This Storm

by James Ellroy

  “We’ve got to erase the whole kit and caboodle. That’s the only sure way to cover ourselves and Sheriff Gene’s guys. It’s a whole shitload of work, with the Fed squadroom right down the hall.”

  Parker pinned up his badge. “The judge called ahead. We’re covered there. We’ve got the means to scotch the whole probe, but they’ll know it was us. We’ll have to ride out whatever shit hits the fan.”

  Elmer gulped. “Fey Edgar will wet his pink-lace undies. He’ll be on the horn to the U.S. attorney inside half a second.”

  Parker winked. It fell flat. He possessed no savoir faire. He lacked Dudsteresque panache.

  They breezed in and breezed up the side stairs. The Bureau owned the full third floor. A desk agent manned the lobby. They walked up. He looked up. Parker passed him the paperwork.

  He read the full writ. He said, “The vault, huh? You fellows must be turncoats. A whole lot of PD guys are going to burn in this deal.”

  Parker said, “We’ve been detached to the grand jury. We’re on your side as far as this one goes.”

  The agent yawned and stretched. He passed the paperwork back. This rebop left him nonplussed.

  “Judge Leffler called ahead. You know the rules, right? You can listen to whatever you want, but nothing leaves the room. You know how to use the machines?”

  Parker nodded. Elmer broke a sweat. The desk man led the way back.

  Elmer stared straight ahead. They passed boocoo doorways. Elmer heard squadroom bustle and counted his footsteps. He hit eighty-nine. The desk man turned right and unlocked a door.

  Some vault. Just this dumb room crammed with boxes. Note the wire spools sticking out. Two player contraptions. Two earmuff sets. One beat-up desk and two chairs. A wire log clamped to a clipboard.

  The desk man said, “I leave you to it.”

  Parker saluted him. Elmer feigned nonchalance. The desk man vamoosed. Parker locked the door.

  Elmer went wheeewww. Parker picked up the log and skimmed it. You had twenty-some pages. Maybe eight hundred calls and taps.

  Parker scanned pages. Elmer dumped his coat and undid his necktie. He futzed with the gizmos. He plugged in the earmuffs and ID’d the erase switch. Parker got all bug-eyed.

  He crossed himself. He waved wolfsbane. He did all this papist shit.

  “The Feds bugged the pay phone at Kwan’s. We’ve got EX-4991 calling MA-2668. PC Bell tagged the call at 3:14 a.m., on March 6. It’s a West L.A.-to-downtown toll call, and it runs sixteen minutes.”

  EX-4991. That’s Ed Satterlee’s home number. Holy heart attack—

  The wire log listed box 56. They tore through four box stacks and found it. Two spools were stuffed in one envelope.

  Elmer rigged the two gizmos. The wires spooled up tight. Parker passed him his flask. They traded pops and tamped down their wigs. Parker kicked the chairs back. They sat side by side. They donned the earmuffs and replayed the call.

  The phone rang. Static and line fuzz bled into this:

  “There you are. I figured I’d get you sooner or later, and 3:00 a.m. in a Chinatown slop chute doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  Ed Satterlee speaks. He’s crusty, per always.

  “Ed, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  Mike Breuning speaks. He’s servile, per always. Elmer and Parker swapped looks.

  Satterlee said, “I gathered that. You called the Bureau nine goddamn times. You’re lucky I’m a night owl, or I wouldn’t have caught you at all. I’m just hoping you aren’t jerking my chain.”

  Breuning said, “It’s Dudley, Ed. He’s gone batshit. You wouldn’t believe some of the stunts he’s been pulling.”

  Satterlee said, “I’d believe anything you might want to tell me about Dudley Liam Smith, which is one damn good reason why I do my best to avoid him and stay on his good side.”

  Breuning said, “I’ve got to get out from under him, Ed. He’s gone off the deep end, and I thought maybe you could help.”

  Breuning speaks, frazzled. He’s caught the snitch virus. Oooga-booga. Snitch fever permeates the call.

  Satterlee whistled. The phone line hissed.

  “If you’re asking for help, you’ve got to pay for that help. If you’re offering me an up-to-date derogatory profile on Dudley, I’d be inclined to help you, if and when the time is right.”

  Breuning said, “That’s awful damn equivocal.”

  Satterlee said, “Lay it out for me. And it better be a little spicier than Dud’s framing a few jigaboos for the Rice-Kapek job.”

  Breuning speaks. He’s delirious now. Dat snitch voodoo’s gone to his head.

  “He’s hooked on Benzedrine and opium. He’s geezing morphine, but he thinks nobody knows. Bill Parker’s checkmating him. He’s gone full-fledged Nazi. He parades around in Nazi uniforms and preens like a fruit. He’s running heroin and wetbacks. He’s selling Japs off as slave labor. He’s in with this Sinarquista hump Salvy Abascal, who’s playing him like he’s the village idiot. He was in with Joan Conville and Hideo Ashida on some gold angle, but Joan’s dead and Ashida will be heading to Manzanar, and now he’s flapping in the wind all by himself. He told me he found the guy who killed Joan’s dad and made Joan kill him. He killed a drag boy at a pervert party in ’39, and Dick Carlisle and me cleaned it up. He’s murdering Reds in Mexico. He killed a Statie captain who was screwing his Commie girlfriend. The Baja governor’s sister has got him pussy-whipped, and Abascal’s got him hoodwinked. I’m way far exposed, Ed. I’ve run point for Dud for eleven goddamn years. I need a safe-haven deal with an outside agency. He’s a Nazi and a traitor, and he’s chopping the heads off these Redshirt guys who kill priests. I’ll depose, Ed. I’ll give Dudley up. He’s a feather in your cap, Ed. He’s the biggest scalp you’ll ever take. Ed, you’ve got to help—”

  The line fritzed. The call died. It cut off Mike Breuning’s sobs.

  * * *

  —

  Doc Saul slogged it. His gourd was elsewhere. That was evident. Boolah, boolah. Annie gave it the college-girl try.

  Elmer and Parker watched. Elmer ran the camera. They were dead bushed. They’d erased all the Fed vault wires. It took ten hours. They heard Mike Breuning’s sobs the whole time.

  They discussed the Breuning-Satterlee call. They caught Breuning’s snitch virus. Ed the Fed was house-arrested. He posed no threat to Dudley Smith. They stole the Breuning-Satterlee wires. They could ditz Dud with them. They could pass the virus on.

  The crawl space was tight-cramped. Elmer and Parker smoked it out. Smoke hazed the see-thru mirror. Elmer placed the camera lens flat on the glass. Their sound gear caught pillow talk.

  Saul waved off the woof-woof. He was abstracted and limp-noodled. Two-minute Saul. He’d rather talk anyway.

  Grave Saul. Distracted Saul. He suffers from de white man’s burden. De chickens be comin’ home to roost.

  Annie said, “What is it, sugar? What happened to my stallion of the sack?”

  Elmer yukked. Parker oozed pious censure. Annie smoothed out the bedsheets. Saul assumed a crucifixion pose. Nobody knows de trouble he’s seen.

  Annie goo-goo-eyed him. Annie tickled his ribs and got bupkes.

  “You’re remote tonight, baby. You’re wearing that crown of thorns, as my preacher daddy used to say.”

  Saul said, “You wouldn’t understand. I can’t blame you for what you don’t know. You’re game, but you’re not enlightened.”

  Elmer yukked. Annie winked at the see-thru. Old Saul sighed.

  “Hoodlums laid waste to my office. They stole valuable recordings and smeared jingoistic slogans on the walls. I can’t go to the Beverly Hills Police or the FBI, and I certainly can’t go to my friend Ed Satter—”

  Saul stopped cold. Annie tweaked on Satterlee. Old Saul tweaked her tweak. Elmer tweaked both tweaks.

  Parker
said, “He nailed her reaction.”

  Elmer went Yep. Old Saul eyeballed Annie. He pushed off his pillow and zoom-lensed her.

  “Do you know Ed?”

  Annie shrugged. What’s with this Ed? I don’t know this Ed whoever.

  “I tricked with Eddie Cantor once. It was after this Save the Jews wingding. He’s the only Ed I know.”

  Parker said, “She’s not convincing.”

  Elmer went Yep.

  Old Saul jumped out of bed. He was stooped and chicken-chested. His cashew dick flop-flopped.

  He orbed the walls. He patted the walls. He poked at wall junctures. He’s an old CP hand. He knows from wall bugs and honey traps.

  He poked wall moldings. He pulled a spackled wire off a baseboard and yanked it out from under a rug. Annie jumped out of bed. She faced the see-thru, buck naked. She flashed this fetching Oh shit look.

  Old Saul caught it. He dropped the wire and went for Annie. Elmer and Parker jumped.

  They tore out of the crawl space. They tumbled into the bedroom and dog-piled old Saul. They floor-pinned him. He sissy-kicked and flailed. Annie snagged the sap in Elmer’s waistband.

  She applied a good grip. She whipped shots at old Saul’s genitalia. Old Saul screamed. Elmer gassed the floor show. Annie yelled “You Fucking Traitor” roughly ten zillion times.

  115

  (ENSENADA, 8:00 P.M., 4/1/42)

  Fat Boy unfurled a portable screen and set up his projector. Dudley cut the lights. His suite subbed for Grauman’s Chinese.

  Fats boomeranged. He returned to L.A. and shot straight back to Ensenada. He supplied that klubhaus lead. He’d retrieved a memory. It spurred this return visit.

  Orson met a fruit kid on his goodwill tour. The kid attended the Walpurgisnacht party. He was a jazz musician. He knew another fruit kid. That kid attended klubhaus jam sessions. That kid was a jazzman. That kid bragged up the klubhaus snuffs. That kid and “some Red-fasco woman” snuffed Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta.

  It was secondhand drift. It comprised a hot lead, regardless. It supplanted prior leads. It confirmed the queer white boy and Jap sword man.

  Here’s Orson’s memory. Orson met that other kid. The kid appeared in the Walpurgisnacht smut film. He’d bragged up his Jap sword-licker friend and some darktown clubhouse. It had to be him.

  Hence, Orson returns. Hence, this home movie. Roll it, Fats.

  Dudley pulled a chair up. El Gordo adjusted the film spools. He wore Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt.

  “Your man’s the clarinet player. When the camera pans to the woodwind quintet, you’ll see him.”

  Dudley cued Welles. Lights, camera, action. Wagner hit the sound track. Trumpets and low strings. It’s Götterdämmerung. Dig the bleak intercessional strains.

  A title card: “Berlin, ’29.” It denotes bleak atop bleak. Here’s Alban Berg’s Lulu and grainy stock footage.

  It’s a street riot. It’s Reds versus Brownshirts. There’s Marxist banners and swastikas ablaze. Bullyboys wield two-by-fours. The Brownshirts outnumber the Reds. It’s a rout. Blood flows in crisp black-&-white.

  There’s a quick cut. Weill and Brecht replace Berg. There’s “Mackie Messer.” Lotte Lenya warbles it.

  Bam!—there’s a new title card. “Near Munich, 6-30-34.” Bam!—we’re outside a country inn. There’s a dumb paper moon. The inn looks one-dimensional. We’re on a cheap studio set.

  Four black-clad SS men approach the door. Two men are Negro. Two men look Samoan. Fat Boy Welles provides surreal laffs.

  Schubert usurps The Threepenny Opera. It’s a woodwind quintet. We’re inside the inn. There’s a Nazi-garbed ensemble. Three string men and one oboe. The queer boy’s on clarinet. It’s his skin flute in lieu of hard flesh.

  Welles said, “That’s him.”

  “Him.” Their triple-snuff suspect. He’s blond. He’s innocuous. He’s lanky, and seems to be tall.

  A quick cut. Auf Wiedersehen, Schubert. “Mack the Knife” returns.

  We’re in a small bedroom. We’re peeping an all-boy bacchanal. It’s a daisy chain. The lads wear Brownshirts and nothing else. They’re cinched groin-to-buttocks. They pump and gesticulate. There’s pelvic thrusts twenty boys long.

  The SS men enter the room and shoot them. They employ toy Lugers. Cap-gun pops hit the sound track. The daisy chain collapses. The bugger boys disengage.

  Dudley studied the film. He’d seen stray cuts at the party. He recalled none of it now. He was gone on hop then. He was flat sober now.

  The screen blurs. “Mackie Messer” goes garbled. Wagner rides again. It’s Das Rheingold. More trumpets and more low strings.

  The screen unblurs. The daisy chain replicates. It’s men and women now. They’re linked groin-to-mouth.

  The camera cuts away. Walter Pidgeon appears and struts as Adolf Hitler. He’s Homerically hung. He rubs his toothbrush mustache. Claire De Haven kneels and gobbles his schvantz.

  116

  KAY LAKE’S DIARY

  (LOS ANGELES, 7:00 A.M., 4/2/42)

  I’m writing a letter to Hideo Ashida now. I will hand-deliver it to Manzanar. I will include a wire recording of Ed Satterlee’s phone chat with Mike Breuning. I may send the second recording to Dudley Smith.

  It’s beginning to cohere. Joan’s “all one story” is careening toward final explication. Hideo recounted his first interview with Kyoho Hanamaka; second and third interviews may well have occurred. My letter will urge Hideo to move beyond mere dissembling and omission. I will demand that he repudiate and fully betray his dear Dudley.

  I’m exhausted. I visited Claire at Terry Lux’s retreat last night; we gabbed until dawn and had steak and eggs in the lounge. Jim Davis sat a few tables over; a male nurse attended him. Comrade Jim is faltering. He had trouble lifting his fork.

  Claire’s morphine cure is proceeding. She talks and smokes incessantly and rails against her once-dear Dudley. She reads the Bible and obscure prayer books and often coils a rosary around one hand and forms that hand into a fist. Dear Claire. She showed me letters that Beth Short and Joan Klein have sent her. I studied the girls’ cursive styles and unformed sentence structures. Dudley has seven daughters; these two are his favorites. Their expressed condemnation would dismay and perhaps bitterly wound him. I would, of course, craft both texts.

  Elmer and Bill leaned on Sid Hudgens. They imposed a gag order on Sid’s scandal-sheet machinations and secured his subscriber list. I will write the text that Sid’s 461 paid subscribers will read. The sheet will be sent to key SIS personnel and ranking officers in the Mexican State Police. Every known comrade/Kamerad will receive the sheet; it will go out to Jack Horrall, notable Feds, Archbishop Cantwell and L.A.’s papal high brass. It will go out to Dudley himself. I will smear Dudley Smith in the Salacious Sidster’s trademark style. I will instigate insidious ink. Everything that I write will be true.

  Hatred fuels me now. It fuels this letter I’m writing. I now pass my hatred along to Hideo Ashida.

  I described the Saul Lesnick–Annie Staples misadventure. Bill and Elmer tossed Doctor Saul in the Lincoln Heights drunk tank and let him stew for six long hours. They hauled him to the City Hall DB then. I observed the interrogation through a wall mirror; a wall-mounted speaker served up sound. Lesnick vividly confirmed the Kameraden’s postwar strategy and stoutly defended the grand ideals of enlightened dictatorship. Bill and Elmer let him blather. Lesnick laid out no less than the world as he saw it. It was one creepy credo. Sid Hudgens would label it “dippy dialectic” and a “miasmic manifesto.” It featured the doctor’s eugenic rationale for slaughtering infants. It ballyhooed Hitler’s Norse breeding camps. It included a stirring defense of the Moscow show trials and Stalin’s mass execution of deviationists and perceived traitors. Stalin’s agrarian purges and Hitler’s assault on the Warsaw Ghetto Jews were plain poppycock. Doc
tor Saul voiced an intense distaste for one Sergeant E. V. Jackson. He told Elmer that he’d be castrated and sold into slave labor once the comrades took over the world. Elmer turned to the mirror and winked at me.

  Doctor Saul talked himself out; Bill got the interrogation down to brass tacks. He asked the questions. Elmer hovered and tapped a phone book on the sweatbox table. Lesnick gulped and credibly snitched.

  He’d heard rumors about the gold but possessed no specific information. He was conversant with the Kameraden’s mail drop and microdot shenanigans. He did not know who the prior Führers were and did not know who the current Führer is. He knew Meyer Gelb and Jean Staley. He did not know that Gelb was once Fritz Eckelkamp and did not know where Gelb hid out. He described Ed Satterlee as an apostolic theoretical Trotskyite and committed Marxist. Ed was the Kameraden’s fix-it man. Lesnick professed ignorance of the klubhaus. He had never been to the klubhaus. He did not know Kyoho Hanamaka. He had never met Wendell Rice, George Kapek, and Archie Archuleta.

  Bill released Lesnick. Go, shitbird. Twist in the wind. Describe your ordeal to your comrades. I watched Lesnick weave through the City Hall lobby. He bumped into an old friend on his way out the door.

  The man was the L.A. Bürgermeister of the Negro Nazi League, and was known to pimp colored girls to DA Bill McPherson. The long-lost soulmates embraced. I overheard their conversation. Lesnick suggested lunch; the Bürgermeister suggested Kwan’s. He went way back with Ace. Ace owned a sweatshop that enslaved eight-year-old kids. The kids stitched the League’s banners and armbands.

  The Fifth Column is everyone. Hideo Ashida told me that. It was New Year’s Eve. Hideo had just returned from Venice. Joan Conville plowed a car full of wetbacks and left six dead. Bill Parker put the fix in. He had the hots for the big redhead. It’s all one story, you—

  We know most of it now, Hideo. There’s a good deal still to be learned. It entails your betrayal of Dudley Smith. I command your loyalty in this moment. You know what he is. You know this is true.