Elmer said, “Be smart, hoss. You still owe Ben Siegel. You could cut him in on your part.”
Brenda said, “Benny don’t play with a full deck, Citizen. That bank was his good-luck charm. You were a damn fool to clout it.”
Lee said, “I’m a fool. I’ll concede that. And you’re right—I still owe Benny favors. But I’m not running whores.”
The wire slid off the spool. I started to rethread it; my hands shook and knocked the thermos to the floor. Coffee spilled over the wire. I dried it on my skirt, placed it back on the spool and pressed the lever. Squelch distorted a long interchange. Brenda’s voice rose out of it.
She said, “Ben will always be asking you for favors.”
Elmer said, “If you owe Ben, he makes you kill somebody for him. Son, you’ll get that call sooner or later.”
I turned off the machine. Tears rolled down my face and dashed the tabletop.
Lee and I had a routine. We’d devise mock newspaper headlines and pop them at each other to make our points. Parker trusted me to connect the dots on that recording. Now I knew why Lee went to New York. It was on the radio and in the papers. Here were some headlines to pop:
SIEGEL TRIAL WITNESS GOES OUT WINDOW! THE CANARY CAN SING, BUT HE CAN’T FLY!
3:39 a.m.
Snafu:
Wilshire and Barrington. Three-car pileup. Winches, tow trucks, traffic detoured.
A jeep plowed a road-hog Caddy. A ’38 DeSoto sheared off the Caddy’s rear end. Skid marks, broken glass, street flares. Six injured parties hauled to Saint John’s.
They were all drunk. The soldier was blitzed off booze from Dave’s Blue Room. The squares were still blotto from the Trojan-Bruin game. The soldier had hound blood. He shared ambulance space with a built blonde. She slipped him her phone number.
Parker stood in the intersection. Winches pried the vehicles loose. Tow drivers cinched chains and rolled the cars off.
Poof!—you’re alone. Poof!—it’s your own world at 3:40 a.m.
He doused the flares. He kicked glass down a storm drain. A Plymouth idled by. A redhead had the wheel. She was a Joan-from-Northwestern manqué.
He left Miss Lake at 1:00. She’d probably heard by now. She’d grasp the implied threat, for sure.
Carl Hull clued him in to the specific listening post. Carl had heard a ’39 recording. Miss Lake’s chums tattled. They jawed with her shitheel lover. Carl called the conversation a “significant wedge.”
Cars skirted broken glass and whizzed by him. He sat on the Wilshire curb and lit a cigarette.
He prayed off an urge to drink. He was too charged to sleep. He could brood on his back porch and hit early Mass. Dudley Smith would be there. The Archbishop would suggest coffee and cake.
Parker shut his eyes. A car door slammed. A man coughed and spritzed tobacco juice—he knew that sound.
He opened his eyes. Jim Davis walked up. His coat flapped wide. The hump still wore two big revolvers.
“Don’t tell me. You were listening to police-band calls, and you figured I’d be here.”
Davis leaned on a light pole. “Got me a swell radio. The insomniac’s best friend, as I’m sure you know.”
Parker tossed his cigarette. “Insomniacs tend to find each other. The world narrows down at this time of night.”
“Yeah. And the world narrowed down when you worked for me. I had a smart lawyer-cop as my adjutant when I pulled my most heinous stunts.”
Parker stood up. Davis crowded in. He threw his gut out and walked two-guns-first.
“What’s your net worth, Jim? The Mexican Staties were paying you a dollar a wetback to run their trucks through L.A. You let the Dudster sell dope to the coloreds, and it all had to add up.”
Davis stepped back. “It’s immaterial, son. We’re set to fight this war for the Jew bankers, and I got me two big howitzers at my aircraft plant.”
Parker laughed. “Maybe it won’t come to that.”
Davis spritzed juice. “The old Gypsy lady who reads my tea leaves says it sure as shit will.”
Parker shook his head. “It’s hard to dislike you, Jim. It shouldn’t be, but it is.”
Davis popped in a fresh plug. He came out of bumfuck Texas. He was a 1916 doughboy. He was Chinese-fluent. He mediated the last Hop Sing tong truce. He ran the Klan out of L.A. and welcomed the Silver Shirts.
“You were always looking over me, son. I’d have pulled a good many more heinous stunts if you hadn’t been. I’ll be there to tell the world that when they swear you in as Chief.”
4:41 a.m.
Parker drove home. The house was dead still. Helen was sleeping. Three hours to 8:00 a.m. Mass.
He poured a triple bourbon and walked out to the back porch. It overlooked the Silver Lake Reservoir. House lights bordered the water. There’s twelve lights, predawn.
He sipped bourbon. Please, God—just one.
He thought about Miss Lake. He thought about Joan from Northwestern. He saw her in jodhpurs and boots once. She shot skeet off Lake Michigan.
Parker turned on the radio. The newscasts were shrill. He tuned in the police band. He caught a tavern stickup. He knew the detectives at the scene.
Police work—a closed circle. We all kneel at the same pew.
An ADW in Compton. A fleeing burglar in Watts. Spectators outside a house in Highland Park. Probable suicide. Sergeant D. L. Smith and Officer L. C. Blanchard at location.
Parker sipped bourbon. Closed circle—the Dudster, Miss Lake’s shack job. Two-Gun Jim Davis at loose ends.
The bourbon felt wrong. The standard burn came on lukewarm. A Sheriff’s call hit the air.
4600 Valley Boulevard. That county stretch upside Lincoln Heights. Hit-and-run, four down, no suspect-vehicle make. First broadcast: 5:47 a.m.
Parker dumped his glass. Roll on it. You won’t drink if you go.
5:48 a.m.
He took his civilian car. The location: a curb stretch off a warehouse block. Big industrial hangars and nothing else.
Crash ropes. Three Sheriff’s cars, one meat wagon, four crushed bicycles. Deputies grilling three bruised-up boys. An older man on a stretcher. An ambulance crew standing by.
Parker stopped behind the ropes. His headlights framed the collision point. The wreckage spelled out the incident.
Four bikes. They proceed single file. The older man takes the boys on a predawn jaunt. One adult-size bike at the rear. It’s the most damaged. The three bikes in front are crushed. They are not rear-impact smashed.
No skid marks on the pavement. Pull-away tread smears. The boys were grazed more than hit. Their bikes showed left-to-right denting. The car grazed them on the left and sped away.
The curb was half dirt, half paving. The right-hand tires might have left marks. Plaster molds might reveal the make and model. The bikes were adorned with pennants for the Santa Monica Cycleers.
Parker got out and stood by the ropes. The boys were high school age. Their jabbers overlapped. They left SaMo High at 4:15. Jim Larkin was their leader. He was English. He was some kind of spy in the Great War. They were riding out to Lake Arrowhead. They sure hoped Mr. Larkin was okay.
Larkin’s legs were crushed. Larkin’s collarbone was sheared. Larkin trembled from shock.
A deputy signaled the ambulance men. They picked up the stretcher and moved. An object fell from Larkin’s pocket. The men tucked the stretcher in the ambulance and pulled out.
The ambulance hauled, Code 3. The boys waved good-bye. One boy started crying. Parker prayed the Rosary.
Dawn came up. Parker walked to the ropes and grabbed that object. It was a pearl-inlaid gun grip. Red stones offset a swastika. The grip was Luger-shaped.
Parker tossed it and drove back home. His errand succeeded. He worked off The Thirst.
He still tasted the bourbon. A stale burn had him parched. He raided the icebox and guzzled orange juice. He vowed to pray for Jim Larkin.
The bedroom door was open. He heard Helen snore. The telephone rang
. He walked into the living room and caught it three rings in.
“Yes?”
Miss Lake said, “The threat wasn’t necessary. I’ll take whatever you have for me.”
6:49 a.m.
Lee Blanchard said, “The natives are restless.”
Nort Layman said, “Do you blame them? Your neighbors are up and at ’em one day, going out under sheets the next.”
Thad Brown said, “The sheet blew off of Nancy. They got a goddamn good look.”
Blanchard said, “She was a dish.”
Ray Pinker said, “Yeah, if you like raw fish.”
The porch was packed: Blanchard, Brown, Layman, Pinker, Ashida.
Dudley watched bluesuits hold off the crowd. Gawkers filled the street. They eyeball-drilled the house and kicked up a fit.
The stiffs went out at sunup. Early birds caught the show. The hara-kiri rumor ran full speed now. He heard JAPS six thousand times. He watched Ashida take it stoically.
The gawkers gawked and jabbered. Men held their kids aloft. The house was rope-cordoned. Eight blues held the line taut. Jejune Jack Webb was out among the natives. He lugged a radio contraption and did interviews.
Some Japs killed themselves. Who gives a shit? No tickee, no washee. Where’s Charlie Chan and Mr. Moto? It’s Sunday morning—this sure beats church.
The house reeked of fried rice. Ace Kwan sent breakfast up. Dudley barely touched it. He flew on yesterday’s Benzedrine.
The job was meddlesome. Jerome Joseph Pavlik could not have snuffed the Japs. He was down in a lime spill at the time of death. The bullet hole and silencer threads might not be a true lead. Pavlik might not be the heist man. The armband-fiber lead might not play. The book-rack fibers might not have been left by the heist man.
The heist man probably fired the shot at the house. There were no firearms on the premises. Nort Layman would paraffin-test the dead Japs. The bullet hole looked fresh. The silencer threads were off a fresh fire. Nort would know if the Japs had fired guns recently. Most telling—that note taped on the wall.
Dudley stood on the porch and prepped a logbook. It tallied check-ins and tasks performed. The case could blow wide and go long.
A Helms truck pulled up to the crowd. The gawkers swarmed it for coffee and crullers. A geek pointed to the porch and yelled, “Goddamn Jap!”
Ashida did not flinch. Staunch lad—ever calm.
Blanchard said, “We should be canvassing.”
Dudley said, “Cause of death, lad. It’s our first priority.”
Brown nudged Dudley. They walked inside and huddled. The breakfast dregs were still out.
Brown said, “This job is nothing but shit. It’s shit the Los Angeles Police Department and the city of Los Angeles don’t want or need.”
Dudley said, “Yes, I’ll concede that.”
That geek yelled, “Goddamn Jap!” It boomed through the house.
Brown said, “And?”
Dudley said, “Ideally, we should can it. We should mark it ‘suicide, case closed,’ and let those heathens rot in hell for their domestic sins.”
Brown said, “What sins? They were working stiffs.”
Dudley said, “The family strikes me as more original than that. If we proceed, I’ll keep you abreast.”
Brown snagged an egg roll. “And less than ideally?”
Dudley said, “I think a Japs-killed-Japs solution would make us look good, and allow us time to prepare for Christmas with our families.”
The geek yelled, “Goddamn Jap!” Blanchard walked in and beelined to the chow.
Brown nodded. “Japs killed Japs. It’s got a good ring.”
Dudley snatched Blanchard’s plate. “That lad shouting racial slurs may be offending Dr. Ashida. Please take him someplace secluded and kick the shit out of him.”
7:17 a.m.
Ashida crouched outside the window. He caught Dudley’s order. Blanchard grabbed an egg roll and took off.
He went outside. He ducked under the cordon. Ashida quick-walked down the driveway and watched.
Blanchard pushed into the crowd. The fools read bad news and stepped back. Ashida watched. He magnetized harsh looks.
Blanchard slammed into the insult man. The man tripped and fell. Blanchard grabbed an arm and dragged him behind a prowl car.
The man flailed. The crowd dispersed. Ashida stood on his tiptoes and watched. Blanchard drop-kicked the man. Ashida heard bones crack.
Compound fractures. Dislocated sternum. Probable shock.
The man went green. Blanchard stepped on his head and muzzled possible shrieks. Ashida looked away. Ray Pinker saw him and tapped his wristwatch.
Ashida walked over. Another shitbird yelled, “Goddamn Jap!”
Pinker got in his car. Ashida got in. He checked the side mirror. He saw Blanchard wipe blood off his hands.
They pulled out. Patrol cops cleared a path. Ashida felt giddy.
Pinker said, “I should be in church. I told my wife I’d start going.”
Ashida said, “Dudley killed the rapist.”
Pinker nodded. “Who may not be the heist man. And, the gunshots, bullets and silencer threads at the two locations do not conclusively indict the heist man for the possible homicides.”
Ashida nodded. “Yes, but it’s a significant lead.”
Pinker caught Figueroa southbound. Ashida said, “I think it’s homicide.”
“I lean that way.”
“They’re going to short-shrift it. Brown will kick it up to Chief Horrall, who’ll—”
“—kick it up to that rummy McPherson and Mayor Bowron. I don’t see this thing as any more than a one-day headache.”
They hit downtown. They cut east and made Central Station. They lugged their evidence kits up to the lab. Pinker grabbed a work sheet.
He wrote “7:49 a.m., 12/7/41” on it. They guzzled hot-plate coffee and worked.
They studied silencer threads. They dye-dipped the threads from the stickup and the house and examined them under full-dialed lenses. The dye magnified metallurgic components. They concluded this:
The threads were similar—but not identical. Two different silencers were deployed at the two locations. One individual crafted both silencers. Said individual: talented but unschooled.
The tests consumed two and a half hours. Pinker wrote “10:16 a.m., 12/7/41” on the work sheet. The tests prompted questions.
Did said individual make both silencers and shoot the bullets at either or both locations? Did said individual sell one or both silencers? Did he sell them to the heist man and/or a member or known associate of the Watanabe family?
The work torqued Ashida. He was frayed. He crossed a line yesterday. He withheld drugstore evidence. He had no foreknowledge of the Watanabe job.
The job increased the risk of exposure. The job increased his chance to develop his own evidence. He was frayed-wire alert. He got called out at 1:00 a.m. He was nowhere near tired.
Next—the bullet chunks and bullet powder.
Dudley crumbled the chunks at the house. They could crumble the drugstore chunks and spray-dye the powder from both locations. They could look for consistencies or anomalies.
Pinker tore out a new work sheet. Ashida wrote “10:22 a.m., 12/7/41” on top. Pinker crumbled the drugstore chunks in a desk vise.
They spray-dyed both samples and blot-dried them. They placed powder smears under slides and affixed a microscope. They studied the fully magnified characteristics.
Two bullets. Similar metallurgic and powder-grain formations. A Luger was fired at both locations. Small inconsistencies indicated different ammo loads. The cracked bullet chunks at the house indicated faulty ammo.
Ashida wrote “10:39 a.m., 12/7/41” on the work sheet. Pinker futzed with the microscope.
Ashida said, “I’m going back in the house. Something’s off. You don’t wash clothes on the day you perform seppuku.”
“Don’t break any rules. Wait until Nort Layman gives us a disposition.”
/> “The dead rapist bothers me. He’s Dudley’s cat’s paw if it’s ruled homicide, and they need a convenient suspect with evidential links to the crime. They can write him off as a vanished suspect and file on him posthumous.”
Pinker smiled. “You’re a quick study. You’re learning the ways of this man’s police department very fast.”
Ashida smiled. “Both shots came from Lugers. Dudley found reichsmarks in the house.”
“Lugers are from hunger. You know who buys them? Nazi creeps who frequent the goddamn Deutsches Haus.”
Ashida prickled. He’d keyed on the Deutsches Haus.
Pinker unlocked the gun cabinet and grabbed a Luger. The gun was blue steel. The grips were white pearl. They were inlaid with black swastikas and rubies.
Ashida studied the barrel aperture. He already knew the lands and grooves statistics. He’d memorized his college ballistics texts.
Pinker toggled a bullet into the chamber and walked to the shooting tunnel. He stuck his arm in the chute and fired. Acoustical baffling muffled the sound of the shot.
“It’s a froufrou piece. It’s for collectors and retired intelligence guys who never saw action.”
Ashida walked to the tunnel and dug in the catcher bin. He snagged two bullet chunks.
Pinker rolled his eyes. “Goddamn Lugers. They’re not worth a shit.”
11:02 a.m.
Sunday brunch with Elmer and Brenda. Decorous, save for the talk.
Brenda owns a lovely home in Laurel Canyon. The furnishings can be seen in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. Harry Cohn enjoys Brenda’s girls and gave her free run of the Columbia warehouse.
A Mexican maid laid out huevos rancheros. Elmer mixed gin fizzes. Gary Cooper fucked Barbara Stanwyck on the couch I was perched on. Brenda swore that the rumor was true.
I felt disembodied. It was lack of sleep more than shock over what I’d heard at City Hall. Lee Blanchard, Ben Siegel and Abe Reles. Captain William H. Parker’s belief that I would now be ripe for entrapment. He held me to be a woman who would stand up for her man and do anything to cover his misdeeds. He was gravely mistaken there.
Elmer said, “Lee caught a squawk with the Dudster. It’s all over the air. Four Japs in Highland Park.”