This Storm

by James Ellroy

  Blanchard cracked his knuckles. “Sounds like a sweet deal.”

  Mimms said, “Let colored police colored. Keep colored south of Slauson until the pilgrimage begins. Keep your colored cops south of Slauson, where they know the turf.”

  Elmer winked. “That’s white of you.”

  Mimms guffawed. Blanchard said, “We’ve got these questions. We know you own that backhouse on 46th, and you must have got the word by now.”

  Elmer flashed his foto spray. PD pix of Rice and Kapek. The Mex, DOA.

  Mimms studied them. Mimms went nix.

  Elmer said, “Tell us about the backhouse. Two cops were killed there.”

  Mimms popped his suspender straps and pulled himself tall. Hold for a sermonette.

  “I own fourteen houses in these parts, and half of them have backhouses that have come to be utilized as playpens by unruly elements. Over the years, the backhouses have been taken over by my acolytes, all of whom live squeaky-clean. The only exception is my backhouse on East 46th. It’s a place where coloreds, spics, and ofay hepcats congregate, hold jam sessions, and are assured of the privacy they require to drink and fuck in peace. That particular clubhouse took on a political bent—but as long as it isn’t the Reds or the Klan, I don’t give a rat’s ass. The front house has been empty for a while—but I’ll find a new tenant sooner or later.”

  Elmer said, “Let me guess. All your tenants pay in cash, and you don’t keep written records.”

  Mimms said, “That is correct.”

  Blanchard said, “Let me guess. You’ll beef us to Jack Horrall if we start poking too deep into your financial shit.”

  Mimms said, “That is correct.”

  Elmer relit his cigar. “Who specifically rents this backhouse? Who pays the rent every month?”

  Mimms snapped his suspenders. “As stated, I keep no records and recall no specific names. The clubhouse denizens pay in cash, and anonymous cholos drop off the gelt on the first of the month. I would guess that the habitués take up a collection.”

  Blanchard said, “There’s a terp still on the premises. That’s illegal.”

  Mimms resnapped his suspenders. “I don’t condone terp. I exhort my people to live clean.”

  Blanchard lit a cigarette. “The dump’s full of Nazi regalia.”

  “You had best check with the fearsome Gestapo and the illustrious SS about that. And, once again, let me state that I bear no grudge against the Nazis—but the Reds and the Klan bear the full brunt of my enmity.”

  Elmer blew smoke rings. “What about the Sinarquistas?”

  Mimms said, “Tacoheads and fools from the gate. Just another copycat movement trying to piggyback Adolf Hitler and make hay while the zeitgeist bends their way. I would advise them to refine their wardrobe, though. Green doesn’t cut it. You’ve got to go with basic black, and snazzy armbands.”

  46

  (ENSENADA, 10:00 A.M., 1/30/42)

  Green twill and black leather. The green connotes Ireland and Mexico. The black boldly stamps Sinarquismo. It’s a right-wing affront.

  Starched green twill. Cut to fit him. Shirt, necktie, pants. Stiff black leather. Boots, holster, belt. A red-white-and-black armband. It stamps resurgent realpolitik.

  Dudley sat in his office. The squad bay buzzed bilingual. Army noncoms and Staties shared desk space. Anti-Jap fever raged.

  He just missed El Flaco. He found this grand ensemble placed on his desk. Salvy came and went, rápidamente.

  The courtship continues. Salvy bears gifts. There’s still unanswered questions. They’re couched in unstinting rapport.

  Victor Trejo Caiz planned to kill him. How did Salvy know? Salvy understands him. How much does Salvy know and where did he learn it?

  The squad bay bustled. Japs, Japs, Japs. The internment push roared. Dudley shut his door and muzzled the blare.

  He touched green twill and black leather. He rolled the armband on and off his left sleeve. He decided to stage a dress rehearsal. He’d don Salvy’s gift and pose in K. Hanamaka’s lair.

  He’d utilize his secret fashion runway. He’d wear Sinarquista green and black SS kit. He’d swing the gold bayonet.

  The Teletype clacked and popped a page into his tray. Dudley snatched it and skimmed it. Fourth Interceptor blared cautionary drift.

  L.A. defense plants targeted/Red Alert imposed. Secret air bases in San Berdoo County/Red Alert imposed. Jap sub berthings in Baja/Red Alert imposed. L.A. pay-phone communiqués decoded. Jap air attack on L.A. predicted. Red Alert: hold for late February.

  Dudley teethed on it. Red Alert/Jap Alert/alarmist rhetoric. He was Japped to the gills. The Statie jail was Japped, floor-to-rafters. Jap overflow was Japped up in slum cribs Baja-wide. Statie goons tortured Japs for hot leads and kicks.

  He called the Ventura County Sheriff. He offered him bribe cash and proposed a sub-rosa deal. House Baja Japs on county work farms. Bunk them in horse stalls. Rent them out as stoop labor. We’ll split the money.

  The Sheriff agreed. Dudley called José Vasquez-Cruz and cut him in on the deal. José said he’d oversee the inmate transfer. Their racket front now bears fruit.

  Japs, Japs, Japs.

  Slant-eyed intruders. They haunt his dreams. The Wolf stalks them across the Baja plains. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? No one has visited his mountain hideaway. Juan Pimentel surveills it. Hideo Ashida’s photo device has snapped no license plates. Lieutenant Juan tortures Japs. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? None of the Japs knows shit.

  Japs, Japs, Japs.

  Fourth Interceptor’s besieging SIS. Major Melnick’s crawling up his ass. Interdict coastal sabotage without further delay.

  Juan Pimentel has chartered a twin-engine plane. They’ll cruise the coastline later today. They’ll scan for sub berths and dip south to Magdalena Bay. They’ll swoop by the Sinarquista encampment.

  Japs, Japs, Japs.

  The Wolf hunts Japs in his dreams. The Wolf rips them and eats them and shits them out, postmortem. Last night’s dream dissolved a memory glitch.

  The Wolf cornered an unruly Jap. The Wolf said something’s troubling my old pal Dudley Smith. There’s a backhouse/klubhaus on East 46th. Herr Dudley thinks someone’s mentioned it before. He can’t dredge the memory. What say ye to this?

  The Jap feared the Wolf. The Jap had the inside dirt. The Jap revealed this:

  Hector Obregon-Hodaka blabbed to the Dudster. He mentioned the klubhaus and wild goings-on there. He said two rogue cops ruled the roost.

  All hail the Wolf. The Wolf retrieved that lost memory.

  Mike Breuning called him. He bore hot news. Nort Layman tagged the klubhaus job Murder One. Hector’s rogue cops? Surely Wendell Rice and George Kapek.

  Hector’s a Kyoho Hanamaka KA. He’ll photostat Hector’s Statie print card. He’ll get it to Hideo Ashida. Hideo will redust the klubhaus and try to fix Hector’s presence there.

  Mike B. updated Dudley. Mike B. reported this:

  There’s that dead Mex. El Dudster’s Spanish-fluent. Jack Horrall thinks the klubhaus job could dip south. He wants Dudley to consult, long-distance. Bill Parker’s set to oversee. It’s their Watanabe-case assignments, grandly reprised.

  With attendant sidebars. Werewolf Shudo’s innocence and Jim Davis’ guilt. Sinarquista flags at the klubhaus. Elmer Jackson on the job. Hideo’s Baja posting on hold.

  Dudley touched green twill and black leather. He should buy the Wolf a black leather harness and spiked collar. The Wolf retrieved that memory. He deserves a treat.

  * * *

  —

  Lieutenant Juan flew low. The Army supplied a twin Beechcraft and all-purpose weaponry. Flamethrowers, tommy guns, grenades.

  They hugged the coastline. Dudley binocular-scanned.

  The cockpit was sun bright and altitude cold. Dudley sat behind the pilot’s sea
t and peered out. He marked latitudes on a relief map. He X’d coves and inlets and saw no signs of life.

  They flew south. Dudley scanned fishing boats. They featured all-Mex crews and came off kosher. Lieutenant Juan refueled the plane in Puerto Romulo. They swung back south and cruised Magdalena Bay.

  Lieutenant Juan swooped low and dipped toward the Sinarquista encampment. He’d prepped a leaflet drop. Hate tracts en español. He got them at the Deutsches Haus in L.A. They featured German death-camp photos with humorous captions. Lieutenant Juan found them howlarious.

  Dudley saw men tilling soil and women dunking clothes in a stream. Lieutenant Juan dipped to three hundred feet. Los cameradas looked up and waved. Lieutenant Juan dropped the cargo hatch. Hate tracts hit blue sky.

  The kameraden whooped en masse. They jumped up and down. The tracts caught air streams and flew. The sky went craaaazy-paper white and eclipsed all sunlight.

  Lieutenant Juan U-turned and gained altitude. They flew northbound and low. Lieutenant Juan dropped down to two hundred feet and air-trekked the coastline. Dudley binocular-scanned.

  It got boring. Rocks, waves, and sand. Time stands still. Rocks, waves, sand shoals. The same shit—por vida and beyond.

  Then—bip!—there’s this lone Jap.

  He’s just outside an inlet. He’s tossing a fishing net. He’s not looking up.

  Dudley jabbed Lieutenant Juan. Lieutenant Juan looked down and went Caramba.

  He dipsy-doodled up and east. He cut past the coast road and nosed the plane down. There’s a flat dirt patch/mock runway.

  The ground came up faaaaaast. Dudley braced himself against the seat back. Lieutenant Juan hopscotched around rocks and dumped trash. He found a clear stretch. He cut the flaps and put the wheels on the ground. The plane fishtailed and pulled two full doughnuts.

  The engine thumped and stalled dead. The propellers tapped out. Dudley went whew! They jumped out and indulged abrazos. They armed themselves.

  Dudley grabbed a tommy gun. Lieutenant Juan grabbed a flamethrower. They ran across the dirt patch and dodged cars across the coast road. They hit an embankment. A carved path led down to the beach.

  Dudley saw an outcropping due north. That was his landmark. He spotted that Jap forty yards up.

  He pointed north. Lieutenant Juan gripped the flamethrower and fell in beside him. They trekked down to the beachfront. The sand was wet-wet. Wavelets doused them knee-high.

  They walked north. Wet sand sucked at their feet. They approached the inlet. It fronted a cove cave. Dudley saw fishing-net drag marks. Dudley heard jabber: Mex, Jap, Mex.

  They hugged the rocks and crept close. The jabber escalated. Dudley craned and looked into the cave. A Jap flag hung off a two-by-four. Voices jabbered—men, women, kids.

  Lieutenant Juan went So, Jefe? Dudley went Of course. They wheeled and walked right in.

  The cave was muy deep. They hit a left fork and veered toward the voices. Dudley saw them then.

  Thirty-odd souls. Fifth Column familia. Half Jap and half Mex. Right there in front:

  Hector Obregon-Hodaka, himself.

  Lieutenant Juan kicked a rock, inadvertent. The noise echo-chambered. La familia turned and looked. Hector looked straight at Dudley and pulled a waistband piece.

  Lieutenant Juan aimed and cut loose. Flames shot up and out. They hit Hector. He screamed and went all bugshit on fire. Lieutenant Juan hit the kill switch. The barrel whoosh died. La familia ran, todos. They reached the back of the cave and hit a dead end.

  Lieutenant Juan walked up and cornered them there. Dudley followed him. He read their fear, close-up. Lieutenant Juan got blast-oven close. Each and every one of them screamed.

  Lieutenant Juan hit the on switch. Flames shot up and out. He fried each and every one of them alive.

  47

  (LOS ANGELES, 8:00 A.M., 1/31/42)

  Crash Squad confab. Jack Horrall’s office. It’s a double cop snuff. There’s fanfare and razzmatazz.

  The squad ran ten strong. Folding chairs fanned the Chief’s desk. Dudley Smith was down in Baja. He pledged daily call-ins and/or Teletypes.

  They signed a check-in log. It was big-job de rigueur. The duty roster ran thus:

  Captain W. H. Parker: Traffic Division/commanding officer.

  Captain D. L. Smith (Army SIS): executive officer/Spanish-speaking consultant.

  Lieutenant T. B. Brown: Homicide Division/squad whip.

  Sergeant M. D. Breuning: Homicide Division.

  Sergeant R. S. Carlisle: Homicide Division.

  Norton Layman, M.D.: medical consultant.

  Lieutenant H. J. Ashida (Army SIS): crime lab supervisor/on-leave consultant.

  Miss J. W. Conville: crime lab/forensic biologist.

  Sergeant E. V. Jackson: Vice Division/Alien Squad.

  Officer L. C. Blanchard: Central Division Detectives/Alien Squad.

  Sergeant T. R. Meeks: Robbery Division/detached for current duty.

  They sat ten across. They smoked and sipped coffee. They wore that down-for-the-count look. They were forty-four hours in.

  Joan glanced at Parker. He glanced back. She smelled his dumb lime cologne. She was antsy. The Santa Barbara Sheriff’s file arrived. She wanted to jump on it.

  She stroked her gold cuff links. She was distracted. The Chief said something. She missed the lead-in.

  “…and if you’re wondering why you don’t see Ray Pinker, it’s because he’s in Dutch with the Fed probe, and he’s running raw these days. That means Lieutenant Ashida’s our top lab dog, until Dud S. pulls some strings and hauls him back to Mexico. There’s a war on, you know. Things like that tend to supersede.”

  The gang laughed. Breuning and Carlisle smirked. They hated Ashida. Dud loved him more than them.

  Call-Me-Jack drummed his desk. “We all know why we’re here, so let’s get to it. Will someone please tell me something I don’t know?”

  Dr. Nort raised his hand. “I found large quantities of carbolic acid in the three victims’ livers. This indicates that the terp they were smoking just prior to their deaths had been spiked. They were deliberately poisoned—but organ saturation indicates that all three men were habitual terp smokers.”

  Call-Me-Jack rolled his eyes. “We can’t defame our fallen colleagues as terp fiends. Let’s keep that fact away from any and all reporters you might be talking to. As far as reporters go, this is gospel. The inside dirt goes exclusively to Sid Hudgens and his legman Jack Webb, and that’s it. They’ve done us proud before, and they’ll do us proud here. Given the state of the klubhaus, I’d say we’re looking at a Fifth Column job. I want Sid and Jack to play up that angle, because Fifth Column hoo-ha’s the rage now, and that sort of emphasis will make us look good with Fourth Interceptor and the Feds.”

  Elmer waved his cigar. “What about a command post, boss? There’s no room at Central, and there’s no room here at the Hall.”

  Call-Me-Jack sipped coffee. He spiked it with schnapps. It’s PD-certified dish.

  “You got lucky here. I’m giving you Lyman’s back room, until we clear this thing. You’ll all have keys, and it’ll be off-limits to rank-and-file PD. I’m putting cots in, and you’ll have food and booze twenty-four hours.”

  Carlisle said, “Suppose we have to…”

  Elmer woofed him. “Put some hurt on a suspect or witness, Dick? That what you’re thinking?”

  Breuning said, “You’ve got shit for brains and shit for tact, Jackson. And it’s not like people don’t know it.”

  Elmer woofed him. Here’s your fucking tact.

  “People? You mean like a certain Irishman, well known to folks in this room?”

  Joan held her breath. Buzz blew Elmer an Okie-redneck kiss. Hideo Ashida gasped.

  Call-Me-Jack banged his ashtray. Desk clutter hopped.

 
“Not in my office, and not on my time card. You’re policemen investigating a double cop killing, and I’ve got no time for pique from any of you. To the point of Dick’s question, I’ll add this. There’s a storeroom two floors up from Lyman’s, and I’m having a chair bolted to the floor. It’s nice and quiet. If you need to stretch someone, do it up there.”

  Breuning and Carlisle smirked. Elmer winked at Meeks. Thad Brown coughed.

  “What about the victims’ families? At the very least, we should interview the wives.”

  Call-Me-Jack made the cutoff sign. “I paid condolence calls, and unless something pertinent comes up, I want them left alone. I don’t want to aggravate them and get them thinking they should slap a wrongful death suit on the PD. There’s that, and there’s the undisputed fact that their dutiful hubbies were skirt chasers and God knows what else, given a certain klubhaus on East 46th.”

  Parker said, “We’ve got to ID the Mexican. That’s our first priority.”

  Blanchard said, “I’ll be checking mug books against the DB pix.”

  Ashida said, “I’ll start checking print cards immediately.”

  Joan said, “I want to redust, resweep, and rephotograph the premises. There has to be something there.”

  Ashida shot his shirt cuffs. Joan saw his new gold watch. He evinced drag-queen taste.

  “I found a series of semen stains on the bedsheets upstairs, and I’ve already typed them. All four of the men were secretors. I’ll be checking my samples against blood samples from our victims.”

  Elmer whooped. “That’s the sort of bed traffic you see in your everyday whorehouse.”

  Parker said, “Elmer’s speaking as an expert witness here.”

  Buzz said, “I found an address book under a piece of carpet upstairs. Ray Pinker swooped by and dusted it for me. He turned up two latents. They match to a hot-prowl hump named Tommy Glennon.”

  Breuning and Carlisle went lockjawed. Elmer woof-woofed them.

  “Tommy the G. Does it get you all nostalgic for New Year’s Eve?”