Parker said, “Tell me. I’ll extrapolate with you.”
Ashida said, “We all knew the war was coming. I would posit that the men who tried to purchase the houses and farms had foreknowledge of when and/or where the Japanese forces would attack. I would further posit that they knew there would be a massive roundup of native-born and foreign-born Japanese, and a massive confiscation of their assets. We’re headed for a large-scale internment, and I think the men knew that.”
Parker said, “The Watanabes were killed the day before Pearl Harbor.”
Ashida said, “Jim Larkin was mowed down at 5:45 Pearl Harbor morning. The news didn’t hit L.A. until just before noon.”
Parker said, “He knew something. The hit-and-run was premeditated. I’m certain of that.”
Ashida scanned the room. The house was crazy serene.
Parker crossed himself. “I vowed to pray for him, but reneged on it. I caused his death.”
9:49 a.m.
Ruth Mildred loved cheesecake. The office celebrated her Sapphic bent and rogue-doctor status. Note the medical diplomas and framed glossies.
She pointed to Rita Hayworth. “I scraped her. She had a thick bush.”
Dudley laughed. He felt fit. He slept at home and played patriarch. The visit would hold his brood to Christmas.
Ruth Mildred ogled Jean Arthur. “I scraped her. I licked her snatch while she was anesthetized.”
Dudley roared. Ruth Mildred lived to entertain. Nice girls in a jam flocked to her. She did King Cohn’s scrape jobs. Dot Rothstein lured in outside work. Ruth Mildred was L.A.’s scrape overlord.
She ogled Ginger Rogers. “I scraped her. The baby had two heads.”
Dudley smiled. Ruthie was big at Columbia. She had a chic corner office with a waiting room. The latter was packed now. Dot and Huey C. Mickey Cohen, Hooky Rothman. Carlos Madrano, up from T.J.
He spoke to Carlos. He quizzed him per his Jap-farm schemes. Carlos refused to divulge. He quizzed him per the Jap house/farm buyouts. Carlos said, “No más, my friend. I will not talk about that.”
Ruth Mildred ogled Carole Lombard. “I scraped her. The daddy was a jigaboo.”
Dudley rocked his chair. “Did you scrape a Jap girl named Nancy Watanabe?”
Ruth Mildred lit a cigarette and threw her feet up on her desk. Her skirt flew wide.
“I don’t scrape Japs. That species of gash in no way intrigues me.”
“You’re not freelancing at MGM? I heard rumors about that stunning lass who played Scarlett O’Hara.”
Ruth Mildred said, “Okay, I did a job for Warner’s. Bette Davis missed two cycles, and I treated her for a miscarriage.”
It sandbagged him. His breakfast curdled. He heard chants out on Gower.
“End the feudal system! King Cohn must go!”
Mike Breuning called him. Sid Hudgens was bird-dogging Baaaad Bill McPherson. He’d been on a cooze run at Minnie Roberts’ Casbah. He might return today.
Ruth Mildred ogled Barbara Stanwyck. “I scraped her. I sold her snatch hair to Frank Capra.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Huey pulled a caper. I’ll need to stash him in Mexico for a while.”
“My baby never works single-o.”
“There’s a grand chance that his partners will evaporate.”
“Keep him safe, Dud. My baby’s frail.”
“King Cohn must go! King Cohn must go!” This Red roar in Gower Gulch.
Dudley zipped to the waiting room. Mickey and Hooky sulked. Captain Carlos read Time magazine. Huey quaked. The Dotstress thigh-massaged him.
Dudley said, “Bid good-bye to your mothers, son. You’ll be leaving in a moment.”
Carlos said, “You’ll love Tijuana, Huey. We will go to the donkey show tonight.”
Huey ran to Ruth Mildred. Dudley admired his speed. Huey threw his arms around her. Ruthie consoled him. Note her tongue in his ear.
Harry Cohn walked in. Mickey and Hooky stirred and displayed brass knucks. The gang adjourned to Ruthie’s office. Ruthie slid Huey off her lap and opened the curtains. The gang peered out.
Picketers and chanters. Raggedy exemplars of specious discontent.
Mickey and Hooky slid out the door. Harry lit a cigarette and flushed sclerotic. Standing room only. Exclusive sneak peek. Red Riot on Gower Gulch!
It stars Mickey and Hooky. They’re two-fisted Jewboys, wielding steel knucks. “King Cohn must go! King Cohn must—”
The Hebrew hard-ons hit. They ducked their heads and came in low. Picket signs flew. Picket fucks fled. Dudley saw ripped cheeks and hairlines. Someone’s dentures bounced in the street.
Harry said, “Thanks, Dud. And thank Ben Siegel for me. I’ll consider your smut deal.”
The gang enjoyed the show. Dot tittered. Huey burrowed into Ruth Mildred.
She ogled Lupe Vélez. “I scraped her. The daddy had a two-foot schlong. I had to stitch Lupe up.”
10:18 a.m.
The Dotstress ran interference. She led them through the studio and up to the Sunset gate. Mickey and Hooky flexed their hands. Their shirts were bloodstained.
Dot waved bye-bye. Dudley smooshed Mickey and Hooky into his car. They pulled out east. The Red riot dispersed. Traffic noise covered the shrieks.
“It’s your day to curry favor with influential men, lads. I applaud your fine work for Mr. Cohn, and offer applause in advance for your work for Mr. Siegel.”
Mickey flexed his hands. The Herald called him a “pint-size plug ugly.” The Herald knew their shit.
“We’re supposed to tune up some Nazi humps. What’s the drift on that, Dud? You’ve got no beef with the Krauts.”
Dudley said, “You will enjoy humbling men who condone the mistreatment of your grand people. They will reveal the names of other Bundists and like-minded souls in the Sheriff’s Office and Los Angeles PD. I will coerce those men into working for me. They will assist a roundup of potential witnesses for a case I’m investigating. It will not be a job for the frail of heart.”
Hooky massaged his hands. The Mirror called him a “vicious strongarm thug.” The Mirror knew their shit.
“So we get fake-popped on a gun charge and lounge around in stir? That’s the drift here?”
“It is, lad. That stated, I think you’ll find the accommodations engaging.”
Mickey and Hooky relaxed. Dudley highballed downtown. His best suit was stashed at Kwan’s. Bette Davis, tonight at the Shrine.
South to Temple. There’s the Hall of Justice. There’s the Welcome Wagon—two deputies in Santa Claus hats.
Mickey and Hooky yocked. Dudley pulled up to the jail door and idled. A Santa cop grabbed the sled. Mickey slipped him a C-note. The Santa cop swooned and peeled out.
A Santa cop escorted them up. Hooky slipped him a C-note. He swooned. They hit a Jap-infested catwalk. There’s the Penthouse. It’s been redecorated. It’s a bookie front now.
Blackboards. Chalked-on results for Pimlico and Bay Meadows. Fourteen phones. Ben Siegel—holding two pairs of sap gloves. Palm-weighted. Twelve ounces of solid lead per.
Benny hugged Mickey and Hooky. The gloves changed hands. Ben wore a swell blue suit. The boy nearly glowed.
He said, “A little break for you. I’ll have you out by Hanukkah.”
Dudley said, “Ace Kwan will cater your meals. Keep your ears perked for jailhouse chat that Mr. Siegel and I might find alluring.”
Mickey and Hooky donned the gloves. They were fetishist’s black.
Ben said, “You’re down to four, Dud. That Dr. Fred Hiltz guy finagled bail somehow. He’s jungled up with that anti-Semite preacher, Gerald L. K. Smith. They’re in some sort of hate-tract biz.”
“Not all Smiths are as benevolent as I am. I should add that the Reverend Smith is a Protestant.”
Ben pointed down the catwalk. It was empty-cell Siberia. The deputies tuned up rape-o’s and child molesters there.
Dudley said, “I want names. Currently employed policemen. The Bund, the Silver Shirts
, the Klan, the Christian Front, the Thunderbolt Legion. I doubt if they will withhold the information.”
Mickey and Hooky flexed their gloves. Benny bowed. Proceed, meine Kameraden.
They walked over. The fucks were cuffed against a bar row. They stood behind-the-back cinched.
Tuesday night. The Deutsches Haus. The same lads, minus Fred Hiltz. In jail denims now. Denied bail. FUCKED in war-fevered L.A.
Scared. Trembling. Face-to-face with vicious Yids.
Dudley said, “My friends and I want names. Local policemen on the far-right flank that you’ve encountered. You’ll be returned to your cells once you provide those names.”
Ben Siegel gleamed. Zionist Ben. He was big in the Jewish Orphans Fund.
He nodded. Mickey and Hooky stepped in.
They slapped. Palm weights delivered the hurt. They employed shoulder pivots. They looked mean. Jews, racial scapegoats, Kristallnacht.
The Nazis thrashed and shit their shorts. Mickey and Hooky laid in love taps. The taps dislodged teeth. Lips split. Bridgework fell. The Nazis squirmed against the bars. They contorted. They started screeching names.
Dudley stood up close. The Krauts snitched names. He heard “Dougie Waldner, Sheriff’s, Firestone Station.” He heard, “He’s Klan and Shirts, and he knows Gerry Smith.”
Mickey and Hooky moved back. Benny embraced them. The Nazi fucks coughed up teeth and names.
Dudley heard “Fritz Vogel” and “Bill Koenig.” Dudley heard “Bund.” Dudley heard “77th Street Station.” The blood became untenable. Dudley moved back. A Santa cop shoved a phone in his face. He heard Dick Carlisle on the line.
Carlisle said, “McPherson, Casbah, outside on Temple, now.” Dudley ran.
He made the freight lift. He made the ground. He made the parking lot. A ’39 Chevy rolled by. Bill McPherson had the wheel.
A ’38 Cadillac rolled up. Sid Hudgens had the wheel. Dick C., Mike B. and Scotty B. rode with him. Dudley jumped in back.
Carlisle said, “The DA’s up ahead, and he’s stinko.”
Sid said, “I’ve got my camera.”
Scotty said, “What do I do?”
Carlisle said, “What do you think? You loom.”
Breuning said, “He just up and ducked out of his office. I called Minnie Roberts and got the lowdown. He ordered the ‘Mudbath.’ It’s three colored girls.”
Carlisle went Uuuuugh. Sid went Oooh-la-la.
The Chevy hooked onto Broadway, southbound. Sid stuck in, bumper-tight.
Dudley caught his breath. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled. He wrote “Waldner/Sheriff’s/Firestone.” He wrote “Vogel/Koenig/77th.”
The Chevy made time. The Sidster hovered in pounce range. The complexion bronzed at Jefferson Boulevard. Dudley smelled white missionary en croûte.
The Call of the Jungle doomed the DA. There’s the Casbah—a strip of rooms above Sultan Sam’s Sandbox.
The Chevy pulled to the curb. Darktown Bill got out and primped his way upstairs. Sid braked and parked. Dudley counted off sixty seconds. Sid flashbulb-prepped his camera. Breuning and Carlisle smirked.
Scotty was dumbstruck. He killed a Chink last night. He slept with a woman. His suit was rumpled. Note the fading perfume.
Dudley said, “Now.”
They piled out and laid tracks. They went up the stairs, single file. Minnie met them on the landing. She flashed four fingers to denote room no. 4. Dudley led them over. Breuning and Carlisle kicked in the door. It sheared and flew off the hinges.
Bad Bill was poking a darky girl. Two high yellows stood by. They held switches and wore Cleopatra gowns. All hail the “Mudbath.”
The Sidster popped a flashbulb. Glare torched the room. It made the mudbathers blink and—
Halt.
It’s a shakedown.
Bill, stop fucking. The Mudbath is over. Put down those switches, girls.
The rutters froze. The cops ran into the room. Sid flashed photo no. 2. Breuning and Carlisle grabbed the switch girls. Scotty pulled the DA out of the saddle and tossed him on the floor. The girls squealed and beat feet down the hall.
McPherson sobbed. Breuning threw a blanket on him. Dudley hovered, close in.
“You will be presented with a suspect in a multiple homicide case sometime between now and New Year’s. You will have a confession, superbly corroborated by eyewitnesses and forensic evidence. You will facilitate the filing of a grand jury indictment. The matter will be expeditiously adjudicated. You will secure a four-count conviction. It will buttress your reputation as a jurist of sterling repute.”
McPherson soiled the blanket. McPherson went Yes, yes, yes, YES! Sid shot photo no. 3. The room glared bright white.
Dudley signaled the boys. They scrammed the room and vacated the Casbah. They walked back to the car. Sid screeched a U-turn and pointed them north.
The boys laughed. The boys whooped. The boys exhaled steam. Scotty played it sotto voce. He looked shell-shocked.
Sid drove west to Figueroa. The scenery improved. Mock-snow Christmas trees and REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR! signs. Klieg lights outside the Shrine Auditorium. Hold for Miss Bette Davis.
Dudley chain-smoked and brooded. His dope-peddling Armenians vexed him. Their heroin source had dried up. It induced a coontown panic. They’ve pled for help. He has no answers.
Ensign Jack Kennedy will hit L.A. tomorrow. Beth Short and Tommy Gilfoyle will hit shortly. Beth at seventeen—more and more cut from his cloth.
Beth’s letter vexed him. He got it right before the Watanabe snuffs. Her “horrible thing” last year. She must reveal that event.
City Hall appeared. His lads disembarked. Sid went Where to? Dudley made slant eyes. It signified Kwan’s.
Sid drove him there. Dudley winked and got out of the car. Black-bordered business fronts ran up the street. They were Four Families affiliates. They were heathens in mourning.
Hop Sing boys flanked the Pagoda. Their coat bulges concealed big gats. They got the door for him. He ducked to the basement. Ace had prepared his room.
The pallet, the bowl, the tar. The pipe for enhanced Thought and Act.
Dudley shrugged off his suit coat and holster. He lit the pipe. He held the smoke. He breathed ouuuuuut.
Something quashed stray imagery. He went straight to the Watanabe house.
That simple detail overlooked. He shouldn’t care. The case would be fallaciously solved.
He inhaled again. He walked in the front door and circled the bodies. His sketched map merged with his memorized floor plan. The overlay encompassed brain camera and animation.
The dining room, the kitchen. The damp clothes on the line. It indicates homicide. The killer forgot to remove the clothes and/or dry them. It indicates a mental lapse.
He inhaled again. He walked through the house three times. He smelled all the food in the icebox. He touched all the furniture. Downstairs, upstairs, the note. “Looming apocalypse.” Did it prophesy Sunday’s attack or the current roundups?
He inhaled again. He stepped outside and conversed with Dr. Ashida. A truth sideswiped him. It’s why they have to know Who and Why.
Dialectic. The lad embodied great utility and insight. Scientific application meets baffling event. Eugenics and racial identity. Add lurid psychopathy. Add the native-born Japanese and foreign-born Irish. Their compatible and conflicting visions. Their shared need to know Who and Why.
He spoke to Ashida, outside the house. The lad relinquished his pilfered tracts. Tracts were a difficult trace. Ed Satterlee cued him in to Lee Blanchard’s girlfriend, Kay Lake. Miss Lake meets the Red Claire De Haven. Miss Lake attends a party at her home. Miss De Haven invites Miss Lake to a second soirée. Ben Siegel is procuring a guest list.
Whiskey Bill’s “outside deal.” Whiskey Bill’s strident anticommunism. Chart the possibilities.
Miss Lake might snitch Reds to Bill Parker. That might explain Whiskey Bill’s “left-wing tract” and “outside deal.” It was all hypothetical. It
was worth strategic scrutiny.
Ed Satterlee told him this: Parker got Meeks assigned to the Sheriff’s-van heist. The move was suspicious. It might mean nothing. It might bode as Parker-Meeks collusion. The van job was watertight. Parker could not suspect Huey Cressmeyer.
The Watanabe house faded to pinpoints. Dr. Ashida waved good-bye. Light jumped through a door crack. He heard footfalls and smelled fortified tea.
A cup touched his hands. The footfalls retreated. He sipped the tea. It supplied the high voltage he’d need.
His body recalibrated. His watch said 6:18.
He got up. He put on his suit coat and hooked on his gun. He walked into the office. Ace greeted him. Note the ordnance on his desk.
Two .45’s. Silencer-fitted and loaded with poison-dipped dumdums. Two short-handled axes. Note their razor-honed blades.
They bowed to each other. Ace wrapped the tools in a gunnysack. Dudley pulled out his switchblade. The business end popped up.
Ace said, “My Irish brother.”
Dudley said, “My yellow brother.”
He held out the knife. Ace held out his right index finger. Dudley cut it and passed him the knife. Ace cut Dudley’s finger. Blood dripped over their hands.
They clasped hands. They formed a lace-fingered fit and merged blood. They wiped their hands on the gunnysack and walked outside.
Ace owned a Packard sedan. It was warlord size. They took Broadway to Temple, Temple to Vermont. Christmas lights blinked everywhere.
They took Vermont to the Griffith Park road. Plush homes, green hills, the Observatory dome. That stunning city view. No other parking-lot cars.