Hideo Ashida walked in. I knew he was looking for me.
I stood up; he pretended not to see me. It would acknowledge that he came here to see me and would put him at a perceived disadvantage. I waved and forced his hand. He made a disingenuous show of noticing me, walked over and sat down.
The ruse was unlike him. He wore subterfuge unconvincingly. He carried a whiff of formaldehyde. He’d been to the morgue.
He said, “Hello.”
I said, “Who were you looking for?”
“I thought Jack Webb might be here. I know he comes by when he has the chance.”
The waiter walked over. He saw the Jap with the white girl and about-faced. I slid my drink across the table; Dr. Ashida took a more than healthy belt. It was a wartime play. Normally abstentious Japanese had a newfound yen for the sauce.
“Go find Jack. You’ll have a better chance of being served with him.”
“That’s all right.”
“I’m happy to sit with you, but I think you’d be more comfortable with Jack.”
Dr. Ashida slid my drink back. “You’re trying to make me uncomfortable. You’re trying to get me to say something I don’t want to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m happy to see you, and I’m pleased that you came here looking for me.”
“All right.”
“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable. We could go someplace else if you’d like.”
“All right.”
“ ‘Go someplace’ has connotations. I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than you already are.”
He said, “I’ll go wherever you suggest. I’ll be uncomfortable wherever it is, but since you enjoy my discomfort, it shouldn’t concern you.”
Touché.
I said, “Room 314 at the Rosslyn. I’ll go over first.”
He just sat there. I walked outside before he could say, “All right.” I dodged traffic across 8th Street, went in a side entrance and rode a back elevator up. The room smelled of freshly laundered sheets. The pillowcases were clean, but faded lipstick stains could be seen. There was just the bed, a sofa and a bathroom. It was a purposeful hotel room.
I smoked and paced. Other women had preceded me. Their heels had dug holes in the carpet.
My mind went blank. I couldn’t think it through past a no-show or knock on the door. I fought the urge to run someplace safe. A string quartet played itself out in my head.
The door buzzer startled me. I blotted my lipstick on a tissue and smoothed out my hair. The buzzer blared again. I walked to the door.
Hideo Ashida was mussed up. His cheek was scratched. He smelled like my left-behind cocktail. He stepped inside. Our shoulders brushed. My legs fluttered; I leaned on the door so he wouldn’t see.
“What happened to you?”
“I knew Mrs. Hamano. She would escort my brother and me to church.”
“Yes?”
“She hanged herself at the Lincoln Heights jail.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Some frat boys at the bar were telling jokes. I told them to stop it. There was some shoving, and Mike Breuning saw it and stepped in.”
I touched his cheek. He flinched. I ran my thumb over his eyebrow. He trembled. I put my whole hand on his face.
He said, “Why are you doing this?”
I said, “Because we’re alone in a hotel room, and because I want to.”
He didn’t pull away from me. So, I brushed his hair back. He didn’t pull away from me. So, I said this:
“Say my name, Hideo. Say ‘Katherine’ or ‘Kay.’ ”
He said, “All right. Katherine, then.”
My hand trembled. He didn’t pull away from me. So, I kissed him.
Our lips barely touched. He raised his hands to hold me back; his arms brushed my breasts.
We stayed that way. Our foreheads touched. It was a fit of sorts. His shirt was partially unbuttoned. I felt his pulse through it. I slid my hand under the fabric and placed it on his heart.
He shuddered. I moved in under his arms and found a closer fit.
He said, “Katherine, please.”
I said, “Please, what?”
He said, “No, Katherine, please.”
I pulled away from him. He went loose. I was the only thing holding him up.
He leaned against the wall and slid down it; he sat on the floor and drew his knees to his chest. I stood over him. He touched my legs and steadied himself. I moved closer. He pulled his hands back.
So, I sat on the floor beside him. So, I put an arm around him. So, we listened to a band concert on the radio next door.
I didn’t want to lose the fit. I didn’t want to say anything or do anything that would scare him away. The music was part of the fit; the raucous numbers and ballads merged. It ended, slow-tempoed. Hideo asked me to tell him a story.
All I had was a recounting of pratfall and eros. It started in a 1920 snowstorm and stopped when a police captain knocked on my door. I smelled the prairie on him. I would end my story there.
The radio was kind to us. Our next-door neighbor put on a night-owl serenade. The music was perfect for storytelling. We sat on the floor, in our fit.
My heroine was a dubious huntress; she was far too self-serving to ever be Joan of Arc. I described my early stay in L.A. and my time with Bobby De Witt. I euphemized Lee and the Boulevard-Citizens robbery. I spilled everything that Bobby had done to me. Hideo asked to see the scars on my legs. I pulled up my skirt, rolled down my stockings and showed him. He ran his fingers over the ridges and pulled his hand away. I wanted more of him there but said nothing.
His hand left me warm, so I told him about Bucky. I described my desire to capture a man and render him mine by seeing him. Hideo touched my leg then. He told me about a camera he’d devised to photograph people covertly. Bucky Bleichert hovered. Hideo’s eyes went somewhere. It was Bucky’s betrayal writ horribly deep.
So, he told me about Bucky. It was Belmont High, green-and-black forever, the Mighty Sentinels. The Kraut boy from Glassell Park, the Little Tokyo Jap. Half-Jewish Jack Webb—there with the jokes and along for the ride.
Track meets, pep rallies, the All-City cage finals. His crazy fascist mother, Bucky’s Bundist dad. The boys packed tight in a deuce coupe. That long ride to a big game in Fresno.
The story receded into secret-camera snapshots. What Bucky wore on prom nights, how Bucky rescued Jack from pachucos. How Bucky chewed raw steaks and swallowed the blood before his fights. That time he drove the drunk Bucky home and tucked him into bed. Bucky’s Sportsman of the Year award, bestowed at the L.A. Press Club. The rented tuxedo, the legs too short, the terribly clashing corsage.
I heard all of it. Hideo kept his head on my shoulder and a hand on my leg. I believed all of it and none of it. I felt heartsick in a way I never had before.
Silly girl. Idiot seductress. Now you know what he is. Don’t cry while he tells you his story.
11:58 p.m.
Tong hordes and cops. A rope line between them. Face-off at Ord and North Main.
Sixty Four Families punks. Sixty Hop Sing. Thirty cops culled for their penchant to cause pain. Darktown bruisers. Alien Squad goons. Scotty Bennett—in uniform tonight.
The punks jabbered. The cops held parade rest. Parker stood on the balcony at Daddy Wong’s Chow Mein. Thad Brown and Jim Davis stood with him. Two-Gun held a plugged-in bullhorn.
The blues guarded stacks of brass knuckles. It was Two-Gun’s idea. State the terms of truce and let the Chinks blow off steam. Clear out the jail ward at Queen of Angels. Reserve ten ambulances. Chinatown would flow red tonight.
It felt cumulative. It felt overdue. Somebody snuffed Ace Kwan’s niece. Scotty B. snuffed the real somebody or some convenient Chink. A Four Families punk got snuffed in Griffith Park. That put Hop Sing one death up. Ace Kwan was the PD’s favored warlord. The situation mandated parity.
Parker scanned the cop line. He noted Lee Blanchard. He noted Fritz Vogel
and Bill Koenig—77th Street thugs. Thirty cops. Two Kay Lake lovers. The war had L.A. all fucked-up.
Brown said, “The natives are restless.”
Davis said, “Now, Bill? Jack Horrall gave me carte blanche.”
Parker said, “Now, Jim.”
Davis raised his bullhorn and spritzed Chinese. He sounded like Chiang Kai-shek inbred with Donald Duck. Parker knew the gist. No more killing, boys will be boys, let’s joust before the truce. No rackets enforcement through 1942!
The punks tossed a heathen fit. The cops distributed knuckle dusters, one per punk.
The rope went down. Male nurses pushed gurneys out of bars and chop suey pits. Firemen screwed hoses into hydrants. High-pressure water knocked rioters flat and washed away blood.
Parker walked away. He took rear stairs down to the alley and headed for Kwan’s. Crazy jabber trailed him. He cut through the kitchen and muted it.
Brown and Davis beat him there. They sat with Uncle Ace. Lychee nuts and rumaki were laid out.
Parker pulled a chair up. Two-Gun said something in Chink. Ace made the jack-off sign. Thad slapped his knees.
Two-Gun said, “No more grief with Four Families. They’ll reciprocate if you give your word.”
Ace said, “I agree.”
Thad said, “They’ve agreed to pay you ten grand in reparations for your niece.”
Ace said, “I accept.”
Thad waved a rumaki stick. “Chief Horrall is adamant about no more killing. He’ll close Chinatown down if even one more killing occurs.”
Ace said, “I will comply.”
Two-Gun said, “No investigation on the Griffith Park killings. That’s straight from Jack Horrall.”
Ace said, “It is the best for all concerned.”
Two-Gun grabbed two rumaki sticks. “A Chinaman killed himself at the New Moon Hotel. We can pin the job on him.”
Uncle Ace beamed. Parker made fists and stared at him. Ace made the jack-off sign.
Ambulance sirens kicked on. Hydrant water whooshed. It all reeked of Dudley Smith.
12:42 a.m.
Meeks said, “You’re dressed nice, Dud. Am I keeping you from doing something you’d rather be doing?”
The paperboys’ bash was over. Grand Bette was surely long gone.
“You are, lad. I won’t pretend I’m not miffed. I’m sure your ‘urgent matter’ could have waited for the morning.”
The back room was musty. The Teletype clacked. That Chinatown truce abets mayhem.
Meeks said, “Where’s the wink and the blarney, boss? Tell true, now. I ain’t never seen you without them.”
“State your intent or make your request. Refrain from threats or suffer the consequences.”
Meeks lit a cigar. “I’m caught between you and Whiskey Bill. I’m sort of like the Ashida kid that way.”
Dudley cracked his knuckles. “State your intent or make your request. This prelude is vexing me.”
Meeks fumed up the room. “I went out on the DB call. A park ranger rang it in. Parker was talking to Ashida. They seemed chummy to me.”
“Again, for the last—”
“I saw a rubber bullet on the ground. It reminded me of that Sheriff’s-van job I’m working, which Parker put me on for some goddamn inexplicable reason. I dusted the bullet and got a ten-point print on Huey Cressmeyer, but I ‘refrained’ from telling Whiskey Bill. I can count, Dud. You had four men plus Huey on the van job, and three dead in the park. I’d say that one guy—probably a Jap—had already scrammed off. That leaves two Japs and a Jap-Chink half-breed who can’t be traced to the heist. They’re dead, and I’ll bet you got Huey stashed someplace.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “You have my attention. Finish your recounting, please.”
“Here’s what I’ve got. Huey boosted the bullets and some riot guns from Preston. I didn’t put that in my report to Parker and Ward Littell, just like I left out the print.”
“And, lad?”
“And, I saw Ashida’s trip-wire shots, because I leaned on your pervert pal up in the photo lab. And, it’s Huey again. He pulled the pharmacy job last Saturday, and for all I know, he’s got a whole shitload of dirt on the Watanabe clan.”
Dudley said, “Is there more?”
Meeks said, “Huey and his Japs clout the van. I go by the House of Lem Mortgage Company and learn that Ace Kwan paid off the loan on one of his buildings the next day. You always share your takes with Ace. Ace’s niece gets killed, and your boy Scotty kills a handy suspect. It’s getting tight as a tick, so here’s what I’m thinking. Huey’s Japs killed the Kwan girl, and you and Ace took them out.”
What a shrewd detective. The Dust Bowl Charlie Chan.
“I wish to purchase your silence on these matters, through to New Year’s. That includes your continued dissembling to Captain W. H. Parker.”
Meeks wiggled three fingers. “I got me a slew of pregnant girlfriends. Your pal Ruth Mildred sure could help me out.”
Dudley said, “Done.”
Meeks walked to the bar. He poured a shot of bourbon and dunked his cigar.
“Call-Me-Jack wants a Jap to swing for the Watanabes, and I can’t say I disagree. But I’m working the job, so I got a stake in it.”
“Make your point.”
“If it’s a frame, I’d like to see some true pervert son of a bitch who really deserves it to go down.”
As you will, you hayseed fuck.
“He’ll be morally appropriate for the gas chamber, I assure you.”
1:07 a.m.
The Shrine was the Tomb now. She was long gone. He ran anyway. He ran to his K-car. He ran lights-and-siren southbound. He cut the noise at Washington and swung west. He pulled into the lot. A sea green Rolls-Royce almost grazed him.
His headlights strafed the windshield. He recognized the driver from a Screen World spread. Boston stiff Arthur Farnsworth—grand Bette’s second hubby.
He’s teary-eyed, swerving the Rolls, wringing a hankie. Harry Cohn told all. It was a studio-dictated marriage. Hubby was a whips-and-chains queer.
Hubby fishtailed down Washington. Dudley parked by the stage door. It was a loooooong long shot. He patted on cologne and chewed a pastille.
He walked to the door. A firm shove got him in. The houselights still glowed.
The Taj Mahal West. A plush-mosque motif. Wall tapestries and a thousand empty seats.
An elevated stage. The Mosque, the Crypt. Discarded programs everywhere. The Shrine, postmidnight. A stand-still-and-catch-your-breath spot.
Laughter. Overlapping peals. Behind the curtains, stage right.
Dudley jumped onstage and tracked it. He parted the curtains and sidestepped klieg lamps in the dark. He saw light down a corridor. He heard boys’ voices. A woman laughed, contralto-pitched.
The boys squealed. Dudley stretched tall and walked over. He unbuttoned his suit coat. His shoulder rig showed.
She was down on her knees. She wore a pale blue gown. She was shooting craps with three paperboys.
They were starstruck. They hovered, they attended, they swooned. They wore their bargain-basement church suits. Everybody laughed and plain carried on.
His shadow hit them. The boys looked up. They were poor lads and wise to the world. They saw copper, straight off.
She felt their eyes leave her. Stray eyes discomfit the diva. She saw him and made him in a blink.
She saw the gun, the tweeds, the cordovan shoes. Hold my eyes for a heartbeat, please.
She did. He smiled and looked away first. He knelt beside her and dropped a C-note on the floor.
The boys looked at him, looked at her, looked at them both. She pointed to the fat boy with the dice. He passed them to her. She blew on them and rolled.
Snake eyes.
The thin boy said, “House take.”
The blond boy scooped up the C-note and some singles. His cohorts squealed. Miss Davis opened her clutch and took out her cigarettes. Dudley lit her up.
The boys gawke
d. Dudley doffed his hat and dropped it on the blond boy’s head. It covered his eyes and nose. Everybody laughed. State your name now. She knows you know hers.
He said, “Dudley Smith.”
She blew a smoke ring his way. He laughed and passed her his flask. She took a belt and passed it to the blond boy. He took a belt and passed it to the fat boy. He took a belt and passed it to the thin boy. He took a belt. He went Holy cow! and passed it back to Dudley.
Bette Davis blew smoke at the boys. They made mock gagging sounds and mock-thrashed on the floor.
Bette Davis said, “They have to start sometime.”
Dudley said, “I’m pleased to have shared their initiation with you.”
“Mine was somewhat less refined.”
“Would you care to set the stage?”
“A speakeasy in Harlem in 1924. That’s as far as I’ll go.”
Dudley laughed. The fat boy snatched the flask. His cohorts chortled. The blond boy passed Miss Davis the dice.
The thin boy said, “Blow, Bette.”
Miss Davis said, “I’ve heard that before.”
Dudley roared. Bette blew on the dice and rolled lucky seven. The boys tipped off the flask. A babble went up. The boys laid down bets.
Bette’s point, Bette’s point, Bette’s point.
Dudley dropped a yard on the singles. Bette rolled and crapped out. The boys whooped and grabbed the take.
The boys looked at her, the boys looked at him. They made goo-goo eyes over his gun. He undid his holster and tossed it to the thin boy. It went thud in his lap.
Laughs circulated. The gun circulated. It landed in Bette’s lap. She pulled it from the holster. She looked straight at Dudley.
“Should I?”
“I’d be quite disappointed if you didn’t.”
Bette stood up. Her gown was smudged. She flicked off the safety and aimed at the ceiling. She kicked off her shoes and got a grip on the floor.
She said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.”