Dudley popped the trunk. The Jap tracts were stashed there.
He scanned them page by page. His brain perk-perk-perked. He saw that tract at the Deutsches Haus. They popped Fred Hiltz at the Deutsches Haus. Hiltz was a hate-tract man.
Link that tract to these tracts. Different languages and print styles.
Wait.
There’s a lost memory. That tract to these tracts. Perk, perk—there it is.
Identically glued bindings / identical paper stock.
Dudley walked to a phone booth. City directories were chained to an inside peg. Perk, perk. Go in alphabetically.
The northeast directory. The C’s first. “Christian Nationalist Crusade”: 2829 Chevy Chase, Glendale. On to H. “Hiltz, Dr. Fred”: 2831 Chevy Chase, Glendale. On to S. “Smith, G. L. K.”: 2829 Chevy Chase, Glendale.
The detectives’ craft. Instincts confirmed. Disparate wisps cohere.
He snagged his car and laid tracks. He took the 1st Street bridge to Broadway. He took Broadway to the parkway. He popped two bennies and hit Avenue 45.
He parked in the driveway and walked across the lawn. Some fuck painted JAPS! on the door.
He let himself in. He walked straight upstairs. He paced the second-floor landing and stretched tall. He tap-tap-tapped the ceiling. He noticed inconsistent grain. He tapped that exact spot.
Presto—folding stairs dropped to the floor.
He walked up them. He lit a match. He lit up a snug crawl space.
No shortwave radio. One table and wall outlet. The radio was plugged in there.
Dusty footprints by the table. Note the heel and toe marks. Hideo Ashida always wore shoes with taps.
Hideo Ashida was here. Hideo Ashida stole the radio. Hideo Ashida stole the tracts. You drove up then. You should have searched his car.
Dudley got chills. Benzedrine. This detectives’ competition. His quixotic regard for the lad.
He walked down the steps and retracted them. The ceiling panel slid in place, flush. He walked out to his car and drove to the parkway.
He felt off-kilter. He should eat something. The thought sickened him.
Mr. Smith, Sergeant Smith.
The Brit Smith, the mick Smith. The Prod, the Papist. Gerry was Huey Long’s protégé. He was a share-the-wealth Red then. The Kingfish was snuffed. Gerry turned hard right. He was one florid Jew baiter.
Dudley swung off the parkway. A bridge put him up on Chevy Chase. He caught the edge of a golf course and read address plates.
Right there. Two mock Tudors, by the driving range.
He parked curbside. 2831 was range-flush. The backyard was grassed in. Fred Hiltz sailed irons. Gerald L. K. Smith cued up his balls.
Dudley ambled over. He came at them sideways. They were copwise. Hiltz knew him from the Deutsches Haus. Smith provoked discord routinely. They were copwise.
There—Hiltz sees him. There—he nudges Smith. They’re a Mutt and Jeff team. Hiltz is short, Smith is tall. Convergence. Mike Breuning said he saw them at Pershing Square.
Note the pitcher of lemonade. The dark hue says that it’s spiked.
Hiltz cranked a three-iron. The ball sailed two hundred yards.
Gerald L. K. Smith said, “Well, sir.”
Dudley said, “Pastor, it’s an honor to meet you.”
Hiltz twirled his iron. “He’s Alien Squad, Gerry. He was there at the Deutsches Haus. The Jew Control Apparatus sent some hard boys in.”
Smith said, “Friend or foe? Come on, out with it. You’re smiling, but you’re a harness bull in mufti. That brogue is disarming, but I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of it.”
Dudley cranked up his smile. His mouth twitched. He felt off-kilter.
“My name is Smith, Pastor. I answer to it proudly, as I’m sure you do. I’m Dublin-born, I’m Catholic, I’m a sergeant with the Los Angeles Police. Some pamphlets that I believe you to have published have come to my attention as collateral evidence in an already-solved homicide case. I have a few perfunctory questions along those lines, but the true purpose of this visit is to solicit your advice on a business matter.”
Hiltz sailed off a high one. Smith hoisted his trousers. He had stock moves. He was a grand stage ham.
“I bear no ill will for Catholics or the Irish, sir. The Irish lit bonfires so that Luftwaffe airplanes could get a better fix on London and blow it to smithereens. English Jews wrote The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. The Jew Control Apparatus has its own special entrance at number 10 Downing Street.”
Dudley bit his tongue. Hiltz walked to a sideboard and poured three lemonades. Smith went After you.
They pulled up chairs, facing the golf course. Hiltz dispensed lemonade. He was Gerald L. K.’s flunky. Gerry collected stooge protégés.
Hiltz raised his glass. “L’chaim. It’s a Jew toast. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I like a good pastrami sandwich as much as the next Christian white man.”
Dudley Smith roared. Gerald L. K. Smith roared. He had the lion head common to stage hams.
They sipped lemonade. It was laced with high-test bourbon. Dudley broke a sweat.
Smith said, “Huey Pierce Long, R.I.P. The sour mash that you are now imbibing came from his private stock. It’s 168-proof. The Kingfish appreciated a fast push out of the gate.”
Hiltz said, “That Jew dentist massacred him. I was in dental school then. Carl Weiss, DDS. That Jew cocksucker defamed my whole profession. I heard the news on the radio, and joined the Shirts the next day.”
Smith said, “Ask your questions, sir. ‘Perfunctory,’ you stated. That means three questions to me.”
Dudley said, “A Jap family named Watanabe was killed on December 6. They possessed one English-language and a score of Jap-language tracts that I believe you to have published. Did you know this family? Did you sell them tracts? Do you know or think you know anyone who might have known them?”
Smith said, “Well, that’s three questions.”
Hiltz said, “We’ve got no ‘Watanabes’ and no Jap names, period, on our mail lists. We consign our Jap tracts to a newsstand guy at 2nd and San Pedro. Who knows where they end up.”
Smith said, “They get killed December 6. Pearl Harbor takes it up the shorts the next day. No wonder I haven’t seen it in the papers.”
Dudley said, “Fainthearted people might call your pamphlets hateful, but I do not. It does not perturb me that some of your published screeds are vociferously anti-American, anti-Catholic, anti–Los Angeles Police, pro-Japanese and more than occasionally written from a Communist perspective. These extraordinary times have created a radically comingled populism, and your pamphlets serve to give it voice. I am possessed of extreme viewpoints that most of our fellow Americans might consider reprehensible. I laud you for having the courage to put forth such a diverse range of thought.”
Smith and Hiltz gawked. This mick can talk!
Hiltz said, “The bad pamphlets pay for the good pamphlets. We’re proponents of First Amendment discourse, and we revere our native right of free speech. Also, it’s fun to stir up shit from conflicting perspectives, and see how it all comes out in the wash.”
Dudley sipped lemonade. It burned going down. It merged with the bennies and sparked tingles.
“Who writes the tracts? Who receives them? How extensive are your mail lists?”
Hiltz said, “This guy’s bearing down with the questions, Gerry.”
Smith said, “There’s a pitch coming, son. Smitty ain’t here to waste our time.”
No, you vile Prod sack of shit—I am not. “Smitty”? I have killed men for less.
Dudley said, “ ‘Smitty.’ That’s rich.”
Hiltz said, “ ‘Smitty’s’ a potato eater from way back. The Irish breed with the dagos every chance they get. It’s eugenics. They produce good-looking people with dark hair and blue eyes. Potatoes are an aphrodisiac. Smitty’s probably got half-dago whelps scattered all over the country.”
Dudley went for his sap. No,
no, no—don’t.
“I will readily admit my fondness for potatoes, Doctor. It is surely in my eugenic blood.”
Smith said, “Don’t rile Smitty, son. He’s got more than potatoes in his blood.”
Dudley sipped lemonade. Dudley faked a cough and popped three bennies.
Smith said, “To answer Smitty’s questions, then. I write the rightwing tracts, Dr. Fred writes the left-wing tracts, and an old British fascist guy who was Jap-fluent wrote the Jap tracts, but he got killed in a hit-and-run accident on Pearl Harbor morning. The Jap-tract market has slowed down since we got in the war, but I’m considering hiring a Chink writer to write anti-Jap tracts and a Jap writer to write anti-Chink tracts in their own languages, which will cover a lot of bases and buttress our pro–First Amendment stance. There’s a socialite Commie woman named Claire De Haven who buys our Red tracts in bulk, and she even wrote an anticop tract herself. She distributes the tracts to Hollywood Jews, labor agitators, bleeding hearts, jigaboos, welfare creeps, queers, lovers of President Franklin ‘Double-Cross’ Rosenfeld, Jap lovers, Klan haters, Fifth Columnists and the Red parasites who pollute the minds of our young at American Jewniversities.”
The stage ham pooped out. Hiltz rolled his eyes. He’s always like this.
Dudley said, “Pastor, how many names do you have on your mail list?”
Hiltz stirred his lemonade. “Now, he gets to it.”
Smith said, “Let’s allow him his moment. He hasn’t been brusque so far.”
Hiltz said, “He was brusque at the Deutsches Haus.”
Smith slurped lemonade. “Smitty, I’m not a bragging man—but Dr. Fred and I are currently blessed with 68,981 names on our list.”
Dudley whistled. It came out dry. He was dry. The golf course swirled.
“Gentlemen, I represent a cadre of investors who stand to reap significant profits from the upcoming Japanese internment. Among our many plans, we intend to shoot risqué movies with an anti-Axis political content, featuring Jap performers. This war is a free-for-all, gentlemen. If even 15% of the people on your list have the predilection or wartime je ne sais quoi to partake, we would all earn significant monies.”
Hiltz said, “And that’s only one of your plans?”
Dudley said, “Yes.”
Smith slurped redneck lemonade. “And you’re telling us it’s police-protected? I used to drink and worship with Two-Gun Davis, so I know police protection when I see it.”
“Chief Horrall is less flamboyant than Chief Davis, but no less willing to capitalize on unfortunate situations that he himself did not create.”
Hiltz said, “The Japs lost me with Pearl Harbor. I wouldn’t mind turning a buck off the upshot. We could tithe 10% to the Crusade and wash our hands of the seamy side.”
Smith winked. “Dr. Fred’s been known to enjoy a racy two-reeler every once in a blue moon. He draws the line at tykes and animals, though.”
“We all do, Pastor.”
Smith said, “How much seed money are you looking for, Smitty?” Dudley said, “None, sir.”
Hiltz said, “The magic words. You can’t trust a man who arrives with his hand out.”
Smith said, “It’s all about selecting the proper names on the list. You can’t send out 68,981 smut brochures and remain confident of a high sell-through and no Christian censure.”
Hiltz said, “Amen.”
Dudley sipped redneck lemonade. His vision fritzed. His shirt collar seeped.
“There are a great many details to be worked out, gentlemen.”
Smith said, “You’re looking peked, Smitty. It’s not attractive on a ruddy guy like you.”
Hiltz said, “Huey Long’s private stock is not for weak sisters.”
A golf ball hit the house. Dudley flinched and reached for his piece.
Hiltz said, “Goddamn Jews. They’re gunning for us, I can tell.”
Smith said, “It’s a restricted club, Freddy. You can’t blame this one on the kikes.”
Hiltz said, “You’re right, Chief. It’s Smitty who’s gunning for us. He’s got a case of the yips.”
Dudley stood up. He saw spots in front of his eyes.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I must leave. I have a murder suspect to arrest.”
Hiltz said, “Did you hear the one about Pope Pius and the Dalmatian? Just a quick one before you go.”
Smith said, “You shoo, Smitty. I can tell you’ve been working too hard.”
6:03 p.m.
He got to his car. Caddies lugging golf bags blurred by him. He clutched his Saint Chris. Martin Luther taunted him. He started the car and got rolling downhill.
A canyon, a golf course, a white pavement line. He concentrated on his front tires and that white blur. He squinted. His clutch foot went numb. The car jerk-jerk-jerked.
He turned on his lights. Bugs crawled over the windshield. He ran the wipers and killed them.
He drove too fast. He drove too slow. He popped four bennies. He lost track of where he was. It looked like Dublin. Street signs said GLENDALE.
He stayed in second gear. He stalled out traffic behind him. He lurched up to red lights and fishtailed through greens. Christmas trees and American flags made him cry.
It might be raining. It might be his tears. He ran his wipers and brushed off more bugs. He weaved by the Silver Lake Reservoir. Front tires/white pavement line.
He saw double and triple. He passed Melrose and Virgil and saw that phone booth. Goro Shigeta waved at him. He yelled You’re dead, and I’m not.
He made Temple Street. His vision discombobulated and normalized. He checked the rearview mirror and saw Dudley Liam Smith. He recognized a hot dog stand.
He test-fired his mind. He recalled his daughters’ names. He recalled sporting events. The second Louis-Schmeling fight, 6/22/38.
Temple to Spring. Spring to City Hall.
The garage was near empty. He parked with great care. He wobble-walked to the lift and pushed 6. His feet were all pins and needles.
The lift stopped. He made the Bureau hallway. It was suppertime dead. The wall was a pavement line. His feet were front tires. He made it to the men’s room.
He threw the bolt and locked himself in. He slid down the door. The floor tile induced shivers. He crawled to the sink and pulled himself up.
He soaked a paper towel and doused his face. The mirror was a mirror. It was not a bug habitat.
Dudley Liam Smith. Dear Lord, that’s a scare.
He walked back out to the hall. He walked to his cubicle and fell into his chair. He stifled a screechy child’s sob.
Cigarettes settled his pulse and rewired his blood. Twenty minutes to the show-up. The eyeball wits were being briefed now.
He sucked pastilles. His pulse raced and subsided. The desk phone rang. He snatched the call.
“Homicide, Sergeant Smith.”
“Larry at PC Bell, Dud. You wanted fast, so you got it.”
“You’ll be compensated, lad. You know I reward rapid service.”
Larry said, “The only consistent run of Ensenada-to-L.A. calls that Madrano made over the past three months were to three local numbers. You’ve got the home number for a man named Preston Exley. That’s E,X,L,E,Y and WEbster-4821, which is a Hancock Park exchange. The second number is Exley Construction, 6402 Wilshire Boulevard, OLeander-2758. We’ve got Beverly Hills for the third number. It’s the office line for one Pierce Patchett. That’s P,A,T,C,H,E,T,T. The number is CRestview-7416. I don’t know what sort of business Patchett is in, but the address is 416 Bedford Drive.”
Dudley wrote it down. His hand trembled. The pencil snapped.
Larry nagged him. You owe me a C-note—blah, blah. Dudley hung up. Evidential links and tweakers overlapped.
He knew Preston Exley. He served under him. Preston ran Homicide for a spell. He read an inter-Bureau memo. Exley Construction had proposed internment-prison plans. The Madrano-to-Exley calls suggested Watanabe-case links.
Carlos Madrano fed wetback
s to Jap truck farms. Add the “two white stiffs” embroiled in the buyouts. Exley and Patchett might be those stiffs.
Patchett’s address hit familiar. 416 Bedford Drive. There’s more overlap.
Ed Satterlee supplied it. They were gabbing at Kwan’s. “We’ve got this Red psychiatrist turned. He’s got an office on Bedford, across from Klein’s Pharmacy.”
He knew Klein’s. His wife got her asthma pills there. The address was 419 Bedford. He always parked by 416.
Overlap.
Preston Exley suffered from migraines. They discussed it at a Bureau lunch last year. Preston said a Jew doctor worked wonders for him. The man was deep off in eugenics. His office was right by Marv’s Hofbrau. A pal in the same building recommended him.
Marv’s Hofbrau. Across the street from Klein’s Pharmacy. Right by 416 Bedford Drive.
Exley. Doctor-snitch Saul Lesnick. The unknown Pierce Patchett. Evidential leads and overlaps.
The phone rang. He fumble-snatched the receiver.
“Homicide, Sergeant Smith.”
“It’s Bette, and I will not tolerate one single interruption or line of blarney while I tell you that my husband was there when the flowers arrived, as were Willie Wyler, Myrna Loy and John Huston. My husband began weeping, in full view of my friends. John said, ‘Who sent them, Bette? Some stagehand you’re fucking?’ I was mortified, I was inconvenienced, I was made to look picayune. Do not cross the line again with me, Dudley—because I will not let you inconvenience me one more time.”
He trembled. Bette hung up. He fumble-lit a cigarette. The match singed his hand.
Buzz Meeks walked up. He struck a pose. He oozed insolence. He wagged a cigar.
“You look dicey, Dud. The Dudster with troubles. It’s one for the books.”
“Is there a point to your comments?”
“The point is you owe me three scrapes. My girlfriends are squawking, and I know you got to book Ruthie in advance.”
Dudley scrawled up a note slip. “Pierce Patchett/416 Bedford/Beverly Hills.” He tore it off the pad and gave it to Meeks.
“Get me all you can on this man. I’ll pay you five hundred. No delays, no cornpone asides. You’ve inconvenienced me, lad. I will not let that happen again.”