by James Ellroy
Ashida blinked and got back his eyesight. He saw one Elmer now. Elmer stumbled over the curb and made straight for him. He got up in booze-breath range and cut loose.
You little Jap shit/you should have told me/my brother died in that fire/you fuckers wanted the gold/I watchdogged your ass when the Japs bombed Pearl/you should have told me/you little Jap shit, you—
Mike Breuning stepped in. He grabbed Elmer’s coat collar and jerked him half off his feet. Elmer wheeled and sucker punched him. His Marine Corps ring gouged Breuning’s cheek down to the bone. Breuning yelped and threw sissy punches. Elmer moved close and slammed elbows. He smashed Breuning’s nose, Breuning’s teeth, Breuning’s dumb jug head overall. He put Breuning down on the ground and kicked one jug ear half off.
86
(LOS ANGELES, 11:00 A.M., 3/5/42)
His elbow hurt. He was skunk drunk. Breuning’s snaggle teeth snagged up his suit coat. He snagged Dumb Cracker of All Time honors. They foretold his futile fate. Dudley Smith would fuck him up the dirt road.
Elmer lurched through City Hall. He lurched toward the Vice squadroom and his cozy cubicle. He lurched by sweatbox row. He thought he saw Buzz Meeks in box #2. He lurched past box #3 and hit the home stret—
Something bushwhacked him. Two geeks snatched him and shoved him into box #4. He hit the bolted-down table and plopped into the bolted-down chair.
Bill Parker kicked the door shut. Thad Brown thunked a thermos down on the table. Parker unscrewed the top and poured out hot coffee.
Elmer took a test sip. It burned his tongue and stung his teeth. Parker and Brown pulled up chairs. Parker said, “We talked to Buzz Meeks. He told us you forged up Tommy Glennon’s address book and placed it at the klubhaus. He also mentioned that the two of you put the boots to Huey Cressmeyer, down in T.J. Huey purportedly snitched off Dudley Smith’s racket schemes, up here and in Baja.”
Elmer sipped too-hot coffee. His hands shook. He scoped Parker’s fat lip and willed savoir faire.
“Who smacked you, Bill? Was it Kay, or some other swift college girl?”
Brown chortled. “My money’s on Kay.”
Parker deadpanned the shtick. “We don’t know if Meeks gave us the whole drift on you two and Huey, and it doesn’t really matter. The spatials on the Lunceford shooting are off, and you’ve quite noticeably ditched your ankle piece. That doesn’t matter, either. You fired it on a liquor-store stakeout in October of ’40, and a spent-ballistics file exists. Guess what, dipshit? We got a match to the pills you pumped into Catbox Cal.”
The green room looms. The last mile beckons. Your ass is grass, son.
“So, I’m fucked.”
Brown shook his head. “No, you’re not. Lunceford was Fifth Column, and he was in with that Jap hump, Hanamaka. You’re getting a waltz on Manslaughter One. We consider the shooting kosher, and this room is as far as it goes.”
Parker said, “Thad and I have read Joan Conville’s diary, and I’ve discussed the text with Kay Lake. I know that Miss Lake has discussed that text with you and Hideo Ashida, but I’ll add that she omitted one key narrative thread.”
No green room. The coffee had cooled down. Elmer took a big gulp.
“I already figured that out. The Dudster, Joan, and that little shit Ashida were out for the gold from the git-go. I sensed that Kay was fibbing on that. She didn’t tell me, because she thought I’d go berserk on account of my brother. She didn’t tell Ashida, because he’s Dudley’s lapdog, and he’s a participant in this whole crazy gold hunt anyways.”
Brown smiled. “Elmer’s not as dumb as most folks think he is.”
Parker said, “Let’s not get carried away.”
Elmer yukked. The coffee diffused the booze. Son, you’re in the catbird seat.
“Okay, then. We got our three big cases, going back to ’31. You two, me, Buzz, Kay, and maybe Ashida want a pure solve on the klubhaus job—but Jack H. and the Dudster want to put the onus off on some shines. And you two are all ditzed, because Bill clean-solved the Watanabe job and kept mum on it, and our pal Jim Davis killed them Watanabes, and you don’t want that leaking out, and Dud told Joan Conville that he intends to pentothal Jim D. to see if he spills any crossover leads to the klubhaus caper. One of you’s our next chief. Jack Horrall’s afraid of Bill, because his grand-jury plays served to get the Werewolf sprung, and Jack can’t retaliate. You want my opinion on that?”
Parker sighed. “Give us your esteemed opinion, Sergeant.”
Elmer stood up and kicked blood back in his legs. He scratched his balls and worked up some brain juice.
“Judge and jury will sure as shit acquit Fletch B., Call-Me-Jack, Ray Pinker, and the Jamie kid, along with all them others. That’s for-sure gospel—regardless of Bill’s testimony. While I’ve got you here, I’ll tell you why. J. Edgar Hoover don’t want bad blood between the Feds and the PD, not when we got this here Jap internment to deal with. You got a spell of time to make hay on the klubhaus job, before the acquittals come down, and Jack H. figures he can pull the plug on the job and give Dud his marching orders, and then it’s good-bye, jigaboos.”
Parker sighed anew. “You’re right, Thad. He’s not as dumb as folks think.”
Elmer hoot-hooted. Brown said, “Meeks told us that Ed Satterlee offered you a shot to listen to the Fed’s phone and bug recordings and delete your own voice. I’d like you to provide that same service for Captain Parker and me.”
Elmer plunked back down in his chair. He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and put his feet up on the desk.
“In exchange for what?”
Parker said, “In exchange for let bygones be bygones. That means any and all illegal and questionable shit that you’ve pulled since New Year’s. That stated, I’ll add that we’re easing Breuning and Carlisle off the job. We’re keeping you and Meeks, Ashida and Blanchard on. Dudley’s permitting Ashida to do field interviews, and Thad and I are convinced that Ashida wants a clean solve, regardless of his relationship with Dudley. I’m not going to tell Dudley that Kay revealed the contents of Joan’s diary to you and Ashida, and the only attendant risk here is what Ashida might tell Dudley himself.”
Brown lit his pipe and shook out the match. He raised his feet and nudged Elmer’s feet off the desk.
“That leaves Blanchard and Ashida, you and Meeks as our line detectives. Ashida’s driving back to Baja tonight. We’re swearing him in as a war hire when he returns. The four of you will have carte blanche. We’ll ride out interference from Jack Horrall, if and when it occurs.”
Elmer snagged the full gist. “You’re freezing Dudley out. You’re driving him to make some dumb play that will put his dick in the wringer.”
Parker lit a cigarette. “Don’t say it, Thad. ‘He’s not as dumb as most folks think.’ ”
Brown said, “Our biggest concern is the guns. I rebraced Harold John Miciak last night, and bought him out of a GTA bounce in Fresno. He fleshed out the statement he gave Breuning and Carlisle, as it pertained to the guns. He told me that Rice and Kapek sold all the guns to pachuco right-wingers. We’re compiling a roust list off the Feds’ subversive files. You’re the first man on the Crash Squad we’ve shared this lead with. It’s a bigger deal than I let on at the briefing this morning. We’re going in with shotguns and sedition-stamped grand-jury subpoenas. There’ll be three two-man flanks. That’s Captain Parker and me, you and Meeks, Blanchard and Ashida.”
Elmer wolf-whistled. “You are taking a very dicey risk with Ashida. You are risking him spilling everything we get to the Dudster.”
Parker gulped. Brown gulped. Their throat doohickeys bobbed.
Brown passed Elmer a snapshot. It was a niteclub-type deal. The backdrop denoted Club Alabam. A jolly trio mugged in a booth. Dig said trio:
Meyer Gelb, Jean Staley, Tommy Glennon.
Elmer wolf-whistled, looooooooow. Brown s
aid, “It was in with Miciak’s property, up in Fresno. It’s date-stamped February 27, which makes it one week ago. Miciak refused to comment on the picture. I had some hayseed cops hard-nose him, to no fucking avail.”
Elmer brain-strained it. Jean’s allegedly back east. Jean’s mail-drop play via Bev’s Switchboard. Smut pix with klubhaus backdrops. Tommy G.’s La Jolla PO box.
Parker crushed his cigarette. “Here’s the big question. What’s a Nazi like Glennon doing with two Communists like Staley and Gelb?”
Elmer lit a cigar. “I think I know where Tommy is.”
Brown said, “Then go find him and arrest him.”
Elmer scrammed. He booked out of box #4 and cut back to box #2. Bad Buzz still sat there. He looked un-Buzz-like forlorn.
“I know where Tommy the G. is. Let’s go get him.”
87
(ENSENADA, 4:00 P.M., 3/6/42)
Silver bars to gold oak leaves. The SIS command. We mustn’t mince words here. Juan Lazaro-Schmidt pulled strings.
Ralph Melnick jumped to lieutenant colonel. Fourth Interceptor promoted him and called him back stateside. It occurred abruptly. Colonel Ralph threw a party.
At Major Smith’s new office. It was Colonel Ralph’s ex-office. It was twice as large and twice as grand. Mess orderlies served cake and champagne. Dudley invited guests.
Hideo Ashida and Juan Pimentel. Claire, Beth, and Young Joan. Salvy Abascal. The two Lazaro-Schmidts.
Dudley circulated. He tossed the FDR portrait out the window and drew scattered applause. Captain Juan raised a toast. “To outgoing despots and incoming Sturmbannfürers.”
The right-flankers loved it. Claire and Young Joan scowled. Colonel Melnick giggled. He loathed Double-Cross Rosenfeld.
Beth looked perplexed. She did not comprehend repartee or lovers’ passion. She’d witnessed his tiff with Claire. Both parties raised welts and drew blood. He belt-lashed Claire. His severed ear required stitches.
The moment drew nigh. Colonel Melnick called for order. The guests moved in close. Dudley clicked his heels. Constanza removed his silver shoulder bars and pinned on his gold oak leaves.
Major Dudley Liam Smith. The bluff Irish lad ascends.
Constanza kissed him, full on the lips. Beth gasped. Young Joan smirked. Claire wheeled and walked off through the squadroom. Dudley heard glass break. Dudley smelled sprayed champagne.
The orderlies made haste. They moved out with towels and whisk brooms. Claire’s display of pique upstaged him. Constanza hooked two fingers through his belt loops and tugged. They bumped hips and kissed again. It restated her claim.
The guests dispersed. They shuffled and formed war-chat cliques. Hideo caught his eye. Dudley gestured toward the squadroom. Hideo filed out first.
Dudley joined him. He smelled Dom Pérignon ’29. The orderlies whisked up glass shards. Hideo sat at the duty sergeant’s desk. Dudley pulled a chair up.
“Is something troubling you, lad? I doubt that it’s the trifling domestic scene you just witnessed.”
Ashida said, “The klubhaus aspect of our cases troubles me. I think there’s a very simple solution at the heart of it. I would like your consent to explore all possibilities in my field interviews, before Chief Horrall orders you to implement a more expedient solution.”
Dudley smiled. “You have my consent. I will add that you know a great deal about my business dealings here in Baja, and I would ask that you steer clear of them as they might pertain to your investigation.”
“Yes, I agree.”
Dudley fondled his oak leaves. They were solid gold.
“I would advise caution on a second front, as well. Dick Carlisle called me and described your contretemps with Elmer Jackson, including the vile comments he made to you and the beating he inflicted on our friend Mike. Dick said that Elmer made a garbled reference to gold, which I find discomfiting. Please be careful there. Beyond that, I would like you to draft an extensively detailed report on our three cases, for my exclusive review. Requisition any and all files you need, under your SIS sanction and my signature as your new commanding officer. Interpret all the evidence and theorize as to how the three cases cohere. Have the report to me in one week’s time.”
* * *
—
El Rancho de Narcóticos was ten miles east of T.J. Carlos Madrano built it. Dudley and José Vasquez-Cruz usurped it. Juan Pimentel now sub-Führer’d the ranch.
Dudley and Captain Juan dropped in. Sinarquista goons straw-bossed the operation. Statie noncoms patrolled the perimeter. They packed tommy guns and Brazilian mastiffs on short tethers. The dogs hunted feral cats and mauled dope-worker slaves on command.
The conversion lab was up-to-date and unhygienic. Four chemists brewed Mexican poppies into Big “H.” Low-peso peons packaged the shit. A slave barracks adjoined the lab. The slaves worked sixteen-hour shifts and got Sunday mornings off. A local priest performed Mass. He was hooked on Big “H.”
Dudley toured the grounds. Captain Juan played tour guide. Governor Lazaro-Schmidt had joined the cabal. He’d requested a progress report.
Four large trucks and three large buses stood by the barracks. Their big-scoop wheelwells would move the shit north. Interned Japs would ride the buses. Legally vetted wetbacks would crowd up the trucks. Hideo Ashida would watchdog future border crossings. He’d speak Jap to the Japs. He’d tally confiscated gelt and secure property lists.
Wets, Japs, dope. A trenchant trifecta. El Governor would vouch the three fronts. He’d grease the skids with the U.S. Relocation brass. Their Jap jails would overflow. He’d sign on California farm bosses. He’d exploit his office and sell them cut-rate wets.
Dudley spot-checked vehicles. He kicked tires, popped hoods, tightened loose spark plugs. Juan Pimentel watched. He said, “You haven’t told me the governor’s percentage.”
Dudley swung a wrench and cinched up wobbly lug nuts. Slack tires just wouldn’t do.
“15% of our combined ventures. He provides the official sanctions, while we provide the work.”
“Do you not find the governor’s relationship with his sister quite strange?”
Dudley winked. “I would call it outré, and perhaps perverse.”
* * *
—
They dined at Neptune’s Locker. It was a driftwood and barnacle barn on Avenida Costeño. Native swells and U.S. stiffs loved the place.
Their table overlooked the yacht pier. Film moguls cruised down from L.A. and went slumming. Nude starlets baked on warm teakwood. The governor openly stared.
He wore a trim-cut navy blazer and white ducks tonight. The London Shop dressed him. He shopped in Beverly Hills once a month.
They drank absinthe frappés. Constanza wore a yellow sundress. Dudley wore his ODs. He felt dowdy beside these two.
They toasted Dudley’s precipitous promotion. They toasted their business deal and a certain German jefe. Constanza hummed the “Horst-Wessel-Lied.” The table was set with mock-gold flatwear. Lazaro-Schmidt raised a mock-gold fork.
“To new friends and acquisition. To that precious commodity we seek.”
They tapped forks over the table. The absinthe had Dudley light-headed. Constanza ran a hand up his leg.
“Tell the major about Kyoho, Juan. He’s quite naturally curious, and I need to gauge whether or not he’s the jealous type.”
Lazaro-Schmidt laughed. He lit a cigarette and shot his shirtcuffs.
“It may dismay my sister, but I think of Kyoho as a conspirator more than I think of him as her lover. As a conspirator, I would surmise that he was the most adroit and politically savvy of all those in the left-right cartel. He was always tight-lipped, especially as it pertained to the gold. He was here for the conference in November of ’40, and I recall that he seemed to be very much within himself, amid the few instances of camaraderie that I witnessed.�
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Constanza lit a cigarette. “Juan was there for the opening ceremony and the departures only. He was not there for the formal meetings where the strategies pertaining to the gold itself were discussed.”
Dudley said, “Do minutes for the conference exist?”
Lazaro-Schmidt said, “Yes, but they are not to be found. They would be a priceless discovery, of course.”
Constanza dipped a hand under the table. Dudley threaded their fingers up.
“It would delight me to have you drop some names, Governor. The conference has me starstruck.”
Lazaro-Schmidt waved the gold fork. “The Russians were without significant style or substance. Molotov, Beria, a few elevated apparatchiks. They were there to betray Butcher Stalin and the Communist International, and I credit them only with their ardent belief that informed leftists and rightists must unite to survive a certain postwar apocalypse. Our Nazi Kameraden were quite another barrel of fish. They shared the revelation with comparable urgency and comported themselves with inestimable class. Wilhelm Canaris was most cultured and gracious. Ernst Kaltenbrunner was thin, gorgeously attired, and six and a half feet tall. My acquaintance Meyer Gelb drove the German contingent around Ensenada, without their ever once suspecting that he was a Jew.”
Red Meyer, redux. Dudley pondered it.
“Gelb attended the conference?”
“I’m sure he was there as a rogue Stalinist, and the tool of an enlightened faction within the Comintern. He served as a chauffeur, but was not privy to the conference itself.”
“But minutes of the conference do exist?”
“Yes. An American man took them with him at the end of the conference. I know nothing about this man, but I saw him leave for the airfield with a briefcase cuffed to his wrist.”
Dudley said, “Please describe the man.”
Lazaro-Schmidt said, “He was tall, and he had a southern accent.”