by James Ellroy
“It’s microdots. We’ll need a microdot camera to bring up the text.”
Elmer whooped. “I knew that was it. I saw a piece about that shit in Reader’s Digest.”
Mail drops. Meyer Gelb. The dicey Lazaro-Schmidts hailed from La Paz.
“Hideo’s in a trance. He’s hanging out the ‘Genius at Work’ sign.”
Ashida laughed. “We can’t bring up the text without that camera.”
“What about a plain old microscope? Could that get us in close?”
Ashida said, “Meet me at the lab. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
—
They two-carred over and hooked up at six. The day-shift chemists had clocked out. Ashida locked them in. Elmer jammed a chair under the doorknob.
Ashida scissor-cut the paper and shaped three equal strips. Elmer watchdogged the process. Ashida rigged a microscope and slide-clamped swatch #1. He dialed down to maximum range. Faint ink blurs appeared.
He ran swatch #2 and swatch #3. He got eight more ink blurs.
Ashida shook his head. Elmer went Shit. Ashida placed the strips back in the envelope and resealed it.
“There’s something you should know, Elmer.”
“Let me guess. You can’t withhold this here lead from Dudley, like you withheld Kay’s spiel on Joan Conville’s diary.”
Ashida balled his fists and fumed. He despised that mannerism. It made him look eff—
Elmer woofed him. “You’re on the fence about Dud now, aren’t you? I’m not all that surprised. Kay wouldn’t have clued you in if she thought you’d tattle to him. And here’s something you might want to consider. Maybe Kay’s smarter than you are, and maybe she’s cooking up something good.”
Ashida stomped one foot. Elmer haw-hawed. Ashida walked to the mail slot and dropped the envelope in.
“It’s out of our hands now. I might be on the fence, and I might not be. You’ve got the box number in La Paz as a lead, and that’s it.”
Elmer stomped one foot. He did good impersonations. He mimed effete rage, c’est bon.
“You’re trumping me, Hideo. I’m coming out second-best here.”
Ashida walked to his locker. He turned away from Elmer and unlocked it. He grabbed the gold bar off the top shelf.
Robbery swag. Thirty-three pounds plus. Worth twenty grand, U.S.
He turned and faced Elmer. Come, let us adore it. He held it out, worship me–style.
Elmer trembled and dropped his cigar. He lurched and bumped a glassware shelf. A glass beaker toppled and shattered on the floor.
Ashida said, “Take it. Your brother died for this, and I don’t want it anymore.”
Elmer picked up his cigar. He looked electrified. He dredged half a voice.
“What do you want?”
“A clean solve on the klubhaus job.”
Elmer kicked glass under a work desk. He brushed ash off his suit coat and went Nyet. Ashida placed the bar back in his locker. He tossed a lab rag over it. Gold as holy sacrament. Men died for this.
“Tell me how you turned the lead on Bev’s Switchboard.”
Elmer said, “It commenced with Jean Staley. I braced her, and she jobbed me out of my socks. We had a nifty first date, and then she plain vanished. I started getting postcards from U.S. 66, but Jean was really here in L.A. Bev’s Switchboard was stiffing the cards and jobbing up the postal cancellations.”
D. L. Smith on E. V. Jackson. He’s half smart here and there. He trips on his dick otherwise.
“I need those cards. They may contain microdots, inserted between the inside and outside pieces of cardboard. I’ll take them back to Ensenada with me. I might be able to locate a microdot camera there.”
Elmer said, “Okay, boss.”
Ashida said, “I’ll try to work out a truce for you and Buzz. Keep the bar. I’m sure Dudley will accept that concession.”
“All I want is a fair shot at whoever killed my brother. It has to be a plain murder. The gold’s just a way in to figure all that out.”
Ashida bowed. “I lost my taste for the gold when Joan died. All I want is a shot at a solve.”
Elmer relit his cigar. Lab fumes and hot ash. Ignition, combustion, explos—
“I got no beef with that. You’re Dud’s boy, so you handle everything pertaining to that fucker.”
“That’s fine, but he’ll want to know how you know whatever you know, and we have to keep Kay and Joan’s diary out of it.”
Elmer said, “You’re right, boss.”
Ashida said, “You should know something. You should know that I’ll reveal whatever I learn at the sweep tonight to Dudley.”
Elmer said, “You should know that fence-sitters tend to teeter and fall. You should also know that Buzz and me did Dud quite the solid. You know our missing chum, Tommy Glennon? Buzz and me braced him and killed him.”
Ashida teetered. The fence wobbled. The floor dipped.
“What did he tell you?”
“My lips are sealed, boss.”
94
(LOS ANGELES, 8:30 P.M., 3/10/42)
The boys are back in town.
El Towno said it best. Boyle Heights was T.J. North. It was tacofied territory. It was one big beaner bin.
Hola, fuckers. Here comes trouble. All you wicked Juans and dirty Diegos gonna get shit-kicked tonight.
Elmer and Buzz comprised Two Squad. They wore tin hats and lugged cut-down shotguns. They packed grand-jury subpoenas. Said paperwork was stamped “Alien Sedition Act.”
A paddy wagon trailed them. Two Squad worked the flats upside Lincoln Heights. One Squad and Three Squad were off elsewhere. Three squads, three turf quadrants, three righteous roust lists.
Three three-man rousts. That standardized the sweep. Elmer and Buzz caught three doozies. Chuy “El Perro” Mendez. Frankie “El Cabrón” Carbajal. Carlos “El Cucaracha” Calderon. The Dog, the Fucker, the Cockroach. Suspected 211 men and right-wing nuts. The flats gots to swing tonight.
Two Squad worked north-northeast. Los cholos lived in a tight radius. Elmer and Buzz walked. The paddy wagon chugged in low gear. Elmer was fitfully fucked-up and dizzy distracted.
It was Ashida. It was Ashida’s microdot play. It was Ashida’s gold bar. It was Ashida’s implied double-cross of one Dudley Smith. It was Tommy Glennon, to boot.
Buzz snuffed Tommy, impromptu. That didn’t faze him. They dumped Tommy in the waste dump and let the swamp beasts eat him up. That was likewise okay. But Tommy bleated a klubhaus lead in his pickled prelude to death.
This Jap. Rice and Kapek popped him. He was a “sword man.” He had this queer white-boy pal. The white boy might be a musician. The white boy frequented the jazz strip and poked boys at the haus. The Jap sword-sliced chickens at J-town slop chutes. The Jap licked blood off the swords that he used. The Jap made habeas and was on the loose somewhere.
Elmer teethed the lead. He was fungooed and fucked-up. He was ditzy and diverted. The shotgun weighed ten tons. The tin hat banged his head. He walked the flats, distracted.
He’d witnessed a property log-in. It was late January. Kapek and Rice talked up a sword man. The sword man licked blood off his swords. It disgusted Kapek and Rice.
He checked Alien Squad roust sheets last night. Guess what? No fucking sword man was listed. Guess what? No Jap swords were property-logged during that time span. Guess what? No chicken-killing sword lickers were tagged in the MO file.
He’d read the initial log-in report. He recalled that much. He had the sword man’s name tucked someplace unconscious. Rice and Kapek pulled his paperwork. That had to be it.
The sword man. Hideo Ashida. Cause for ditzy distraction.
He got Jean Staley’s postcards to Ashida. Army SIS just might possess a microdot camera. Him and Ashida worked out a cover story. It explai
ned how he knew all this three-case hullabaloo. It served to cloak his ass with Dudley Smith.
Dig this:
He was at Joan Conville’s place. He was hot to pour Big Joan the pork. Joan was terped up. She was burbling, out of her gourd. She kept mumbling shit about the gold and her diary. He found the diary and read it. He learned everything. He put the diary back where he found it. He bid Joan adieu and waltzed off, unlaid.
The story played goooooood. It jibed with Ashida’s lie to Dudley. Joan burned the diary. She was suicide-fevered. Ashida found that burned-page mess.
The rousts proceeded. The Cockroach went easy. Papa Roach fumed. Mama Roach wrung rosary beads and went Aaay, caramba. The Cockroach submitted to cuffing and shackling. Elmer gave him a cigar. They hoisted him into the paddy wagon and split for El Casa de Perro.
The Dog went easy. Mama and Papa Dog whimpered and retreated. El Perro wore a Sir Guy shirt and slit-bottom khakis. He submitted to cuffing and shackling. Buzz gave him a cigar. They hoisted him into the paddy wagon and hit El Casa de Cabrón.
The Fucker went rough. He tried to run and tripped over a lamp stand. Buzz grabbed his hair and smashed his face on the floor. Elmer cuffed him. Buzz shackled him. Mama and Papa Fucker evinced boredom. They were blitzed on white port and lemon juice.
The extraction went rough. The Fucker flailed and kicked. They tossed him in the paddy wagon. Elmer sat on his legs. Buzz sat on his head. The Dog and Cockroach haw-hawed. The driver cop hauled for Hollenbeck Station.
Four bluesuits met them. They grappled the punks through the jail door and got them ensconced. The Dog and the Cockroach went in the drunk tank. One Squad’s and Three Squad’s geeks were already there. That made eight geeks, all in all. They whooped and demanded their rights. A colored trusty slapped them around.
The blues dumped the Fucker in sweatbox #2. Buzz recuffed him to a chair. Oooh—what’s that on his right hand?
It’s a coiled-snake tattoo. It’s El Symbol of Sinarquismo. This mandates some thought.
Elmer ducked down to the file room. He tapped the C cabinet and pulled Frankie Carbajal’s sheet. Aaay, caramba. Frankie peddled maryjane, Frankie 211’d bodegas, Frankie whipped his chorizo out on women.
That was it. Just one file sheet. No Fed routing stamps. No subversive rebop noted. No KA list attached.
Elmer walked back to the sweatbox. Frankie was trussed to that chair. Buzz rode a matching chair and skunk-eyed him. Elmer pulled a chair close and relit a cigar.
Buzz lit a cigar. He got it going good. The sweatbox fumed up. Frankie cough-coughed.
“You guys are sadistic. I’ve got asthma. Those cigars aren’t doing me any good.”
Buzz said, “Did you catch Frankie’s tattoo?”
Elmer nodded. “We got that to consider, along with the fact that Frankie’s a whipout man.”
Buzz said, “I’ll bet he habituates schoolyards and whips it out on little kids.”
Frankie said, “I whipped it out on Eleanor Roosevelt. She was serving cookies and punch at some crippled kid’s gig in the Heights.”
Elmer said, “A whipout man’s a whipout man. I don’t see no distinction between kids and our swell First Lady.”
Frankie squirmed in his chair. He looked consumptive. He sported a hairnet conk. His zoot pants rode up to his sternum.
“I whipped it out on Ann Sheridan and the Liltin’ Martha Tilton. They were at this war-bond drive on Hollywood Boulevard. I escaped into the crowd and whipped it out on a B-girl at the Firefly Lounge.”
Elmer sighed. Buzz sighed. Elmer uncuffed and unshackled Frankie. Buzz slipped on sap gloves.
“Your whipout escapades don’t interest us. Your tattoo interests us. There’s some names we’d like to run by you. There’s a certain spot on East 46th Street that we’d sure like to discuss. Fifth Column shit’s a hot topic these days, and we’d sure like to hear your thoughts about that.”
Frankie rubbed his wrists and ankles. Frankie said, “Viva Sinarquismo. Chinga tu madre.”
Buzz roundhoused him. One slap/ten-ounce palm weights/see Frankie fly. El Whipout Man whipped off the chair and hit the floor flat on his back. Buzz stepped on his neck and pinned him supine. Elmer read him the riot act.
“Here’s where you determine your fate, son. Prompt answers get you a cozy cell and a shot at a kick-out. Horseshit and jive gets you a bunk in the fruit tank at Lincoln Heights. Gene ‘the Mean Queen’ Kefalvian’s in custody there. He goes for Mexican shrimps like you.”
Buzz released his foot. Frankie coughed and rubbed his neck. Elmer helped him up and sat him back in his chair. Buzz slipped off his sap gloves and pat-patted him on the head.
“I’ll take the cozy cell and the shot at a kick-out. I saw Gene the Queen fight Chuco Ortiz at the Olympic. He put a drubbing on him.”
Buzz said, “Señor Carbajal’s no dummy.”
Elmer said, “Señor Carbajal’s on the Fed’s subversive list, or he wouldn’t have been on our roust list. He’s got no routing tags on his green sheet here, so I’m guessing that all the Feds have got on him is his membership in them goofy Sinarquistas.”
Buzz cracked his knuckles. “Let’s see what Señor Carbajal has to say about that.”
Frankie flashed three fingers downward. It was Klan kode. It meant KKK. This beat-on beaner aped redneck rubes.
“I say ‘¡Viva Sinarquismo!’ I say, ‘¡Sinarquismo por vida!’ ”
Buzz relit his cigar. “Let’s note Frankie’s point, and get to them names.”
Elmer said, “Let’s start with Archie Archuleta. He’s Mex, and he hails from Frankie’s neck of the woods.”
Frankie snapped his suspenders. “I knew Archie. He’s dead now, and he got snuffed along with two cops—which is sure as shit what all this is about.”
Buzz said, “Frankie’s quick on the uptake.”
Elmer said, “Don’t stop there, Frankie.”
Frankie fluffed out his conk. It glistened with Lucky Tiger pomade.
“Archie recruited Mexican boys for La Causa. He pulled them out of the CYO at St. Vibiana’s. This priest named Joe Hayes ran the St. Vib’s chapter. He was a Coughlinite and a big Sinarquista contributor, not to mention a big sissy. He was poking this crazy Tommy Glennon guy up the culo. I didn’t know Tommy too good. He was just a face in the right-flank crowd.”
Elmer said, “The klubhaus. 46th, just east of Central. Wendell Rice, George Kapek, and a cop named Cal Lunceford.”
Frankie shrugged. “I dropped in for visits. A bunch of my fellow Greenshirts did, and so what? I won’t give up no active shirts, but I’ll tell you I hardly knew Rice and Kapek, and Lunceford didn’t show up there all that much. He was a keep-to-himself sort of guy. They all took the blood oath and joined La Causa, but they’re dead now, so who cares?”
Elmer said, “Let’s get this out of the way. We all know a Jap spy killed Lunceford, and you’ve got no goddamn idea who killed Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta.”
Frankie said, “Sí. Es la verdad, muchacho.”
Buzz slipped on his sap gloves. “Son, I don’t like you telling us who or what you won’t give up, and you trying to set the terms of this here interrogation.”
Frankie flashed the Klan sign. Frankie flexed his coiled-snake tattoo.
“I curse your syphilitic mama, Tex. I curse your white Protestant-oppressor ancestors going back six generations, and—”
Buzz roundhoused him. Teeth and gold bridgework flew. Ditto blood. Ditto gum flaps. Ditto a slice of his tongue.
Frankie pitched backward. The chair jerked loose of its struts. Frankie crashed into the wall. The chair toppled. Buzz balled his fists and cocked big left-rights.
Elmer jumped up and held him back. Elmer bear-hugged him and ran Whoa now’s. Buzz went limp and dropped his hands. Elmer hug-walked him out of the sweatbox and dumped him in the hall.
He slammed the door and threw the lock. Frankie gurgled blood and quaked abject. Elmer pulled off his suit coat and squatted beside him. He wadded the coat and passed it to Frankie. The little hump blotted his face.
Elmer hit the wall switch. The sweatbox went all dark. He got up close to Frankie. He touched him soft and whispered this:
You’ve got to talk/you’ve got to talk/you’ve got to talk. I won’t let that Okie hurt you, if you talk to me.
Frankie gurgled and spit blood. His breath went asthmatic. Elmer baby-talked him. The sweatbox went eerie dark. Frankie caught some asthma breath and snitched this:
The Greenshirts fingered a sub attack. It was last month. The Japs lobbed the Ellsworth Oil Refinery. The shells went adios and pfft. Rice and Kapek were muy Fifth Column. Catbox Cal, just as much. They sold Jap guns to the Greenshirts. The shirts got plans to commit 211s. La Causa needs the gelt. Catholic dinero fuels los Sinarquistas. They’ve got this initiation rite. You got to kill three priest-killers.
Salvy Abascal’s El Führer. He’s got kill lists of priest-killers and Reds. El Führer’s got this Irish fool eating out of his hand. The fool’s an Army major and an L.A. cop. They’re smuggling “H” and wets. They’re selling Baja Japs as slaves. The Irish guy’s got his head up his ass. He don’t know shit from shinola. Salvy’s put Greenshirt plants in with the wets. Them fake wets are set to escape and pull sabotage.
It came out in stutters and gasps. The sweatbox was blackout dark and reeked of slobber and blood. Elmer cleaved close to Frankie. The little hump bled on him. The little hump gasped for breath and gasped this:
Archie the A. Call him “El Pimpo.” He brought girls to the haus. There was this queer boy. He went to all the jazz clubs. He orchestrated the pervo shit at the haus. He had this Jap friend. The Perv of All Pervs. He sold curios. He ate raw chicken flesh. He sucked blood off samurai swords.
95
(LOS ANGELES, 11:00 P.M., 3/10/42)
Salvy said, “You seem fretful, Comrade.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. He’d chained the whole pack in nothing flat.
