This Storm
Page 37
Late February brought rain. Pacific storms hit the coast. Wave swells lashed Santa Barbara. A Jap sub lobbed shells north of there. Sea wolves aimed at the Ellsworth Oil Depot. The shells fell short. The sea wolves turned tail. Fourth Interceptor imposed a press blackout. The attack was kept mum.
He bennie-laced his a.m. coffee. The brew complemented his rainy mornings and spiked his ability to read and assess. He read Jap residential files and scoured for leads on K. Hanamaka. He brainstormed and cinched a few things up.
Sea attack. Air attack. Those prefab airplane parts he saw in the shore cove. Left-behind parts. Flame-charred to disguise them. Nazi and Soviet insignia.
Psychic recurrence. Confounding convergence. Something Huey Cressmeyer said. “Mitch,” the model-airplane man. A Deutsches Haus regular. Mitchell A. Kupp. Madcap aviator-inventor. Joan’s #1 father-snuff suspect. He charters a plane in Duluth. Earle Conville burns to death in western Wisconsin.
Joan tracks a fuel spill back to him. She suspects but cannot prove malfeasance. A scholarly tract arrives at the klubhaus. Mitch Kupp authored it. He critiques firebomb warfare and proposes funded research. Everyday Joes can fly build-ur-self planes. He’s prefabbed kits himself.
It all dovetailed. Joan subscribed to notions of psychic recurrence and star-crossed place. She made stars cross. She summoned Mitch Kupp to her very own constellation.
He ran nationwide file checks and cross-checked subversive membership lists. Kupp was pegged as America First. He had no police record. He had a California driver’s license and lived in San Berdoo.
Psychic recurrence. Confounding convergence. Star-crossed place.
He surveilled Mitch Kupp. Herr Kupp lived in a small house with a detached garage. Madcap Mitch. He worked in the garage and kept the door open.
See the airplane parts. See the prefab rivets. See the Nazi and Soviet stencils. See the workbench and bottled arson accelerants. See Madcap Mitch sniff paint thinner.
Madcap Mitch. He’ll stay put for now. Instinct is proof. Due process is a shuck. He’s fairly sure that Joan will want to kill him.
71
(LOS ANGELES, 2:15 A.M., 2/25/42)
Sirens kicked on and whooped. They invaded her dream. She was hunting ring-neck birds. She was back in Tomah some—
Joan opened her eyes. Bill stirred. The whoop-whoop hit overdrive. Bill grabbed his glasses. Searchlights swooped. They invaded the bedroom. Blackout drapes went translucent.
Bill got up. The drapes backlit him naked. The alarm felt inadvertent. A bogus one went down last night. Full blackout/false alarm/7:00 to 10:00. One large pain in the ass.
Joan said, “Shit.”
Bill peeled back the wall drapes. Searchlights crisscrossed. The bedroom soaked up light. The phone rang. Oh shit/no shit—three short and shrill bursts.
It was PD code. It meant This Is Real. It meant Report for Duty NOW.
Joan got goose bumps. She stepped into her shoes and threw on last night’s clothes. Bill tripped into his trousers and fell back on the bed. Courtyard doors banged. Rubes jumped out on their porches to gab and watch the show.
Joan buttoned her blouse. Bill tied his shoes and looped his gun belt. Joan tossed him his shirt and necktie. They tripped into each other and ran outside.
A drunk neighbor wolf-whistled. Bill was untucked and disheveled. Joan’s blouse tail drooped. They made the sidewalk. Bill’s prowl sled was haphazardly parked and nosed south.
They slid on damp asphalt. They banged their knees getting in. Sirens whooped loud. Searchlights glared bright.
Joan said, “Shit.”
Bill said, “Shit.”
He kicked the ignition. He pulled out and cut east on 1st. Searchlights flutter-lit the street. Fools stood outside and gawked. Joan dug in Bill’s pants pockets and pulled out his cigarettes.
They tore through Bunker Hill. They hit a rise at Figueroa and got a wide downtown view. They saw it and heard it simultaneous.
Artillery fire. Flak bursts. The antiaircraft guns outside City Hall.
Joan fumbled her cigarette. Bill fumbled his. He fishtailed downhill and bumped the curb upside Central Station. Joan squeezed his leg. Bill touched her hair. She got out and ran inside.
Bluesuits jammed the entrance hall. They wore tin hats and riot gear. They shouted. Two words overlapped.
It’s Real/It’s Real/It’s Real.
Joan heard machine-gun fire. She pegged it northeast. City Hall again. Those .30-caliber BARs with hundred-round belts.
Ceiling lights burned dim. Joan ran down to the basement and hit the generator switch. It juiced up real light. She ran back upstairs. The armory door stood open. The watch sergeant passed out tommy guns.
A bluesuit lobbed a roll of tinfoil. Somebody yelled, “Windows!” Joan snagged the roll and ran upstairs to the lab.
She tore off strips with her teeth. She foil-crimped curtain-windowpane junctures and cut off escaped light. She looked out a window crack. Flak bursts glowed pink. The goddamn sirens and searchlights persisted. She thought she saw an airplane wing.
The phone rang. She snatched the receiver and said her name. Flak noise drowned out her voice. She thought she heard a voice. It was long-distance faint. The flak noise subsided. The voice said, “Joan, is it you?”
Hideo Ashida. Filtered through party-line jabber. She heard Mexican voices. It was switchboard gobbledygook.
Joan talked loud. Mex jabber smothered her voice. She cupped her free ear. Flak noise came and went. Hideo got fractured words out.
It’s real. I’m with Dudley. We’ve seen aircraft heading north. Coastal artillery. We’re coming up. You won’t believe what we’ve—
She lost him. Two minutes passed. She clutched the receiver. She bit her lips and chipped a tooth.
Hideo came back on. The switchboard screech resumed. She caught crazy chatter and fractured-sentence talk.
Alien Squad.
Red Alert roundup list.
Uninterned Japanese.
Stand by.
Take photographs.
Suspects.
Klubhaus job.
Work confiscations.
More jabber-screech. More cacophany. Then profane español. Then a blare disconnect.
Joan dropped the phone and ran down the hallway. She hit the Alien Squad pen at full sprint. The boys were garbed up and armed for JAP.
They wore tin hats and bandoliers. They slid .45 dumdums into tommy-gun drums. Lew Collier dispensed pickup lists and divvied up partners. Lee Blanchard got Robby Moss. Elmer Jackson got Cal Lunceford. Catbox Cal wore gloves. He dipped his dumdums in a jar of liquid strychnine and hand-fed his tommy gun.
Joan opened the supply closet. She pulled three mug-shot cameras off a shelf and quick-loaded film. She affixed flashbulb strips and boxed up everything. Thad Brown spotted her and walked straight over.
He said, “Holy shit, Red.”
She said, “Holy shit, Thad.”
He passed her a canvass list. “Call these people and get them over here. Promise them whatever you have to. Tell them we’re being attacked, so do your goddamn duty, and we’ll shitcan extant warrants, or we’ll tap our slush fund and pay you twenty bucks apiece. They’re our 46th Street locals and jazz-club people—off our first canvass. We’ve got Red Alert Japs coming in, and I want to run lineups. We could get lucky here. This is fresh lineup meat, and I want to see if any of these yokels can make positive IDs. Most of these people won’t have cars or will be too scared to drive, so arrange your pickups with Newton Patrol, and get on it.”
Joan flashed the V sign. Thad said something. Antiaircraft bursts drowned him out. He flashed the V sign and popped in earplugs. Joan laughed and shooed him off.
She walked back to the squad pen and pulled a desk phone over. She yanked the cord taut and barricaded herself in the clos
et. It was half-ass quiet and claustrophobe-cramped. She began stiffing calls.
She got hang-ups and no-answers. She got fearful yelps and It’s just like Pearl Harbor! She talked nice to folks and harsh to folks and promised police escorts. She shamed folks. She pledged slush-fund gelt and dinner chits for Kwan’s. She worked two hours straight and smoked herself hoarse. She logged I’m not going out in this calls. She logged shit yes calls. She called canvass names and Newton Patrol, contrapuntal. She hooked nine stout souls up with the Newton switchboard.
She’d sweated through her clothes. She stepped back out of the closet and into the blare.
The artillery. The flak. The BARs. The station was sealed tight. The windows were blackout-crimped. The generator lights cut in and out. The blare ate its way inside her head.
Joan lugged her cameras down to the jail. Fourteen Red Alert Japs crammed up the main holding cell. They were beat to shit and ratchet-cuffed behind their backs. They dripped blood on the floor. They saw the big white cooze and spit at her through the bars.
Werewolf Shudo’s cell was straight across the catwalk. He dick-flashed the Red Alert Japs. They dick-flashed him right back.
Joan dodged spit blobs and pressed close to the bars. She deployed all three cameras and snapped photos. The Japs blinked back flashbulb glare. They crowded up to the bars and mugged. They hopped around. They yelled pro-Emperor slogans and stuck out their tongues.
She shot all fourteen men. She unloaded the film and scooped up the spent flashbulbs. She lugged her camera box up to the lab and dropped it off.
The lab windows faced north. City Hall was two blocks off. The trifecta blared: artillery, BARs, flak.
Joan caught her breath. She wrote a cover note and dropped it in the box.
“4:30 a.m., 2/25/42. Corroborative photos. Current per this date. Mug-shot comparison/14 male Japanese.”
It was cold. The generator lights usurped the pipe heat. Her blouse stuck to her back. Her wet stockings had stretched.
She walked to the lineup room. Thad Brown chatted up the eyewits.
Four squarejohn whites. Three colored hepcats. Two Mexican boys in aloha shirts and slit-bottomed khakis.
Thad winked and handed her his clipboard. Fourteen rap sheets and mug-shot strips were clipped in.
The hepcats and Mex boys ogled her. She walked to the lineup stage and studied the clips.
Fourteen righteous criminals. No known Fifth Column ties. Uninterned for that reason. Red Alert for that reason. All uninterned Japs posed a threat.
All young men. All ex-cons. 459/211/502 PC. 390 sex deviate. Sodomy/stat rape.
Joan studied the mug shots. All fourteen men wore neck boards. The photos were dated 8/38 to now. All fourteen men had aged. They were all frayed-cum-raggedy ass.
The lineup stage was harsh-lit and one-way glass-fronted. Height strips lined the back wall. Fluorescent lights bore down. Potential eyewits faced the stage and grabbed look-sees.
Joan walked back and milled with the eyewits. Thad Brown passed out dinner chits and sawbucks. The white folks took it stoic. The hepcats and Mex boys yipped. One hepcat said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” A Mex boy said, “Banzai.”
Thad laughed. “You know how this works. We’ve got fourteen suspects. They’ll be wearing neck boards numbered one to fourteen. You study the men and decide for yourselves, without conferring with anyone else. Raise your hand if you’re certain, and talk to Miss Conville.”
A buzzer buzzed. A wall light pulsed. Mike Breuning popped through the stage-right door. The shackle gang dogged him. Their cinch chains dragged on the floor.
They were kicked to shit. Black eyes, cuts, contusions. One half-detached ear. Sap damage. Beavertail saps with rough-stitch edges. Cops armed for JAP.
Breuning positioned the men. They stood behind raised number plates and blinked back bright light. The eyewits eyeballed them. Thad said, “Take your time, folks.”
They grabbed good look-sees. Joan watched their eyes click. She ticked seconds on her wristwatch. Two full minutes passed.
A white lady looked over and held up five fingers. A hepcat looked over and flashed five more. Joan flashed five fingers. Thad caught it and flashed the stage. Joan checked the clipboard. There’s suspect #5.
Hiroshi NMI Yamura. Age 34. Grand Theft Auto/Peeping Tom/Stat Rape.
The white lady said, “I saw him go in and out of that horrible clubhouse. He was always inebriated.”
The hepcat said, “I used to see him at Mumar’s Mosque and Happytime Liquor. He used to shoot craps outside the clubhouse, but after Pearl Harbor he dropped out of sight.”
Breuning detached Yamura. He unlocked his cuffs and shackle chain and threw on a headlock. The stage was soundproof. It went down hush-hush. Yamura thrashed his arms and went dead-legged. Breuning clamped his neck and dragged him off, stage right.
The white lady crossed herself. The hepcat shrugged. A Mex boy said, “Screw his mama sideways. My brother-in-law got it at Pearl.”
The lineup room adjoined sweatbox row. Joan passed Thad his clipboard and took the stage-right door. She heard shrieks and thumps and followed them. Two short hallways intersected. She saw Breuning drag Yamura, and Dick Carlisle kick him from behind.
They dragged him and kicked him. Breuning popped the #3 door and hauled him inside. Carlisle slammed the door. It squelched a loud screech.
Joan walked over. She goosed the wall speaker and peeped the mirror wall. Breuning and Carlisle proned out Yamura. Carlisle kicked his head and back. Breuning rifled his pockets and plucked his wallet and keys. Yamura screamed. Carlisle slid on sap gloves. Breuning went through the wallet sleeves.
He saw something. You could tell that. Joan read him plain. He faced the mirror wall and waved the wallet. He knew somebody’s peeping. Somebody always peeps.
Breuning yelled at the wall mikes. “He’s got a driver’s license in another name. There’s an address on 46th. It’s right by the klubhaus.”
Yamura flailed. He kicked Carlisle off of him. Carlisle tripped and hit the back wall. Yamura reached into his right shoe and pulled something out. He put the something in his mouth and bit down hard.
He Fuck You–fingered the mirror. His legs twitched, his arms twitched, his back arched off the floor. He belched foam and went spastic jerky. The foam was half blood. Dick Carlisle saw it and screamed.
72
(ORANGE COUNTY, 5:00 A.M., 2/25/42)
They cut inland. Coastal roadblocks stalled their progress north. Artillery jolts deafened them. Tracer rounds blurred their sight. Beach guns fired at airplane wisps and plain shadows.
Ashida drove. Dudley commandeered Major Melnick’s staff car. It was full-boat SIS. Big V-8/two-way radio/ammo-packed trunk. They blasted out of Ensenada and went AWOL.
Sirens blared at 3:00 a.m. The Baja alert aped the L.A. alert. Some Statie coastal goon saw Zeros and tripped the alarm. He radioed beach batteries north to San Diego. Full artillery launched at 3:10.
It spread. Whatever this was spread exponential. Jack Horrall patch-called Dudley and ordered them up.
Whatever this was hit Baja and L.A. The City Hall guns blasted Jap Zeros or Jap wisps. The Alien Squad mobilized and roused Red Alert Japs.
Coastal guns blazed. Spotters spotted whatever it was. Juan Pimentel sicced the Baja Staties. They patrolled beachfronts. They ran floodlights and strafed wave lines north to T.J. They shot at Jap subs or Jap wisps or whatever it was.
No Jap subs blew up. No Jap Zeros exploded. Something was up there and/or down there. Somebody saw something and punched the trigger. Chain reaction. Jap fever. Some L.A. somebody. Some Baja somebody. Something was up there and/or down there.
Prophets prophesied that something. Code-call intelligence accrued. Fourth Interceptor logged it. SIS ignored it. Possible airfields in San Berdoo County. Late February attack.
Ashida drove blackout-blind. Eastbound streets blurred. He heard ack-ack and siren screech. Predawn lit the sky. A plane passed overhead. He thought he saw wing rivets and a hammer and scythe. Something’s up there. He knew he saw something.
Dudley chain-smoked. He wore his I’m-brooding-don’t-talk-to-me look. He rolled down his window. Ashida smelled cordite and spilled gasoline.
The two-way radio beeped. Dudley flipped switches and plugged in his headset. He said, “Yes, Thad.” He listened. He said, “Yes, Thad,” and unplugged.
“We may have a klubhaus lead. A man named Yamura or Nunakawa killed himself in custody. His driver’s license listed his address as 682 East 46th. That’s the klubhaus block, and Thad wants us there. He’s dispatching Lunceford and Jackson, as well.”
Ashida gunned it. He drove eighty-plus, blackout-blind. They crossed the L.A. County line. Sirens whooped and sputtered. He pushed it to ninety. He hit Gardena and caught Western Avenue. The sky cleared some. He took Imperial Highway east and hooked onto Central north.
Low-rent L.A. at dawn. Gun chatter somewhere. No plane-crash debris. No foot traffic. Locked-tight business fronts.
78th Street. 77th Street. 76, 75, 74. Ashida saw smoke. Two prowl cars sped past them. Their cherry lights whirled.
Ashida floored it. He fishtailed and blew a string of red lights. Dudley unholstered his sidearm and winked.
Smoke roiled up dark and thick. Ashida got it now. He hit the siren and unholstered. He steered the car with his knees and jacked a shell into the breech.
Full dawn hit. 51, 50, 49. Black smoke plumed. Parked cars issued flames. Here’s your something. It’s for sure. There’s a Negro Riot on the Jazz-Club Strip.
They drove into it. Dudley cracked his windwing. Negroes rock-shattered windows and hauled off whiskey crates. 48, 47. Negroes bashed down the doors of the Club Zamboanga and Port Afrique. They swung two-by-four bashing rams. They smashed parked-car windows and hurled wine-bottle bombs. Car seats ignited, car windows blew.