by James Ellroy
Elmer rubbed his eyes. It’s no mirage. Frankie’s out of custody and up from Mexico. El Whipout Man de Sinarquismo. He’s loose in Beverly Hills.
Buzz said, “We’ll give him five minutes. If he comes out with Gelb, we’ll grab them from behind.”
Elmer said, “We’ll work singles otherwise. I’ll flip you for who takes Gelb.”
Frankie jogged up to Gelb’s door. He knocked. The door stayed shut. Frankie whipped out a set of lock picks. He had fast hands. He picked the lock and crept in. The door slammed shut.
Buzz dug out a quarter and flipped it. Elmer called heads. The quarter hit tails. Elmer went Shit.
They timed Frankie’s visit. Elmer orbed his wristwatch. It ticked off two minutes flat. The door popped open. Frankie stumble-walked back out. He looked all of a sudden fright-wigged and racked with the frets.
He stumble-walked down the stairs and weaved back toward Wilshire. Elmer and Buzz piled out and foot-dogged him. They closed the gap. They closed too fast. Frankie looked back and saw them.
Buzz pulled his roscoe. Elmer pulled, likewise. Frankie pulled his waistband piece. They all got their bearings. They all dug in and aimed straight and threw shots all at once.
Frankie stood his ground. He popped two rounds. They hit parked cars and zinged wide. Elmer and Buzz ran up, shooting. Buzz cracked this Chevy’s windshield and tore up the ragtop. Elmer nailed Frankie, waist-high. Frankie pitched ass over elbows and popped shots at the sky.
Elmer and Buzz ran up. Frankie sprawled, supine. Elmer kicked his gun hand. Frankie spit blood and dropped the piece. Looky-loos craned out their windows. What’s this big noise about?
Buzz looked around. Frankie bit his lips and pawed at his hip wound. Elmer went Aw-oh. An old lady across the street screamed.
Elmer reholstered. Buzz grabbed Frankie’s neck scruff and dragged him down the Wilshire-flank alley. Frankie wailed and flailed. Buzz looked around. Parked cars and hedgerows covered him. He shot Frankie three times in the head.
Muzzle job. Frankie spilled the sabotage lead. Dead men tell no—
Elmer wheeled and ran. He ran to the mock château and stumble-tripped up the stairs. He kicked the door off the hinge plates. It caved in and crashed upside Meyer Gelb’s legs.
He’s flat on his back. He’s been tortured. There’s congealed cuts on his arms and his neck. There’s a bullet hole in his forehead. It’s small caliber. The blood’s dried maroon.
Elmer prowled the room. The walls were plastered with pix of Boss Man Hitler and Butcher Stalin. Note the scrawled-up margins. It’s all weird shit about fires and storms.
127
(LA PAZ, 9:00 A.M., 4/11/42)
The plaza newsstand hawked the L.A. papers. The Herald headlined the Fed-probe acquittals. They ran the snuff piece, page two.
BEVERLY HILLS SHOOT-OUT! POLICE KILL SUBVERSIVE! MAN SLAYS COMMUNIST BOSS!
Dudley stood by Constanza’s PO box. He read the snuff piece three times. Sid Hudgens inked it. Jackson and Meeks blew up Frankie Carbajal. Frankie torture-slashed and shot Meyer Gelb. “ ‘Gelb snuff open and shut,’ B.H. cops state.”
Constanza was late. Like Salvy was late. Like Welles was late. People stood him up now. People sandbagged him and jailed him. People ignored his phone calls.
Hideo was nowhere. He was AWOL himself. He’d bolted the squadroom and relinquished his command. Jack Horrall bailed him out. The Staties seized his biz fronts. Jack told him to lay low in Baja. “We’re holding your job for you, Dud. The PD’s your home, and always will be. Poke some señoritas, and work on your tan.”
Constanza was late. She said she’d meet him at 9:00. She was expecting a package. From Russia, no less.
From a “Comrade Dimitri.” A package of “grave import.” Constanza spoke in riddles now. She ignored him in bed. His squadroom outburst and jail stint provoked the retreat. She patronized him. She urged him to buck up and fly right.
Dudley chain-smoked. He reread the Herald piece. Sid Hudgens, ubiquitous. Sid’s scandal rag slandered him. It was true drift, regardless. He called Sid and left a message with the copy chief. Sid ignored his call.
Constanza showed. She ran a sorry-I’m-late number and kissed him on the cheek. Put some oomph in it, you chola whore. I’m still Dudley Smith.
She unlocked her box. Two packages were crammed in. One rolled package. One flat package. The rolled package was V-mail-stickered and Russian-postage-stamped. It was addressed to Comrade C. Lazaro-Schmidt.
The flat package was ruler-marked. Straight edges, right angles, no cursive exposed. It was sent from Bev’s Switchboard. It’s the minutes, dear Lord.
* * *
—
They read in Constanza’s bedroom. The text was Russian and German. Constanza was fluent in both. The paper looked authentic. The seal looked authentic. The Nazi eagle and Russian bear were conjoined as one beast. The Wolf disapproved.
Constanza read him through the text. Inconsistencies accrued. Dudley considered them. Constanza read him through again. Dudley nailed a basic falsehood.
The text read wrong, overall. It stooped to defamation. It defamed Salvy Abascal as it exalted Meyer Gelb. It plainly stated Salvy’s presence at the confab. That was patently untrue. Dudley plumbed connective threads and nailed the source.
Joan Conville. She reads a tract Salvy wrote. It was sent to the klubhaus. It critiqued more than praised the Baja confab. The minutes ridiculed Salvy. He loved the British monarchy. He hated the Irish. He despised Catholicism. He wished to appropriate the Baja rackets. He needed a ruthless American front man for this.
Joan reads the tract. She tells him about it. She tells Hideo Ashida. The basic falsehoods of these minutes germinate there.
The minutes have been forged. They were retroactively composed and geared to provoke confrontation. Salvy is underestimated. The forger lays out divisive fodder. He seeks to spark a Smith-Abascal war. His duplicitous design reveals itself here:
The sabotage incursion. It violates D. L. Smith’s no-sabotage decree. Salvy declines to ride north with the wetback saboteurs. It underlines D. L. Smith’s jailhouse revelation. Salvy is Comrade #1.
He is locked-in fucking certain of it. These minutes were composed and sent before the attacks. They exposit a preattack assertion.
Meyer Gelb is Comrade #1. He believes it. Hideo Ashida believes it. A second confrontation is provoked here. It’s D. L. Smith versus Comrade Gelb. The forger cannot foresee the attacks or Comrade Gelb’s death. Genius is one thing. Prescience is another. The minutes are brilliantly conceived and executed. The technical skill. The boldness and glibness. Hideo Ashida forged the minutes. Hideo Ashida betrayed him and trashed his deep love.
Dudley said, “They’re a fake. It’s Hideo Ashida’s work. He’s the only one capable of it.”
Constanza said, “Betrayal does not occur in a vacuum. Ashida had to have help. You will notice that my brother is not mentioned in this document. The omission is deliberate. Ashida wants to protect Juan. First he rapes me and pimps me to his Kameraden. Now he attempts to rape you. Dry your wet eyes, my frail darling. Kill Juan in my name. Kill him before I cease to love you.”
* * *
—
El Governor always worked late. Constanza told him that. He worked at home and at the Baja Government Palace. Go by the palace. Look for a fourth-floor light burning. He might be there. He might be at home.
Dudley drove by the palace. No fourth-floor light burned. He brought his gold bayonet. Constanza decreed death by blade.
They’d sniffed cocaine and made love. She encouraged him. She urged him to seek her favor and atone for his recent sloth. She bundled him off with the Wolf.
Dudley drove by the house. Juan’s office light burned. A winding footpath led to a backdoor. Juan kept it unlocked. Constanza told him that.
He parked street
side. He consulted the Wolf. They discussed political and romantic alliance. Constanza had coupled with Salvy and Kyoho Hanamaka. She admitted the liaisons. She did not withhold love affairs past. Lovers past withheld from her. They withheld the truth of the gold. She knew no more than he did. The Wolf told him that.
Dudley left the car unlocked. The Wolf walked point. He sniffed the footpath and low-growled. They hooked around to the back door. Dudley swung the bayonet and mauled rosebushes and shrubs.
The door stood ajar. They entered the house. Turn right and then left. Constanza told him that. “Juan never shuts his office door. He’ll look up from his desk and see you. I know him as a sister and lover does.”
They followed her dictates. They stepped into the office. Constanza failed them here. The office was lit bright. There was no Juan.
Dudley dropped the bayonet. The Wolf cocked his head. Dudley walked to Juan’s desk. A note had been placed on the blotter. Juan employed an elegant cursive. It covered a single sheet.
April 11, 1942
Dear Major Smith,
She will convince you to kill me sooner or later. Having no wish to die, I have resigned my governor’s position and have flown to Havana. I will remain there for the war’s duration. You have mutilated me, but I will not let you kill me.
Terry Lux has allayed the marks of your mutilation, and we had quite the chat about you. I brought up your union with Constanza; Terry found the notion perturbing.
“Those two only love efficaciously,” he said. “Dudley must be after more than Constanza’s favors. Don’t tell me. He’s heard about the gold, and has fixed upon your luscious sister as integral to the prize.”
We laughed ourselves silly. I won’t shilly-shally here—Terry’s a long-standing Kamerad. He’s heard about the gold. He’s coveted it, and dismissed it as so much piffle in much the same manner as the rest of us have. Terry turned serious at this point. He said, “What was Constanza after? She’s as jaded on the gold front as you and I.”
I said, “She wants Dudley to kill me.” Terry replied, “Go somewhere safe, Juan. Dud will go to outrageous lengths to appease women. He’s quite the child in that regard.”
I’ll close now, and head to the airfield. Has Constanza told you that I raped her and took her as my incestuous child bride? The truth is altogether more subtly complicitous than that.
All best,
J. Lazaro-Schmidt
128
KAY LAKE’S DIARY
(LOS ANGELES, 8:00 A.M., 4/12/42)
Claire was off at Mass. She intended to pick Joan Klein up at Otto’s place and bring her back here for a visit. Young Joan had a surprise for us; it entailed the piano in Claire’s suite. I had joyous notions about that surprise—but the swirl of what I now call All of It ruled my thoughts.
I enjoyed the view from Claire’s terrace. The setting was lovely; the passing parade was provocative. Terry Lux walked Saul Lesnick by a few minutes ago; a doddering Jim Davis had preceded them. All of It. Supporting cast glimpses. Joan Conville’s All One Story.
Elmer, Hideo, and I conferred on the phone, at least once a day. I was kept up to speed on All of It and shared the information with Bill. Meyer Gelb, once Fritz Eckelkamp, had been murdered. Elmer and Buzz shot and killed the fleeing Frankie Carbajal. The Beverly Hills PD made Frankie for the homicide. Elmer saw the body and thinks otherwise.
The corpse was stiff-cold. The torture cuts had congealed. Elmer talked to Dr. Nort Layman. Dr. Nort had performed the postmortem; he tagged the time of death as 2:00 a.m. Elmer found the body at 11:30. Dr. Nort removed a .25-caliber bullet. The cause of death: one small-bore gunshot wound to the head. The postmortem exonerated Frankie Carbajal. The Beverly Hills cops liked him, regardless. A Mex fascist kills a Communist. Cops slay the slayer. It played nicely open-and-shut.
The Carbajal shooting troubled Elmer. It came on the heels of the sabotage revelations. Frankie had pretipped Elmer and Buzz. They sat on the lead. Then Frankie appears and enlivens their stakeout. Elmer may confirm my hunch or play it mum. Buzz killed Frankie in cold blood. It silenced Frankie. He could not snitch the held-back lead now. His death bought Elmer and Buzz a skate.
What they hath wrought. What we have all precipitated.
The forged minutes have gone out. Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt must have received them; Dudley must have read them. How will he react? The minutes pushed him toward Meyer Gelb and Salvador Abascal. Dudley could not have killed Gelb. He was ensconced in Baja and did not know where to find him. Gelb was killed by a small-bore weapon. Dudley employed big-bore weaponry.
Thad Brown passed Bill a tip. Jack Horrall had issued an ultimatum. Dudley has one week to turn himself in or suffer PD-sanctioned reprisals. Call-Me-Jack has sought outside-agency help here. A Federal posse stands on call. Postal inspectors and Treasury agents. Ex–Texas Rangers. The hard boys who took down the Ma Barker mob, along with Bonnie and Clyde.
What fate hath wrought. What we have all precipitated.
Dudley might go after Salvador. Dudley might deem the minutes a ruse and comport circumspectly. Dudley might surmise that Hideo Ashida forged the minutes. What Hideo hath wrought, in the name of love. What early-wartime L.A. has done to us all.
I heard voices out on the walkway. Young Joan sounded gleeful; Claire kept going Ssshhh, people sleep late on Sunday. The terrace door swung open; Joan saw me and crashed into me and waved a poster tube.
I noted the V-mail sticker and Russian postage stamps; I saw that the tube had been resent by Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt. Confluence. Comrade Shostakovich to a fascist seductress to Maestro Klemperer. What this war hath wrought. Otto could now upstage Maestro Toscanini and stage his benefit show.
We ran inside. We crash-landed the piano and pulled out the score. I sight-read my way through it and isolated the best three-handed part. It was the tanks-approaching-Leningrad passage that Otto had already played for me. Claire arrayed the appropriate sheets on the music stand; Joan sat down at the bench between us. We were the just-formed Dry-out Farm Trio. We poised our hands over the keys. Claire gave the downbeat.
Boom, boom, boom. Nazi tanks circle Leningrad. It was bluntly ominous music that made us all roar. We hit true notes and flubbed notes and laughed through it all. Boom, boom, boom. What life hath wrought. How did I get this pigshit lucky? I’m a rogue prairie girl from Sioux Falls.
129
(LOS ANGELES, 1:00 P.M., 4/12/42)
Coffee klatch. Crash Squad alumni, at loose ends. Lyman’s back room, now moribund.
The alums kicked their chairs back and got cozy. Ashida, Lee Blanchard, Buzz Meeks.
Buzz sipped coffee. “BHPD likes Carbajal for the Gelb job. Elmer and me are breathing a big sigh of relief.”
Blanchard sipped coffee. “Dr. Nort disagrees.”
Ashida sipped coffee. “I gave Elmer Frechette’s lead on Chuckie Duquesne. He’s on his way up to the Musicians’ Local right now.”
Buzz said, “Elmer’s a busy bee. He told me he went by Johnny Shinura’s building and did some shinnying up a drainpipe. Johnny’s roost had been cleaned out, but he found two bedrolls on the third floor. He figures Johnny and Chuckie were hiding out there, up until the Feds seized the place.”
Blanchard lit a cigarette. “If Chuckie’s our queer white boy, then who’s the woman who got raped? Joe Hayes says that’s our motive, right there.”
The back room oozed sloth. Ashida tidied up. He straightened the report boards and emptied ashtrays. He tossed stale cold cuts. He dumped booze empties.
Buzz lit a cigar. “I caught Jack Horrall and Brenda A. going at it here. The ’36 Olympics were on the radio. Jack’s a floor man from way back.”
Blanchard said, “Hideo’s due back at Manzanar. I’m driving him up.”
Buzz tossed a paper sack. Ashida snagged it on the fly. Buzz said, “I almost forgot. Elmer snatched this f
rom Shinura’s place. He wanted Hideo to see it.”
Ashida emptied the sack. Leather strangling gloves fell out.
Black leather. Fetishistic. A Weimar Berlin and red-light Tokyo item. Palm-weighted. One size fits all.
Buzz whistled. Blanchard went oooh-la-la. Ashida held the gloves up.
“They explain the single-hand-span bruises on the victims’ necks. All the killer had to do was apply moderate pressure. The palm weights would do the rest.”
Buzz said, “Hideo’s theorizing here.”
Blanchard said, “As theories go, I like it. It fits Hideo’s man-woman theory. The man holds the ice pick and keeps our guys immobilized, while the woman applies the elbow grease.”
Buzz waved his cigar. “I’ll bite. But who is this crazy ginch?”
The Teletype tapped-tapped and furled paper. Blanchard tore it off the spool.
“M. L. Mimms is back from his rouse-the-natives tour. Two airport cops saw him get off the late New York flight. The Navy JA’s kicked Link Rockwell loose. He was on the same flight as the Rev.”
* * *
—
He saw Dudley everywhere. Cri de coeur. He saw him conjured and unbidden. All men looked like him. No man looked like him. Je m’excuse, pour ma trahison.
Ashida cabbed southbound. The hackie You’re a Jap’d him. Ashida shut his eyes and saw Dudley. The cab passed through darktown. Je ne te verrai pas blessé.
Kay pledged him the Mimms interview. It secured their forgery deal. She stipulated a co-interviewer and suggested Elmer. He tried to find Elmer. He called the DB and Brenda’s house. Elmer was out. He called Kay’s place and got no answer. He tried the Musicians’ Local. He asked if a Sergeant Jackson had been by. Sergeant Jackson was looking for a horn man named Chuckie Duquesne.
The clerk said, “No, but that’s an odd coincidence. An Army major named Smith called and asked for Chuckie’s address, which I sure don’t have. This major was some mick with a brogue. He told me a nutso story about how he identified Chuckie from some smut film that Orson Welles showed him. I told him Chuckie’s a clandestine sort of guy, but he’ll be gigging at the Taj Mahal tonight. Orson Welles himself. Don’t that take all?”