by James Ellroy
Your new photographic device is faulty and perhaps obsolete. The picture of Fujio Shudo was taken on December 7 at 3:19 p.m., not December 6. The agitated pedestrians are reacting to news of the Pearl Harbor attack. A newspaper headline pertaining to the attack can be minimally glimpsed in the photo.
The note was unsigned. A big heart was sketched below.
Replete with an arrow. Replete with initials: H.A. + B.B.
Ashida screamed.
He thought he heard a wolf howl, somewhere close.
12:09 a.m.
Gauze.
It was what I saw and what I was covered in. I knew I was in a hospital room and that I had been anesthetized. The walls were white, the bedding was white. I was in and out of a white-hazed consciousness. The gauze was just porous enough to let me glimpse the world. All my immediate memories were hazy white.
I recalled Bill Parker lifting me; the ambulance men wrapped me in white blankets and wore white coats. Parker told them to take me to Good Samaritan. A needle went in my arm. I came to on a white bed, dressed in gauze and floating in white.
My nose is broken—I heard a doctor say that. I know I’m wearing some sort of splint, like the ones Lee and Scotty wore after their fight. There’s a tube in my arm, feeding me fortified water. The metallic taste in my mouth reminds me of the taste of Dot Rothstein’s blood.
I fought as the Feds wrestled me out of the cell; it was the last thing I remember before the world turned white. The padded cell was white, my straitjacket was white. I spat blood in Ed Satterlee’s face—I recall that.
I have a mild concussion; I heard a nurse say that. I’ll be all right; I heard two doctors conferring. I’m not in the jail ward; I heard Bill Parker demand a private east-wing room. I’m a block away from the Pacific Dining Car and the world’s best steak sandwich. I can taste it through the blood taste in my mouth.
I intended to kill her. I made up my mind the moment she touched me. The decision did not shock me then; the decision does not shock me now. I was poised to kill her when the Feds stormed my cell.
She’s going to survive. I heard two nurses talking. She’s in surgery at Queen of Angels. A doctor is grafting her severed nose back onto her face.
Everything is white. All sensation is altered. Numbness subsumes pain, the floaty haze engulfs discomfort. Gauze is porous. Gauze allows me to pretend to sleep while I peek at the men who’ve come by to see me.
Lee came by, in his uniform. Scotty came by, in his brown wool suit and tartan bow tie. They came by separately; they sat on opposite sides of the bed and held my hands while they spoke to each other. They cracked jokes about their own broken noses. Scotty cried and wiped his face with my hazy white sheet. Lee said, “Holy shit, Bennett. She fucked up the Dotstress.”
Bill Parker frosted out a mayhem beef—Lee told Scotty that. Parker called Gene Biscailuz and talked turkey. Dot’s antics had been out of line for years now. Sheriff Gene kowtowed—no charges on Miss Lake.
Scotty said, “I wish I could have seen it.” Lee said, “Yeah. It had to be a better dustup than you and me.”
I started drifting off then. I recall talk of the Dining Car and “belt a few highballs.”
Gauze and white haze. Familiar scents. Brenda and Elmer came by. I smelled Brenda’s perfume and Elmer’s cigar.
Gauze and white haze. A nurse says, “Telephone, Captain.” William H. Parker says, “Thank you.”
Gauze and haze. Then, “It’s after midnight, Sergeant.” A pause and “Yes, I know I proposed the meeting.” Silence and “The rectory? Certainly, if His Eminence requests it.”
Gauze and white haze. Scents. His cigarette smoke and a hint of the rainstorm I willed. The wet wool of his uniform.
Gauze and white haze. He’s sitting beside the bed. Tell me things, William. Tell me who the big redhead is. Tell me what you want from her.
Gauze and white haze. He’s praying. His eyes are shut. His elbows are up on his knees. His fingers are laced and pressed to his forehead.
Gauze and white haze. I’m in, I’m out. Chair scrapes and footsteps, departing. A glimpse through the haze—but he’s gone.
I smelled the prairie. He left it here for me.
1:53 a.m.
The Archbishop said, “I’m thrilled to receive you boys. I’ve had devilish insomnia since we entered this war, and brokering a truce between two uniquely brilliant Catholic laymen bodes as splendid good fun.”
Cantwell’s study aped the Wilshire Country Club taproom. The walls were golf trophy–festooned.
Dudley said, “I’m glad that I took the liberty of calling you, Your Eminence. Captain Parker suggested an intermediary, and I’m thrilled that you were available at this ungodly hour.”
They sat in easy chairs. Rain tapped the windows. Cantwell sipped brandy. Dudley sipped scotch. Parker sipped ginger ale.
He had four days booze-free. His nerve endings screeched. The free world was up his ass. His blood pressure verged on 6,000.
He had Kay Lake’s film strip. Dudley held a folder. Cantwell and Dud went back to Dublin. Cantwell was a papal up-and-comer. The Dudster was a kid assassin.
“Are we in the protected sphere of clerical confidence now, Your Eminence?”
“We are, Dud. You may both rest assured of my discretion. Consider this to be a grandly appointed confessional, and consider me to be your confessor.”
Dudley passed the folder. “Hideo Ashida’s notarized statement on the Watanabe case and what he knows and has surmised about your extracurricular operation.”
Parker opened the folder and read the enclosed pages. Hideo Ashida—dear God.
Rampant suppression. The prim doctor goes rogue and goes snitch. He gives up all their rogue actions. The document was a torch. It would burn down his whole fucking life.
Parker passed the folder back. “I concede my predicament. I’m sure that you coerced Dr. Ashida with great verve.”
Cantwell twinkled. Dudley winked. Parker passed him the film strip. Dudley rolled it out and studied it.
He scanned it, up and down. He scanned it six full times.
He said, “Yes, Captain. I concede.”
Parker rubbed it in. “Your pal Ed Satterlee and Ace Kwan’s pal Quon Chin. Let me extend the argument that this film so lucidly asserts. It’s a payoff. You and Ace have plans to exploit the roundups and the forthcoming internment, and you’re greasing a well-placed Fed in advance. If Ace is acting independent of you, I don’t care. You and Ace cannot afford to have this film strip publicly viewed or logged as police evidence. You and Ace cannot afford to have the roundups in any way officially besmirched.”
Dudley passed the strip back. “Your assumptions are soundly reasoned and entirely correct. I must ask Mr. Kwan why he is paying off Agent Satterlee. Knowing Mr. Kwan, I would guess that it pertains to business.”
Cantwell twinkled. “It’s all Greek to me, but I’m having a swell time anyway.”
Parker said, “Describe your end of the agreement.”
Dudley said, “I respectfully request your vow not to interfere in the legal processes attending the conviction of Fujio Shudo for the murders of Ryoshi, Aya, Johnny and Nancy Watanabe. Within that request, I offer this concession. You, with or without Dr. Ashida, may have a grand time searching for white men in purple sweaters, but you may not publicly or officially present evidence that anyone other than Mr. Shudo killed the Watanabe family. I also respectfully request your vow not to interfere in my endeavors with Ace Kwan in any way, shape, manner or form. I should add that I have vivid documentation of your near-fatal beating of your first wife, Francine Pomeroy.”
Cantwell crossed himself. Parker willed his hand back from his gun.
“With God as my witness, you have my vow.”
“Thank you, Captain. And on your end?”
Parker said, “I respectfully request your vow to make damn fucking sure that no Federal, state, or local charges are filed against Katherine Lake, Claire De Haven, the men in her cell an
d the film crew. There are to be no reprisals against Miss Lake for her justified assault on your friend Dot Rothstein. I respectfully request your vow to see to the timely release and the dropping of all charges for Miss Lake and the others. I respectfully request that you present my threat of public exposure to Richard Hood, the SAC of the FBI’s Los Angeles Office, immediately. Within this request, I offer this concession. I will never again seek to entrap Fifth Columnists of any sort, with or without Miss Lake’s participation.”
Dudley tapped his belt wares. Stations of the cross. Knuckle dusters, sap, shiv.
“With God as my witness, you have my vow.”
Parker stood up.
Dudley stood up.
They shook hands.
Cantwell stood and clapped. “White men, both of you. Good Catholic boys. Such dry wit, such decorum.”
The walls compressed. The heat index climbed. Some unseen fireplace roared. Here come the jim-jams and quakes.
Dudley said something droll. Cantwell dished blarney. Parker made for the door.
He got outside. Rain hit him. He weaved down a walkway and puked into a hedge. The walls retracted. The heat index dropped. He lost his legs. He felt propelled. He made it to the sanctuary. The side door was unlocked.
He got to a pew. He got to his knees and faced the altar. He got squared away and got to it.
Holy Father, grant me reprieve. Take my fraudulent righteousness. Revoke the arrogance that blinds me to the plight of others and leads me to horrid error and misalliance. Temper my ambition with grace, Dear Lord. Forgive me for persecuting Claire De Haven. I am complicit in blood libel. Protect the innocent Japanese of this city as chaos attends them. Bring me Joan Conville and tell me what she portends. Grant Katherine Lake the will to self-rebuke, so that she might repent and forfeit her reckless urges. I will honor the vow that I just issued in Your Name. That oath of convenience makes me small in Your Eyes. I succumb to worldliness in this address. I speak to You in ghastly qualification. I cannot lose what I have fought so hard for and can only grasp and compromise when others seek to take it from me.
He stayed on his knees. He prayed. He got up to the edge and retreated. He knew the words and fought the words. He saw dawn through stained glass. The new vow lodged inside him and caused tremors.
He got up to it. He retreated. He said the words so he would not go insane.
Dear God, let this be my final compliance with evil. Dear God, I must never do this again.
8:35 a.m.
Dick Hood said, “It’s extortion. It’s sheer blackmail.”
Dudley said, “We have to comply. He’ll levy the threat without hesitation.”
“Tell me who ‘He’ is. I’ll concede that it’s a valid threat, and I’ll get Mr. Hoover’s okay. Just tell me who ‘He’ is.”
They sat in Dudley’s cubicle. Graph paper masked the walls. Arrows, boxes, initials. Baffling hieroglyphics. Hood kept glancing sidelong.
Dudley zipped his lips. Hood lit a cigarette.
“My money’s on Thad Brown or Bill Parker. They’re the frontrunners for Chief when Jack the H. retires. Parker’s a drunk and a religious nut, and Thad’s subtle. Shit. Mr. Hoover’s going to hit the roof.”
Dudley rocked his chair. “You’ll have to speak to the U.S. Attorney. You’ll have to release Miss De Haven and the others, and disband that part of your investigation.”
Hood made the jack-off sign. “I’ll gird my fucking loins, make the fucking calls and take the fucking heat. And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s not really an ‘investigation.’ It’s just round up the fucking Japs and make this a Jap-free city within sixty days.”
Dudley said, “I spoke to Ace Kwan an hour ago. He explained the payoffs to me, and I would describe them as felicitous in intent. They were Ace’s bequest to the agents who’ve been working so diligently to clean up this damnable mess. Ed Satterlee would have explained it to you by New Year’s. Ace intends to throw a grand party for all of you, including the Hearst Rifle Team and some of our Alien Squad boys. You’ll have a week at Cal Drake’s Blue Lion Lodge, up in Victorville. There’ll be bourbon, bird hunting and Cuban cigars. It’s Ace’s treat for you, once the Japs have been properly penned.”
Hood grinned. “The goddamn war, the goddamn Japs. You’ve got escaped Japs, now. Gene Biscailuz is throwing his own party. Duty waivers and twelve scoots a day. He’s got a lynch mob on his hands.”
The Blue Lion tale was a dodge. Yes, he called Ace. Yes, Ace came clean. Ed Satterlee was hawking Jap-property leads. Ace had Quon Chin purchase some.
He called Ed. He told him about the film strip and its upscut. Ed came clean. He told him to comply with the Blue Lion dodge.
Hood said, “I like Ace. He’s been feeding my boys on the cuff. Got a yen for egg rolls at 3:00 a.m.? See Ace the Chinaman.”
Dudley said, “Ace is a thoughtful man. He knows that your niece Jane is getting married, and he’s offered to cater the reception, free of charge.”
Hood stood up. “Free of charge” echoed.
“Damn. The Blue Lion. Will you be joining us?”
“Regretfully, no. I’ll be entering Army service at New Year’s.”
Hood stretched. “I’ll go make those calls. Jesus, Mr. Hoover will piss blood.”
Dudley tossed him his hat. They shook hands and sighed. Ain’t life a pisser? Hood hit the road. Dudley coffee-chased two bennies. The graph summoned him.
He jotted notes. He updated the land grab. He detailed Dr. Terry’s buy-in strategy. He drew a howling wolf.
He was keyed up. He barely dozed last night. He kept calling Bette. A coon maid kept stalling him. Beth and Tommy were due. He made calls and located the two rape-o Marines.
He spoke to Scotty. He rebuked him for the Lee Blanchard tiff. He requested a favor in recompense. Scotty said Sure.
He went by Carl Hull’s house. Craven Carl spilled to Buzz Meeks. It mandated a severe beating.
Frau Carl diverted him. Ensign Carl had left for the Navy.
He was keyed-up. He needed investment gelt. He needed to plan the raid on Carlos Madrano’s stash.
Dudley drew wolves and dollar signs. Money. Madrano’s cash and dope. Money. Ace Kwan’s tile game tomorrow.
Dudley studied his graph. Arrows, boxes, initials, contractions. Scotty walked up. Scotty studied the graph.
“It’s interesting how the initials repeat. If you know the names, you can almost figure it out.”
“Bright lad. I’m surrounded by acute young men these days.”
Scotty smiled. “The Werewolf’s in no. 2. Mr. Loew told me to get you.”
Dudley grabbed his suit coat. “I’d like you to observe and follow my signals. There’s that task, and a drive down to Oceanside later. It pertains to that amends I require. I’ll explain it to you en route.”
Scotty said, “Okay, Dud.”
They walked down to 2. No gallery this time. No steno, no hallway speaker.
Ellis Loew sat with Fujio Shudo. Two extra chairs were pulled up.
Shudo was handcuffed. This interview was the stalker. The closer was later today.
Loew jiggled his Phi Beta key. Dudley and Scotty sat down. Shudo stood up.
He said, “I’m a whip-out man.” He unzipped his trousers and whipped out his dick.
Dudley signaled Scotty.
Scotty improvised.
He grabbed Shudo by the neck and picked him up, one-handed. He lowered him and sat him back down in his chair.
Loew gawked. Shudo tucked his dick away and went Ouch.
Dudley said, “Good morning, Mr. Shudo. I’ve missed you. Have you missed me?”
Shudo said, “No.”
Dudley smiled. “We left you on the avenues in Highland Park, around noon on Saturday, December 6th. You posed for a photograph with a little girl who thought you resembled a werewolf, which you most fetchingly do. You had been drinking terpin hydrate, you recall that day as being hazy, and you said that an ‘instinct’ drew you to Highland Park
. You became upset when I brought up your visits to Japanese fraternal clubs in the early 1930s, your acrimonious relationship with a man named Ryoshi Watanabe, and your political arguments with him. Do you recall that, sir? It was only Thursday night that we had this discussion.”
Shudo picked his nose. “I don’t know. I told you I knew Ginzo Watanabe and Charlie Watanabe, but I don’t remember no Ryoshi.” Dudley said, “You will in time, sir. We’ve come into possession of a letter that you wrote to him in 1933.”
Loew gawked the letter. He was in on let’s-get-him. He was clueless per the frame. He signaled Dudley: My turn.
“Mr. Shudo, do you carry sample knives on your cart? Sharp-bladed knives to show off the fine work you do?”
Shudo said, “Sure.”
Dudley said, “We’ve reset the stage for you, sir. It’s Saturday, December 6th, and you’re in Highland Park on an ‘instinct.’ You’ve been drinking terpin hydrate, and things are hazy.”
Shudo said, “I don’t remember writing Ryoshi Watanabe no letter.”
“But you do recall Ryoshi and your arguments with him at the fraternal clubs?”
Shudo shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Clincher. Now, reverse the field.
“You were born in Yokohama, Japan, in 1903. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Shudo? Your Atascadero file reports that you emigrated in 1908.”
Shudo said, “That’s right. I was born in the land of the rising sun. I’m not no Nisei Johnny-come-lately.”
“Your father ran a fishing boat out of San Pedro, didn’t he, Mr. Shudo?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he engage in political activities?”
“No, but he hated the Chinks, and he rumbled against the tongs.”
“Did he educate you in the political ways of Imperial Japan?” Shudo said, “No. He educated me with a croquet mallet.”
“And when did this practice begin, sir?”
“When I was about eight years old. When he saw me whip it out on this Mex boy.”