by James Ellroy
“And how long did this practice last?”
“Until I ran away. I think I was fourteen. The Beast told me to cut tracks, so I did.”
“And who is ‘The Beast,’ Mr. Shudo?”
“The Beast is my dick.”
“Do you view your dick as a separate being, sir? As something or someone attached to your body, but able to act and speak to you independently?”
“Yeah. The Beast is The Beast. Sometimes he gives me good advice, sometimes he leads me astray.”
Loew gawked. Scotty gassed on Shudo. This sure beats divinity school!
Dudley said, “The Beast is your counselor and your confidant, is that correct, Mr. Shudo? He frequently guides your actions and advises you on what to do?”
Shudo said, “That’s correct. The Beast is my baby boy. I’m a whip-out man. If I see something that I think The Beast will like, I show it to him. Your boy here is The Beast’s type, so I gave him a peek.”
Dudley said, “Are you referring to my colleague, Officer Robert S. Bennett?”
Shudo said, “That’s right. The Beast likes husky boys.”
Loew said, “Mr. Shudo, are you a homosexual?”
Shudo said, “No. I’m just the ichiban of The Beast.”
Dudley said, “I’m curious about the advice that The Beast offers you, sir. Can you give me any examples of it?”
Shudo scratched his balls. “The Beast tells me to take the streetcar up to Hollywood, so I do it. The Beast tells me to break into houses and sniff jockstraps, so I do it. The Beast tells me to share my terp with him, so I do.”
Dudley smiled. Shudo ogled Scotty.
“Mr. Shudo, a pair of women’s panties were found in your hotel room. Were you aware of that?”
Shudo shrugged. Women’s panties—so what?
“Sir, have you ever broken into a house for the express purpose of sniffing women’s panties? Feel free to consult The Beast if you need to.”
Shudo scrunched up his face. Shudo expressed deep thought. Shudo nodded yes.
“Yeah. I like to break into houses and sniff women’s panties.”
“Do you enjoy fucking the occasional girl, sir? Do you indulge the practice if there are no comely young men in sight?”
Shudo scrunched up. Shudo consulted The Beast. Shudo nodded yes.
“Yeah, boss. I go for gash if there’s no cute brown eye around.” Loew cringed. Dudley tossed a curveball.
“Sir, did you fuck Nancy Watanabe during a work-furlough release from Atascadero, six months ago?”
Shudo scrunched up. Shudo consulted The Beast.
“Yeah, I fucked Nancy. I fucked her good.”
Loew nudged Dudley. He’s in the house. We’ve got partial motive. We’re halfway there. Scotty chewed bubble gum. Shudo ogled him. Here comes curveball no. 2.
“You’ve been with Mr. Shudo a long time. Isn’t that true, Beast?”
Shudo spoke basso profundo. “That’s right. A looooong time.”
“You’ve certainly taught him a few things, I’d venture to say.”
Shudo, basso profundo. “I’ll say. Fuji was a punk until I took him in.”
“Why would you say something that harsh, Beast?”
The Beast said, “Because it’s true. Fuji was the sissy until I made him the brunser. He gave out the brown at the San Pedro Y and up at Preston. I took him to the Murakami Nursery. They got bamboo shoots there. ‘Bamboo Shoot’ Shudo. Fuji owes that moniker to me.”
Dudley said, “Would you say that Mr. Shudo owes his entire criminal career to you, Beast?”
The Beast said, “In spades, ichiban. I taught him the knife-sharpening trade and made him a knife man. I got him a job at a blood bank in Long Beach, so he could steal the cute sailors’ blood. I took him to see Dracula at the Marcal Theatre. We kidnapped a sailor in the parking lot, so we could cut him and drink his blood. I showed him how to mix terp with blood, for a swell cocktail. I showed him how to cut himself when he couldn’t find no cute brown eye to cut.”
Loew leaned in. He ticked legal points, sotto voce.
“Get back to the 6th, and get to his weapons. Nort excluded the swords, but this isn’t going all the way to a jury. The swords and his knife cart. Let’s get back there.”
Dudley nodded. Scotty blew a big bubble. Shudo giggled and squirmed in his seat.
“Beast, are you and Mr. Shudo familiar with the Japanese swords used in the practice of hara-kiri?”
The Beast said, “Yes.”
“And were you and Mr. Shudo in possession of four such swords on Saturday, December 6th?”
The Beast said, “Yeah, boss.”
Dudley said, “But you had lost the scabbards, hadn’t you, Beast?”
The Beast said, “Right. We lost the scabbards.”
“Do you know what scabbards are, Beast?”
“I’m not sure, boss.”
“Beast, do you and Mr. Shudo keep an assortment of sample knives on your cart? Knives that you show to prospective customers to demonstrate the high quality of your work?”
The Beast said, “Yeah, we got some sample knives.”
Dudley tossed a change-up. It’s a for-real question. It’s a head scratcher.
“Beast, we did not find the knife-sharpening cart in your room at the Kyoto Arms Hotel.”
“Fuji sold it to a nigger, outside the Rosslyn Hotel.”
“And when was that?”
The Beast said, “Sunday, December 7, 1941. A day that will live in glory for mighty Imperial Japan.”
Loew leaned in. “What’s with this letter Shudo wrote?”
Dudley leaned in. “Hideo Ashida found it at the house and transcribed it for me. It was posted in October ’33. Fuji and Ryoshi had had some voluble disagreements at a Jap social club, and it’s apparent that he was already quite smitten with Nancy, even though she was a scant eight years old, and female.”
Loew said, “I don’t get that part of it. This guy’s a queer, and he keesters men with bamboo shoots.”
Dudley sighed. “Sex is a devilishly complex phenomenon, Mr. Loew. There’s that, and the considerable fact that Mr. Shudo is insane.”
“Quit addressing his schlong, will you? It’s giving me the willies.”
Dudley smiled. Scotty blew bubbles. Shudo goo-goo-eyed him.
Loew leaned close. “Walk him up to it, Sergeant. He hates Ryoshi, he impregnated Nancy, but she got a scrape. We’ve got the letter and the print in Ryoshi’s blood. We’ve got eyeball wits that place him in Highland Park that day. The knives versus the swords is problematic, but we know he’s going to confess. Walk him up and walk him through when we go for the close this afternoon. Jack Horrall’s bringing some Army brass in for the show. You’ll have a full house.”
Shudo said, “You’re whispering and conspiring against me. The Beast told me so. I told him you’re all right. The jailers get my grub at Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda. I get peach duck for noon chow today.” Dudley grinned. “And two portions you shall have, sir.”
Shudo went Yum-yum. “I’ve got no grudge on the Chinks. Eugenics is eugenics, boss. The Chinks got the better grub, but us Japs are the master race.”
Dudley rode a brainstorm. “I agree with you, sir. The Japanese are quite the superior race. I’m wondering, sir. By and large, you prefer men over women—but you’ve sustained quite the lust for Nancy Watanabe over time.”
“Yeah, Nancy. What a dish. Almost as good as brown eye.”
“You were quite determined to impregnate her, weren’t you, sir?”
“Yeah. Fuji and Nancy, and a little cub in the oven.”
“Was propagating the Japanese master race your chief concern with Nancy, sir? Did it trump your sexual desire, given your long-standing and rather cruel lust for young men?”
“Yeah.”
“And did Nancy’s termination of her pregnancy consume you in waves of despair?”
“Yeah.”
“And were those waves of despair in fact tidal waves, as you rolled yo
ur knife-sharpening cart down Avenue 45 in Highland Park in the early-afternoon hours of Saturday, December 6, 1941?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“And were you in the hazy, dreamlike state common to those who habitually swill terpin hydrate?”
“Yeah, boss. Terp. Terp and blood-bank blood from a husky white boy.”
“The Beast was leading you astray that day, wasn’t he, Mr. Shudo? He had you teething on Nancy’s abortion and all the indignities you had suffered during your contentious friendship with Ryoshi Watanabe.”
“Yeah, boss. The Beast was talking to me. I remember that day. He said Frankenstein was playing at the Wiltern Theatre. That little girl said I looked like The Wolfman.”
“The white residents of Highland Park viewed you with suspicion as you made your rounds that day, didn’t they? They knew you to be a member of the master race, soon to go to war with our inferior white nation.”
“That’s right, boss. Pearl Harbor was coming up. Banzai, you white fuckers.”
“You sensed the looming attack in the air, didn’t you, Mr. Shudo? You knew it was coming. It moved you, thrilled you, and filled you with elation and a paradoxical rage. You were on that street, you were near that house, you had sharp weapons on your cart and at your disposal. You were enraged. You wanted to be poised on the deck of a Japanese aircraft carrier, headed for Pearl Harbor. You were surely a werewolf, but you wanted to be a werewolf of the sky, in the glorious service of Imperial Japan, and that disjuncture filled you with a maddening and murderous hunger. Nancy was in that house. She had slaughtered your eugenic contribution to the Japanese master race. Ryoshi was in that house. He had belittled you in numerous arguments, going back nearly a decade. You knew that Aya and Johnny were in that house, and you suddenly sensed, with all your being, that you were nearing your very own Pearl Harbor.”
Shudo giggled. “That’s right, ichiban. Banzai, you Jap fuckers.”
Dudley tapped Loew. Scotty leaned close. Shoptalk, sotto voce.
“Call Kwan’s in half an hour. Order peach duck, chop suey and pork fried rice. Tell Ace to throw in two vials of terpin hydrate.”
11:14 a.m.
The Reds walked. Newshounds scoped their jail exit. Ashida watched. He had a lab-window view.
Claire took the lead. Her slaves followed her. The film crew lagged behind.
Reporters and cameramen pounced. Sid Hudgens and Jack Webb led the pack. The Anti-Axis raid made the papers.
It got some ink. It should have gleaned more. The escaped Japs and The Werewolf gobbled print space.
Flashbulbs popped. Newsmen yelled. Claire magnetized them and breezed through. Two limos were parked curbside. Claire took the lead car. Her slaves piled in behind her.
Both sleds pulled out. The crew dispersed on the street. The newsmen ignored them. Reds Lay Tracks in Loooooooong Lincolns! Photo men snapped the getaway.
The scene evaporated. Poof! It’s over. Everyone walked away.
The Reds walked. Ashida sensed quixotic Bill Parker. He pulled Kay Lake from the bin last night. The station buzzed with the tale. Whiskey Bill’s prom-night gesture.
Ashida stood at the window. The lab was Saturday dead. He had nowhere to go.
Dudley raided his apartment. Mariko’s place was Fed-sieged. L.A. was a siege state. Blood libel. His myth of normalcy, dashed.
Ashida stood at the window. The squadroom phones blared. Detectives logged get-the-Japs scuttlebutt.
The Sidster and Jack Webb walked in. They glad-handed Ashida and lit cigarettes.
Jack said, “That Claire De Haven’s a dish.”
Sid said, “Yeah, if the dish is red borscht.”
Jack said, “She can keep my tootsies warm in the Kremlin.”
Sid said, “Hideo, what are we going to do with this kid? His tenuous wartime employment as a stooge for William Randolph Hearst is going to his head.”
Ashida forced a laugh. Sid, you’re a sketch.
Jack said, “The Dudster gave me a job for tomorrow night. Ace Kwan’s throwing a big tile game, and he got a tip that some jigs are going to heist it. I’m supposed to observe the game and call him at a pay phone.”
Sid winked. “Like I said, It’s all going to his head. The Dudster and Mr. Hearst. What’s the diff?”
Jack said, “Why mince words? This war’s been good to me so far.”
Sid winked. “Unlike some others. Unlike the bulk of the Japanese folks in El Pueblo Grande at this particular moment. Right, Hideo?” Ashida flushed. Sid was a eugenic misfit. He was half cockroach, half maladroit dwarf.
“That’s right, Sid.”
“I’m thinking about doing a piece on you, Hideo. Dud got The Wolf, and you were a big part of the case. How about this? ‘Hideo Ashida helped crack the baffling Watanabe job, and he’s Japanese himself.’ It’s a good angle, given the way things are going for you folks.”
Ashida said, “They couldn’t go much worse.”
Sid said, “Sure they could. Those escapee fools have got this town in a tizzy, and that posse is out for blood. All the jails are full, so there’s talk of housing you folks in the horse paddocks at Santa Anita. You can dig that, right? You’re eating broiled eel on 2nd and Alameda one minute, you’re sharing a bale of tasty hay with Seabiscuit the next.”
Jack yukked. Ashida gripped the window ledge. Racial cur, cockroach, dwarf.
Sid said, “And, to top it off, you’ve got Fletch Bowron, stinko at the Jonathan Club last night. Is he railing at the Japanese forces currently gutting the Philippines? No. He’s ragging on a certain Nisei police chemist.”
The window ledge cracked. Ashida said, “You heard him?”
Jack said, “Fletch the B. Elmer the J’s got the goods on that boy.” Sid said, “I was there, and I heard him. He was talking up his plans to levy taxes on confiscated Japanese property, and he was hurling dirt on you and Whiskey Bill Parker. He was ragging Bill the P for that tapped-phone ploy that kept you on the PD, and he called you the ‘yellow spot on his spotless political record.’ ”
Ashida gripped the window ledge. The whole thing snapped off.
11:51 a.m.
The white haze and morphine were gone. The pain all over my body made me feel more like myself. I was going home in the late afternoon. My concussion was healing. The nose splint made me sneeze.
Lee and Scotty sat on opposite sides of the bed and held my hands. We all bore wounds from early-wartime altercations.
I pointed to my nose. “You should see the other girl.”
Lee and Scotty laughed; Scotty plumped up my pillows. Lee said, “I tried to enlist. I wasn’t going to mention it until I got in. Thad Brown got Jack Horrall’s okay. I took the physical, but I’m 4-F. That punctured eardrum from my fight with Jimmy Bivens.”
Scotty gave Lee a big stage look. Lee said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Bennett. You don’t hit that hard.”
We all laughed. Scotty gave me a look. Lee caught it. He wiggled my feet and said, “I should go now.”
Scotty said, “Wait downstairs for me, Blanchard. I’ll drive you back to the Hall.”
Lee blew me a kiss and walked out. Pain shot down my jaw. I sneezed and felt stitches tug loose.
Scotty handed me a tissue. I said, “You’re going to tell me something.”
He said, “That I’m breaking it off with you. Right’s right and wrong’s wrong, and we all know which one this is.”
I squeezed his hand. “I would have said ‘one more time when I’m feeling and looking better,’ but you’re right.”
Scotty said, “Right’s right.”
I said, “You’ll have to make do with Joan Crawford.”
Scotty blushed. “Who told you?”
“Brenda Allen. She saw you with La Grande Joan at the Trocadero. She called it an astonishing moment. You were with Joan Crawford, and Dudley Smith was with Bette Davis. It was when she knew that the war had changed everything.”
Scotty shivered. I said, “You shouldn’t be ashamed of be
ing afraid of him. It’s the proper response.”
“He collects protégés and discards them. You’ve seen it. Lee Blanchard didn’t cut the mustard, and now there’s me.”
I smiled. “You’re learning.”
“He’s like a centipede. He’s got his feelers spread out, but you can’t see them. He’s got this graph taped up in his cubicle. It’s all about the Watanabe case and what you’d call ‘related opportunities,’ and it’s in this special shorthand of his. I’ve been studying it when no one’s around, and I’ve put some things together. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve figured out.”
“It’s what you do with what you’ve learned.”
Scotty shrugged. The good lad, the bad lad. The bright lad who cracked puzzles that stumped other kids. The troubled lad, always.
“I’m joining the Marines, right after New Year’s. I just talked to Dud about it, and he already got Chief Horrall’s okay. I can go fight the war and come back on the Department. That’s the thing about Dudley that gets me. He’s so damn generous.”
I laced up our fingers. “Don’t get killed, sweetie.”
“Not this boy.”
“I’m going to try to enlist again. Ward Littell told me that a lot of the Federal holds have been lifted.”
Scotty touched my cheek. “That’s you, Kay. You bite this big bull’s nose off and go to war. It’s like your speech. Your options are do everything or do nothing.”
My eyes wetted up. Scotty handed me a tissue and went pensive. I said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I was thinking about Dud. He’s got a job for me later today, and God knows how many more between now and New Year’s. He knows that I’m inclined a certain way, so he uses me. I just want to get to some safe little island, so I can kill Japs with a clear conscience.”
I said, “Tell me about this graph.”
12:21 p.m.
Parker burned graphs.
He torched his traffic graph and roundup graph. He torched Watanabe Case/Details-Chronology and Lake/De Haven. He found a jug under the kitchen sink and built a bourbon blaze.
He raised a stink. The flames blew high. He doused them with tap water.
The sink was a sludge mound. Parker scooped the mess into a bag and dumped it in a trash can. He washed his hands and aired out the kitchen. He walked back to the den. Call-Me-Jack stuck him with more shitwork.