Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  Jack shrugged. “So what? Five eyewits aren’t nine eyewits. Your device is something out of Buck Rogers or Tom Swift and His Flying Saucer from Mars, and you and Ray Pinker are the only two white men on earth who understand how it works, and you aren’t even white. There’s that, and there’s a kicker. Yeah, Dud blew up at a bad time, but he picked himself up off his heinie, quick. He went back to the Watanabe house and turned up an eight-point print on The Wolf. You want a final kicker? The print was in Ryoshi Watanabe’s blood.”

  Ashida reached for the wall. It wasn’t there. Jack steadied him.

  “You missed a fingerprint. So what? I don’t blame you. Dud blows his cork, you blow an eight-point latent. We’re all human, right? The important thing is solidarity. This police department has stepped way out on a limb for you, Doctor. You’re too damn smart not to know that, and there’s one other thing.”

  Ashida said, “Which is, sir?”

  “Which is this. Dudley Smith is real fond of you.”

  4:14 a.m.

  The cell.

  It was drab. There was a metal bunk, a sink and a lidless toilet. The jailer had vacated all the women’s cells. A thin wall separated this tier from the men’s tiers. They were brimful of Japanese “subversives” and general riffraff.

  The crew moved their gear into the cell and began setting up. I stood with Reynolds and Chaz; Claire and Saul Lesnick gabbed with a light man. Nao Hamano died in the cell. The sequence would feature Claire, speaking directly to the camera.

  She would address the powers that be and soliloquize from Mrs. Hamano’s perspective. I wanted her to be loopy and bombastic. I feared that her eloquence would supersede bombast and convince a jury that she was indeed plotting treason. We were shooting two sequences here at the jail. The second was Hideo Ashida’s stroll down the tier. Hideo, the police chemist. Hideo, the tenuous survivor of a horrible pogrom. Hideo, beholden to his white cop masters and despised by his own people for playing the game so goddamn well.

  We needed Hideo here—but Hideo was gone. He broke off a filmed kiss with me and walked away, two hours ago. Claire said, “His kisses are quite tenuous, dear. Perhaps I should rent you a hotel room where you might rehearse.” Staged kisses and my gender might have driven him away. Or perhaps he sensed peril—as I was beginning to.

  We were under Federal “lockstep” surveillance. Our equipment and developing trailer was outside in the lot; Ed Satterlee and Ward Littell were parked across the street. Littell was Mariko Ashida’s protector and was opposed to the roundups; Littell was a Federal agent charged with conducting them, nonetheless. I sensed peril. My cop-wise antennae kept twitching.

  Our shooting schedule ran frenetic. It was wholly determined by the contents of Saul Lesnick’s black bag. Claire kept saying, “I need to do this and get away somewhere.” I was determined to shape the content of the film and prevent it from granting her the martyrdom she so desperately craved.

  I was tired. My ’round-the-clock life since Pearl Harbor was catching up with me. The tier was strewn with cords and camera dollies; temporary telephone lines had been installed. Claire was skimming news clippings on Mrs. Hamano. Immersion, transference, identity assumed.

  There was a daybed in the equipment trailer. I needed a moment’s rest and more than a moment alone. I walked out to the parking lot. I saw Hideo enter the jail. He wore his particular look of harried and prim.

  I stepped into the trailer, kicked off my shoes and lay down. I heard thunder and hoped for dawn rain. Late autumn in Sioux Falls brought electric storms. I loved them passionately. I spent my girlhood on our front porch, imploring God to bring downpours.

  The phone rang. I grabbed the receiver and pulled the cord over to the bed.

  “Hello.”

  A man’s voice came on the line. “It’s Ward Littell, Miss Lake. I got this number from a police source. I’m sure you know who I am, and that this call constitutes a risk for me.”

  “I do know who you are, Mr. Littell. I know that you’ve been helpful to Hideo Ashida and his mother, but you haven’t said anything risky.”

  Littell said, “I’m about to, and so I’ll be brief. I would advise you to destroy the existing footage of the movie you’re filming. Mr. Hoover is in Los Angeles. He’s quite concerned that your movie is abetting the Japanese war effort.”

  I began to reply. Littell hung up on me. The hang-up noise became a pick-up click. Someone was making a call from an inside-the-jail line. The two calls were moments apart. Something tweaked me. I tapped the connector button and listened in.

  I heard a moment’s static and “News travels fast, lad.” The brogue announced Dudley Smith. A man said, “I didn’t know where you were, so I went to Chief Horrall.” It was Hideo Ashida.

  Their voices were hushed. Hideo was twenty yards away. He was making the call within range of Claire and the crew.

  Dudley said, “… your grand photo device.”

  Hideo said, “I had no intention of interfering in your case against Fuji Shudo. I was simply pointing out a glaring time discrepancy.”

  “Did the Chief tell you that I uncovered a corroborating print? I lifted it off a patch of dried blood.”

  Hideo did not respond. His silence extended. I read some kind of shock in his pause. The conversation made no sense to me.

  Dudley said, “You haven’t asked me ‘Whose blood,’ lad.”

  Hideo said, “Ryoshi Watanabe’s. The Chief told me that.”

  The Watanabe case. They had a suspect. They had solid leads. Dudley said, “It’s winding down, lad. I’ll be crafting a chain-of-evidence brief for our lawyer chum, Ellis Loew. Shudo is AB negative, so I think we can attribute Nancy’s pregnancy to him.”

  Hideo did not respond. His silence extended. I read some kind of censure in his pause.

  Dudley said, “Are you feeling ambivalent, lad? Are you torn between the notion of a just exoneration and the degree of expediency required to ensure your safety? Am I witnessing a dithering expression of fatuous Japanese solidarity?”

  Hideo said, “I simply acted on instinct.”

  Dudley said, “You’re being disingenuous. You’re far too circumspect to fall prey to the hot blood that ‘instinct’ implies, and I would venture to guess that your only instinct is circumspection.”

  Another pause. “Exoneration,” “expediency.” “Ambivalence,” “interference.” It felt like dialogue on a frame.

  Dudley said, “Are you there, lad?”

  Static hit the line. I shook the receiver and cleared it. Hideo said, “I’ve become involved in that movie I told you about. Remember? You gave me permission.”

  Dudley said, “Yes.”

  Hideo said, “Ward Littell told my mother that Mr. Hoover is here now, and that there’ll be a Federal raid on the movie. I called you to tell you that. I’m sorry I bypassed you on the Shudo matter, but my intention was to bring the issue of the discrepancy to the attention of someone as far up the chain of command as possible, as soon as possible.”

  Traitor. Coward. Perfidious deviant in the thrall of a bold man he would dearly love to fuck.

  “That is indeed a good tip, lad. I would caution you not to share it with Miss Lake, Miss De Haven, and the sundry dilettantes involved in this idiot venture. I assure you that your participation in the venture will be persuasively explained away, by me, at my most immediate opportunity. We are embroiled in the backwash of Whiskey Bill Parker’s lunacy—and, as such, I would caution you to continue to treat the man with perfunctory kid gloves.”

  Hideo said, “Yes, Dudley. You have my word on all of that.”

  Vile, simpering, craven. Emasculated, frigid, vapid, picayune—

  An air-raid signal blasted. I fumbled the phone back into the cradle and ran outside. Dawn was just breaking. The City Hall searchlights swooped across the southern horizon.

  Red lights flashed above the jail. Uniformed jailers ran out and piled into their cars. The film crew followed them. Claire, Reynolds, Chaz and Saul L
esnick walked out. They were determined to appear unfazed by an air raid. Comrade Hideo strolled out. He was smiling.

  They got in their cars, pulled out and made for the parkway. I was almost-but-not-quite alone.

  Ward Littell and Ed Satterlee were parked across the street. A black-and-white was parked a half block behind them. It was too dark to see through the windshield.

  It had to be him. I was here, and where else did he have to go?

  I stepped back inside the trailer and locked myself in. I gathered up four reels of unedited film and dumped them in the service sink. A shelf above the sink was lined with bottled solvents; two were marked with skull and crossbones. I poured the contents over the film strips, watched them bubble and burn.

  A rough-edited cut of the film had been fed into a glass-topped device. It allowed the editor to view it, frame by frame. The shoot had been rushed and haphazardly implemented. Still—it was my film that had to be destroyed. I had to see some version of it.

  The editor’s desk was covered with film strips; I went though them and straightened them into one long trail. The trail covered the floor up to my ankles. The commencing image was already clamped into the device. I held a lamp down and squinted.

  It was a black-and-white negative, rendered white-on-black. The first frame portrayed a peaceful 2nd Street.

  I’d seen the editor work and had a sense of how to operate his machine. I stood over the desk and fed film strips under the glass.

  The process was slow. Air-raid sirens provided a soundtrack. Frame by frame and image by image—my movie.

  The reversed black and white. The roundups in miniature. L.A., a week and a half after Pearl Harbor.

  Street rousts. Japanese men and cops with shotguns. Cut to a white-on-black Claire, speaking to camera. Cut to clips from Storm Over Leningrad.

  William H. Parker is right: they are didactic buffoons. William H. Parker is wrong: the roundups are barbaric and Claire is courageous in attempting to expose them. William H. Parker is right: the film indicts the filmmakers as provocateurs out to exploit injustice. William H. Parker is wrong: expressed outrage does not equal treason and any succor that it provides to our enemies must be seen as incidental and not actionable in any sane court of law.

  I went through the film, frame by frame. I lived my movie and my moment in History. I became adept at identifying the people I already knew. I quickly spotted reverse-print snips of familiar figures and garb.

  That’s Thad Brown—I see his light fedora. That’s Elmer Jackson—I see his ever-jutting cigar. That’s my own speech yesterday. That’s the riot in Pershing Square.

  I caught the front of a building off 1st and San Pedro. Yes—I know those rounded pillars and that narrow stoop. Yes—that’s Ed Satterlee. He’s talking to an Asian man.

  Their headgear identified them. Satterlee was tall and wore flat-topped hats with feathers; the presumed Asian man wore a coolietype hat. I scrolled frames and saw what looked like an exchange. The men were close enough to be embracing.

  Something made me stop. It was an I-see-something moment. I ran the subsequent frames through the glass, fast. I knew what I was seeing before I actually saw it.

  Their hands touch. Their hands withdraw. Satterlee places something in his pocket. Both men wheel. Both men walk off. They head out in opposite directions.

  It was a handoff. It was a covert exchange.

  I grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped the appropriate frames. The trailer came with a darkroom. I’d studied photography and knew how to develop film.

  I stepped into the darkroom. The red light above the door went on automatically. The developing tray was filled with solution. I laid the strip in and let the solvents go to work.

  The enclosed space muffled the air-raid sirens; caustic chemicals made my eyes sting. The film-strip images reversed their shades and slowly came to life.

  I pulled out the strip and held it up to dry. Yes, it was Ed Satterlee. The red light on his face ID’d him. I stepped out of the darkroom. The red light became normal light. I identified the Chinese man. It explained the whole furtive vignette.

  It was a payoff. It was filmed inadvertently. The Chinese man passed Agent Satterlee money. They concluded their business then.

  The Chinese man was a Hop Sing enforcer. Lee pointed him out to me at a Bureau Christmas party. He delivered Ace Kwan’s holiday baskets to Call-Me-Jack and the boys. Cask-strength scotch and dry-rubbed ducks. Neatly folded C-notes.

  Lee riffed on the man. His name was Quon something; he’d witnessed the rape of Nanking. He was a vociferous Jap hater. His rage far exceeded Ace Kwan’s.

  I stepped outside and lit a cigarette. The sirens went off; those dark clouds looked ready to burst. The Fed car was gone. The black-and-white was still here. I was here. Where else did he have to go?

  I walked over. Parker stepped out of the car. He was fresh groomed and wore a neat uniform. His glasses were lost in the riot. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles now.

  He said, “Miss Lake.” I said, “Captain Parker.” He reached into my skirt pocket and removed my cigarettes. I lit him up.

  “Dudley Smith knows about your operation. I overheard him talking to Hideo Ashida. They’re colluding on the Watanabe case. I determined it from their conversation.”

  Parker said, “I’ve been relieved of my stewardship. I lost face with Ashida, and he threw in with Dudley. He’s a farsighted young man in a terrible bind. His interests are better served with Dudley. I can’t fault him for that.”

  We smoked and looked at the storm clouds. Traffic hummed on the parkway. I glanced south and saw the Federal Building. The morning enlistment line swelled.

  “The FBI is going to raid us and confiscate our film. We’ll all be arrested.”

  “Will you warn your comrades?”

  “No.”

  “Because your cause will be better served by anointing them as martyrs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you reveal this operation?”

  “Under no circumstances.”

  “Do you believe that your own martyrdom will tip the balance of credibility away from me and toward you and your friends?”

  “Yes, and there’s one more thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’ve given me myself, and I will not betray you.”

  It began to rain. Parker stared at the sky and held his hands out to touch it. We looked at each other. I walked to the middle of the parking lot and let the rain come down on me.

  Black clouds eclipsed the City Hall spire. Lightning streaked over the Hall of Justice. I thought of the prairie. Flash floods and tornadoes. Drunken Indians, drowned in their lean-tos. That short havoc that takes witless lives and lets ruthless dreamers start up anew.

  The black sky was overwhelming. I let time dissolve. I felt William’s hand brush my leg. I held that moment close and stood still in the rain.

  8:29 a.m.

  Sleeping beauties. A cot room slumber party.

  Call-Me-Jack and Jim Davis dozed. Mike Breuning and Lee Blanchard, likewise. Jack and Jim were stag-night refugees. Breuning was bushed from the frame job. Note Blanchard’s fistfight wounds. Blanchard was hiding out from Kay Lake.

  A.M. Heralds covered the floor. COPS STORM WEREWOLF’S LAIR! JAP FIEND APPREHENDED! BAFFLING JAP WHODUNNIT—FULL STORY REVEALED!

  Front-page news. A big photo spread. The Dudster and The Wolf. The “Demon’s Den.” Scotty Bennett, dragging Fuji Shudo. Scotty Bennett, chomping bubble gum.

  The boys slept. Parker stepped out to the hallway. Thad Brown braced him.

  “I’ve got a partial trace on Joan Conville. She’s a home wrecker and more than a bit of a wild one.”

  Parker said, “Tell me.”

  Brown said, “I’ve got no location on her now, but she was shacked with a man at 8th and New Hampshire up until Pearl Harbor. He joined the Army that day. She joined the Navy, was commissioned as a lieutenant j.g. and was ordered to stay put and wait for her trai
ning papers. She’s on the loose now. She was working as a research biologist at a lab in Culver City, but she grabbed her last paycheck on the 8th and skeedaddled. She broke up the Army guy’s marriage and cut him loose the day they enlisted. You want my opinion? She’s a shitload of trouble that you’d be well advised to avoid.”

  Parker smiled. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

  Brown said, “Isn’t it enough? There’s all that, and there’s the disappointing fact that she’s a Protestant.”

  Parker laughed. Call-Me-Jack and Two-Gun lurched to the washroom.

  Brown said, “One of us will be Chief after the war, Bill. When the City Council grills us, I swear that I won’t mention the big redhead in your closet.”

  Parker grinned. His last drink was 2:00 a.m. Tuesday. He’d marked sober days in his Bible. He’d pledged five clams per day to the church.

  Brown said, “We should go. It’s Mr. Hoover’s show.”

  They ran the back stairs. Call-Me-Jack and Two-Gun beat them. Fletch Bowron sat with Hoover and Preston Exley. Chairs faced a speaker’s stand and easel. A San Fernando Valley map was propped up.

  Hoover wore a fresh carnation. Preston fiddled with a pointer. Call-Me-Jack and Two-Gun sipped Bromo.

  Parker and Brown took seats. Hoover tapped his watch. Nobody smoked—Hoover disapproved.

  Jack said, “Eleanor Roosevelt’s jungled up with that colored mammy from Gone with the Wind. They shack at the Los Altos Apartments when FDR blows through town. Gerald L. K. Smith hosted a shindig at the First Christian Church of Glendale, and Gerry does not speak with forked tongue.”

  Hoover said, “Pastor Smith is a long-standing FBI informant. He rats out his rivals in the alarmist-pamphlet business. He’s very well connected along the right flank.”