He left 282 Ord at 8:00 a.m. Wednesday. Lin Chung and Saul Lesnick paced and argued on. He played a hunch and drove to the Hall of Records. The hunch played off Pierce Patchett’s calls to Lin Chung.
Said calls—12/19, 12/20, 12/21. Patchett’s only calls to Chung. Patchett calls Terry Lux sixteen times those three days.
The Hall was paperwork-swamped. He quick-skimmed a recent transaction list. Lin Chung owned twelve houses in the San Gabriel Valley. He had second-mortgaged all of them. The transactions all occurred on Monday, 12/22/41.
Patchett, Lux, Chung. Telephone lists. Hurried money scrounging. His theory was this:
Lux and Chung wanted in on the prison-camp deal. Patchett exhorted them to raise scratch. Convergent schemes were brewing. Come on—outbid Dudley and Ace Kwan.
He drove by all twelve houses then. He looked in the windows. He saw movie cameras on tripods and bedrooms that resembled smut-film sets. He saw rooms with mattress-covered floors.
Let’s house Japs in plain sight. Great minds think alike. Dudley and Ace concocted the scheme. Let’s usurp the scheme now.
Now he knew this:
The houses were smut-film sets. Only that explanation sufficed. The houses would also hide Japanese saboteurs.
Madness. Racial insanity.
Lin Chung was Chinese and anti-Japanese. He was a fascist-eugenicist and friend of left-wing Saul Lesnick. War profiteering superseded racial-political ties. Let’s make money off innocent Japanese and assist the Jap enemy.
The rain let up. Ashida hit USC and parked outside the library. He ran inside. He knew the place now. He knew specific law books.
“Whatever you deem prudent.”
Let’s prevent more sabotage. Let’s blitz the slave-camp deal. Exley, Patchett, Lux and Chung might desist. They could be legally dissuaded. They were not killers of the Smith-Kwan ilk.
Ashida read textbooks and jotted notes. They comprised a legal brief.
Memo to William H. Parker. Here’s twelve questions for Terence Lux, M.D.
They all require “yes” or “no” answers. None of them touch Dudley. They circumscribe the Bedford Drive and Mexican revelations. They would reveal wisps to Parker. They would tell Lux this:
I know all about it. You and the others DESIST.
Ashida wrote it all out. Ashida folded his notes into a Christmas card and dropped them in an envelope.
He felt weightless. He smelled Dudley’s wet tweeds on his skin.
The library was stuffy. Ashida walked outside and gulped cold air. He got his car and drove to Silver Lake. He parked outside Parker’s house.
The living room light was on. He walked up and dropped the card in the mail slot. He checked the window.
Parker sat in an easy chair. He stared at a photograph. It was probably the big redhead.
2:11 a.m.
Lee said, “It wasn’t much of a Christmas.”
I said, “No. But it’s been a hell of a month.”
We sat on my bedroom terrace and drank cask-aged scotch. It was a gift from Uncle Ace Kwan. All the posse men got a jug, a shrunken head and a free-meal chit for Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda.
Lee said, “We should fill each other in on it one of these days. Scotty’s gone off to the war, we both took some licks, and you got your face rearranged more than I did. I’ve been hiding out from you, but I know that there’s some kind of story here.”
Our chairs faced south. The clubs on the Strip had doused their lights a few minutes earlier. It was cool and clear; the late-traffic hum mesmerized me.
“Give me your version first. It’s your college term paper, and the title is ‘A Hell of a Month.’ ”
Lee said, “You’re the college girl. You’re the one who writes things down.”
I smiled and sipped Ace Kwan’s scotch. Uncle Ace and his best friend, the Dudster. All roads lead to Dudley Smith. All my thoughts circled back to him.
I said, “You’re dodging me. I know when you’ve been holding back something you’ve been teething on. There’s a perception here. We’re going to sit here and enjoy Ace Kwan’s largesse until you tell me.”
Lee swirled his drink. “Call-Me-Jack got Count Basie for the Bureau New Year’s bash. The Count clipped a black-and-white outside the Club Alabam, and the blues found reefers on him. It was our gig or six months in the clink.”
I poked his arm. “You’re dodging me. Give me the perception and we’ll go back to small talk.”
Lee put down his glass and prepared to make newspaper headlines. It was Leland C. Blanchard code—the way he ridiculed the big moments of his life before he buried them.
“Bivins Takes Blanchard in Tuff Tiff at Olympic!” “Hero Cop Rescues Gang Girl from Heist Mastermind!” “Southland’s ‘Great White Hope’ Joins L.A. Police!”
I laughed. Those were some of his best.
Lee went bam-bam-bam and said, “Epic Raw Deal for Local Japs! Ex–Heavyweight Contender Spills Beans! ‘Most of These Fuckers Didn’t Do Shit,’ Officer L. C. Blanchard Says. ‘It’s All War Fever and Hopped-up woo-woo!’ ”
I applauded the sentiment and the performance. Lee bowed and went back to his drink. He said, “This war’s leaving me behind. Dud’s going into the Army as a goddamn captain, while I herd Japs who didn’t do shit into cattle cars and pop winos on skid row. You’ll be entertaining the troops in the sack, and you’ll probably write a book about it.”
He stopped and made more headlines. “Home-front Courtesan Tells All in Racy Memoir! Southland Holds Its Breath as She Names Names.”
I exploited the opening Lee gave me. I said, “Let’s start with the name Dudley Smith.”
Lee crashed. He simply gave out. He said, “Oh shit, babe.”
I said, “You can do better than that.”
He said, “Come on, Kay.”
I made newspaper headlines—bam-bam-bam in the air.
“Irish Cop Beats Man to Death at Newton Station!” “Irish Cop Frames Werewolf! Gas-Chamber Bounce Looms!” “Irish Cop Suborns Young Cops into Rogue Cop Coven!” “Kid Cop Flees to Perilous War Duty! Fears Sergeant D. L. Smith More than Japs!”
Lee said, “Come on, Kay. Dudley’s Dudley, and the world needs guys like him.”
He was tired. He was beaten. The war, the roundups, his fight with Scotty. His trip to New York City, mid-November. He killed a man with the Dudster. He could have fought him or said no. There were options, but he was beaten, and he had me to come home to. And I possessed stunning artistry, but no character or conviction. And I was too possessed by his world of vile intrigue to exercise my own option to leave him.
Lee rolled his eyes. I was boring him. I was besieging him with schoolgirl idealism. He rolled his eyes; he checked his watch; he gave me this look. Come on, Kay. Come on, Kay. Come on, Kay.
I made headlines—bam-bam-bam.
“Ex-Boxer Cop Slays Gangland Witness! Canary Can Sing, But He Can’t Fly!” “Slaying Facilitates Mobster’s Jail Release!” “Ex-Boxer Cop Whimpers to Irish Cop: I’m Just a Boy Who Can’t Say No.”
Lee threw his glass over the terrace; it shattered down on the driveway. He kicked over his chair and looked at me. He wasn’t outraged or hurt. He was just beaten. I knew what he’d say before he said it. He said, “Goddamn you, Kay.”
It was all he had. He left me alone with it. He walked into the house and out of the house and slammed doors as he went. He got into his car and slammed the door and burned rubber down to the Strip.
He left me alone with Dudley Smith.
3:08 a.m.
Night owl. Black coffee and the picture. Eleven days booze-free.
Lieutenant Joan Conville. The wayward farm girl makes rank. The picture was badly shredded. He should toss it soon.
Helen snored in the bedroom. She hated him now. He skipped Christmas for two car wrecks and a koi run.
Three Mexicans dug a big backyard pond and glazed it. He strung the fence around it himself. He drove to Jim Larkin’s bungalow and brought the koi back in pail
s.
They all survived. They loved their new home. He fed them high-line fish food. The fence deterred cats and dogs and kept them safe.
Helen hated him. He deserted his marriage for pictures and colorful fish. He sat in the yard and looked at the koi. He sat in this chair and looked at the picture. He thought about Miss Lake.
Parker rubbed his eyes. The living room blurred. He glanced toward the door. He saw an envelope on the floor, under the mail slot.
He walked over and snatched it. He saw his name on the front. There was no postmark. It was probably a late Christmas card.
He opened it. The card depicted reindeer on Wilshire Boulevard. A note was folded in. Dr. Hideo Ashida sends Yule regards.
Ashida had tossed his office and found his grand jury notes. Ashida studied them and read those law texts himself. He made unexplained assertions per a shortwave radio mob. Patchett, Terry Lux, the Watanabes.
The Dudster went unnamed. He called Preston Exley a “non–Fifth Column colluder.” The note further explicated Blood Alley. He implicated Pierce Patchett in the coastal sub attacks. He used mitigating language. He prepared a script. Brace Terry Lux—he might fold.
Elliptical. Damning by suggestion. Evidentially unverified and circumstantially sound.
Parker went punch-drunk. He bumped the doorside table. A stack of mail hit the floor.
He gathered it up. He snatched late Christmas cards in square envelopes. One long envelope stood out.
The return address juiced him. PC Bell/642 South Olive/“Official Query Reply.”
They always called. They never wrote. He thought they’d call.
The postmark was 12/23. The Christmas rush stalled delivery.
Parker slit the envelope. Finally—the outgoing pay-phone list.
He skimmed the first page. The wall held him up.
One glance said IT’S HIM.
3:21 a.m.
Night owl. Night owls, plural. He’d be up. War insomnia ran epidemic.
It’s raining again. The pavement’s wet. You’re punch-drunk. Keep your eyes on the road.
Parker drove to Santa Monica. He ran Sunset to Lincoln and south. Two pay phones stood a block away. The phone stood across the street.
He parked curbside. The plant was barb wire–enclosed. He walked to the gate and badged the guard. The man was ex-PD. He went Yup, the boss is in.
The boss had his own Quonset hut. Parker dodged camouflage nets and ducked over. He was punch-drunk. The rain carried him.
The door was open. Jim Davis was sprawled on a green leather couch. His office was slathered with shadowboxed guns and war flags.
Davis wore cross-draw .45’s and picked his teeth with a knife. It was The Knife.
The rising sun flag was blood-streaked. The Chinese flag was bullet-ripped.
Davis said, “The pay phones?”
Parker nodded.
Davis said, “I locked my office keys up one night and got in a pinch. There was no gate guard on duty, so I used that pay phone to call home. Bill Parker on the job. I fuck up once and he nails it. I figured Dudley would get here first, and that he’d have his hand out.”
Parker locked the door. Davis kicked a chair over. It slid on the floor and banged Parker’s knees.
He sat down. He unholstered his belt gun. Davis unholstered. He placed his .45’s on the floor and kicked them. They hit Parker’s feet.
“It was my case, more than Dudley’s. I should have jumped when the Larkin job came in. It was there in all the Watanabe reports, but nobody keyed on it. They called pay phones near Lockheed, Boeing and Douglas. You’ve run the force here since ’38. You’re as fascistic as Hitler. We went quail hunting once. You wore a purple sweater.”
Davis said, “I’ve got three purple sweaters. And it’s not your case, it’s the Jap kid’s. If I burn for this, I want a Jap to light the fuse.”
“I can smell it on you, Jim. Everything about it is you.”
The room reeked of liquor-soaked tobacco. Davis snatched a chaw cup off the floor.
“You were my trusty adjutant. I should tell you what we got here.”
4:09 a.m.
You know me, Bill. I love the Oriental culture and the Oriental gash, but I kowtowed to eugenic pressure and married a white woman. I learned to speak Chink in a Chink whorehouse, which gave me a leg up on Chink culture when I worked Chinatown as a kid rookie. I got hooked on Jap culture when Hirohito started making noise, and I already gave my heart to Hitler back around the beer hall putsch. I met a nice old British guy named Jim Larkin in a bar a few blocks from here. He was some kind of Mickey Mouse code breaker back during the Great War, and he had a quite well-founded hatred for the Reds and quite an exhaustive knowledge of the Jew roots of the Russian Revolution. Jim was a big Jap-o-phile, and he creamed his jeans for a Japan-conquers-Russia revolt, to compensate for all the appeasement and stasis of the Sino-Russian War. Jim taught me to read and write Jap, which came easy to a Chink-fluent guy like me. The gang’s forming now. You get that, Bill. I’ve met Jim, and I already know Preston Exley from my days on the PD. Now, Jim liked Jap twat, and he knew a budding Jap-o-phile pimp and alleged businessman named Pierce Morehouse Patchett.
Pierce was a chemist by legitimate trade, with a special interest in eugenics and Asian chemistry. Frankly, he was a dope fiend, and he had a sideline peddling Jap gash to the sailors and Marines down in Dago. If it’s profitable and illicit, Pierce has done it or considered it, but I didn’t trust him completely. He was too egalitarian for my taste. He was too populist and hooked on weird dialogues. He’d talk race science with all these Hindu health faddists and do-gooders, including this Red eugenics fiend with an office right next to his. That’s Saul Lesnick, M.D. He wanted to build perfect human beings to fight the fascist beast. Since I am the fascist beast, I can’t countenance old Saul, but Pierce the P dotes on him.
Preston wasn’t political. It’s 1937, and there’s thunder on the Right—but Preston’s nonplussed by all of it. He’s on the sidelines, but Jim, Pierce and I are tub-thumping fascists. There’s America First, the Shirts, the Bund, the Copperheads, the Thunderbolt Legion. I’m a public figure, so I’m not as notably rabid as Jim and Pierce, who I’ve always found to be sloppy and impolitic, which is something, coming from a guy like me.
We’re jungled up in Jap societies with names no white man this side of me can pronounce. That’s how we meet Ryoshi Watanabe. At the time, Ryoshi was the A-number-one fascist ichiban of the fucking western hemisphere. I still love the Chinks, but the Chinks hate the Japs. It’s not that I’m confused or ambivalent, I’m just riding the zeitgeist for all it’s worth. Ryoshi’s an ex-Collaborationist, and his son Johnny is second-generation pro-Collaborationist, to Ryoshi’s dismay. Ryoshi’s got a knife scar that says it all, and our ex-Collaborationist pal Jim Larkin’s got the same one. The Collaborationists had a ritual, Bill—and civilized white men like you will probably find it hard to believe. They’d fight each other with poison-dipped knives to see who survives, which Jim and Ryoshi did, some few times. The Collaborationists were vociferously pro-Jap and anti-Chink, despite their mixed-blood lineage. That’s because they saw Jap fascism as the vanguard of the new Asian racial order. The Collaborationists were virulently antitong, because the tongs were virulently anti-Jap and represented a challenge to Japan’s slant-eyed hegemony. You get it, right, Bill? The world is knee-deep in economic chaos, and some visionaries with rowdy tendencies and quaint rituals see a way out. The Collaborationists are staking their claim to usurp the tongs and take over their rackets, and terror tactics are their means. How’s this for a ritual? Kill Chinks with poison-dipped knives, rape and kill the female kin of tong bosses, live outdoors in collaborative mixed-race harmony. Sound familiar, Bill? That Griffith Park multiple? I’m betting that Dud S. and Ace K. killed them boys that raped and killed Ace’s niece.
So—Jim, Pierce and I are jungled up with the Watanabes. We’ve got our kid’s auxiliary: Johnny and Nancy W., and the Dudster’s Nazi
snitch, Huey Cressmeyer. Huey’s the odd child out in all of this, and I made sure that Jim, Pierce and I steered clear of him, because he was close to Dud S. We’re all one like-minded family. Pierce has got his property schemes and his Jap-twat stable, and he’s peddling replica feudal knives to Collaborationists up and down the coast. I showed them how to acid-dip their fingerprints off to avoid identification, which they right-as-rain did. I’m the noted ex–police chief who got crucified by the local Jew Grand Jury and castigated for poking some underaged snatch up in Ventura County, so I keep my head down as the boss here at Douglas. Larkin corrupts kids with his ‘Santa Monica Cycleers’ hobby and writes tracts from all perspectives, and in Kraut and Jap. There’s money in it, but I don’t invest. Here’s where I’ll concede a certain lack of foresight. Bill, I’ll admit that I got carried away a bit. I know the war is inevitable, and I firmly believe that the Axis boys will win. I do some money hoarding and changing with Ryoshi, the Collaborationists and the Deutsches Haus kids. I’ve got a yen for yen and reichsmarks, because I know the war’s coming and the right side will sure as shit win.
But shit has this tendency to disperse, Bill—especially when money gets all fucked up with ideology. Because Preston knows a savvy Fed named Ed Satterlee. Ed says the Feds are building Fifth Column files on the local Japs, because the Feds are planning roundups when this inevitable war hits. Preston’s a big land-development man and construction kingpin, and Pierce had made money turning over property. Pierce is a chemist and knows topsoil applications. Preston built the Arroyo Seco Parkway, and he’s always had a yen to build more ramps to it, with shopping plazas adjacent, to take up the slack between L.A. proper and Pasadena. Now, this inevitable war and inevitable mass imprisonment jacks up his nonfascist but still-utilitarian thinking. He knows me, he knows Pierce, he’s met Jim Larkin. He don’t know the Watanabe family from the Jap man in the moon. But he comes up with a plan to buy Jap houses off the parkway and Jap farms in the East Valley, to goose his parkway plan and supplant it with a local Jap-internment plan, outside of the Federal government’s schemes.