This Storm

by James Ellroy

  Dudley grabbed half. El Fascisto grabbed half. A fat goon grabbed the attaché.

  * * *

  —

  On to photographs. Let’s capture the dead and shoot for long-shot IDs.

  El Fascisto tipped his goons. He was one high-stepping jefe. He dispensed C-notes. The goons genuflected. They went Sieg Heil and called Vasquez-Cruz “Führer.” Dudley dog-bayed and laughed himself hoarse.

  It was full dark now. The goons erected arc lights. Ashida loaded his lab camera and close-up shot the stiffs.

  He went through sixteen flashbulbs. He dumped bulbs and duplicated the pix. He shot two full sets. One for the Staties, one for SIS.

  On to fingerprints. That was a long shot. The sailors were surely native-born Japanese. Their prints were filed in Tokyo and nowhere else.

  Ashida hustled up the goons. They were half-tanked on mescal. They weeeaved through more arc-light work.

  Ashida numbered sixteen print cards and inked thirty-two hands. Rigor mortis worked against him. The goons supplied weavy light. He placed the cards on a wood plank and maneuvered stiff fingertips.

  Some were too stiff. He knife-severed those fingers and rolled them free and clear.

  Dudley’s staff car stood cliffside. Ashida washed his hands and walked up. Dudley and Vasquez-Cruz worked in the backseat.

  They dug through file carbons. Resident-alien files. Baja-resident Japanese/pickup orders issued. They trawled for Japanese Navy KAs.

  Ashida sat up front. Dudley passed him a file stack. Ashida trawled for KAs. He trawled twelve files and tapped out. He hit on file #13.

  The file tapped one Kyoho Hanamaka. He was an “Imperial Navy attaché.”

  Ashida said, “I’ve got a man named Hanamaka here. He’s tagged as a naval attaché, but he’s got very few KAs, and none in the Navy.”

  Vasquez-Cruz said, “He’s one slippery eel. He’s quite the friend of Juan Lazaro-Schmidt, the Baja governor.”

  * * *

  —

  Supper at the Hotel del Norte. The beach-view dining room served late. Picture windows and wave crash. Your host, Dudley Smith.

  In civvies now. Blue blazer, gray slacks. Claire De Haven sat to his left. She satirized this arrangement and tossed barbs at El Fascisto. Vasquez-Cruz indulged her and laughed.

  He wore his black uniform. He came off sinister. Ashida cleaned up and changed in his room. He showered off brain matter. He scrubbed off fingerprint ink.

  Pacific lobster and champagne. Convivial Dudley. No man should be so handsome. Ashida tried not to stare.

  Talk flowed. Ashida sipped club soda and ignored his food. He counted days back to Pearl Harbor. He hit the Bill Parker/Kay Lake pogrom.

  His role was Kay’s lover. He failed at it. Claire threw a party. Leftist Los Angeles bickered and preened. Kay caused a scene. She deployed her Jap paramour and overplayed the pose. Claire saw through Kay. Claire teethed on her nonetheless.

  Dudley dropped a bon mot. Vasquez-Cruz laughed. No El Fascisto titter. He laughed deep baritone.

  He played to Claire. He moved his chair close and leaned in.

  “You must not judge neutral Mexico too harshly, Miss De Haven. This dinner conclave proves my point. We have a Latin man and a Japanese man. We have an Irish-Catholic immigrant and a landed Protestant lady.”

  Claire lit a cigarette. “I converted to the Roman Church, Captain. I’m an apostate in my faith as well as my politics. You’ll have to cite pithier examples if you wish to make time with me.”

  Vasquez-Cruz went Salud. “Perhaps I should cite Mr. Leon Trotsky. He fled Stalin’s death squads and found asylum nowhere but here. President Cárdenas provided him with a home when no one else would.”

  “Only as a means to counter accusations that he was a Stalinist, Captain. And, of course, Trotsky was assassinated in your selfsame country, under that selfsame capitalista poseur.”

  Vasquez-Cruz smiled. “Spanish and French in one sentence. Aaay, caramba.”

  Claire blushed. Ashida caught her dope-pinned eyes. Dudley winked at him. It conveyed subtext. If El Fascisto gets too frisky, I’ll kill him.

  Ashida laughed. It verged on a squeal. He covered his mouth and muzzled himself.

  Claire said, “Is something amusing, Dr. Ashida? Something you forgot to tell me when you were a much-welcome but finally intrusive guest in my home last month?”

  Ashida said, “I’m quite tired, Miss De Haven. I’ve spent a busy day in Captain Smith’s employ.”

  Claire glanced away. She looked out the window and stood up. Ashida clocked the window. He saw a raggedy girl on the beach. The girl picked up a starfish and cradled it to herself.

  Vasquez-Cruz stood for Claire. Call him Señor Decorum. She touched his hand—un momento.

  She walked out. El Fascisto watched her go. He clicked his heels and bowed to Dudley. He pivoted and walked off.

  Ashida said, “He’s going to check on Claire. He must have police friends in Los Angeles.”

  Dudley said, “You’re a very bright penny tonight.”

  Ashida blushed. He looked out the window. Claire engaged the raggedy girl. They fussed over the starfish and had quite a chat.

  Dudley rocked his chair back. “My Claire has an enormous and impetuous heart.”

  Ashida went dizzy. The dining room tilted. Spots popped in front of his eyes.

  “What is this? Why am I here?”

  Dudley tapped his knee. “There’s my ex-snitch Tommy Glennon, and a dead Chinaman named Eddie Leng. There’s our old friend Lin Chung, and the scent of money.”

  “Yes, but what’s in it for me?”

  Dudley said, “I intend to rescue you and your family from the internment. Would a U.S. Army commission and a posting here suit you?”

  17

  (LOS ANGELES, 10:00 P.M., 1/3/42)

  Elmer doodled. It soothed his gourd and vitalized his brain cells.

  Lyman’s was jam-packed. He nursed a highball and worked at his table. He scribbled up napkins. He drew pit dogs with sharp fangs and big dicks.

  He wrote, “DUDLEY SMITH EATS SHIT!!!!!” He laughed. He scoped the bar and saw Thad Brown and Two-Gun Davis. The highball kicked in. He quit futzing around and got to it.

  He wrote, “D.S. & T.G.” He underlined it and added question marks. He wrote, “T.G. to E.L. (murder vict)” and underlined it.

  He wrote, “Donald Matsura & E.L.—???” He wrote, “Can’t talk to Breuning & Carlisle—D.S.’s goons.” He wrote, “Kapek & Rice—too corrupt.”

  He circled. He underlined. He drew arrows and Xs and stitched all this shit up. He got bored and periscoped Lyman’s.

  He saw Kay in a back booth. He saw Bill Parker’s redhead at the bar. She wore civilian vines now. Jim Davis crowded her. He blathered and sprayed pretzel gack.

  Elmer wrote, “E.J. & J.C.” and drew a heart around it. He added Cupid’s arrow and got back to work.

  He wrote, “T.G.’s address book—???” He wrote, “Hot-box phone calls—???” He wrote, “Calls to 14 Baja pay phones—???”

  He drew an SQ circled by snakes. He drew more question marks. He drew Eddie Leng’s death rictus and french-fried feet.

  Kay hopped in his booth. There she is, her all-time self.

  Elmer scooped up his doodles. Kay laid down her Manhattan. Elmer plucked out the cherry and ate it.

  “Tell me something I don’t know. And make it interesting, because it’s Saturday night, and the world’s got me batshit.”

  Kay laughed. “Thad told me about the DB call New Year’s morning. I thought, Uh-oh, Elmer’s brother died close by there. That’s the chickens come home to roost.”

  Elmer spit the cherry pit in an ashtray. Elmer jiggled Kay’s hands.

  “I got no dish on this one. It’s ’42 now, and Wayne Frank cashed out back in
’33. I don’t see no hook between him and this here DB. And if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do, because I’m really just a whore-peddler, a bagman, and a strongarm thug. I might be the world’s luckiest white man, but I sure as shit am not much of a detective.”

  Kay lit a cigarette. “There’s a look you get. Your jaw sets a certain way, and your eyes go flat. It’s like you’re saying, ‘The comedy hour’s over.’ ”

  Elmer snatched her drink. He plucked an orange rind and waved the swizzle stick.

  “The Dudster sent me out to kill a man, but I couldn’t do it. I been reading some C-town files, and it looks to me like that selfsame geek killed himself a tonged-up Chinaman.”

  Kay looked him over. She had well-known X-ray eyes. Elmer squirmed and relit his cigar.

  Bar chat escalated. Elmer caught threads. Jim Davis called FDR “Double-Cross Rosenfeld.” Joan Conville took offense.

  Kay caught the kerfuffle. She X-ray-eyed Joan. Elmer said, “There’s your gossip.”

  “If you mean vehicular manslaughter, I’ve already heard it. Lee told me. He said it’s worse than the dead Mexicans, but he wouldn’t say why.”

  Elmer shrugged. “You know everything that I know. If there’s more to it, you could ask Bill Parker.”

  Kay jiggled his hands. Elmer laced up their fingers.

  “Kick Lee out. You don’t sleep with him, anyway. Tell Parker to leave his wife and marry you. If he nixes it, I’ll marry you. I’ll get a cop job in Bumfuck, Indiana. We’ll live fat and sassy on a farm someplace.”

  Kay laughed and unlaced their fingers. She scanned the bar and X-ray-eyed Big Joan.

  * * *

  —

  He got itchy. He stayed batshit. He fought the Saturday Night Blues.

  Elmer drove to his place and fed his tropical fish. Said fish ignored him. Itchy feet pushed him back out. L.A. was blackout black. He drove straight to Brenda’s place.

  He almost walked in. Oooh-baby grunts stopped him dead at the door. He peeped the front window. Shit—Brenda’s shtupping Jack Horrall on the floor.

  Elmer drove to Ellen’s place. He parked outside her building and reconnoitered. He elevatored up to her floor. He climbed out on a fire escape and peeped the front room. Shit—Ellen’s shtupping her husband on the couch.

  More loose ends. More fucking rain. Mama, dem blues gots me baaaaaad.

  Elmer drove to Chapman Park. Brenda’s fuck flop overlooked the Ambassador Hotel. Tonight, at the Coconut Grove: Glenn Miller and the Modernaires.

  He parked and elevatored up. He let himself in and stormed the kitchen. He built a ham sandwich and a highball. He pondered dumb moves.

  Send Kay flowers. Send Big Joan flowers. Take her to the Coconut Grove. Mess with Bill Parker.

  Elmer guzzled his highball. He unlocked the wall peek and checked the camera gear. He skimmed the play-for-pay girl book.

  Charlotte, French expert. Dirty Diane, striptease. Call the switchboard. You’re the boss. You get the woof-woof for free.

  Or—

  Hit the Lincoln Heights Jail. Brace Crazy Don Matsura. Remember? He had that menu for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon.

  * * *

  —

  The rain got worse. He snail-trailed up the Parkway to 19th Avenue. The jail stood upside the off-ramp. He hooked right and sluiced up to a PD space. He got out and ran in.

  The entrance hall was bare bones/all gray cement. Elmer brushed off his raincoat and shook himself dry. A night cop lounged by the gate racks. He wore that I-hate-this-job look. He beady-eyed a cheesecake book.

  Elmer walked up and badged him. The night cop said, “So?”

  Elmer said, “I’m with the Alien Squad. You’ve got a frisky Jap named Donald Matsura here. I know, because I brought him in.”

  The night cop said, “He ain’t so frisky now. Banzai, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why don’t you explain what you mean?”

  “I mean, Chief Horrall called the watch commander. He said Ace Kwan would like a few words with your boy. As in, ‘Put him in a sweatbox and then walk away.’ ”

  Elmer slipped the dink twenty. “Ace and I go way back. Call-Me-Jack, likewise. If Ace is still at it, I’d like to watch the show.”

  “Well…”

  Elmer doubled up the bribe. The night cop went Mum’s the word and racked the front gate. Elmer took the main catwalk back. Crisscrossed catwalks extended. Japs were packed in six and eight to a cell.

  He hit a bisecting hall. He saw recessed doorways. Oh, yeah—it’s sweatbox row.

  Four twelve-by-twelve rooms. All the same. Look-see mirrors/floor-bolted tables/two screwed-down chairs.

  Elmer cut straight left. He peeped three mirrored doors and got bupkes. He peeped room #4 and got the real shit.

  There’s Demon Don. There’s Uncle Ace. It’s the well-known third degree.

  Ace was a known rubber-hose man. His hose looked heavy-duty. It was friction-taped. It stood straight up. It had to be ball bearing–packed.

  Matsura was chair-cuffed. Ace swung the hose. He threw tight shots—arms, rib cage, legs.

  Elmer popped the door. A shit and piss stink hit him. Matsura screamed. He bucked his chair. The floor bolts shimmied. One bolt pulled loose.

  Ace saw Elmer. Ace said, “Jack H. give okay.”

  Elmer said, “You mean Dudley did.”

  Matsura dribbled blood on the table. Ace threw a head shot. Matsura screamed. Gold bridgework flew.

  Ace gibbered. Matsura dribbled blood. Elmer saw gum flaps laced in.

  Ace shrieked, trilingual. He went Chink/English/Chinklish. Elmer caught this:

  You Jap fucker/you tonged up/Four Families/sell terp/winos and dope fiends. You sell pharmacy hop/with Lin Chung/you know Tommy Glenn—

  Ace stopped. Ace went Oops. Ace shut his fat fucking mouth.

  Elmer went Oh shit.

  Ace swung the hose. He threw rib shots and leg shots. Elmer heard bones break. Matsura dribbled blood. The hose cracked down the middle. Ball bearings flew—

  Elmer grabbed Ace by the neck and hard-shoved him. Ace bounced off the back wall and hit the floor flat on his ass. Matsura bucked his chair and tore out all the floor bolts. The chair capsized.

  Ace keened and screeched. It was some heathen curse. He got to his knees and pulled out his dick. He piss-polluted this big pool of Jap blood.

  18

  (ENSENADA, 9:15 A.M., 1/4/42)

  That cretinous redneck. That Klan-klique bumpkin. That maladroit buffoon.

  The telephone exploded. Dudley dropped the receiver. It cut Mike Breuning off.

  Bad news. Elmer Jackson muscled Ace Kwan and caused a big upscut. Tough tiff at the Lincoln Heights Jail.

  Dudley lit a cigarette. His office spun. Squadroom noise went cacophonous. The temperature zoomed.

  He wiped his face and roused the switchboard. He got more bad news. All Baja-to-L.A. circuits—full up.

  He should call Jack Horrall and demand reprisals. That could boomerang. Jack was thick with Brenda Allen. That fact mandated circumspection.

  Dudley rubbed his bad arm. The sling came off yesterday. An Army doc checked him out and pronounced him okay.

  Minor aches persisted. They induced flutters and sweats. They derailed his concentration. His mind wandered. He teethed on the inconsequential. Little things set him off.

  His wife called. She wanted to chat. He forgot his eldest daughter’s name. Claire eavesdropped on the bedroom phone. It enraged him.

  Claire missed Mass this morning. It vexed him. Claire was off with her fetching, if feral, new waif. The girl vexed him no end.

  Joan Klein was age fifteen. She was a New York runaway and a Zionist Jew. Her immigrant kin veered hard left. Claire found the girl très enchanting.

  She bought the girl clothes. She got her a
room down the hall. The girl told tall tales. Labor agitators clash with Fed thugs. Mayhem results.

  He humored Claire. He said, “You’re underemployed, darling. You’re picking up strays and grasping at straws.”

  Claire lashed out. She defamed the “effete” Hideo Ashida. She excoriated the harmless dilettante Kay Lake. Young Kay shivved him in Kwan’s basement. Claire fell prey to her most fleeting whims. The charge was preposterous.

  José Vasquez-Cruz gored Claire. She thought she gored him. That was très Claire. She confused enmity with mild contempt. She said, “I think I’ve seen him before. Somewhere—perhaps a demonstration.”

  That felt spot-on. Vasquez-Cruz was a chameleon. He tee-heed to his Army pals. He low-growled to provocative women.

  Dudley flexed his bad arm. He made a fist and squeezed it tight. He tore through the pain—and laughed.

  * * *

  —

  Statie HQ:

  Three dank buildings inland and south. Slave labor built them. Jail, trooper barracks, administration. They were plopped down beside an arroyo. Lettuce fields stood close by.

  Shackled inmates toiled there. Stoop labor. Lift that barge, tote that bale. The jail featured sweat rooms and torture dens. Scorpions nested there. They ate bugs and stung recalcitrant spics.

  Admin featured file vaults and cramped office suites. Dudley called ahead. He talked to a lieutenant named Juan Pimentel. They gabbed at length. Lieutenant Juan reported this:

  He braced their in-custody Japs. They possessed nada knowledge of the beached sub and dead sailors. He developed Hideo Ashida’s film. He cross-checked it against mug-shot files and resident-alien sheets. He got more nada there. He got no fingerprint matches. Sixteen dead Jap sailors? Es mucho mierda.

  Juan Pimentel was muy bueno. He jumped on all the small shit.

  He head-counted jail Japs. He got 44 in custody/182 still loose. He prepped admin suite 214. He stacked the custody files and made a pot of coffee.

  Dudley drove over and parked outside. Prowl cars hemmed him in. Statie bossmen custom-fitted them. Note the hood-mounted flamethrowers. Note the hand-painted saints and giant rodents emitting death rays.