by James Ellroy
Bill and Elmer are set to raid Bev’s Switchboard. Do you recall the speech I gave two weeks after Pearl Harbor? Pershing Square was packed. I decried the Japanese internment. You were beaten for being there and being a Jap. I baited the crowd. I told them their options were do everything or do nothing. I’m telling you that now.
117
(LONE PINE, 4:00 P.M., 4/2/42)
Sensei Hanamaka, aka “The Mummy” and “Dr. Death.” He’s faltering. He’s entered an implosive state.
His grin’s stretching wider. His fangs protrude more. He’s caving in. He’ll die soon. He’ll become a Jap Shrunken Head.
Interview #3. It reprised 1 and 2. The salve and burn stink. The visitor’s chair and the hospital bed.
Ashida said, “I’d like to hear your impressions of Wendell Rice and George Kapek.”
Sensei coughed. His fluid bag drained. Sledgehammer dope hit his veins.
“They were second-generation rightist. Rice’s father was in the Silver Shirts. Kapek’s father is a gauleiter in rural Czechoslovakia. I saw them the first time in the winter of 1939. They were chauffeuring America Firsters to a Nazi-themed party in Brentwood. They served well in the manner of henchmen, as evinced by their minor roles in moving illegals under the aegis of Carlos Madrano. Such employment continued into the era of José Vasquez-Cruz, abutting the era of your mentor, Dudley Smith.”
Ashida flinched. He hasn’t called Dudley. He’s put it off repeatedly. Three crucial interviews. What to tell/what to omit/what to obfuscate.
“Again, were they homosexual? The crime seems to be homosexual in its origins.”
“I would not call them homosexual. I would call them fetishistic. Their fetishism was fueled by dope and liquor, along with the trinkets that Archie Archuleta procured for them in Little Tokyo. What would you pay for a slaughter sword deployed at the Rape of Nanking? Your mentor, Dudley Smith, might well be described as a fetishist. Juan Pimentel considered him such.”
Dudley was. Dudley is. Kay’s faux Claire missive. Fetishism implies the lavender look. Dudley’s “effete eye for callow young men.”
Slaughter swords. The Jap sword man. His queer white boy friend. Confirmations accrue and overlap.
“You appear to be deep in thought, Dr. Ashida. I consider it peculiar that you are not taking notes. Did Major Smith tell you not to? I could see where he might want to avoid a public record of our talks.”
Ashida bristled. Don’t torque me, Tojo. He’d heard Elmer J. tell a Jap suspect that.
“Major Smith is a close friend, and my former commanding officer. I consider all his suggestions, but do not consider them commands.”
Hanamaka leered. Opportunist Ashida. Race traitor Ashida. The white man’s lapdog. He heels at Major Smith’s command.
“Let’s return to the trinkets. What were the other types that Archuleta procured, in addition to the swords you mentioned?”
Hanamaka said, “Torture devices. Vile ones. Suits of armor in the shape of Japanese soldiers, fitted with interior spikes meant to inflict horrible death on the wearer. I would call devices such as these militaristically homosexual. Archuleta brought a sampling of them by the klubhaus one day while I was there. He said he was the middleman for a ‘fruit’ who sold them to ‘strange-o types’ he encountered on the jazz strip, although the ‘fruit’ did his primary business through the U.S. mail. Archuleta mentioned the ‘fruit’s’ sister very briefly. She was the purported brains of this mail-order business. The sister visited the klubhaus one night. I recall her vividly.”
Elmer on Jean Staley. Jean and her “froufrou” kid brother. Robby, ex-jailbird and would-be actor. Not a musician.
We’re up against prior descriptions. The would-be killer’s tall and blond. Jean Staley is short and dark-haired. A tall blond brother seems unlikely. Archuleta’s fruit and the queer-white-boy killer? Probably separate men.
Hanamaka coughed. Blood dripped down his chin. Ashida cracked his evidence kit and pulled his Jean Staley mug shot.
He flashed it. Hanamaka nodded yes. His ID was conclusive. It tied Robby Staley to the Jap sword man. It tied Robby to the queer white boy, once-removed.
Hanamaka yawned and shuddered. The dope jolt had depleted him. Metamorphosis. Here comes your Jap Shrunken Head.
“I think I know you now, Dr. Ashida. One thing continues to perplex me, though. Do you consider yourself Japanese or American?”
Ashida said, “You don’t know me at all. I’m as American as you’re not.”
* * *
—
The main-gate guard left him a package. It contained one letter and one wire spool. An MP sergeant lent him a player and listening earmuffs.
It snowed. Manzanar was socked in tight. Hold for the mid-April thaw. You freeze or broil here. Manzanar’s a two-climate zone.
Ashida holed up. The heating vents hummed. He read the letter four times. He played the wire recording twice.
He paced his suite. He looked out at the snow. A mess corporal brought him his dinner. The burn-ward doctor called. Kyoho Hanamaka died at 8:29 p.m.
The letter rankled. Kay was nothing but Kay-like. She was imperious, didactic, jejune. Kommisar Kay. Categorical and Manichean. There is no way but my way. If I believe it, it’s true.
Your options are do everything or do nothing.
The wire call revealed Dudley in extremis. Mike Breuning levied a multicount indictment. Mike closed with sobs.
Ashida sat in the dark. He sipped champagne and willed the Baja-to-Manzanar call. The MP’s mess hall served chilled champagne nightly. He’d come to expect and enjoy it.
He thought about Kay. She tried to seduce him last December. Kay’s faux Claire letter. Dudley’s effete eye for callow young men.
The phone rang. Ashida grabbed the receiver. Static cut off his “Hello?” Dudley was Dudleyesque. His blunt approach channeled Kommisar Kay.
“You’ve been among the missing, lad. I’ve gotten secondhand reports, from Al Wilhite, but I haven’t heard from you.”
Ashida cleared his throat. “I wanted to conclude my interviews before I reported. I’m sorry if it inconvenienced you.”
“Hanamaka’s dead, lad. Lieutenant Wilhite just called me. You won’t be seeing our fair Kyoho again.”
Man Camera. Let’s frame this moment. There’s the dark room. There’s his window view. It’s all snow and prison-camp searchlights.
“He gave up nothing of note. He was incoherent most of the time, and he gave up nothing we hadn’t already learned.”
Dudley sighed. “The gold? The cabal’s chain of command?”
Ashida said, “No. The decadent behavior at the klubhaus amused him, and he provided me with a great many anecdotes. We spoke at length three times. It was very frustrating.”
Dudley sighed. “Soldier on, lad. Study the files I sent you. Put that grand brain of yours to the task.”
Ashida said, “I’m sorry, Dudley.”
Dudley said, “I know you are. I hear it in your voice.”
The line went dead. Ashida stifled a sob. Kommisar Kay had it right. There’s no alternative. It’s everything or nothing.
The El Lay Lowdown. Volume I, issue 4. Our motto? “All the news that’s unfit to print.” April 3, 1942 issue. Surreptitiously circulated since November 1941. Our serpentine circulation: 461 paid subscribers, and climbing via vile word of mouth. Dedicated to the proposition that YOU WANT THE DISH. All items written by Party Peeper 69. Subscription rate: $20.00 per year. Direct all inquiries to PO Box 69, Terminal Annex, Los Angeles.
* * *
—
Peeper 69 last left you in Nazi-nullified Paris, France. There was no need for insinuating initials in my climactic close-out piece. The frazzled frogs can’t lasso me with libel suits from across the U-boat-undulating Atlantic. I joltingly j’accused piano putz ALFRED CO
RTOT of hunkering down with the Huns. I ditzed divaesque DANIELLE DARRIEUX for bedding down with the Boche. Cello cheese PIERRE FOURNIER? Shacked between the sheets with fetching filmstress LENI RIEFENSTAHL.
A barrage of bilious letters urged me to can the travelogues. If it ain’t happening in El Lay, it ain’t happening. Peeper 69 aims to please his rapacious readers. This issue repugnantly returns us to loopy Los Angeles—but with a twitchy twist.
The El Lay Lowdown speciously specializes in Hollywood dirt. Plus pulsing political scandals and the annihilating antics of El Lay socialites. Our regular “Police Blotter” feature features yet more Tinseltown tattle. And this issue turgidly turns its spotlight on the El Lay Police Department’s most sinfully sinister and snaggled snafu.
Hear those surging saxophones and cloying clarinets? They announce the boogie beat of a big southside murder case. Dead men tell no tales—but we’ve got three stagnant stiffs grousing from the grave. Bent cops W.R. & G.K. demand justice; their Mex muchacho A.A. shrieks in español. Carrion cops case the corpses and lick their lips. This job’s a maximum moneymaker and a shot to unseat J.H. as Chief.
W.H.P. Don’t trust this guy. He’ll sell his soul for the pomp of power and college cooze. Don’t trust H.A. He’s a Mr. Moto manqué and a jittery Jap. Don’t trust pustulant policeman M.B. He’s in league with furtive Fed E.S. There’s a tapped telephone at a Chinatown eatery habituated by hellhound cops. M.B. and E.S. conspire via wire. Mr. B. rats out his maladroit mentor, that hellbound Hibernian hatchet man—D.S. himself.
D.S. is the duped deus ex machina of our dreary drama. Fifth Column finagling defines the big murder case. Caustic Commies M.G. and J.S. frame the fray. Feckless fascists W.J. and J.H. have joined them. Sicknik Sinarquista S.A. is playing D.S. for the fool. We’ve got riotous Reds and nutty Nazis galore. We’ve got farshtinkener factions out to glom gorgeous garlands of gold. Greed and graft, kats and kittens. Peeper 69’s put his paws on the pulse of this story. He knows allllllllll about that perv party at the Maestro’s manse in the winter of ’39. She was really a He, and who can blame D.S. for taking ultimate umbrage? Thank heaven M.B & fellow cop D.C. cleaned up the mess.
It’s hurtling to a head, dear readers. E.S. is under house arrest; H.A.’s joined the Jap diaspora and has been shipped out to Manzanar. Seditionist psychiatrist S.L. has been pounded by the police. Ex-Chief J.E.D. mutters murderous murmurs at a swank beachside retreat. Quo vadis, D.S.? You’re the creepy crux of our drama. You’ve been spread cruciform, and demons of your own devising are coming for you.
118
(LOS ANGELES, 2:00 P.M., 4/4/42)
Double play. This raid and the scandal-rag blast. The rags went out, first-class mail. They should bull’s-eye today.
And there’s Bev’s. It’s straight across Fountain. It’s transmitting Raid Me rays.
Elmer watched the door. Bill Parker watched the door. They sat in Bill’s civilian sled. They brought shotguns and pry bars. It’s a smash-and-seize job.
Parker smelled like Kay. That musky scent she wore. Elmer got all flustered and jealous. He teethed on them as bedmates. It hurt baaaaaad. He teethed on Wayne Frank Alive for relief.
Wayne Frank Alive hurt. He teethed on Ruth in the Kip. She’ll call when she calls. That was her artiste’s way. He teethed on Doc Lesnick. Thad Brown got a tip. Doc Saul ensconced himself at Terry Lux’s place. He had company there. As in Claire De Haven and gaga Jim Davis.
Salvador Abascal. Teethe on that dink. He sprung Díaz, Carbajal, and Santarolo. He got them habeas. They waltzed out of Fed custody and rewaltzed back to Baja. That was baaaaad grapevine. Here’s the gooooood grapevine. Fletch B. got preemptive acquitted. The grand jury pulled their true bills.
All charges were dropped. Mass acquittals were predicted. Guess who jump-started that shit.
Parker said, “I’m getting antsy.”
Elmer said, “What’s wrong with right now?”
They grabbed their gear. Riot guns and hefty pry bars. They ditched the sled and jaywalked. The front door stood open. They walked right in.
Raid Me rays?—shit. Here’s what they got:
Mail-Drop Holocaust. Mail-Drop Inferno. Mail-Drop Mud Slide. All the mail slots were spread wide. There was no mail stuffed inside.
Elmer orbed the walls. Whiskey Bill, ditto. They saw open file drawers and no files visible. Plus open desk drawers in plain sight.
Plus Blow Job Bev and Wallace Jamie, perched in deck chairs. Looking smug. You can’t seize vapors. You can’t raid stale air.
Parker said, “You were tipped.”
Jamie said, “People talk. Word travels. Fellow travelers travel, too.” Bev giggled and flipped them the bird.
Parker went for Jamie. He kicked his chair over and smashed his head on the floor. Jamie bitch-yelped. Parker kicked him in the balls and cuffed his hands behind his back. Bev jumped up and whore-yelped. Her deck chair capsized.
Elmer scoped the room. He saw juncture cracks behind the file banks. He dropped his pump gun and ran to the east wall. He jammed his pry bar behind the A to D bank and pulled.
Metal screeched against linoleum. The file bank slid out. No paper scraps or mail debris got revealed. Elmer yanked out the E to J bank. Lice eggs got revealed. Elmer yanked out the K to R bank. A mousetrap and stale cheese got revealed.
Metal screeched against linoleum. Jamie and Bev screeched Fascist Assault! Elmer pulled out the S to Z bank. He saw boocoo mail debris.
Glossy stuff. Spilled catalogues. Jammed upside the walls. In there with mouse turds and soot.
Elmer knelt down and pored through it. S to Z skank got revealed.
Sally’s Sexy Lingerie. Crotchless Panties Our Specialty. Fat models with full beavers exposed. Silver Shirt closeout. Lo prices on bullwhips and nigger knockers. The Best in the West. Tasty Tessie. Hairpie deluxe. Pubic locks 4-sale. Your choice of blond, brunette, or red bush. Write to Tasty Tessie 2-day!!!
Vivid Violet. Certified nympho. Frat parties welcome. Special college-boy rates. Call Sharon, 24 hours. Your place or mine? No Negroes, Mexicans, or sailors. Call for introductory rate. Boys, Boys, Boys!!! Wicked Willie’s got ’em!!! See fotos in May ’41 issue of Hung Magazine!!!
Parker stomped the premises. Blow Job Bev pitched a fit. Jamie yelped for Uncle Eliot Ness. Elmer snagged a crumpled catalogue.
Johnny Shinura Curios. Exotic & Erotic Items. The Mysterious Orient Lives! 482 East 2nd Street, Los Angeles.
Oooooh, what’s—
East 2nd Street. J-town. The Jap sword man. He’s a curio dealer. 482’s not a storefront. The Crash Squad would have nailed it already. It’s some warehouse stash hole. It has to be that. The sword man, the blood licker, the queer white boy’s—
Elmer thumbed the catalogue. Check this out. You’ve got iron maidens and swastika branding irons. There’s SS tunics for your dog. You’ve got a Jap soldier suit of arms. It features sharp spikes inside. It’s now available in four sizes!!! It’s guaranteed to cause EXCRUTIATING DEATH!!!
119
(ENSENADA, 5:00 P.M., 4/4/42)
The watch sergeant called in sick. It was SOP. He was an all-time goldbrick. He habituated the Blue Fox and White Dog Klub. His work went undone.
Dudley filled in. Major D. L. Smith, among the squadroom pogues. He worked at the sergeant’s desk. He filled out the duty roster and sorted the mail.
The squadroom buzzed. SIS ran full Saturday shifts. Dudley buzzed. He had Benzedrine for breakfast and lunch. The Wolf was down in La Paz. Constanza doted on him.
Dudley slit envelopes. The mail was SOP-plus. Fourth Interceptor demands Jap head counts. The Staties demand liaison meets. There’s Jap sub alerts. There’s Redshirt rallies east of Piedra Rojas. Please infiltrate.
Plus a plain envelope. Addressed direct to him. An L.A. postmark and no return address.
Dudley slit the envelope. Th
ree mimeo sheets were stuffed in. The cheap ink bled. The cheap paper wilted. Say what? It’s Sid Hudgens’ private rag.
The El Lay Lowdown. Sid’s standard fare, free of restraints. 461 subscribers. William Randolph Hearst, take note.
Dudley skimmed through it. He skimmed through Hollyweird tattle, couched in Sid’s standard style. Men’s room hijinks and gang bangs. Sid’s standard fare. He skimmed to “big southside murder case.” He hit “pustulant policeman M.B.” He quick-skimmed to “D.S. himself.” He went hot/cold/hot and skimmed the full text.
He made this noise. Code clerks glanced over. He threw an arm across the desk and dumped a file box. He made a worse noise. It just seeped out. More clerks looked over. He dumped his coffee cup and smashed a typewriter into the floor.
He made a worse noise. It was screechy effete. The whole squadroom watched.
* * *
—
Opium.
The tar, the match, the pipe.
Stopover, Dublin. He views James Conroy Smith’s resurrection. A brotherly reunion turns sanguine. They go on the hunt together. Protty militiamen fall. The Wolf hunts with them. Bloodthirsty beast. He slays and eats his prey.
Stopover, Rome. Salvy’s confession and papal audience. I did not betray Dudley Smith, Your Holiness. He is my Führer as thou art God’s sole worldly lord.
Stopover, L.A. Meyer Gelb assumes a supplicant’s pose. He bows. He bestows the gold. He explains everything.
Stopover, New York. Maestro Klemperer conducts at Carnegie Hall. It’s the Shostakovich symphony. He’s proud of Young Joan. She did her part. Uncanny child. Gray hair at fifteen. She’s surely the spawn of the Wolf.
The bedroom door slid open. The Wolf followed Constanza in. He called her, or thinks he did. The night’s been a blur. He thinks he described the letter. She must have sensed his duress.
