by James Ellroy
Annie rolled her eyes. “Okay, but what about good looks? I look good, and so do my mom and dad. But my sister looks like something the cat dragged in.”
Saul coughed into his handkerchief. Elmer yocked. The old hebe dug the Nazis. It was unrequited love.
“Racial science is still in its infancy. Comrade Stalin should put his people to work. We can’t let the Right ace out the Left here. Stalin’s designs are humane. He’ll implement compulsory breeding from a workers’ perspective.”
Annie patted her mouth. “You’re putting me to sleep.”
“What shall we talk about? You’re eager to learn. It’s what I like most about you.”
Annie tickled old Saul. Old Saul giggled. She swatted him with a pillow. Old Saul evinced glee.
“You like my big breasts and long legs, and these collegiate outfits that Brenda makes me wear. Do you know how many pairs of saddle shoes I’ve got now?”
Saul went Oy vey. “All right, then. What shall we talk about?”
“That party you mentioned last time. You said all these music exiles and movie stars would be there.”
“Oh, yes. At Otto Klemperer’s. I saved his life, you know. I diagnosed his brain tumor and got him into surgery, jack flash.”
“You’re heroic, sweetie. They should put you on the cover of Time magazine.”
Old Saul went tut-tut. “Comrade Stalin deserves it more than I do.”
“Will he be at the party?”
“No, but Orson Welles will be. I know you, Annie. Orson’s your favorite. You can’t fool me.”
Annie crushed her cigarette. “He should lose weight. I like my men lean.”
Old Saul laughed. “Like me?”
“You’re too lean, sweetie. I saw a newsreel at the Wiltern last night. The Japs captured these prisoners somewhere. They looked emaciated, like you sort of do.”
Old Saul glared. Elmer mind-read him. You dumb goyishe twat.
Annie said, “Come on, baby. Let’s get back to Mr. Welles.”
Old Saul sighed. “All right, Comrade Welles. He’s going out on one of FDR’s diplomatic missions, to Latin America, so that he can shtup Dolores del Rio and espouse the Red cause with all the gifted-dilettante fervor he’s capable of, which is considerable. He’s been my analysand dating back to his radio days, and his best work isn’t Citizen Kane, believe me. It’s the smut films he makes with big-name movie stars. You wouldn’t believe the names.”
Annie put out big eyes. The mike volume glitched. Elmer caught “Kurt Weill,” “Bertolt Brecht,” “Spanish Civil War.” He goosed the knob and replugged a wire. He caught “Meyer Gelb,” “analysand,” “incendiary whiz.” He caught “badly burned” and “battle with Franco’s Falange.”
The glitch unglitched. Full volume kicked on. Old Saul said, “I saved his life, too. I’ve got a Chinaman pal. He’s a plastic surgeon, and he performed skin grafts on Meyer.”
Elmer snagged it. The surgeon was Lin Chung. Who else but? It’s who you know and who you blow—
Annie said, “I thought Terry Lux was the big plastic surgeon. I tricked with him once. He told me he was America First, and the world’s greatest plastics man. He said he could turn my ugly sister into Betty Grable.”
Old Saul shrugged. “Terry’s Terry. He’s as right as I’m left, and sometimes the twain shall meet. The war’s created odd alliances. The left and right converge to acknowledge the shuck of democracy. My analysand Claire De Haven and her cop lover underline that perception.”
Elmer snagged it. Wooo—Claire the D. and El Dudster Alert.
Annie lit a cigarette. “You told me about her. She’s a socialite, but she’s Communist up the wazoo.”
Old Saul sipped Drambuie. “I’d call her a morphine-addicted dilettante before I even addressed her speciously reasoned politics. And, I’d add that her cop lover is an evil brute, and that Claire’s out for thrills, plain and simple. They’re in Mexico now, and Claire and I have phone sessions twice a week. She’s behaving paranoically, I’m afraid. She thinks that a transplanted prairie tart named Kay something stabbed her lover last month, and I can in no way dissuade her.”
Wooo—that’s a hot one. It’s a Code 3 Alert.
Annie patted her mouth. “Claire what’s-her-name bores me. Tell me more about Mr. Welles.”
She was goooooooooood. She neon-beamed SHAKEDOWN. Ed the Fed was out to jack Reds. Fey Edgar Hoover loathed Orson Welles. It was common-knowledge drift.
Old Saul popped a boner. Annie google-eyed the event. The bedsheet stretched and held taut.
“That ogre William Randolph Hearst is out to fuck Orson for Citizen Kane. Conversely, I would add that Orson would surely love to fuck you.”
34
(LOS ANGELES, 3:00 A.M., 1/25/42)
Pub crawl. Movie shitbirds slumming. We’re at Kwan’s “O” den. It’s open-all-nite.
Amateur pipe fiends hold sway. Orson Welles and Ann Sheridan. Plus froufrou hairdressers and prop boys. They’re film geeks hot to restage Fantasia.
They settled on pallets. Seasoned Chinks ignored them. They sucked smoke and coughed a great deal.
Dudley and Uncle Ace watched. They rode chairs upside a back wall. Ace wore a KILL THE JAPS T-shirt and an I AM NOT A JAP armband.
Fumes drifted over. Dudley breathed deep.
“I would summarize as follows, my brother. The plan entails corrupting, usurping, and co-opting the Ensenada contingent of the Mexican State Police, under Captain José Vasquez-Cruz. Once accomplished, we would create a mass exodus of wetback workers, to pick crops at San Joaquin Valley farms.”
Ace said, “I listen raptly, my Irish brother. Please tell me more.”
Dudley clocked Orson Welles. Fat Boy purportedly fucked Claire. They coupled at Terry Lux’s clinic. Rumors persist.
“Mexico will ditch its neutral stance in May, and throw in with the Allies. A guest-worker program will go into effect in August. It will be signed into law by our Governor Olsen, and Baja’s governor, Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. It will effectively legalize slave immigration, and all attendant profits will bypass us. We need to preempt and supersede the program with our own wetback exports.”
Ace pissed in a drainage sluice. He was earthy. He exemplified the hearty-peasant aesthetic. He possessed a cashew-sized dick.
“I still listen raptly. Please tell me more.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “We’ll take handsome kickbacks from the farmers and attach our wets’ wages. We’ll house the more educated wets in the dwellings of interned Japs and grab a percentage of the rent they pay, along with a percentage of their wages from the better jobs they secure. Conversely, we will reduce the Jap population of Baja through a concerted internment effort, and will seek U.S. government assistance in housing Mexican Japs in U.S. internment centers. We will house rich Mexican Japs here in Los Angeles, under your Chinese protection. The reduced Jap population in Baja will alleviate the specter of coastal sabotage and infiltration, which will fulfill my Army mandate.”
Ace said, “Kill the Japs.”
“A hearty and well-informed sentiment, my brother.”
Ace laughed. Dudley clocked a peep show. Ann Sheridan hopped on Fat Boy’s pallet. She tossed her hair and went for his fly.
“I find Captain Vasquez-Cruz problematic, and Claire agrees with me. He’s inherited Carlos Madrano’s heroin business, and we’ve struck an alliance of sorts. El Capitán has welcomed me to Baja, but I suspect that he has designs on my designs. This brings us to our long-lost pal, Kyoho Hanamaka.”
“I keep eye down here. No Hanamaka. No tickee, no washee.”
“O” fumes circulated. Dudley caught wisps. He drifted a bit. He dream-caressed the gold bayonet.
“Hanamaka disappeared on December 18. He should have been detained on Pearl Harbor day, which leads me to believe that he was allowed
to remain at large. It now appears as though he’s faked his own death. He’s the logical man to run sabotage operations in Baja, and I’m determined to capture him. Our ventures in Baja will succeed in direct proportion to my success in interdicting the Baja Fifth Column.”
Ace said, “You interdict, we make money. Good tickee-washee there.”
Dudley said, “We’ve picked up code calls from here to Baja. There’s allegedly hidden air bases in Indio and Brawley. It may or may not be credible innuendo. Should the former be true, I would tag Hanamaka my number-one suspect.”
Ace squinted. The dope fumes stung his eyes.
“You think Staties help Hanamaka escape? Maybe Vasquez-Cruz help? You get proof and extort his greaseball ass? We take over ‘H’ trade then?”
Dudley smiled. “Great minds think alike, my Chinese brother.”
Ace bowed. “Tommy Glennon. He remain at large also?”
“Yes, and vexingly so. He was Carlos Madrano’s boy, and he’s a long-standing Mex-o-phile. He could very well fall prey to the charms of José Vasquez-Cruz.”
“Tommy kill Eddie Leng. You think so, Dudster?”
“Yes. It’s likely, but I don’t know why.”
“I rubber-hose Don Matsura. He don’t know shit. I fake suicide. Hang that Jap fucker in his cell.”
Dudley whooped. Ace was a good dog. Ace always fetched.
“Tommy’s been out in the vapors since New Year’s. I don’t see how he could have done it without professional help. My instincts tell me that he’s in Baja, and that Hanamaka’s here.”
Ace said, “Tommy Fifth Column. Crazy fuckers jungled up in strange ways.”
Dudley said, “He’s Catholic Fifth Column, my brother. Sadly, I see more sinister forces at play.”
Fat Boy’s pallet shook. He squealed and bit his pillow. Lovely Ann wiped her chin and zipped him up.
* * *
—
Whiskey Bill fought the booze. He had one drink. Then one more drink. His thirst persisted. Dudley watched him dither and succumb.
Stag dinner at St. Vib’s. Archbishop Cantwell hosted. Joe Hayes slurred the kikes and the prods. Father Coughlin slurred the frogs and the coons. Every man jack slurred the Japs.
The Archbishop’s study. Packed with golf-themed artwork. Golf as holy sacrament. Heretical horseshit.
Deep chairs bid sleep. Parker bid scrutiny. Dudley yawned. He took bennies yesterday. He charged thirty-six hours straight.
He read Alien Squad files and trawled for notes on Hanamaka. No mentions popped up. He walked J-town and flashed his Baja file pic. Hanamaka? Me no see him. He logged that response, ceaselessly.
He issued a U.S. APB. All points/hold and detain. His mind churned. He teethed on the gold bayonet.
It’s provenance. The who/the why/the upscut. He indulged fantasy. He merged reality. Who first possessed the gold? Who forged the bayonet? He recalled a mint-train job. It went down in the spring of ’31. The job stood unsolved. It felt non sequitur. Impecunious heist men and gold fenced down in value. Gold now long gone.
Cantwell said, “Dud’s tired. He’s been yawning since he walked in the door.”
Hayes said, “He’s got one eye fixed on Bill, though. Those two share a history.”
Cantwell said, “Like Scylla and Charybdis. Evenly matched apparitions in the Old Testament.”
Hayes said, “Greek mythology, Your Eminence.”
Coughlin said, “Lay off the ‘Greek,’ Joe. You’ll get all fluttered.”
Hayes blanched and gulped. Coughlin winked at Cantwell. Dudley tweaked Whiskey Bill.
“Are the refreshments to your liking, Captain?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I thought you might appear at the grand jury. The Watanabe job was your overall command.”
“My testimony would have proved redundant. You were the lead investigator.”
“Yes, but I thought you might have felt compelled to present an alternative solution.”
“Your solution was expedient and stunningly crafted—if speciously reasoned and fallacious in your presumption of guilt.”
Dudley laughed. “Aaahh, there’s our impasse.”
Cantwell coughed. “You boys quell your differences. We’re five good Catholic men here to get shit-faced.”
Hayes said, “Hear! Hear!”
Coughlin said, “Let the Japs kill the Japs with impunity, then fry the Jap who killed the Japs in the first place.”
Cantwell said, “Dud’s spoiling for a tiff. The Mexican sun’s broiling that grand brain of his.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Mexico’s an opportunity in search of a solution, Your Eminence. On that note, I should add that Father Coughlin’s friend Salvador Abascal did me quite the favor recently.”
Coughlin said, “Salvador’s quite the lad. An honorary mick, that one. I’ll set up a feed the next time I’m in T.J.”
Nuns wheeled in a steam tray. Dinner is served. It was god-awful corned beef and cabbage. It smelled like canned dog food.
The clerics dug in. Dudley cracked a window. Cabbage fumes dispersed.
Parker flashed the malocchio. He was half-tanked. Dudley evil-eyed him back. Parker blinked first.
Frat-boy antics. Such cheap diversion. Wholly indecorous and undignified.
Joan Conville wisped by. Dudley caught her musk and savored it. She crashed his dreams most nights.
Bill Parker entraps young women. It’s one per month now. His patronage carries a price. It creates exploitable rage.
Joe Hayes ignored his food. He checked his watch once per second. Monsignor Joe possessed family money. He kept a beachfront apartment. He held all-male retreats there.
Hayes stood up and murmured good-byes. The gang waved and laced back to their grub. Dudley ticked off thirty seconds and excused himself.
He walked outside. He caught Hayes in the rectory lot. Family money. Such a smart roadster. Wire wheels and red leather seats.
The engine throbbed. Hayes looked up and fluttered. Dudley reached in and cut back the key. The engine coughed and died.
“Hot date, Monsignor?”
“I don’t care for your tone, Dud.”
“Where’s Tommy Glennon, Monsignor? I won’t comment on your relationship, but I do need to see him.”
Hayes wore driving gloves and a puce muffler. They clashed with his penguin suit.
“Tommy comes and goes as he pleases. I’m his confessor, not his nursemaid. I haven’t seen him since he left San Quentin.”
Blunt lies. This sacrosanct fairy. Not some thug you rubber-hose.
“You’re Bill Parker and my Claire’s confessor, as well. I’d pay good money to hear their confessions.”
Hayes smoothed his muffler. His clan assimilated. He left his brogue in Galway, 1919.
“I’m your confessor, to boot. You surely have much to tell me, if Bill Parker is to be believed.”
“I’m beyond sin, Monsignor. I was killing Black-and-Tans when you were in the seminary. I’m bucking for Pope Pius’ job. Do you think the Vatican Council will grant me a dispensation to fuck women?”
Hayes laughed. “Check the rightist mailing lists. Tommy’s quite the avid reader. You might get a line on him that way.”
Dudley flicked the key. The engine purred.
Hayes donned a tweed cap. “ ‘Pride goeth before a fall,’ Dudley. Not everyone fears you. Men like you tend to trip and fall in the shit.”
35
(LOS ANGELES, 9:30 P.M., 1/26/42)
Joan walked home. She felt dream-smacked and wispy.
She cut west on 1st Street. She crossed Bunker Hill and bypassed Belmont High. She caught wisps of Hideo Ashida. He ran track at Belmont. Gold dust wisped by.
She floated. She drank two terp vials back at the lab. It was blackout dar
k and cool-evening still.
Faces popped here and there. She saw Dudley Smith and Bill Parker. Terp had that effect. It unlocked doors and let you peek in.
Joan cut north on Carondelet. Her courtyard was blackout black/shades drawn/we do our part. She got out her keys. She heard, “Hello, lass.”
She dropped her purse. He caught it and stood up. He’d camped out on her steps and popped up in the dark.
Tall. The trim-cut Army uniform. The cross-draw .45.
Joan mimicked his brogue. “ ‘Lass,’ is it? Not ‘Miss Conville’? How long have you been in America? Shouldn’t you have lost your accent by now?”
“That’s a great many questions. I’ll note that you didn’t ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ ”
Joan unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Dudley followed her in. She tracked his eyes. She saw him catch this:
Her framed diplomas. Her mounted shotguns. Her sepia prints of Big Earle. Her microscope and chemistry texts.
“Policeman’s daughter, are you? That man in the photographs is wearing a badge.”
“You’ve dimmed the brogue, Captain. And, yes, my father was the game warden of Monroe County, Wisconsin.”
Dudley singled out the diplomas. “I admire scientists. I know nothing of science, so I stand naïve and admiring before those of your stripe.”
Joan smiled. “Call me naïve, Captain. I can’t see you as a supplicant outside of church, and even then I’d have doubts.”
Dudley said, “And I’m sure you doubt the probity of this visit.”
Joan said, “I’ve narrowed it down. You were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d drop by. You’re monitoring your longtime nemesis, Bill Parker, and you’d like a hand with that task. Lastly, you’d like to screw me, which is a motive that I’ve encountered before.”
Dudley bowed. He mimed Hideo Ashida. The little Jap taught the big Irishman style.
“One drink, then. That’s my motive. Before you ask, I’ll concede that I called the lab for your address.”