Perfidia

by James Ellroy

  The shit flushed out bird flocks and wetbacks. It pushed all living things south. The shit burned and ate flesh. The shit dropped downward and stayed there. Get out, get to fresh air, get south now.

  Parker rode south. He rode on the west flank. The ocean was off to the right. His black-and-white was radio-rigged. A Hearst Rifle man drove.

  Parker sat up front. The backseat was stacked with tear-gas bombs and gas masks. They were somewhere near San Marcos. That yellow shit wafted below them. A breeze pushed it south.

  The ride was bumpy and twisty. Parker craned his neck and looked down. Wetbacks ran out of the trees. They wiped their eyes. They pitched willy-nilly. They fled the yellow shit and ran south.

  The Japs were somewhere back in the trees. The biplane spotted them and radioed a report.

  Japs. They’ve got a brown car. They’re down there. We need them out in the open. We need them to run SOUTH.

  The roads down there ran south. They were one-lane wide and half dirt. They were escape routes. Local cops called the mass “Blood Alley.” The alley ran straight into Mexico. It bypassed border crossings and stopped at a barbed-wire fence. A hundred fugitives had made the break. A hundred fugitives had died.

  Posse. Convoy. Lynch mob. Kamikaze play.

  Parker thought it through. He went back to Dudley’s speech yesterday and pushed out. He might have read it wrong. He was Dudley-fixated and saw Dudley everywhere. It was Dudley Mania and Dudley Paranoia. Maybe he robbed and killed the Chinamen. Maybe he did not. Maybe he shot President Lincoln and bombed Pearl Harbor himself. He had the Dudley Juju baaaaaaad.

  Still.

  The breakout felt wrong. Why break for Mexico? The Japs had the tile-game money and could buy hideouts from fellow Japs. Why switch cars in Chinatown? Why clout cars so close to their intended heist? It felt like a Dudley Convergence and some Dudley Brainstorm.

  Radio scoop crackled in. The San Gabriel posse flank issued a broadcast. They discovered the Japs’ campground. It resembled the Griffith Park slaughter scene. They found rodents on sticks. They found a shortwave radio and charred-paper mounds. The radio was dead and could not receive or put out signals.

  The Watanabes had shortwave gear. It clued Hideo Ashida in to the Goleta attack. Jap subs were prowling the Mexican coast now.

  Confluence. Overlay. Frayed threads that read Wrong.

  The convoy moved south. They ran above the yellow shit in the gulch.

  The radio belched gibberish and squawked LOUD.

  Jap alert. They’re out of the bush. They’re outrunning the yellow shit. See the car, see the car. It’s coming up on a Statie roadblock. Cut left by them trees up ahead.

  There’s them trees—they’re straight ahead.

  Parker looked down. Parker looked south. Yellow shit, yellow shit, Blood Alley. There’s the car. It’s down there and southbound. It’s out of the shit and in the clear.

  The driver pulled hard left. The black-and-white brodied down a half-paved embankment. Parker saw the roadblock. It was six sawhorses wide. Mex Staties manned it. They wore Mussolini black shirts and jodhpurs. They held tommy guns, pointed straight out.

  The black-and-white skidded and stopped. Parker and the driver got out. Parker looked across the gulch. Eight jeeps and half-tracks were parked on a matching embankment.

  Men. Thirty-odd.

  They’ve got tommy guns and rifles. They’ve got slug-loaded shotguns. They’re crouched and aiming straight down.

  Parker grabbed his binoculars. The driver aimed a scope-fitted Mauser. There’s the car. It’s coming at the roadblock. It’s binocular-magnified, right now.

  The guns exploded. All the guns exploded. All the guns exploded down.

  Parker saw it, magnified. He saw metal hit metal. He saw metal pierce metal. He saw window glass blow. He saw the tires blow and the car swerve on bare rims.

  He saw a bullet swarm. It was visibly black. He saw buckshot—one thick haze.

  Parker looked left. His embankment was packed now. Sixty men fired straight down. The car fishtailed. The Staties opened up and fired straight at it. The car blew up red.

  The Japs piled out and ran. Japs on fire, Japs batting at flames. Black swarms came down on them—bullets, buckshot, slugs. The Japs blew into pieces. He saw it, magnified.

  They had heads. They had no heads. Their arms and legs disappeared. They vaporized.

  Then a pause.

  Then echoes and wind.

  Then the pause extends.

  Then the posse men run down.

  Parker ran down with them. He stumbled off the embankment and tore for the roadblock. A hundred men converged and just stood there. The Japs were pulp in the dirt.

  The Staties walked up. Parker looked at the car. It burned and whooshed black smoke. He noticed debris on the ground. He walked over and looked close.

  Wood scraps. A radio tube. Three round metal objects. Pay-telephone slugs.

  2:48 p.m.

  Summitry. The Smith-Kwan combine meets the Exley-Patchett boys.

  He bagged Lyman’s back room. A buffet was laid out. He’d represent the combine. Uncle Ace and Terry Lux would backstop him.

  Exley and Patchett would represent themselves. They’d get down to brass tacks and handshakes. A Christmas tea would follow. Beth meets the Red Empress.

  He had two lovers. Beth was illicitly bred. She was seventeen. Boston was provincial. She should observe the moral tone of a wartime hot spot.

  She met Bette. It was nearly all bad. She remained starstruck nonetheless. Bette’s bond gig drained him. His hand still throbbed and shot aches up his arm. He called Bette an hour ago. A coon maid rebuffed him.

  He called Terry Lux and got no answer. He wanted Terry here. He was a key backer.

  Terry found their cut-Japs play dicey. It was medically improbable and logistically unsound. The eugenics intrigued him. That was as far as it went.

  Terry should be here. He said he’d be here. Ace made the arrangements this morning. Terry said he’d call and confirm.

  Dudley popped three bennies. Dudley paced the room.

  His pins were stacked tight. Mike and Dick were phone-booking Hop Sing boys right now. It sustained the “inside job” charade. The Oceanside snuffs would go unsolved. He just read a Teletype. The posse nailed the Japs outside San Diego. The assumed tile-game killers—muertos.

  Dudley paced. Dudley chain-smoked. His hand throbbed wicked bad.

  Ducks in order. Pins stacked tight. Nine days to New Year’s. Let’s tie up loose ends.

  He talked with Hideo. They discussed Mexico. Hideo said he’d build a frame kit. He’d bring hair and tissue samples and semen slides. He’d bring a range of shell casings.

  They’d create a thieves-fall-out scenario. Punks steal Carlos Madrano’s cash and “H” and embark on a dope run themselves. Tempers flare. Psychopathy rages. Three deaths result.

  Mike had a line on three hopheads. They’re Tijuana scum. They boost the stash and hole up. The cash and dope vanish. They shoot barbiturates as a horse substitute. They overdose and die.

  He conceived the plan with Hideo. They collaborated on every point. He called Dick Hood and pressed him. Dick agreed to postpone the Ashida family’s detention. Dick pledged preferential treatment from that point on.

  It was 3:00. The summit was set. Where’s Terry Lux?

  His hand throbbed. Benzedrine rushed blood to the wound. He poured a double scotch and nursed it. The booze ran the throb to a burn.

  Uncle Ace walked in. Preston Exley trailed him. He saw Dudley’s bad hand and bumped him. An abrazo—that friendly Mex gesture.

  “Preston, it’s grand to see you. You know Mr. Kwan, of course.”

  Exley bumped him. “How many free suppers have I bummed off of you, Ace? You’ve catered half the big events in my life.”

  Ace said, “Lobster à la Kwan and pork lo mein. That meant ‘Inspector Exley is working late.’ ”

  Dudley laughed. A tall man walked in. Pierce Patchett, doubtless
. Check his all-black look.

  Black suit, black shirt, black tie. Muy fascista. The Carlos Madrano look.

  Patchett said, “Sergeant Smith, Mr. Kwan. This is some male preserve you’ve got here.”

  No handshake. No abrazo. Ace sniffed him. Ace Chink-eyed him. What gives with you?

  Dudley said, “We have momentous plans to discuss, although our partner Terry Lux appears to be missing. I think we—”

  Exley squeezed his arm. “We’ve got a colleague coming, Dud. I think we should wait for him.”

  Ace Chink-eyed Exley. Patchett built a scotch-rocks. Dudley’s hand burned. He felt glass deep in the cuts.

  Sammy Rummel walked in. Some colleague? Ben Siegel’s backup counsel on the Greenie Greenberg snuff.

  Rummel dropped his briefcase. Rummel oozed brusque.

  Dudley said, “Hello, Sam. It’s been too long.”

  Rummel said, “I’d shake your hand, but left-handed shakes are bad luck.”

  Ace said, “I know you, Sambo. My friend Lin Chung did your daughter’s nose job.”

  Rummel said, “I know, and not much good came of it. She married a goy cook at Don the Beachcomber’s. The food there is dreck, unlike the chow at your slop chute.”

  Laughs went around. They were forced. Dudley got hackle bumps.

  “To briefly summarize, Mr. Kwan, the missing Dr. Lux and I form quite the tidy cartel. We are interested in merging with your tidy cartel, in an effort to expand wartime contingency plans that both factions have conceived independently, but would be well advised to implement as a unified partnership. Mr. Kwan has told you of our plans, and we learned of your plans in a rather roundabout and clandestine way. Forewarned is forearmed, gentlemen. We know about you, and now you’ve been told about us. We did not create this global conflict, nor have we ordered the mass imprisonment of the local Japanese. That stated, we would be remiss in not capitalizing on it.”

  Rummel said, “Well said, Dud, if a little flowery for my taste. We’ve all come up with some bright ideas, although yours are more legally questionable than ours. I say ‘ours,’ because I’m a full partner with Mr. Patchett and Mr. Exley, as well as their attorney. Your ideas complement and embellish our ideas, and both factions bring savvy, gravitas, and sound notions to the table. There, that’s the windup. The short version? If you want in, you’ve got in. The pitch? You have to bring in seed capital to make this partnership jell. We’re taking ground-floor bids as an advance against potential profits, and the entry-floor bid is four hundred grand, cash, all due upon a handshake agreement. I negotiate for my boys, you bring in your own lawyer. Chop, chop, gentlemen. You’re not the only girls on our dance card.”

  Boom. The ball drops. No backslaps, no winks, no hail-fellow farewells.

  Exley walked out. Patchett walked out. Rummel herded them out.

  Dudley blinked. The door flew open. The shits dispersed in the grill.

  Boom. The ball drops. It’s that prohibitive floor.

  Ace said, “White cocksuckers. Some cocksucker came in with seed gelt and double-fucked us.”

  Dudley blinked. His hand throbbed. The grill proper buzzed. Beth and Claire stood at the bar. They found each other. Note their sisterly chat.

  Ace waltzed. He seethed and walked off. He pulled out his shrunken head and caressed it. Sayonara, my Irish brother.

  Dudley popped two bennies. His hand throbbed wicked bad. No deal. They got double-fucked. That double-dealing kike, Rummel. They had a preemptive bid.

  Dudley teethed on it. He shut his eyes and talked to the wolf of the moors.

  Beth and Claire walked in. They bumped him. It killed his hand and made him roar.

  He gathered them close. They stood in his arms. Claire kicked the door shut.

  Beth said, “I recognized Miss De Haven from your description and just started blabbing. It was so Boston and so shanty Irish of me.”

  Dudley smiled. Their blue eyes. Their trim suits. Freckled, both of them.

  Claire said, “I’ve been giving your daughter a primer on men and women, and how the war has the phenomenon skewed. I hope I’m not turning her jaded before she reaches the age of consent.”

  Beth said, “It’s putting you, Miss De Haven and Miss Davis in perspective.”

  Dudley laughed. “Tell me, dear. You’ll be legal next July. Tell me while you’re still possessed of some innocence.”

  Beth jiggled his good hand. “All right. The war’s made everything crazy, so men and women are getting crisscrossed and trying to have a good time while their opportunities pan out.”

  Claire jiggled his good hand. “She’s your daughter, love. She’s a little moonstruck these days, but she’ll be back in Boston with her sisters and schoolwork soon, and that’s a perspective in itself.” Dudley touched her hair. “Have you seen Terry Lux, dear? He was due here a moment ago.”

  Claire said, “He’s been weaning me, and he came to the house today. Lin Chung was with him. You know him, don’t you? He’s a plastic surgeon, and he’s been to my parties.”

  Boom. The ball drops. Well, there it is.

  Double cross. Go back to Tuesday, 12/9. Lin Chung cuts Jimmy Namura to look Chink. Terry lied to him. Terry called Jap-to-Chink cuts untenable. Race science. The Eugenic Brotherhood. Terry talked to Lin Chung. They got surgeon-to-surgeon tight. The cut jobs might or might not be feasible. Terry and Chung vowed to work around it and formed their own cartel. They were buying into the Exley cartel. Lin Chung was the floor bid. His own ideas convinced Terry to speed the buy-in process up. Beth said, “Dad looks abstracted.”

  Claire said, “He’s thinking.”

  Dudley touched her hair. He should see that Joan of Arc film again. It was playing in Hollywood.

  Claire nuzzled his good hand. “Bette was in the Herald today. She always makes sure that her good deeds are publicized. She and her husband are hosting a group of soldiers for a late Christmas dinner. I don’t think she’ll invite you, but you and Beth can join me and a few left-wing friends.”

  4:03 p.m.

  Who is the white man in the purple sweater?

  Ashida poached the USC Law Library. White students fish-eyed him. He worked with a notepad and textbooks. He worked with notes snatched from Bill Parker’s desk.

  Parker was down in San Diego. He left Dudley’s cubicle and rifled Parker’s drawers. Parker said he’d pulled a “grand jury play.” Parker tried to nail Preston Exley and Pierce Patchett. He probably prepped before the implied proceeding. He might have left notes.

  Parker did leave notes. Ashida found them and stole them. Parker might have missed something. That notion prompted his theft.

  His assumption was pure hubris. He knew he missed something. Someone saw something/​did something/​said something. It would tell him something that would give him answers.

  Who is the white man in the—

  He missed something. It was like the missing scabbards at The Watanabe House. The Missing Something Gestalt kicked in this morning. Someone said something/​did something/​saw something. There’s a puzzle piece. He can’t quite snap it in.

  Parker left notes. Parker noted the legal texts he’d studied and flagged them. Ashida studied the books Parker studied. The print was small. He got eyestrain. White kids skunk-eyed him. Who’s this goddamn Jap?

  Ashida ran through Parker’s notes. Parker jotted “No. of questions permitted?” and “Question restraints?” That meant this: he couldn’t ask all his questions.

  Think from that perspective. What did Parker fail to ask Exley and Patchett?

  Ashida studied Parker’s notes. Ashida tracked the notes to texts. He worked off the notes and his read of Scotty B.’s snitch sheet. He layered in personal knowledge. He plumbed potential questions and got this:

  Did Exley and Patchett have foreknowledge of the Pearl Harbor attack? Did it spawn their house/​farm buyout and war-profit schemes?

  Parker did not ask that question. Parker should have. Back to the Missing Something Gestalt.
>
  Something was biting him. Someone did something. Someone saw something. SOMEONE SAID SOMETHING.

  Pop.

  Snap.

  Click.

  Gears mesh. Synapses crackle. Said something said it. It’s a recent memory.

  Thursday, December 11th. About 2:00 a.m., Beverly Hills. He’s about to head up to Goleta. He sits in Linny’s all-night deli with Kay Lake.

  Kay said, “I saw Preston Exley, just yesterday. He was leaving an office four blocks from here.”

  Pop, snap, click. Now go to this:

  Linny’s was on Beverly Drive. Go to the following Monday. He spoke to Saul Lesnick at Claire De Haven’s party. Lesnick said his office was at 416 Bedford. Bedford Drive was four blocks from Beverly Drive. Kay said she began her snitch gig with an office visit. Someone said something—yes. That’s two someones so far. Now, don’t forget this:

  Someone Saw Something. Someone Did Something. Someone Wrote Something. Wait—there’s a pop, snap, click.

  Ashida went through Parker’s notes. Yes—there it is.

  Someone Wrote Something. Parker Wrote Something. Parker wrote this:

  Business addresses. Exley: 6402 Wilshire Boulevard. Patchett: 416 Bedford Drive, Beverly Hills.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  Ashida packed up and walked out. White kids eyeballed him. Hey, Jap—where’s your Jap Zero?

  It was 4:53. Storm clouds brewed low and brought dusk early. Ashida got his car and drove to Beverly Hills.

  He pulled onto Bedford. He found a curbside slot and got out his tools. 416 was a white mock château.

  Three floors. Innocuous. They’ll lock the building at 6:00.

  Ashida walked over. Early dusk covered him. He felt un-Jap invisible. He entered the lobby. He checked the directory.

  Saul Lesnick—suite 216. Pierce Patchett—suite 217. Pop, snap, click. Confluence and convergence.

  He walked up to the second floor and ducked into the men’s room. He locked himself in a stall and perched on the toilet. He willed himself to sit tight.

  He sat in a crouch. He heard doors slam. He heard footsteps in the men’s room. He heard water run and urinals flush.