by James Ellroy
The hackie cruised Central Avenue. They hit a midday traffic lull. Ashida steered him by the klubhaus. It was a flat vacant lot now. Jordan High footballers scrimmaged. They were colored. The white coach looked like Dudley Smith.
The hackie U-turned back to Central. There’s the jazz strip. Club Alabam, Port Afrique, Club Zombie. The façades have been refitted. Rioters had torched cars and business fronts. He killed two of them. Dudley Smith killed many more.
The cab dropped him at 48th Street. The Congregation of the Congo hogged half a block. A wide storefront with wide picture windows. Easel-propped window art.
Colored pilgrims in Africa. They rode lions and zebras and boiled white folks alive. The Rev offered steerage and deluxe passage rates. The USS Negro sailed monthly.
Ashida walked in. White janitors dusted the pews and swept the aisles. The Rev and Link Rockwell stood by the pulpit. Link wore Navy khakis. Both men smoked corncob pipes.
They saw Ashida. Looks flew, bilateral. He’s that Jap cop.
Ashida walked up. Both men grinned. Both men proffered handshakes. Both men jut-jawed their pipes.
Rockwell said, “Leander told us you might drop by.”
The Rev said, “Dr. Ashida’s hipped on the gold. I don’t think I’m being precipitous by stating that. Will you give him a gander, Link?”
Rockwell went After you. Ashida trudged a short hallway. The Rev trailed him. Rockwell opened a closet door and pulled a light cord.
Hosanna. At long last. Come let us adore it. Behold the sacred vault. It’s a good-sized closet. Gold bars are stacked floor to chest-high.
The Rev chortled. “Too bad it’s not real. If you’ve got a moment, Link will elaborate.”
Rockwell said, “As Leander told you, the Rev had me infiltrate the klubhaus. I made friends with the late Frankie Carbajal, who had developed quite a dislike for his onetime hermano, Salvador Abascal, along with his close friend, Wayne Frank Jackson. Frankie coveted the gold, which was then believed to be in the possession of the late Meyer Gelb and Señor Abascal. The late Frankie put together some leads and learned that the gold was stashed in a bank safe-deposit vault in San Diego. The Rev and I brought in Ed Satterlee then. Ed secured a seizure writ that allowed him to secure the gold and sequester it in a nearby warehouse. I flew the gold up to L.A., and the Rev brought in a metallurgist to weigh the bars and calculate their value. He was the one who determined that they were all fake.”
The Rev kicked at the bars. The Rev jabbed his pipe at Ashida.
“Cast iron, and thick-gold-plated. Formed to exactly resemble and weigh the same as solid-gold bars. Even the mint markings match, down to a tee. The bars were designed to fool the naked eye, and no more than that.”
Ashida grabbed a bar and hefted it. He’d held a real bar. The fake bar was indistinguishable.
“The robbery itself. The chain of possession and levels of dispersal. Did factionalism occur? The robbery preceded all known accounts of the forming of the Kameraden. I have a well-developed theory, and I’m wondering if you’ll confirm or refute it.”
The Rev winked. Link Rockwell winked. Mr. Moto’s got the floor. Both men jut-jawed their pipes.
“Leander walked the bars off the train. He portrayed the dumb Negro kid. The Reverend Mimms portrayed a colored sleeping-car porter. Kyoho Hanamaka portrayed a Japanese chauffeur, and Wayne Frank Jackson portrayed a white swell, perched in a limousine. Salvador portrayed a Mexican youth, hovering in the background. Skin color as disguise. Racial prejudice as a means of obfuscation. The switch was accomplished in that manner.”
The Rev bowed. “You left out Eddie Leng and Don Matsura. They were in on the job. They played Oriental train-yard workers. They also helped out with the escapes and the track-switch snafus.”
Rockwell said, “Otherwise, you’re right with Eversharp.”
Ashida said, “The initial cadre of Kameraden was formed at Dresden Polytechnic. Kyoho Hanamaka underplayed its importance to me. Abascal gave a speech, and Carbajal, Pimentel, Jamie, and Hayes heard the message. The Spanish Civil War loomed. The big war loomed, and Salvador saw it as a fait accompli. He prophesied the Hitler-Stalin pact and Hitler’s ultimate abrogation. The idea of a left-right postwar alliance took hold and flourished intellectually. The initial heist conspirators—Eckelkamp-Gelb, Wayne Frank, Leander, Salvador, Hanamaka, the Reverend Mimms, Leng, and Matsura—were watching gold prices escalate and waiting out the statute of limitations on the robbery. The statute clock stopped on May 18, 1940. The original conspirators were caught up in the crazy politics of upcoming war, but not to the extent of the Dresden Poly boys. The boys had been to Spain, the Fatherland, and Russia. Kyoho and Salvador had spent time there, and forged connections. High-level Nazis and Soviets knew the war would go bad for them, as early as the late ’30s. Salvador and Kyoho exploited their fear, and proposed the Baja conference of November ’40. The gold lured the bigwigs in. They capitulated to Abascal’s vision of postwar alliance, but the gold cinched the deal.”
The Rev bowed. Rockwell said, “Right with Eversharp.”
Ashida said, “You were perpetrating a shell game. The gold achieved the status of an open secret and a wet dream. Your informal alliance grew as the war loomed that much more palpably close. Kyoho and Meyer Gelb went back to the heist and the fire. They were Communists and arsonists and God knows what else together. Saul Lesnick signed on from the Left. He was in Gelb’s CP cell. Ed Satterlee played tangential to the heist. He signed on in a fix-it man capacity. Jim Davis signed on from the Right. Salvador killed priest-killers at Meyer’s behest. It all blew chaotically out of proportion. Idiot ideologues shot their mouths off, and rumors spread. Terry Lux, Lin Chung, Wendell Rice, and George Kapek. The Lazaro-Schmidts, Villareal-Caiz, crazy Bundists, Reds, and Sinarquistas. Come, one and all. We’ll survive this war or we won’t. The bigwigs were over in Russia and Germany, engaged in a fight for their everyday survival. They had no idea that the original conspirators had no intention of sharing the gold with them, after postwar gold prices had skyrocketed. Factionalism and personal rivalries raged within the original robbery band. Rancor fell short of fatality. The chain of possession shifted along those lines as gold prices and war catastrophe escalated. Salvador Abascal succeeded Meyer Gelb as the Kameraden’s top dog. The title is surely meaningless, if illustrative of how deep this self-deluded madness goes. Salvador got the job because he was in the original robbery band and because he recruited the Dresden Poly boys. The Nazi bigwigs loved him because they thought he was a fascist. The Soviet bigwigs loved him because they considered him a Red, and because he’d slaughtered Trotskyites. The Rev’s got his back-to-Africa con. Gelb was extorting Jewish refugees that the Kamerad-Nazis had cut loose. You’re all criminals first, and ideologues a distant second. You’ll split the gold on Armistice Day, and you’ll sell out the comrades overseas to the highest intelligence-agency bidder.”
The Rev went whew. Rockwell wiped his face with a handkerchief.
Ashida wiped his face. “Here’s a prudent guess. Wayne Frank shipped the real gold to Switzerland, right after the Baja wingding.”
The Rev said, “Mr. and Mrs. Ashida didn’t raise any dumb kids.”
Rockwell said, “I met some real hot dogs at the wingding. I got Ernst Kaltenbrunner and Anastas Mikoyan’s autographs.”
The Rev jabbed his pipe. “Take a bar with you, Doctor. Makes a swell paperweight.”
130
(LOS ANGELES, 4:00 P.M., 4/12/42)
Peep job. Girlfriend #4 evinced hinky behavior. That mandates brainwork and eyeball scrutiny.
Elmer peeped Ruth’s courtyard. He car-lounged. He popped bennies and gargled Old Crow. 1 plus 1 equals 2. He pondered a quick-toss B and E.
He’d gone by the Musicians’ Local. A clerk fed him a hot lead on Chuckie Duquesne. Chuckie, aka “Kid Lightning.” He was gigging at the Taj Mahal tonight.
>
The Taj. A coonverted garage at 28th and Budlong. He schmoozed the clerk and got her phone number. She just loooooved policemen. He brought up his friend Ruth Szigeti. She played the violin. She recorded a Bartók piece, here at the Local. That was three nights back. The quartet worked dusk to dawn.
The clerk went nix. She worked the late shift that night. No such quartet passed through.
That’s 0 plus 1 equals 1. Add this to that:
Ruth lied to him. Ruth came off flustered that last time they gassed. He talked to Nort Layman. Dr. Nort autopsied Meyer Gelb. Dr. Nort confirmed his I Was There/I Saw The Stiff call.
Gelb was cold. Frankie Carbajal didn’t snuff him. Nort fixed the TOD as 2:00 a.m. The torture cuts were inflicted postmurder. Said cuts were all fussy. It felt like a squeamish-woman job. The small-bore gun, the cuts, the prissy gestalt. Cherchez la fucking femme.
1 plus 1 equals 2. 2 plus 2 equals 4. Gelb was a shakedown man. He extorted Ruth and her refugee chums. He victimized Ruth. La Ruth brooked no shit from man or beast. That’s 4 plus 4 equals 8. 8 equals confirm or refute.
Bennies and booze equals pins and needles and juiced-up intent. Elmer got out and breezed through the courtyard. It was pin-drop quiet. Ruth’s door was locked.
He got out his pick set. He pulled a thin-edge pick and jabbed the keyhole. He pushed deep and rode the door in.
He shut the door. The front room looked okay. No hink details jabbed him. He walked through the kitchen. It smelled like fried eggs. Ruth left her breakfast dishes out. No hink details jabbed him.
He shinnied through the bedroom and checked out the porch. A taut clothesline ran through it. Damp clothes were pinned on.
Two brassieres. One camisole. One pinned-up white blouse. Spots down the front of it. Almost removed. Blood red fades to pale pink.
Elmer cut back to the bedroom. He’d slept with Ruth here. He knew the layout. He went straight for the one chest of drawers.
The top drawer featured underwear. He ran a hand through it. The middle drawer featured scarves and folded skirts. He ran a hand through it. His hand hit metal. He pulled a small revolver out.
A purse gun. .25-caliber. A five-shot cylinder. 1 plus 1 equals 2.
Elmer sniffed the barrel. He caught cordite fumes. He broke the cylinder. He saw one shell gone.
The front door jiggled. Stacked heels tapped the floor. He caught cigarette smoke and bath scent.
She walked straight to the bedroom. He gave her a heartbeat to see him. She stopped short. He turned around.
She wore a flower-print dress and a mousy cardigan. He held up the gun. She grabbed an ashtray off the bookcase and crushed her cigarette.
“So?”
“So, why?”
“So, what can one more death mean to me now?”
Elmer shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that. I don’t want to hear ‘the war made me do it.’ ”
Ruth said, “He called me and ordered me to his apartment. He ordered me to lure Otto Klemperer into my bed and make him admit his Communist Party allegiance. I told him that he had created enough chaos, and condemned him for the idiotic ideals his idiotic alliance had foisted upon us. I was enraged in that moment. I demanded the gold that I had heard so many rumors of. I told him that I would use it to ransom Jews out of Germany. He said, ‘Why should I care about Jews?’ I knew he was Fritz Eckelkamp then, and that was when I shot him.”
She was touch-me close. He smelled her breath and counted her gray hairs.
“It’s a gas-chamber job. You’d do better with a jealous-lover plea.”
“What will you do?”
Elmer said, “I don’t know.”
* * *
—
The Taj was unlicensed and nouveau-swank. It was couched behind a house row. Four garages got bulldozed and comprised one cabaret. The refurb job was par excellent.
You had booths, tables, and a raised bandstand. There’s an ebony bar and blue-flocked wallpaper. It’s a boss swami’s playpen.
You had standard booze and bootleg booze. There’s absinthe and Everclear. You’ve got colored waitresses in saris. The Taj welcomes a race-mixed clientele.
Elmer and Buzz showed early. They grabbed a prime wallside booth. They figured they’d take Chuckie backstage. Chuckie foxed them there. He was onstage with his sidemen already. Chuckie played bass sax. A white dink played trombone. A black hepcat played fluegelhorn.
Chuckie was tall and blond. He ran six-two and 140, tops. He sported a ducks-ass haircut. He wore zoot pants and a plaid Sir Guy shirt.
Buzz craved results. Let’s move now. Elmer nixed it. Let’s wait. Johnny Shinura might show. A Chuckie’s gal-pal type might materialize.
The Taj filled up. A good crowd filtered in. They snatched the wallside booths and floor tables. They swarmed the bar. They flirted and gassed. They craved Le Jazz Hot and distraction.
Elmer and Buzz drank Green Lizards. Their swell waitress made them as cops. Green Lizards were 151 rum and crème de menthe. Buzz was half-tanked. Elmer was benzified out of his gourd. Killer Ruth ruled his thoughts.
The combo tuned up. Kid Lightning and his Bolts from the Blue. They honked and blatted. The blue motif prevailed. Blue spotlights lit them up.
The low ceiling trapped cigarette smoke. Elmer and Buzz orbed the premises. Where’s Sword Man Johnny? Where’s the Gal Pal? Elmer watched the door. Oooga-booga. Dudley Smith walked in.
Elmer nudged Buzz and pointed over. Looky, looky. Dud wore civvies and looked whippet thin.
Buzz clenched up. Dud walked to the bar. He ordered a drink and glanced around. Elmer and Buzz were perched off aways. Dud didn’t see them. Dud eyed the bandstand and Chuckie D.
The Bolts tuned up. Chuckie’s king-sized sax weighed him down. Elmer watched the door. Race-mix cliques filed in. Hideo Ashida followed them.
Elmer nudged Buzz and pointed over. Looky, looky. Buzz saw Ashida. Hideo stood barside. He saw Dudley. Elmer and Buzz caught that, plain. Dud was preoccupied. He missed Ashida and eyeballed Chuckie D.
The music wasn’t music. It was fucking noise stew. Elmer killed his drink and watched the door. Where’s the gal pal? What does she look like? Fuck—Johnny Shinura walked in.
Elmer saw him. Buzz saw him. They swapped oooga-booga looks. Ashida saw Johnny. Elmer caught that. Dud missed Johnny altogether. He sipped his drink and eye-drilled Chuckie D.
Ashida stood upside the pay phone. He eye-clicked Dud to Johnny. Jap Johnny stood tiptoed and waved his arms at the bandstand. Chuckie caught it and unstrapped his sax.
Chuckie tromped Johnny’s way. Dud caught it. He unbuttoned his coat and touched his belt piece. Oooga-booga. A colored doorman braced Johnny. Hit the road, Tojo. We don’t seat no Japs.
Ashida crouched by the pay phone. The doorman missed him. Johnny pitched a fit. I’m an American, Sambo. You’re just some nigger to me.
Folks looked over. Folks hubbubbed. Johnny pitched that loud fit. The doorman pulled a waistband sap and swung it. Johnny pulled a hip piece.
He drilled the doorman. Two shots echoed. The doorman collapsed and convulsed. Folks started screaming.
Chuckie flinched. Chuckie did this big double take. Chuckie made the big man at the bar.
Dud caught it. They drew down simultaneous and fired point-blank. Chuckie blew out a shelf of booze bottles. Dud shot muzzle-tight. Chuckie’s face blew up, muzzle-burned. His hair shot flames.
Buzz froze and unfroze. Elmer froze and unfroze. They stood up and unholstered late-late. Ashida stumbled toward Dudley. Elmer and Buzz aimed and let fly.
More bottles exploded. Elmer shot high and off left. Buzz nailed Johnny. Sword man pitched back and shot back. His shots hit high and off right.
Elmer braced his gun hand and aimed real careful now. He triggered in on Dudley Smith and squeezed off two perfect sh
ots. He caught a blur simultaneous. He saw Ashida’s suit coat. He blew Ashida up against Dudley. They toppled bar stools and crashed to the floor, all tangled up.
Elmer screamed. Buzz crashed tables and ran to the bar. Johnny slumped up against it. He’d dropped his piece. He was gut-shot and woozed. Buzz shot him straight in the face.
The whole room screamed. Elmer screamed over it. He kicked screamers out of the way and pushed to the bar. Ashida’s suit coat was powder-scorched and tattered. He’d bled up the floor. Dudley sobbed and held him tight.
L.A. Herald Express. Monday, April 13, 1942. Page-two feature. Byline: Sid Hudgens.
FOUR DEAD IN NITECLUB BLASTOUT!!!!!
Hero Cops Prevail in Juice-Joint Holocaust!!!!!
An ill wind blew the blues last nite, at the noxious near-southside nitespot, the Taj Mahal. It’s unlicensed; it’s unsanitary; it serves bilious booze and jittery jazz out of season. It caters to caustic cats and kittens, and a catastrophic convergence has caused it to close its doors for good.
Police Sergeants Elmer V. Jackson and Turner “Buzz” Meeks appeared, hot on the trail of jazz jackal Charles “Chuckie” Duquesne, and his jackalesque Jap henchman, John Kimoji Shinura—suspects in the baffling “klubhaus” slayings of January 29. Policemen Wendell Rice and George Kapek were killed, along with their savvy Sancho Panza, Arturo “Archie” Archuleta. Sergeants Jackson and Meeks tracked Duquesne and Shinura to the tempestuous Taj, where four fearsome fates fatally intervened.
Enter legendary Police Sergeant Dudley L. Smith, currently on leave to serve with the Army’s crack Secret Intelligence Service. Enter Hideo Ashida, the PD’s crack forensic chemist and sly sleuth, who puts Charlie Chan and Mr. Moto to shame. They were on the Jackal and Johnny the Jap’s trail, as well. Enter the Taj Mahal’s tipsy doorman, Willis “Big Daddy” Gordean. Shots shattered the smoke-smacked air as the Bolts from the Blue blasted onstage. The police contingent made their move, and Duquesne, Shinura, Ashida, and Gordean lay dead. Colored canary Loretta McKee caught the two killers’ dying declarations and last words. “They were in awful bad shape, and on their way out,” she said. “But I managed to hear what they were mumbling.”
