by James Ellroy
Ashida downshifted and pulled right. Somebody somewhere yelled, “It’s a Jap!”
Shots hit the car. The windshield exploded. Shots dinged the trunk and pierced the rear doors. Dudley grabbed the wheel and pulled it hard right. The car banged the curb and stalled flat.
Dudley got out. Ashida got out a split second on. Dudley braced his arm on the car-top and fired into the mob.
Three Negroes fell. A man’s chest blew up. Dudley fired hollow points. He shot one man in the neck and blew a man’s arm off.
The mob issued one big scream. Ashida aimed and fired straight at it. He shot two men in the back. They careened and crashed and bumped heads.
Dudley ran toward 46th Street. Ashida ran after him and caught up. They turned the corner. They saw the klubhaus, ablaze.
Flames scorched the top floor. The air stung. Negroes hauled swag out the front door. Furniture, radios, trombones. Sinarquista tapestries.
Ten Negroes. Twenty Negroes. Negroes in gang silks and zoot suits. Negroes slurping muscatel. Negroes waving Nazi flags on sticks.
Somebody somewhere yelled, “Dig the Jap!”
Dudley walked toward them. Ashida followed him. The Negroes made buzzing-airplane sounds and turned their arms into wings.
Dudley aimed and fired. Two zoot suiters fell. The mob screeched and dispersed all whichways.
A kid stumbled to the sidewalk. He cradled a big saxophone and peeled toward the avenue. Ashida saw his coffee skin and almond eyes. Tokyo meets the Congo.
Ashida aimed at his face. He squeezed the trigger and saw it break red. The sax pitched backward with him. The kid death-cradled it.
73
(LOS ANGELES, 6:00 A.M., 2/25/42)
The tin hat mussed his hair. The tommy gun weighed ten tons. He gots dem Red Alert Blues.
Cal Lunceford wrote dem blues. Catbox Cal. A hate dog to rival Wayne Frank. Wayne Frank hated up dem jigs and dem Jews. Sergeant E. V. Jackson disapproves. He gots dem Red Alert Blues.
Elmer breezed into Central Station. Catbox Cal lagged back. They steered a six-man shackle chain down to the jail. Joan Conville was there. She circled the holding pens and snapped photographs.
The Jap attack or big scare or plain fuckup fizzled out. It was all for Jap naught and OOPS writ large. Fletch B. scheduled a press confab. He’d dish the gist later today.
The jail overflowed. Werewolf Shudo waved his pecker at his Red Alert pals. Elmer unshackled the new fish and got them penned up. Catbox Cal sulked.
Thad Brown walked over. He looked spookified.
“You and Lunceford roll back out. We’ve got a riot at 46th and Central. The klubhaus has been torched. Dudley and Ashida put down some shines.”
Elmer gulped. Catbox Cal giggled. Thad snatched a cigar from Elmer’s coat pocket.
“Check this address. 682 East 46th. It’s right by the klubhaus. We took it off a DL on one of our suspect Japs. He killed himself with a cyanide pill, which I don’t like the looks of. Get over there. Dud and Ashida are busy with the fire department.”
Lunceford snatched a cigar. “How many shines did they bag?”
Thad said, “Eight.”
Lunceford said, “There’s hope for this world. I wouldn’t have thought Ashida had it in him.”
* * *
—
L.A. was deadsville. It’s The War of the Worlds, redux. Orson Welles did that radio show. Flying saucers and zombies. Folks thought it was real. Folks wigged out, resultant.
Elmer drove. Catbox Cal resulked. They ran Code 3/lights and siren. They ignored traffic signs and laid tracks.
They hauled south and east. There’s the jazz-club strip. It’s been manhandled. Note the scorched cars. Note the smashed windows. Note the kicked-in doors. Note the soot-filtered air. Note the blues holding spectators back.
Elmer cut left on 46th. Sayonara, klubhaus.
It was torched toast. The upstairs had smooshed the downstairs. Hose steam hissed. Beams wiggled and collapsed. Rubble mounds sizzled.
Note the two fire trucks. Note the three morgue wagons. Note the eight sheet-draped gurneys. The Dudster posed for pictures. Firemen aimed box cameras. Ashida looked shell-shocked.
Lunceford said, “Coon hunt.”
Elmer said, “Son, you are wearing me thin.”
Lunceford shut up. Elmer shot east. He checked curb plates and read addresses. 674, 676, 678. There’s no 680. There’s 682—
It’s a small wood-frame job. It’s one-story and dilapidated. Dig that porch rat. He’s big and black and scaly-tailed. He exemplifies beady-eyed evil.
Elmer parked at the curb. They got out and walked up the steps. The soul rat skittered off. The dump radiated quietude.
Lunceford pulled his roscoe. Elmer eared the door and got all-quiet squared. He nudged the door. It slid open easy.
Lunceford squeezed in ahead of him. The front room was musty. Thin curtains let in light. Pizza-pie boxes were stacked on a table. Elmer smelled stale cheese and mold.
All quiet. Oooga-booga. Where de peoples at?
Lunceford walked ahead. He cut through the front room and eased toward a back hallway. Elmer slow-orbed the front room.
He caught stale food and stale air. His hackles jumped. The joint felt quick-vacated. That proclaimed Hideout.
He eased toward the hallway. He thought he heard footfalls. Wood planks squeaked. The squeaks overlapped. He thought he heard footfalls—two sets.
He thought he heard whispers. He froze right there. His ears perked. He thought he heard “Run.”
He crouched and stared down the hallway. Something moved. He thought he heard something. He caught a shutter-click glimpse.
It’s a Jap. He’s going for the back door. Shutter click. There’s that surveillance pic. Shutter click. Ed the Fed showed it to—
It’s Kyoho Hanamaka, that evil little—
There’s “Run” again. There’s footsteps heading back this way. There’s a stumble sound and Lunceford in the hallway. He’s quick-walking straight for—
Elmer hit the floor. Lunceford pulled his gun. Elmer pulled his ankle piece and aimed straight up.
He squeezed slow. He got Lunceford in the legs and the gut. Lunceford lost his legs and dropped his gun and flew ass-backward. Elmer squeezed slow. He got the cocksucker in the chin and took his fucking face off.
74
(LOS ANGELES, 10:30 A.M., 2/25/42)
Flashbulbs popped. Newshounds swarmed and scrawled notes. Mayor Fletch blathered. He lived to jive the Fourth Estate.
City Hall was Jap Attack and Fed Indictment HQ. The briefing room overflowed. Dudley stood at the back. Sid Hudgens sidled up to him. He flashed the a.m. Herald. The attack claimed ten-point headlines. The backup piece ran under the fold.
INDICTMENTS ISSUED IN PHONE-TAP PROBE!!! PROMINENT ANGELENOS J’ACCUSED!!!!
Fletch B. himself. Chief Clemence “Jack” Horrall. Hotshot PI Wallace Jamie. Police chemist Ray Pinker. Lesser-known legal beagles galore.
Sid said, “I never thought the Japs were up there. Pearl taught us they come in fast and low.”
Dudley winked. “There was a grand scuffle at 46th and Central. Let’s see if Fletch deigns to mention it.”
Fletch drooped off the lectern and mauled the microphone. He lived to grandstand and distort.
“For those of you who remain unconvinced, let me repeat. There was no air attack, Jap or otherwise. There were shells dropped, but we don’t know by who, and they failed to detonate. Several folks throughout the city were struck by falling debris, but there were no serious injuries and no fatalities.”
Dudley grinned. Credit a madcap inventor. Build-ur-self airplanes aloft.
Fletch coughed and hankie-wiped the microphone. He thrived on deceit.
“The only fatalities resulted from a Negro riot, in the vi
cinity of 46th Street and Central Avenue. Negroes looted numerous liquor stores and jazz clubs. A score of Negroes were fatally wounded by other Negroes, who have not yet been identified.”
Sid whistled shrill. “I hope they didn’t torch Minnie Roberts’ Casbah. The DA gets his ugambo there.”
Laffs rocked the room. Sid lived to offend and provoke. Fletch undid his necktie and buffed the microphone.
“On a more dour note. The Negroes set fire to a clubhouse under police investigation. And, in an unrelated incident, Officer Calvin S. Lunceford was shot and killed by a Jap seditionist, who has not yet been identified, and who remains at large.”
Catbox Cal. A jailbait-jumper and a sloven at best. The world will not mourn.
The room rumbled. Dead cops goosed circulation. The Hearst rags would pounce and exploit.
Fletch said, “It would have been impossible for any unlogged airplanes to have taken off or landed unseen in L.A. County or any adjoining county. Those shells were most likely unintentionally dropped by U.S. Army scouting craft, sent up in the wake of the preceding yellow-alert blackout.”
Sid whistled shrill. “There’s been reports of coded calls from here to Baja. They supposedly mentioned secret air bases in San Berdoo County, and inquiring minds want to know if Jap planes could have departed and returned there.”
Fletch said, “Poppycock. Inquiring minds should inquire about the rising tide of Negro crime in Los Angeles.”
Sid despised Fletch. Mr. Mayor picked his pockets bare at PD pokerfests.
“How does it feel to be under Federal indictment, boss?”
Fletch said, “The truth shall set me free.”
* * *
—
San Berdoo was sixty miles out. It was a tank town. Farmhands and low-rank Army. Package stores and whorehouses. Shitkicker cops up for grabs.
Dudley dawdled en route. He called Joan and gave her the address. He pledged a grand surprise. He sidestepped discussion of the fool air attack and declined to ascribe blame.
He’d spotted a kit plane, down in Orange County. The car-engine hum alerted him. The hammer and sickle gave it away. He got the picture then.
It was cloudless and midmorning cool. He’d changed into civvies. The riot left his uniform soot-streaked. Hideo impressed him. He followed his Führer’s lead and shot quick and true. He’d ride out conscience pangs in due course.
The Lunceford item troubled him. Catbox Cal dies. Elmer J. survives. An alleged Jap slayer remains at large. Elmer’s proximity was worrisome. The lad magnetized trouble and/or caused it himself.
He hit San Berdoo proper and drove straight to the address. The garage door stood open. He parked across the street and walked over.
A breeze kicked in. Solvent fumes blew down the driveway. Dudley scanned the garage. He saw blueprints for build-yourself torpedoes. He saw tin snips and hand-cut propellers.
Drivetrains and flywheels. A box of clutch pedals. Spark plugs, rivet guns, Messerschmitt stencils. Bottled arson accelerants. A snap-in-place airplane control board.
Dudley walked around to the back. Tarpaulins dotted the yard. They covered irregular mounds. Fuselage panels stuck out.
A back door was propped open. He saw a kitchen crammed with boxes. He smelled glue and saw legs jammed under a table.
He walked in and skirted the boxes. Madcap Mitch glued up a toy Stuka. He was forty-five or so. He sported a goatee and a soil-crusted smock.
Dudley said, “Hello, sir.”
Mad Mitch looked up. He had quick blue eyes.
“Cop, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Federal?”
“No, city.”
Mad Mitch went You got me. “I’ll admit I dropped those bombs. They were deliberate duds, and nobody got hurt. I didn’t drop any gas or set any fires, which I damn well could have done.”
Dudley smiled. “I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. I’m here to compliment you on your work.”
Mad Mitch picked up the Stuka and zoomed it. The great Charles Lindbergh admired this man. He had deft hands and nativist chutzpah.
“I picked up rumors of an air attack and alerted the kids in my squadron. We decided to launch an armada and do some joyriding.”
“Your kids, sir? Your squadron?”
Mad Mitch scratched his arms. They were solvent-scarred and overlaid with ripe sores.
“Frat boys, mostly. Engineering students. They build my kits and go hog wild. You can’t keep good kids down on the ground when they want to be up in the air.”
Dudley smiled. “You sell your kits through the mail, do you?”
Mad Mitch smiled. “Blueprints and parts. U.S. and Mexico. The spics are my best customers. Yo habla español, daddy?”
Dudley heard footsteps behind him. Stacked-heel footsteps. A tall woman’s gait.
“Are you a saboteur or a spy, sir? Are you a Fifth Columnist?”
“Nix to all three. I’m just a card-carrying white man, and I’m proud to attend the beerfests at the convivial Deutsches Haus.”
Dudley heard short breaths behind him. She stood out of sight. She was sight-and-sound close.
“I read your air-warfare tract, sir. I’m wondering if you ever considered the setting of forest fires as an implementation.”
Mad Mitch slapped his knees. The table jolted. The toy Stuka jumped.
“I most certainly have, and I’ve already done the research. April 9, 1938. I took a joyride and dropped a torch bomb near Tomah, Wisconsin. I got up a sweet bar-bq.”
Joan stepped up. She wore a tweed skirt and a green cashmere sweater. Mad Mitch said, “Hello there, sweetie.”
Dudley felt her hand at his belt line. She pulled out his piece and shot off the full clip. She bull’s-eyed Mad Mitch. Muzzle flare scorched his face. His teeth exploded. His hair caught fire.
75
(LOS ANGELES, 4:00 P.M., 2/25/42)
Time blurred. She dropped things. Shock failed to explain it. Numb missed the point.
They left him there. Dudley swatted out the fire and jacked the pipe heat. It would speed decomposition and foil time of death. Dudley knew the San Berdoo Sheriff. They’d schemed together. They’d schemed per wetbacks and captive Japs.
Time blurred. She dropped things. She saw rural Wisconsin sans through line. The fuel spill. Big Earle’s wake. She hunts quail off Lake Mendota. She shoots rabid bats. She visits the Little Bohemia Lodge. Dillinger escaped from there. It was April ’34. She’d just turned nineteen.
Vindication distorted it. Barrel through said it best. It’s the Conville code. She said she’d do it and did it. Dudley made it happen. Men always indulged her.
Central Station supplied distraction. It remained chaotic. The air-raid snafu and the riot. The klubhaus blaze and Cal Lunceford’s death. Last night and this morning blurred. She thrived on police disorder. She threw herself into it. She superimposed her father’s killer. Muzzle-flare sparks flame.
She developed her booking photographs and file-clipped them. The station teemed. She saw new cop faces. War-hire rookies came by to help. They talked up the Fed-probe indictments and Bill Parker’s role. She kept hearing Bill. It registered as incantation. The same with Dudley. War-hire babble. This Dudley guy waxed some shines.
Bill and Dudley. One of them would call her. She’d sleep with one of them tonight.
Joan walked down to the jail. She pulled log-in duty. The jail was SRO. Red Alert Japs, held for transfer. Mexican illegals—INS transfer bait.
Wetbacks. They exploited the air raid and border grief and broke for L.A. The PD snagged three truckloads. That meant work. Log property. Fumigate ragged apparel. Call the INS.
Joan worked in the property office. It adjoined the main catwalk and holding pens. The jail was wall-to-wall shouts and jeers.
Packed pen
s. Trilingual ruckus. War hires baited the inmates and cracked jokes.
The babble distracted her. She dumped confiscated satchels and searched for contraband. She logged zip guns and hair pomade. She logged fotografías de niños and Spanish fly.
Two war hires lounged by her door. They dropped double entendres and defamed the wets. Come-san-chin, the Chinese cocksucker. This cholo I popped worked at the Blue Fox. He said the donkey poked Eleanor Roosevelt. I’d pay to see that.
Joan half-heard it. She logged contraband and fixed on her task. Brass knuckles. Matchbooks and swizzle sticks. A .45 ACP clip.
“The goddamn wets. Listen to that racket. It’s like New Year’s Eve. Remember that rainstorm? They were swarming over the border fences and clouting cars. They thought we’d have our guard down, on account of the rain.”
“They were right about that. We were stretched, ’cause all the drunks and the rain had us hopping.”
“They sent me out to Venice. Some Navy woman blitzed a jalopy with four beaners up front. She’s dead drunk, and she dispatches all four. Then we find two dead kids in the trunk. Cute little kids—a boy and a girl.”
“Oh shit. That’s a rough go.”
“ ‘Rough go’ don’t say it. They were breathing through airholes on the ride up from T.J., but the trunk got crushed and they smothered to death.”
“A six-down 502. Tell me that ain’t a world record, and tell me the Navy skirt didn’t draw twelve to life, wets or no wets.”
“Nix to that. The drift is Bill Parker put the fix in. He had it bad for that cooze, and he got her a skate.”
* * *
—
Shock failed to say it. Numb missed the point. It explained recurrent nightmares. Thumps and muffled shrieks.
She bolted. The war hires went Say what? She swerved and bumped her way out to the sidewalk. DT shakes developed. Her hands trembled. She tried to light cigarettes and gave up.