Thad Brown stood across the street. Dudley pulled up and idled by the parking lot. Eugenics. Note the natives at play.
A blackout crap game. Four jigs with flashlights and dice. A dollar bill–dotted blanket. Swerving light on hot dice.
Scotty studied it. The jigs wore yellow satin jackets. Gang scum. The Rattlesnakes. They whooped and waved their flashlights.
Dudley said, “We have an unlawful assembly. Will you require a sap or handcuffs?”
“No, sir. You might call an ambulance, though.”
Dudley whooped. Scotty stepped out of the car.
The jigs capered. Thad Brown watched. His white fedora marked him. His cigarette glowed.
Flashlight beams crossed the lot. It was all dipsy-doodles. A jigaboo shot snake eyes. Cheers and groans went up.
Scotty walked to the blanket. Scotty swiped the dollar bills. The jigs saw it. Oooga-boogas rose. A jig swung his flashlight.
Scotty grabbed his arm at the wrist and snapped it. Dudley heard bones break.
The jig screamed. More jigs came in. Ooga-booga. They’re packing flashlights and fists.
Scotty snapped their wrists. Scotty broke their hands. Scotty sidestepped blows. Flashlights fell, glass cracked, light did crazy things. Fists hit Scotty and did not budge him.
The jigs screamed. Scotty went in close.
He grabbed their necks and hoisted them. He held them high and hurled them. They hit the ground. They thrashed and tried to crawl.
Scotty kicked them prone and stepped on their faces. They ate gravel and dollar bills. There’s a cracked-light close-up. See that severed ear?
Are you watching, Thad? The screams are like Dublin, 1919.
7:14 p.m.
The noise seared him. He left Scotty to Thad and his Welcome Wagon spiel. He pulled into a vacant lot just south.
The noise faded. He fluttered. He felt his mother’s fists and smelled his own blood.
Blackout. Dublin, 1919. L.A., 1941.
He hit a switch and got some roof light. The headliner reeked of a recent suspect’s pomade. He grabbed his chessboard and pieces off the backseat. His pulse subsided.
His play was half risk, half calculation. Huey might not rouse the four crazy Japs. Huey might get dirt on Tachi and the Watanabes. Tachi was sliced with that feudal knife. Fetch, lad. Tell me about that.
Dudley set up the chessboard. The bennies brain-fueled him. He toppled pawns and rooks.
The Jap-Mex breed might be good for the Watanabe job. The Jap-Mex breed probably knocked Nancy up. Huey said the breed killed a Mex family. Huey said it might have been brag.
Call-Me-Jack wants a Jap killer. The house was too tidy for a full-bred lunatic. The Griffith Park boys packed that feudal knife. Said knife killed Tachi. The breed felt right for the Tachi job. Everything else felt wrong.
And—where’s the profit? And—something’s missing from the house.
Knights down, bishops down.
The DA felt wrong. Bill McPherson was wet-brained. Bill McPherson fucked jungle cooze. Bill McPherson snored in briefings and nursed a Red grudge. He might not rubber-stamp a Watanabe indictment.
It was 7:56. Dudley rolled down his window. L.A. was blackout black. He heard noise across the street.
Prompt Huey. Appropriate that vacant lot. Night Creature, fetch.
Car doors slammed. Stray moonlight lit up Huey and his gang.
There’s four men. They’re wearing bandannas. Note their exposed foreheads. That’s yellow skin—Huey roused the Japs.
Huey wore Sheriff’s duds. Makeup hid his acne. He was grandly disguised.
The Japs lugged cans into the street. They oil-doused the cement and skulked back to the lot. Huey walked to the middle of the street, with a flashlight.
Cars approached, north and south. Oil spill. Deputy Huey waved them around it.
The cars slowed and dipped by. The street went carless. Parking lights approached from the north.
Wide-spaced lights. Van lights. 7:59 p.m.—the Sheriff’s, on time.
Huey stood his ground and waved his flashlight. The van braked and stopped short of the spill. Two deputies got out. Huey braced them.
Sorry, fellas—we’ve got an obstacle. The deputies huffed and checked their watches.
BANZAI.
The Japs reconnoitered. They wore crepe-soled shoes. They crept up behind the deputies. They raised shotguns and let rubber bullets fly.
The sound was whoosh/thwap. Four Japs, two cops, four nonlethal loads. The deputies pitched and hit the oil spill. They fucking gasped that I-need-air rasp.
Huey pulled out fabric tape and glued their mouths shut. Two Japs cuffed them and dragged them into the lot. Two Japs jumped in the back of the van. Huey got in the van and drove it into the lot.
No motorists eyeballed the incident. No pedestrians walked by.
The lot was blackout black. Dudley relied on sounds.
Car doors slammed. Van doors slammed. Rustles, foot scrapes, grunts. The looting, the sacking, the tossed money bags.
Two car doors slamming. Tires spinning on dirt. Then “Sayonara”—yelled out pure Jap.
8:21 p.m.
They were cuffed up. A short chain linked them. Bodyguard Lee Blanchard, cop stooge Hideo Ashida.
It was Ashida’s idea. Hit T.I. with a bang. Spook the inmates, wow the guards.
San Pedro was twenty miles from L.A. proper. The ride down was tense. Blanchard was still scratched up from his Kay Lake tiff.
Ashida sold the trip to Bill Parker. I’ll do interviews in Japanese. I’ll query the inmates per the Watanabes. The Nisei community is tight-knit. I’ll probe and feign empathy.
They entered the sally port and hit the guards’ station. An MP buzzed them in. They walked down a corridor and snagged their sweat room.
Ashida rubbed his wrist. He’d jobbed Parker. He planned to stress his private leads. The farms, the buyouts, the wetback workers.
He spoke Japanese. Blanchard barely spoke English. He’d overhear the interviews and register zilch. They loitered outside the sweat room. Blanchard smoked and fouled up the air.
Takagawa, Kuradasha, Mikano, Murasawa. He got the names off the “A” list. They were North Valley farmers. They had to know the Watanabes.
The cuff gouged his wrist. He stepped back and put slack in the chain. The smoke congested him.
The sweat room adjoined a cell block. The cells were jam-packed. Men paced and bumped the bars. They looked malnourished. Stir-crazy said it all.
Blanchard rattled their chain. “I think we should bring in Mr. Moto. He always solves the case in an hour and a half.”
The smoke was brutal. Ashida tugged at the chain.
Blanchard said, “You know what gets me? They hire this white guy to play him. Peter Lorre’s a hophead, in case you didn’t know. Wilshire Vice has got a green sheet on him.”
Ashida looked down the catwalk. A guard escorted Hiroshi Takagawa. A mug shot was clipped to his file. Ashida had the facts memorized.
Blanchard nudged him. They took their seats and slacked up the chain. The guard walked Takagawa in.
Ashida stood and bowed. He spoke prepared text and translated back to himself.
“I apologize for this grave injustice inflicted upon you. You see, the same has occurred to me. I have questions pertaining to Ryoshi Watanabe that will serve the greater cause of justice for the Japanese community.”
Takagawa stared at him.
Takagawa spit on the table.
Takagawa pulled a newspaper from his pocket and threw it in Ashida’s face.
Blanchard said, “Tough luck, Mr. Moto.”
The guard said, “I like Charlie Chan better. You always get some wisecracks and some girls.”
Takagawa said, “Traitor.” He trembled. The guard recuffed him and shoved him out of the room.
Ashida scanned the paper. It was in kanji. A piece excoriated the Ashida family. They were collaborators. The son was an informant. He was the only Nisei on the PD
payroll. Nisei blood signed his paycheck.
Pictures included. Hideo Ashida at Stanford. Mariko Ashida with Agent Ward Littell.
Blanchard said, “You’re fucked, Mr. Moto. You ain’t going to find any Japs willing to talk to you.”
Ashida jerked his cuff chain. Blanchard haw-hawed. They walked through the sally port and back outside. The MPs snickered. Ashida’s knees dipped and held.
Blanchard uncuffed him. It was shoreline-blackout overcast. The harbor air stung.
Ashida got in the car. Blanchard got in and gunned it. They drove the connecting bridge and hit the mainland. Traffic was light. The moon played hide-and-seek.
Blanchard kept it zipped. Elmer Jackson was set to relieve him. Ashida kept it zipped. His thoughts scattergunned.
He spoke to Ray Pinker, back at the lab. Pinker knew radio. He queried him, disingenuously.
Can shortwave broadcasts be transmitted to individual sets? Pinker said yes.
The Watanabes’ secret attic. Their radio gear. It’s transmitting straight to him.
Blanchard said, “Kay and I don’t have your standard deal going. I give her a long leash with men, so she keeps wiping the slate for all the rowdy shit I do with the Department. It’s a good deal most of the time. It’s worth giving up all the racy stuff just to have it.”
Ashida studied Blanchard. The pitch played oddball. Blanchard touched the scratch marks on his face.
“Don’t get in too deep with her. She’ll use you and cut you loose. She’s always looking for something she can’t have, and she don’t let people get in the way.”
Ashida looked out his window. It was Monday night, redux. The world is dark and flat. Cars are submarines.
Blanchard skimmed the radio. It was all blackout spiel. He killed the sound and cut over to Broadway. They hit a snag at 74th Street.
Sheriff’s cars, swarming cops, lab vans. Arc lights in a vacant lot.
Blanchard waved and went through. Ashida rolled down his window. He heard a fracas up ahead.
The blackout dark amplified sound. Pitch resonated higher. He heard shouts and breaking glass.
Blanchard hit his high beams. He caught the scene. Negro looters, up at 66th.
Men in yellow jackets. Running leaps through store windows.
Blanchard hit his siren and drove straight at them. They dropped truncheon sticks and scattered. Blanchard bumped the curb and drove up on the sidewalk.
He plowed trash cans. He clipped a slow-moving fat boy. The looters hurled rocks at the car.
Ashida laughed. Blanchard laughed. He killed his lights and pulled back on the street. Pissed-off shouts faded.
Blanchard said, “Fucking niggers.”
Ashida said, “I used to be friends with Bucky Bleichert. He’s an ex-boxer, like you.”
“He’s a cream puff. Kay wets her drawers for him. He’s coming on the Department.”
“I know.”
“He finked you to the Feds. He’s got a snitch jacket already.”
“I know.”
“We’ll win this war before too long, Ashida. This bad deal of yours won’t go on forever.”
Blackout L.A. whizzed by. Blanchard dangled an arm out his window. They hit Central Station. Blanchard stopped the car by the back door.
Ashida got out. He saw Elmer Jackson first thing. Elmer dozed in a parked black-and-white.
Blanchard said, “Watch out with Kay.”
Ashida said, “Thanks for the ride.”
Blanchard brodied out of the lot. Elmer snored on. Let sleeping dogs—
He had the blackout. He had the door keys. He had his penlight.
He got his car and cut north. Chavez Ravine, Mount Washington. Smudged hillsides and shit shacks. No parkway hum. Blackout drivers stayed home. Twisty pavement was a rough go in the dark.
It was 9:42. Highland Park was dark-past-dark. Ashida parked and walked up to the door.
The lab keys got him in. He had the floor plan memorized. He ignored the check-in log. He stood in the dark. He felt the Watanabe House Gestalt.
He missed something here. He’s a gifted scientist. He should not miss simple things.
He walked upstairs and stood on the landing. He jumped and released the stairs. He went up them and retracted them. Rats skittered back in their holes.
He flashed his penlight on the cubbyhole and tapped it. The panel opened up.
There:
Radio, tape rig, ledger. Still in place—Sunday to Wednesday.
Now:
Work from recent memory. Tap the radio. Flick the right switches. Watch the metric bands glow.
There:
The bands illuminated. He goosed the volume and got sound. He kept it low and geared up to translate.
A lunatic ranted. He stated yesterday’s date and announced the time as 2:41 p.m.
Think in English. It’s faster that way. The lunatic rants. Don’t miss his words.
And record them first.
“Secret military maneuver tomorrow. Submarine attack at dawn.”
Ashida turned on the tape rig. The spools jammed. Tape shredded. He could not record this:
“Pocket sub” / “California coastal waters” / “Tomorrow at sunup.” “Goleta Inlet, above Santa Barbara.” “Collaborationist fishing village, Chinese-Japanese allied.” “Torpedoes.” “Punish traitors.” “Aligned with our blasphemous enemy.”
A rat zipped by. Ashida jumped and brushed a cobweb. A spider fell into his hair.
Ashida went Eeeek. The spider hit a wall plank. Ashida went Eeeeeek. It scared him. It sounded feminine.
The lunatic ranted. He ballyhooed Nanking, ’37. Soldiers make women drink pus. Soldiers make children eat shit. Soldiers shove dynamite up a Chinaman’s ass.
He unplugged the radio and tape rig. He grabbed the ledger. He released the stairs and went down them. His hands were full. He was sweat wet. The penlight ratched his teeth.
He carried the load outside. His car was right there. He locked his swag in the trunk. He retraced the floor plan all the way back. He double-checked the cubbyhole.
There—cobweb-covered. A stack of kanji-script tracts.
Ashida grabbed the tracts. He had X-ray vision now. He went down the steps and retracted them. He walked outside and back to his car.
A ’38 Dodge was parked behind him. He touched the hood and felt engine heat.
“Hello, lad.”
Ashida shivered. His teeth clacked. He told his brain to make it stop.
Dudley Smith appeared. He touched Ashida’s arm. It sparked electric shocks.
“Why are you shaking, lad?”
“Because I’m afraid of you.”
Metal touched his hands. He opened his right hand and released his left hand. Dudley took the tracts and passed him a flask.
His eyes adjusted. Sight merged with sound. Dudley leaned on the hood of his car.
“Drink, lad. It’s 1919 vintage. I killed a British soldier and raided his stock.”
Ashida took a pull. “Why did you kill the soldier?”
“I made inquiries and determined that he was the one who shot my brother.”
“How old were you then?”
“I was fourteen.”
Ashida tipped the flask. “Do you still hate the British?”
“Not individually. I hate them as a race given to imperial misconduct.”
“I hate the Chinese that way. I can cite historical grievance to justify it, but the balance of atrocity always tips back to my own people. I hate them simply because of what I know them to be.”
Dudley laughed. “Do you hate them individually?”
“No, of course not.”
Dudley took the flask. His hand was warm.
“Are you an authoritarian, Dr. Ashida? Do you have an abiding allegiance to the cause of an ordered society?”
The liquor warmed him. “Yes. It defines my racial view and sense of the civil contract. I despise sloth and disorder. Racial exclusivity facilitates the social code. The
natural instinct to exclude must be codified by law.”
Dudley sipped brandy. “Lad, you are the brightest of bright pennies.”
It was dark. It covered him. He let himself blush.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Dudley, please.”
“Yes, as you wish.”
Dudley passed the flask. “The roundups are unnecessary and reductive. They’ve created a self-perpetuating chaos that will serve to undermine the social order we both wish to preserve.”
Ashida held the flask. Dudley’s hand had warmed it.
“It’s a remarkable policeman’s insight. And, of course, I agree.”
“Have last Sunday’s events stretched your loyalties and induced ambivalence?”
“Yes. The attack constitutes misconduct, and now the roundups do.”
Dudley said, “Per exclusion. Do you feel more American or more Japanese at this moment?”
Ashida sipped brandy. “More of both, actually.”
Dudley held out his hand. Ashida passed the flask.
“Have you withheld evidence, lad?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Because I’ve missed something very simple.”
“It was my reason, as well.”
Lie now. You have an opening. Let the brandy speak.
“I found the tracts in a crack behind the kitchen cabinets.”
“It’s more than that, lad. We’re two bright pennies, and we both missed something significant and staggeringly obvious. We must surmise that the killer missed it, as well.”
Ashida nodded. “You said ‘killer’ singular. Do you think it was one man?”
Dudley said, “I do, lad. The crime reeks of individual animus.”
Ashida said, “There were four victims. It would have been logistically taxing for a single man.”
Dudley said, “We have a sexual motive and a political motive. The sexual motive derives from Nancy and her recent abortion. The political motive is deeply obscure and most likely stems from internecine fascist intrigue, of an incomprehensible nature. One man did it, lad. I’m sure of that.”
Ashida took the flask. “Do you think Captain Parker is a capable man for this job?”
“I do not, lad. He’s not a rank-and-file case man. I know that he’s done well by you, but he’s not someone you should look to as a mentor. He’ll sell you out the moment that it suits his needs.”