by James Ellroy
Dudley smiled. “On Broadway? In Hollywood?”
Bette smiled. “You’ve killed British soldiers, and don’t tell me you haven’t. I’ve told the Jewish mama’s boys who run my part of town, ‘No, I won’t blow you,’ and got the part anyway. Aren’t we both lucky to be that way? Aren’t you glad you’re not like the rest of the world?”
He trembled a tad. He wetted up a tad. Bette wetted up and touched his eyes.
“Dear man. Step away from your life and be sweet with me for a while.”
Dudley pulled her hands down and pinned them to the bed. Her wet eyes were up against his. She hooked a leg over him and brought them just that close. It went to a thrash and stayed in a thrash. The thrash made her shut her eyes. The thrash let him look at her.
Her arms were soft. Her breasts pulled flat with the thrash. He kissed her neck. She showed her teeth and bit her lips. The thrash built to a flush all over her body. Then the arch above the thrash, a clutch and thrash, a plummeting something.
9:46 a.m.
The Airedale slept between them. Dudley stirred and saw the dog first. He marked the moment—Bette Davis snores.
He kissed the dog’s snout and kissed Bette’s shoulder. He walked to the bathroom and shaved with a dainty razor. He dressed and rigged the curtains to light up Bette’s hair. He kissed her arms and walked downstairs.
The Airedale showed him out. He nuzzled the grand beast. He walked outside and took in the morning.
Brentwood north of Sunset. Tudor mansions, French châteaux, Spanish haciendas. Dudley Liam Smith—fate favors you.
He got his K-car. He hooked out to the Valley and east to Burbank. The airport cops let him perch on the runway. He had two hours to kill. He smelled Bette on his shirt cuffs.
He had time to scheme and strategize. He had time to craft a disingenuous report to Bill Parker.
Watanabe/multiple homicide/12-7-41. Second summary—one week in.
He popped three bennies. He padded redundant information. He layered in futile background-check dirt. He heaped on the dead-end leads and stressed the clannish Jap culture that constrained the job.
The bennies kicked in. He shoveled cop officialese and underlined his detective’s frustration.
Record checks were impossible. The war dashed all normal avenues of approach.
Can you read between the lines, Captain? Call-Me-Jack wants this job shitcanned by New Year’s. He will get what he wants—but this damnable case intrigues me.
The Boston flight taxied in. Baggage men rolled stairs to the door. Dudley got out and stood by the gate. Jack was the first down the steps.
He wore his Navy blues. He saw Dudley and beelined. They hugged hello and shoved apart. They pushed each other out to arm’s length.
Jack said, “You mick cocksucker.”
Dudley said, “The pot calls the kettle black.”
They got in the K-car. Dudley tossed Jack’s bag in the back. Jack futzed with the two-way dial and stirred up a hum. Dudley pulled off the runway.
Jack said, “Where are we going?”
“How did your father once summarize Los Angeles?”
“He said you come here to fuck movie stars and create mischief.”
“Well, then. Harry Cohn has an introduction for you.”
Jack twirled his hat on one finger. “I wouldn’t say no to Rita Hayworth or Ella Raines.”
Dudley said, “Lad, you’ll have to. Miss Hayworth is out of town, and Jewboy Harry has designs on Miss Raines himself.”
“Which makes me the low man in a Mongolian cluster fuck.”
Dudley laughed. “Ellen Drew, lad. She’s a stunning new contract player, and she’s waiting at the Los Altos Apartments.”
Jack messed with the radio. Code numbers and locations overlapped. 390, Little Tokyo. Prowl cars requested.
Jack said, “What’s going on at East 1st Street?”
“It’s Japtown, lad. The locals are being detained.”
“Can you believe it? We knew it was coming, but we didn’t think they’d hit us first.”
“It’s a new world we live in.”
“I fly to Pearl on Monday. I’ve got briefings, and then it’s a jump to some shitty little island full of cannibals.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Your dad came through. I’m free to be commissioned at New Year’s. Army Intelligence. Mexican duty, most likely.”
Jack said, “Dad’s still got some pull. That ‘Jittery Joe’ talk didn’t do him any good, though. Come on, Dud. You’d bail on the Blitz. A little drive up to the Emerald Isle and some sweet Irish cooze.”
Dudley skirted the Hollywood Bowl. “Ireland’s a place you don’t leave. I’m surprised Joe came back at all.”
“His money and his kids are here. Given that, you’d come back yourself.”
Christmas was coming. The faux trees were up. Salvation Army kettles cluttered Sunset.
Dudley flicked his cigarette. “Does your dad still have that yen for dirty movies? He hasn’t lost it at his advanced age?”
Jack laughed. “Ask him yourself. He’ll be at Ben Siegel’s party on Sunday. That said, he’s always called the smut business ‘high pulchritude with low overhead.’ ”
Dudley laughed. Jack tipped his hat over his eyes. Dudley took Highland to Wilshire. The Los Altos flanked a gas station and a South Seas–motif lounge.
It was a wayward starlets’ haven. Contract players turned tricks in rent-by-the-night flops. Dot Rothstein ran the dyke dens. Eleanor Roosevelt munched muff in 419.
Dudley parked in front. Jack dug in his bag and spritzed on Lucky Tiger. The lad was comely but frail. He looked vaguely inbred.
“Ellen Drew, right?”
“Yes, lad. She’s in 332. Mention The Château in Montparnasse. She played the French maid.”
Jack said, “This won’t take long.”
“I know, lad. Your reputation precedes you.”
Jack yocked and scrammed. Dudley cogitated. The Watanabe house. Mental walk-through no. 9,000.
He walked the floors and checked the closets. He looked under the sink. He peered behind the icebox. He retrieved two memories.
He recalled mouse shit by a drainpipe. He recalled spilled detergent near the washing machine.
Jack hopped in the car. A hickey bloomed on his neck.
Dudley said, “You weren’t long.”
Jack winked. “Nice kid. Tell Harry to be good to her.”
“Where to, lad?”
“The Delfern place. Dad’s got an envelope for Gloria.”
Dudley drove northwest. Jack shut his eyes and forestalled chitchat. Gloria Swanson lived in Holmby Hills. Joe K. was her way-back-when lover.
Joe looted her bank accounts. Gloria hatched their love child in ’27. Joe pooh-poohed his patrimony and provided covert support.
The house was small-hotel size. Dudley brodied into the porte cochère and roused Jack. The lad looked startled. He grabbed his hat and rolled out of the car.
The backyard gate was open. Jack strolled over. Dudley cogitated.
He studied his report. He beefed up his canvassing notes. He ran mental walk-through 9,001. He recalled more mouse turds and spoiled lettuce in the icebox.
Jack walked back. His zipper was down. He tumbled into the car and tipped his hat. Dudley pulled out to the street.
Jack said, “I hate him.”
Dudley said, “Yes, I know.”
“Joe Junior fucks her, I fuck her. Bobby’s too pious to fuck her, and Teddy’s too young.”
“Yes, lad. I know.”
“It doesn’t do any good. I still hate him. She made me fuck her out by the pool, and now my ass is sunburned.”
Dudley laughed and turned onto Sunset. Holmby Hills Christmas trees loomed skyscraper high.
Jack said, “He rapes the world and shits all over decent people, then runs when the chickenshit Krauts drop a few bombs. I’m a chickenshit for feeding on his money, and you’re a chickenshit for driving me around.”
Dudley smiled. “Immaculate Heart, then?”
Jack smiled. “Immaculate Heart, you mick cocksucker.”
They tootled down Sunset. Jack stared out the window and scratched his balls. Dudley turned north on Western. The convent and school were built up a hillside.
The Archbishop’s limo was parked across the street. J. J. Cantwell liked to perch and peep schoolgirls.
Dudley pulled up behind him. Jack got out and walked over to the playground. It was recess. Laura sat by herself. She looked like a Kennedy, one genetic beat removed.
She saw Jack and ran up to him. J. J. Cantwell stepped out of the limo. He wore linen golf slacks and a pink sweater.
Dudley joined him. Cantwell stared at Laura and Jack.
“He’s too thin, Dud. Isn’t Joe feeding him?”
“He takes his sustenance from love, Your Eminence.”
Cantwell giggled. “I won’t live to see a Catholic president. Joe has designs for his sons, I’ve been told.”
“He does, Your Eminence.”
“A Catholic police chief. That’s more within my grasp.”
Jack and Laura chucked a baseball. J. J. Cantwell stared.
“How long does Chief Horrall plan to stick around, Dud?”
“Until the war concludes, Your Eminence.”
“And his preferred successor would be the capable, but dismayingly Protestant Thad Brown?”
“It would be, Your Eminence.”
“Can Horrall avoid scandal for the remainder of his term?” Dudley did the wavy hand. “A toss-up, Your Eminence. The FBI will be conducting a wiretap probe next February, and the Chief could be besmirched. He’s taking payoffs from a Vice sergeant named Elmer Jackson, who is quite embroiled with an enterprising madam named Brenda Allen. I would not like to see it become public news.”
Cantwell said, “Bill Parker is afraid of you.”
Dudley said, “I know that, Your Eminence.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No, Your Eminence. I am not.”
“Do you have something on him?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Does he have something on you?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
Cantwell stared at Laura and Jack. They tossed the baseball. His Eminence caught every move.
“I am pleased by this balance of power between two fine Catholic laymen, and I am equally fond of you and Bill Parker. I would like to see a Catholic Chief in my lifetime, and would hate to see this balance dashed unnecessarily.”
1:14 p.m.
A warehouse block. Innocuous. 4600 Valley—hit-and-run homicide scene.
The impact point had eroded. Monday’s rain drenched the tread marks.
Ashida walked outside the rope line. He held the Jim Larkin DB file. Ray Pinker shagged it for him.
A black-and-white skidded up and grazed Ashida’s car. Bill Parker got out. He wore a too-loose uniform. He had that frayed I-can’t-sleep look.
He walked up. His glasses fit cockeyed. He probably passed out on them.
“It’s a premeditated vehicular homicide. The man possessed dexterity and nerve. He smashed Larkin hard enough to kill him and barely touched the boys. It all feels professional.”
Ashida said, “And he was wearing a purple sweater, just like the white man outside the Watanabe house.”
Parker said, “Mauve sweater. Those were mauve fibers you found on the victims’ posteriors. Mauve and purple. It’s ambiguous.”
Ashida nodded. “The Sheriff’s checked all the car-repair and paint shops, and got nothing. He had to have damaged his car, but he’s kept it garaged.”
Parker lit a cigarette. His gun belt flopped down his hips.
Ashida said, “It was an obvious cause of death, so there was no autopsy. I found one interesting note in the file, though. The impact sheared off a chunk of flesh from Larkin’s rear thigh. The examining surgeon noted a ‘circumscribed, uniformly configured series of stab wounds embedded in a muscle group,’ but there’s no photograph.”
Cars whizzed by. The black-and-white spooked them. They braked and crawled.
Parker said, “The fucking knife. We’ve got the faded wound on Ryoshi Watanabe, and now we’ve got this.”
Cars crawled close. Parker stood too close to them. Ashida stepped back.
“Yes. The whole thing keeps growing.”
Parker’s two-way squawked. Garbled speech issued. Parker walked over and snatched the receiver. The squawk leveled off.
Ashida studied the impact point. He noted loose molding. He saw a single sawtooth tread.
Parker walked back. “That was the Bureau dispatcher. I had Nort Layman put out a statewide bulletin on the glass particles and shrimp oil on the Watanabes’ feet, and we just got a kickback from Lancaster. A hospital treated a ‘Japanese derelict’ for cut feet and released him an hour ago. We’ve got no name on the man, but there’s half a connection. The deputies up there had fielded complaints from five local groceries. Customers found glass particles in cans of Japanese-caught and -manufactured shrimp. It’s Sheriff’s jurisdiction, and Gene Biscailuz saw the bulletin. He thinks it’s Fifth Column sabotage, so he’s going up.”
Ashida gripped the rope line. Car whizzed by, too close.
Parker said, “Dispatch gave me the scoop on the canning distributor. His name’s Wallace Hodaka, and he’s in the Fort MacArthur stockade.”
Ashida said, “We have to.”
Parker nodded yes. They looked at each other. They eschewed more preamble. They walked to their cars and peeled out.
They convoyed, southbound. Ashida took the pole slot. Parker bird-dogged him.
They hit Main Street. They caught Lincoln Heights. Ashida checked his rearview mirror. Parker rode his back bumper and sucked on a flask.
They laid tracks to Pedro. Parker bumper-locked him and nipped on his flask. Downtown, darktown, Gardena. Salt air and Army trucks—San Pedro up ahead.
They hit Fort MacArthur. They hit the stockade. Ashida saw Parker stash his flask and gargle mouthwash. The gate guard fish-eyed Ashida—Hey, you’re a Jap.
Ashida flashed his ID card. The guard clocked the black-and-white and waved them in. They found slots by the door. They got out and stretched. Parker teetered and held.
MPs flanked the door. They saluted Parker and fish-eyed the Jap. Parker pointed Ashida ahead. The sally port was a full-barred enclosure. The desk guard squint-eyed Ashida—Hey, who’s this Jap?
Parker braced him. “We’re here to interview an inmate named Wallace Hodaka.”
The guard checked his desk book. “We just logged some L.A. boys in and out. A Sergeant Smith called down and said he had Chief Horrall’s okay. We logged in Sergeants M. Breuning, R. Carlisle, and Officer R. S. Bennett. They examined our inmate list and left a few minutes ago.”
Ashida gulped. Parker gripped his gun belt and cinched his loose pants. The guard unhooked a wall phone and gabbed officialese. He hit a button. Two bar doors slid wide.
“Interview room no. 3. He’s a tubby little Tojo guy, and he don’t speak English.”
Parker walked ahead. His gait was off. His feet looked wrong on the floor. Ashida walked behind him.
He ignored the cell rows. Inmates saw him and hissed. It escalated cell to cell. They spat at him. He stuck to the middle of the catwalk. The spit globs fell short.
Number 3 was an eight-by-eight sweat room. The door was open. Wallace Hodaka wore jail khakis and straddled a chair.
Ashida shut the door. Hodaka stood and bowed. They shook hands. Hodaka rebowed. Parker popped a tin and swallowed six aspirin.
“Interview him, Doctor. You know what we need. Promise him habeas if he cooperates.”
Ashida straddled a chair. He stacked up mother-tongue phrases and cut loose. Hodaka cut loose in reply.
He talked fast. He wanted to talk. It was a listen-now/translate-as-you-go deal. Ashida nodded—Please, go ahead.
Wallace Hodaka was perceptive. He spoke in direct sente
nces and did not digress. Ashida listened and mentally translated at his speedy clip.
Parker leaned on the door. His eyes were bloodshot. He was half in the bag.
Hodaka ran out of breath. He bowed to Ashida and Parker. Ashida bowed back and laid out the gist.
“Mr. Hodaka knows nothing about the particles of glass found in the canned shrimp that he produces, and he seems credible to me. He was detained here because he manufactured Emperor Hirohito souvenir dolls up until three years ago, when the Emperor’s warlike agenda became evident. The shrimp canning is done at a San Fernando Valley truck farm owned by Hodaka family cousins. A rotating workforce of Japanese transients does the canning work. If glass got into his shrimp, it was inadvertently, and due to the sloppy efforts of his workers—or from errors that derived from the fishing-boat source of the shrimp. San Pedro–moored boats sell him their shrimp catches. Mr. Hodaka was very clear on this one point—and, again, I find him credible. He’s always paid cash for the shrimp, and he’s never kept records of the transactions. He can’t honestly give you any names for his shrimp providers.”
Parker said, “Keep going.”
Ashida said, “Mr. Hodaka does know about the white men attempting to purchase Japanese-owned houses and farms, but he doesn’t know their names. Their ‘front man’ was allegedly a man named Hikaru Tachibana, who was rumored to have been murdered—but Mr. Hodaka has no more details on that. A cousin visited Mr. Hodaka here a few days ago, and told him that a man named Jimmy Namura was seen in Little Tokyo and the Valley early last week, asking about the men attempting to purchase the houses and farms. Namura was seen again on Thursday, also in the Valley and Little Tokyo, asking the same questions. This time, Namura was facially lacerated and wore bandages that seemed to indicate a recent surgery. Mr. Hodaka knows nothing more about Jimmy Namura, has never met any member of the Watanabe family, and knows nothing about them. Again, Captain, I find Mr. Hodaka entirely credible.”
Parker rubbed his eyes. “Tachibana and Namura were Watanabe family KAs. They were in the ‘A’ subversive index.”
Ashida said, “I know. And Dudley Smith got Namura released from T.I.”
“I’d bet that Dudley is hiding him. If it’s anywhere, it’s Chinatown. And if anyone knows, it’s Ace Kwan.”