Little Tokyo was preholiday still; Lee told me that the Feds were on hiatus until the big roundup commenced after New Year’s. The PD’s Alien Squad had been yanked and put on hold for 1/2/42 sweeps.
February ’42 loomed as brutal. The “mass evacuation” and transport to the camps, the FBI’s phone-tap probe on the PD. This storm. All the people I knew would be tossed through it.
I parked at the curb and ducked rain into the café; I hung my coat on the rack by the door and heard someone say “Miss Lake.” I turned and saw Ward Littell, sitting at a window table. He had a pot of tea and a plate of rice cakes in front of him; he motioned toward an empty chair.
I walked over and sat down. Littell said, “I’m taking a break from Mariko Ashida.”
I said, “I know she’s difficult. Hideo’s told me stories.”
Littell poured me tea. “I’m an orphanage boy. I take family where I can get it.”
“I’ve forgotten what my own family looks like.”
“They probably look like you, before that new nose of yours.”
I laughed and lit a cigarette. “You were very considerate to Claire and me at the booking. This is a good opportunity for me to thank you, so I will.”
Littell said, “You and Dot Rothstein are the talk of the L.A. Office, along with Dudley Smith, Bill Parker and whatever sort of devil’s deal they cut to get you and the others released.”
He was fishing for gossip. I sidestepped him with a query.
“You’ll be out of your cushy assignment soon. The Ashidas will be detained, and I’m wondering how that will sit with you.”
“Not so soon for the Ashidas, I’m happy to say. Dudley Smith pulled strings and got them yanked from the arrest-and-detain list. They’ll be escorted to a private train compartment at the last second.”
I smiled. “Hideo’s valuable. Powerful men are indebted to him.” Littell smiled. A decorous silence passed. I thought of Dudley Smith, ubiquitous. I pictured papal conclaves, 1514. It’s the time of the Augsburg Confession. Luther is poised at Wittenberg and must be dealt with. The Dudster is dispatched on horseback. Agreements are sealed and heads secretly roll.
“What do you know about Dudley Smith, Mr. Littell?”
“Everything and nothing. He rigs evidence routinely, or only as a desperate last measure. He does favors for people. He kills people or doesn’t kill people. The Watanabe case is either fishy or kosher, depending on who you talk to. It doesn’t matter either way, because the grand jury just handed down a true bill.”
I crushed my cigarette. “And that’s all you know?”
Littell smiled and twirled his teacup. “There’s the rumor that he’s sleeping with Bette Davis. Which I choose not to believe, because I’ve always enjoyed Miss Davis’ work.”
I laughed. A woman at the counter called out. “Your office, Mr. Littell.”
Littell got up and took the call; I sipped tea and ate the two remaining rice cakes. Littell came back, holding his raincoat and hat.
He said, “I should be going. I’m due in court.”
I stood up and offered my hand. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Littell. And thank you. You were gracious beyond the occasion.”
“Take care of yourself, Miss Lake. And try to be careful.”
I smiled. Littell put on his coat and hat and walked into the rain. I sat at the table and watched the clouds break. I thought of Scotty and Christmas dinner at boot camp. I squeezed my Saint Chris medal.
The sun appeared. I walked outside and dawdled in front of the store next door. It was more than a curio shop and less than a gallery. Beautiful tapestries were displayed in the window, along with a shelf of painted Kabuki masks.
The faces were artfully rendered, paint on sculpted wood. The features were indistinguishable—except one.
I caught the resemblance immediately. It was a martyr’s mask. It commemorated a ravaged lost soul. The mask derived from theatrical tradition. It purportedly summoned just vengeance and eased the ravaged-soul bearer to rest.
The painted features depicted Goro Shigeta. He was shot and killed in a phone booth, about ten days ago. I’d seen his picture in the papers. The case remained unsolved.
I walked in and bought the mask. It cost thirty-two dollars. The cash-register girl disapproved of the purchase. It was quite plain to me.
12:14 p.m.
The line ran down to the sidewalk. The recruiters wore Santa Claus hats. Seventeen days since Pearl Harbor. A still-brisk enlistment trade.
The desks were stationed inside now. Regional offices smoothed out the Fed Building flow. The line crawled. Parker was two hours in.
He wore civilian clothes. He brought his birth certificate. He was playing a long shot. The war spawned paperwork chaos. Call-Me-Jack’s enlistment holds might have been misplaced.
The line inched up. He still smelled Blood Alley. Wake Island couldn’t be any worse.
A women’s line flanked the men’s line. It was one-tenth as long. He had a sideways view.
Kay Lake stood three from the end. She couldn’t see him.
He was running. She was running. War enticed runners. A Filipino man stabbed a Chinese man last night. He had an alibi: “I thought he was a Jap.”
Parker hit the desk. He flashed his badge and birth certificate. The recruiter checked his P-flagged papers.
He looked up at Parker. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, sir. A hold’s been filed on you. You’ve been declared ‘civilian-essential.’ ”
Parker stepped out of line. He looked at the women’s desk. Miss Lake stood there.
A recruiter said something. It was an easy read. The man said, “No, ma’am.”
Katherine, the foolish huntress. Our purpose here eludes me.
12:29 p.m.
Dudley cut through Mandeville Canyon. His hand throbbed and sent bolts up his arm. He wore the gray tweed with a Christmas boutonniere.
Bette through tonight. Mexico tomorrow. Rob and kill. Return for Christmas supper. Claire was serving braised goose.
Bette called impromptu and invited him over. She caught him leaving for the Joan of Arc film. He thought he saw Kay Lake in the lobby. It was eerie.
The movie was eerie. It was a crib sheet on Claire. He gleaned insight on her martyrdom. He vowed to teach her spontaneous joy.
Dudley drove one-handed. He chain-smoked to stifle the pain. His lads were meeting him outside Chez Bette, tomorrow. His trunk was ordnance-packed.
He pulled into the driveway and primped one-handed. Necktie, collar, starched cuffs pulled taut. He brought a white rose bouquet. I surrender, dear.
He ran across the lawn and rang the bell. The bolts hit his arm and his neck.
Bette opened the door. She wore riding breeches and boots. Dudley embraced her. She pulled back. One knee blocked the doorway.
His hand throbbed. She snatched the bouquet and threw it on the floor.
“We have to end this, Dudley. It’s gotten away from us. I know it’s Christmas, but—”
Bolts.
His hand throbbed, his arm throbbed, his knees throbbed the worst. He pitched forward. The sky fell. He saw Jesus Christ and Bette Davis, upside down.
1:12 p.m.
Upside down, right-side up. A bouncing Airedale and Ruth Mildred. A needle in his arm.
That warm-blanket rush. It wasn’t opium and Kwan’s basement. He was on the bed he fucked Bette on before she went cruel.
Ireland. That convent nun. Put your mouth here, boy. Another needle jab. A rocket-ship ride through the Bible. The Airedale lays down with the lion and the lamb.
A black box. A confessional. Monsignor Joe Hayes and cascades of his sin.
The rocket ship, in orbit. Ruth Mildred, with a stethoscope. Bette says, “The goddamn inconvenience.” Ruth Mildred says, “His fever’s down. He’s one tough mick.”
Bette. Quite the fashion show. Succubus/equestrienne/nun. She whips him with a riding crop. Dominatrix, equestrienne.
Don’t hit m
e.
Don’t hit me.
A needle stab. Hush, now. You’ve sweated through the sheets. Ace and the tunnels. Race science and the bidding floor. Bette says, “Kill a Jap for me.”
Goro Shigeta’s face blows up. Bette’s holding a knife now. She’s on leave from heaven or standing by the bed.
Ruth Mildred, with sponges. Bette, with her riding crop. “The goddamn inconvenience. I’d invited people. It’s Christmas Eve.”
I’m sorry.
Don’t hit me.
I’m sorry.
Don’t hit me.
Ruth Mildred says, “Hush, Dud. This ain’t confession. Don’t give up the world.”
“Goddamn him, Ruthie. I had plans. The fucking inconvenience.”
Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me. Put your mouth here, son.
The rocket ship parked in the black box. The Airedale jumped on the bed. They discussed police work and cat hunting. The dog said he bit Bette’s husband. It feels good to bite humans. You should try it.
The black box compressed. Joe Hayes said, “Te absolvo.” Claire said, “It’s not her, it’s me.”
8:00 a.m.
Bells rang. The rocket ship vanished. The black box dissolved to daylight.
The Airedale slept beside him. Bette pinned a note to the headboard.
“I went to a friend’s. It’s over. You inconvenienced me.”
Ruth Mildred slept in two chairs pulled together. A bag and feeder tube were stuck to his arm. He pulled the needle out.
He was naked. His hand was freshly bandaged. The pain was gone.
Church bells. Christmas Day. Dudley Liam Smith—you took a spill.
He kissed the Airedale. He got up and stayed up. He was light-headed. He was hungry. He was swervy. He used chair backs as handholds and walked to the window. He looked out and down.
There’s Mike and Dick. There’s Hideo. They’re standing by his car. They’re Christmas fresh-scrubbed.
Ruth Mildred snored. She clutched a vial of anti-bug pills. He pried it loose and popped three. Ruthie snored on.
Dudley walked to the bathroom. He shaved and showered. He combed his hair and toweled off. He looked around the bedroom.
They’d laundered his clothes. His holster was hooked on a chair. He got dressed and felt his body cleave in strong.
He sent up a prayer for the Airedale. He snatched the pills and kissed Ruthie. The grand beast and lezzie snored on.
He walked downstairs and outside. The boys greeted him. Dick Carlisle was misty-eyed. Young Hideo lugged a briefcase. Mike Breuning was sprinkled with doughnut crumbs.
“Miss Davis fed us. She said you might be out for a while.”
Dudley said, “She’s good to common folk. They make her feel authentic. She covets their approval in small doses.”
Carlisle got the back door. Dudley yawned and tossed Breuning the keys. Ashida got in the back. Dudley sat beside him.
Ashida said, “I’ve got a lead on that rogue sub in Baja. I think I know where it might be mooring. I’ll explain later on.”
Dudley winked. Hideo blushed. Breuning pulled out. Dudley yawned and shut his eyes.
He held his bad hand on his lap. He counted Claire’s freckles and gave up at eighty. He walked through their rob-and-kill, Christmas ’41.
The border crossings were cake. The Staties ran light Christmas shifts. Captain Carlos wouldn’t know they were there.
He visited the clinic. Tojo Tom snitched the cache convincingly. They’d kill the guards at their mid-shift. It gave them six hours to snuff the patsies and plant the evidence. They couldn’t clip them before they clipped the guards. They had to plant some bootjacked heroin at the death scene.
He was Spanish-fluent. He’d stiff a snitch call to the Statie HQ. Hola, hombres—big ruckus on Calle Calderón. The Staties would discover dead men and some stolen “H.” It would coincide with the dead guards found at their end of shift.
An alarm would sound muy explosivo. Where’s the dinero? Where’s the rest of the “H”? The Staties would surmise a dope catastrophe or an obfuscated heist. They would not surmise American cops on a sub-spotting hunt.
Dudley shut his eyes. Dudley dozed. Dudley opened his eyes in T.J.
Feliz Navidad. Próspero año y felicidad.
Child beggars. Baby rodent swarms. They hawked religious medals and mugged for chump change. Rancid niteclubs. The Blue Fox, El Perro Blanco, El Gato Rojo.
Donkey-show fronts. Mex Statie–run. The proprietors Mickey Finn’d white swells and robbed them. Car-upholstery shops. Artisans fashioned seat covers and stuffed them with horseshit. Chancre-sored whores. On-leave sailors. He-shes in bullfighter garb.
Avenida Revolución. Street cops peddling nativity scenes. Prison inmates built them. They were made from matchbooks and ice-cream-bar sticks.
Dudley lit a cigarette and popped three anti-bug pills. Carlisle turned around. ¿Qué pasa, jefe?
Dudley said, “Go right at the corner. Calle Calderón. Slow down by 229. Our patsies live there.”
Carlisle looked at Ashida. ¿Es kosher, jefe? Breuning shushed him. Jefe knows his shit.
They made the turn. Breuning slowed down. There’s the address. It’s a tin-roof shack up on crushed-beer-can stilts.
“We’ll find them inside. Their PD file portrayed them as shut-ins. They make do with injected sedatives if there’s no white horse to be had. I’m sure we’ll find them in and conveniently docile.”
Breuning said, “We weren’t flagged at the border. Nobody knows we’re here.”
Carlisle said, “Call-Me-Jack knows. We’re on that crazy sub hunt, remember? Jack’s tight with Captain Carlos. He’ll tell him, ‘What a coincidence. The Dudster was down in Baja when your shit hit the fan.’ ”
Dudley shook his head. “Carlos won’t tell Jack. He doesn’t know that Carlos pushes white horse. Carlos won’t reveal the thefts to him.”
Breuning shook his head. “The forensic part of this worries me. The Staties send their evidence to a lab in Juárez. They’ve got all this up-to-date gear.”
“Yes, lad. And we’ve got Dr. Hideo Ashida, which more than compensates.”
There—Hideo swoons.
Breuning said, “I wish we’d prescouted this deal. Yeah, I did a good file scout on them, but it was a Statie loaner file, and who knows how up-to-date it was?”
Carlisle said, “They’re hopheads. They never do anything but shoot hop and die. You didn’t requisition the file, so nobody can trace you to it. Don’t go fucking cuntish on Christmas Day.”
Breuning flipped Carlisle off. They cut through T.J. They hit the coast road. Note the baaaaaad sub fear.
Mex Statie spotters. Sandbags and searchlights. Shoreline L.A., replicated. Blackshirts on beach patrol.
Dudley got out his map. He drew it from Tojo Tom’s description. Tojo Tom ran him through it three times.
Pass Ensenada. Go inland at San Vicente. Go four miles. Take the bisecting road right. There’s scrub brush for cover. Go one mile. There’s an open cave.
There’ll be three Staties. They work in twelve-hour shifts. There’s two safes. One holds the dinero, one holds the “H.”
The Staties know the combinations. They’re hombres muy feos. They might not talk.
If so, kill them. If so, know this:
Carlos has four vials of nitro stashed. Pace off twelve yards, right. It’s in a lead-lined strongbox, under a bush.
Dudley studied the map. Ashida hugged his briefcase. The boy was staunch in the manner of repressed Nipponese. He’d acquit himself bravely.
They passed Ensenada. Tile roofs and tin roofs. Abandoned-car settlements. Seaside docks and land-side casitas.
He saw it. Flanking movements and shotguns. Aim for their legs. They slip into shock and forfeit the combinations.
The sign. SAN VICENTE: 10 KI.
Breuning turned inland. Dudley brain-clocked the four miles. He flexed his good hand. He could shoot left-handed. Precise aim didn’t count. The pellets d
ispersed.
Breuning turned right. He dropped into low gear. The throttle noise decreased.
They crawled. Breuning eyed the odometer. The dashboard numbers clicked. Breuning braked and stopped at .8.
Scrub mounds flanked the roadway. The road ran downhill and dipped left. The cave should be just beyond.
Dudley said, “Please wait here, Hideo.”
Ashida nodded. Breuning and Carlisle got out and opened the trunk. Dudley joined them. A breeze blew their way. Loose scrub scraped the road.
It was too quiet. Something was wrong. They all caught it. Field hounds—both his lads.
Dudley said, “There should be voices. They can’t all be sleeping.”
Breuning said, “You can’t get Mex cops to shut up.”
Carlisle said, “Especially if they’re bored and just standing around.”
Dudley passed him the binoculars. Carlisle climbed on the hood of the car and looked downward left. Breuning got out the shotguns.
Carlisle climbed down. “No Staties. You’ve got the mouth of the cave and the two safes, right there. There’s nobody around. I couldn’t quite tell, but it looks like the safe doors are half-open.”
Dudley pointed into the scrub. We come in diagonal. We draw blind fire or no fire.
They waded in. Dudley took the lead. The scrub dragged against them. They held their shotguns at port arms.
Dudley saw the cave and the safes. He saw footprints leading away. He triggered a round in the air.
It was loud. It drew no response. He counted ten seconds of nada.
He ran down. Breuning and Carlisle ran behind him. They pushed out of the scrub and into the cave.
The safe doors were half-open. There was nothing inside.
Dudley stepped outside and scanned all four directions. They were ambush-prone and wide open.
Breuning said, “Huey.”
Carlisle said, “The Nazi fuck snitched us.”
Dudley said, “I don’t think so. I think he might have let Tojo Tom make a phone call, which would account for the cleaned-out safes.”