by James Ellroy
I demanded an explanation for the receipt and his recent actions. Lee confronted me then. He said, “You think you’re an independent woman, but you sponge off of me and screw guys in my house, while I foot the bill. You’re a dilettante and a parasite, and if you disapprove of my behavior, get the fuck out of my house.”
With that, Lee stormed out of his house, got in his car and drove off to live in his world—a world that I am subsumed by. A world that I fell into, and want more of.
Brenda Allen, Elmer Jackson and police-sanctioned vice. Lee and his fawning allegiance to Dudley Smith. Bobby De Witt in San Quentin and the scars on my legs. Whatever Lee owed or did not owe to Ben Siegel, currently awaiting release from the Hall of Justice jail. The bank heist that Lee planned in large part as a mission to save me. The deus ex machina: a little girl vanishes in 1929.
Lee’s little sister Laurie, age twelve. Lee, fifteen then. Laurie disappears. She was at play in a public park one moment and gone forever the next. Lee was supposed to be watching her. He was off screwing the neighborhood round heels instead.
Lee carries the guilt. He hasn’t fully touched a woman since that time. It’s why he provides me with a comfortable home and does not make love to me. It’s punishment sustained and punishment inflicted. It enrages me and moves me to sobs. It’s why I love Lee so deeply and refuse to leave him. It’s why I sleep with men in his own house.
The houses flanking this house are blaring the evening news; I can hear both broadcasts plainly. FDR is scolding Japan for their vile aggressions. Father Coughlin is scolding FDR and the Jew hegemony.
Both men own posterity. War gives men a plain and simple something to do. There’s a brawl down on the Strip. The radios are a low hum under the shrieks.
Lee Blanchard had forty-nine pro fights and engineered a daring robbery. He owns posterity in a way that I never will. That fact infuriates me.
All I have is withering perception. Women write diaries in the hope that their words will beckon fate.
7:49 p.m.
The news signed off. A talking beaver signed on and pitched toothpaste. Parker kicked his door shut.
Traffic Division was dead. Traffic shit roiled citywide. He was the only man on duty. Nobody else cared.
The division had its own building. 1st and Figueroa—six blocks from City Hall. It was his brainchild. Buy an old warehouse and convert it. Create autonomy. Limit Jack Horrall’s access.
Parker prayed. He asked God for the courage not to drink tonight. He asked God to guide him through his incursion.
He was frayed. The Thirst plagued him. West L.A. Patrol snared two soldiers for drunk driving. There were three downed half-tracks at Pico and Bundy. Ten Central Division men got diverted. Central was running a night-watch skeleton crew.
Parker tidied up his desk. Parker stared at the files on his blotter.
Lee Blanchard’s personnel file. Carl Hull’s files: Claire De Haven, Reynolds Loftis, Chaz Minear, Saul Lesnick. Carl’s suspected seditionists’ summary sheet on Katherine Ann Lake.
White female American. 3/9/20/Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Prairie stock like him.
Carl called Claire De Haven “the Red Queen.” There were no files on the other cell members. The “subsidiary membership” fluctuated. The Queen moved her pawns in and out. She did not know that Doc Lesnick was a long-term Fed snitch.
Blanchard first—a thin file, three pages.
Class B fitness reports. No informant spiel on the Boulevard-Citizens job. Nothing on Blanchard’s alleged friendship with Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Four civilian complaints. The complainants accused Blanchard of brutal jail-cell beatings. The complaints were dismissed—the complainants were perverts and hopheads.
No surprises. No new insights. His old instinct confirmed. Blanchard was strictly unkosher.
The Queen and her key pawns—more sinister.
Parker skimmed the files. The gist hit him quick. Doc Lesnick’s snitch perceptions felt valid. Claire De Haven was an extortionist. Reynolds Loftis and Chaz Minear were homosexuals. The Red Queen held incriminating photos.
They wore drag gowns at a homo ball. Sheriff’s roust sheets corroborated the pix. Loftis and Minear were repeatedly detained during fruit raids. The detentions ran up to 1940. Loftis and Minear habituated queer meeting places and congregated with other degenerates.
The Red Queen dominated them. She told Loftis what movies to act in and Minear how to craft his film scripts. Carl included sample dialogue. It was classic Fifth Columnism.
In the war films: Russian soldiers decry the plight of American Negroes. In the gangster films: hoodlums deride authority and extoll the ghastly charms of relinquishment. In the comedies: sophisticates drop leftist bons mots and vilify Adolf Hitler. The murderous Joe Stalin goes unmentioned.
Parker lit a cigarette. The Lake girl’s file ran sixteen pages, replete with photographs.
Here’s Miss Lake at Red gatherings. Banners abound. Dubious causes, ragamuffin crowds.
JUSTICE FOR THE SCOTTSBORO BOYS! REMEMBER SACCO & VANZETTI! ROOSEVELT, WALL STREET PAWN! BREAD ON EVERY PLATE NOW!
The crowds were unkempt. Miss Lake was groomed and well-dressed. She attired herself.
The photos were crisp black and white. He sensed that she always wore red. She wore a cloche hat to a Ban-the-Klan rally. Men clustered around her. She was not classically lovely. She worked with what she had.
The hat had to be red. She was spoofing her own affect. She was distanced from the causes she embraced.
She got straight A’s at UCLA. She studied music, literature and political science. Her professors inked comments on her transcripts. They cited her “luminous” term papers. Two profs singled out her essay “Beethoven and Luther: Art and God Within.” It was published in a prestigious journal.
Carl Hull secured a list of her library checkouts. It felt emblematic. Left-slanted biography. Romantic-era poetry. Muckraking labor screeds.
Wedges, fulcrums, coercion.
Serendipity.
What was this young woman doing with a thug cop like Lee Blanchard? The Boulevard-Citizens job failed to explain it. Carl Hull saw Miss Lake testify at Bobby De Witt’s trial. The prosecution foundered until she took the stand. Miss Lake swore the oath between sobs. She closed the show, right there.
He made two calls from Carl’s office. He got the FBI first. He wanted to talk to Dr. Lesnick’s Fed handler. The man was off fishing in Oregon. He talked to Special Agent Ward Littell instead.
Serendipity.
He knew Ward from church. Ward was an ex-sem boy and a bit of a bleeding heart. Ward knew nothing about Lesnick. Ward leaked a tip.
The Feds were poised to investigate the tapped phones at City Hall. The push would occur in early ’42. Ex-Chief Hohmann had snitched off the Department. Fletch Bowron made Jack Horrall Chief. Dimwit Hohmann wanted his job back. The taps and listening posts were an open secret. Fletch and Call-Me-Jack were fake reformers. Jack was 100% on the grift. Jack had a gentler touch than Crazy Jim Davis.
He called Sid Hudgens next. Sid scribed for the Mirror-News. Sid confirmed Ward Littell’s assertions.
Art Hohmann was a Fed fink. The fucker was lawsuit-happy. Wouldn’t you be, Bill? Fat Jack is in his chair.
Wedges, fulcrums, coercion.
It was 9:05. Parker grabbed the phone and called the Bureau line.
“Homicide, Sergeant Ludlow.”
“It’s Bill Parker at Traffic.”
“Uh, yeah, Captain?”
“Is Lee Blanchard there?”
Ludlow said, “Yes, sir. He’s taking a nap on Dudley Smith’s couch.”
Parker said, “Don’t wake him. And don’t tell him I called.”
Ludlow mumbled something. Parker hung up. The surveillance pix beamed out at him.
Miss Lake’s hat was red. It had to be.
9:07 p.m.
Parker shagged his car and cut west on 1st Street. He skimmed the radio and caught newscasts. The news was all JAPS.
Parker doused the radio. 1st Street swept into Beverly Boulevard. Christmas lights blinked on lawns and outlined doorways. A Schenley’s billboard reignited The Thirst. A Maytag billboard got him jazzed.
A family oohed and aahed a gas range. The mom looked like that redhead at Northwestern. Joan something. Homewrecker. He hid out from Helen and gassed on her.
Parker turned north on La Cienega. The Strip hop-hop-hopped. He swerved around a downed flatbed spilling gas masks. Drunken sailors donned the masks and capered. Two Marines duked it out by the Mocambo. They staggered and capsized a faux Christmas tree.
North on Wetherly Drive. The Lake-Blanchard love nest—halfway up the block.
Streamlined and stylish. Aesthetically landscaped. No kind of cop’s house. Too costly, too good.
A Packard ragtop was parked in the driveway. Parker pulled in behind it. The house was lit up. Cigarette smoke plumed off a high terrace.
He got out and stretched. He straightened his tie and hitched up his holster. He crossed the porch and rang the bell.
Footsteps responded. She swung the door wide.
She stared at him. She wore gabardine slacks and a man’s white shirt. She dressed up to stay home.
“Bill Parker, Miss Lake. I was hoping I could have a few moments of your time.”
She checked her watch. It was solid gold. She wore saddle shoes. She cinched her hair with a tortoiseshell barrette.
“It’s 9:41 p.m., Captain.”
“Yes, I know it’s late. If I’m intruding, I could come back tomorrow.”
She stepped toward him. It was a block-the-doorway pose.
“It pertains to Lee, then? That’s a Traffic Division patch on your sleeve. Has there been an accident?”
She had his prairie twang. He noticed her notice his. She could lose it or modify it. She exemplified Affect.
“Officer Blanchard is fine, Miss Lake. It’s something else entirely. I’m hoping you’ll be curious enough to hear me out.”
She stepped aside. He stepped inside. The living room was a movie set. Mauve walls, wingback chairs, tubular chaise lounges. Leftist-message art and a chrome liquor sideboard.
“You have a lovely home, Miss Lake.”
She shut the door. “Lee had a successful boxing career. He had good financial counseling, as well.”
“Ben Siegel is shrewd with his money. I’m sure he counseled Officer Blanchard himself.”
She leaned on the door. The pose covered a pout. For a heartbeat—faux sophisticate, reckless child.
“We’ve all heard the rumors, Captain. A few of us know that they’re false.”
Parker pointed to a chair. “Would you mind?”
She nodded and walked to the sideboard. Parker sat down. She spritzed out two club sodas and brought him one. She pulled a matching chair up close.
They touched glasses. She said, “To whatever comes next.”
Parker sipped his drink. “Tell me how you knew.”
“I attended Mayor Bowron’s Easter dinner for Archbishop Cantwell. There was an open bar. You veered between a selection of spirits and the soft-drink tray. In the end, you had a seltzer. You seemed to be both disappointed and relieved.”
Parker said, “Do you always observe minor moments that acutely?”
“Yes. And you sense that I do, which is why you’re here.”
Parker popped a sweat. “You’re from Sioux Falls?”
“Yes, and you’re from Deadwood.”
“How do you know that?”
“Elmer Jackson told me.”
“Are you friends with Sergeant Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“Are you familiar with the rumors about him?”
“Yes, and I know that they’re true, as much as the rumors about Lee are false.”
Sweat pooled at his hairline. The goddamn girl saw it. She walked over and opened a window.
A breeze drifted in. Horns honked down on Doheny. The goddamn girl struck a lounge pose.
Fireworks exploded. He caught a wide window view. Illegal Army hijinks. Red-white-and-blue starbursts.
She said, “The war is coming.”
“Yes. What do you think about that?”
“I see large events as opportunities. It may not be my best quality.”
Parker smiled. “For instance?”
She sat down and crossed her legs. Her bobby sox clashed with her saddle shoes. It was a deliberate Screw you.
“The Depression, for instance. It got me out of Sioux Falls.”
“What do you think of the eastern-front campaign?”
“I hate the Germans and feel ambivalent about the Russians, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Parker patted his pockets for cigarettes. The girl reached in her slacks and tossed him her pack. He took one and tossed the pack back.
They lit up. A two-second breather followed. Illegal fireworks went whoosh.
“You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here.”
“You were out clearing traffic jams. You were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d drop in on a woman you’ve never met.”
“Are you finished?”
“No. You called the Bureau first. You wanted to make sure that Officer Lee Blanchard was asleep on Sergeant Dudley Smith’s couch.”
Parker gripped the chair and looked around for an ashtray. The girl stubbed out her cigarette and passed hers over. Their hands trembled and brushed.
“Are you finished?”
“No, but here’s an alternate answer. It’s Saturday night, and you thought I might be at loose ends.”
“And why would I think that?”
“Because you’re at loose ends? Because rumors run both ways? Because you read some sort of file on me and extrapolated?”
Fireworks streamed. Sunset Boulevard lit up. Couples jitterbugged on a flatbed truck.
They held a stare. The girl blinked first. She leaned in and plucked the ashtray off his lap.
He flinched. His glasses slid down his nose. The girl pointed to the window.
“What are they celebrating?”
“Opportunity.”
“Yes. I’ll buy that.”
“Will you show me the house?”
She stood up and mock-curtsied. Parker followed her. Such affect—look.
Fifth Column art couched in sleekness. Cubism meets oppression. Astonishing—a cop lived here.
They walked upstairs. The landing featured deep red walls and floor-mounted lights. Pencil sketches were taped to the red. Breadlines, chain gangs, labor strikes and charging policemen.
She stepped into a room and flipped a wall switch. Light framed a cop still life.
An unmade bed. Discarded blues and desk debris. A .38 Special, handcuffs, spring-loaded sap. Framed wall clips from Big Lee’s fight days.
She flipped off the switch. The room went dark. She stood on the too-bright landing and looked in at him. She posed. He got it.
She studied movie stars and random photos. She borrowed images to make herself cohere. She was brilliantly good at appearance. She was malleable without it.
The auburn hair, the dark red walls, the klieg lighting. She’ll pivot now, that’s for—
She pivoted. She walked to a doorway across the hall. He followed her.
The door was shut. A key lock was affixed to the knob. The anomaly stunned him.
He stood beside her. She pulled out a key and unlocked the door. It was her private bedroom. She fed him the cue and saved it for last.
Rose-colored walls, easeled drawing desk. An upright piano against one wall. Busts of Beethoven and Luther.
Pencil portraits arrayed on a shelf. That slick light heavyweight Bucky Bleichert.
Parker pointed over. “He’s applied to the Department.”
Kay Lake said, “I know.”
“Why him? You’ve got
your own fighter.”
“You’re being disingenuous, Captain. If you tell me that shacking up is forbidden by Los Angeles Police Charter, I’ll explain it more provocatively.”
Parker walked out to the terrace. The Sunset Strip hopped. Drunken soldiers hobknobbed outside the Trocadero. They whooped and waved sparklers. Traffic was fucked-up from here to kingdom come.
He leaned on the rail. Kay Lake walked out and joined him. He felt light-headed.
She handed him a cigarette and lit it. She lit up herself.
“I stand out here in the rain sometimes. The colors change gloriously.”
Parker looked at her. He smelled sandalwood. She sprayed herself back in the bedroom. Affect, appearance—she caught her own sweat.
“What are your immediate plans, Miss Lake?”
“I’m going to enlist.”
“Which branch?”
“The one with the snazziest uniforms.”
Parker smiled. “You’re dead-set?”
She tossed her hair. “Unless you offer me something more enticing.”
He flicked his cigarette over the rail. It hit the hood of his prowl car and smoldered.
“There’s phone taps and listening posts all over City Hall. I need you to transcribe the wire recordings on the Detective Bureau taps. You’ll need to do it at the location.”
Kay Lake beamed. “You’re being disingenuous, Captain. I would say that there’s something on the recordings that you want me to hear, and that it pertains to the threat you’re holding back on.”
Parker flushed. “You can start Monday morning.”
She shook her head. “If you make sure Lee doesn’t see me, I’ll start tonight.”
Fireworks blew up twelve o’clock high. The Strip glowed white into pink.
“There’s a photograph of you. You were wearing a cloche hat, and I was wondering if it was red.”
Kay Lake walked into her bedroom and walked straight back out. She had the hat on.
She posed in the doorway. The hat was no-shit police navy blue.
10:56 p.m.
Lee Blanchard snored. The lad was shacked up with a lovely lass. He perplexingly slept at City Hall.