by James Ellroy
It was punitive. He messed with Dudley’s first go at The Wolf. He was back to the PD’s “Auxiliary.”
Call-Me-Jack got tight with the Hearst Rifle boys. They were his Auxiliary faves. They were out on Sheriff Gene’s dragnet. Call-Me-Jack craved more men like that.
Parker read applicant files. A low tide rolled in. Bottom-feeders gleamed in the muck.
Klanned-up studio guards. A nudist preacher. A Negro janitor at Le Conte Junior High. Numerous stat-rape assertions.
Low tide. Denizens of the deep.
Parker flipped files. He hit four clipped-up sheets.
Boudreau, Costigan, Gutridge, Palwick. Ex–Nevada prison guards. All Spanish-fluent. All canned from their state jobs. All dumped for brutality.
Hard boys. Goon-squad types. A routing slip and photos clipped to the sheets.
A messenger picked them up. One-week paper loan-out. Four files, sent to:
Exley Construction. 6402 Wilshire Boulevard.
Hard boys. Ex–prison guards. All Spanish-fluent. It comes down to—
THIS:
The Valley. The Jap-owned farms. The wetback workers supplied by Carlos Madrano. Preston’s law-enforcement ties. Preston’s internment scheme.
Catch it now. It’s a soft lob. You should have caught it before this.
Preston was behind the house and farm buyouts. Preston was linked to the Watanabe case.
1:04 p.m.
The Werewolf read Hideo’s letter. He was terp-primed. He moved his lips and read slow.
Dudley sat with Ellis Loew and a new steno. The hallway was packed. The wall speakers supplied crisp sound.
Call-Me-Jack hosted some Army pals. Said pals brought their children. The lads and lassies wore rubber werewolf masks. Shudo was quite the kiddie show.
Dudley said, “Do you recall that letter, sir?”
Shudo said, “Yeah. Sure. I guess so.”
“With that in mind, sir, let us return to Saturday, December 6th.”
“Okay, boss.”
“You were in a state of both agitation and premeditation. You were, quite frankly, looped on terpin hydrate. By your own admission, sir, things were quite hazy for you.”
Shudo said, “Terp, boss. It’s like Wheaties. ‘Breakfast of Champions.’ ”
Dudley said, “You had the deadly sharp knives on your cart. You had the Japanese ritual swords that you purchased in Little Tokyo, but you don’t recall where, and you misplaced the four scabbards in your inebriated state. You had purchased four sachets of a rare Oriental poison from a chemist that you knew from your fraternal-club days, but you cannot recall his name—and, again, your consumption of terpin hydrate had rendered that patch of time hazy.”
Shudo scratched his neck. “I think I remember that chemist guy. He was friends with The Beast way back when. I sold my cart to a coon outside the Rosslyn Hotel. I do remember that.”
Dudley said, “We discussed it, sir. That stated, I should remind you. You sold the cart on Sunday, December 7th. It’s still Saturday, December 6th, that we’re discussing here.”
Shudo said, “Right, boss. Saturday. This little girl says I look like The Wolfman, and her daddy takes a picture of me.”
Dudley said, “That is correct, sir. And by our combined calculations, it was right before you knocked on Ryoshi Watanabe’s door.” Shudo yawned. “Ryoshi was a wrong-o, boss. We went back to the clubs. I read that letter. We had this grudge going. I was full of no-good for him. It was bad, ichiban.”
“He was surprised to see you, wasn’t he, sir?”
“Yeah, he was surprised. ‘Hello there, Ryoshi. We go back, baby boy.’ ”
“You were shocked to see Nancy, weren’t you, sir? She was the carrier of your wolf-cub litter, but she slaughtered the whelps in her womb.”
“Yeah, Nancy. She was a wrong-o. The Beast hated her. She did me dirt.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. The Wolf snatched the pack and lit up. Loew nudged Dudley. It meant Close Him Now.
Dudley said, “Aya and Johnny were there. You’d stashed your cart on the porch, out of sight from the street. The reunion with your hated foe and his family was uncomfortable at first, but you suggested a nice cup of tea, all around. The tea contained a slow-acting poison that induced euphoria before it induced death. The dope-addled Watanabes vomited on their clothing, but didn’t seem to mind, because of their euphoric states. That display of sloth offended you and disrupted the fantasy that had been building ever so vividly within your mind. You made the four people change clothes. You spied on Nancy and Johnny and became aroused at their states of undress. You didn’t want to be seen outside with their vomit-soaked clothing, so you dumped it in the washing machine. Your fantasy went into improvisation. It now entailed a period of waiting, postmortem. You would have to wait for the clothes to wash and hang them out on the line.”
Shudo said, “Yeah, the fuckers puked. It made me real mad. What’s that word? It ‘disrupted’ me.”
Loew went Wheeeeeeeew. Dudley smiled.
“Ryoshi had been bragging. He told you that a Japanese attack on the Pacific Fleet was imminent, and his certainty infuriated you. You felt impotent, because your hated foe remained a vital and well-informed Fifth Columnist, while you moldered in an asylum on charges of bamboo-shoot rape. You improvised again. You capitalized on the euphoric states of your intended victims and had Ryoshi write a suicide note pertaining to the attack on his bedroom wall. The stage had been set, sir. Your victims had been lulled into a state of docile and euphoric compliance. ‘Fuji, the Knife Man.’ They had long underestimated you. You suggested a friendly game of charades and made them lie supine, four across, on the living room floor.”
Shudo raised his hands. Shudo rattled his cuff chain. Shudo said, “Yeah, boss.”
“And then you pulled a sharp knife from your waistband and gutted them in the manner of seppuku. Is that correct, sir?”
Shudo went Heil Hitler! Shudo said, “Yeah, boss.”
“And then you removed the clothes from the washing machine and hung them on the clothesline. Is that correct, sir?”
Shudo went Heil Hitler! Shudo said, “Yeah, boss.”
“And then you waited until nightfall, calmly gathered up your knife-sharpening cart and cautiously surveyed the outside world. You then wheeled your cart down to Figueroa Street and walked southbound, to your hotel. You were wonderfully elated, and consumed yet more terpin hydrate in celebration. You went up to your room and slept through to the following day. It is now Sunday, December 7th, sir. You went out in the world and learned that your misguided countrymen had, indeed, attacked the Pacific Fleet. You ventured southbound and sold your knife-sharpening cart to a Negro man outside the Rosslyn Hotel. You dropped the knife you used to kill the Watanabe family down a sewer grate. Is that correct, sir?”
Shudo said, “Yeah, ichiban. I did it all. Ryoshi got under my skin. Nancy killed my cubs, and Johnny said no to The Beast. Aya was mean to me, so she had to go. Pearl Harbor, boss. This caper ain’t no gas-chamber bounce when my people win the war.”
Ellis Loew sighed.
The steno sighed.
Dudley stood and bowed to the mirror. The door blew open wide.
The gallery ran in. They blitzkrieged Dudley and banzai’d The Wolf. Call-Me-Jack, Thad B., Fletch Bowron. Stray Feds, Army brass, little kids.
They pounded Dudley’s back. Thad uncuffed The Wolf. The kids stormed him and hugged him. The Wolf mugged and ruffled their hair.
The kids wore Mummy masks and Werewolf masks. The Wolf hopped around. The kids poked him and squealed.
Dudley ducked out. More work loomed. Oceanside—eighty miles south.
He popped two bennies and hit the back stairs. Scotty was parked in his pastor dad’s Dodge. Dudley loaded it this a.m.
One Navy seabag. Two .45’s tucked in. Silencer-rigged. Loaded with Ace Kwan’s dumdums. Eugenics. One slug killed whole dynasties.
Dudley jumped in the car. Scotty pulled out. Dudley dipped the seat and
shut his eyes. Don’t talk to me.
He’d talked to Ace. The tile game was Chink-only and high stakes. He called Harry Cohn and said stay away. He called Jack Webb and gave him a gig.
Watch the game for me. Chart the winners and losers. Call me, pay phone to pay phone. I fear a robbery.
The Smith-Kwan cartel needed money. Terry Lux was in with them now. Terry’s business acumen juiced up their plans. Terry thought they could buy in with Exley and Patchett. It required big seed cash.
Scotty drove. Dudley rode a bennie surge and schemed the Mexican foray.
It was risky. It meant fucking Carlos Madrano. Carlos was Exley’s and Patchett’s tight pal. It meant a Mexican dope and cash raid. It meant planned obfuscation and convincing suspects killed in advance.
Scotty drove. Dudley opened his eyes. He saw the coast road. A sign read OCEANSIDE, 10 MILES.
Salt air. Late-afternoon mist. A rocky beach stretch.
Scotty passed him a note slip. “It’s a phone message for you. Dick Carlisle gave it to me.”
Dudley pocketed the slip. The topography grabbed him.
Scrub mounds on the land side. Roadhouses by the beach. Narrow parking strips. No cars tucked in. Storm clouds right at dusk.
“Two young Marines have grievously harmed a young woman who is quite dear to me. I’ve been told that they cast their lines at the same spot every Saturday. They’re intrepid lads, undeterred by wind and cold air. We’ll take them as they get into their car.”
Scotty blinked. Dudley touched his wrist. Scotty’s pulse skipped.
He saw their fishing spot. He saw their ’40 Ford coupe. He pointed over. Long poles swooped toward the sunset.
Scotty pulled up by the Ford. He kicked off the ignition and set the brake.
Dudley reached back and unzipped the seabag. The silencers were screwed on tight.
Scotty said, “She’s a good girl, right? It was bad what they did.”
Dudley passed him his piece. “Am I a frivolous man, lad? Have you not sensed conscience and a fond regard for women beneath my raw streak?”
Scotty smiled—So be it.
Two men walked over the rocks. They wore Marine fatigue jackets. They carried surf poles and wicker baskets. Fish tails drooped out the top.
They walked to the Ford. One tall man, one stout man. The stout man checked out the Dodge.
The tall man popped the trunk. He loaded the baskets. The stout man dropped the poles in the backseat.
They got in the front. The stout man kicked the engine. The tall man lit a cigarette.
Cops, huh?
They knew it. They were cop-wise. They were too nonchalant.
Dudley stepped out. Scotty stepped out. They went in, flanking.
The rape-o’s caught it. Intent, gun-barrel glint—something.
The tall man dropped his cigarette. The stout man fumbled at the wheel.
Dudley said, “For my beloved child, Beth Short.”
He fired. Scotty fired. They aimed at their wide-open mouths. They blew up their faces and took all the windows out.
Ricochets took out the engine wall. The crankcase threw hot oil. The radiator threw steam.
The Ford rocked on its struts. Dudley and Scotty got back in the Dodge and pulled out.
The sun went down. The Ford sat on the blacktop. Dudley lit a cigarette and pulled out that note slip.
“Call Claire De Haven. CR-4424.”
5:49 p.m.
The Yellow Spot.
He treads cautiously.
He skulks by night.
It wasn’t quite night. Skulk hyperbolized. City Hall was dead quiet and safe. He was two floors up from the Bureau. He almost blended in.
“The Yellow Spot.” It went with “The Werewolf” and the monster-masked kids. He caught the backwash of Shudo’s confession. Shudo signed autographs and posed with children. It was ghastly and hilarious.
The hallway was dead quiet. The mayor’s office suite was a tomb. The watchman worked the Spring Street door. The Yellow Spot strikes—
Now.
A no. 3 pick got the door. His penlight drilled the waiting room. Chairs and the receptionist’s desk. Fletch B.’s private office—right there.
A no. 2 pick popped the door. Ashida eased it shut and beamed his penlight. The office was all plaques and club chairs. There’s Fletch Bowron’s desk.
It was presidential. A tube-fed Dictaphone covered the right edge. A cord hooked the Dictaphone to the telephone. Fletch recorded his calls.
Ashida scanned the walls and floor. The Dictaphone and telephone shared one outlet.
Fletch recorded his calls. Fletch might have his calls transcribed. He might erase the tube scrolls. Pertinent talk was a long shot.
Ashida sat in Fletch B.’s chair and got situated. He held the penlight in his teeth and worked.
He studied the Dictaphone. He opened the tray and saw a tube pressed in. It was a live tube. The magnetic tape had recorded phone calls. The tube was still working. Used-up tubes ejected automatically.
Ashida checked his watch. It was 6:12 p.m., Saturday. The tube probably notched Friday’s calls.
Ashida tweaked the volume knob. Ashida rewound the tube and hit the SPEAK switch. He heard line hiss and canned air. Fletch said, “It’s Friday, December 19.” That meant recorded calls.
Ashida kept the volume low. Ashida listened in. Ashida squelched through the boring calls.
Water and Power called. It was boring. Ashida squelched through. Four city councilmen called. We’re at war now. Should we cancel the Rose Bowl?
Fletch called Ace Kwan. They discussed the mayor’s Christmas stag-night menu. Fletch jawed with an Army one-star. The escaped Jap deal was one big snafu. Mrs. Fletch called and defamed their colored maid. Ace called back. He suggested a pig roast atop City Hall. Fletch said fuck that shit—it might rain.
Ashida listened in. Dead air and dead talk accumulated. Dead time eked by.
Sheriff Gene called. Hot update. The escaped Japs fled to the San Gabriel hills. The posse was up there. The Hearst boys went nuts and strafed a hobo jungle. Flesh wounds and no fatalities.
Line squelch. Dead air. Congrats on the Watanabe job. Did you see the Herald spread? Friday calls. Saturday-morning calls.
Time eked by. Ashida checked his watch. It was 10:41 p.m. Dead air, Ace Kwan again, Chief Jack Horrall on the line.
Squelch, hiss, crackle. Call-Me-Jack, bellicose.
“… and if we cancel the Rose Parade, we’ll look like chicken-shits. It’s a moneymaker, and it shores us up with Pasadena PD.” Bowron said, “Amen, brother.”
Horrall said, “And while I’m griping, let me weigh in on Dick Hood, that pansy Hoover, and the Feds in general.”
Bowron said, “I’m all ears on that one, Jack.”
Horrall said, “Somebody pulled a squeeze play and got some Reds who were making some Red movie down in Japtown sprung from jail. The Dudster fielded the play, but he ain’t talking, and Hoover’s furious. That means he’ll come down on us with that phone-tap probe that much harder. Bill Parker saved our bacon on that one, but Dick Hood thinks it was Parker who put the squeeze play on Dud.”
Bowron said, “Parker. That meddling cocksucker. He fucks with Ace Kwan, he fucks with Dud’s first go at The Werewolf. Parker and his Jap pal, Ashida. Those cocksuckers gore my goat.”
Horrall said, “Ashida’s ass’ll be grass, come February. It’s the tide of History, brother. Whiskey Bill and the Dudster can’t save him on that one.”
Bowron said, “Ashida gores my goat. He’s the yellow spot on my spotless political record. He’ll be out of my hair in February, but we’ll still have Parker stirring up shit.”
Horrall said, “I’ve got to say it, Fletch. I don’t want that cocksucker to succeed me as Chief. He’ll start defaming my regime the moment he takes the oath. That fucker lives to make regular men look small. It’s like my man Elmer Jackson says, ‘He talks to God and moves his lips while he does it.’ ”
Bowron said, “You bringing up Elmer the J reminds me. I’ve got to call Brenda. I want her to get me a girl for Monday night.”
Horrall said, “I’m getting a boil on my ass about Parker. I do not want my legacy besmirched by some pious prig who sucks the giant imperial cock of papist Rome. You’ll get fucked in the backwash of that, Fletch. He’ll defame me, and slander your administration by implication. He won’t stop at Chief, Fletch. He’ll go for attorney general and the governor’s chair.”
Bowron said, “You’re right, Jack. Let’s derail that cocksucker while we’ve got time on our side. We’ll build a derogatory profile on him. If he drops his drawers and makes even one false move, we’ll know it and record it. When you step down, we show Bill the package. ‘Sorry, Bill—but you fucked with the wrong guys and stepped on your dick too many times. It’s Thad Brown’s job, not yours.’ ”
Horrall said, “Amen, brother. We’ll do it. Whiskey Bill’s ass is grass, and we’re the fucking lawn mower.”
Bowron said, “You’ve got Parker, you’ve got Ashida. He’s a conniving little cocksucker. Of all people, Dud Smith thinks the world of him.”
Horrall said, “ ‘Derogatory profile,’ Fletch. We can’t flag on that. We’ll rue the day if we do.”
Bowron said, “I’m in, Jack. But you’ve got to get out of my hair now. I’ve got to place my order with Brenda.”
Horrall said, “Happy hunting, Mr. Mayor.”
Bowron said, “Shoo, now. I’ve got to get down to the Bureau. Dud’s going at The Werewolf again.”
Horrall said, “I’ll see you downstairs, sahib.”
The call terminated. Ashida hit the OFF switch.
The Yellow Spot.
The Yellow Plague.
The Yellow Peril.
Dudley’s valentine.
February ’42—the Jap Diaspora.
Ashida put his feet up on the mayor’s desk. Ashida ran a brain balance sheet.
11:47 p.m.
Dudley Smith.
I couldn’t think of anything else. I took a taxi home from the hospital and thought of Dudley Smith; I’m bearing wounds inflicted by Dudley Smith’s henchwoman, Dot Rothstein. Dudley Smith, Bette Davis’ wartime-fling lover; Dudley Smith and his frame of the vilely pathetic Werewolf. Dudley Smith and his confluence of criminal cases, his collusive relationship with Ace Kwan, his land grabs and war-profiteering schemes, up to and including the distribution of “Anti-Axis” pornography, in league with his notorious namesake, Gerald L. K. Smith. Dudley Smith, the urbane. Dudley Smith, so given to casually expeditious murder. Dudley Smith and his corruption of young men. Dudley Smith and his stunningly democratic cultivation of family.