by James Ellroy
* * *
—
Constanza booked a suite at the del Norte. It was insolently close to his suite and Claire. They walked through the lobby, entwined. Beth and Young Joan sat in lounge chairs and saw them. Beth scowled. Young Joan scrutinized.
His body revved, his mind raced. They’d sniffed cocaine in the cab. The seditious siblings, the gold, some elliptical gap. They hadn’t discussed the heist/the fire/the gold’s full origins. They assumed each other’s lust for possession and possessive intent. The sibs went back with Kyoho Hanamaka. Governor Juan attended the confab and knew Meyer Gelb. His body revved, his mind raced. Tell me everything. He almost shrieked it.
They elevatored up to the suite. Constanza pushed him into the back wall and held him there with her mouth. She kissed his eyes and his neck. The doors slid open. She grabbed his waistband and pulled him down the hall. He fumbled the key out of her clutch and unlocked the suite.
The front room was all dark shapes and shadows. He kicked the door shut and pushed Constanza into a chair. He dropped to his knees and held her there with his mouth.
He threw her dress up and pulled down her stockings and underwear. Constanza drew back and hooked her legs over the width of the chair. He caught her scent. She grabbed his hair and pulled him into it.
He wanted that. He knew she knew it. He stretched her legs. He found the wet and the fit and the place. Constanza fell into Spanish. She went Sí, sí, sí, sí, sí.
She made different sounds. He learned her tones and her tastes all together. Her breath raced. She pushed up. She pitched and buckled off one drawn-out Sí. She held him there with her legs then. He’d hoped that she would.
* * *
—
It rained all night. They made love all night. They talked in between. It reprised his first night with Joan.
Pious you. You kill people and sense God as an innocent. You see the abrogation of all moral law in my relationship with my brother.
Yes. I disapprove and am concurrently titillated.
I disapprove of La Comunista. She is strident and indecorous. You must confirm or refute that you killed her Red lover. My brother believes that you did. He believes that my occasional lover Salvy may have assisted you.
I’ll confirm or refute when I know you better. Forgive my circumspection until then.
I have never been circumspect. I despise your Red whore. She is La Comunista Estúpida. I find your young charges compelling, however. They are both of you, regardless of their blood. Young Joan possesses your ferocity, and young Beth possesses your hunger.
Your perceptions honor me, darling.
You are tall and urbane. One rarely sees that in Mexican men. My brother is urbane, but he is a shrimp.
Your brother is urbane, but not quite as perceptive as you. I rather enjoyed his perceptions of Meyer Gelb, though.
Meyer Gelb is a puto, a parasite, and an extortionist. He is an evil Stalinist, and he hates Trotskyites more than he hates fascists such as you and me. He will extort the very life’s blood from our Jewish exile friends.
Betray me not, mi corazon. It would surely devastate me.
Do not tell me that. It will assure my betrayal.
Caustic you. So determined to take my measure in the course of a first-night’s encounter.
One takes a lover’s measure immediately or not at all. You need women to record your triumphs. You need to capitulate to women in a manner that many would find unseemly.
I commune with a wolf I met on the British moors, in 1921. He will sleep with us tonight, and he is very astute about women. He has told me that your designs are entirely felicitous, and has recently informed me that I underestimate a reckless young woman in Los Angeles. He’s close to convincing me that the silly girl intends me great harm.
88
KAY LAKE’S DIARY
(LOS ANGELES, 7:00 A.M., 3/7/42)
I was still woozy from Otto’s party, three nights ago. It wasn’t a liquor hangover or a case of party-behavior regret. I barely touched booze; I abstained from flirtatiousness and cutup antics. I felt the undertow of Otto’s provocative guest list. It was a nexus of criminal-case suspects, present and past.
Meyer Gelb. Jean Staley and her postcard ruse, geared to deceive my pal Elmer. Gelb’s tenuous connection to the four exiled musicians. Gelb, Staley, the Lesnicks. Communist comrades in ’33; party guests nine years on. Jorge Villareal-Caiz did not attend the party. Dudley Smith allegedly killed him. Claire De Haven told me that. She told me that with my hand on her breast.
I’m seated at a folding table in my backyard now; I’m ten feet from the incinerator that I use to burn rubbish. I put the incinerator to hasty use late last December; I burned the clothes I wore during my impetuous attempt to take Dudley Smith’s life. Canny Claire made me for this crime. Elmer picked that nugget up during a hot-sheet surveillance. A call girl named Annie Staples was servicing Saul Lesnick.
The Claire-Dudley liaison is imploding. Claire went to Mexico with a murderous madman and now pays the price. Claire told me this herself. She told me with my hand on her breast.
Bill called me an hour ago; he bluntly stated that he and Thad Brown are now colluding. They are pushing Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle off the klubhaus case, while they retain my Lee Blanchard, partnered up with Hideo Ashida. Bill has characterized Hideo as a young man who perpetually “falls from shit to clover.” Hideo is surely the luckiest Japanese in these parts. He has whizzed through the internment push and has secured a U.S. Army commission. Bill told me that he will soon be doubly credentialed. Double-Trouble Hideo will also serve as a war-hire policeman. He is down in Baja now, but will soon be returning. He will cut his teeth in an upcoming “pachuco sweep.”
Bill Parker, fired with holy purpose and fixed upon task. Joan Conville’s diary chastened and dismayed him. I’m glad I hit him in the mouth. It served to wake him up.
Bill told me that he will abet my pledge to expose false solutions to the klubhaus case and will publicly excoriate the slaying of any and all bogus suspects. This is a direct contravention of his pledges to Dudley Smith. I have concluded that Hideo has not revealed the existence of Joan’s diary or the fact that I hold possession. Hideo pines for a clean klubhaus solve. He was robbed of a clean solve on the Watanabe case and harbors guilt for his part in the frame-up of Werewolf Shudo. I know this. Hideo’s desire for a clean solve supersedes his lust for the gold and his kid crush on Dudley Smith. I know this. Hideo’s desire for a clean solve transcends his bond with Dudley and Joan Conville, and cuts through all their criminal and romantic circumlocutions. I know this.
I pondered romantic triangles within a triangulated case structure. I pondered triangles in general. I thought of Brenda Allen, Elmer Jackson, and Annie Staples. A brainstorm hit. I ran inside to the phone.
* * *
—
Brenda’s preferred meeting spot was Dave’s Blue Room. She and Elmer owned a sizable percentage. Brenda’s preferred pose was midmorning gin fizzes; her preferred conversational style was the full-speed monologue. One buckled in for these.
Our back booth assured privacy. The waiter brought a full pitcher of fizzes and left us alone. Brenda revved up on the war, FDR’s tax bill, and her monthly bribe cut to Sheriff’s Vice. She laid on the prelude and arrived at her preferred topic: her call-biz partner and part-time lover, Sergeant E. V. Jackson.
“…and I’m thinking of calling the Missing Persons Squad about this boy, Citizen. I don’t care that he’s got Ellen Drew on the side, or whatever else he’s got going—but we’re running thirty-four girls, and it’s an around-the-clock enterprise that he’s been neglecting while he’s been working that klubhaus job down in darktown, him all partnered up with Buzz Meeks, who I know for a fact has gunned down numerous colored and Mexican gents under dubious circumstances.”
So far, so good. I arr
anged the klatch to get a bead on Elmer’s recent actions. I sipped midmorning gin and egg whites and formulated a question. Brenda relaunched her monologue and cut straight to Jack Horrall.
“As you well know, I’ve got my weekly date with Call-Me-Jack, which involves perfunctory woof-woof in the missionary manner, and always on the floor, and I’ve got the long-standing rug burns to attest to this long-standing arrangement. Well, Jack don’t take very long, and he always segues to his long-standing spiel about the woes of the big-city police chief, and this morning it’s all about how your chum Whiskey Bill Parker showed up at his office last night and summarily announced that he would oppose and expose any bogus solving of the klubhaus job, despite Jack and the Dudster’s wishes, and it left Jack in a veritable tizzy, because Citizen Jack is now under Federal indictment, and vulnerable in about six trillion ways.”
Bill fulfilled his pledge to me. My heart swelled. My well-aimed smack in the mouth surely did it. Brenda drained her third gin fizz and lit a cigarette; I jumped at my chance to ask a question.
“Brenda, what’s going on with Elmer and Annie Staples?”
Brenda tittered and formed a circle with her left forefinger and thumb. She poked her right forefinger through the middle of the circle. It was international sign language for fuckee-fuckee.
“Well, Citizen, to begin with, Annie likes it more than she should, given that she repeatedly does it for money. Second, I told Ed Satterlee that he could use my Miracle Mile wall peek to get some footage on Annie in the kip with some Commie psychiatrist, and I heard a rumor that Elmer got embroiled in that play. I confronted him, but he refused to blab. Annie’s always been too smart for her own good, which don’t sit right for a line girl. To top it off, I saw Annie in Hollywood last week. She was hobknobbing with Sid Hudgens at Breneman’s Ham ’n’ Eggs, all huddled up thick as thieves.”
89
(ENSENADA, 10:00 P.M., 3/7/42)
The walls were thin. His suite adjoined theirs. The walls were sound sieves. He sat at his desk and worked through the tiff.
Ashida read photostats. He’d submitted stat requests and gotten fast replies. Treasury and Alameda PD kicked loose. LAFD Arson stats had been pledged.
He read. He took notes. He sat up against a sieve wall. The two suites ran contiguous. He worked and eavesdropped.
1927. Fritz Eckelkamp’s heist spree. Liquor-store jobs. Cash on hand, always. The quick in-and-out. Alameda PD snags Fritz. He falls behind multiple counts.
Claire shrieked. She defamed the Redheaded Succubus and the Nazi Half-Breed Whore. Dudley shrieked. She was the whore. She was a Dope-Addict Shrew and a Mex- and Nigger-Fucker. She fucked that Putrid Puto Jorge and that Nigger Welterweight in L.A.
Ashida read stat pages. Alameda PD supplied a background sheet. He traveled back to Weimar Berlin. Willkommen, Herr Jap.
Claire shrieked. Dudley shrieked. They traded You’re the Dope Fiend barbs. Claire defamed Ace Kwan. Dudley demeaned the Jew Maestro. Claire went singsong. Somebody-stabbed-you/somebody-stabbed you/I-think-it-was-a-girl.
Fritz was a Sparticist. He fought Brownshirt thugs and swung a nail-studded plank. He robbed diamond merchants at gunpoint. He firebombed a bierhaus and fried two Brownshirts to a crisp.
Ashida wrote, “FE precedes all criminal cases and all intrigues. FE as precipitating agent? FE escapes from gold train, 5/18/31. Catalytic moment of all cases combined?”
Claire called Dudley Pussy-Whipped and Shanty Irish Scum. Dudley called Claire a Round-Heeled Poseur. A silent gap stretched. Then they laughed, then they moaned, then bedsprings creaked.
* * *
—
Ashida ran from it. He sat in the lobby bar and nursed a dry sherry. It was late. The lights were dim. He was the sole patron. Joan Klein messed around at the piano.
She possessed some skill. Her forte was hybrid improvisation. She melded Chopin and Gershwin tonight. Ashida caught strains of a jumpy mazurka and Concerto in F.
Young Joan. She’s Dudley’s and Claire’s odd creature. The hotel management indulges her. She’s become Spanish-fluent in record time. The head barkeep pays her a pittance to play show tunes. She wows patrons with her oddball transcriptions.
She wrapped up Chopin Meets Gershwin. She hit two sour notes and went out with a bang. Ashida applauded. Young Joan walked over and sat down with him.
She sipped his sherry, uninvited. She cleaned her glasses with his napkin. People recognized it. She had Dudley Smith’s eyes.
“Comrade Chopin drank patent compounds and went insane. Comrade Gershwin died from a brain tumor. The fascist patriarchy stifles the creative class and drives them nuts.”
Ashida smiled. “Comrade Stalin’s agrarian purges have left four million dead. Consider that the next time you start fomenting.”
Young Joan waved faux wolfsbane. “Uncle Hideo’s a square, but he’s not a fascist, like a certain party I could name. The jury’s out on Uncle Hideo, in more ways than one.”
Ashida waved faux wolfsbane. “Stop being cryptic and uncanny. Stop making with the non sequiturs and comrade talk. Nobody knows what you’re talking about half the time.”
Young Joan replaced her glasses. Her small eyes magnified.
“Aunt Claire took Cousin Beth and me to this swift party. Everybody talked in non sequiturs. I met Bertolt Brecht and Orson Welles. Comrade Welles squeezed my knee and called me ‘cutie.’ I met some swell string players from the Dresden Staatskapelle, and I drank absinthe and had visions.”
Ashida grinned. He indulged the girl more than he should.
“What did you see, specifically?”
“I saw this violinist named Ruth Szigeti making the beast with two backs with Robert Taylor, while Miss Barbara Stanwyck herself watched. Then I saw this man named Comrade Meyer Gelb hit Comrade Ruth up for a blow job, and try to get her to snitch out Trotskyites in this studio orchestra.”
Meyer Gelb. From the mouths of babes. This loopy child source.
“What else did you see?”
“Nothing. Visions are visions, and I’m not going to tell you I saw something I didn’t. I’m not going to lie just to entertain you, when you think I’m just a silly girl playing Mata Hari.”
Ashida went Stop it. “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think that at all.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Uncle. If I’m just this silly girl, then why does Juan Pimentel pay me to get next to you and pump you for information?”
* * *
—
Pimentel was an invert. Maricón en español. Pimentel possessed sonar and radar. Pimentel sensed inversion in him.
RHIP. Ashida had master keys. They unlocked the SIS squadroom and all the file banks. He was Dudley’s exec now. It covered him. Boss, I was just working late.
Pimentel perved on him. Pimentel had no shame. Pimentel corrupted a mere child and sicced her his way.
Ashida unlocked the squadroom door and hit the fluorescents. Bright tube light bore down. SIS kept intel files on all the Baja Staties. They were deemed corruption-prone.
Statie folders filled up two file banks. N to Q filled a full drawer. Green sheets detailed suspect history. Addendums listed “Possibly Related Intel.”
Ashida unlocked the drawer. The Pimentel file was stuffed between Pecheco and Pizzaro. One green sheet poked out the top. Ashida plucked it and skimmed it. The sheet revealed this:
Pimentel, Juan Ramon. DOB 5/26/11. Suspect Personal History. One derogatory report.
“Arrested in raid on homosexual nightclub. 2/19/37. San Diego PD.”
Ashida flipped the green sheet. Three intel notes were typed on the back.
“Subject Pimentel alleged to be highly skilled in area of telephone (pay-phone) technology.”
“Subject Pimentel holds graduate degrees from Mexican Polytechnical Institute, Guadalajara. Purportedly attended technical
institute in Germany. Purportedly knowledgeable in microdot technology.”
“Subject Pimentel purportedly attended assumed subversive conference/Ensenada, mid-11/40. Conference purportedly brought together high-ranking Soviet and Nazi intelligence officers. Subject Pimentel purportedly assigned chauffeur duties & was spotted with Abwehr Commandant Wilhelm Canaris & Gestapo chieftain Ernst Kaltenbrunner.”
90
(SAN DIEGO, 11:00 A.M., 3/8/42)
The boys are back in town.
At this lice-lair motel. On the PD’s dime. Staking Tommy G.’s PO box. To no fucking good avail.
The Seaglade Motel. Off the main drag in Dago. A hot-sheet hut for sailors and jarheads. All-nite whore traffic. One big VD stain.
Buzz read a Donald Duck comic book. He gassed on Donald’s rage and perved on Daisy Duck. Elmer gabbed with Thad Brown, long-distance.
He spilled his break-in at Bev’s Switchboard. Thad went Yikes. Elmer steamrolled the reaction and ran down the mail-forward scam. Link Rockwell held a box at Bev’s and sent smut pix to Tommy’s box in La Jolla. The pix featured klubhaus backdrops. A white girl and Mex girl frolicked with masked men. The girls fit Ashida’s snatch-hair prognostications.
Thad went Yikes. Elmer relaunched his spiel.
The post office stakeout bore no ripe fruit. Fruitcake Tommy hasn’t showed. Elmer ran down the envelope in Meyer Gelb’s box. It featured a La Paz PO box return address and no return name. The envelope contained blotter paper and maybe microdots.
Thad went Yikes. He told Elmer to ring Ashida—chop, chop. Tell him to check the La Paz box and apply his brain to microdots. Beyond that—chop, chop. You and Meeks go find that Tommy fuck.
Elmer went Yeah, boss. Buzz read his comic book. Thad laid out some hot PD dish.