by James Ellroy
The cards were two-ply pasteboard. He separated the pieces and got microscopically close. The dots looked like pinpricks. He dialed down and exposed them at maximum power. They remained dots. No text was revealed.
Ashida swigged coffee. He pondered ways and means and got an idea. He walked to the photo room. He pulled a Minox Riga camera and loaded it with high-resolve film. He shot twenty-four exposures. He photo-snapped the postcard pieces and developed the film.
The darkroom was well stocked. Ashida did the cut-and-dunks inside four hours. He hang-dried the prints. He got all cardboard grain. No microdots were exposed.
He found a paint atomizer. He sprayed a large piece of posterboard black. He taped the twenty-four photographs to sheer sheets of paper and placed them on an easel stand. He placed the posterboard on its own easel. Both stands were frame-only and hollow-backed.
He poked pinholes in the posterboard and placed the two stands close together. He rigged the posterboard easel in front of the photo easel. He aligned the stands just so.
He squinted through the pinholes. He saw the taped photographs just so. He dragged a forensic arc light up into position. He hit the juice and illuminated the back-easel sheets from behind.
It was very sheer paper. Ashida naked-eyed the flaws in the bond. He reloaded his camera and cut the overhead lights.
Black room, blinding arc light. He placed the camera lens up to the pinholes and snapped shots into the flare. The pinholes limited his photographic field and homed it in on the invisible dots.
He shot twenty-four exposures.
He developed the film.
Microdots appeared.
They were naked-eye visible. The text appeared as a blur.
Ashida microscoped all twenty-four prints. He dialed deep and brought up bursts of visible text. It wasn’t coded. It was Spanish language. The sentences ran out of sequence. He poked his pinholes randomly and photographed the dots that way. He juggled prints and microscope slides and rigged up a first-draft sequence.
He quick-translated to English. He scanned words and cribbed up a text. Said text was all LISTS.
Of U.S. defense manufacturers.
Of pro-Communist and pro-Axis comrades/Kameraden within.
Of gold prices now.
Of gold prices predicted, up through ’44.
Of sub berths on the Baja coast.
Of secret airstrips geared for takeoffs and landings. All situated north of L.A. All in the San Joaquin Valley. All near agricultural-crop properties.
This admonition. Typed in boldface:
“EYES ONLY. DO NOT REVEAL TO JLS & CLS UNDER ANY CIRCS.”
JLS, CLS. Surely the Lazaro-Schmidt siblings.
Ashida jumped microscopes and rigged up fresh slides. He dialed down to maximum power. He brought up more text. It was all numbers and single letters.
The import hit him. It was Bible code. He’d learned the rudiments in grad school. Chapter and verse listings. King James page listings. Substitutions to transpositions to coherent text.
Ashida combed the lab and squadroom. He found a KJV Bible in the watch sergeant’s desk. He worked with scratch pad, pen, and microscope.
He jumped Bible-to-scope. He fought eyestrain. He jumped Genesis-to-Revelation and covered all sixty-six books. Numbers-letters, numbers-letters. Chapters and verses. Sacred text to microdot text.
He worked for five hours straight. The translated text read thus:
“My trusted Comrade, or should I say Reichsführer, second only to me. We have veered left and right as this storm rages. Tovarich and Kamerad mean the same to us now. The NKVD and Gestapo are as one. ‘Hail’ or heil, makes no difference. I say both to you—Captain Juan Pimentel.”
* * *
—
Ashida pulled up to chez Hanamaka. Genesis to Revelation. A recent memory perks. Cause and effect perk, in retrospect.
The bookie-drop raid. The phone-relay system identified and destroyed. Forty-odd men burned alive. Pimentel acts boldly. He incinerates evidence and kills co-conspirators. Comrade, Kamerad, tovarich. The perverse brotherhood survives.
Plus, something Dudley told him. A cove cave south of Ensenada. Pimentel acts boldly. He flamethrowers saboteurs. Comrade, Kamerad, tovarich. The perverse brotherhood survives.
Ashida parked in the carport. He’d called Pimentel and suggested a meet. Pimentel suggested this place.
Ashida arrived early. He wanted to reconnoiter. He wanted to check his photo device.
He got out and examined it. The trip wire stretched the full carport width. The photo housing was dust-streaked. It appeared operational. He pressed levers and heard car-tire thuds. The picture tube showed three rear license plates.
Two Baja diplomatic plates. One U.S./state of California plate.
Ashida memorized the numbers. He walked up to the house and unlocked the door. He had his own keys. Dudley trusted him.
The front room was breezy cool. Dudley kept the windows open. The telephone still worked. Dudley saw to that.
Pimentel was late. Ashida left the door cracked. He’d hear Kamerad #1 arrive.
Ashida dialed the Mexican Motor Vehicle Bureau. A male clerk took the call. Ashida cited his Army rank and serial number. He stiffed the plate request and stressed diplomatic.
The clerk went Un momento. Ashida eyed the door. The clerk came back on the line. He kicked loose the name and address stats.
Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt. Two La Paz addresses.
Ashida hung up and dialed the Ensenada operator. He asked her for a stateside hookup. The main DMV in Los Angeles. Person-to-person. The head clerk, por favor.
The operator Sí, sí’d him. Ashida hung up and eyed the door. Pimentel was late-late now. The phone rang inside three minutes. Ashida jumped on the call.
He laid out his Army credentials. He recited the plate number. The clerk had him hold the line.
He held. He watched the door. The clerk came back on the line. She kicked loose the name and address stats.
Claire Katherine De Haven. A 1910 DOB. A Beverly Hills address.
Ashida hung up. The room warmed up. He walked to the back window and took some deep breaths.
He counted lies, omissions, distortions. What he’d told Dudley. What he hadn’t told Dudley. Joan’s diary. The East L.A. sweep. His end run with Elmer Jackson. His microdot findings. What he learned about Juan Piment—
“Alone at last. However you might judge me, you can’t say that I haven’t been patient.”
Ashida wheeled. Pimentel wore Statie black. His tunic was custom-tailored. Silver daggers marked the Waffen-SS. Braided shoulder boards marked the Red Guard.
Ashida said, “Should I call you Reichsführer? I don’t know the equivalent rank in the Russian Army.”
Pimentel blew a kiss. “You’ll call me sweetie pie in just a few minutes, once you’ve seen what I have to show you.”
Ashida backed away. He bumped a window sash and froze. Pimentel crooked one finger and walked past him. He turned down a short hallway.
He sashayed. He rolled his hips. He did mambo steps and went Tra-la-la. Ashida followed him. The hallway dead-ended ten feet ahead. Brushed-oak panels. No doors inset. A tight cul-de-sac.
Pimentel tapped a wall plank. A panel slid back. Ashida saw pulleys and hinges. A dark space opened up.
Pimentel said, “Kyoho was quite the pack rat. Dudley never discovered this little cache.”
Ashida caught up. Pimentel pulled a light cord. Presto—cul-de-sac, cubbyhole, closet.
It’s six feet wide and deep. It holds period costumes. They’re all nineteenth century and displayed on wall pegs. Pastel silk gowns. Cossack cavalry wear. German Navy kit. Imperial couture. The czarist era. The reign of Otto von Bismarck.
Pimentel giggled. “Does it make you feel specia
l? There’s really just a very few of us who know.”
“Like the Lazaro-Schmidts? Like Claire De Haven?”
Pimentel went tsk, tsk. “The disapproving American. Ever so judgmental. He can’t see through to the roots of what we have here. It’s like your national treasure, the motel. Couples dress up to meet in sordid little places. We have this snazzy dressing room, and a surfeit of bedrooms upstairs.”
Ashida said, “Couples?”
Pimentel touched his coat sleeve. Ashida pulled away. Pimentel went tsk, tsk.
“Well, the Lazaro-Schmidts are a couple, however much you might disapprove. And Claire met José Vasquez-Cruz here, up to the point that he was revealed to be a Communist priest-killer, and our gorgeous comrade Dudley killed him. People come here to don costumes, and who can blame them? We all want to be something more beautiful and gilded than what we really are.”
Ashida shuddered. “What costume will you wear? Are you a comrade or a Reichsführer at this moment?”
“That’s hardly the question. The question is what you’ll wear.”
Ashida froze. Pimentel leaned close and kissed him. Ashida grasped his arms and opened his mouth. He felt Pimentel’s tongue. He felt Pimentel’s hand between his legs.
He kissed back. He smelled mothballs and old wool. He shut his eyes and saw Bucky and Dudley. He opened his eyes and saw the moles on Pimentel’s eyelids. He smelled talc and cheap aftershave.
He stifled a screech. He shut his eyes. He clamped down and bit Pimentel’s tongue off. Blood burst into his mouth. Pimentel screeched. Ashida pulled his piece and emptied the clip.
Pimentel pitched and flailed. He took down a row of hatboxes. He smashed into mothball sachets and gold brocade gowns.
102
(LOS ANGELES, 3/12–3/25/42)
This kiss.
His first kiss with Ruth. It started something. Kay told him she peeped the event and saw worlds implode. He hasn’t forsaken Brenda, Ellen, or hot-damn Annie Staples. Ruth hasn’t forsaken her hot-damn yen for both girls and boys. Kay told him about this other kiss. That kiss got him all brain-broiled.
Kay visited Hideo Ashida. He was plunked in the Army stockade outside T.J. Dudley extracted him from the Statie jail. The beaner cops popped him and held him there. He snuffed that Juan Pimentel cat. Hideo Ashida, tagged for Murder One.
The Mex cops tortured Hideo. They beat him and attached electrodes to his balls. They installed hungry rats in his cell. The Dudster wangled a writ and secured him a stockade berth. Kay saw him there. Hideo was woozed up on morphine. The Army docs prescribed it for his thumped-upon head. Kay asked him why he juked Pimentel. Hideo babbled, “This kiss.”
“This Kiss” tweaked him. It cinched him up to “This Case” and all the attendant queer shit. Queer Tommy Glennon. Queer Joe Hayes. Queer Huey Cressmeyer and queer klubhaus traffic. Pimentel got snared in a queer-bar raid. San Diego, ’37. That cinch-up cinched numerous threads.
He goosed Thad Brown. Thad record-checked Captain Juan, back to his bassinette. He glommed El Juan’s Statie file and some adjunct paperwork. Pithy dish was revealed.
Pimentel studied in Krautland. He attended Dresden Polytechnic, circa ’35. Class lists came with the paperwork. Wallace Jamie, Mondo Díaz, and Padre Joe Hayes were Dresden alums. Pimentel studied relay-telephone techniques. That cinched him up to a slew of pay-phone snafus. Pimentel studied microdot technology. Pimentel hobknobbed with Nazis and Reds at that Baja shindig. That cinched him to this whole shit-shrouded conspiracy.
Hideo killed him at Kyoho Hanamaka’s place. He called the Staties and surrendered right there. Pimentel—microdot whiz. Hideo—forensic whiz. Microdot postcards. The Staley-Jackson snafu. Hideo’s pledge to decode them postcards.
The overall dish strained his brain waves. He dished it straight back to Kay. She dished Bill Parker. Whiskey Bill dished Thad Brown. They held an All-Dish Summit at Lyman’s. Buzz Meeks joined them. They made no progress toward a three-case solve.
Ace Kwan dished some dish. Ace said Dudley pentothaled Jim Davis. Chief Jim revealed gibberish. Dud ensconced him at the Terry Lux nut farm. Jim’s got congestive heart disease. Jim’s going through the DTs. Jim’s tick-tight with Mondo Díaz. Jim’s cinched to the left-right combine. Sieg Heil, you fat sack of shit.
Jim’s stuck in stir. That’s one witness down. Link Rockwell’s witness #2. He’s in the Navy brig in Sarasota, Florida. The Navy won’t permit extradition. Whiskey Bill’s preparing a hot question list. A Navy lawyer pledged cooperation. He said they’d film the interview and send it along. Witness #2’s scratched for now.
Witness #3 crapped out. Adios, Ralph D. Barr. He was Jean Staley’s ex-hubby and a Meyer Gelb KA. Ralphie: Paramount stagehand/firebug/noted whipout man.
He got popped in Detroit. The Motor City bulls nailed him for Red agitation. It was summer, 1940. He firebombed the love shack of a high-up Ford man. The cops hard-nosed him. He snitched Gelb and ex-frau Jean. He said they recruited him for the CP. Ralphie torched his cell in the Detroit City Jail. Ralphie self-fried in true firebug fashion. Scratch witness #3.
Scratch three more witnesses. Díaz, Carbajal, Santarolo. Salvy Abascal interceded on their behalf. He called in Catholic fat-cat favors. Papist lawyers sprung the trio from PD custody. They’re now in Fed custody.
Bill Parker requested further interviews. The U.S. attorney rebuffed him. Parker was a Federal bar–licensed lawyer. He called Fey Edgar Hoover personally. Fey Edgar rebuffed him. Parker requested a sitdown with Ed Satterlee. Fey Edgar rebuffed that request. Ed the Fed had been placed under house arrest.
Scratch seven witnesses. Scratch the Parker-Jackson shot to erase the Fed-probe recordings. Scratch that avenue to secure acquittals for Jack H. and Fletch Bowron. Ed the Fed was their conduit. Ed the Fed was set to unlock the evidence vault.
Lawyers will fuck you when no one else will. Salvy Abascal is a lawyer. He’s an overall shitheel to rival Dudley Smith. Yeah—and him and Buzz have got a hole card to lay Salvy’s ass low.
Frankie Carbajal’s key revelation. This delirious dish:
Abascal is jobbing his Irish Kamerad. Abascal is planning sabotage behind El Dudster’s back. Abascal has piggybacked Dud’s run-wetbacks racket and has infiltrated saboteurs in with the wets. The saboteurs are set to bolt their San Joaquin Valley huts. They’re fruit-pickers and bomb-tossers. That’s a hot new one.
Him and Buzz got advance warning. They’ve withheld the word. It bought time. He bought them time with Dudley. He told him they slayed Tommy Glennon. He got the green light to slay Wayne Frank’s slayer in return. Dud cares naught for the klubhaus job. All Dud wants is the gold. Yeah—but it’s all a lot bigger than that.
Strategies. Plays, plots, ploys, plans. His overworked brain’s overheated and pitched to a boil.
He’s prowled the jazz-club strip. He’s trawled for the Jap sword man and his queer white companion. He’s notched no solid leads. He’s likewise trawled for the two skirts in the klubhaus smut pix. You get lucky sometimes. He spotted them at the Congo Club. They were full-fucked forthcoming.
We’ve been to the klubhaus. Link Rockwell and Archie Archuleta drew us in. We posed for the pix. Our male costars wore masks. Link worked the camera. We never met Wendell Rice and George Kapek. We don’t know who snuffed them. We don’t know no Jap sword man and no queer white boy. You sound us, Daddy-O?
Sí, yo comprendo. Vaya con Dios, you slovenly sluts.
He jumped locales then. He jumped darktown-to-J-town and trawled for the sword man. He’d eliminated Banzai Bob Yoshida. Sword man was allegedly a curio dealer. He pounded J-town under shit conditions. The bulk of the Jap populace was now stuck in stir. The remaining Japs fish-eyed him and played it sullen. Sword man? Queer friend? Eat shit and die, White Oppressor!!!
The klubhaus job was thus dead-stalled. He worked around it. He finally finagled an Annie Stapl
es–Orson Welles tryst. Brenda put it together. Welles tricked out of the service and gassed on big blondes. The fuckfest transpired at the Miracle Mile love nest. Sergeant E. V. Jackson voyeurizized.
Annie seemed to enjoy it. Der Wunderkind surely did. Annie steered Fats to some pillow talk per Major Dudley Smith. Welles described the savage beating Dud put on him. Welles described Terry Lux’s plastic job and his snitch recruitment. Welles went on a goodwill tour conceived by FDR. Dud wanted rat-outs on Commies and other such scum. Welles was Claire De Haven’s part-time lover. Dud was jealousy-jammed. Welles considered the Dudster insane. I’ll tell you this, Annie. He’s dropping into some hellish abyss.
Annie excelled at the Welles tryst. Kay paid her to make wax impressions of Saul Lesnick’s keys. Annie delivered there, ditto. Who’s set to raid his office? Him and Buzz are good bets.
Yeah—but all bets are off on the gold now. Joan’s dead. Hideo Ashida’s imprisoned. Dud’s the sole gold quester still extant. The gold to the fire. That’s your ’31 to ’33 parlay. Jean Staley dished there. It felt incomplete. What if nobody killed Wayne Frank? What if he fried of his own dumb volition? What if kid brother Elmer’s got nobody to clip for revenge?
His brain’s overheated. He’s overworked. He’s running bag for Jack Horrall and Fletch Bowron. Gold-star contributors are dumping gelt on their defense fund. They fear Fed-probe convictions and expulsion from office. He’s siphoning cold cash to their lawyers. Bagman Elmer rides again.
He’s overworked. His brain’s overheated. His body and soul’s overtaxed. Temptress—thy name art Ruth Klarfeld Szigeti.
She’s from Budapest. He’s from Wisharts, North Carolina. She’s forty-three. He’s twenty-nine. She’s Jewish. He’s a Scottish preacher’s kid out of some unholy bog. Her dad conducted the Hungarian National Opera. His dad peddled Klan kode books. He’s seen some whopping bad grief in his day. She’s seen the Nazis machine-gun three hundred Jews and dump them in a ditch.
The Nazis made her watch. The Koenigs and Sandor Abromowitz stood beside her. They didn’t get blasted themselves. Here’s the big why of that.
