by James Ellroy
He told her he fiber-swept Hanamaka’s hideaway. It paid off. He notched a fiber match to Rice himself. More threads converged. Dudley dubbed it the “Trifecta.” The gold heist, Fifth Column grief, the klubhaus job.
More evidence and more death. More open-air cadaver rot. More teeth in his sifting pan.
Ashida walked off. Crazy Juan yelled, “Come back, my love!”
* * *
—
Japs.
Japs, Japs, Japs. His ex–racial kin. His pre–Pearl Harbor brethren. His pre–Dudley Smith bund.
Ashida pulled up to the Statie barracks. Dudley shot him a last-second job. It was Jap-derived and Jap-defined. A Jap trial run was set to move north. Dudley and the Ventura County Sheriff colluded.
They moved precipitously. Captain Vasquez-Cruz cosigned the collusion. They bypassed Governor Lazaro-Schmidt.
Ashida parked and walked back to the loading dock. The transport bus stood ready. Two Statie shits guarded it. They packed tommy guns.
Japs, Japs, Japs. Sixty men and women shackled. Japs, Japs, Japs. He employed the common vernacular now.
Dudley told him to interpret. Curry favor and seek last-minute rat-outs. Press on Japs still at large. Pledge snitch rewards. We’ll feed you gourmet dog food and house you in de-luxe horse stalls.
Ashida hopped on the bus. He wore U.S. Army fatigues and jump boots. He carried his evidence kit and wore a holstered .45.
He counted sixty Japs. They were shackle-chained. Their arm and ankle cuffs scraped and drew blood. They were cinched up, seat back to seat back.
Ashida studied them. He stood by the gun guard’s seat and let them notice him. It took a moment. They stopped talking, they looked up, they saw him.
He had them now. They fell quiet and studied him. He issued Dudley’s snitch directive in Spanish and Japanese. A babble rose. He walked through the bus.
People hissed at him. People talked to him. He heard traitor in Spanish and Japanese. He ran the spit gauntlet. He caught globs on his fatigues and globs in his face.
He looked out the rear window. Two Staties stuffed bundles inside the wheel wells. It was uncut heroin.
The curses persisted. The driver and gun guard jumped on board. The driver kicked the ignition.
Ashida about-faced and walked toward the front of the bus. Hisses and curses overlapped. Spittle dripped off his chin. He threw out Spanish and Japanese. Kyoho Hanamaka—do you know him?
He walked seat row to seat row and repeated it. Spit bombs blurred his vision. An old man motioned him close.
Ashida leaned close. The old man spoke English. He said, “Hanamaka fascist. I valet for him. I help him mess up mountain house and pack. Two white policemen drive him over border.”
Ashida opened his evidence kit. He flashed ID pix of Wendell Rice and George Kapek.
The old man nodded YES.
65
(SAN DIEGO, 12:00 P.M., 2/10/42)
The boys are—
They hauled north. Elmer drove. Buzz baby-talked his pet scorpion. They left El Huey naked, outside the Klubb Satan. Devil take the hindmost.
The coast road looked good. Eucalyptus trees and big wave swells. The klubhaus job looked bad. Elmer masticated it.
They called Thad Brown from T.J. They said Huey was just plain nowhere. Thad laid out the Miciak mess. The looted guns were the gnarly nadir. Thad issued an APB on Link Rockwell. Flyboy Link staged klubhaus sex shows and sold tix.
The klubhaus job was Shit City. Buzz and him brain-waved it. There had to be an upside somewhere. Huey’s Dudster tale, ditto. Dud attends a pervert hoedown and snuffs a he-she. That’s blackmail bait. It could rescind Dud’s hex on Buzz.
Elmer relit his cigar. A light drizzle hit. They passed Del Mar Racetrack. Buzz dropped bundles there on his days off.
They did one good deed already. He called Fourth Interceptor and played Mr. Anonymous. He tattled that so-called Jap sub attack. It retattled Huey’s tattle. Sub attack planned!!! Japs target Santa Barbara refineries!!!
That was tattle #1. Tattle #2 was stale bread. Jap air attack!!! Late February, banzai!!! It was most likely vapors and bullshit.
El Scorpio snoozed in his cage. Buzz stuck a finger in and stroked his pincers. A pet store on Fairfax sold dead crickets. Buzz planned to stock up. Keep El Scorpio fat and sassy.
“Here’s something I don’t get. There’s those fourteen Baja pay-phone listings in Tommy G.’s address book. My question’s Why? Why’s a psycho jerkoff like Tommy have those numbers? Is he really some hot-blood seditionist? On top of that, this English-language paper ran a story this morning. The Staties knocked over a pay-phone relay spot and disabled it. Does that mean them pay phones in Tommy’s book are dead?”
Elmer said, “I got phone slugs in the trunk. We’ll try to call those phones from that hot-box by the Herald. If we get dead air, we’ll know something’s cooking.”
Buzz rogered him and yawned wiiiiiide. He tipped his hat low and snoozed off. Elmer chained cigars and daydreamed Jean Staley. He dressed her in Kay Lake threads. Kay had this black cashmere dress. He liked it best.
Full-on rain hit outside L.A. Elmer cut east on rinky-dink streets and north on Figueroa. The rain abated, the clouds dispersed, some sunshine poked through. Buzz yawned and stirred.
“Looks like home to me.”
Elmer cut east on Pico and north on Broadway. There’s the Herald building. There’s the hot-box. There’s Ed Satterlee, parked upside.
Elmer U-turned and pulled up behind him. He got out and unlocked his trunk. He kept his extralegal shit there. Throwdown guns, burglars’ tools, maryjane to plant on suspects. Pay-phone slugs. Crib notes per Tommy G.’s address book.
Buzz got out and stretched. They waved to Ed Satterlee. Ed the Fed waved back. They ducked into the phone booth. Elmer passed Buzz the address-book numbers and a handful of slugs.
El Buzzo spoke okay Spanish. He got the place-the-calls gig. The gambit was station-to-station. The L.A. operator hails the Baja operator. She shoots the actual calls.
Buzz went to work. Elmer moseyed up to Ed’s sled and popped the passenger door. Ed nipped on a hip flask. Elmer slid in and went Gimme that.
Ed passed the flask. “Your boy Bill Parker pulled a fink play with the grand jury. Those halfhearted bills rigged to produce acquittals don’t look so assured now.”
Elmer sipped cheap brandy. “Bill Parker’s right hand don’t know what his left hand is doing.”
Buzz lounged half outside the phone booth. Elmer eyeballed him. Buzz held up three fingers and pointed them down. That meant three disconnects.
Ed slurped cheap brandy. “What’s Meeks doing?”
“We’re tracking Baja pay phones. It pertains to the klubhaus job.”
“Are you working with Fourth Interceptor? They’re chasing Baja pay phones.”
Elmer went nix. “No, it’s something else.”
Ed the Fed shrugged. “As numerous wags have said, ‘Fifth Column’s Fifth Column.’ We get lots of those Deutsches Haus creeps making calls from here.”
Elmer orbed the phone booth. Buzz wagged nine fingers and pointed them down. That meant nine disconnects.
“How do you know this, sahib?”
Ed gargled cheap brandy. “We run photo surveillance. We take pictures and match them to the plate numbers of the cars the creeps get back into. We get the registration details from the DMV and run the names against known-subversive files.”
Buzz flashed fourteen fingers and pointed them down. That meant all disconnects.
Elmer said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any of those pictures on you?”
Ed reached under his seat. He snagged a stack of glossies and dropped them on Elmer’s lap.
Elmer thumbed through. He saw a slew of unknown phone callers. He saw a far shot of Ensign Link Roc
kwell. Oooh—there’s a tight shot. Dig that mean-looking Jap.
Jap on the loose. Oooga-booga. Why ain’t this fucker detained?
“You got a name on him?”
Ed flipped the picture over. Scrawled on the back:
Kyoho Hanamaka.
66
(LOS ANGELES, 7:00 A.M., 2/11/42)
Breakfast at Kwan’s. Flapjacks and Bloody Marys. Jack Horrall, half-blitzed and dyspeptic.
“What you’re saying in no way surprises me. Bill Parker rats to the Feds. It’s on a par with ‘dog bites man.’ ”
Dudley sipped coffee. He left Joan’s bed for this bereavement. She finked Parker’s fink play. She finked Wendell Rice’s gold bayonet. La Bonne Joan—ever opportunistic.
“It ups the odds that the grand jury will issue binding indictments, sir. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Jack dosed his morning jolt. He added Tabasco and Worcestershire. His highball glass glowed malignant.
“Parker’s making his move. If I’m convicted at trial, he’ll grab my job early. He’ll work some voodoo on the City Council and push Thad Brown aside.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Talk to him. Horse trade. White man smoke heap big peace pipe. Tell that pious cocksucker that I’ll pull my support of Thad if he recants his testimony extant.”
Dudley scanned the room. The City Hall crowd noshed early. Fletch Bowron, Sheriff’s brass, Jew lobbyists. They waved to Chief Jack and the big mick.
“I’ll call Parker this morning, sir.”
Jack salted his drink. His liver was shot. His pump was shot. His arteries bulged. His life span loomed as next week.
“You heard about that Miciak fuck? We’ve got Rice and Kapek selling Jap guns now.”
“I was informed, sir. Mike Breuning called me.”
“I’m starting to think I should countermand my clean-solve directive. Rice and Kapek’s shit should never see the light of day. I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought. It’s causing me to wax profound. I’m also shit-faced at seven-fucking-a.m.”
Dudley grinned. “You’ve always been a lively man, sir.”
“I’m also very enlightened, and not averse to enlisting jigaboos in our noble crusade. Which brings me to my pal Preacher Mimms.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. Call-Me-Jack resalted his drink.
“Preacher Mimms owns the klubhaus. That gives him a stake in this. He’s also got his snout dunked in a great many poisoned streams.”
Such as the gold heist. May ’31. Mimms bails out Leander Frechette. Hideo and Joan uncovered it.
“You’ve piqued my interest, sir.”
“Talk to Preacher Mimms. Ask him about his numerous enemies embroiled in perverted walks of life. Get a sense of the ones he’d like to see dead.”
* * *
—
They shared rank now. Two uniformed captains/two august agencies. They drew stares at Kwan’s.
Parker slouched. Dudley sat stiff straight. Joan would notch rank soon. Jack H. shot her an Academy slot. Captain J. W. Conville, Los Angeles PD.
Parker sipped coffee. His glasses were Scotch-taped. He’d chewed his nails raw.
“I read the posted summary at Lyman’s. The stolen guns constitute a shitstorm.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Yes, and a discomfiting and potentially scandalous one.”
“Was that what you wished to discuss?”
“Among other matters, yes.”
Kwan’s buzzed. It was a lawyers’ lair this a.m. Fletch B. and counsel. Ray Pinker and counsel. It refracted Whiskey Bill’s snitch ploy. The Fed probe snarls and shows teeth.
Parker said, “I’m listening.”
“Please restate your promise not to reveal Jim Davis, per a certain quadruple homicide.”
“So stated, with a codicil. We still need to put him under pentothal, voluntarily or coerced. There’s the currently pending matter of the klubhaus job, and what he might know.”
“I’ll do it. Would you care to witness the interview?”
Parker nodded. Archbishop Cantwell walked in the door. He wore kelly green golf togs and drew delighted stares.
“Do I have your word that you will not seek to countermand my efforts in l’affaire klubhaus?”
“End it. It’s a lake of shit our police department will drown in.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Parker lit a cigarette. “Let me anticipate your next salvo and nip it in the bud. No, I will not recant at the grand jury—even if Jack Horrall pulls his support of Thad Brown.”
The Archbishop worked the room. He swapped jokes with Battling Gomez. He ogled Betty Grable and winked at Harry James.
Dudley said, “Would you reconsider if I offered to walk away from Joan?”
Parker said, “Emphatically no.”
J. J. Cantwell sidled over and approached their table. He looked vividly elfin today.
“What are you two brilliant lads discussing so heatedly?”
Dudley said, “Women, Your Eminence.”
Cantwell winked. “That’s a topic I know nothing of, regardless of any rumors you may have heard.”
* * *
—
The drive back protracted. There were flash storms and coast road tie-ups. The jaunt ran six hours, door-to-door.
He got a late start. A bayonet search postponed his departure. He badged the widows Rice and Kapek and tossed their houses, floor-to-floor. He searched two domiciles and two detached garages. The Widow Rice said two shitkicker cops had already been through.
No gold bayonet appeared. The widows knew nothing of it. They’d dumped Wendell’s and Georgie’s Nazi gear. Their loony husbands gored their goats. Goodbye to all that.
Alas.
Dudley parked and lugged his grip upstairs. Music surged within his suite. It was dank and dissonant. Claire and Young Joan doted on Shostakovich.
He unlocked the door. Young Joan blasted the dour maestro. She sprawled on the couch. The Wolf sprawled beside her. Young Joan ruffled his coat.
Dudley doused the Victrola. Loud brass diminuendoed. Bass cellos swooped and died.
Young Joan said, “Hi, Uncle Dud.” She patted a folder on her lap. The Wolf stirred and nuzzled her hand.
“I have something to show you.”
Dudley smiled. “Perchance?”
“I found an L.A. Police intel file, in with some blank forms. It’s good you came home when you did. Aunt Claire’s out, and she wouldn’t want you to see it.”
The girl Mata Hari. His very own Hebraic offspring. She’s always concocting intrigue.
Dudley dropped his grip and perched on the couch. Young Joan passed him the file.
“It’s a CP cell, back in the ’30s. I recognized one of the pictures.”
Dudley opened the folder. It was standard Red Squad paper. A cover note prefaced it. Five suspect sheets and photographs were included. The note listed five CP members. The names stood out.
Saul Lesnick, M.D. Claire’s psychiatrist and confidant. Her L.A. dope conduit. Plus Andrea Lesnick. Plus Meyer Gelb, plus Jean Staley and Jorge Villareal-Caiz.
It’s the cell. Hideo and Joan uncovered the lead. The cell drew heat per the Griffith Park fire. Said heat cooled and died. It was stale news today.
Sicknik seditionists. Dr. Saul’s schizy daughter. Florid cell boss Gelb. Red pawn Jean Staley. Priest-killer Villareal-Caiz. Reviled by the great Salvy Abascal.
Young Joan said, “Look at the pictures.”
Dudley flipped through the suspect sheets. Four pix beamed, innocuous. Villareal-Caiz stood out.
As he well should. Here’s the punch line. He’s really José Vasquez-Cruz.
Claire found Vasquez-Cruz familiar. She’d “seen him somewhere, maybe a demonstration.” She found him attractive. He
concurrently repulsed her. Claire viewed all men that way.
Young Joan stroked the Wolf. He hated priest killers and Communists. His hackles flared.
* * *
—
History. Munich, ’34. The Night of the Long Knives. Brentwood, ’39. A costume party replicates slaughter. Ensenada, now. History as fused circuit and final reprise.
Dudley brought the gold bayonet. He wore SS black. Salvy brought two stilettos. He wore Wehrmacht gray. They took Salvy’s car. The Wolf lounged between them. He wore his spiked collar, swastika-pinned.
3:00 a.m. Calle Diamante. The priest-killer lives in a bluffside casa. It’s bleached-white adobe. There’s a wide front lawn and eucalyptus trees.
Dudley knew the floor plan. Cruz-Caiz threw a party. Claire danced with El Communisto. He was El Fascisto then.
Salvy parked across the street. The Wolf growled and flashed his fangs. He told them to carry their weapons unsheathed.
They walked over. They veered toward the right-side front of the house. French doors marked the master bedroom. Gargoyle doorstops held them open. A breeze stirred sheer drapes.
Dudley heard snores and smelled stale perfume. It was Claire’s scent.
They walked in. Salvy patted the side wall and tripped a light switch. The room went too bright too fast. The priest-killer sleeps, the priest-killer stirs.
He’s wearing silk pajamas. The bedsheets are mussed. He’s almost awake.
Dudley stepped up. He gripped the bayonet two-handed. The priest-killer opened his eyes. Dudley slammed the blade into his face.
It crushed his skull and tore one eye out. Blood exploded. It sprayed Dudley’s tunic and drenched the pillows and sheets. The priest-killer gurgle-screamed. Dudley slammed the blade into his mouth.
It choked off all sound. Severed bridgework snagged the blade. Dudley yanked it free. He stabbed the priest-killer’s face and smashed into his brains.
Salvy stabbed. He arced two knives, in and out. He stabbed one flailing arm and severed it. One knife blade broke off in his hand.
Dudley swung the bayonet crossways. He shattered the priest-killer’s ribs and lanced through to his heart.
