by James Ellroy
Ashida drove to Central Station. He went down to the cellblocks and watched the Werewolf sleep.
The jailer brought his son’s Scout troop down. They goofed on Fujio Shudo. They finger-poked him through the bars and squealed. A boy stared at Ashida. He read the kid’s mind. Hey, mister—aren’t you a Jap?
He walked up to 3. A crap game whooped and hollered. It was Alien Squad SRO.
The players rolled on rising-sun flags. Wendell Rice and George Kapek wore Wehrmacht helmets and green eyeshades. Lee Blanchard and Cal Lunceford rolled.
Chief Horrall stopped by. He chatted up the boys and dropped off pizza pies and beer. The boys whoop-whooped and cheered.
Call-Me-Jack winked at Ashida. He said, “Chin up, kid.”
Rice passed Ashida the dice. He told him to roll once, for grins. Ashida rolled a big six. The boys stomped and cheered.
He rolled again. He came up seven and crapped out. The boys stomped and booed.
* * *
—
6:05 p.m. The lab was off-shift dark. Ashida walked over and locked himself in. Miss Conville had left ballistics bulletins on his desk. He slugged cold coffee and got to it.
He worked the gold first. He got out the nugget and naked-eyed it. The mint marks went naked-eye unseen. The chunk was rough-cut. Buff swirls were present. The chunk felt talismanic. It was pure brag. Look what I’ve got, look what I did.
Ashida boiled an acid-phosphate solution. It would create faint abrasions and scrub the buff swirls.
He dropped the gold in the beaker. The solution fizzed and turned the liquid black. He timed the dunk at three minutes. He turned off the burner and scooped the gold out.
He’d preset his microscope. He put the chunk on a clamp slide and studied it. The swirls had abraded and sloughed off.
He studied the chunk. He moved it around on the slide. He hit four separate angles. A fifth angle gave him this:
The letters L.U.S.
It was scratched on. It was diamond-scratched. The scratcher scratched the letters below-the-surface deep. He bought a rough diamond and carved, assiduously. The abrasive dip raised the letters. It had to be that.
He had the gold chunk/the L.U.S./the key fob marked “648.” He had storage-locker listings. He’d pulled two pages’ worth.
The pages were half wet and crimped. Ashida smoothed them out on his desk. He started at A and eye-scanned.
A-1 Storage, Albright Storage, All-Nite Storage. He read subheads and caught the gist.
Store your belongings. Safety and privacy assured. Your key unlocks your locker. Front-door key provided. We’re open-all-nite. There’s no questions asked.
He knew these places. He’d read Burglary and Robbery reports. They were extra-legal stash holes. You had lockers rented short-term, long-term, and lifetime.
You had transient renters. You had come-and-go traffic. You rent 648 in ’31. You rent it lifetime. There’s no-questions-asked. It’s still your locker today.
Ashida scanned listings.
Bring-Your-Key Storage. Capitol Storage. Carthage Storage/open-all-nite. He jumped to page two. He quick-skimmed to the L’s. He hit Larry’s Lockers, Len’s Lockers, Lucky Lon’s Locker Vault. Wait, now—
Lock-Ur-Self Storage. 829 North Glendale Boulevard. “U Store, U Karry the Key.”
Lock-Ur-Self. L.U.S. Open-all-nite. Locker 648.
Ashida burned hot and cold. Sweat ran into his eyes. He flexed his hands and steadied them. He grabbed a lab towel and wiped his face.
It’s 8:06 p.m. It’s still too early. Folks are still out and about. Lock-Ur-Self might be packed.
The bullet now.
It was skull-smash/up-close flattened. He naked-eyed six impact crimps. He attached bullet forceps to both ends and pulled.
The clamps held. He got a half stretch. Four crimps flattened out. He naked-eyed very faint lands and grooves.
The microscope now.
He studied the bullet. He eyeball-measured millimeters between the stretched crimps. He slide-clamped the bullet and dialed his lens deep.
Magnification meets imagination. It’s forensically haphazard. Yes—but sound guesswork sometimes results.
He imagined his way to full lands and grooves. He memorized the fragmented patterns. He imposed a crimp-point differential.
The bulletins now.
Ignore the crime summaries. Go straight to the microscope pix. Juxtapose your imagination and extrapolate.
Miss Conville had arranged the stack chronologically. Ashida went to January ’32 and quick-skimmed.
He got through ’32. No full land-and-groove reads tweaked him. He skimmed into ’33. Winter, spring, summer—
Wait—
The bulletin was dated 8/12/33. It summarized four liquor-store heists. “UNSOLVED” was stamped on four bulletins. “STILL UNSOLVED” was stamped on 8/12/36. The summary brief detailed this:
Wilshire Division. Four near-southside locations. No gunshot wounds. Shots fired into wood-plank ceilings.
Flat, flatter, flattened. Like his skull-flattened spent.
Brainwork now.
Take your skull-flat spent. Compare it to your plank-flat-spent photos. Add your imagined differential.
Ashida did it. Ashida brainworked this:
Five spents. All time and sheer-impact degraded. Four from the liquor-store planks. One from Karl Tullock’s skull. Consider all angles. Stir it all up, you get this:
Almost three-to-one identical markings. Call it 72%. It’s a possible, if not probable, match.
* * *
—
He knew the block. It was just north of Belmont High. He brought a celluloid shim. He possessed B and E skills. Dudley Smith taught him well.
It was 1:00 a.m. He parked a block down and walked over. The building was two-story stucco. The parking lot was empty. He heard thunder and felt light rain.
He approached the front door. It was glass-paneled and wood-jambed. The interior was full-lit. He peered inside. He clocked an entryway and bisecting hallway.
Open-all-nite. U-keep-the-key. Make-like-you-belong-here.
Ashida stood at the door. He patted his pockets. Where’s my key? I’m Mr. Flustered. I’m Mr. Jap in disguise.
He shimmed the lock-jamb juncture. The door wiggled and popped wide. He stepped inside and shut himself in. He walked back out of sight.
There were no first-floor lockers. They were all upstairs.
Ashida walked up. The steps creaked. He almost shrieked. He clamped his mouth and held it in. Shrieks made him sound effete.
There’s the lockers. There’s rows and rows. It reprised Bucky at Belmont. The boys gym, the showers, the locker room.
He walked the rows. He pegged 648. He strolled the rows and saw no one. He walked back to 648.
The boy’s gym, redux. The same gray metal locker, the same padlock.
He slid the key in the keyhole and turned it. The padlock snapped.
He opened the door. It was right there on the shelf. May ’31, redux. Memo to Karl Tullock and Wayne Frank Jackson.
You’re dead and I’m not. I’ve got what you don’t. It’s solid gold and weighs thirty pounds. You died for this.
25
(LOS ANGELES, 1:30 A.M., 1/8/42)
Late cocktails at Brenda’s. Three old pals and inveterate nite owls. Comfy chairs and ticker-tape dish.
The Japs take the Malay Peninsula. The Japs eye the Dutch East Indies. The PD slams local Japs. The Feds slam local cops.
Brenda said, “Jack Horrall’s scared, Citizens. The probe’s got his dick in a twist.”
Elmer said, “The probe’s a shuck. That’s straight from Sid Hudgens. Ed Satterlee’s J. Edgar’s straw man. They’ll let the probe fizzle out and put it to some Hollywood Reds.”
Kay said, “
Satterlee’s in with Hop Sing. I picked that up when I was deep off in Bill Parker’s incursion. Bill told me he was selling leads on Japanese confiscations.”
Brenda said, “Katherine Ann reveals herself. She’s gone from ‘Captain Parker’ to ‘Bill’ in a hot tick. ‘Sweetie Pie’s’ warming up in the bull pen.”
Kay laughed. Brenda stirred the fireplace. Elmer relit his cigar.
“Ed Satterlee’s a drip. He wouldn’t cut it in our white man’s PD.”
Brenda lit a cigarette. “Elmer’s jealous. Ed’s spent notable time with his pal Ellen Drew, which I will readily concede that he pays for.”
Elmer said, “Let’s change the subject.”
Brenda sipped Cointreau. “It’s Citizen Kay’s turn to yak. As long as she don’t start extolling Maestro what’s-his-name and those Stalin lovers out in Brentwood.”
Kay lit a cigarette. “The Maestro’s name is Klemperer, and most of his friends are Trotskyites. There’s quite a rabid distinction.”
Elmer blew smoke rings. “The Reds are all rabid dogs. So’s Kay’s friend Bill. But he don’t hold with Roosevelt, much less the Russkies.”
Kay said, “I’m worried about him.”
Brenda said, “You’re jealous, Citizen.”
Kay bristled. “Tell me why I should be.”
Elmer said, “You’re front row at Lyman’s, so you’ve seen the big redhead. That’s one damn good ‘why’ in my book.”
Kay doused her butt in Elmer’s highball. Elmer woofed. There she is—Katherine Ann Lake, hopping mad.
“I know the rumor, Elmer. 502 PC and vehicular homicide. She’s working at the lab now.”
Elmer looked at Kay. Lamplight torched her eyes. Why euphemizize? He loved her past all hoo-ha and hurt.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. I know how you feel about Captain Bill.”
Brenda said, “Look at you two. You’ll be spooning there on the couch sometime soon.”
Elmer laughed. Kay rolled her eyes. Brenda tossed an ice cube and missed her.
“Here’s a ripe rumor, Citizens. I saw Bill Parker kissing a big redhead outside City Hall, and he had to stand on his tiptoes to do it.”
* * *
—
Ellen said, “You keep forgetting our rules. ‘No shop talk in bed,’ ‘no talk about my husband or the baby.’ ”
The bed sagged. The headboard drooped. Elmer smelled cheap pomade on the sheets.
“He’s Elmer Jr. You can’t tell me he don’t resemble me.”
“You weren’t in play at the moment of conception.”
Nite-owl serenade. A 4:00 a.m. quickie. Elmer Jr. messed with Ellen’s sleep. Elmer Sr. capitalized.
“Toss me a little one. How dirty’s Ed Satterlee? I know you trick with him, and I’m not jealous.”
Ellen twisted up two fingers. “He’s like that with the Chinks.”
“Stale bread. Give me something hot off the griddle.”
Ellen mulled it. Thunder slammed the windows. Junior squalled one room over.
“He’s bragging about all this Fifth Column work he’s doing. Mr. Hoover wants to extort some key guys, and he wants Ed to run sex shakedowns.”
* * *
—
Lyman’s ran round the clock. They served select pols and cops after hours. Elmer cruised the bar. It was wee-hours packed. Select nite owls waved.
Lee Blanchard. Joan Conville. Thad Brown. Two-Gun Davis and Mike Breuning, Buzz Meeks from Robbery.
Elmer hit the back room. He evicted Catbox Cal Lunceford. He called chez Satterlee. He woke up Ed the Fed. He told him this:
“If this probe of yours is a shuck, why are you working it so hard?”
Ed said, “Shit.” Ed said, “I’ll meet you at Lyman’s in ten minutes.”
Elmer hung up and fixed breakfast. He chugged one ginger ale and gobbled three bennies. Ed showed in six minutes flat.
He snarled. You-redneck-fucker-you-fucked-with-my-sleep. He fixed himself a Bromo and drained it.
“Who told you it’s a shuck?”
“A little birdie.”
“A little birdie named Ellen Drew?”
“Talk circulates, Ed.”
Satterlee flopped on the couch. Elmer flopped beside him.
“Okay, it’s a shuck. Mr. Hoover’s putting a sheep dip on that punk Wallace Jamie. He’ll be off to Congress before you know it.”
Elmer tossed a curveball. It swerved low and inside.
“There’s a doctor named Lin Chung. Your name’s on his intel file. The routing stamp’s recent.”
Satterlee lit a cigarette. “If there’s something in this for me, let me know. If it’s we’re brothers under the sheets, fuck off and let me go home.”
Elmer relit his cigar. “You’ve got carte blanche with the service. One full month. I’ve already cleared it with Brenda.”
Satterlee held up two fingers. Elmer went Shucks and Okay.
“All right, here’s what this is. A, we’re picking up code intercepts from Baja. We think it’s some kind of subtle Jap-Chink Fifth Column gang, and we’re trying to separate the tract pushers and Sieg Heil boys from the real menace. B, I’m not naming names, not for two months’ or ten years’ worth of the best gash on the planet. C, Chung knows lots of well-heeled right-wingers, and he’s got a communist doctor pal that he talks eugenics with. D, I don’t care that he was jungled up with that dead Chink Eddie Leng, or that guy Don Matsura, who stretched his neck at Lincoln Heights.”
Elmer waved his cigar. “Have you got a file on a punk named Tommy Glennon?”
Satterlee shook his head. “No dice. Tommy goes back with Dudley Smith, and my policy with Dud is ‘hands-off.’ ”
“Tommy used to run wets. I’m thinking he ran them with Carlos Madrano.”
“He did, so I’ll issue a warning here. Tommy was very loyal to Captain Carlos, and I have it on good authority that it was Dud who blew up Carlos last month. I also heard that Ace Kwan warned you away from Tommy—which was very sound advice. Let Dud, Ace, and the Staties take charge of Tommy. You’re not equipped for it.”
Elmer blew smoke rings. “Does Dud think Tommy will come after him for clipping Madrano?”
“Well, there’s that. But mostly I think Dud’s afraid that Tommy will try to ingratiate himself with whoever took over Madrano’s wetback biz, which I bet Dud’s got his eye on himself.”
Elmer said, “That little birdie told me something else.”
Satterlee sighed. “You confide to a woman in the sack, and it’s on the Teletype within twenty-four hours.”
“Sex shakes. You want to put the squeeze on some Fifth Column geeks.”
“Es la verdad, daddy.”
Elmer said, “I’ve got a fuck spot, all wired up. Right on Wilshire, upside the tar pits. Wall peek—the whole deal.”
“I’ll take it. It puts you in contention for White Man of the Week honors.”
Elmer smiled. “Give me more on Tommy.”
Satterlee shrugged. “I don’t consider him a traitor, or a saboteur, or any kind of hot-blood seditionist. To me, he’s just a Sieg Heil boy, looking for giggles. He’s a Coughlinite, and he’s in with these Mex right-wingers called the Sinarquistas. They’re righteous Catholics and anti-Reds, and their boss is some cholo lawyer named Salvador Abascal. Tommy’s in with them, and he’s been poking Dud’s snitch, Huey Cressmeyer, in the keester since the year one. They called him ‘the Sheriff of the Brown Trail’ up at Quentin.”
Elmer slapped his knees. Satterlee said, “I’m ahead on this deal so far. What can I do to even things up?”
“Pick up Huey C. and rattle him. I’ll give you a script, so it don’t come back to me.”
“I’ll consider it. And, while I’ve got you, should I issue a formal warning on the Dudster?”
&
nbsp; Elmer said, “I’d just ignore it.”
* * *
—
Harem hideaway. Lovers’ lair. Rendezvous redoubt. The spot radiated S-E-X.
Two rooms. One poontang parlor, one bootie bandits’ boudoir. Brocade walls and French postcard art.
Fake panels hid the peek. Stashed microphones caught the FUCK ME! and pillow-talk sound tracks. A spy mirror framed the bed.
Wall baffles soundproofed the crawl space. The camera guys worked with impunity. The fuckers and fuckees couldn’t hear shit. Special film lit in-the-dark ruts.
RKO hotshots rigged the place. Ed Satterlee would love it. His Fifth Column fuckers and fuckees were fucked.
Elmer hooked up a piggyback camera. He laced wires to the camera already aimed at the bed.
He’d see everything Ed the Fed saw. That meant Ed the Fed was fucked.
26
(ENSENADA, 8:00 P.M., 1/8/42)
Polyglot. That said it. We’re this strange new alliance. We’re strange bedfellows all.
Joan Klein—Jewish waif extraordinaire. Red dress and Red Youthbund dialectic. Dos fascistas—José Vasquez-Cruz and Juan Pimentel. His dear Claire. Besotted by her new daughter. Kyoho Hanamaka—present but unseen.
The restaurant stood on the Malecon. Waves smashed below. Table talk flew polyglot.
In English and Spanish. Plus Claire and the Klein girl’s French.
Dudley ignored it. He was back at the hidey-hole. He revisited it at whim. Hanamaka cached his secret life there. That meant he’d be coming back. He might send a trusted stooge in his stead. Captain D. L. Smith crashed his secret life. Hanamaka must not know.
He found a second-floor trapdoor. It supplied quick access and was well devised and disguised. He refitted the boards and replastered the wall he broke in through. He celebrated his seamless job. He stole the gold bayonet.
Table talk droned on. It was trilingual and smug. Vasquez-Cruz flirted with Claire. Pimentel flirted with Joan. The girl found a big sister. Claire found a kid sister. Let’s discuss the war and sing the “Internationale.”
