Beth knew that he was her father. She loved him and cleaved to the notion of her rough policeman dad. He just sent her a plane ticket. She wanted to see Los Angeles at Christmas. Her last letter disturbed him. She hinted at a “horrible thing” last year. Beth had a blind chum named Tommy Gilfoyle. He should call Tommy and inquire about that “horrible thing.”
Family.
Bold men required it. The constraints were minimal. The vows were laughable. The joys were rich. Family was a necessary tether. The hellhound within him would go berserk without it. Whiskey Bill was childless. He ran unchecked in his prim lunacy.
The parkway was near dead. Breuning took hairpin turns fast. The juice needle jumped in the straightaways.
Dudley checked his watch. It was 2:54. The next-to-last race ran at 3:00. Most track fiends left before the closer.
Lincoln Heights whizzed by. A cowboy movie was filming up in the hills. A gunfight blurred by. Dudley recognized a man in a loincloth. Some Apache—a skid row bookie and three-time loser out of Big Q.
Dudley smoked. His thoughts drifted.
He moonlighted for Columbia Pictures. He was Harry Cohn’s morals watchdog. Film stars ran unruly. The studio führers controlled them with rigid conduct codes. Violations construed breach of contract. He’s nailed queer movie stars. He’s nailed dipsos and hopheads galore. He’s got legions of bellboys and whores bribed to report indiscretions. He’s building quite the grand scrapbook of Hollywood at play.
Bette Davis will love his candid photos. She’ll be at the Shrine Friday night. The Examiner is throwing its newsboys’ Christmas bash. He’ll be there to provoke a chance meet.
Wetbacks tilled crops above the film site. Carlos Madrano probably supplied them. Carlos. El Capitán, Mexican State Police. Close pal of Call-Me-Jack and Two-Gun Davis. Carlos shared his antipathy for the Reds and the Jews. Carlos viewed the Japs as der Führer’s pesky kin.
Dudley checked the mug strip. The rape-o looked like a small Lee Blanchard.
Aaaaah, Leland. Are you still troubled by Coney Island, on November 12? You would love to join my cadre, but have you the gumption for the work?
Ben Siegel wanted Abe Reles dead. Lee Blanchard owed Ben, per the Boulevard-Citizens job. Jew syndicate lads bribed two NYPD guards. Hotel-room doors were left open.
They Mickey Finn’d Reles’ food. It was a quick two-man job. Blanchard fashioned the escape rope—a euphemism for noose. He did the hoisting himself.
The New York Daily News captured the moment. CANARY FALLS TO DEATH! HE CAN SING, BUT HE CAN’T FLY!
The train ride home was vexing. Blanchard waxed weepy and stayed drunk. The lad went back with Ben S. Benny bought out his fight contract and advised Lee to take some prudent dives. Lee refused, Lee owed Benny, Lee behaved rashly with the Boulevard-Citizens job. Benny banked at Boulevard-Citizens and played golf with the prexy. Benny was quite insane and obsessed with respectability. That caper was one large snafu.
Breuning pulled off the parkway. It was 3:01. Carlisle loaded the shotguns. They cut through South Pasadena. They made Arcadia and Santa Anita in two minutes flat.
The San Gabriels loomed behind the racetrack proper. The crest line framed the grandstands and clubhouse. The parking lot was two-thirds empty. Loudspeakers blared. A race ran down the home stretch.
Breuning cruised the parking rows. Dudley and Carlisle scanned plates. Cheers squelched up the speakers. Track fools walked out of the clubhouse and made for their cars.
Carlisle said, “Right there.”
Yes—a ’36 Olds sedan. Forest green/whip antenna/California ADL-642.
Breuning swung into an empty space and idled. Dudley chained cigarettes. The crowd fanned through the car rows. A man and two women peeled off their way. Yes—Jerome Joseph Pavlik and a Chinatown whore duet.
Carlisle said, “Tong chippies.”
Breuning said, “Four Families, and protected. The boss Chink plays mah-jongg with Call-Me-Jack.”
They looked blotto. The rape-o wore wilted khakis. The chippies wore moth-eaten fur coats.
They piled into the Olds. Dudley said, “Tail them.”
They brodied out of the lot. Breuning stuck close. They were stinko. They wouldn’t notice. Breuning rode their bumper—hard.
Two-car caravan. Residential streets, Fair Oaks Boulevard. The Parkway, due south.
The Olds fishtailed and weaved. Breuning eased off the gas. A Packard got between them. The whip antenna stayed in sight.
Carlisle blanket-wrapped the shotguns. Breuning said, “Bon voyage, sweetheart.”
The Olds pulled off at Alameda, southbound. Chinatown was straight ahead. Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda was quite close.
The Olds bumped the curb and stopped. The whores stumbled out. They got their sea legs. They tucked cash rolls into their garter belts and blew the rape-o kisses. They weaved down an alley behind a chop suey pit.
Carlisle passed out the shotguns. Jerome Joseph Pavlik stepped from his car and eyed the world, shit-faced. He gawked a vacant lot, catty-corner. It was full of palm trees and high grass.
He staggered into the lot. He walked up to a palm tree and pulled out his dick. He launched a world’s record piss.
Dudley said, “Now, lads.”
The street was no-one-out quiet. They beelined to the lot. Soft dirt covered their footsteps. The rape-o swayed and sprayed grass.
They came up behind him. He didn’t hear shit.
Dudley said, “Those grand girls won’t be the same now. This prevents recurring grief.”
He started to turn around. He started to say “Say what?”
Six triggers snapped. The rape-o blew up. Bone shards took down palm fronds. Carlisle’s glasses got residual-spritzed.
Big booms overlapped. Note those buckshot-on-wood echoes. 3:30 church bells pealed through all of it.
3:31 p.m.
Bug-eyed dragons flanked the Pagoda. Their tongues lit up and waggled at night. Uncle Ace Kwan ran the Hop Sing tong. His joint catered to white stiffs and Chinks with white taste buds. L.A. cops dined gratis.
Dudley walked through the restaurant. Mayor Bowron and DA McPherson were snout-deep in chow mein. Fletch B. was a peppy civic booster and all-around stupe. McPherson was a narcoleptic rumdum and mud shark. He frequented Minnie Roberts’ Casbah and engaged two Congo cuties at a pop.
A recessed door led to the basement. Dudley took the stairs down. He leaned on a wall panel. It slid open. Fumes hit him straight off.
An opium den. Dim lights and twenty-odd pallets. Water bowls, cups and ladles. Scrawny Chinamen in their skivvies, sucking on pipes.
Dudley counted heads. Aaaaah, sixteen fiends adrift.
Dudley shut the panel. The basement conjured labyrinths beneath the Wolfsschanze. Cement walls, mildew, scrolled-iron doors. Ace Kwan’s office—an SS bunker.
He knocked and walked in. Uncle Ace squatted over the floor safe. He was sixty-six and consumptive thin. He wore a Santa Claus hat. He conjured atrocity and Yule cheer.
“How’s tricks, Dudster?”
“Tricky, my yellow brother.”
“How so?”
“There’s a dead white man in the lot across the street. Your lads should spread some quicklime and post a guard while the earth absorbs him.”
Ace sat cross-legged. He was famously nimble. It was a common heathen trait.
“The lad was last seen with two tong whores.”
“Hop Sing?”
“Four Families. You might want to remove the green sedan, as well. I don’t want such trivial white business to disturb your clientele.”
Ace bowed. “Four Families has been rude to my favorite niece. They are unsavory like that.”
“Shall I rebuke those involved? I would hate to see another feud.”
Ace stood up. “No, but my Irish brother honors me with the offer.”
Dudley bowed. Ace pointed to a side doorway and went Be my guest. Dudley opened the door. Ace vanished somewhere. Chinks were stealthy and de
corous.
It was his secret room. The pallet, the bowl, the ladle. Compressed tar spread on a bread plate. As always—The Pipe.
He hung his suit coat and holster on a wall peg. The pallet was built for a tall man. Dudley packed and lit the pipe.
The tar smoldered, the burn hit, the smoke funneled in. His shoulders dropped. His limbs disappeared.
The wisps now. You never know what you’ll see.
Yes—there.
Dublin. Grafton Street, ’21. Black and Tans with rubber-bullet guns. They aim for the kidneys. It still hurts when he stoops.
A rally. Patrick Pearse in full cry.
“Irishmen and Irishwomen—in the name of God and the dead generations from which she receives her nationhood—Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.”
A church rectory. A gun cache in a priest’s bedroom. A rifle stock hits his hands. He’s on the street now. He’s sighting down the barrel. A British soldier’s face explodes.
He’s on Sackville Street. The recoil subsides. He’s looting a Protty-owned shop. Patrick Pearse ruffles his hair.
“She now seizes the moment, supported by her exiled children in America.”
Joe Kennedy smiles. He’s got satchels full of cash. Irish Citizen’s Army men greet him. The Black and Tans murder Patrick Pearse. There’s a firing squad. He’s got a bull’s-eye pinned to his chest.
Joe Kennedy says, “You’re a bright boy. You should come to America. Prohibition is a license to steal. You could ferry hooch for me.”
He’s in Canada, that’s Lake Erie, he’s on a moored barge. He’s holding a tommy gun. Whiskey crates cover the deck.
Boston. A grand house. A Yankee maid scowls at him. He’s toddling six-year-old Jack.
Joe Kennedy says, “Dud, this Jew banker fucked me on a deal. Take care of it, will you?”
His limbs are gone. The tar still burns. He knows when to stir the flame. Time is a nickelodeon. It screens through eyes in the back of his head.
He hit the Jew too hard. He shouldn’t have killed him. Joe Kennedy is peeved.
“Your future is in Los Angeles, son. I can get you on the police force. You can fuck movie stars and create mischief.”
He’s standing proud in knife-sharp blues. He’s hitting a purse snatcher with a phone book. Jack Horrall toasts him at Archbishop Cantwell’s table. He’s in Harry Cohn’s office. Harry pats a bust of Benito Mussolini. He’s outside a Bel-Air manse with a camera. He’s got a window view. Cary Grant is engaged in all-male soixante-neuf.
Photoplay, Screen World—magazine pages aswirl. Bette Davis—aglow with something he said.
Switcheroo. Instant travelogue. He’s on Coney Island at the Half Moon Hotel. He’s hoisting the canary. Don’t cry, Lee Blanchard—it’s unmanly.
Travelogue. Back to Boston. Young Jack Kennedy’s a Navy ensign now. He’s due here for Christmas. He wants to fuck movie stars.
Jack starts singing, in Spanish. His voice doesn’t go with the tune. Cut to the Trocadero. It’s festooned with a banner: WELCOME 1938!
He’s at a table with Ben Siegel and Sheriff Biscailuz. Glenn Miller’s band plays “Perfidia.” Bette Davis dances with a fey young man.
Light streaked in. The nickelodeon jerked. A shutter dropped and killed his travelogue.
He felt his limbs. He saw his coat and gun on a peg.
A Chinese woman appeared. She brought an aperitif. Three Benzedrine tablets and green tea.
Dudley stood up. The room retained a glow.
“What time is it, please?”
“It is 6:42.”
“Perfidia” ended off-key. Bette Davis blew him a kiss.
6:43 p.m.
Bucky was late. He always dropped by the lab on weekends. He trained at the Main Street Gym. Central Station was close.
The lab was dead. Most chemists worked Monday to Friday. Ashida worked seven days and nights.
The captain’s office was next door. Elmer Jackson’s voice came through a vent. He was boozing with Captain Bergdahl. They discussed the rape lineup with Dudley Smith.
The rapees ID’d the rape-o off a mug shot. Elmer said, “The guy might be good for the drugstore job this morning, but the DA’ll probably have to indict him off a slab.”
Bergdahl laughed. Ashida prepped a microscope and the drugstore bullet chunks. Ray Pinker ran his tests. He left his report on Ashida’s desk. His conclusion: Browning 9mm, shell catcher–equipped.
Wrong. Pinker’s comparison text was outdated. Be certain now. Retest yourself.
He dialed in close. He got the same characteristics as this morning. Call it conclusive. A Luger slug hits gypsum board.
Bergdahl cracked a joke. The vent amplified his voice. Ha, ha—Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker.
Elmer said, “Cute, but I already heard it.”
Bergdahl said, “Can you tell them apart? The Japs and the Chinks, I mean. I’ve got a pal on the Feds. He says they’ve got a roundup list for the Japs, if we get into this-here war. From my white man’s perspective, I can’t see no difference.”
Ashida unlocked his tool drawer. He kept his photographs inside.
There’s Bucky. He’s crouched in boxing trunks. He’s tall. He’s lean. His muscles meld more than protrude. He’s German Lutheran, with a Jewish star on his trunks. It expressed anti-Nazi sentiment.
He moved sideways on his toes and never tangled up his feet. He had left-hand power off feints. Mariko said he had “Tojo teeth.” His dad was in the German-American Bund.
His eyes were small and deep-set. His smile lit up rooms.
There. Those clomps—he’s taking the steps two at a time.
Ashida locked up the photos. Bucky walked in and dragged a chair over. He wore flannels and his Belmont letter jacket. The green B was pinned for basketball and track.
They shook hands. Ashida said, “Is it true?”
Bucky grinned. “Who told you?”
“Ray Pinker said it’s common knowledge, which probably means that everyone knows, except me.”
“I’m cleared for the May Academy class. I’ve passed all the exams, and they told me the background check is pro forma.”
Ashida smiled. “You were waiting to tell me. You didn’t want to jinx it, so you thought you’d wait until you were sure.”
Bucky rocked his chair. “Or after the fight tomorrow. I’ll be starved, and I’ll buy dinner. We weigh in at noon, and I’ll be all butterflies until it’s over. I can’t drop weight the way I used to. I’m still up at one seventy-nine.”
Ashida said, “Take some steam at the Shotokan Baths.”
“Nix that. I’ve got a pass to the Jonathan Club. The DA left a note at the gym. ‘Son, I’m betting on you.’ ”
Ashida slapped his knees. “I could tell you stories about him.”
“I’ve already heard them. He showed up drunk at a Lee Blanchard fight, with two colored girls.”
Ashida said, “Junior Wilkins? It’s not a very auspicious farewell fight.”
“No, but it’s one I can win.”
Ashida laced his fingers. “Did you read Braven Dyer’s column? He said you’re running from Ronnie Cordero.”
Bucky flinched. “I’m not quitting off a loss, Hideo.”
“You wouldn’t lose.”
“He’d clean my clock. I could take him like I could take Joe Louis.”
“I’m sorry you took it the wrong way. I didn’t mean to—”
Bucky waved him off. “I ran into Jack Webb. He’s selling suits at Silverwood’s. He said the Detective Bureau men buy wholesale there.”
“Jack’s an awful cop buff. He’s always bringing the Bureau men coffee and cigarettes.”
Bucky stroked his Belmont B. “Sentinels forever. Jack should let us buy wholesale. We got him elected class president.”
Ashida blurted it. “You’ve got an admirer.”
“Who is she? And what’s wrong with her?”
“I’ve seen her at your f
ights. She’s always drawing you.”
Bucky flashed his teeth. “I’m saving myself for Carole Lombard. You think she’ll go for these?”
There’s the blush. It always happens. Bucky’s so gracious that he never sees.
7:03 p.m.
The Strip is swarmed with servicemen. Dave’s Blue Room, the Bit O’ Sweden and the Trocadero are dishing out free liquor on the sidewalk. I just listened to a news broadcast. The men are being deployed to the Chavez Ravine Naval Base, Fort MacArthur in San Pedro, and Camp Roberts, up near San Luis Obispo. Los Angeles is the deployment hub; the artillery passing through has been consigned to coastal-defense installations and the Lockheed, Boeing, Douglas and Hughes aircraft plants. Ex-Chief Jim Davis runs the Douglas police force; he blathered for a good ten minutes about the need to protect civilian production facilities from Fifth Column sabotage and air-balloon attack. Davis is a vivid local lunatic; I watched him shoot a cigarette out of Lee’s mouth at the Bureau Christmas party last year.
I began my diary only this morning. It feels like a remedy to stasis already. I’m looking in at my separate bedroom; the first thing I see are my Bucky Bleichert sketches. They identify my need to engage men anonymously and abstractly. Writing about Bucky forces me to see him in a more critical light.
Lee Blanchard despises Bucky, for his “dance master style” and “handpicked powder-puff opponents.” I love Bucky for the ways that he is not Lee, because I am beholden to Lee in confounding ways and need Lee in direct proportion to our shared history.
We had a horrible fight a few hours ago. It pertained to Lee’s recent behavior. He’s been acting hurt for nearly a month now. He’s been sleeping in the Detective Bureau cot room more and more, and spending more and more time with the Bureau’s “mascot,” a very eager-to-please haberdashery salesman named Jack Webb. He disappeared for a week in mid-November, and explained his absence as “decoy work” in a robbery investigation. I believed it—but only briefly. On a whim, I went through Lee’s separate bedroom drawers this afternoon. I found a receipt for a train ticket to New York City and back, November 8 to 15.
I stewed over it. Lee came home and changed out of his civilian clothes. He stated his intention to spend the night at City Hall. I confronted him then.