This Storm

by James Ellroy

  Joan walked to the kitchen. She took some deep breaths and poured two double scotches. Her hands shook.

  She carried the drinks back. Dudley sat on the couch. He skimmed a typed manuscript. Lee Blanchard leaked it to her. “Beethoven and Luther,” by Katherine Lake.

  “Reading up on a rival, are you?”

  Joan sat beside Dudley. She tossed Kay’s manuscript on the floor and handed him his drink. She caught his fine French cologne.

  “Kay’s deft. She’s mad to attribute meaning, which is a trait that good scientists share.”

  They lit cigarettes. They sipped scotch. Her float intensified. A thunderstorm kicked in. A window breeze tossed her hair.

  “Your father looks like a bold lad. You used ‘was’ to describe him. Has he left us?”

  Joan said, “He died in a fire, back in ’38. I’ve spent some time investigating it. I need to go back and reassess my notes. I’m not giving up.”

  Dudley said, “I’ve heard reports of the charred box unearthed in Griffith Park. The genesis of your great interest comes into focus now.”

  “Hideo Ashida reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

  Dudley went Tu salud. “I live to attribute meaning. By your lights, it makes me as one with scientists and unschooled essayists.”

  Joan crushed her cigarette. “Should I bluntly note the genesis of that? Your dirt-poor childhood in Dublin? The gun money you funneled to then-Monsignor Cantwell? The Ulster Constabulary men you’ve killed?”

  Dudley said, “Bill Parker reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

  Joan laughed. “Sometimes I don’t want the war to end. If it ends, people will fall back into their old circumspect ways. They won’t talk as much and delight me as much and give me all this crazy drift to attribute meaning to. We’re the end result of our curiosities and the extent to which they’re sated. Has that ever occurred to you?”

  Dudley said, “Yes, it has.”

  “I’ve begun to see the war as an opportunity. The realization confounds me.”

  Dudley said, “I understand.”

  “I’m starting to see how far I’ll go to get what I want. It’s exhilarating beyond anything that I’ve ever experienced.”

  Dudley said, “I know.”

  Joan touched his captain’s bars. She held on his eyes. She said, “I was a Navy lieutenant for ten seconds.”

  Dudley smiled. Joan leaned in and kissed him.

  * * *

  —

  They kept the light off and the windowpanes up. Rain hit frayed screens and sprayed them. The breeze cooled their sweat.

  It rained all night. They made love all night. They talked in between.

  Don’t you have a wife and kids somewhere?

  In Van Nuys, I think. I forget my daughters’ names sometimes.

  Those scars on your back. What happened there?

  Some Ulstermen hooked me up to a truck battery. I broke free and killed them.

  My sister married a Catholic. It caused a big uproar in Tunnel City, Wisconsin.

  Your father. Do you think it was arson?

  I lean that way. I’ve sworn vengeance, but the war’s hexed me. I don’t think of my father as much as I should.

  In the first war, was he?

  He killed Germans in the Ardennes. Not enough, he always said. It looks like history has proved him right there.

  I prefer them to the Reds.

  We should sic them on each other and bow out. Bill Parker always says that.

  Aaah, our friend Bill.

  The first time you sleep with someone, all these other people hop in the bed.

  Who were you thinking of here?

  Bill, Claire what’s-her-name, and Hideo Ashida. Kay Lake, most of all.

  Aaah, La Belle Kay. The poor man’s Kirsten Flagstad and Eleanora Duse. I’ve never seen the allure, but my Claire credits her with a wide array of mischief.

  I think she’s capable of anything.

  36

  (LOS ANGELES 12:00 P.M., 1/27/42)

  Boomerang.

  Ashida trudged the Biltmore lobby. He wore blinders. They scotched You’re a Jap looks.

  He was pissed off. He tried to shuck the FBI. He forged Ray Pinker’s name to a file request. He marked it “Urgent.” All mint-train-heist paper/please expedite.

  He stressed a collateral case. Forensic evidence has surfaced. Please expedite ASAP.

  He hovered by the stat tube. A reply arrived fast. It read “Request Denied.”

  Ashida trudged up to his floor. He was past mortified. He lived at the Biltmore. Elmer said, “You’re shitting in tall cotton, son.”

  A colored maid dipped by. She sneered at him. The slave class revolts. You’re the slant-eyed Jim Crow. That means You’re a Jap.

  Ashida unlocked the door. The lights were off. Somebody flipped a wall switch. Somebody yelled, “Surprise!”

  The parlor was SRO. Somebody’d hung red-white-and-blue bunting. People stood and clapped. Somebody hummed for spacious skies and amber waves of grain.

  People. Dudley, Jack Horrall, an Army major. Dr. Nort, Ray Pinker, Lee Blanchard.

  People. Elmer Jackson, Joan Conville, Kay Lake. Note the full bar and buffet. Note the tipsy Mariko and Akira.

  They swarmed him, they pumped his hand, they clapped his back. Ashida went slaphappy. They circled up and enclosed him. It all felt rehearsed.

  Call-Me-Jack raised a glass. “Our very own enemy alien. A thorn in my side on the Watanabe case, but he delivered in the end.”

  Some people laughed. Some people cringed. Some people rolled their eyes. They all raised their goblets and went L’chaim.

  The major stepped close and held out a Bible. Ashida placed his left hand atop it and raised his right hand high.

  “Repeat this, son. ‘I, Hideo Ashida, do swear the following oath. I will observe the rules and regulations of the Army Officer Corps and will defend the United States Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, at home and abroad.’ ”

  Ashida said the words. The major shook his hand. The crowd whistled and clapped. Dudley stepped up.

  He said, “Lieutenant Ashida.” He pinned gold bars on his suit coat. People cheered and whistled. Lee Blanchard handed him champagne.

  A conga line formed. Dudley steered Ashida through. People shook his hand and tossed congratulations. Dudley swapped looks with Joan Conville. Ashida caught a two-way surge.

  Dudley went Hush. The hubbub subsided. Dudley picked up a long leather case. He held it out, presentation-style.

  The crowd circled tight. Dudley opened the case. It was black velvet–lined. Black velvet cradled a gold bayonet.

  It was two feet long. It was blood-guttered and swastika-embossed. Ashida saw faint blade etchings. They might be mint marks.

  The crowd ooohed and aaahed. Dudley said, “The spoils of war you’ll encounter in Mexico, lad.”

  Ashida went eyes right. Joan went eyes left. Their eyes met and held. Ashida trembled. They orbed back to the bayonet.

  Dudley said, “It’s solid gold.”

  Ashida said, “I’d like to commemorate the moment. May I take some photographs?”

  37

  (LOS ANGELES, 2:00 P.M., 1/27/42)

  Fucking Hideo Ashida. The brilliant little hump transcends.

  Or exploits.

  Or steps from shit to clover.

  Or sells his soul to Dudley Smith.

  The party throbbed. Elmer circulated. Hideo donned his full uniform. Dig the tight-creased trousers and holstered .45.

  Jack Horrall was blotto. Hideo’s mom and brother, likewise. Lee Blanchard jawed with Doc Layman. Dudley slow-cruised by.

  He said, “Are you behaving, lad?”

  Elmer said, “You bet I am, boss.”

>   Dudley slow-cruised Big Joan. He caressed her shoulder. Big Joan went Oooh, baby.

  Elmer caught it. Kay caught it. Elmer caught her rebound catch. He grabbed a bottle of champagne. Kay scoped the grab and pointed straight up. Elmer winked assent. Kay blew a kiss back.

  Elmer strolled.

  He sidled out of the suite. He hit the corridor and tapped an elevator. He whooshed to the penthouse floor and jogged up to the roof.

  Downtown L.A. sparkled. Storm clouds brewed, north and east. The San Gabriels were all snowflake white.

  Kay stood by a storage shed. She wore a black beret and a jazzy wool suit. She looked très swell.

  Elmer walked over. Kay popped the champagne. They bottle-chugged. It was bargain-basement swill. Elmer gulped and tossed a flare.

  “Tell true, now. Did you shank Dudley Smith?”

  Kay gulped. “Elmer, come on.”

  “Come on, yourself. You shivved Dot Rothstein.”

  Kay lit a cigarette. It took three match swipes. Her hands shook that bad.

  “All right, I’ll bite. Who told you I shanked Dudley?”

  Elmer chugged champagne. “I was working the peek in one of Brenda’s trick spots. This Commo doctor blabbed on Claire De Haven. He was poking a college-girl pro. He blabbed, and I picked up on what the De Haven bint said about you.”

  Kay blew smoke rings. They trailed sky-high. Kay pulled herself together, quick.

  “You tell true, now. What’s with you and Dudley?”

  Elmer said, “He’s crowding me. I’ve got a bug up my ass to crowd back.”

  “Was the doctor Saul Lesnick?”

  Elmer relit his cigar. “He’s a Fed snitch. His handler’s keeping tabs on him, and he needed me to fill in with the camera. He thinks Lesnick’s prone to blab to young tail.”

  Kay mulled it. Elmer heard her gears click. She played classical piano and wrote highbrow hoo-ha. She was the smartest—

  “The Fed’s right. I met Lesnick during Bill Parker’s incursion. He’s very susceptible to young women, but Claire’s giving me more credit than I deserve. What you’re telling me dovetails.”

  Elmer reset Kay’s beret. He set it farther back on her hair and pulled up the stem.

  “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

  Kay laughed. “No, Brenda would kill me. Sleep with the college girl. It’s not like you’re not susceptible.”

  Elmer laughed. “Who are you holding out for?”

  “Bill—once he gets free of the redhead.”

  “She gets around, that one.”

  Kay said, “Dudley. All roads lead back.”

  Elmer said, “I’m gathering information. Shit could play out a half dozen ways.”

  Kay sipped champagne. “Operate the college girl. I’d be curious to know what Dudley and Claire are saying about me.”

  Elmer said, “You’ve got the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They hide what you’re really thinking.”

  * * *

  —

  Annie Staples had green eyes. She ran 5'10"/150. She induced loooooooow growls.

  They coupled at Brenda’s fuck flop. Elmer made it laaaaast. They basked naked afterward. Elmer lay supine. Annie sat cross-legged on the sheets.

  She sipped Cointreau, neat. Elmer dug in his trousers and plucked his flash roll.

  He peeled off ten C-notes. He dropped them in Annie’s lap. Annie went google-eyed.

  “That can’t be a tip. Brenda says we’re supposed to take care of you for free. ‘You keep Sergeant Jackson well supplied, Citizens. That way, he won’t be demanding on those rare nights he sleeps over.’ ”

  Elmer haw-hawed. “You’ve got Brenda down, and I sure would like to make this a regular thing.”

  “I see what you’re saying. There’s something else going on here.”

  Elmer said, “There’s a certain FBI man that I think you know pretty well. He’s got you prompting old Doc Lesnick, who I also think you know pretty well.”

  Annie pointed to the wall peek. “Ed Satterlee’s filming us. You’ve seen the prints. Ed probably screens them at FBI smokers. All these G-men eat popcorn and pull their puds.”

  Elmer said, “There you go—but I wouldn’t say Ed’s all that crass.”

  Annie lit a cigarette. “All right. I’ll concede that Ed’s got me working Saul. He’s a Fed snitch, and I’m snitching him to Ed. Filming us is something else, which I think Ed should pay me for more than he’s paying me now.”

  Elmer jiggled Annie’s feet. “Whoa, now. I’m not going to film you or us, and I promise I’ll get your film back from Ed, and dissuade him from letting his pals take a look-see.”

  Annie sighed. “Sergeant Elmer’s a sweetie pie. All the girls know that. He never asks for anything perverted, and he always tips.”

  Elmer blushed. “Does Lesnick always blab so much about his patients?”

  “Always. We screw for two minutes, then he talks for two hours.”

  Elmer zeroed in. He stroked Annie’s hair. He dialed their eyes tight.

  “I want to know whatever that woman Claire De Haven and her cop boyfriend say about me, a woman named Kay Lake, and possibly a kid named Tommy Glennon. Old Saul spiels to you, and you spiel to me. There’s a party in Brentwood tomorrow night. You’re going to work old Saul, and I’m hooking you up to a microphone gizmo.”

  38

  (TIJUANA, 2:00 P.M., 1/28/42)

  “Hirohito’s hellions rape Rabaul and pound pitiful Palau. The jungle-bred Japs parse peril throughout the Pacific. They cornhole the Carolines and savage the Solomon Isles. Ripsnorting Rommel lashes Libya and causes camel caravans to flee. Here in mucho magnifico Mexico, a furtive Fifth Column keesters coastal inlets. This quivering question remains—”

  Father Coughlin cranked it. Dudley sat in the waiting room. Wall speakers popped the padre’s pitch. Glass walls showcased his gesticulations.

  XERB Radio. 500,000 watts. It broadcast from Baja to Bangladesh. The whole world heard Charles Coughlin’s shit.

  Coughlin cranked it. He threw sweat. His microphone melted. He’d promised a “special guest.” He said, “You’ll love this lad, Dud.”

  “…as the lachrymose Left bemoans justified Jap roundups, and Mexico’s cucumber-cool cognoscenti wonders if Prez Camacho has turned righteously right, as evinced by his land grant to the sizzling Sinarquistas. And, since there’s no business like show business, are those ripe rumors about Eleanor Roosevelt and Colored Commissar Paul Robeson true?”

  Charging Charlie Coughlin. Uproarious in short doses. T.J. by way of his Detroit parish and the Emerald Isle. Pope Pius pulled his U.S. show. The padre ran rogue and popped south. The Mex right wing loved him.

  Dudley tuned him out. He daydreamed. He donned fascist garb and swung the gold bayonet.

  He eviscerated priest-killers and nun-rapers. He butchered the British House of Commons. He speared Winston Churchill and noted royals. He decapitated FDR and all the men who’d fucked Claire.

  He recalled Joan, two nights back. She tossed her hair just so. She wore gold cuff links. He watched her unfasten them.

  He didn’t crave gold as gold or money. The bayonet’s provenance now bored him. He wanted to know who it killed. Only Herr Hanamaka could tell him that.

  Joan was six feet tall. She’d be his height in heels. He wanted to dress her in black SS kit.

  Her father burned to death. It might have been arson. He wanted to find the killer and offer him to Joan. She’d wield the gold bayonet.

  Father Coughlin went reverential. His voice dropped. There’s his trademark pulpit hush.

  Dudley watched. Coughlin bowed his head and hosanna’d. A man walked up to him. The two embraced.

  Aaay, caramba. Es El Flaco Explosivo. It’s the Sleek Man himself.

  He dressed pure Greenshirt. He wore
jackboots and the coiled-snake armband. He looked through the glass wall and saluted El Dudster. Dudley stood and saluted him back.

  Salvador Abascal. Why equivocate? He’s Saint Ignatius of Loyola, reborn.

  Abascal straddled a hair and grabbed the microphone. He spoke perfect English. He addressed the World Grand Jury and laid down indictments. He demanded true bills penned in blood.

  He defamed President Putarco Calles and his Red regime. He ridiculed Lázaro Cárdenas and his “godlessly gutless” reforms. He maimed modernism. It was “perversion perpetrated by the Jewish/atheist/nihilist Left.” He quoted the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. He critiqued communism as Jew-derived. He lashed Uncle Sam’s imperialista forays in Latin America. He urged the U.S to embrace the Catholic Church and reform from within.

  He spoke straight to Dudley. Their eyes held through the glass.

  Abascal cranked it. His spiel borrowed from Huey Long and Gerald L. K. Smith. He pumped his fist à la Conde McGinley and wailed like Klan preachers and El Führer himself. His voice rose and fell. He’d studied the soapbox orators of Weimar-era Berlin. He knew when to purr and when to SHRIEK.

  The Protestant Reformation? “Wholly genocidal” and “the Christian Diaspora.” Martin Luther? “A tyrant to rival Josef Stalin.” Adolf Hitler? “A great, if unruly, leader, and a beatific beacon to the Western world at large.”

  Abascal cranked it.

  He mourned the martyred Cristeros. He described the Redshirt tortures inflicted upon them. He detailed a Sinarquista death list. The torturers would be slaughtered, one by one.

  Dudley walked up to the glass. He placed his hands on it. The glass vibrated. The Sleek Man’s words did that.

  Abascal walked to the glass. He placed his hands even with Dudley’s. The glass seemed to melt.

  They were this close. Abascal spoke to a ceiling mike. Abascal said this:

  “I vigorously condemn the British-Protestant imperialism levied against the sovereign Catholic people of Ireland. I call for all-out Irish revolt against the British beast.”