by James Ellroy
Blanchard said, “Talk to me, Wolf. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Ashida ventriloquized the creature. He kept the spiel internal. He mimicked the Werewolf’s pidgin-English/Japanese stew.
Dudley Smith framed me. Sensei Ashida assisted. Dudley Smith coerced him. Dudley Smith applied pressure and made the frame stand. Sensei Ashida fawns for Sergeant Smith.
Blanchard nipped off his flask. “Here’s to you, Werewolf. You want my opinion? You deserve the loony bin more than the gas chamber.”
Ashida grabbed the flask. “We should go upstairs. I’m on call to Traffic. Captain Parker might call in.”
“He was at the City Hall bash. Him and Kay were making with the big eyes.”
Ashida sipped brandy. He rarely drank. This small dose induced a small glow.
“I’m sure she makes you uncomfortable. She must be difficult to live with.”
Blanchard grinned. “My shack job’s ‘difficult,’ but my shack job’s Kay Lake, which has its compensations. She’s always off to something new. You want the latest? She’s fallen in with these classical-music types, out in Brentwood. Mostly Reds and Jews, on the run from der Führer. I don’t know how much time she’s got for Bill Parker.”
Ashida passed the flask. His eyes burned. The cold jail went warm. Ashida felt antsy. He was backlogged. Pearl Harbor put the lab in arrears. The Japanese roundups spawned massive confiscations. Evidence log-ins stood un-logged, back to mid-December.
He stood un-jailed. His family stood free. The roundups would resume, tomorrow. Dudley Smith’s patronage vouched his freedom. He lived in a Biltmore Hotel suite. His mother and brother had their own rooms. Dudley’s patronage carried a price. Call the Werewolf frame part and parcel.
Blanchard said, “You’re in a trance, Hideo. Maybe it’s all that caustic shit you been sniffing.”
Ashida smiled. They walked out to the jailside hallway. Ashida heard snores.
Blanchard went sssshh. He pointed to the Alien Squad cot room. They walked over and peeked in.
Confiscated swag covered the floor. Radios, flags, Nazi Lugers. Kanji script and English-language hate tracts. Hate the Chinks, hate the Jews, hate all Americans.
Plus three plainclothesmen, sprawled out on cots. They were stripped to their skivvies. Their sidearms and belt gear were piled adjacent. Brass knucks, leather truncheons, beavertail saps.
Three big guys. Cop heavies. On-call strikebreaker types.
Blanchard said, “Lunceford, Rice, and Kapek. You’ve got the Silver Shirts and the Thunderbolt Legion represented here. These dinks chasing down Fifth Column Japs? Don’t tell me I don’t know what’s ironic.”
A bluesuit walked up. He was blitzed. He wore a dumb party hat and a WELCOME 1942 button.
“Captain Parker called, Ashida. He needs you in Venice. It’s a vehicular homicide. There’s four dead wetbacks and some Navy woman in custody.”
* * *
—
Pole-mounted tarps held the rain back. A sawhorse barricade held off the looky-loos. It’s a Car-Crash Inferno and Car-Crash Holocaust.
Head-on collision: ’36 Dodge coupe hits jalopy. No visible skidmarks. Eastbound Dodge, westbound heap. Two front ends accordion-pressed.
The Dodge: minus the driver’s-side door. The heap: compressed to the rear seats and trunk ledge.
Flares marked the crash site. Prowl cars stood close. Two morgue sleds were parked snout-to-snout. There’s four sheet-draped stretchers, out in the wet.
Blanchard pulled up to the flare line. Ashida got out and eyeballed the site. He deployed Man Camera. Click, click—a wide-lens shot.
Click—no skid marks. Click—the rain erased them. Click—the blown door saved the Navy woman’s life. Click—there’s more damage to the heap. Click—the Navy woman was speeding. Click—the jalopy driver was slowing down.
Ashida walked up to the stretchers. Wind tugged at his hat. Rain stung his eyes.
All four sheets were blood-soaked. Ashida pulled them halfway down. Four clicks clicked. Let’s extrapolate.
Four male Mexicans. All dead. Two men in the front seat, two men in the back.
Head-on impact. The frontseat men sustain massive chest wounds. Their hearts explode. The backseat men sustain downward-thrust trauma and are thus disemboweled.
Ashida looked up. Bill Parker stepped out of his prowl car. An empty pint jug fell from his lap.
It clattered and rolled. Ashida looked away. He heard a muffled shriek.
He tracked it. He walked up to the jalopy. He flashed his Man Camera, in tight. The trunk lid’s ajar. Something’s in there.
He jammed up the lid. He saw a little boy. The boy was crushed dead under a spare tire. A little girl murmured and coughed blood.
She tried to say something. Ashida picked her up and held her close. She clawed at his face and died in his arms.
5
(LOS ANGELES, 3:15 A.M., 1/1/42)
Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda. It’s open-all-nite. It’s a cop haunt. It’s Hop Sing Tong HQ and the Chinatown hot spot.
Here’s Uncle Ace Kwan. He’s a PD puppet. He’s your warlord-restauranteur.
The rain killed business. Local Chinks and night owls stayed home. The boys hogged a prime table.
The Dudster held court. Ace laid on pupu platters and mai tais. He was sixty-six years old and too thin. He switchblade-skewered fried dumplings and snarfed them.
Oooga-booga. All-cop summit. It’s that botched stakeout. There’s this fugitive rape-o at large.
The boys noshed and boozed. Elmer chased two bennies with Bromo Seltzer and went aaahh! Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle sulked. Also present: Catbox Cal Lunceford, Wendell Rice, and George Kapek. Tag them shithead goons roused from sleep.
All eyes on Dudley. Elmer’s the most. This mick fuck sends him out to kill a man. That don’t sit right.
The Dudster played off-key. His voice fluttered. His arm sling seeped. His Army threads fit slack. Elmer eyed him surreptitious and tried to look contrite.
Dud passed out roust sheets. Tommy Glennon’s KAs and known haunts. Chink-o-phile Tommy. He perched in C-town. The sheet tagged juke joints, whore cribs, and dope dens.
The boys skimmed the sheets. Dudley tapped his fork. Achtung, meine kameraden!
“We’re here to redress tactical errors committed earlier this evening, and perhaps accrue collateral leads on the man who shanked me in the basement here three days ago. He was a slight man, well within the bodily range one expects to see in the Chinese. He also wore a lacquered-wood mask, one depicting Oriental features, such as the masks worn by Japanese actors in the Japs’ more arcane theatrical productions. I sense a baroque and oddly playful sensibility at work. You would honor me by bringing in this rare bird alive, as you would by shooting Tommy Glennon on sight.”
Mike and Dick fawned. They went Yeah, boss and dispensed grins. Catbox Cal cracked his knuckles. Rice and Kapek glared. Elmer scoped their belt shit. Per always—they packed saps and throwdown guns.
Elmer reskimmed his roust sheet. One column tagged locations. He noted boocoo spots nearby. Yeah—but where’s Eddie Leng’s Kowloon?
He’d memorized Tommy’s address book. It held damn few listings. Eddie’s joint stood out.
Rice said, “We should take these guys to the Bureau? Put the boots to them there?”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Brace them where you find them. Bring your likely suspects here.”
Ace knifed a fried shrimp. “You bring to basement. We put balls in vise and burn with cigarettes.”
Elmer gulped. His windpipe bobbed. Dudley clocked it. Elmer clocked his clock.
Kapek said, “Say we get us a whole shitload. Call for a whore wagon then?”
Dudley said, “Shackle chains. Hook them up and march them down Broadway. Create a stir. Make a statement. The
PD stands with Hop Sing. Four Families chingasos y putasos.”
Lunceford said, “Dud’s practicing. He’s Mexico-bound.”
Ace knifed a rumaki. “Viva the Chinaman and white man! Kill all jigaboos and Japs!”
Elmer yukked. Ace was a moondog psycho. He ran afield sometimes.
Breuning drained his mai tai. “Tommy’s tonged up the ying-yang. Him and Four Families go way back.”
Elmer unwrapped a cigar. “We should issue an APB and call the Immigration cops. Tommy used to run wetbacks. He’ll have a green sheet, sure as shit.”
Dudley smiled. “No. You precipitated this fuckup, Elmer. Now, go forth with your grand colleagues and remedy that.”
* * *
—
Two squads swamped C-town. They wore rain slickers and packed shackle chains and belt gear. Lunceford went with Breuning and Carlisle. Elmer went with Kapek and Rice.
North Broadway was all bars and slop chutes. Local Chinks and white stiffs hobknobbed. New Year’s increased foot trade. The big rain decreased it. Both squads trekked north.
Elmer’s squad took the west flank. Elmer packed his .45 and a buckshot-stitched sap. He walked point and carried the billy club. It was Chink sweep de rigeur.
Rice and Kapek lugged the shackle chains. They were six-two beefcake types and well suited. They shoulder-draped the chains and went hunchback. It pissed them off.
The PD was Hop Sing–allied. Uncle Ace was Jack Horrall’s #1 Chink. Hop Sing joints were sacrosanct, Four Families the converse. Fuck last month’s tong truce.
Elmer walked point. He smashed front windows and galvanized attention. He went in the door first. Rice and Kapek fanned out behind him. They ignored eeeeks, shrieks, and flustered women. They braced blue-kerchief tong guys and went in tough.
Elmer took the bar-stool guys. He sap-smashed hands on bartops and broke bones. He kicked over bar stools. He logged bilingual eeeeks and shrieks.
Rice and Kapek took the booths and tables. They donned sap gloves and broke faces. They dunked said mugs in tureens of shark-fin soup.
The boys hovered close and tossed questions. They pushed past eeeek and shriek. They got Don’t know nothing, don’t know nothing! They got Nobody know who slice Dudster—not us, not us!
Elmer stood by. He posed tough. He looked untough upside Kapek and Rice. He leaned close. He logged gibberish laced with rat-outs.
Tommy Glennon know Huey Cressmeyer! Tommy go queer up at Preston!
It was pidgin English. Elmer called it “Chinklish.” Sputters and nonsense talk. Some enticing tattle. Huey C. was a known Dudster snitch.
That’s it for bars and slop chutes. That’s it for North Broadway. It’s all lackluster leads. There’s no shackle bait yet.
The boys cut west on Ord. Elmer smashed clubhouse windows. Rice and Kapek kicked in doors. They tore down to basements and stormed opium dens.
They encountered noxious smoke and hopheads on pallets. Coolies packed pipes and lugged water bowls. You know Chiang Kai-shek, papa-san? You know famous sleuth Charlie Chan?
The dens served a Chink clientele. Some white swells made the scene. There’s a city council hump. There’s Ellen’s studio rival—ice-blond Veronica Lake.
Rice and Kapek thumped blue-kerchief guys. They imitated Jap Zeros. They knocked tong punks off pallets and hauled them down from Cloud 9. Elmer water-doused them. The noxious fumes messed with his gourd.
He clubbed “O” fiends. Ankle and wrist shots. Eeeek-and-shriek inducers. Rice and Kapek lobbed queries. Gibberish and half-baked leads accrued.
Tommy G. run wets from T.J.! Tommy G. supply truck farms in Imperial Valley! Don’t know who slice Dudster—don’t know, don’t know, don’t know!
Elmer laid on the hurt. Rice and Kapek worked their sap gloves. They got more eeeek and more shriek, and more Chinklish.
Tommy nancy boy! Don’t know where he is! Tommy poking some priest!
Elmer caught that one. It brought back Tommy’s address book. It underlined the St. Vib’s listing.
Rice and Kapek went pure rogue. They lifted wallets and plucked cash rolls. The fumes got to Elmer. “O” plus bennies induced all this weird wispy shit.
He went eeek his own self. He upchucked on some Chinaman’s shoes and made for the door. He bumped into Veronica Lake. She said, “Whoa, sailor.”
* * *
—
The rain felt good. It cleared his skull somewhat. All those colored raindrops went neutral again.
He lost his billy club. He still had his hat, badge, and roscoe. His watch said 4:35. It was still dark. It was still Chinatown and still Ord Street.
He recalled Tommy’s address book. He recalled that number for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon.
Kantonese Kuisine. Ord & Hill. Your gracious host, Eddie Leng.
It’s a block up. Why not? Maybe Veronica’s there. Maybe she’ll smile at you. Maybe she’ll sleep with you. You won’t know till you try.
He walked over. The rain felt good. There’s Eddie’s place. It looks dark. That plays wrong. It’s a 24-hour dive.
Elmer pressed up to the window. He left nose prints on the glass. Okay—the kitchen doorway’s lit up.
He shook the doorknob. The door was ajar. He walked in and shut the door behind him. His eyeballs adjusted. He popped through the dining room. He smelled something all scorched up.
He knew from scorched. He’d flamethrowered Nicaraguan insurgents. It dispersed crowds good. Those humps got their tail feathers singed.
Elmer weaved toward the kitchen. He bumped tables and chairs. He made the doorway and saw all the stoves and deep-dip fryers. Well, shit—it’s fried flesh, not scorched.
Eddie Leng was rope-cinched to a four-burner stove. He was barefoot. Charred anklebones extended from two fryer thingamajigs. Residual grease and blood bubbled. Eddie’s feet got deep-fried.
Elmer reeled and caught himself. He double-scanned the stiff. Eddie wore reet-pleat pants and a Hawaiian shirt. Some fuck folded his hands on his chest.
Note the tattoo. It’s there on the right forefinger-thumb web. It’s an “SQ” circled by snakes. Remember Tommy Glennon’s tattoo stencil? It’s flat out just like that.
6
(LOS ANGELES, 4:45 A.M., 1/1/42)
Opium.
His private room at Kwan’s. The tar, the match, the pipe. It’s a tainted locale now. He was knifed in this selfsame spot.
Dudley smoked opium. It stamped his travel visa and whooshed him off to wispy locales. Stopover, Baja. Seaside Ensenada appears.
There’s shoreline coves. There’s Jap subs stashed out of sight. Nitroglycerin explodes. There’s Carlos Madrano—now particulate waste.
There’s Tommy Glennon. He’s wearing a sombrero and bullfighter chaps. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle mewl. They’ve been transmogrified to dos perros. There’s no dead prey for their master. There’s Elmer Jackson, bad shot and bumptious trash.
Dudley smoked opium. He succumbed to pictures and colors. His mind still logically tracked.
Stopover, Beverly Hills. Claire De Haven’s Colonial manse. The Red Queen spars with the Cop Arriviste.
They express inimical views. They walk upstairs. There’s the too-bright bedroom sun. He counts the freckles on Claire’s back.
Stopover, Dublin.
His trek to the New World. Joe Kennedy and Father Coughlin wave. Uncle Joe donates gun money. J. J. Cantwell funnels it to Republican causes. It’s 1921. Dudley Liam Smith’s a schoolboy killer. Uncle Joe says he’ll sponsor American citizenship.
There’s a Grafton Street skirmish. Schoolboy Smith shoots three Black-and-Tans. Their faces explode.
Dudley trembled. He dropped the pipe, the pallet shook, the colors and pictures dispersed. He saw Tommy Glennon as he looks today.
Another wayward Irish lad. A Coughlinite, a rape-o,
a snitch.
Tommy at that costume party. Brentwood, winter ’39. The Jewish Maestro’s home, sublet. Nazi antics reenacted. Orgiastic overtones. Sturmbannführer D. L. Smith injudiciously attends.
Dudley fought back jitters. He reached for his pipe. He saw an envelope on the floor.
Popped through a door crack. A colored envelope. A Western Union telegram.
Dudley slit the envelope and read it. The tone was brusque. The gist was this:
It’s an active-duty summons. We’re calling you in, early. Report to the Special Intelligence Service command post in Ensenada, NOW.
7
(LOS ANGELES, 6:30 A.M., 1/1/42)
Thumps. Muted squeals. Dream fade—you’re half in, half out.
Murmurs now. Singsong voices. You’re more out than in.
They’re foreign voices. They’re all female and all Jap. It’s a movie encore. It’s that film they show Navy recruits.
Know Your Foe. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Jap Women Report to Jap Men.
Joan woke up. She assessed it all, quicksville.
Booze blackout. You’re driving up the coast road. Then something happens. Now you’re HERE.
A jail cell. A hard bunk. Her scuffed palms. Her rumpled uniform.
She heard real voices. She distinguished them and counted five altogether. There were five Jap matrons, crammed in a cell down the tier.
Joan stood up and stretched. The Jap ladies stared at her. Joan stared right back.
They looked down and went I’m so humble. Joan looked past them. She saw dawn out a window and more goddamn rain.
No purse, no cigarettes. This goddamn cell. Odd aches and pains.
Joan tucked her blouse in. She flexed her hands and smoothed out her coat and skirt. She stood by the front bars and willed panache.
A door clanged. A uniformed cop walked up. He was midsized and slight. Joan loomed over him.
Captain’s bars and three hashmarks. Wire-rim glasses. They magnified his dark brown eyes. He’d never be handsome. He’d always be unnerving.
