by James Ellroy
Elmer sat on his porch. He lit a cigar and watched storm clouds brew. The mailman showed. He dropped off the light bill and a card, postmarked St. Louis.
The front displayed the churning Mississippi. Jolting Jean scribbled up the back.
Dear Elmer (You Sweet Dog),
My eastward trek continues. I’m looking forward to a party with some old friends in Albuquerque. Wish you were escorting me. XOXOXO, Jean.
Tilt. His shit detector clicked on. Something ain’t right here.
The card was postmarked St. Louis. St. Louis is way northeast of Albuquerque. Jean’s headed for Des Moines. Des Moines is northwest of St. Louis. Jean’s not taking no regular route. Here’s the capper here:
He got a Texas-postmark card, two days back. Jean’s hot to hit that Albuquerque wingding. Texas is east of New Mexico. It’s all fucked-up geography.
The mailman stuffed mailboxes. Elmer ducked into his flop and grabbed the stack of cards Jean sent.
He studied them. He tracked postmarks and skimmed Jean’s scrawl. Ooops, there’s—
The Kansas City card preceded the Denver card. KC’s east of Denver and should have come first. Here’s one he missed. The Lubbock card extolls the Rocky Mountains. That don’t fit. Jean ain’t seen those mountains yet.
The cards are all checkmarked. Oooga-booga. There’s all these different shades of ink.
Elmer goosed the mailman. “Lou, what’s with these cards? They’re coming all out of sequence, like this girl’s trying to put one over on me. And what’s with all these checkmarks?”
Lou studied the cards and tapped them on his teeth. Lou shiteater grinned.
“It looks like these cards got routed through a mail-drop system and sent on to you from a drop here in L.A. You know from mail drops, right? They’re these services that gigolos and call prosties use, all over the country. It’s like a relay pipeline for people on the run and on the lam, who want certain folks to think they’re somewhere else. Mail comes in, and the drop employees log it in or out and charge your account. These places are all over the U.S., so mail gets forwarded, and that way you can get whatever postmark you want. You get a lot of smut books and hate tracts sent that way. It’s like a cheating-wife-and-husband parlay. You can’t be in two places at the same time—but sometimes you’d like to convince folks that you are.”
Elmer snatched the cards and fanned them out. He fanned a spray and pointed to the checkmarks.
“What’s with these here marks, boss?”
Lou went oooh-la-la. “I know those marks. Look—they’re half cross, half X mark. That’s Bev’s Switchboard. It’s out in West Hollywood. Blow Job Bev Shoftel runs the place. She’s one for the record books.”
* * *
—
Nite-owl stakeout. 1:00 a.m.—Fountain and Crescent Heights.
Bev’s Switchboard was county turf. It was a rinky-dink storefront upside a swish bar. Elmer brought his B and E tools. He parked his sled across the street and got up some gall.
He ran a routine check first. He went by the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station and braced the Vice boss. The boss confirmed Lou the mailman.
Blow Job Bev turned out the twelve-year-old sons of the L.A. elite. She devirginized movie-biz scions and the offspring of Hancock Park swells. Bev’s Switchboard was a racket drop. It serviced smut merchants, hate-tract purveyors, and filmland shitheels. Plus homo prosties, dirty-picture girls, dubious “actors” and “musicians.” The service passed on phone messages and forwarded mail. The service rented on-site mailboxes. Sometimes the mail just jumped box-to-box. Bev’s been popped for smut and indecent exposure. She flashed her snatch at some dowagers at the Wilshire Country Club.
Bev’s got a pedigree. Bev snitches for Sheriff Biscailuz. Bev’s Switchboard is Sheriff’s-protected. Yeah, and there’s this:
The Feds are homed in on Bev’s. Sheriff Gene just quashed a premises search warrant.
Elmer said, “What were they looking for?”
The Vice boss said, “They were looking for incoming mail sent from mail drops in Phoenix, Albuquerque, Salt Lake City, Denver, Kansas City, and St. Louis.”
That meant pay dirt. Jolting Jean sent him cards from those cities. Jolting Jean allegedly passed through them.
The Vice boss said, “The requesting agent was this nosebleed Ed Satterlee. He’s purportedly tonged up and on the grift.”
They wrapped up at 5:00 p.m. Elmer split West Hollywood Station and went shopping then. He bought a miniature camera, film, and some flashbulbs. He popped bennies and brainstormed names.
Three-case names. Crisscrossed through three case lines:
Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta. More names: Fritz Eckelkamp, Eddie Leng, Donald Matsura. Still more names: Martin Luther Mimms, Leander Frechette, George Lincoln Rockwell. Yet more names: Harold John Miciak, Cedric Francis Inge, Catbox Cal Lunceford. Boocoo names: Meyer Gelb, Jean Staley, Dr. Saul and Andrea Lesnick. Mucho names: Jorge Villareal-Caiz, Kyoho Hanamaka, Lin Chung, Tommy Glennon. Bent-cop names. Fifth-Column names. Commo names. Nazi names. Jap names, Chink names, Mex names—
Elmer checked his watch. It was 1:19 a.m. The fruit bar roiled. The jukebox blared and supplied noise cover. Do it now, son.
He’d packed his B and E and camera shit in a gym bag. He grabbed it and crossed the street, fast. Traffic was scarce. Bev’s Switchboard was flat brick. A door awning covered him. The door was push lock/one keyhole.
Elmer got out a #4 pick. He probed said keyhole. The booger failed to fit. He got out a #6. That booger probed deep. He twisted it left/right, left/right. The mechanism snapped, the doorjamb shimmied and popped.
He stepped inside and threw the reverse bolt. The joint was deep dark. He pulled his flashlight and got his eyeballs adjusted. He beam-strafed the whole premises. He saw this:
The back wall was rigged with pullout mail slots. The east wall was lined with file cabinets. A desk and chair faced the front window. The west wall was foto-festooned. Film-biz schleppers mugged. For sure: part-time talent/full-time gigolos and whores.
Elmer walked to the back wall. He yanked a dozen mail-slot pulls and got no give. They were locked crab’s-ass tight. He kept his beam low and walked to the east wall. The cabinets ran alphabetical. Little letter plates were stuck to the drawers. He slid over to the S-for-Staley drawer and gave it a tug.
He hit pay dirt. Woo-woo!—the booger’s unlocked.
The drawer was jammed with file folders. Elmer maneuvered his flashlight and lit the name tags. He finger-walked from Sadler and Samuelson on. He saw the odd name Szigeti, Ruth. Two non-S files were clipped to it. Koenig, Miklos & Magda, Abromowitz, Sandor.
Elmer finger-walked. No familiar names mauled him. He hit Sperling, Phil and Sroloff, Ralph. Bam!—he hit Staley, Jean.
He pulled the file. It contained one sheet only. “Recent transactions” was typed at the top. Plus notes on “postcards received & forwarded/out-of-town postmarks assured.”
Postcards forwarded. To one geek only. A lunkhead named E. V. Jackson. Postcards from Phoenix, Albuquerque, Salt Lake City. Postcards from Denver, Kansas City, St. Louis. That means this: Jean sure as shit sandbagged him.
Elmer got out his camera shit and foto-snapped the page. The flashbulb popped bright. Elmer extracted it and dropped it in the gym bag.
Names. Names. Names. Take your pick. Open file drawers await you. It hit him, quick. Jean’s Commo cell. Villareal-Caiz, the Lesnicks, Meyer Gelb.
Elmer file-jumped. He pulled the V drawer and finger-walked. Bam!—there’s no Villareal-Caiz. He pulled the L drawer and finger-walked. Bam!—no Saul or Andrea Lesnick. He pulled the G drawer and finger-walked. Bam!—there’s Meyer Gelb.
The file contained one sealed envelope. It was addressed to “MG 226/CO Bev’s Switchboard.” That was plain dumb code. 226 was Gelb’s box number. Note the re
turn address: “PO Box 1823/La Paz, Baja.”
Elmer slid to the front desk and rifled the drawers. Shit—there’s no envelope steamer. He slid back to the G drawer. Fuck it. He ripped the letter open with his teeth.
For what? There’s just this blank sheet of paper. It’s a head-scratcher. What’s that there? It looks like a dried stain.
Elmer head-scratched it. He worked his dim brain every which way. It hit him, belated.
Blotter paper. Microdots. Fourth Interceptor issued a bulletin. “Report all such/A-Level evidence.”
He nicked the envelope. He brain-broiled. He ran more names and pulled more file drawers. He pulled the H drawer and got zilch for Kyoho Hanamaka. He repulled the L drawer and got nyet on Catbox Cal Lunceford. He repulled the G drawer and finger-sprinted.
He hit Gainford, Garfield, Gersh, Gifford. He hit Glennon, Thomas Malcolm. That’s some pay dirt.
Elmer skimmed the transaction sheet. There were no mail-outs scrawled. Tommy’s PO box number was scrawled in. Box 7669/La Jolla, California.
La Jolla. A swank enclave down by San Diego. It’s close to the Baja border. It’s a hot lead. More circles loop and constrict.
Elmer went through Tommy’s file. It contained one fat envelope. Elmer ripped it open and yanked the contents.
Tracts. Little hate pamphlets. Hate, hate, hate. Kill, kill, kill. Recipes for Jap fricassee and Chinaman stew. Kill the jigs, kill the Jews, kill the British Protestant oppressor!!!
Elmer dumped the tracts in his gym bag. He broiled more names. He hit the A drawer and trawled for Archie Archuleta. He got nein there. He hit the C drawer and trawled for Lin Chung. Tuff luck—there’s no Chinaman Chung.
He went light-headed. He weaved. This was all some wild-ass shit. He got his feet under him. He pulled the R drawer and trawled for George Lincoln Rockwell.
He finger-walked. Rehnquist, Rillard, Roberts, Robertson—Rockwell, George Lincoln. No transaction sheet. One fat envelope stuffed in the file.
Note the note clipped to it. “Forward to T. M. Glennon, Box 7669/La Jolla.”
Elmer slit the envelope. He banked on more hate tracts. He got smut pix instead.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suck, suck, suck. All black-and-white glossies. Pokey-pokey shots. In the mouth, up the love trail, up the dirt road. Two men and two women. The men wear leather masks. One man wears a Nazi uniform. One man wears Red Guard threads. The women wear zero. One woman’s white, one woman’s Mex.
Circles constrict. Oooga-booga. Circles meld and overlap.
The pubic-hair samples. Ashida found them. Doc Layman typed them. Two samples are female. One sample’s white, one sample’s Mex. Note the foto backdrop. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suck, suck, suck. It’s there in all the pix.
It’s the upstairs bedroom at the klubhaus.
83
(LA PAZ, 8:00 P.M., 3/3/42)
Seduction.
He knew it. She knew it. Her coy act at the exile bash proclaimed it. The Wolf caught her scent and proclaimed her lust.
Constanza recorded the Wieniawski Légende. She played the soaring violin part. A randy Pole composed the piece. The motif was explicitly Latin. Recurrent themes depicted star-crossed lovers aswirl.
Dudley sat in a harborside cantina. His booth overlooked the east-facing gulf. He sent Constanza a mash note-cum-invitation and got no response. He purchased her phonograph record and slipped it to the maître d’. A fat bribe assured steady play.
There’s Constanza’s solo now. Love subsumes conflict, conflict subsumes love. She’ll walk in soon. She’ll wear a white dress. One strap will slip off her bare shoulder. She’ll hitch it up repeatedly. She’s perfected the move.
Dudley chain-smoked. He wore his summer uniform and brown gun belt. Harbor craft bobbed a few feet away. A sea breeze hit open windows and cooled the place off.
Constanza walked up. She wore the white dress. He stood and bowed. Constanza laughed.
“I heard my third recapitulation, all the way out on the dock. I will reinterpret the composer’s intent if I record the piece again.”
Dudley smiled. “Don’t spoil my interpretation. The piece infatuated me.”
“You succumb to infatuation, as long as it serves you. It’s a ruthless trait that I admire in men.”
A waiter snapped to. He brought Cointreau on ice and Dudley’s third scotch. Cointreau was her drink. The Wolf told him so. Constanza tucked her dress pleats and slid into the booth. Dudley sat across from her. Constanza sipped Cointreau and lit a cigarette.
“My impolitic maid warned me about you. She said, ‘There’s a strange man prowling the house, and looking at things that he shouldn’t see.’ ”
“I saw you posed with beautiful animals and quite notable men. I was smitten at the airfield, and conquered when I saw you with the jaguar and your German friends.”
Constanza twirled her ashtray. A dress strap slipped off her shoulder. She hitched it back up.
“My brother forewarned me. He said, ‘Captain Smith is a voyeur who misses nothing. Poor boys confronted with affluence always love to look and touch. If there’s anything you don’t want him to see, you should hide it in advance of your party.’ ”
“And what did you hide?”
Constanza said, “I hid nothing.”
Dudley lit a cigarette and twirled his ashtray. Their fingers brushed.
“You brother intercedes in your life in a manner that some might find unseemly. My friend Salvy Abascal told me that.”
“Did Salvy tell you that I am his occasional lover? He has his child bride, who will supply him with children, and the women he ruts with and talks to.”
The cantina was built on a barge. Waves tapped loose pilings. Constanza swayed in time with them.
“It’s the war, you see. You are the U.S. Army captain and certified foreign devil. My brother only trusts people who want things from him, once he has vetted their most pressing common concerns. He has had you surveilled and knows of the British soldiers you killed in your homeland. He knows of your rich puta lover Claire, and her odious beliefs. He knows of Claire’s young charge Joan Klein, and has verified her outré stories of leftist intrigue. Would it surprise you to know that Joan’s New York comrades are acquainted with the Koenigs, Ruth Szigeti, and Sandor Abromowitz? My brother interceded for me because he distrusts wartime alliances and knows more than I do. He considers you to be a voyeur and quite the rank amateur. He intercedes and looks out for me by accommodating my own voyeuristic impulse.”
Dudley crushed his cigarette. “It’s all alliance, is it not? Once again, we come back to the war and those we might learn to trust or distrust.”
Constanza crushed her cigarette. “Alliances overlap. That is because spheres of interest and influence are ever mutating. In wartime, the only true common interests are profit and ultimate survival. Take the musical underground. In it, the musical Left and Right clash and just as often collude. It is all toward the end of profit and survival assured.”
Dudley said, “I saw that at your party. Your photographs of Herr Kempff and Herr Böhm, and your exiles so bravely and disingenuously repatriated.”
Constanza said, “You are perceptive. However amateurish, you compel me to report what my brother reports to me. There are mock traitors in the Führer’s high command, you see. They are strategically saving volubly articulate Jews from extermination. It is all part of an exoneration ruse, to be put into effect should Germany lose the war. An identical plan has been implemented in Russia. The Russians fear that the U.S. will invade their country should Germany lose the war. It is all about establishing moral credentials now, and paving the way for the appearance of redemption in what will surely be a bitter and rancorous postwar era. It also asserts the need for a mutual accommodation of Communist and fascist beliefs in the present, so that both sides will be couched to prove themselves indispensible
to the ultimate victors.”
Dudley stirred his drink. Constanza’s strap slipped down her arm. He reached over and pulled it up. Constanza touched his hand.
“Let’s see if I can extrapolate off the point you just made. I would guess that our current exile friends and all others that may follow will be put to use as informants. They’ve served the cause of Communist-fascist amity. But their efficacy should not stop there.”
Constanza said, “My brother allows that you are quick. You confirm it by keeping up with me.”
“You keep bringing up your brother’s intercessions. His influence daunts me. I’ve begun to think of him as a rival and romantic impediment.”
Constanza smiled. “We will get to the topic of the two of us in good time.”
“Pray forgive my great haste.”
Constanza smiled and lit a cigarette. Her hair was brown more than black. She was pale more than tan. She wore a man’s wristwatch.
“My brother knows a comunista named Meyer Gelb. Comrade Gelb is working on the Russian end of the exoneration scheme I described to you. Russian émigrés, badly used by Stalin, will be approached by my brother and suborned as informants, wherever they are resettled. Meyer will approach the Koenigs, Mr. Abromowitz, and Miss Szigeti in Los Angeles.”
Red Meyer. The Griffith Park Fire. Gelb’s ’33 cell. Brother and sister know Kyoho Hanamaka. The intersections failed to surprise him.
“Let me extrapolate. Your brother knows high-ups in the Fatherland. Comrade Gelb knows high-ups in Mother Russia. You’re describing a blackmail racket.”
Strolling musicians dipped by. They jiggled jangly maracas. Constanza went Shoo.
“Yes, and I should add that Comrade Gelb has marvelous dirt on the Koenigs, old Abromowitz, and Miss Szigeti. They sold three hundred Jewish musicians into the Führer’s death camps in order to save their own skins.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “You are telling me quite a great deal. I find it as disconcerting as your brother’s unseen presence at our table.”
