. Hideo Ashida wasn’t answering his telephone. There were no men I could sleep with out of early-wartime ennui. Elmer and Brenda were out in the vapors of police work and prostitution. Lee was back from “Blood Alley” and was working the overflow of Japanese prisoners at the Lincoln Heights jail. The first showing of The Passion of Joan of Arc was scheduled for 11:00 a.m. I kept hearing Claire’s words and kept thinking of Dudley Smith. I kept hearing my own words: do everything or do nothing. I smoked and paced the house. I was coming out of my skin.
The house itself drove me crazy. Its perfection affirmed my shallow concerns. I thought of Scotty and reread his letter. I read the paper, three times. Wake Island fell to the Japs. The escaped Japs were mowed down in San Diego County. A Filipino man heard a song called “Johnny the Jap Killer” on the radio and took it as a sign from God. He promptly left his house, found a Japanese man and stabbed him to death. The man was really Chinese.
I was bored. Boredom is a common state for shallow folks like me. We
become vexed and capitulate to antic notions. I looked up “Bleichert, Dwight W.” in the central directory and called the number just to hear Bucky’s voice. His “Hello?” was slightly harried and mid-range baritone. I hung up the phone, giggling. I felt ridiculous.
Christmas Eve was tonight. I had no plans and had received no invitations. There was no Christmas tree surrounded by wrapped gifts at the Blanchard-Lake home. My only plan was to spin the late Beethoven quartets and conjure the winter-locked prairie.
I went driving. I looked out at everything and engaged the act of memorization. I glimpsed odd people. Yes, I will remember him. Yes, I’ll remember her. You don’t know me and don’t know that I have anointed you. I will feel less alone as I recall your face twenty years from now.
I drove east to Belmont High; I envisioned Bucky and Hideo on the playing field and Jack Webb scrounging votes for class president. A wino weaved by me on the sidewalk. I got out of the car and handed him five dollars. He did a gleeful dance step and embarrassed me. I got back in the car and drove to Hollywood.
The theater was just opening up; I bought my ticket and settled into a balcony seat. I saw a few people sitting below me: vagabond artistes with no place to go the day before Christmas.
The movie began. I slouched into my seat and slipped off my shoes. The film stock was grainy and flecked; the music ran out of line with the images. I watched Renée Falconetti as Joan of Arc and saw her concurrently as Claire Katherine De Haven. Claire as Joan spoke to me and castigated me for my inaction. I felt her fury. Devout Joan, plaintive Joan, Joan roused to quixotic rage. My options were do everything or do nothing. My stunning artistry trumped my weak character and lack of conviction.
I ran out of the theater. I dashed through the lobby, half-blind with tears. A tall man in a tweed suit brushed by me. I got a momentary sense that it was Dudley Smith, but discarded that delirious notion. It was raining. The weather gave me the option to run somewhere and hide in plain sight. I got my car and drove to Little Tokyo. It was just the right distance away. There was time to concentrate on the wet streets and compose myself.
The Friendly Moon Teahouse provided a destination. It was a venerable J-town spot, and had become a cop’s hangout during the first two weeks of the roundups. That was arbitrary and grossly unfair—but the owner and all of his people had been spared incarceration. Why? The rice cakes were legendary, and the owner let the cops bring in jugs.
