by James Ellroy
Fletch said, “Amen.”
Sheriff Gene said, “Hear, hear.”
Satterlee went Comanche. “White man smoke peace pipe. Wisdom prevail.”
The shtick drew laughs. Parker fought stomach cramps. Hoover puffed his pocket square.
“The roundups, Ed. Update us in one minute or less.”
Satterlee said, “We’re going after the fishing boats in San Pedro Harbor, and we’ve got the Coast Guard backstopping us on that. We’re confiscating Jap firearms and running ballistics tests to compare to the evidence in preexisting Federal and local cases. We’re getting ready to deploy agents to search the houses, apartments and businesses of the Japs we’ve already got in custody.”
Fletch said, “This is a well-oiled machine you’re describing.”
Jack said, “We’re feeding Hirohito a shit sandwich.”
Satterlee said, “There’s a Jap bantamweight I like. ‘Tornado’ Tagawa. He’s fighting Manny Gomez at the Legion Stadium next week. I’ve got money on him. Don’t make me pop him before he takes that beaner out.”
The shtick drew laughs. Hoover smiled at Satterlee. Parker sensed a simmering crush.
Sheriff Gene said, “I rolled on a coroner’s bulletin last Saturday. It pertained to that homicide case that Chief Horrall brought up. Our boy Nort Layman found glass particles covered with shrimp oil on the victims’ feet, and he requested information from hospitals and groceries statewide. I rolled to a grocery-store call up in Lancaster. Sure as shit, they’d been consigned an order of Jap-caught and -canned shrimp, and it was sure as shit full of crushed glass. The lead went dead there, but it sure as shit felt like Fifth Column stuff to me.”
Jack said, “You’re talking Greek here, Gene. I don’t know about this aspect of the case, but I’ll pass the information along to my man, Dudley Smith.”
Satterlee shivered. “The Dudster. There’s a piece of work.”
Fletch said, “Amen, brother.”
Jack said, “He’s fucking Bette Davis. That’s no shit. It’s one for Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”
Sheriff Gene looked at Parker. Telepathy, half-assed.
That bulletin. It ordered kickbacks to Parker himself. Sheriff Gene might know that. Call-Me-Jack dumped him off the case. Sheriff Gene might know that. Sheriff Gene was juked on Fifth Column grief. The Watanabe case? Outside his purview.
Hoover sniffed his boutonniere. It was early-morning fresh.
“We’re running afield of our purpose here. Canned shrimp and Jap murder cases are not national-security priorities, while housing Japs for the duration of the war is. You’re at bat, Mr. Exley. I advise you to hit for the stands.”
Preston winked. “Mr. Hoover demands brevity, so I’ll get to it. A contiguous stretch of the eastern San Fernando Valley is dotted with Japanese-owned truck farms. The farms could be purchased from the Japs outright, leased for the length of the war, or legally confiscated under state or Federal security-seizure laws after the owners themselves have been detained. Internment camps could be erected on those sites, utilizing California state laws on eminent domain. The detainees would work the existing farmland under the direction of a private guard force employed by my firm. Profits would be dispersed to my firm and to local government, which would help to defray the cost of our part of the overall mass internment. Leased farms that generate substantial profits would pay out a nominal percentage of those profits to the incarcerated owners themselves. ‘Trusty’ Japs would be allowed the privilege of participating in a furlough program, where they would be bussed to factories in downtown L.A. to work under armed supervision, and returned to their compounds at night. They would pay for their room and board and would be rewarded for their cooperation by being permitted to retain a small portion of their paychecks. The linchpin of all aspects of this proposal is proximity. The San Fernando Valley adjoins L.A. proper. The initial transporting of interned Japs is thus expedited. The trusty-Jap shuttle is a simple, day-to-day milk run. The farm camps themselves will create a large-scale employment boom and resultant economic boom for the city and county of Los Angeles.”
Feasible. Adroit. Casually malevolent. FAMILIAR, in that it—
Ward Littell made fists.
Hoover said, “Superb, Mr. Exley.”
Call-Me-Jack said, “A grand slam, in my ballpark.”
Fletch said, “Kudos, Preston. It lets us house and feed our own Japs, while we keep them close at hand.”
Sheriff Gene said, “It takes the pressure off the county jails and those big internment centers the War Department is planning. My deputies could run shackle chains from the Valley to the job sites. The Japs are a green-thumbed race. They turn out high-quality produce, we sell it to every class eatery in town.”
Satterlee said, “Ward Littell and Bill Parker look glum, so we know we’re on the right track.”
Ward said, “It’s ghastly. It’s depraved. It’s something we’ll all live to regret.”
Fletch said, “Ward and Bill seem to be forgetting Pearl Harbor.”
It’s usurious. It’s exploitative. It’s FAMILIAR, in that it—
Parker fought off gut cramps. Parker thought it through.
It suggested the Watanabe case. It suggested the house and farm buyouts that Buzz Meeks revealed. Actual buyouts. Rebuffed buyouts. Rumored buyouts. Secretly recorded—in no way criminal.
It all played tangential. Preston’s plan played insidious and legally sound. There were no farm-buyout links to murder.
The meeting broke up. Parker’s brain waves dispersed. His cramps doubled down. His legs were gone. The crowd filed out. He waved from his chair.
Sheriff Gene walked back in. “How’s the boy, Bill?”
“I’m all aces, Sheriff.”
“I know you requested the kickbacks on that bulletin, and that Jack pulled you off the Watanabe job.”
“That’s right, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Gene twirled his hat. “I’m still tweaked on that canned shrimp. I had a lab man examine that sample we got up in Lancaster. He said it was full of toxic human oils.”
Parker yawned. “I’m off the case, sir.”
“Sure, but you could hoof it down to Pedro and hook up with the Coast Guard. They’re boarding some Jap shrimp boats today. It still reads Fifth Column to me. You could scoot down there and quench both our curiosities, if you’ve got a mind to.”
Call-Me-Jack whistled. It was wicked shrill.
“Chinatown, Bill. Riot gear. You and Jim Davis, for old times’ sake.”
9:42 a.m.
“Riot gear” meant the tin hat and shotgun. “Riot gear” meant rock-salt rounds.
He took the elevator. The Bureau hallway buzzed. Lee Blanchard and that Bennett kid traded swats last night. The kid put Blanchard in Queen of Angels. Blanchard’s shack babe inspired the grief.
How’s this per cooze? Dud S. is sticking it to Bette Davis. Es la verdad, muchacho. Elmer Jackson saw them smooching at the Academy.
The briefing rooms buzzed. There’s Dudley and his boys. Note the nose splint on Scotty Bennett. Note Sid Hudgens and Jack Webb, sitting in.
There’s Thad Brown and a Mirror hack named Morty Bendish. Morty drooled for the dead-Jap-in-the-phone-booth caper. He wanted to lay in Pearl Harbor. The dead Jap fingered the attack. A Jap spy chilled his Jap ass and muzzled him. Thad said he found it far-fetched.
Parker signed out his riot gear. He suited up in the hallway and flexed his legs on the stairs. He made it to the garage. He drove to Chinatown.
He saw Jim Davis, outside Kwan’s. Davis wore Army fatigues and packed a king-size shotgun. Uncle Ace stood beside him. His FDR cape drooped on the ground.
Parker ditched the car and walked up. Ace spit just short of his shoes. Davis said something in Chink. Ace replied in Chink and ambled off.
“Good morning, Bill.”
“Chief.”
“Like I always say, it’s been ‘Jim’ since the grand jury sacked me.”
Parker said, “All righ
t. You’re an ad hoc conscript. You’re not the Chief.”
Davis said, “You’re boiling it out, I can tell. We’ll get you a tonic at that herb joint in Ferguson’s Alley.”
The Hurt smothered him. He wore lead shoes. His shotgun weighed ten tons.
“Let’s go, Jim. I want to get this day over with.”
They walked Broadway north. Davis buttonholed passersby and dispensed Chink bons mots. Parker yawned through it. The Hurt paved new paths.
His legs fluttered. Sweat pooled and soaked his socks. Davis ran his mouth. Aaah, the old days.
The Bum Blockade. The vag sweeps. Jew-pawn FDR’s campaign trips. Carl Hull and the Red Squad. Remember that Kraut hard-on, Fritz Vogel? Red riots in Pershing Square.
Bill, you stood tall there. We brought in mounted troops. We were the Cossacks. They were the rabble. Bring on the balalaika music and swords.
They waltzed. Tong boys jabbered and tong-eyed them. The Hurt moved to his head. His hat was too big. He sweat-soaked the band. The visor fell over his eyes.
Bill, you were good. How’s Helen these days? You brought in Carlos Madrano. You finessed our extradition deal with the Staties. Bill the Brain. You walked me through depositions. You wrote my grand jury spiel. You brokered our strikebreaker agreement. The merchants’ cabal still owes you.
They waltzed. The Hurt gored him. Davis wooed kids with bubble gum. They stopped at the herb joint. Davis ordered him a potion. It tasted like frog shit and dirt. It gave him X-ray eyes.
It put ants in his pants. It contained ground roots and mystical powder. They left the shop and stopped at a call box. The world took on pastel hues.
Parker called Sheriff Gene. He rogered that mission to Pedro. Sheriff Gene said to hit Pier 16. Ask for Lieutenant Duguay.
They waltzed. Parker popped sweat and weaved. His taste buds popped. He exhaled mystic dirt.
North Broadway buzzed. The tong truce was five days in. It felt abrogated already. Tong boys congregated. They wore their tong kerchiefs and switchblade-cleaned their nails. They fell in behind the fat Chink-o-phile and the sweaty cop.
Parker and Davis strolled. Shop owners braced the Big Bwana and whispered tips. Dewey Lem’s a 459 man. Joe Chen’s a 211 man. A Chinaman plugged that Jap in the phone booth. There’s a tile game at Kwan’s right now. It’s high stakes, it’s marathon. It’s drawing Hollywood folk.
They waltzed. Parker waltzed behind mystic dirt. The creeping tong boys closed the gap. They’re twelve yards, ten yards, eight yards back.
Hop Sing crept straight behind them. Four Families crept, right across the street. Parker kept looking back. The fucking tong fucks crept.
Parker got scared. The Hurt and that mystic dirt had him quivered. The Hop Sing fucks were six yards back. Four Families was straight across Broadway.
Davis said, “They’re too close.”
Mystic dirt. The Fear and The Hurt. They’re creeping on rubber-soled—
Parker raised his shotgun. The fucks crept on. Four yards now. He jacked in a round and fired.
The shotgun buckled. Rock salt blew. He nailed four Chinks in one spread. Davis aimed across the street and tripped both triggers.
He launched bigger rounds. His Chinks went airborne. Parker’s Chinks caught the salt chest-high. Their tong threads vaporized. Shards sliced straight through to their skin.
They screamed and turned tail. Parker pumped rounds and aimed at their backs. He sighted in tight. He squeezed the trigger, slow. He knocked them down and strafed the clothes off their backs.
The blasts spooked the locals. They turned tail and ran. Jim’s Chinks screamed double-loud. One punk lost two fingers. One punk groped for chunks of his ass.
Screams. Tong fucks and locals, all high-decibel. Language-stew gobbledygook.
Jim Davis whipped out his dick and wagged it. Jim Davis yelled Chink insults.
The punks crawled. They were salt-sheared and shredded. They crawled through diced clothing and blood.
Davis walked across the street. Parker followed him. Davis wagged his dick at the punks on the ground and doused them with piss.
“It’s an old-country custom, hoss. I own their souls from here on in.”
11:16 a.m.
He bolted. Mystic dirt, pissed-on hoodlums. The ex-Chief, wagging his dick.
Parker cut down an alley. His shotgun weighed six tons. His sweat smelled putrid. His head felt wrung out.
He ran straight to Kwan’s. Some shithead had egged up his car. The windshield was yolk-spattered. He ran the wiper blades and thinned out the splats.
The car started and rolled. Nobody slashed his tires. The brakes worked. Nobody cut the linings.
He drove south. Broadway ran direct to Pedro. He saw tear-gas clouds above Little Tokyo. Bluesuits swarmed low rooftops.
He thought about The Case. Sheriff Gene sanctioned him to work it. He teethed on The Case. He teethed on Dudley Smith and Hideo Ashida. He highballed it straight to Pedro.
Salt air announced the harbor. Parker skirted Fort MacArthur and the Terminal Island Bridge. A checkpoint blocked off harbor access. Duty MPs saw his black-and-white and waved him in.
The docks were hodgepodged with Coast Guard cutters and skunk-wood fishing boats. Search teams boarded the boats, six men per. The dock road was packed with jeeps and black Fed sedans.
Japs wheeled fish barrels. They looked scared. MPs strolled with M1’s and leashed police dogs. The dogs growled at the Japs and drooled for their fish.
Parker drove to Pier 16. A cutter was moored there. It was rigged with grappling hooks and prow-mounted machine guns. Two Coast guardsmen and two Sheriff’s deputies stood on deck. They wore slinged carbines and scanned the horizon.
An officer spotted the prowl car and walked over. He wore fatigue blues with lieutenant’s bars. Parker stepped out of the car. Salty air fogged his glasses.
They shook hands. Parker stamped blood in his legs.
“Did the Sheriff call ahead?”
The lieutenant said, “He did, Captain. I told him that if you hauled tail, you could see something interesting.”
Parker said, “What have you got?”
“We’ve had our eyes on two shrimp boats that range north, up the coast to Santa Barbara. They fish north and berth here, full-time. The skippers and crews are on the Feds’ A-2 list, and their residences have been vacated. They’re all sleeping on the boats and making their fish drops covertly, at night.”
Parker considered it. “Is their canning done at a truck farm in the Valley? I’m thinking of a place owned by a Jap named Hodaka.”
The lieutenant said, “No, sir. We were tipped that these guys drop their catches at a plant in Little Tokyo.”
Parker considered it. “I read a bulletin. A Jap sub torpedoed a fishing village at the Goleta Inlet, just north of Santa Barbara. It was last week. Do you think these boats could play in somehow?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Nix on that, sir. I read that bulletin. The boats we’re looking at are deep-sea jobs, and that Goleta village was nothing but burned-up shore-fishing craft. And, there’s this. We’re going after all-Jap crews, but that bulletin said the village humps were Japs and Chinks in cahoots, which is odd—given how those humps hate each other.”
A pierside siren screeeed. A guardsman dropped his ship-to-shore phone and tore up to the lieutenant.
“We’ve got a spotting-plane report, sir. That first boat anchored in Ventura, and the Sheriff’s up there raided it and said it was clean. It was all some kind of snafu. The skipper said they’ve been going out for albacore for over a year, and he had the records to prove it. They sleep on the boat because they’re all track fiends, and they blow their coin on the nags. Nobody can make a case for these guys as Fifth Column. There’s all that, plus the fact that they dump all their loads on Lou’s Fish Grotto in Long Beach.”
The lieutenant made the jack-off sign. The onboard men grabbed life jackets. It smelled like a rollout. Parker sniffed hullabaloo.
The lieutenant said, “Don’t tell me. The other boat’s coming in.”
The guardsman said, “Aye, aye, sir. It’s headed our way.”
The lieutenant blew a whistle and ran up the gangplank. Parker fast-walked behind him. A deputy lobbed life jackets. Parker snagged his. Two guardsmen retracted the anchor. The cutter pushed off.
The engines whirred and caught. It happened too fast. Parker stagger-walked to the prow and hugged a gun mount.
A telescope was fixed there. It pointed straight ahead. He took his glasses off and put an eye down. He squinted and caught the hubbub.
A two-mast fishing boat. Maybe two miles out. Tiny figures on deck. Maybe yellow men.
The cutter churned straight ahead. Waves drenched the deck. Engine noise muffled all shouts and yelled commands. Parker hugged the gun mount and kept that eye down.
The lens compressed the horizon. The cutter-to-fishing-boat gap closed. The tiny figures expanded.
Yellow men—yes.
They look scared. Their boat is stalled. Two men are priming rear-deck motors.
The cutter cut waves. The cutter cut close.
Close.
Closer.
Close now.
VERY CLOSE.
Twenty yards or knots or clicks or whatever—
Parker kept that eye down. The yellow men looked scared and mad. Parker slid his glasses on and squinted.
“Hands up, now! All hands up! All hands up, all hands on deck!”
Parker straightened up and braced himself. The boat-to-boat crash knocked him flat. His view went all upside down.
A guardsman tossed a grappling hook. Parker saw it upside down. Men with tommy guns jumped. Parker saw it upside down. Four Japs raised their—