This Storm

by James Ellroy

  “She’s on Elmer Jackson and Buzz Meeks’ interview list. We already know a few things that they don’t. They may learn that she was in Meyer Gelb’s cell, and that the members were questioned about the fire that killed Elmer’s brother.”

  Ashida studied the green sheet. He scanned the text and tapped a routing stamp.

  “She has a CP file. They keep all those files at Wilshire Station.”

  Joan pointed to the wall phone. Ashida walked up to it and dialed out. He spoke low and listened. He hung up and stamped one foot.

  “Elmer saw the file yesterday. Captain Parker arranged it.”

  Joan said, “Here’s what we’re up against. Is Jean Staley germane to this case, or to the fire case, or to our other one? Will the fire be mentioned in the CP file? If so, how will Elmer react?”

  “He’s been alerted to a possible fire-case link. A gold-robbery link is most unlikely here.”

  Joan mulled it. Ashida slouched against the wall and twirled the phone cord.

  “Miss Staley’s name appeared in Tommy Glennon’s address book. I find that book suspect in and of itself.”

  Joan leafed through the corkboard reports. She studied the book photostats. They were white on black and tacked straight across.

  She saw what Ashida saw. Block-print forgeries. Hesitation marks and ruler marks. Four names were forged. The name Jean Staley was discernibly legit.

  “You’re right. Chung, Welles, Lesnick, and Jamie are forged.”

  The Teletype clattered. Joan tore off the sheet. Fourth Interceptor sent a communiqué. Lieutenant H. J. Ashida/you’ve been summoned south.

  “This should please you, Hideo. Our handsome Irish friend has mischief in mind.”

  56

  (TIJUANA, 5:30 P.M., 2/4/42)

  It’s dusk in teeming T.J. Soldier, beware. The ghastly ghouls are out.

  The he-shes. The whores. The jarheads down from Dago. The zip-gun boys.

  Ashida parked on Revolución. He gave a zip-gun boy ten centavos to watchdog his car. The boy was eight years old. He goofed Ashida’s Army duds. Ashida mind-read him. Usted es un Jap.

  Dudley shot him a note at the Biltmore. It said Jack Horrall kowtowed and pink-slipped his early release. The note critiqued probable address-book forgeries. The key suspect was one E. V. Jackson.

  Ashida agreed. The why of it perplexed him. The note concluded: “Meet Lieutenant Juan Pimentel at the Blue Fox.”

  Strolling ghouls checked out Ashida. The sex-show barkers. The rat-meat taco vendors. The male prosties in bullfighter chaps. Ashida rigged his Man Camera and shuttered them out.

  This is Mexico. Certain questions persist. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? The fourteen Baja pay phones in Tommy’s address book. Qué es el truth there?

  Ashida strolled. There’s the Blue Fox. It’s licentious and lewd-legendary. Hoochie girls lured sailors inside. They wore blue fox masks and tails. They were otherwise nude and single-digit pubescent.

  Ashida shut his eyes and pushed past them. He entered the Fox. Big noise hit him. He opened his eyes and saw this:

  A bandstand. An androgynous trio. A tethered donkey sporting red devil horns. Tables packed with U.S. Marines.

  The trio featured a sylph vocalist, trumpet, and sax. They whipped through the “Marines’ Hymn” and segued to this:

  “Mama’s on welfare!!!”

  “Papa’s in jail!!!”

  “Little sister’s on the corner—yelling, pussy for sale!!!”

  “Grandma’s on white horse!!!”

  “Grandpa’s on glue!!!”

  “Little brother’s getting cornholed by some jigaboos!!!”

  Ashida stood, stunned-o. Ghouls fluttered by. A girl tongued his neck. A boy grabbed his crotch. A he-she fondled his holster. He tried to move. He failed to move. The ghouls glued his feet to the floor.

  He deployed Man Camera Left. Nude girls danced on a bartop. Seated sailors muff-munched them and jerked off. He deployed Man Camera Right. Fox-face girls table-hopped and fellated Marines.

  He shut his eyes and shut it out. A schizy sound track rolled in the dark.

  “There he is.”

  “You are very astute, Huey. Of course it is him. He is the only Japanese within view.”

  “Come on. You said you’d call me ‘mein Führer.’ ”

  “If it pleases you—yes, of course.”

  “I think he’s cute.”

  “He’s Oriental cute, which is not my sort of indulgence.”

  “He won’t open his eyes. This place must seem pretty raw to him.”

  “Come, Lieutenant Ashida. Captain Smith has a full night’s work for you.”

  * * *

  —

  They took Ashida’s car and hit the coast road south. Ashida drove. His ghoul colleagues lounged in the backseat. Pimentel sniffed cocaine. Führer Huey made kissy sounds. Pimentel reached over and played the radio. Father Coughlin proclaimed.

  The drive protracted. Pimentel mimicked Jap Zeroes at Pearl. Huey mimicked bomb blasts and sailors fried alive.

  They passed Ensenada and cut inland. They climbed scrub hills and found it: this weird A-frame chalet.

  The lights were on. Dudley stood outside. He wore a kimono. He embraced Ashida and called him “Ichiban.”

  Pimentel and Führer Huey peeled off. They were bivouacked in the surveillance haus up the next hillside. Ashida unloaded his lab gear. Dudley assisted. Ashida Man Camera’d him.

  He swayed here. He walked inimically straight in L.A. He’s T. E. Lawrence West now. He’s gone native. Call him Smith of Mexico. He overlords the brown hoi polloi.

  His kimono swirled. Ashida studied the design. It was orange-and-black silk. Little Sinarquista snakes were inlaid.

  * * *

  —

  They toured the hideaway. Dudley dubbed it the “Wolfschanze.” He’d appropriated the chalet and planned to remodel it. Maestro Klemperer’s L.A. spread inspired him. Claire had showed him jazzy snapshots.

  Ashida viewed Hanamaka’s hidey-hole. Dudley posed in Nazi tunics cut to fit him. Ashida read Hanamaka’s journal. He trembled as he flipped pages. The lunatic Left and Right merge behind one banner. This war marks a prophecy fulfilled.

  They sat down in the living room. Faded bloodstains covered one wall. Dudley served warm sake. A phonograph murmured Parsifal, low.

  They discussed the gold and all events related. They time-machined back to May ’31 and October ’33. They stopped at the klubhaus today.

  They tracked police-file revelations. Fritz Eckelkamp and Wayne Frank Jackson. The liquor-store spree. Tommy Glennon’s address book. Brother Elmer’s forgeries.

  Jean Staley. Elmer, poised to brace her. Miss Staley’s membership in Meyer Gelb’s cell. Martin Luther Mimms. Dudley’s plan to brace Chung, Jamie, and Welles.

  The dialogue wound down. Untersturmbannführer Ashida remained attentive.

  Dudley said, “Comb the place, top to bottom. See what you can find.”

  * * *

  —

  A midnight rainstorm came and went. Dudley drove back to Ensenada. Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey stuck to the lookout haus. Ashida roamed the Wolfschanze. He’d inventoried his gear. It covered all contingencies.

  Three microscopes. Three forensic hot plates. Print cards and print-lift tools. Evidence pouches/beakers/Bunsen burners. Three forensic vacuums.

  The task was confirm or refute. Try to match L.A.-to-Baja locations. The Hanamaka print linked the klubhaus to the Wolfschanze. Try to link conversely here.

  Prints first.

  Ashida dusted the downstairs walls. He powdered wide swaths and naked-eyed them. He saw washcloth wipe marks overlaid with dust.

  Thick dust. Hanamaka vanished on December 18. It was now February 5. The washcloth marks and dust overlay confirmed his
departure date.

  Ashida dusted downstairs furniture. He hit hard surfaces only. They were all print-sustaining/all touch-and-grab.

  He got wipe marks, smudges, and smears. It confirmed the professional wipe job. The smudges and smears overlaid the marks. That meant they were recent. The smudges and smears were surely Herr Dudley Smith’s.

  Ashida dusted the upstairs walls and furniture. He got the same results. The upstairs dust had settled in thick. Dudley kept the windows cracked wide.

  Fibers next.

  He installed vacuum bags and worked with flat and scooped nozzles. He vacuumed carpets, soft furniture, floor-to-wall points. He pulled up rug grit and dust and filled three bags.

  He emptied the bags on Dudley’s kitchen table. He naked-eyed the contents. It was all dust and rug grit.

  Ashida switched nozzles. He installed a soft-bristled one. It caught buffed-surface particles best.

  The one bathroom had been wall-and-fixture wiped. Washcloth swirls plainly showed. This was in-tight work. Get behind the toilet and under the sink.

  Ashida worked on his knees. He swept the nozzle over flat surfaces and pushed it against sink pipes and wall planes. He got the sink, the bathtub, the toilet. No suction sounds reverberated. All fiber snags would run silent here.

  Dawn broke clear and bright. His muscles throbbed. He smelled his own sweat.

  He walked to the kitchen table. He donned his headlamp and looked into the bag. He naked-eyed toilet-paper scraps and one dark blue thread.

  He plucked the thread and placed it on a microscope slide. He dialed close and saw the interior shaft. The weave indicated fine silk. The cross weave indicated cheap dye.

  Maybe. Just possibly. This could be—

  Ashida rigged a comparison scope. He removed the thread and placed it on the right-side mount. He dug in his evidence kit. He found his comparison thread.

  He placed it on the left-side mount. He dialed both lenses tight. He looked left-right, left-right, left-right. He made this determination. It’s an identical match.

  Wendell Rice. His Hawaiian shirt. The shirt he died in. Wendell Rice was here at the Wolfschanze. Wendell Rice died at the klubhaus.

  Ashida went up-all-night woozy. He stumbled around the kitchen. He went weak-kneed. Flashes lit the one window. It startled him.

  The flashes repeated. They hit once, twice, three times. A pattern repeated. Short, long, short. It was Morse code/dot, dash, dot.

  Light hit the window. The same sequence repeated. Ashida knew Morse code. He deciphered it.

  Dots and dashes. Dashes and dots. They spelled out “We love you.”

  The flashes hit windowpane glass. They hit downward. They flashed from somewhere outside and above.

  Ashida brought binoculars. He grabbed them and held them up to the window. He dialed in. He glanced up and out and saw this:

  The lookout haus. A wide window there. Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey. They’re holding up a hand mirror. They’re flashing “We Love You/We Love You/We Love You.”

  Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey. They’re stark nude and entwined.

  57

  (LOS ANGELES, 10:00 A.M., 2/5/42)

  The Herald headlined it. Tall type jumped out and slammed you. Sid Hudgens inked the piece.

  WEREWOLF BEATS GAS CHAMBER!!! D.A. MANDATES LUNACY BOUNCE!!!

  Elmer read the piece and reread it. He sat in his prowl sled. Simon’s was packed. He read and perv-viewed Jean Staley, intermittent.

  The Sidster’s style packed panache. Chief Horrall was a “heartbroken humanist.” He could not “abysmally abide” a “Werewolf barbecue.” “Devoted-to-justice detectives” brokered a deal. NO GREEN ROOM TREK FOR WEREWOLF, D.A. BILL MC PHERSON SEZ.

  Elmer tossed the paper and snarfed his breakfast. He noshed nutritious today. His pineapple malt was infused with Old Crow. Oooga-booga. The Werewolf gets a skate. Sid fed him the inside dish back at Lyman’s.

  Bill Parker got all weepy. Poor Werewolf—boo-hoo, boo-hoo. He confabbed with El Dudster. Demands went down. It was a frame job, anyway. Fuck the fucking Watanabes. Who cares who killed them? The Werewolf rates a stroll.

  Elmer scoped Jolting Jean. Her tortoiseshell glasses wowed him. She packed panache herself.

  That same bleached-blond carhop hopped him today. That was good. He was saving Jungle Jean. He had to scurrilously scope her out first.

  Her CP file hexed him. He got weepy for Wayne Frank. He recalled the good times. He ignored Wayne Frank’s shitbird demeanor and Klan escapades.

  Buzz hopped in the car. Wham!—this Okie cyclone.

  “I ain’t seen you in two days, but I thought I might find you here.”

  Elmer said, “I’m staking out a suspect.”

  Buzz wagged his eyebrows. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “You feel like reporting? I ain’t seen you in two days, either.”

  Buzz torched a cold cigar. “I braced that papist hump, Joe Hayes. He impressed me as a froufrou, but he didn’t reveal no racy drift on Tommy. He said he was Tommy’s confessor, and that was it.”

  Elmer made the jack-off sign. Buzz said, “I went back to Lyman’s then. Breuning and Carlisle had posted a note. It said Dud’s coming back in. He’s all set to brace Chung, Welles, and Jamie.”

  Elmer yocked. Buzz blew smoke in his face.

  “Then I remembered that Huey Cressmeyer’s mama works at Columbia, right by Huey’s flop. So I drove over there, and the first thing I see is Dud’s car, parked outside on Gower—with a Mex Statie sedan parked right behind it. I got the plate number, called the Ensenada barracks, and learned that that particular sled was checked out to some lieutenant named Juan Pimentel. This led me to believe that Dud and mama were baby-sitting Huey until Pimentel could get him down to Baja and hide his homo ass out.”

  Elmer whooped. “Because Huey’s in Tommy’s address book, and he’s Dud’s snitch, and he’s jungled up with Dud in three thousand questionable ways—and we’re set to pull him in for questioning.”

  Buzz rewagged his eyebrows. “So, I played a hunch on Pimentel. I called the Sheriff’s Office here, plus Orange County and San Diego County. Get this. San Diego R & I has a green sheet on old Juan. He got popped in a fruit-bar raid in ’37, but it got hushed up, because Juan’s got juice with the Staties. Then, I go back to my stakeout at Columbia. I see Dudley, Huey, and some uniformed beaner who’s got to be Pimentel walk out. Him and Huey wave bye-bye to Dud and take off in that Statie sedan. I tail them to the coast road southbound, and that’s all the news that’s unfit to print.”

  Elmer slurped his malt. He eyeballed Jean Staley. He mulled the Huey dish. Jean did this nifty tray dip.

  Buzz said, “Are you going to brace her, or peep her for the rest of your life?”

  * * *

  —

  Brace her, boss. You gots her under yo skin.

  He swooped that night. He hit at 8:00 p.m. He bopped to her Beachwood Canyon hut. He wore his best chalk-stripe suit and new brogans. He primped and rang the bell.

  She cracked the door. He saw one eyeball and badged her. She pulled the door wide.

  She wore dungarees and a white tennis shirt. She’d pinned up her hair. She wore schoolmarm glasses. Her joy de viver undermined the dowdy effect.

  “You’re not the Sheriff’s, because they’ve got that six-pointed thing. You’re not the state AG, because they don’t come around anymore. You’re not the FBI, because Mr. Hoover goes for beefcake types, and that’s not you.”

  Elmer smiled. She talked East Texas. She downplayed it. It still poked out some.

  “If you’re trying to tell me you’ve been around, you’ve succeeded.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just wondering why you’re letting me give you so much guff from jump street.”

  “Well, I did have some
questions.”

  “All spiffed up, at this time of night?”

  “Let me in, will you? It won’t take that long.”

  Jean squinted. Her cheaters magnified her eyes. Jean the Defiant. Screw you—I still look good.

  “You’re stalling me. There’s a whole lot of things I want to talk to you about, but I can’t do it standing at your door.”

  She had buck teeth and sleek hair. Note the gray strands in with the brown.

  “You’ve been frequenting Simon’s. All the girls knew you were up to something.”

  Elmer said, “I popped that blond girl for pros vag a while back. She must have spread the word.”

  Jean went Well, all right. Elmer walked in. The front room featured Navajo rugs and green leather chairs. Stand-up ashtrays clinched it. Some men’s club tossed a yard sale.

  Elmer took a seat. Jean took a seat. Wind blew the door shut.

  Jean said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “My name’s Elmer Jackson, in case you were wondering.”

  “Is it Lieutenant?”

  “It’s Sergeant, and I’m lucky to have that.”

  “I’m not going to ask you what it’s all about. Cops always get to it soon enough.”

  Elmer peeled a cigar. “Why was the state AG coming around?”

  Jean crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. She hunkered in some.

  “I was a Communist, back when lots of folks were. A dumb hillbilly girl—that was me. And the CP was something I sure as you know what came to regret.”

  Elmer said, “You must have had a lot of visitors. Red Squad men, Feds, Racket Squad guys up the ying-yang.”

  Jean blew smoke rings. Elmer glimpsed her starlet side. She crouched inside herself and played to men.

  “I was in a cell. All we did was rattle our own cages and listen to ourselves talk. We went to labor marches and carried banners. The Feds carried cameras and got pictures of us. We were real-live CP. We shot our mouths off, and you boys started coming around asking questions. That was enough for this little Red duck.”