This Storm

31 (Los Angeles, 9:00 A.M., 1/24/42)

Collusion.

City Hall. Room 546. Today’s Monster Matinee. Werewolf Shudo versus the L.A. County grand jury.

The jurors perched at desks. They faced the room. Eight old men and eight old ladies. They were rich-stiff pedigreed. They radiated high-end Pasadena and Hancock Park.

A witness box stood adjacent. Counsel tables faced the perch. DA Bill McPherson repped the county. Note the Werewolf’s seedy lawyer. Check the racing form in his hip pocket.

The Werewolf dozed in his seat. He wore a straitjacket and jail denims. PD men sat behind the DA. Officer Lee Blanchard and police chemist Hideo Ashida.

Dudley Smith sat with the DA. He wore his Army dress uniform. Note the flap-holstered sidearm.

Handsome devil.

Two chair rows faced the show. Joan sat there. Bill Parker got her in. He’d said, “Consider what you know now. You don’t get a deal like this every day.”

Parker supplied drift. The DA liked colored girls. Shudo’s lawyer was ex-PD. He had a night-school diploma and serviced a Negro pimp clientele. He procured for the DA.

Joan doodled up a scratch pad. She’d done research. She knew gold-per-ounce prices in ’31 and today. She teethed on the upswing.

$20.67 then. $35.50 now.

Mint bars weighed 33.3 pounds. She calculated then-to-now prices. $8,268 a bar then. $14,200 now. The heist men clouted thirty-odd bars. Take it from there.

Lee Blanchard testified. It felt pro forma. Joan suppressed yawns.

It’s December 6. There’s a loud-party squawk. Him and Sergeant D. L. Smith check it out and find the stiffs. He called the Watanabes “Japs” and went Oops. The jurors laughed.

Blanchard concluded. Hideo Ashida took the stand. The DA lobbed softballs. The Werewolf dozed. His lawyer skimmed the racing form.

Ashida breezed through the forensics. He described various documents and their evidential value. He forged those documents. Bill Parker told her that.

Persuasive Ashida. Submissive dog Ashida. Fetch, running dog.

Ashida concluded. He walked to the door and passed right by Joan. She looked at him. He stared straight ahead.

Dudley Smith took the stand. The lady jurors swooned. Joan read their minds. Now, that’s a witness.

The Dublin brogue. The idiomatic flair. The wild charm and sheer language.

He ran down the case. He glowed warm and lied with blithe assurance. He noticed Joan. He gave her a bolt-from-the-blue look.

Their eyes snagged and held. Dudley smiled. Joan tried not to smile back. Dudley glitched his testimony and glanced away. It might have been seductively feigned/it might have been real.

Joan observed Dudley. She believed each lie and caught herself duped within seconds. He threw nods and smiles. She nodded and smiled back and caught herself duped again.

Her face burned. She looked away/shit, I’m mortified/she looked back again.

Dudley concluded. He left the witness box and walked to the door. He winked at Joan en route.

The Werewolf jury adjourned. The Fed-probe jury convened. Joan kept her seat.

New jurors heard evidence. More rich stiffs perched. A U.S. attorney replaced “Mud-Shark” Bill McPherson.

Joan fidgeted. She fretted her gold cuff links. She wanted a cigarette, she wanted two highballs, she wanted a steak sandwich.

Jack Horrall testified. He was disingenuous. Phone taps and bugged squadrooms? That’s the first I’ve heard of it.

Mayor Fletch testified. He grandstanded and burnished his crimebuster credentials. He failed to understand all this hoo-ha. He was a lawyer himself. “Frankly, I know whereof I speak.”

Wallace N. Jamie testified. He extolled his noted uncle. Eliot Ness was a T-man and certified hotshot. He bragged up his electronics know-how. He laid out his dirty-cops probe in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Fletch B. hired him. Mayor Fletch wants the truth. Mayor Fletch don’t know bupkes per wall bugs. “The truth will out here.”

Joan yawned and stretched. A shadow hit her. She split-second knew.

“It’s what we call the ‘rubber-stamp’ grand jury. True-bill indictments are ever assured.”

Joan smoothed her skirt. She shot her blouse cuffs and displayed her gold cuff links.

“You framed that man Shudo. It’s as much an open secret as the phone taps.”

Dudley sat beside her. They brushed arms. He kept his voice low.

“I’ll concede the possibility. But I could hardly have accomplished it without the brilliant assistance of your Dr. Ashida.”

Her face burned. Shit, there’s the blush.

Joan blinked. She suppressed a full primp. She thought fast and dredged up a punch line.

Shit — one split-second blink, and he’s gone.

She got her highballs and steak sandwich. Lyman’s was Saturday-packed. She bridged the lunch crowd and the early bar crowd. The grand jury crowd bled in.

Wallace Jamie schmoozed Eliot Ness. Uncle Eliot cruised the bar and glad-handed Fletch Bowron. Big Earle Conville hated Ness. Big Earle had a beef. Ness raped the Monroe County Forest Service on extraditions. Big Earle called Ness “that preening cocksucker.”

Kay Lake walked in. She saw Joan and waved her little snoot wave. Joan snoot-waved her back.

They never spoke. They hadn’t been introduced. They knew each other secondhand. Cops supplied two-way drift and tantalized them.

Joan sipped highball #3. Kay bootjacked Elmer Jackson’s stool and eased him down the bar. Lee Blanchard pulled his stool close. Kay leaned into him. They discussed household hoo-ha. Kay made her voice carry.

Kay always did that. Kay wanted her to hear. Kay telegraphed her moves. Kay Lake, grandstander and ham actress.

The backed-up sink. Otto Klemperer’s party, next Wednesday night. Name-dropper Kay. Bertolt Brecht and Orson Welles. Spy-mistress Kay. A symphonic score, smuggled from Russia.

Joan hexed Kay Lake. Shut up or drop dead, you poseur. She killed off her highball. Bill Parker walked in.

He passed by the bar. He wore leave-me-the-fuck-alone blinders. He spotted Kay and dumped them. Kay saw him. Their hands laced up for one second.

Parker weaved to the back room. Joan stood up and shoved her way over. She hit a waiter. His drink tray flew.

Some Shriners got booze-doused. A whole table, spritzed. A fat man eeked and wiped his face with his fez. Joan hit the door at a sprint. The hinges shook.

Parker stood by the Teletype. He held a photostat and a cold beer. He saw Joan and blinked.

Joan slapped the beer out of his hand and ripped up the photostat. She got this close to him. Parker just stood there.

They were this close. Joan said, “Whose man are you? Are you your wife’s, mine, or Kay Lake’s?”

They were this close. Joan said, “How dare you tell me that Jim Davis killed those people, and you refuse to reveal it? How dare you lay that burden on me?”

They were this close. Joan said, “Or, did you dream it all up? Does that make Dudley Smith and Hideo Ashida credible? Is Fujio Shudo’s life worth saving, given his established transgressions?”

This close:

“Whose man are you?”

“How many women do you plan to entrap before this war is over?”

“Why haven’t we made love?”

“How can you live with what you know and do nothing?”

“What do you think you’re doing with me?”

Parker swerved out of the room. Joan slammed the door and threw the bolt and locked herself in.

She dug in her purse. She pulled out a terp vial. She drank the terp and shuddered. The terp burned going down.

There’s the heat and the whoosh. There’s the gleaming gold bars right behind.

32 (Los Angeles, 8:30 P.M., 1/24/42)

His photostat popped from the tube. The PD and FD shot him paperwork. The Griffith Park fire. Two agencies weigh in.

He’d forged the stat request. He signed Ray Pinker’s name. Mr. Pinker was off somewhere. He was Fed bait. He was scrounging lawyer money. He shined his lab duties on.

Ashida unrolled the photostat and read at his desk. He saw a Fed-routing code. He jumped on the text.

Two agencies weighed in. Two agencies zeroed in on the Young Socialist Alliance.

The YSA was a Red front. The membership fluctuated. College kids came and went. The state AG’s Office deemed the group harmless. One fact bothered them.

The YSA cloaked a Communist cell. It was live-wire CP. It was cloistered and clandestine. A nameless Fed snitch finked it out.

Ashida recalled an L.A. Times piece. The YSA boss man was one Meyer Gelb. He was a Pershing Square slogan shouter and didactical creep.

Gelb’s really Comrade Gelb. The Comintern bankrolled the cell and presumably issued directives. Bold obfuscation spawns bold cover.

Gelb, the florid buffoon. Gelb, the cell Führer. Kommisar Gelb, the Red cell master of:

Jorge Villareal-Caiz. A Mexican national. No further facts.

Jean Clarice Staley. No further facts.

Saul Lesnick, M.D. No further facts.

Andrea Lesnick. No further facts.

Ashida broke a sweat. He got the mean megrims and the shakes.

He knew the Lesnicks. He’d observed them at a Claire De Haven party. Saul Lesnick was a Beverly Hills psychiatrist. He was a left-wing eugenicist. He was a pal of right-wing race man Lin Chung. Andrea Lesnick was Dr. Saul’s daughter. She’d been convicted of vehicular manslaughter. She served a brief term at Tehachapi.

Ashida wiped his face. He fought off the mean megrims and stifled some shakes. He went through the L.A. phone books. The lab kept a full set.

There was no Meyer Gelb listed. There was no Jean Staley and no Villareal-Caiz. Dr. Saul’s office was listed. There was no Andrea Lesnick listing.

The cell names felt seductive. They confirmed the pervasive presence of the 1930s Left. Police-file names were police-file names and most often no more. They lived in the non sequitur void of snitch-out information. This new lead felt seductive and inconsequential. It was more than trivial and less than germane.

Ashida plumbed the lead. He vowed to withhold it from Joan Conville. She craved the gold to his exclusion. He held the upper hand there. He possessed a gold bar and she didn’t.

The bar troubled him. It was casually but expertly stashed. The heist occurred almost eleven years ago. The bar remained unutilized.

He’d checked ’31 and ’42 gold prices. The bar had nearly doubled in value. Heist men ran long on impulse and short on circumspection. He saw circumspection here. He sensed motives that contravened pure greed.

“Hello, lad.”

Ashida wiped his face. His hands jumped. He squared his shoulders and patted his hair. Stop it — you’re primping.

He checked the doorway. Dudley wore a tweed suit now. His uniform flattered him more. He turned heads at the grand jury.

Ashida kicked his chair back. I’m nonchalant and indifferent. What’s your name again?

Dudley held a suit coat on a hanger. Dark cellophane covered it.

“I couldn’t go back without dropping this off. It’s a moment to celebrate.”

Ashida stood up. His legs held. He said, “Dare I ask?”

Dudley unveiled the coat. It was Army OD. Second lieutenant’s bars gleamed.

“Fourth Interceptor has approved your commission, and there’s a great many papers to sign. Your mother and brother have been granted Mexican amnesty for the war’s duration. You will serve as my adjutant in Baja. You will interpret the Japanese language, assist in the roundup of resident Japanese, and work to further our antisabotage mandate.”

Ashida walked over. Dudley unbuttoned the coat and held it open. Ashida slipped it on.

It fit perfectly. The lieutenant’s bars were pure gold.

Dudley said, “My Japanese brother.”

Ashida said, “My Irish brother.”

33 (Los Angeles, 11:00 P.M., 1/24/42)

J. Kurakami/DR #8619641/one console radio, one snubnose .38.

Check.

D. Matsushima/DR #8619642/one spring-loaded sap, twelve Nazi armbands, one lead-filled baseball bat.

Check.

H. “Hophead” Hayamasu/DR #8619643/one hypodermic syringe, one rising-sun flag, twelve Mr. Moto novels, twenty-nine vials of terpin hydrate.

Check.

Elmer prelogged confiscations. He called out the juicy bits. Rice and Kapek ran their mouths. Catbox Cal Lunceford picked his nose and watched.

They slogged through a late duty stint. The fucking squad pen froze. The fucking janitor fucked with the heat vents. Rice and Kapek habituated the squadroom. Their fucking wives tossed them out like the fucking shitheels they were.

A. Takamina/DR #8619644/one vial of Spanish fly, fourteen smut books, 142 Japs-kill-Chinks atrocity pix.

Check.

Rice said, “That Takamina guy’s a beast. I pondered killing him for a minute there.”

Kapek said, “You should have. I know this Chink’s selling Jap shrunken heads.”

Lunceford said, “I heard about that. Frisco PD put out a bulletin. They found twenty-one decapitated Japs in the bay.”

Rice said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.”

Kapek said, “I remember — but don’t tell my draft board that.”

The squadroom was jammed floor-to-rafters. Elmer tagged boxes and logged shit. Hey, check this:

R. “Banzai Bob” Yoshida/DR #8619645/nine spike-studded dick sheaths, four blood-flecked samurai swords.

Lunceford said, “Ouch.”

Rice said, “The guy told me he used the swords to kill chickens. Some Jap voodoo ritual. He supplies the rice bowls on Alameda.”

Kapek said, “Yeah, and them riceheads feed the slop they cook to white cops.”

Ed Satterlee walked in. Elmer clocked him. The kibitzers flashed fuck-the-Fed looks.

Satterlee hooked a finger. Elmer dumped his confiscation box and trailed him out to the hall.

“I’m in a bind tonight, Elmer. I figured you could help me out.”

Elmer said, “Short notice, but okay.”

“I’ve got a mark set up with one of Brenda’s girls, but I’ve got nobody to work the camera. The gig just fell in my lap.”

“And the girl’s all primed to pump him?”

Satterlee lit a cigarette. “That’s right. Annie Staples. She could get the sphinx to cut loose.”

College Girl Annie. The bobby-sox type. Woof!!! Woof!!! Ivy League threads and long blond hair.

“Who’s the mark?”

“An informant of mine. A geezer named Saul Lesnick.”

The name reverberated. It reprised some Kay Lake dish. La Kay worked old Saul for Bill Parker. She’d mentioned some upcoming soirée. Old Saul was sure to attend.

Elmer said, “Okay, Ed. I’d be happy to help out.”

The lovebirds showed at midnite. Elmer crouched in the wall peek. Annie winked at the two-way mirror. Elmer yocked and rolled film.

The birds peeled and hit the sheets. Doc Saul looked cancer-cough consumptive. Annie vibrated Viking Vixen Supreme.

Perfunctory woo-woo ensued. Annie rode old Saul. She straddled him and found the fit. She faced the mirror and went mock craaaaazy.

Elmer timed the ride. It ran 4.8 minutes and felt practiced. Elmer nailed the gestalt.

Annie’s Ed the Fed’s mock girlfriend. She’s a shakedown pro. Fey Edgar Hoover looooves this shit. He watches it and slams the ham. It justifies his political agenda. He thus entraps Red slime.

Annie disengaged. She patted Saul’s pecker and walked to a sideboard. She poured two Drambuies and spritzed in seltzer. Saul lit cigarettes.

The lovebirds cozied in. Annie sipped her drink and blew smoke rings. She basked nude. Old Saul covered himself.

Talk hit the wall mikes. Elmer goosed the volume. Saul said, “...and Hitler’s not what people think he is. He’s more subtle than that.”

Annie patted her mouth. It expressed big ennui. Elmer yuk-yukked.

“The war’s a yawn. I’ve had it up to here. My sister joined the Wacs, because she’s a lezbo, and it’s full of young tail. She looks like the Bride of Frankenstein, and she got fired from her gym-teacher job for honking this girl on the volleyball team.”

Old Saul chained cigarettes. “That confirms my point about Hitler. He places a premium on physical culture. His Aryan breeding program impresses me. He subsidizes good Nordic stock and pays the females a breeding bonus. He’s convinced that the selective breeding of superior specimens can eliminate the specter of congenital disease.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Okay, but what about good looks? I look good, and so do my mom and dad. But my sister looks like something the cat dragged in.”

Saul coughed into his handkerchief. Elmer yocked. The old hebe dug the Nazis. It was unrequited love.

“Racial science is still in its infancy. Comrade Stalin should put his people to work. We can’t let the Right ace out the Left here. Stalin’s designs are humane. He’ll implement compulsory breeding from a workers’ perspective.”

Annie patted her mouth. “You’re putting me to sleep.”

“What shall we talk about? You’re eager to learn. It’s what I like most about you.”

Annie tickled old Saul. Old Saul giggled. She swatted him with a pillow. Old Saul evinced glee.

“You like my big breasts and long legs, and these collegiate outfits that Brenda makes me wear. Do you know how many pairs of saddle shoes I’ve got now?”

Saul went Oy vey. “All right, then. What shall we talk about?”

“That party you mentioned last time. You said all these music exiles and movie stars would be there.”

“Oh, yes. At Otto Klemperer’s. I saved his life, you know. I diagnosed his brain tumor and got him into surgery, jack flash.”

“You’re heroic, sweetie. They should put you on the cover of Time magazine.”

Old Saul went tut-tut. “Comrade Stalin deserves it more than I do.”

“Will he be at the party?”

“No, but Orson Welles will be. I know you, Annie. Orson’s your favorite. You can’t fool me.”

Annie crushed her cigarette. “He should lose weight. I like my men lean.”

Old Saul laughed. “Like me?”

“You’re too lean, sweetie. I saw a newsreel at the Wiltern last night. The Japs captured these prisoners somewhere. They looked emaciated, like you sort of do.”

Old Saul glared. Elmer mind-read him. You dumb goyishe twat.

Annie said, “Come on, baby. Let’s get back to Mr. Welles.”

Old Saul sighed. “All right, Comrade Welles. He’s going out on one of FDR’s diplomatic missions, to Latin America, so that he can shtup Dolores del Rio and espouse the Red cause with all the gifted-dilettante fervor he’s capable of, which is considerable. He’s been my analysand dating back to his radio days, and his best work isn’t Citizen Kane, believe me. It’s the smut films he makes with big-name movie stars. You wouldn’t believe the names.”

Annie put out big eyes. The mike volume glitched. Elmer caught “Kurt Weill,” “Bertolt Brecht,” “Spanish Civil War.” He goosed the knob and replugged a wire. He caught “Meyer Gelb,” “analysand,” “incendiary whiz.” He caught “badly burned” and “battle with Franco’s Falange.”

The glitch unglitched. Full volume kicked on. Old Saul said, “I saved his life, too. I’ve got a Chinaman pal. He’s a plastic surgeon, and he performed skin grafts on Meyer.”

Elmer snagged it. The surgeon was Lin Chung. Who else but? It’s who you know and who you blow—

Annie said, “I thought Terry Lux was the big plastic surgeon. I tricked with him once. He told me he was America First, and the world’s greatest plastics man. He said he could turn my ugly sister into Betty Grable.”

Old Saul shrugged. “Terry’s Terry. He’s as right as I’m left, and sometimes the twain shall meet. The war’s created odd alliances. The left and right converge to acknowledge the shuck of democracy. My analysand Claire De Haven and her cop lover underline that perception.”

Elmer snagged it. Wooo — Claire the D. and El Dudster Alert.

Annie lit a cigarette. “You told me about her. She’s a socialite, but she’s Communist up the wazoo.”

Old Saul sipped Drambuie. “I’d call her a morphine-addicted dilettante before I even addressed her speciously reasoned politics. And, I’d add that her cop lover is an evil brute, and that Claire’s out for thrills, plain and simple. They’re in Mexico now, and Claire and I have phone sessions twice a week. She’s behaving paranoically, I’m afraid. She thinks that a transplanted prairie tart named Kay something stabbed her lover last month, and I can in no way dissuade her.”

Wooo — that’s a hot one. It’s a Code 3 Alert.

Annie patted her mouth. “Claire what’s-her-name bores me. Tell me more about Mr. Welles.”

She was goooooooooood. She neon-beamed SHAKEDOWN. Ed the Fed was out to jack Reds. Fey Edgar Hoover loathed Orson Welles. It was common-knowledge drift.

Old Saul popped a boner. Annie google-eyed the event. The bedsheet stretched and held taut.

“That ogre William Randolph Hearst is out to fuck Orson for Citizen Kane. Conversely, I would add that Orson would surely love to fuck you.”

34 (Los Angeles, 3:00 A.M., 1/25/42)

Pub crawl. Movie shitbirds slumming. We’re at Kwan’s “O” den. It’s open-all-nite.

Amateur pipe fiends hold sway. Orson Welles and Ann Sheridan. Plus froufrou hairdressers and prop boys. They’re film geeks hot to restage Fantasia.

They settled on pallets. Seasoned Chinks ignored them. They sucked smoke and coughed a great deal.

Dudley and Uncle Ace watched. They rode chairs upside a back wall. Ace wore a KILL THE JAPS T-shirt and an I AM NOT A JAP armband.

Fumes drifted over. Dudley breathed deep.

“I would summarize as follows, my brother. The plan entails corrupting, usurping, and co-opting the Ensenada contingent of the Mexican State Police, under Captain José Vasquez-Cruz. Once accomplished, we would create a mass exodus of wetback workers, to pick crops at San Joaquin Valley farms.”

Ace said, “I listen raptly, my Irish brother. Please tell me more.”

Dudley clocked Orson Welles. Fat Boy purportedly fucked Claire. They coupled at Terry Lux’s clinic. Rumors persist.

“Mexico will ditch its neutral stance in May, and throw in with the Allies. A guest-worker program will go into effect in August. It will be signed into law by our Governor Olsen, and Baja’s governor, Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. It will effectively legalize slave immigration, and all attendant profits will bypass us. We need to preempt and supersede the program with our own wetback exports.”

Ace pissed in a drainage sluice. He was earthy. He exemplified the hearty-peasant aesthetic. He possessed a cashew-sized dick.

“I still listen raptly. Please tell me more.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. “We’ll take handsome kickbacks from the farmers and attach our wets’ wages. We’ll house the more educated wets in the dwellings of interned Japs and grab a percentage of the rent they pay, along with a percentage of their wages from the better jobs they secure. Conversely, we will reduce the Jap population of Baja through a concerted internment effort, and will seek U.S. government assistance in housing Mexican Japs in U.S. internment centers. We will house rich Mexican Japs here in Los Angeles, under your Chinese protection. The reduced Jap population in Baja will alleviate the specter of coastal sabotage and infiltration, which will fulfill my Army mandate.”

Ace said, “Kill the Japs.”

“A hearty and well-informed sentiment, my brother.”

Ace laughed. Dudley clocked a peep show. Ann Sheridan hopped on Fat Boy’s pallet. She tossed her hair and went for his fly.

“I find Captain Vasquez-Cruz problematic, and Claire agrees with me. He’s inherited Carlos Madrano’s heroin business, and we’ve struck an alliance of sorts. El Capitán has welcomed me to Baja, but I suspect that he has designs on my designs. This brings us to our long-lost pal, Kyoho Hanamaka.”

“I keep eye down here. No Hanamaka. No tickee, no washee.”

“O” fumes circulated. Dudley caught wisps. He drifted a bit. He dream-caressed the gold bayonet.

“Hanamaka disappeared on December 18. He should have been detained on Pearl Harbor day, which leads me to believe that he was allowed to remain at large. It now appears as though he’s faked his own death. He’s the logical man to run sabotage operations in Baja, and I’m determined to capture him. Our ventures in Baja will succeed in direct proportion to my success in interdicting the Baja Fifth Column.”

Ace said, “You interdict, we make money. Good tickee-washee there.”

Dudley said, “We’ve picked up code calls from here to Baja. There’s allegedly hidden air bases in Indio and Brawley. It may or may not be credible innuendo. Should the former be true, I would tag Hanamaka my number-one suspect.”

Ace squinted. The dope fumes stung his eyes.

“You think Staties help Hanamaka escape? Maybe Vasquez-Cruz help? You get proof and extort his greaseball ass? We take over ‘H’ trade then?”

Dudley smiled. “Great minds think alike, my Chinese brother.”

Ace bowed. “Tommy Glennon. He remain at large also?”

“Yes, and vexingly so. He was Carlos Madrano’s boy, and he’s a long-standing Mex-o-phile. He could very well fall prey to the charms of José Vasquez-Cruz.”

“Tommy kill Eddie Leng. You think so, Dudster?”

“Yes. It’s likely, but I don’t know why.”

“I rubber-hose Don Matsura. He don’t know shit. I fake suicide. Hang that Jap fucker in his cell.”

Dudley whooped. Ace was a good dog. Ace always fetched.

“Tommy’s been out in the vapors since New Year’s. I don’t see how he could have done it without professional help. My instincts tell me that he’s in Baja, and that Hanamaka’s here.”

Ace said, “Tommy Fifth Column. Crazy fuckers jungled up in strange ways.”

Dudley said, “He’s Catholic Fifth Column, my brother. Sadly, I see more sinister forces at play.”

Fat Boy’s pallet shook. He squealed and bit his pillow. Lovely Ann wiped her chin and zipped him up.

Whiskey Bill fought the booze. He had one drink. Then one more drink. His thirst persisted. Dudley watched him dither and succumb.

Stag dinner at St. Vib’s. Archbishop Cantwell hosted. Joe Hayes slurred the kikes and the prods. Father Coughlin slurred the frogs and the coons. Every man jack slurred the Japs.

The Archbishop’s study. Packed with golf-themed artwork. Golf as holy sacrament. Heretical horseshit.

Deep chairs bid sleep. Parker bid scrutiny. Dudley yawned. He took bennies yesterday. He charged thirty-six hours straight.

He read Alien Squad files and trawled for notes on Hanamaka. No mentions popped up. He walked J-town and flashed his Baja file pic. Hanamaka? Me no see him. He logged that response, ceaselessly.

He issued a U.S. APB. All points/hold and detain. His mind churned. He teethed on the gold bayonet.

It’s provenance. The who/the why/the upscut. He indulged fantasy. He merged reality. Who first possessed the gold? Who forged the bayonet? He recalled a mint-train job. It went down in the spring of ’31. The job stood unsolved. It felt non sequitur. Impecunious heist men and gold fenced down in value. Gold now long gone.

Cantwell said, “Dud’s tired. He’s been yawning since he walked in the door.”

Hayes said, “He’s got one eye fixed on Bill, though. Those two share a history.”

Cantwell said, “Like Scylla and Charybdis. Evenly matched apparitions in the Old Testament.”

Hayes said, “Greek mythology, Your Eminence.”

Coughlin said, “Lay off the ‘Greek,’ Joe. You’ll get all fluttered.”

Hayes blanched and gulped. Coughlin winked at Cantwell. Dudley tweaked Whiskey Bill.

“Are the refreshments to your liking, Captain?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I thought you might appear at the grand jury. The Watanabe job was your overall command.”

“My testimony would have proved redundant. You were the lead investigator.”

“Yes, but I thought you might have felt compelled to present an alternative solution.”

“Your solution was expedient and stunningly crafted — if speciously reasoned and fallacious in your presumption of guilt.”

Dudley laughed. “Aaahh, there’s our impasse.”

Cantwell coughed. “You boys quell your differences. We’re five good Catholic men here to get shit-faced.”

Hayes said, “Hear! Hear!”

Coughlin said, “Let the Japs kill the Japs with impunity, then fry the Jap who killed the Japs in the first place.”

Cantwell said, “Dud’s spoiling for a tiff. The Mexican sun’s broiling that grand brain of his.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. “Mexico’s an opportunity in search of a solution, Your Eminence. On that note, I should add that Father Coughlin’s friend Salvador Abascal did me quite the favor recently.”

Coughlin said, “Salvador’s quite the lad. An honorary mick, that one. I’ll set up a feed the next time I’m in T.J.”

Nuns wheeled in a steam tray. Dinner is served. It was god-awful corned beef and cabbage. It smelled like canned dog food.

The clerics dug in. Dudley cracked a window. Cabbage fumes dispersed.

Parker flashed the malocchio. He was half-tanked. Dudley evil-eyed him back. Parker blinked first.

Frat-boy antics. Such cheap diversion. Wholly indecorous and undignified.

Joan Conville wisped by. Dudley caught her musk and savored it. She crashed his dreams most nights.

Bill Parker entraps young women. It’s one per month now. His patronage carries a price. It creates exploitable rage.

Joe Hayes ignored his food. He checked his watch once per second. Monsignor Joe possessed family money. He kept a beachfront apartment. He held all-male retreats there.

Hayes stood up and murmured good-byes. The gang waved and laced back to their grub. Dudley ticked off thirty seconds and excused himself.

He walked outside. He caught Hayes in the rectory lot. Family money. Such a smart roadster. Wire wheels and red leather seats.

The engine throbbed. Hayes looked up and fluttered. Dudley reached in and cut back the key. The engine coughed and died.

“Hot date, Monsignor?”

“I don’t care for your tone, Dud.”

“Where’s Tommy Glennon, Monsignor? I won’t comment on your relationship, but I do need to see him.”

Hayes wore driving gloves and a puce muffler. They clashed with his penguin suit.

“Tommy comes and goes as he pleases. I’m his confessor, not his nursemaid. I haven’t seen him since he left San Quentin.”

Blunt lies. This sacrosanct fairy. Not some thug you rubber-hose.

“You’re Bill Parker and my Claire’s confessor, as well. I’d pay good money to hear their confessions.”

Hayes smoothed his muffler. His clan assimilated. He left his brogue in Galway, 1919.

“I’m your confessor, to boot. You surely have much to tell me, if Bill Parker is to be believed.”

“I’m beyond sin, Monsignor. I was killing Black-and-Tans when you were in the seminary. I’m bucking for Pope Pius’ job. Do you think the Vatican Council will grant me a dispensation to fuck women?”

Hayes laughed. “Check the rightist mailing lists. Tommy’s quite the avid reader. You might get a line on him that way.”

Dudley flicked the key. The engine purred.

Hayes donned a tweed cap. “ ‘Pride goeth before a fall,’ Dudley. Not everyone fears you. Men like you tend to trip and fall in the shit.”

35 (Los Angeles, 9:30 P.M., 1/26/42)

Joan walked home. She felt dream-smacked and wispy.

She cut west on 1st Street. She crossed Bunker Hill and bypassed Belmont High. She caught wisps of Hideo Ashida. He ran track at Belmont. Gold dust wisped by.

She floated. She drank two terp vials back at the lab. It was blackout dark and cool-evening still.

Faces popped here and there. She saw Dudley Smith and Bill Parker. Terp had that effect. It unlocked doors and let you peek in.

Joan cut north on Carondelet. Her courtyard was blackout black/shades drawn/we do our part. She got out her keys. She heard, “Hello, lass.”

She dropped her purse. He caught it and stood up. He’d camped out on her steps and popped up in the dark.

Tall. The trim-cut Army uniform. The cross-draw .45.

Joan mimicked his brogue. “ ‘Lass,’ is it? Not ‘Miss Conville’? How long have you been in America? Shouldn’t you have lost your accent by now?”

“That’s a great many questions. I’ll note that you didn’t ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ ”

Joan unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Dudley followed her in. She tracked his eyes. She saw him catch this:

Her framed diplomas. Her mounted shotguns. Her sepia prints of Big Earle. Her microscope and chemistry texts.

“Policeman’s daughter, are you? That man in the photographs is wearing a badge.”

“You’ve dimmed the brogue, Captain. And, yes, my father was the game warden of Monroe County, Wisconsin.”

Dudley singled out the diplomas. “I admire scientists. I know nothing of science, so I stand naïve and admiring before those of your stripe.”

Joan smiled. “Call me naïve, Captain. I can’t see you as a supplicant outside of church, and even then I’d have doubts.”

Dudley said, “And I’m sure you doubt the probity of this visit.”

Joan said, “I’ve narrowed it down. You were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d drop by. You’re monitoring your longtime nemesis, Bill Parker, and you’d like a hand with that task. Lastly, you’d like to screw me, which is a motive that I’ve encountered before.”

Dudley bowed. He mimed Hideo Ashida. The little Jap taught the big Irishman style.

“One drink, then. That’s my motive. Before you ask, I’ll concede that I called the lab for your address.”

Joan walked to the kitchen. She took some deep breaths and poured two double scotches. Her hands shook.

She carried the drinks back. Dudley sat on the couch. He skimmed a typed manuscript. Lee Blanchard leaked it to her. “Beethoven and Luther,” by Katherine Lake.

“Reading up on a rival, are you?”

Joan sat beside Dudley. She tossed Kay’s manuscript on the floor and handed him his drink. She caught his fine French cologne.

“Kay’s deft. She’s mad to attribute meaning, which is a trait that good scientists share.”

They lit cigarettes. They sipped scotch. Her float intensified. A thunderstorm kicked in. A window breeze tossed her hair.

“Your father looks like a bold lad. You used ‘was’ to describe him. Has he left us?”

Joan said, “He died in a fire, back in ’38. I’ve spent some time investigating it. I need to go back and reassess my notes. I’m not giving up.”

Dudley said, “I’ve heard reports of the charred box unearthed in Griffith Park. The genesis of your great interest comes into focus now.”

“Hideo Ashida reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

Dudley went Tu salud. “I live to attribute meaning. By your lights, it makes me as one with scientists and unschooled essayists.”

Joan crushed her cigarette. “Should I bluntly note the genesis of that? Your dirt-poor childhood in Dublin? The gun money you funneled to then-Monsignor Cantwell? The Ulster Constabulary men you’ve killed?”

Dudley said, “Bill Parker reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

Joan laughed. “Sometimes I don’t want the war to end. If it ends, people will fall back into their old circumspect ways. They won’t talk as much and delight me as much and give me all this crazy drift to attribute meaning to. We’re the end result of our curiosities and the extent to which they’re sated. Has that ever occurred to you?”

Dudley said, “Yes, it has.”

“I’ve begun to see the war as an opportunity. The realization confounds me.”

Dudley said, “I understand.”

“I’m starting to see how far I’ll go to get what I want. It’s exhilarating beyond anything that I’ve ever experienced.”

Dudley said, “I know.”

Joan touched his captain’s bars. She held on his eyes. She said, “I was a Navy lieutenant for ten seconds.”

Dudley smiled. Joan leaned in and kissed him.

They kept the light off and the windowpanes up. Rain hit frayed screens and sprayed them. The breeze cooled their sweat.

It rained all night. They made love all night. They talked in between.

Don’t you have a wife and kids somewhere?

In Van Nuys, I think. I forget my daughters’ names sometimes.

Those scars on your back. What happened there?

Some Ulstermen hooked me up to a truck battery. I broke free and killed them.

My sister married a Catholic. It caused a big uproar in Tunnel City, Wisconsin.

Your father. Do you think it was arson?

I lean that way. I’ve sworn vengeance, but the war’s hexed me. I don’t think of my father as much as I should.

In the first war, was he?

He killed Germans in the Ardennes. Not enough, he always said. It looks like history has proved him right there.

I prefer them to the Reds.

We should sic them on each other and bow out. Bill Parker always says that.

Aaah, our friend Bill.

The first time you sleep with someone, all these other people hop in the bed.

Who were you thinking of here?

Bill, Claire what’s-her-name, and Hideo Ashida. Kay Lake, most of all.

Aaah, La Belle Kay. The poor man’s Kirsten Flagstad and Eleanora Duse. I’ve never seen the allure, but my Claire credits her with a wide array of mischief.

I think she’s capable of anything.

36 (Los Angeles 12:00 P.M., 1/27/42)

Boomerang.

Ashida trudged the Biltmore lobby. He wore blinders. They scotched You’re a Jap looks.

He was pissed off. He tried to shuck the FBI. He forged Ray Pinker’s name to a file request. He marked it “Urgent.” All mint-train-heist paper/please expedite.

He stressed a collateral case. Forensic evidence has surfaced. Please expedite ASAP.

He hovered by the stat tube. A reply arrived fast. It read “Request Denied.”

Ashida trudged up to his floor. He was past mortified. He lived at the Biltmore. Elmer said, “You’re shitting in tall cotton, son.”

A colored maid dipped by. She sneered at him. The slave class revolts. You’re the slant-eyed Jim Crow. That means You’re a Jap.

Ashida unlocked the door. The lights were off. Somebody flipped a wall switch. Somebody yelled, “Surprise!”

The parlor was SRO. Somebody’d hung red-white-and-blue bunting. People stood and clapped. Somebody hummed for spacious skies and amber waves of grain.

People. Dudley, Jack Horrall, an Army major. Dr. Nort, Ray Pinker, Lee Blanchard.

People. Elmer Jackson, Joan Conville, Kay Lake. Note the full bar and buffet. Note the tipsy Mariko and Akira.

They swarmed him, they pumped his hand, they clapped his back. Ashida went slaphappy. They circled up and enclosed him. It all felt rehearsed.

Call-Me-Jack raised a glass. “Our very own enemy alien. A thorn in my side on the Watanabe case, but he delivered in the end.”

Some people laughed. Some people cringed. Some people rolled their eyes. They all raised their goblets and went L’chaim.

The major stepped close and held out a Bible. Ashida placed his left hand atop it and raised his right hand high.

“Repeat this, son. ‘I, Hideo Ashida, do swear the following oath. I will observe the rules and regulations of the Army Officer Corps and will defend the United States Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, at home and abroad.’ ”

Ashida said the words. The major shook his hand. The crowd whistled and clapped. Dudley stepped up.

He said, “Lieutenant Ashida.” He pinned gold bars on his suit coat. People cheered and whistled. Lee Blanchard handed him champagne.

A conga line formed. Dudley steered Ashida through. People shook his hand and tossed congratulations. Dudley swapped looks with Joan Conville. Ashida caught a two-way surge.

Dudley went Hush. The hubbub subsided. Dudley picked up a long leather case. He held it out, presentation-style.

The crowd circled tight. Dudley opened the case. It was black velvet — lined. Black velvet cradled a gold bayonet.

It was two feet long. It was blood-guttered and swastika-embossed. Ashida saw faint blade etchings. They might be mint marks.

The crowd ooohed and aaahed. Dudley said, “The spoils of war you’ll encounter in Mexico, lad.”

Ashida went eyes right. Joan went eyes left. Their eyes met and held. Ashida trembled. They orbed back to the bayonet.

Dudley said, “It’s solid gold.”

Ashida said, “I’d like to commemorate the moment. May I take some photographs?”

37 (Los Angeles, 2:00 P.M., 1/27/42)

Fucking Hideo Ashida. The brilliant little hump transcends.

Or exploits.

Or steps from shit to clover.

Or sells his soul to Dudley Smith.

The party throbbed. Elmer circulated. Hideo donned his full uniform. Dig the tight-creased trousers and holstered .45.

Jack Horrall was blotto. Hideo’s mom and brother, likewise. Lee Blanchard jawed with Doc Layman. Dudley slow-cruised by.

He said, “Are you behaving, lad?”

Elmer said, “You bet I am, boss.”

Dudley slow-cruised Big Joan. He caressed her shoulder. Big Joan went Oooh, baby.

Elmer caught it. Kay caught it. Elmer caught her rebound catch. He grabbed a bottle of champagne. Kay scoped the grab and pointed straight up. Elmer winked assent. Kay blew a kiss back.

Elmer strolled.

He sidled out of the suite. He hit the corridor and tapped an elevator. He whooshed to the penthouse floor and jogged up to the roof.

Downtown L.A. sparkled. Storm clouds brewed, north and east. The San Gabriels were all snowflake white.

Kay stood by a storage shed. She wore a black beret and a jazzy wool suit. She looked très swell.

Elmer walked over. Kay popped the champagne. They bottle-chugged. It was bargain-basement swill. Elmer gulped and tossed a flare.

“Tell true, now. Did you shank Dudley Smith?”

Kay gulped. “Elmer, come on.”

“Come on, yourself. You shivved Dot Rothstein.”

Kay lit a cigarette. It took three match swipes. Her hands shook that bad.

“All right, I’ll bite. Who told you I shanked Dudley?”

Elmer chugged champagne. “I was working the peek in one of Brenda’s trick spots. This Commo doctor blabbed on Claire De Haven. He was poking a college-girl pro. He blabbed, and I picked up on what the De Haven bint said about you.”

Kay blew smoke rings. They trailed sky-high. Kay pulled herself together, quick.

“You tell true, now. What’s with you and Dudley?”

Elmer said, “He’s crowding me. I’ve got a bug up my ass to crowd back.”

“Was the doctor Saul Lesnick?”

Elmer relit his cigar. “He’s a Fed snitch. His handler’s keeping tabs on him, and he needed me to fill in with the camera. He thinks Lesnick’s prone to blab to young tail.”

Kay mulled it. Elmer heard her gears click. She played classical piano and wrote highbrow hoo-ha. She was the smartest—

“The Fed’s right. I met Lesnick during Bill Parker’s incursion. He’s very susceptible to young women, but Claire’s giving me more credit than I deserve. What you’re telling me dovetails.”

Elmer reset Kay’s beret. He set it farther back on her hair and pulled up the stem.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

Kay laughed. “No, Brenda would kill me. Sleep with the college girl. It’s not like you’re not susceptible.”

Elmer laughed. “Who are you holding out for?”

“Bill — once he gets free of the redhead.”

“She gets around, that one.”

Kay said, “Dudley. All roads lead back.”

Elmer said, “I’m gathering information. Shit could play out a half dozen ways.”

Kay sipped champagne. “Operate the college girl. I’d be curious to know what Dudley and Claire are saying about me.”

Elmer said, “You’ve got the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They hide what you’re really thinking.”

Annie Staples had green eyes. She ran 5'10"/150. She induced loooooooow growls.

They coupled at Brenda’s fuck flop. Elmer made it laaaaast. They basked naked afterward. Elmer lay supine. Annie sat cross-legged on the sheets.

She sipped Cointreau, neat. Elmer dug in his trousers and plucked his flash roll.

He peeled off ten C-notes. He dropped them in Annie’s lap. Annie went google-eyed.

“That can’t be a tip. Brenda says we’re supposed to take care of you for free. ‘You keep Sergeant Jackson well supplied, Citizens. That way, he won’t be demanding on those rare nights he sleeps over.’ ”

Elmer haw-hawed. “You’ve got Brenda down, and I sure would like to make this a regular thing.”

“I see what you’re saying. There’s something else going on here.”

Elmer said, “There’s a certain FBI man that I think you know pretty well. He’s got you prompting old Doc Lesnick, who I also think you know pretty well.”

Annie pointed to the wall peek. “Ed Satterlee’s filming us. You’ve seen the prints. Ed probably screens them at FBI smokers. All these G-men eat popcorn and pull their puds.”

Elmer said, “There you go — but I wouldn’t say Ed’s all that crass.”

Annie lit a cigarette. “All right. I’ll concede that Ed’s got me working Saul. He’s a Fed snitch, and I’m snitching him to Ed. Filming us is something else, which I think Ed should pay me for more than he’s paying me now.”

Elmer jiggled Annie’s feet. “Whoa, now. I’m not going to film you or us, and I promise I’ll get your film back from Ed, and dissuade him from letting his pals take a look-see.”

Annie sighed. “Sergeant Elmer’s a sweetie pie. All the girls know that. He never asks for anything perverted, and he always tips.”

Elmer blushed. “Does Lesnick always blab so much about his patients?”

“Always. We screw for two minutes, then he talks for two hours.”

Elmer zeroed in. He stroked Annie’s hair. He dialed their eyes tight.

“I want to know whatever that woman Claire De Haven and her cop boyfriend say about me, a woman named Kay Lake, and possibly a kid named Tommy Glennon. Old Saul spiels to you, and you spiel to me. There’s a party in Brentwood tomorrow night. You’re going to work old Saul, and I’m hooking you up to a microphone gizmo.”

38 (Tijuana, 2:00 P.M., 1/28/42)

“Hirohito’s hellions rape Rabaul and pound pitiful Palau. The jungle-bred Japs parse peril throughout the Pacific. They cornhole the Carolines and savage the Solomon Isles. Ripsnorting Rommel lashes Libya and causes camel caravans to flee. Here in mucho magnifico Mexico, a furtive Fifth Column keesters coastal inlets. This quivering question remains—”

Father Coughlin cranked it. Dudley sat in the waiting room. Wall speakers popped the padre’s pitch. Glass walls showcased his gesticulations.

XERB Radio. 500,000 watts. It broadcast from Baja to Bangladesh. The whole world heard Charles Coughlin’s shit.

Coughlin cranked it. He threw sweat. His microphone melted. He’d promised a “special guest.” He said, “You’ll love this lad, Dud.”

“...as the lachrymose Left bemoans justified Jap roundups, and Mexico’s cucumber-cool cognoscenti wonders if Prez Camacho has turned righteously right, as evinced by his land grant to the sizzling Sinarquistas. And, since there’s no business like show business, are those ripe rumors about Eleanor Roosevelt and Colored Commissar Paul Robeson true?”

Charging Charlie Coughlin. Uproarious in short doses. T.J. by way of his Detroit parish and the Emerald Isle. Pope Pius pulled his U.S. show. The padre ran rogue and popped south. The Mex right wing loved him.

Dudley tuned him out. He daydreamed. He donned fascist garb and swung the gold bayonet.

He eviscerated priest-killers and nun-rapers. He butchered the British House of Commons. He speared Winston Churchill and noted royals. He decapitated FDR and all the men who’d fucked Claire.

He recalled Joan, two nights back. She tossed her hair just so. She wore gold cuff links. He watched her unfasten them.

He didn’t crave gold as gold or money. The bayonet’s provenance now bored him. He wanted to know who it killed. Only Herr Hanamaka could tell him that.

Joan was six feet tall. She’d be his height in heels. He wanted to dress her in black SS kit.

Her father burned to death. It might have been arson. He wanted to find the killer and offer him to Joan. She’d wield the gold bayonet.

Father Coughlin went reverential. His voice dropped. There’s his trademark pulpit hush.

Dudley watched. Coughlin bowed his head and hosanna’d. A man walked up to him. The two embraced.

Aaay, caramba. Es El Flaco Explosivo. It’s the Sleek Man himself.

He dressed pure Greenshirt. He wore jackboots and the coiled-snake armband. He looked through the glass wall and saluted El Dudster. Dudley stood and saluted him back.

Salvador Abascal. Why equivocate? He’s Saint Ignatius of Loyola, reborn.

Abascal straddled a hair and grabbed the microphone. He spoke perfect English. He addressed the World Grand Jury and laid down indictments. He demanded true bills penned in blood.

He defamed President Putarco Calles and his Red regime. He ridiculed Lázaro Cárdenas and his “godlessly gutless” reforms. He maimed modernism. It was “perversion perpetrated by the Jewish/atheist/nihilist Left.” He quoted the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. He critiqued communism as Jew-derived. He lashed Uncle Sam’s imperialista forays in Latin America. He urged the U.S to embrace the Catholic Church and reform from within.

He spoke straight to Dudley. Their eyes held through the glass.

Abascal cranked it. His spiel borrowed from Huey Long and Gerald L. K. Smith. He pumped his fist à la Conde McGinley and wailed like Klan preachers and El Führer himself. His voice rose and fell. He’d studied the soapbox orators of Weimar-era Berlin. He knew when to purr and when to SHRIEK.

The Protestant Reformation? “Wholly genocidal” and “the Christian Diaspora.” Martin Luther? “A tyrant to rival Josef Stalin.” Adolf Hitler? “A great, if unruly, leader, and a beatific beacon to the Western world at large.”

Abascal cranked it.

He mourned the martyred Cristeros. He described the Redshirt tortures inflicted upon them. He detailed a Sinarquista death list. The torturers would be slaughtered, one by one.

Dudley walked up to the glass. He placed his hands on it. The glass vibrated. The Sleek Man’s words did that.

Abascal walked to the glass. He placed his hands even with Dudley’s. The glass seemed to melt.

They were this close. Abascal spoke to a ceiling mike. Abascal said this:

“I vigorously condemn the British-Protestant imperialism levied against the sovereign Catholic people of Ireland. I call for all-out Irish revolt against the British beast.”

Dudley wept then.

39 (Los Angeles, 7:00 P.M., 1/28/42)

Star-studded bash meets field study. Know your foe. Observe her habitat. You’re a scientist and a thrill seeker. This could be fun.

She read up on Klemperer and his guests. The Herald previewed the party. She had the address and the pedigrees. The piece featured pix and boxed bios. It’s a slick study guide.

Pretend it’s a frat bash. You’re the new girl on campus. Breeze in and blend in. Crash the party.

Joan surveilled the Lake-Blanchard house. It was streamline moderne and just north of the Strip. It was turned out, c’est bon.

The house intensified rumors. Ex-boxer Lee took dives and reaped big payoffs. He was a name heavyweight. He raked it in for a spell. The cop rumor mill stamped it true.

Joan sat in her car. Her beat-to-shit ’36 Dodge. It still bore New Year’s Eve dents. She’d had the cracked windshield replaced.

Kay Lake drove a ’41 Packard. It sparkled and gleamed up her driveway.

Joan lit a cigarette. Her thoughts tumbled. She tossed words and characterized the excursion. Words came and went. Voyeuristic and Inconsequential stuck.

She watched Kay’s front door. She wore a green cocktail dress and high heels. She felt too tall/gawky girl at the prom. She went sleeveless. She missed her gold cuff links.

Her thoughts retumbled. They went party-to-party. She jumped back to the Biltmore. New-Captain Smith and new-Lieutenant Ashida. Behold the gold bayonet.

Possible mint marks. A raised swastika. She studies Ashida as he studies her. It’s a holy shit moment. Ashida photographs the bayonet. It’s evidence now.

Joan stretched and kicked off her shoes. Kay Lake stepped out on her porch. Kay, you’re a knockout. That black cashmere dress really works.

Kay walked to the Packard. She pulled out and swung down to the Strip. Joan U-turned and caught her at Doheny.

It’s a two-car caravan. It’s heading west through Beverly Hills. It’s all voyeuristic and inconsequential.

Joan reviewed her study guide. She respooled that Herald piece. Sid Hudgens penned it. He laid in a sidebar on Claire De Haven.

Dudley’s screwball lover. A “former Las Madrinas Ball debutante.” “Scrupulously scrutinized in 1940. State HUAC reads Red Claire the ripe riot act.”

Claire looked highborn and haughty. Buzz Meeks dished her at Lyman’s. He said she was snooty goods and rode the white horse.

Westbound on Sunset. Two women/two cars/one schoolgirl prank.

Joan lagged back. They passed the Bel-Air gates and UCLA. They swung through Brentwood and cut north on Mandeville Canyon. The terrain went posh rural. Recessed lawns and topiary. These rich folks had spreads.

Spanish haciendas. French châteaux. All-glass-cube moderns. Tall eucalyptus trees and terraced backyards.

Kay cut west. Joan followed her. Kay slowed and braked. There — that’s the spot.

A massive adobe. The Sidster’s “Maestro Manse.” Bright windows and lantern-lit yard. Blackout-reg violations up the ying-yang.

A wide porte cochere. Mexican valets. Loudspeaker music — gloomy and dissonant.

Kay swung in. Joan hung back and let a Coupe de Ville pass her. Kay ditched the Packard. She tossed her keys. A Mexican kid snagged them.

Joan swung in. She stepped into her shoes and out of the car. A little Mex gawked La Gringa Grande.

She gave him her keys and a dollar bill. He said, “It’s free.” She said, “It’s a tip.”

The porte cochere was spiffed up. Three flagpole banners rotated in sequence and supplied a drape effect. Stars and Stripes/Loyalist Spain/hammer and sickle. Red guardsmen flanked the front door. They looked like winos hired off skid row.

The front door stood open. Joan breezed inside. Kay played whirling dervish. She whooshed and disappeared.

Now, the looks. They’re all standard-issue. Who’s that? Check the big redhead.

Joan rebuffed looks. She checked the Maestro Manse. Holy moly. Somebody lives here.

There’s a foyer. It’s stark Deco and Nuremberg-sized. Living room, nein. It’s a Bauhaus beer hall. It’s all pillared and bas-reliefed.

Brass statuary. Backlit and floodlit. Beethoven and Wagner, splashed in workers’ red. It’s all distinctly modernist. Note the Picassos and Mirós on the walls.

Black leather couches and chairs. Silk tapestried carpets. Cut-crystal tables. A forty-foot fireplace. Mounted polar bears standing guard.

Joan just stood there. Guests mingled in clumps. War blah-blah bombarded her.

Hitler was wicked. Stalin was swell. Their recent pact was all rightist ruse. Hear those piano chords? That’s Otto’s sneak peek. He got V-mail from Shostakovich. It’s his new symphony. Nazi tanks attack Leningrad. Listen close — you can tell.

A waiter swooped by. Joan snatched a champagne flute. She imbibed Pernod and absinthe. It went straight to her head.

She stood her ground. She looked around. She matched faces to newspaper pix.

There’s the Maestro. That’s easy. Talk about tall. He suffered a brain tumor, circa ’39. He’s got a half-frozen face.

There’s Thomas Mann, Kurt Weill, and Bertolt Brecht. There’s Lotte Lenya and Arnold Schoenberg.

Sid Hudgens defamed them all. He wrote a private-PD dirt sheet. It covered his poker losses to Jack Horrall.

Lenya was a loin-lapping lezbo. Weill traveled Estrada Chocolato with George Cukor. Mann and Schoenberg ran Red. Brazen Brecht brought the bratwurst to Leni Riefenstahl.

Joan laughed. She snagged another Pernod and absinthe and quaffed it. Short men dipped by and gawked her. She looked left and saw José Iturbi. She looked right and saw Claire De Haven.

She’s patrician and near-translucent. She’s got hophead eyes. She’s Edna St. Vincent Millay, in Dudley Smith’s bed.

Claire evinced screechy nerves. She fretted a handkerchief. Her eyes darted. Guests swirled by her. Joan saw her eyes land.

On a small old man. Playing courtier. Perched on a black leather couch.

He sported a Sigmund Freud beard. He held a doctor’s bag. He pontificated on overdrive. A big blond girl cleaved close to him. She wore a tweed skirt and a brown crewneck sweater. She wore prep-school saddle shoes.

Joan sidled over. She perched in eavesdrop range. The old man gasbagged. Partygoers dropped by and said hi. They called pops “Saul” and “Dr. Lesnick.”

The blonde oozed adoration. She looked parodistic/he talked parodistic. Joan caught “Comrade Stalin” and “noble Red Army.”

Claire beelined up. Party fools swelled and crushed against her. She pointed to the doctor’s bag. Lesnick nodded. Lesnick went There, there.

Joan hovered. Claire fidgeted. A Chinese man pushed his way over. He plopped on the couch. The blonde went eeek and spilled half her cocktail.

She blotted her skirt. Lesnick patted her knee. He copped a leg feel and went Oy vey. The Chinaman gasbagged.

Joan heard “Hitler”/“Waffen-SS”/“racial science.” Words devolved to jabber. Lesnick said, “Slow down, Lin. I know some French, but I don’t know Chinese.”

Lin laughed. “Two-Gun Davis speak Chinese. Not you. Chinese new master race. They fix your Jew wagon.”

Lesnick laughed. The Davis crack ditzed Joan. The whole exchange warped in weird. Someone told her something pertinent. Some Lyman’s barfly. The exact source eluded her.

Claire leaned in and whispered to Lesnick. Chinaman Lin jabbered on. Joan caught movement, stage right.

Kay Lake hovered. She stood within voyeur range and eyed Lesnick and Claire. Guest swarms covered Joan. Lin’s blather drowned out Lesnick and Claire.

Kay drifted off. Lesnick and Claire stood up. The blonde pouted — Don’t leave me, lover. Lesnick mollified her. He laid out There, there’s.

Joan voyeurized. Pops bid deference. Moses parts the Red Sea. Guests step aside and hosanna. Lesnick hooks Claire’s arm and leads her off.

Joan followed them. They walked outside. Pole-fixed lanterns lit the backyard. Guests mingled by a barbecue pit. Negro chefs in Red Army tunics dished out spareribs and slaw.

A guesthouse stood by the back fence. Lesnick led Claire over and in. Joan caught up and peeped a side window. She caught an eye track inside and saw this:

Lesnick opens his bag. He pulls out a hypo and jabs a vial of morphine sulfate. Claire rolls up her left sleeve. Lesnick ties a silk-sash tourniquet. Claire shuts her eyes. Lesnick dips a cotton swab in rubbing alcohol. Claire trembles. Lesnick swabs her arm and injects her.

Joan walked off. She got the Sad-as-Shit Blues and traipsed back to the house. The triad concept ditzed her. It applied to chemistry. She applied it right here and right now.

Kay Lake/Dudley Smith/Claire De Haven. Unknown quotients abound. Smith/Parker/Conville. The same applies. Claire thinks Kay knifed Dudley. I’m a Wisconsin farm girl. What am I doing here?

Bombs away:

She caught more war talk. More guests talked it. More guests shouted it. More guests shouted over other guests and poked at their chests.

More spilled drinks. More cigarette-burned furniture and dumped ashtrays. No more sit-down space. More guests tripping and sprawling flat on their ass.

Joan detoured. She traipsed up a back stairway and hit the second floor. She heard a piano. Somebody played soft Chopin or Liszt.

She walked toward it. She stopped short at a doorway. She tucked herself out of sight and peeped.

Kay Lake and the Maestro played four-handed. Kay played the easy parts, the Maestro carried the weight. They sat close together. They wore symphony black. Kay was half the Maestro’s size. He had that half-frozen face.

They played to a crescendo. Klemperer’s hands trembled. Kay improvised one-handed chords and steadied them.

The piece built to an off-key finish. Klemperer laughed. Kay said, “Please tell me I’m not all that bad.”

Klemperer half-slurred. He pushed words and made himself understood.

“Your formal sense exceeds that of most amateurs. You learn very quickly. You interpret passionately, and you will give a successful recital before the end of this decade.”

Kay said, “I’m honored.” Klemperer banged chords. Boom, boom, boom. They were ominous and bluntly repetitive.

“German tanks descend upon Leningrad. Dimitri errs on the side of the descriptive and polemical here. He hates Hitler and Stalin equally, you know.”

“You should conduct the American premiere. I’m sure Maestro Toscanini would disagree, but you—”

“But I shall preempt him, dear Katherine. The finished score will reach me in advance. Smuggling plans now proceed. I will put together a vast assembly of film-studio musicians. Exorbitant ticket prices will assure vast sums for European war relief.”

Kay said, “Don’t price out my Police Department friends.”

Klemperer laughed. His whole face contorted.

“I will give your suitor Lee Blanchard a free ticket. That is because I saw him beat the piss out of Irish Eddie Gilroy in 1935. Did you know that I enjoy boxing? I will give your Lee a free ticket, because I fear him.”

Kay said, “The fight was fixed, Liebchen.”

“Then I hereby retract the offer.”

Joan waltzed. She felt overmatched. The Sad-as-Shit Blues reappeared. She traipsed back to the yard. A standing bar was set up. She ordered a double scotch mist.

Orson Welles whizzed by and vamped her on the fly. He tapped his wristwatch and mimed We’ll talk later.

Joan blinked. The Welles vignette consumed.5 seconds. She pulled up a lawn chair. A young woman materialized.

Frizzy-haired. Saul Lesnick’s distaff double. Her white gown trailed the ground. The hemline had been trampled. Joan saw footprints.

“I saw you watching my father. He was talking to that Nazi Chink.”

“It’s Miss Lesnick, is it?”

“It’s Andrea, or 19832040. That was my booking number at Tehachapi. I married a butch while I was inside, so that would have made me Mrs. Cahill. It wasn’t a real marriage, but it kept the really bad girls off of me.”

The Sad-as-Shit Blues, redefined and—

“I was in for vehicular manslaughter, but my daddy turned FBI snitch, and got me sprung as part of the deal.”

Too-real reprised.

“Do you always unburden yourself to total strangers at parties?”

Andrea said, “Yes. That’s what parties are for. I always come with my daddy. I keep him company while he writes dubious prescriptions for his numerous hophead patients — especially the ones he has qualms about finking off to the Feds.”

“Does your daddy supply his patients with liquid morphine?”

Andrea nicked a cigarette. Joan slid the pack over. Andrea dropped it in her purse.

“He supplies a Communist lady named Claire. She throws the best parties, because she’s really rich, and a faux Communist. He tattles her to the Feds, and shares it with me. He showed me a naughty film she was in. She had a scene with an actor named ‘Captain Hook.’ He had this big you know what, shaped like a dousing rod.”

Kay walked by. She bypassed Andrea’s floor show. Andrea glared at her and made claws.

“I met that girl at Claire’s house. Claire hates her. My daddy says she’s a police snitch. I always say it takes one to know one.”

Joan killed her drink. “Who was that blond girl sitting with your daddy?”

“That’s a whore he’s fucking. He fucks her and tattles his patients to her. He showed me a lock of her snatch hair.”

The Sad-as-Shit Blues. Revised and regurgitated—

Joan waltzed.

She ducked back inside. She snagged a Pernod and absinthe and downed it. She saw Doc Lesnick write scripts for Orson Welles and the Maestro. She saw the Chinese quack hobknob with a famous clinician. She made him. It was Terry Lux — “Plastic Surgeon to the Stars.” Sid Hudgens called him “Herr Eugenics.”

Joan circulated. The weird drinks had her weavy. Lesnick’s blond dipped by. Joan followed her outside. The blond ducked behind the guesthouse. Joan crouched behind a banyan tree and peeped her.

The blond pulled off her sweater and blouse. The blond went Oh shit and futzed with a microphone taped to her bra.

Bombs away:

Joan walked back to the house. Loudspeakers blared Tannhäuser. The ten thousand guests went rouge-cheek opera buffa. Kurt Weill and Lotte Lenya bushwhacked her.

They German-jabbered. They dragged her to a book nook. A projector and movie screen were set up. Opera buffa ghouls whistled and cheered.

Shucks. No Claire De Haven, no Captain Hook. Too bad, but:

Barbara Stanwyck fellated Walter Pidgeon. Carole Lombard and Anna May Wong went 69. Fredric March keestered Norma Shearer. A German shepherd scoped the two-bed action. He looked like Rin Tin Tin and wore a foil leprechaun hat.

Bombs away:

Joan waltzed. Lotte Lenya yelped good-bye. Joan pushed through yet more ghoul swarms and made it back outside.

She caught some air. War-chat cliques mingled. She glanced around. She looked for Kay and didn’t see her. She felt voyeuristic and inconsequential.

It was cold. The car valets lugged out coil heaters. Joan hit the stand-up bar and ordered black coffee.

It diluted the oddball drinks and revived her. A barside clique formed. Joan heard Spanish and Russian yak-yak.

Saul Lesnick plus two. One man and one woman. They dragged lawn chairs up to a heater and warmed themselves.

Joan pulled up a chair. The woman was dark-haired and wore klutzy glasses. The man was tall and gone to fat. He wore a Spanish Loyalist greatcoat and tuxedo pants.

Supplicants buzzed the clique. Lesnick played emcee. He introduced the woman. Her name was Jean Staley. The man got no intros. His coat did the job. The supplicants fawned. He was “our Meyer” and “Comrade Gelb.”

He stood up and embraced his fans. He employed the Spanish-style abrazo. Joan saw his burn-scarred hands. She nailed the full gist then.

The fire. L.A. Times coverage. Meyer Gelb fronts the Young Socialist Alliance. The Pershing Square orator. His public rants precede the blaze.

Joan pulled her chair close. Doc Lesnick schmoozed Jean Staley. They came off as old pals.

Jean updated him. She said she flogged real estate. She specialized in ritzy sublets. So many rich people traveled.

Lesnick said, “Don’t shit a shitter, Jean. You’re a carhop. Your house gig’s strictly part-time.”

Joan tuned them out. She brushed her chair up against Comrade Gelb’s. He turned and looked straight at her.

She said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gelb. I heard you give a speech many years ago. I’ve never forgotten it.”

He appraised her. He did that slow head-to-toe cruise.

“You’re very tall. Are you a lesbian volleyball player? It’s a shame there’s no money in it.”

“I was quite young when I heard that speech. High school girls are impressionable, and it was very hot that day. I’ll chalk this chance meeting up to disillusionment. You were someone aflame with purpose then, and you’re someone bitter now.”

Gelb lit a cigarette. He blew smoke too close to her face.

“You’ve never been to a political rally, and you’re not from L.A. Your drawl denotes the northern Midwest. Don’t try to jive me, I’ve been jived by the best.”

Joan lit a cigarette. She blew smoke too close to his face.

“It was ’33, Comrade. I remember the time vividly. The Griffith Park fire occurred a few days after your speech. My father was a greenskeeper on the golf course. He was lucky to escape with his life.”

Gelb twitched and flicked his cigarette. It hit damp grass and fizzled.

Joan said, “It was ‘a low, dishonest decade.’ That’s another line you could have stolen from Auden. ‘This storm, this savaging disaster’ has got more punch, but the former acknowledges History, which I know you Red shitheels deem essential.”

Gelb balled his fists. Joan opened her purse and went for a hat pin.

He spoke soft now. “Who are you?”

She spoke soft now. “I’m a forensic biologist. I work for the Los Angeles Police Department, and I’ve extensively studied the causal factors of arson and spontaneous wildfires. Which was it in your case? Or did you burn your hands in Spain, where you valiantly battled the fascist beast?”

Gelb bolted. Pure bluff torqued him. He jumped up. He kicked his chair and kicked the coil heater. Joan went What did I do? Jean Staley went Sweetie, that’s just Meyer.

Lesnick chased after Gelb. Joan chased to the bar and chugged scotch. Her pulse dipped to 300-plus.

She walked back to the party proper. The Bauhaus beer hall throbbed. Parsifal replaced Tannhäuser. That Wagner cat came to work.

Where’s Kay? Let’s find her. Let’s get it over with.

The Maestro Manse ran labyrinthine. Joan cut down hallways and got lost. She traipsed downstairs and upstairs. She hit a third-floor corridor. Steam seeped out a door crack.

She saw Orson Welles and Claire De Haven. They huddled tight and missed her. They wore white cotton robes. They exited a dressing room and entered the steam room. Steam billowed out.

Joan debated it. She plumbed the when-in-Rome concept. She just filleted a Red shitbird. In for a penny, in for—

She stepped into the dressing room. She stripped and hung her clothes beside Claire’s. She donned a robe and walked straight to the steam room. The steam was all-the-way hot.

They sat on a top ledge, buck naked. She dropped her robe and sat across from them.

Welles said, “Hi, Red.”

Joan said, “Hello, Mr. Welles.”

He stage-laughed. It was Falstaff’s ho-ho-ho. He said, “This is Claire De Haven.”

Joan said, “I’m Joan Conville.”

Steam mist covered Claire. Joan squinted. She wanted to see Claire stark nude.

Claire said, “Are you a friend of Otto’s, dear?”

Joan gouted sweat. She smelled purged absinthe and scotch.

“I worked at a research lab, up until Pearl Harbor. A doctor I knew there invited me.”

Welles said, “Red’s a physician. I knew it. Hey, Red — write me a script for pharmaceutical cocaine. I need to curb my appetite and lose weight.”

Joan laughed. “You look fine, Mr. Welles.”

“Orson, please.”

“We’re fishing for your occupation, dear. What you currently do for a living.”

Catch this, dear. “I work for the L.A. Police Department. I’m a biologist.”

Welles said, “Red’s a brain. I knew it.”

Claire toweled off. Joan caught a look. Her rib cage showed. Her breasts flared unevenly. Her legs were too thin. She was all translucence and veins.

“I know people there. Do the names Hideo Ashida, William Parker, Dudley Smith, and Katherine Lake ring any bells with you?”

A steam vent clicked off. The haze dissipated. Everybody caught looks.

“I work with Dr. Ashida, so I know him rather well. I know of Captain Parker and Sergeant Smith, but I haven’t met them. I don’t know Miss Lake at all.”

Welles said, “Smith’s Claire’s new flame. They’re shacked up in Mexico now. He’s an Irish hothead. He’d shoot me if he knew I’d seen Claire in the buff.”

Claire caressed Welles. She ran a hand between his legs. Welles bit his lips and stifled a gasp. Claire eyed Joan throughout.

“Be careful of Dr. Ashida, dear. He’s duplicitous and unmanly.”

The steam vent kicked back on. The peep show clicked off. Welles coughed out vapors.

“Hey, I’m feeling ignored here.”

Joan said, “You’ll never be ignored, Orson.”

“Are you kidding? In this town?”

Claire said, “Orson’s set to tour Latin America. Our faux-left president has him eating out of the palm of his hand. It’s a cultural mission. Orson’s been told to brownnose fascist despots to shore up the Allied cause.”

Welles mock-whispered, “This from the lady shacked with a cop who gets his kicks beating up Negroes.”

Claire caressed Welles. He moaned and bit his lips. Claire full-on grabbed him. She eyed Joan throughout.

Joan stood up and put her robe on. Welles said, “So long, Red. See you in church.”

Claire said, “Are you a police informant, Joan? Did Kay Lake recruit you when I got wise to her?”

Joan stepped outside. She went light-headed and hugged the wall. She stepped into the dressing room and dressed in two seconds flat.

Her pulse dipped crazy high and low. She walked downstairs and got lost. She caught Lohengrin blare and cut down a side hallway. She ran straight into Kay Lake.

Kay said, “Isn’t this party the most?”

They two-car’d back to the Strip. Kay trailed Joan this time. Dave’s Blue Room stayed open late. They rendezvoused there. They noshed steak sandwiches and quaffed gin fizzes.

Joan kept mum per Dudley and Claire. Meyer Gelb, likewise. They wolfed their food. They juiced. Andrea Lesnick had nicked Joan’s cigarettes. She smoked out of Kay’s pack.

A barman whipped up refills. Brenda A. and Elmer J. owned a house percentage. Kay dined and boozed gratis. They dished the dish and unfurled the hot ticker tape.

Kay said, “I’m wondering what you know that I don’t.”

Joan said, “I credit everything I hear — because I’m the new girl in town, and I haven’t developed a knack for discernment.”

“Run one by me. I’ll confirm or refute.”

“The Fed probe’s a shuck. J. Edgar Hoover’s a secret fairy. He goes for beefcake types like Ed Satterlee, and they both get their real jollies entrapping Reds.”

Kay lit a cigarette. “Don’t stop there.”

Joan played kamikaze. Her drift featured Dudley and Hideo Ashida.

“The Watanabe job’s a frame. The Werewolf looked convenient, so they nailed him. I’ll quote your chum Lee Blanchard. ‘The PD was running a fever on Pearl Harbor and the internment, so Jack Horrall told the boys to come up with a Jap-kills-Japs solve.’ ”

Kay whistled and went woo-woo. She said, “Here’s one you don’t know, because Jack H. can hold his mud, and it concerns you. Are you listening?”

Joan said, “Give.”

Kay said, “Jack dates Brenda once a week, at her place. It goes back to when Brenda was a line girl. She’s his confidante, and he tells her everything. The dish is he goes for you, and he wants you to run the lab and the whole Scientific Division. Ray Pinker’s taking a teaching post at Cal Tech in ’44. Mind your p’s and q’s, and the job’s yours. You’ll be the highest-ranking woman on the PD, and you’ll be sworn in as a full-boat police officer. Are you ready? You’ll attend the Academy and come out a captain.”

The room rolled cockeyed. Joan went breathless. Obscure psalms passed through—

Kay pushed her water glass over. Joan took big gulps.

“He likes my legs. I know that.”

“He told Brenda they go on forever.”

“I’m better qualified than that.”

“Jack’s soft on odd people. It’s an endearing trait for a crooked police chief.”

“I saw that with Hideo Ashida.”

Kay said, “Hideo’s a twisted little pansy. He framed the Werewolf to get next to Dudley Smith. They put Bill Parker in the middle, and devastated him.”

Joan said, “He was devastated, and he did nothing. Bill put his career and the PD’s reputation before an innocent man’s life, and what will it do to his soul when Shudo goes to the gas chamber?”

Kay crossed herself. She formed the protty cross. She’s a prairie Lutheran.

“I know. Es la verdad, muchacha.”

Joan squeezed Kay’s hands. “So, who tells him? Who holds him when he’s terrified and the world veers away from him? Who tells him that certain principles supersede his idiotic ambition?”

Kay laced up their fingers. “You’re saying, ‘Who gets him?’ ”

“Yes, I am.”

“There’s something that Lee used to tell his opponents, before the first-round bell.”

“Which was?”

“ ‘Luck, short of winning.’ ”

Joan drove home. She kept saying it. Captain J. W. Conville, Los Angeles PD.

She kept seeing it. The blue uniform. The silver bars. The rank parity with Dudley and Bill.

Two years from now. 1944. The war might well be over. America would win. She’d be twenty-nine then.

Joan pulled up to her courtyard. A prowl car was parked right in front of her. The driver’s window was down.

She walked over and looked in. Bill Parker was passed out in the front seat. A photograph was taped to the dashboard. It was sun-yellowed and bleached.

Winter, ’38. Bowler, Wisconsin. Big Earle Conville, shutterbug.

She’s sitting on a split-rail fence. She’s wearing a plaid shirt, jodhpurs, and lace-up boots. Her shotgun’s there in the frame.

Joan looked at Parker. She squared up his glasses and kissed the top of his head. He can’t weigh much. He’s not tall. He’s cumbersome at worst.

She pulled him out of the car and slung him over one shoulder. His gun belt bumped her. She tottered on her stupid high heels.

She lugged him inside her bungalow and laid him down on the bed. She unhooked his gun belt and took off his shoes.

A fresh rainstorm hit. She closed windows and kicked off her shoes. She sat at her desk and crossed herself like Kay did. She opened her lab notebook and wrote this:

“For better or worse, I am as one with this man.”

40 (Los Angeles, 6:00 A.M., 1/29/42)

He came in early. He locked the door. He had the lab free and clear.

He developed photo prints. He enhanced his snapshots of Dudley’s bayonet. He close-up shot his gold bar and microphotographed them both. Eureka. The mint marks matched.

Ashida clamped two photo slides and prepped his two-lens microscope. He’d prepared for this. He read gold textbooks and monographs. He gained metallurgical knowledge. He studied forge componentry and learned how gold spun and knit.

The L.A. Times supplied facts. Gold-heist sidebars laid out mining data. The stolen bars were forged from one Alaskan lode. He bet on knit bonds identically fused.

Dudley knew nothing of the gold heist and subsequent fire. He determined that at his swearing-in bash. The bayonet was stashed in Kyoho Hanamaka’s stash hole. It was the fetishistic apex of his Red/fascist cache.

Ashida dialed the two lenses. They maximum-magnified. He studied knit lines and melt marks and noted flaw patterns. He sifted them through his new knowledge. He concluded this:

His bar and Dudley’s bayonet. Separate-source items. They comprise a perfect match. They’re both gold-heist contraband.

Perfect symmetry. Dudley Smith. All roads intersect.

Ashida heard key-in-lock sounds. Ray Pinker opened the door. He said, “Hello, Lieutenant.” He shuffled his feet. He looked mortified.

Ashida said, “Is something wrong, sir?”

Pinker said, “I’m what’s wrong. I’m short on lawyer money, so I back-doored you. The Feds have got me cornholed, so I sold the plans for your photo device to the Mexican Staties. A Baja officer named Juan Pimentel brokered the sale.”

Ashida sighed. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ll be stationed in Ensenada. If the Staties require assistance, I’ll be happy to provide it.”

Pinker sighed. “God bless you, Hideo. And, before you say it, I’ll concede that I’m a shitheel. And, before you ask, I’ll kick back half the gelt.”

Joan Conville walked in. She sidestepped Pinker and Ashida. Pinker skulked back out the door. He dragged his feet. He looked hangdog.

Joan stood at Ashida’s desk. She looked in his microscope and adjusted the right- and left-side eyepieces. She dialed tight and saw the two photo blowups. She glimpsed the gold bar that he’d hid from her.

Ashida shut his eyes. He shut out Reckless Girl and Cunning Girl. He braced for her voice.

She said, “Well?”

Ashida opened his eyes. Reckless Girl and Cunning Girl stared him down. Shameless Girl. He saw suck marks on her neck.

“We both want the gold. You’ve withheld from me. That might be a good place to start.”

He stammered. His hands twitched. He fought back chills and nausea. He laid out what he’d withheld.

Joan said, “Half the gold’s mine. Don’t trifle with me. I’ll ruin you with Dudley Smith if you do.”

41 (Los Angeles, 11:00 A.M., 1/29/42)

Annie was goooooood. She laid on the gee-whiz. Her tell-me-more, sweetie? The cream de la cream.

Elmer adjusted his headphones. The wire gizmo covered his desk. He kicked his chair back and put his feet up.

The Vice squadroom was yawnsville. Elmer’s cubicle cocooned him. He heard party sounds and extraneous voices. Annie laid dat voodoo on old Saul.

She said, “That was Red Claire you were talking to, right? I’ll tell you this. She looks like a hophead. I know from hopheads, ’cause my kid brother’s one.”

Old Saul said, “I’ll credit Claire with a certain courage. She took that Parker and Lake pogrom that I told you about in her stride. Did I tell you that she converted to Catholicism a while back? It softened her regard for Parker, I’m afraid. They attend the same church and confess their specious woes to the same priest. I met the man at one of Claire’s tedious mixers. He impressed me as a fruitcake.”

Go, Annie, go! You gots me all voyeurizized!

Old Saul hacking-coughed. It fritzed up Elmer’s headphones. He said, “...and she’s prone to grandiose whim. To wit — this brutal cop-beast she’s shtupping. Her soul veers right as she poses left, and she thinks I don’t notice. To wit — she critiques my friendship with the esteemed racial scientist Lin Chung, who’s more politically savvy than ten Claire De Havens at their dilettante best.”

Annie lobbed a soft one. Gee-whiz meets sugar pie. “Racial science. It’s the same thing as ‘eugenics,’ right?”

Old Saul harrumphed. “Yes, and in that regard, I must concede that Hitler really does stand as the vanguard of a new world order. Who can fail to applaud his stand on euthanasia and the sterilization of mental misfits? Are we seriously to believe these idiot claims that he’s slaughtering Jews en masse? I pose that question as an informed Jew myself, and I’ll go on to add that all enlightened people must be ready to accommodate Hitler, should he win the war.”

Annie said, “Gee, Saul. You’ve really given this some serious thought.”

Elmer haw-hawed. Go, Annie! Skewer that bug-fucker!

Old Saul said, “Claire accedes to none of this, of course. She accedes to her cop-brute lover and passively condones his horrid beliefs, but she can’t comprehend the simple truth as far as Hitler is concerned.”

Party noise escalated. Elmer heard strange music. Annie came through, skunked.

“Welles... oh, dear... he’s put on weight.”

Old Saul said, “Orson was coddled in his crib and improperly toilet-trained. He wet his bed into his teens and still sucks his thumb when nobody’s looking. He eats too much, drinks too much, fucks too much, and sniffs too much cocaine. He’s a sucker for flattery and a shill for the OIACC — and every other acronym shuck that FDR’s ever dreamed up. Claire’s been known to orally copulate him in steam rooms—”

Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle popped in the door. They looked hot-fevered. Elmer dumped his headphones.

Mike said, “There’s a callout. We’ve got three down at 46th and Central. Thad Brown wants you there.”

It was niggertown. It was Code 3, lights and siren. Jack Horrall decreed a hot rush.

Eight vehicles rolled. Lab car/foto car/morgue vans. Newton Station sleds ran escort.

Thad Brown ran the pole car. Breuning and Carlisle dogged him. Elmer bumper-locked them. Sirens blared god-awful loud.

It was one fucking big cop armada. It rolled eastbound and south. It magnetized street fools. They bug-eyed the white man’s hurried-up shit.

Call-Me-Jack was due later. He told Thad to tight-seal the location. It can’t be some triple shine killing. Shine killings drew zero heat.

Cop cars made like bumper cars. They siren-blared and snout-bashed civilian cars out of the way. The caravan strafed the jazz-club strip. Elmer gassed on the marquees.

Club Zamboanga, Port Afrique, Club Alabam. Pasteboard music clefs two stories high. Club Zombie, Ivy’s Chicken Shack, Mumar’s Mosque #3. The Church of the Living Dead and Congregation of the Congo. Rae’s Rugburn Room — the darktown dyke den.

There’s 46th. It’s a sharp left turn. Newton blues have got the crib cordoned off.

It’s a two-story backhouse. It’s dilapidated. The in-front house looks gutted. Note the surrounding crabgrass and discarded short dogs.

The caravan screeched up and braked all in sync. Fenders smashed and locked eight in a row. The blues stepped aside. Plainclothesmen hauled ass straight over and in.

Elmer elbowed up to the front. He got there first. He saw this:

It’s some jazz fiend/dope fiend/right-wing-geek klubhaus. There’s two pool tables. There’s ratty furniture. There’s a terp still. There’s a dry bar stocked with Mex mescal and tequila.

There’s a phonograph. There’s a sax, trombone, and trumpet dumped on a chair. There’s smut mags piled beside them. There’s Hitler pix taped to the walls. There’s Sinarquista flags interspersed.

Thad Brown ran in. Breuning and Carlisle crowded up. It got real hushed inside and real noisy out.

Sirens whooped and cut off. Car doors slammed. Doc Layman ran in. Hideo Ashida and Joan Conville followed. Everybody eyeballed the death crib. Everybody cased the stiffs.

Three dead men. All clothed. Perched upright on one couch. They’ve got upraised heads and wide open mouths. They’re sucking in last gasps of breath.

A low-life Mex.

Officer George Kapek.

Officer Wendell Rice.

42 (Ensenada, 12:30 P.M., 1/29/42)

Dudley said adios. Long-distance fuzz skunked the call. He got the gist but no context.

Mike called from the Club Alabam. There’s three dead in some coontown shithole. Two Alien Squad humps and a Mex rumdum. It might be homicide. It might be terp ODs. Thad Brown’s got the command.

Thad formed a crash squad. Mike and Dick from Homicide. Hideo and Joan from the lab. Lee Blanchard and Elmer Jackson from the Alien Squad.

Blanchard was lackluster. Jackson was meddlesome. Elmer’s proximity troubled him. It recalled Chinatown, New Year’s Eve.

The botched stakeout. Tommy Glennon escapes. He forms a posse. Mike and Dick suit up. Ditto Jackson. Ditto dead cops Kapek and Rice. Add on Catbox Cal Lunceford.

Eddie Leng is snuffed that night. Proximity as destiny. Design within the chaotic.

Dudley spun his desk chair. He orbited his office and applied the brakes. He brooded up the coontown job. Two options appeared.

Possible ODs. That meant cover-up. Dope-fiend cops just would not do. Possible homicide. That meant showcase. It’s the PD’s first double cop killing. Pull out the stops. Whitewash the victims. Enact justice at all costs.

Sound recent and familiar? It should.

The Watanabe job consumed December. It’s late January now. Two-Gun Davis remains volatile and perhaps talkative. He should choose a propitious moment and inform Jack Horrall.

Dudley spun a reorbit. It cleared his head. Juan Pimentel walked in. He clicked his heels and saluted. He placed a grand object on the desk.

Hideo Ashida’s photo device. A contraption suffused with true dash.

“You’ve succeeded in delighting me, Lieutenant. Dr. Ashida’s invention has served to revolutionize policework in Los Angeles.”

Pimentel reclicked his heels. “Mr. Ray Pinker sold the plans to Captain Vasquez-Cruz, who promptly had the design duplicated. He has already installed three devices at the Tijuana border. We can now photograph license plates as vehicles enter and leave our country.”

Dudley pondered the sale. One conclusion popped. Pinker sold the plans covertly. Hideo would have told him otherwise.

“I’ve had a grand brainstorm, Lieutenant. I would like you to place one of these alongside Kyoho Hanamaka’s carport. Stretch the trip wire across the entire circumference and affix three wide-angle lenses. I’m going up there now. I’ll bring you back a dimensional drawing.”

Pimentel clicked his heels. He clicked elegantly and often. Heel clicks punctuated his dutiful young life.

“A question before you go, Lieutenant.”

“Sir?”

“I would call your dislike and distrust of Captain Vasquez-Cruz plainly apparent. Am I correct here?”

Pimentel clicked. “Sir, you are vastly correct.”

He brought the bayonet. He undressed in the hidey-hole and donned Nazi black. The gold shaft caught lamplight and threw his image back. He rewrote History a tad.

The Blitz. Evil London burns. Irish Republicans light bonfires to guide Luftwaffe bombers. He’s there to watch.

Salvy Abascal joins him. They’re dressed in Sinarquista green. Joan Conville’s their consort. She’s green-clad. She wears her Scottish clan’s tartan sash.

They’ve had one night together. He’s learned a few things. The scientist-empiricist shares his mystical streak. She’s as death-derived as he is. He told her of the Wolf he met on the British moors. She did not doubt the Wolf’s occasional visitations. He touched her clothing while she slept. He became the Wolf chasing her scent.

She’s as man-bound and father-bound as he’s bound to his mother and women. She rages to kill the man who burned her father dead. She’s told him some things. He’s made a few queries. He shares her suspicions of mad inventor Mitchell Kupp.

Burned Londoners run toward them. They resemble Joan’s father felled by scorched trees. Joan wields the gold bayonet. It’s both merciful and brutally just.

She’s his sister-lover now. Her conduit-to-Bill Parker status may or may not play out. He will help her take a man’s life. Salvy Abascal saved his own life. He’s Joan’s half brother and his own full one. He demands respect and commands scrutiny.

Salvy killed Victor Trejo Caiz. It was an act performed with bold premeditation. They spoke briefly after Father Coughlin’s broadcast. Their touchstone is shared ideology. Salvy wants something from him. This seductive dimension will soon be revealed. There’s a Sinarquista rally in Ensenada tonight.

Lover-sisters/brothers/daughters/sons—

Beth is due for a visit. He’ll pair her off with Joan Klein and commend them to mischief. Young Joan pilfers from stores. She’s pilfered bland SIS memos and cabled them to her “Comrades” in New York. She asked him to teach her how to shoot a gun. They had a father-daughter jaunt on the beach.

Young Joan blasted driftwood with his .45. A sidearm vanished from the armory the next day.

Young Joan to Young Juan. The snappy heel clicker and pay phone — tap whiz. The tireless surveiller of this selfsame hideaway.

He read Juan Pimentel’s personnel file. He noted Class A fitness reports and a pithy biographical aside.

Pimentel resigned a war college posting. He defamed President Cárdenas’ anti-Church policies. Lieutenant Juan is devoutly Catholic and pro-Sinarquista.

Salvy will address a large crowd tonight. El Flaco Explosivo will surely explode.

Dudley swung the gold bayonet.

Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka?

A nice heart attack would rectify the Two-Gun Davis glitch.

Joan must miss him. He’ll send the Wolf by to sleep at the foot of her bed.

Young Joan showed off her pin map. The Russian campaign wowed her. Her people hailed from that neck of the woods.

They sat on Dudley’s terrace. Claire was off at afternoon Mass. Young Joan had nicked an atlas and tore out the Russian spread. She nicked the pins from the SIS squadroom.

Little swastikas for the Nazis. Hammer and sickles for the martyred USSR.

A grand child. Perhaps psychopathic. Only time would tell.

She said, “The green swastikas represent armored battalions. The blue ones represent troop movements, and the penciled-in Xs represent the Germans’ retreat from Moscow. The red pins show the Home Guard dug in.”

“You get your war news from the radio, do you?”

“XERB. I know some Spanish now, but I base my troop movements on the English-language broadcasts.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. Young Joan nicked one just to nick one. She didn’t smoke.

“No more stealing memorandums to impress your chums back home. Keep the gun you stole, but don’t steal any others. Since you know damn well how softhearted I am, I’m offering you a job as a consolation prize.”

Young Joan said, “That sounds intriguing.”

She mimicked Claire’s inflections. She invaded Claire’s closets and tried on her clothes. He’d caught her at it.

“Your Aunt Claire finds Captain Vasquez-Cruz suspicious, and I must say I agree. I’ve requisitioned a great many police files, and I don’t have time to go through them. I’d like you to. Study them and look for pictures and notations pertaining to the captain. I’ll pay you, of course.”

Young Joan said, “You’re a pal, Uncle Dud.”

They shook hands on the deal. She pinned a green swastika to his necktie. Dudley roared.

Avenida Ruiz was blocked off and torch-lit. Blackshirt Staties and Greenshirt Sinarquistas mingled. The crowd numbered some six hundred. Dudley stood at the back.

He wore his Class A uniform. He retained the swastika tiepin for giggles and grins. He stood near men with coiled-snake armbands and women in green twill frocks.

He caught a nap at the hotel. A dream placed him in the Maestro Manse, among gargoyles. Beethoven and Wagner busts sprang to life.

A long-distance call roused him. Mike Breuning reports:

The darktown crib remains chaotic. It’s still undetermined — homicide or terp ODs. Mike braced Thad Brown on Elmer Jackson. Thad said, “He worked the Alien Squad with Kapek and Rice. I want him in on this.”

The call disconnected. Something vague tweaked him. He’d heard of the death crib. He can’t recall where or when.

Cheers went up. Salvy Abascal took the stage. It was built from tin cans and lashed-up orange crates.

El Flaco held a microphone. It was hooked up to a ’32 Ford. A Statie sergeant ran the engine and sparked the battery. Flaco let loose.

He spoke Spanish. The microphone cut in and out. Dudley quick-translated and still lost bursts of text. The shrieking crowd further blitzed comprehension. Nobody heard a thing the man said.

Dudley gave up sound for sight. Salvy gave the crowd Weimar Berlin, reborn. His gestures urged them to listen to their one united voice and imagine what it was saying. He swayed on rickety orange crates and held a dead microphone. He spoke the truth in the crowd’s one voice.

It extended. It remained vitalist. Salvy swayed and made the crowd speak in his voice. Dudley supplied his own words. He began with the Book of Revelation and worked backward. Salvy stopped and he stopped with this:

God gave Noah the rainbow sign. No more water — the fire next time.

43 (Los Angeles, 9:00 P.M., 1/29/42)

They stood nine hours in. Thad Brown ran the Crash Squad. Nobody sleeps till I give the word.

Newsmen swarmed outside. Brown nixed them inside. It’s the PD’s first double cop snuff. That’s the urgent gist and newsprint hook here.

Arc lights glared outside. Cops and lab folk swarmed inside. Doc Layman left to testify in court. He was Crash Squad — adjunct. Hideo Ashida ran the lab slot. Joan backed him up.

Newton blues roped off 46th Street. They cordoned Central to the west and Hooper to the east. Newsmen hopped backyard fences and got though regardless. Radio scribes spieled right there in the yard. Said yard was trampled past all forensic hope.

Joan stepped outside. She gobbled aspirin and dosed a solvent-fume headache. Breuning and Carlisle ducked past her. They ran in and out. Ashida and Brown stuck inside. Lee Blanchard was canvassing. Elmer Jackson booked off somewhere. He’d redubbed the “death crib” the “klubhaus.” The news fools lapped it up.

Joan lit a cigarette. Arc light glare torqued her headache. She caught newshound jabber. Dumb comments overlapped.

It’s a shine caper. Coons off the jazz strip. You’ve got a skirt and a Jap on the job. The Dudster and Whiskey Bill should have a piece of this. They scored good on them Watanabe snuffs.

“The Skirt and the Jap.” The news ghouls loved it. She ran her own Skirt-and-Jap riff. The punch line reverb’d.

Half the gold’s mine. Don’t trifle with me. I’ll ruin you with Dudley Smith if you do.

Ashida trembled then. She acted then. She typed a note to the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s. She forged Ray Pinker’s signature and demanded this:

“Photostat the gold-heist file. Do it now. Priority expedite.”

Then, this callout. Then, all this grief.

They’d worked nine straight hours. She dusted touch-and-grab surfaces and got all smudges and smears. She elimination-printed all the blues and detectives. Ashida photographed the klubhaus interior. The bodies remained on the couch. The Mex remained un-ID’d.

She combed a two-block radius. She jotted vehicle descriptions and plate numbers. She brushed up against jazz-club habitués. Negroes and Mexicans with big conks and hairnets. They made faces and coochie-coo’d her. She blew that Indian’s foot off for less.

Joan tossed her cigarette. She was hungry. Thad Brown just called Kwan’s. He ordered eight pupu platters and four fifths of hooch.

Jumped-up jazz echoed. The Club Zombie and Club Alabam stood forty yards off. A big sedan bucked the west cordon and bumped up on the curb. The driver leaned on the horn. Jack Horrall got out.

The newshounds cheered. A radio man held his mike up to catch the kerfuffle. Call-Me-Jack hopped the gate. He tried to look somber and tanked. He was a huckster. He lived for this.

He held up his hands. He went Thank you, thank you. He almost but not quite grinned.

The newsmen simmered down. Call-Me-Jack shook fifty hands in ten seconds. Joan pushed in close. Jack saw her and went woo-woo!

He pushed two flat palms down and got instant ssshhh. He looked up at God and down at his feet. He tried to look humble and tanked. He looked straight at the newsmen and launched his spiel.

“It’s a sad occasion any way you slice it, but we don’t know if it’s homicide or not. We haven’t ID’d the Mex yet, but our two late policemen are Officer Wendell D. Rice, age thirty-four, and Officer George B. Kapek, age thirty-six. Officer Rice came on in ’28, and Officer Kapek came on in ’30. They are survived by their lovely wives, Mrs. Vera Rice and Mrs. Dorothea Kapek. They’ve got a whole brood of kids between them, but I’m not sure how many. Our prayers go out to the bereaved families of these two fine young policemen, and to the Mexican’s family, if he had one.”

The newsmen clap-clapped. Call-Me-Jack relaunched his spiel.

“Here’s a tidbit you boys will enjoy. We’re reviving the all-league team that solved the baffling Watanabe murders last month, with a few exceptions and one addition. Sergeant Dudley Smith’s battling the Fifth Column in Mexico now, but he’s sure as you know what here in spirit. We’ve got Captain Bill Parker to ride herd, Lieutenant Thad Brown to run the show, Sergeants Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle from Homicide, and two close pals of the dead men — Officer Lee Blanchard and Sergeant Elmer Jackson — from the Alien Squad. Big Lee was once a ranked heavyweight contender, so you reporters better be nice to this white man’s PD.”

Haw-haws rose and fell. Call-Me-Jack did the flat-palms bit.

“Last but not least, we’ve got Sergeant Turner Meeks, detached from Robbery. All you Western-movie fans know Buzz. He’s played in a lot of those oaters they shoot out in the Valley. He never gets the girl, but he always gets the horse. Maybe one day he’ll get lucky.”

The Meeks jive drew laughs. It cued Meeks his own self. He jumped out of the Chief’s sedan and jumped through the gate. That drew more laughs. He saw Joan and jumped straight her way.

He said, “Will you go to Acapulco with me?”

Joan looked down at him. She patted his head. She said, “No, you’re too short.”

That drew the biiiiiig laughs. Meeks doubled over. Newsmen pulled their notebooks and wrote up the shtick.

44 (Los Angeles, 10:30 P.M., 1/29/42)

Dr. Nort shooed the cops out. They hit the yard and mingled with the press. Sid Hudgens made a liquor-store run and juiced the whole gang.

Breuning and Carlisle dished out stale rumaki. Thad Brown sloshed bourbon in coffee cups. Buzz Meeks snoozed on the grass. Lee Blanchard was off canvassing. Elmer Jackson plain vanished.

Ashida walked back inside and cased the dead men. He’d photographed them at 1:00 p.m. and reshot them at 8:00. They were rigor-locked and lightly livid the first time. They were full stiff now. Blood expanded their ankle and foot tissues. That meant they died sitting down.

Dr. Nort wheeled up an arc light. He strapped a surgeon’s lamp around his forehead.

“We’re not here to strictly determine cause of death, unless something jumps up and bites us. I’ll do the formal autopsies at the morgue. This is a triple the likes of which I’ve never seen. I’d like to examine them within the context of this equally unique place we have here.”

Joan said, “I haven’t even begun the inventory.”

Ashida said, “You have three men, near-identically posed. That suggests that the killer or killers rearranged their bodies postmortem.”

Dr. Nort shook his head. “Yes, to an indeterminate degree. But the first thing that comes to mind for me is that they all appear to have died while struggling for breath, which suggests three men, insensate from the ingestion of narcotics, who died of toxic exsanguination within short intervals of one another.”

Joan said, “They would have flailed then, Doctor. There’s a certain symmetry in the way they’re posed on the couch.”

Ashida tugged the Mexican’s left biceps. He got no flex and no give.

“The approximate time of death, sir?”

Dr. Nort said, “I took rectal temperatures the moment I got here. I’m calling it 2:00 to 4:00 a.m.”

Ashida deployed Man Camera. He panned the couch and framed the three men. He studied their clothes first.

The Mexican wore slit-bottom khakis and black leather oxfords with crepe soles. Plus a white undershirt and striped zoot coat. Crepe-sole oxfords were burglars’ shoes.

Rice wore brown wingtips and gray flannel slacks. He wore a cross-draw belt gun on his left hip. Plus a blue sport coat and loud Hawaiian shirt.

Ashida extrapolated. The Man Camera revealed this:

No wedding ring on Rice’s left-ring finger. An indentation where wedding rings normally sit. Rice was married. Rice removed his ring to hide the fact. Rice was a tomcat.

Kapek wore a green cardigan and navy dungarees. His footwear seemed anomalous. He wore patent-leather pumps.

Ashida extrapolated. The Man Camera revealed this:

They were dancing shoes. The klubhaus adjoined a jazz strip. Officer George B. Kapek was a jitterbug.

Dr. Nort said, “Our Hideo’s worked himself into a trance.”

Joan said, “It’s a study technique. I learned it in grad school.”

Ashida stepped back and aimed off the couch. He framed a coffee table and strafed a glass ashtray. It was filled with spent matches and cigarette stubs.

Ashida extrapolated. The Man Camera revealed this:

There are more matches than stubs. The ashtray appears freshly wiped.

Ashida said, “I’ve spotted an inconsistency. We have a freshly washed-out ashtray, filled with cigarette butts. I’ve counted twenty-four butts and twenty-seven expended matches. That’s three more than we have butts for, and we have three potential homicide victims.”

Joan examined the ashtray. “I’ll extrapolate. The killer wants to remove incriminating evidence, yet retain what I’ll call ‘forensic normalcy’ here in the klubhaus. He removes the three butts and washes the ashtray. Now, I’ll hazard a guess. Our victims, who might not be victims, but just inadvertent bunglers, smoked liquid terp in hand-rolled cigarettes. It’s the butts themselves that appear anomalous. The killer removed the hand-rolled butts and wiped the ashtray to eliminate all traces of liquid terpin hydrate.”

Dr. Nort cracked a smile. Ashida balled his fists. Reckless Girl usurped his thesis.

“There’s a terp still here on the premises. We should determine the molecular makeup of the drug that remains in the feeder vats. Dr. Layman can check it against any terpin hydrate he might find in the victims’ bloodstreams.”

Dr. Nort whistled. He went Whoa, now.

“Let’s not jump the gun. We don’t know for sure that they’re victims. And we don’t know that smoked terpin hydrate killed them.”

Joan approached the couch. She reached down and turned out Wendell Rice’s front pants pockets. They were empty. Imperious Girl. Ashida balled his fists.

Dr. Nort said, “You’re looking for rolling papers.”

Joan nodded. She turned out the Mexican’s front pants pockets. They were empty. She turned out George Kapek’s front pants pockets. She pulled out a cigarette-paper deck.

Dr. Nort went all gaga. Reckless Girl did that to men.

Ashida rearranged the corpses. He turned out their back pockets and got lint balls and nothing else.

Joan said, “We confiscated a still from that man Don Matsura’s apartment. Remember, Dr. Ashida? He committed suicide at the Lincoln Heights Jail.”

Dr. Nort shook his head. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. They could have bought terp at any one of the clubs half a block from here. Let’s have this discussion after my postmortem.”

Ashida leaned over the couch. He worked three across. He grabbed the dead men by the hair and looked in their wide-open mouths. The room light was just right. He saw inflamed lesions.

Dr. Nort leaned down. He adjusted his headband light. He close-up lit the mouth cavities. He stepped back and stretched.

“Precancerous lesions. All three men. Similar levels of inflammation, of a type common to habitual terp smokers.”

Thad Brown and Buzz Meeks walked over. They’d huddled up to watch.

Meeks said, “What about maryjane? They spray the crops with chemicals down in Mexico, then the grasshoppers up here got to contend with all kinds of medical grief.”

Brown said, “Toss the place, Buzz. Look for maryjane, and tag any contraband you find.”

Meeks clumped upstairs. Brown poked around. He had well-known eagle eyes.

He scoped a pile of hate tracts and the Hitler wall pix. He touched the sax and trombone on the chair. He went through phonograph records. He ran his hands under the couch and pulled out a matchbook.

Ashida stepped close. Brown opened the matchbook. Half the matches were gone. They’d been removed left to right.

Brown held the matchbook out. Joan stepped close. Ditto Dr. Nort.

Brown said, “Southpaw. It’s something or it’s nothing, but it’s not a bad elimination lead.”

Ashida aimed his Man Camera. He framed the dead men. He close-up shot their hands. He caught your standard size discrepancy.

“They were all right-handed. Their right hands are larger and more muscularly developed.”

Dr. Nort said, “Kapek and Rice wore their belt guns on the left. That connotes a right-hander’s cross-draw.”

Brown checked out the matchbook. Club Zamboanga/yellow-and-black type/a snarling panther motif.

“Blanchard’s out canvassing. He’s supposed to meet up with Elmer. They’ll check the Zamboanga, for sure.”

Meeks banged on the upstairs floorboards. He sent up a racket. His voice boomed down.

“No maryjane! Nothing but a whole shitload of disarray!”

Ashida pointed to the ashtray. “I’m positing a fourth man. I understand that it’s precipitous, but please indulge me. I’m thinking that he fashioned hand-rolled cigarettes but did not partake.”

Dr. Nort shrugged. “All right, I’ll play. Maybe it’s terp, maybe it’s not. It could have been a toxic level of some other inebriant that I’ll determine at autopsy.”

Joan braced the couch. She leaned close and circled it. She worked three across.

She clamped heads, three across. She studied them. She came up behind the couch. She reverse-angled the process and said, “There’s something here.”

Ashida leaned in. Dr. Nort and Thad Brown watched. Joan pointed to this:

A blood dot below George Kapek’s left ear.

Ashida look-see’d. It was less than a puncture/more than a pinprick.

Joan slid man to man. Showy Girl struts and poses. She pointed below Wendell Rice’s left ear. The Mexican, likewise. She nailed identical dots. They were less than punctures/more than pinpricks.

Thad Brown said, “Mother dog.”

Dr. Nort said, “If he came at them from behind, he had to have been left-handed.”

Joan said, “These are in no way killing wounds. They barely penetrate the skin, and they don’t correspond to visible veins at all.”

Ashida pointed three across. “It could be a coerced ingestion of a lethal substance. The killer persuaded them by the means of a sharp instrument at their necks.”

Brown wiped his glasses on his necktie. He put them back on and peered extra close.

“Here’s a guess. They were partially debilitated already. That’s the only way I can see one man taking out three. And there’s no dust on that matchbook, smack in the middle of this shitty little dust hole. That means it was shoved under the chair recently.”

Dr. Nort shrugged. “Maybe the killer had accomplices. Maybe we should concede that all of this is suppositional and may have no bearing on the matter at hand.”

Joan smiled. “Dr. Nort’s being a killjoy, so I’ll add that those dots look like icepick markings I’ve seen in Crim One texts.”

Ashida got bristles and chills. Watch this, colleagues. Brilliant Boy shows off.

He pulled down George Kapek’s shirt collar. Ditto for the Mexican and Wendell Rice. He laid their necks bare. It revealed this:

Single hand-span bruises. All right-handed/all applied from behind. Thumb marks on the left side of their necks. Finger-grab marks on the right.

“I don’t know how they died, but he held them steady with his right hand and held the ice pick with his left. A left-hander would favor that hand for such a task.”

Joan said, “Single-hand strangulations are very rare. It might have been two men applying force from both the front and the back.”

Dr. Nort said, “All right, I concede. Call the Chief, Thad. It’s homicide.”

45 (Los Angeles, 11:00 P.M., 1/29/42)

Local jazzcats made him. They sniffed grief and gave him dat wiiiiiiiiiiiiide berth. He magnetized resentment. He percolated fear and hate.

Elmer walked the strip. He felt underdressed. His squarejohn suit clashed with all the full-drape zoots. Lots of cats and kittens, lots of saucy dash. Coloreds, beaners, whites. The Dark Continent jumps tonite!!!

Peace, my dusky brethren. I’m as hopped up as you are. It started New Year’s Eve — but it be exploding HERE.

The Sinarquista flag at the klubhaus. The Sinarquista stencil in Tommy G.’s room. The Sinarquista tattoo on Eddie Leng. The terp still in the klubhaus. The terp still in Don Matsura’s apartment. Matsura’s jail “suicide.” Matsura’s KA’d up with Eddie Leng and Lin Chung. Two Alien Squad hard-ons. Said hard-ons now muerto. Don’t dis shit read Fifth Column to you?

Elmer loitered at 47th and Central. Kool kats and kittens skunk-eyed him. He caught blare-blasted music. He smelled whorehouse perfume and spattered grease.

Lee Blanchard was due. They had late-nite canvass duty. Elmer loitered and brain-broiled His Big Case.

He blew out of the klubhaus. He went AWOL. He got this wild bug up his ass. Let’s detonate this whole fucker. He drove to his place and got to work.

He called the Vice clerk he braced New Year’s Eve. He told him to keep mum and promised him five yards. He said, “You never ran them phone numbers I troubled you with.” The clerk pledged silencio.

Oooga-booga. Let’s blow this klubhaus job straight to shit.

Elmer studied Tommy G.’s address book. He got Tommy’s block-print style down pat. He spiced up the book. He drew swastikas and Sinarquista snakes. He added right-wing thunderbolts. He skimmed phone books and got some choice numbers. PC Bell shot him unlisteds. He forged and spawned chaos then.

Tommy’s book ran provocative from jump street. It listed St. Vib’s, the Deutsches Haus, Dudster snitch Huey Cressmeyer. You had unknown cooze Jean Staley and homo priest Joe Hayes. You had the hot-box phone by the Herald. You had fourteen Baja pay phones. Now, let’s add this:

Lin Chung. Low-rent plastic surgeon/dope peddler/Fifth Column shitbird.

Orson Welles. Hotshot actor-director/quasi-Red flotsam/finked-out patient of Dr. Saul Lesnick.

Dr. Saul himself. Red tool/Fed snitch/Annie Staples’ fatmouth trick. Headshrink and morph pusher to Claire De Haven.

Wallace N. Jamie. Nosebleed PI/Fletch Bowron confrere/rumored Fed-probe indictee.

He spiced up Huey Cressmeyer’s listing. He drew swastikas and coiled snakes beside it. Huey was Tommy’s bun boy at Preston. He wrote “Big Dick!!!!!” and drew Cupid’s heart and arrow. He printed “T.G. & H.C.” inside it. The whole address-book fantasia was some unholy shit.

He drove back to the klubhaus. The joint was abuzz. Dr. Nort tagged the job Murder One.

He walked upstairs. He planted Tommy’s address book under a carpet strip. He hoofed out to meet Blanchard. He got the I’m-fucking-with-Dudley Smith chills.

Elmer loitered. A floor show unfolded upside him. Kolored kats bopped into a hair-process joint. Eight barbers worked the late shift. The kats slipped into chairs and donned hair-suction gizmos. They sat down kinky and stood up straight.

Blanchard showed. They walked the strip and tossed queries. That backhouse on 46th? Who owns it/who rents it/what’s the secret story here?

They braced street strollers and ducked into nitespots. They got Huh?/Beats me/Say what? They got rebop per Jew landlords raping the black man. They hit jazz joints and rib cribs. They hit liquor stores and pool halls and Minnie Roberts’ Casbah. They got more, more, and more of the same.

They witnessed a shiv show at Port Afrique. Two jigs swapped swipes. A he-she whore watched and shrieked. A jazz trio laid down knife-fight riffs. Elmer dug the sax wails that mimicked screams. Blanchard told the barman to call an ambulance.

They ducked out and ducked into Club Zombie. Note the rhinestone-studded walls. The stones depicted the solar system and rocket ships zooming. They were open-cockpit. Spooks with red lightbulb eyes jockeyed them.

Small tables fronted a bandstand. Mixed-race lovebirds spooned. High-yellow girls served drinks. They wore tiger-striped leotards.

Elmer glimpsed Mud-Shark Bill McPherson. The DA hosted two bronze cuties. He saw Elmer and waved. Elmer waved back. Blanchard pulled him up to the bar.

A tall jig tended it. A jumbo conk put him up at six-ten. A wall sign extolled the Baron Samedi cocktail. “One sip leaves you zombified.”

Elmer and Blanchard grabbed stools. The jig ambled up. He once-over’d Blanchard and smirked.

“I saw you fight Andre McCoover. He punked your white ass, but you got the decision. I hope you ain’t here for information on no one near and dear to me.”

Blanchard grabbed the jig’s conk and jammed his face into the bar. The jig flailed and knocked over ashtrays and drinks. Bar patrons scrammed. Elmer snatched the jig’s left hand and bent his fingers back.

“There’s a shitty little backhouse on 46th, just east of Central. We want to know who owns it, who rents it, and who owns the vacant house in front. You got two choices here. Give us something we can work with, or get zombified.”

The jig squirmed. He blubbered and dug for façade. Blanchard smashed his head on the bartop. Nose bones broke audible. Blood burst and pooled.

Elmer said, “We’re listening.”

The jig screeched. Elmer bent his fingers. The jig coughed blood and coughed up this:

“Jew landlords own most of them cribs...”

“But not that one.”

“This preacher, Martin Luther Mimms...”

“This back-to-Africa con...”

“Congregation of the Congo — 47th, down the strip.”

It’s a storefront church. There’s big plate-glass windows. There’s pews from here to Mozambique. It’s lit bright at 1:30 a.m.

The door’s wide open. Some dink artist muraled the walls.

Pygmies spear-hunting lions. Hunchbacked Jews in skullcaps lugging money sacks. L.A. in flames. White folks roasted alive. Colored folks butt-fucking them with hot pokers. A flotilla of back-to-Africa seacraft. The destroyer USS Negro. The battleship Colored Man’s Triumph. PT 69 — replete with colored folk engaged in that selfsame act.

Elmer looked at Blanchard. Blanchard looked at Elmer. They went Holy shit in sync.

They bopped in and bopped up to the altar. A colored man and white man counted collection-plate cash.

The colored man was heavyset and cleaved close to fifty. The white man was twenty-three, tops. He was tall and fit. He wore a Navy ensign’s uniform, with flyboy wings. He smoked a corncob pipe.

Elmer badged them. The screwy duo made nice-nice. They dropped their cash count and laid down handshakes. It settled everyone’s hash.

The colored man said, “I’m Martin Luther Mimms. You can call me ‘Reverend’ or ‘Rev.’ ”

The white boy said, “Link Rockwell.”

Mimms chided him. “George Lincoln Rockwell. Be proud of that. Your namesake freed the slaves.”

Rockwell pipe-jabbed the Rev. It came off rehearsed. They worked their salt-and-pepper act.

“A dubious distinction, sir — especially coming from a well-known slave driver like yourself.”

Mimms took the cue. “Link thinks I’ll reinstate the Dred Scott decision over on African soil. Colored folk as chattel, to do with as I wish. I’ll have them excavating gold from secret mines in Zimbabwe. I’ll be putting the boots to the best-looking yellows and putting the horns on their men.”

Blanchard jiggled a cash plate. “Business is good. Huh, Rev?”

Mimms cued Rockwell. “This is Officer Lee Blanchard. He was once billed as ‘the Southland’s good but not great white hope.’ ”

Rockwell tapped his pipe on the pulpit. “You should fight Joe Louis, Officer Blanchard. A white man deserves a shot at the crown.”

Elmer harrumphed. “We had some questions, Rev.”

Mimms grinned. “I’ll be pleased to answer them, in my sanctum sanctorum. If you’ll follow me.”

Elmer and Blanchard swapped looks. Link Rockwell resumed his cash count. Mimms played pontiff and strode on ahead. Elmer gassed on his act. He sucker punched the white man and called all the shots.

Mimms waked to a side door and swung it open. Elmer and Blanchard caught up. The room was knotty pine — paneled. The walls were foto-festooned. The Rev’s desk was eight feet long and all knickknacked. It featured big-dick crocodiles and pygmy-goddess statuettes.

Mimms said, “My people will be knee-deep in zebra shit by this time next year. The USS Negro will be sailing about then. We’ve got to be watchful, though. Hitler’s U-boats pervade the Atlantic, and are ever alert to torpedo Allied shipping. Let me state for the police record that I’ve got no beef with the Führer, and that I admire his subjugation of the Jews, the colored man’s traditional foe.”

Blanchard cleared his throat. “We appreciate your hospitality, daddy — but there’s still some questions we’ve got to ask.”

Elmer orbed the wall pix. Oh, yeah. They explicate some shit.

There’s the young Mimms. He’s standing with the young Jack Horrall. They’re doughboys. Jack’s a major. Mimms wears captain’s bars.

There’s colored cops in formation. There’s Mimms with Fletch Bowron. There’s Mimms with our mud-shark DA.

Blanchard scoped the wall pix. He went Man-O-Manischewitz.

Mimms said, “As you can see, Jack Horrall and I go back. He commanded a colored battalion, and I was his staff adjutant. I might add that we’ve stayed in touch, and that I get my people on your police department — for prudent remuneration, of course.”

Blanchard cracked his knuckles. “Sounds like a sweet deal.”

Mimms said, “Let colored police colored. Keep colored south of Slauson until the pilgrimage begins. Keep your colored cops south of Slauson, where they know the turf.”

Elmer winked. “That’s white of you.”

Mimms guffawed. Blanchard said, “We’ve got these questions. We know you own that backhouse on 46th, and you must have got the word by now.”

Elmer flashed his foto spray. PD pix of Rice and Kapek. The Mex, DOA.

Mimms studied them. Mimms went nix.

Elmer said, “Tell us about the backhouse. Two cops were killed there.”

Mimms popped his suspender straps and pulled himself tall. Hold for a sermonette.

“I own fourteen houses in these parts, and half of them have backhouses that have come to be utilized as playpens by unruly elements. Over the years, the backhouses have been taken over by my acolytes, all of whom live squeaky-clean. The only exception is my backhouse on East 46th. It’s a place where coloreds, spics, and ofay hepcats congregate, hold jam sessions, and are assured of the privacy they require to drink and fuck in peace. That particular clubhouse took on a political bent — but as long as it isn’t the Reds or the Klan, I don’t give a rat’s ass. The front house has been empty for a while — but I’ll find a new tenant sooner or later.”

Elmer said, “Let me guess. All your tenants pay in cash, and you don’t keep written records.”

Mimms said, “That is correct.”

Blanchard said, “Let me guess. You’ll beef us to Jack Horrall if we start poking too deep into your financial shit.”

Mimms said, “That is correct.”

Elmer relit his cigar. “Who specifically rents this backhouse? Who pays the rent every month?”

Mimms snapped his suspenders. “As stated, I keep no records and recall no specific names. The clubhouse denizens pay in cash, and anonymous cholos drop off the gelt on the first of the month. I would guess that the habitués take up a collection.”

Blanchard said, “There’s a terp still on the premises. That’s illegal.”

Mimms resnapped his suspenders. “I don’t condone terp. I exhort my people to live clean.”

Blanchard lit a cigarette. “The dump’s full of Nazi regalia.”

“You had best check with the fearsome Gestapo and the illustrious SS about that. And, once again, let me state that I bear no grudge against the Nazis — but the Reds and the Klan bear the full brunt of my enmity.”

Elmer blew smoke rings. “What about the Sinarquistas?”

Mimms said, “Tacoheads and fools from the gate. Just another copycat movement trying to piggyback Adolf Hitler and make hay while the zeitgeist bends their way. I would advise them to refine their wardrobe, though. Green doesn’t cut it. You’ve got to go with basic black, and snazzy armbands.”

46 (Ensenada, 10:00 A.M., 1/30/42)

Green twill and black leather. The green connotes Ireland and Mexico. The black boldly stamps Sinarquismo. It’s a right-wing affront.

Starched green twill. Cut to fit him. Shirt, necktie, pants. Stiff black leather. Boots, holster, belt. A red-white-and-black armband. It stamps resurgent realpolitik.

Dudley sat in his office. The squad bay buzzed bilingual. Army noncoms and Staties shared desk space. Anti-Jap fever raged.

He just missed El Flaco. He found this grand ensemble placed on his desk. Salvy came and went, rápidamente.

The courtship continues. Salvy bears gifts. There’s still unanswered questions. They’re couched in unstinting rapport.

Victor Trejo Caiz planned to kill him. How did Salvy know? Salvy understands him. How much does Salvy know and where did he learn it?

The squad bay bustled. Japs, Japs, Japs. The internment push roared. Dudley shut his door and muzzled the blare.

He touched green twill and black leather. He rolled the armband on and off his left sleeve. He decided to stage a dress rehearsal. He’d don Salvy’s gift and pose in K. Hanamaka’s lair.

He’d utilize his secret fashion runway. He’d wear Sinarquista green and black SS kit. He’d swing the gold bayonet.

The Teletype clacked and popped a page into his tray. Dudley snatched it and skimmed it. Fourth Interceptor blared cautionary drift.

L.A. defense plants targeted/Red Alert imposed. Secret air bases in San Berdoo County/Red Alert imposed. Jap sub berthings in Baja/Red Alert imposed. L.A. pay-phone communiqués decoded. Jap air attack on L.A. predicted. Red Alert: hold for late February.

Dudley teethed on it. Red Alert/Jap Alert/alarmist rhetoric. He was Japped to the gills. The Statie jail was Japped, floor-to-rafters. Jap overflow was Japped up in slum cribs Baja-wide. Statie goons tortured Japs for hot leads and kicks.

He called the Ventura County Sheriff. He offered him bribe cash and proposed a sub-rosa deal. House Baja Japs on county work farms. Bunk them in horse stalls. Rent them out as stoop labor. We’ll split the money.

The Sheriff agreed. Dudley called José Vasquez-Cruz and cut him in on the deal. José said he’d oversee the inmate transfer. Their racket front now bears fruit.

Japs, Japs, Japs.

Slant-eyed intruders. They haunt his dreams. The Wolf stalks them across the Baja plains. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? No one has visited his mountain hideaway. Juan Pimentel surveills it. Hideo Ashida’s photo device has snapped no license plates. Lieutenant Juan tortures Japs. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? None of the Japs knows shit.

Japs, Japs, Japs.

Fourth Interceptor’s besieging SIS. Major Melnick’s crawling up his ass. Interdict coastal sabotage without further delay.

Juan Pimentel has chartered a twin-engine plane. They’ll cruise the coastline later today. They’ll scan for sub berths and dip south to Magdalena Bay. They’ll swoop by the Sinarquista encampment.

Japs, Japs, Japs.

The Wolf hunts Japs in his dreams. The Wolf rips them and eats them and shits them out, postmortem. Last night’s dream dissolved a memory glitch.

The Wolf cornered an unruly Jap. The Wolf said something’s troubling my old pal Dudley Smith. There’s a backhouse/klubhaus on East 46th. Herr Dudley thinks someone’s mentioned it before. He can’t dredge the memory. What say ye to this?

The Jap feared the Wolf. The Jap had the inside dirt. The Jap revealed this:

Hector Obregon-Hodaka blabbed to the Dudster. He mentioned the klubhaus and wild goings-on there. He said two rogue cops ruled the roost.

All hail the Wolf. The Wolf retrieved that lost memory.

Mike Breuning called him. He bore hot news. Nort Layman tagged the klubhaus job Murder One. Hector’s rogue cops? Surely Wendell Rice and George Kapek.

Hector’s a Kyoho Hanamaka KA. He’ll photostat Hector’s Statie print card. He’ll get it to Hideo Ashida. Hideo will redust the klubhaus and try to fix Hector’s presence there.

Mike B. updated Dudley. Mike B. reported this:

There’s that dead Mex. El Dudster’s Spanish-fluent. Jack Horrall thinks the klubhaus job could dip south. He wants Dudley to consult, long-distance. Bill Parker’s set to oversee. It’s their Watanabe-case assignments, grandly reprised.

With attendant sidebars. Werewolf Shudo’s innocence and Jim Davis’ guilt. Sinarquista flags at the klubhaus. Elmer Jackson on the job. Hideo’s Baja posting on hold.

Dudley touched green twill and black leather. He should buy the Wolf a black leather harness and spiked collar. The Wolf retrieved that memory. He deserves a treat.

Lieutenant Juan flew low. The Army supplied a twin Beechcraft and all-purpose weaponry. Flamethrowers, tommy guns, grenades.

They hugged the coastline. Dudley binocular-scanned.

The cockpit was sun bright and altitude cold. Dudley sat behind the pilot’s seat and peered out. He marked latitudes on a relief map. He X’d coves and inlets and saw no signs of life.

They flew south. Dudley scanned fishing boats. They featured all-Mex crews and came off kosher. Lieutenant Juan refueled the plane in Puerto Romulo. They swung back south and cruised Magdalena Bay.

Lieutenant Juan swooped low and dipped toward the Sinarquista encampment. He’d prepped a leaflet drop. Hate tracts en español. He got them at the Deutsches Haus in L.A. They featured German death-camp photos with humorous captions. Lieutenant Juan found them howlarious.

Dudley saw men tilling soil and women dunking clothes in a stream. Lieutenant Juan dipped to three hundred feet. Los cameradas looked up and waved. Lieutenant Juan dropped the cargo hatch. Hate tracts hit blue sky.

The kameraden whooped en masse. They jumped up and down. The tracts caught air streams and flew. The sky went craaaazy-paper white and eclipsed all sunlight.

Lieutenant Juan U-turned and gained altitude. They flew northbound and low. Lieutenant Juan dropped down to two hundred feet and air-trekked the coastline. Dudley binocular-scanned.

It got boring. Rocks, waves, and sand. Time stands still. Rocks, waves, sand shoals. The same shit — por vida and beyond.

Then — bip! — there’s this lone Jap.

He’s just outside an inlet. He’s tossing a fishing net. He’s not looking up.

Dudley jabbed Lieutenant Juan. Lieutenant Juan looked down and went Caramba.

He dipsy-doodled up and east. He cut past the coast road and nosed the plane down. There’s a flat dirt patch/mock runway.

The ground came up faaaaaast. Dudley braced himself against the seat back. Lieutenant Juan hopscotched around rocks and dumped trash. He found a clear stretch. He cut the flaps and put the wheels on the ground. The plane fishtailed and pulled two full doughnuts.

The engine thumped and stalled dead. The propellers tapped out. Dudley went whew! They jumped out and indulged abrazos. They armed themselves.

Dudley grabbed a tommy gun. Lieutenant Juan grabbed a flamethrower. They ran across the dirt patch and dodged cars across the coast road. They hit an embankment. A carved path led down to the beach.

Dudley saw an outcropping due north. That was his landmark. He spotted that Jap forty yards up.

He pointed north. Lieutenant Juan gripped the flamethrower and fell in beside him. They trekked down to the beachfront. The sand was wet-wet. Wavelets doused them knee-high.

They walked north. Wet sand sucked at their feet. They approached the inlet. It fronted a cove cave. Dudley saw fishing-net drag marks. Dudley heard jabber: Mex, Jap, Mex.

They hugged the rocks and crept close. The jabber escalated. Dudley craned and looked into the cave. A Jap flag hung off a two-by-four. Voices jabbered — men, women, kids.

Lieutenant Juan went So, Jefe? Dudley went Of course. They wheeled and walked right in.

The cave was muy deep. They hit a left fork and veered toward the voices. Dudley saw them then.

Thirty-odd souls. Fifth Column familia. Half Jap and half Mex. Right there in front:

Hector Obregon-Hodaka, himself.

Lieutenant Juan kicked a rock, inadvertent. The noise echo-chambered. La familia turned and looked. Hector looked straight at Dudley and pulled a waistband piece.

Lieutenant Juan aimed and cut loose. Flames shot up and out. They hit Hector. He screamed and went all bugshit on fire. Lieutenant Juan hit the kill switch. The barrel whoosh died. La familia ran, todos. They reached the back of the cave and hit a dead end.

Lieutenant Juan walked up and cornered them there. Dudley followed him. He read their fear, close-up. Lieutenant Juan got blast-oven close. Each and every one of them screamed.

Lieutenant Juan hit the on switch. Flames shot up and out. He fried each and every one of them alive.

47 (Los Angeles, 8:00 A.M., 1/31/42)

Crash Squad confab. Jack Horrall’s office. It’s a double cop snuff. There’s fanfare and razzmatazz.

The squad ran ten strong. Folding chairs fanned the Chief’s desk. Dudley Smith was down in Baja. He pledged daily call-ins and/or Teletypes.

They signed a check-in log. It was big-job de rigueur. The duty roster ran thus:

Captain W. H. Parker: Traffic Division/commanding officer.

Captain D. L. Smith (Army SIS): executive officer/Spanish-speaking consultant.

Lieutenant T. B. Brown: Homicide Division/squad whip.

Sergeant M. D. Breuning: Homicide Division.

Sergeant R. S. Carlisle: Homicide Division.

Norton Layman, M.D.: medical consultant.

Lieutenant H. J. Ashida (Army SIS): crime lab supervisor/on-leave consultant.

Miss J. W. Conville: crime lab/forensic biologist.

Sergeant E. V. Jackson: Vice Division/Alien Squad.

Officer L. C. Blanchard: Central Division Detectives/Alien Squad.

Sergeant T. R. Meeks: Robbery Division/detached for current duty.

They sat ten across. They smoked and sipped coffee. They wore that down-for-the-count look. They were forty-four hours in.

Joan glanced at Parker. He glanced back. She smelled his dumb lime cologne. She was antsy. The Santa Barbara Sheriff’s file arrived. She wanted to jump on it.

She stroked her gold cuff links. She was distracted. The Chief said something. She missed the lead-in.

“...and if you’re wondering why you don’t see Ray Pinker, it’s because he’s in Dutch with the Fed probe, and he’s running raw these days. That means Lieutenant Ashida’s our top lab dog, until Dud S. pulls some strings and hauls him back to Mexico. There’s a war on, you know. Things like that tend to supersede.”

The gang laughed. Breuning and Carlisle smirked. They hated Ashida. Dud loved him more than them.

Call-Me-Jack drummed his desk. “We all know why we’re here, so let’s get to it. Will someone please tell me something I don’t know?”

Dr. Nort raised his hand. “I found large quantities of carbolic acid in the three victims’ livers. This indicates that the terp they were smoking just prior to their deaths had been spiked. They were deliberately poisoned — but organ saturation indicates that all three men were habitual terp smokers.”

Call-Me-Jack rolled his eyes. “We can’t defame our fallen colleagues as terp fiends. Let’s keep that fact away from any and all reporters you might be talking to. As far as reporters go, this is gospel. The inside dirt goes exclusively to Sid Hudgens and his legman Jack Webb, and that’s it. They’ve done us proud before, and they’ll do us proud here. Given the state of the klubhaus, I’d say we’re looking at a Fifth Column job. I want Sid and Jack to play up that angle, because Fifth Column hoo-ha’s the rage now, and that sort of emphasis will make us look good with Fourth Interceptor and the Feds.”

Elmer waved his cigar. “What about a command post, boss? There’s no room at Central, and there’s no room here at the Hall.”

Call-Me-Jack sipped coffee. He spiked it with schnapps. It’s PD-certified dish.

“You got lucky here. I’m giving you Lyman’s back room, until we clear this thing. You’ll all have keys, and it’ll be off-limits to rank-and-file PD. I’m putting cots in, and you’ll have food and booze twenty-four hours.”

Carlisle said, “Suppose we have to...”

Elmer woofed him. “Put some hurt on a suspect or witness, Dick? That what you’re thinking?”

Breuning said, “You’ve got shit for brains and shit for tact, Jackson. And it’s not like people don’t know it.”

Elmer woofed him. Here’s your fucking tact.

“People? You mean like a certain Irishman, well known to folks in this room?”

Joan held her breath. Buzz blew Elmer an Okie-redneck kiss. Hideo Ashida gasped.

Call-Me-Jack banged his ashtray. Desk clutter hopped.

“Not in my office, and not on my time card. You’re policemen investigating a double cop killing, and I’ve got no time for pique from any of you. To the point of Dick’s question, I’ll add this. There’s a storeroom two floors up from Lyman’s, and I’m having a chair bolted to the floor. It’s nice and quiet. If you need to stretch someone, do it up there.”

Breuning and Carlisle smirked. Elmer winked at Meeks. Thad Brown coughed.

“What about the victims’ families? At the very least, we should interview the wives.”

Call-Me-Jack made the cutoff sign. “I paid condolence calls, and unless something pertinent comes up, I want them left alone. I don’t want to aggravate them and get them thinking they should slap a wrongful death suit on the PD. There’s that, and there’s the undisputed fact that their dutiful hubbies were skirt chasers and God knows what else, given a certain klubhaus on East 46th.”

Parker said, “We’ve got to ID the Mexican. That’s our first priority.”

Blanchard said, “I’ll be checking mug books against the DB pix.”

Ashida said, “I’ll start checking print cards immediately.”

Joan said, “I want to redust, resweep, and rephotograph the premises. There has to be something there.”

Ashida shot his shirt cuffs. Joan saw his new gold watch. He evinced drag-queen taste.

“I found a series of semen stains on the bedsheets upstairs, and I’ve already typed them. All four of the men were secretors. I’ll be checking my samples against blood samples from our victims.”

Elmer whooped. “That’s the sort of bed traffic you see in your everyday whorehouse.”

Parker said, “Elmer’s speaking as an expert witness here.”

Buzz said, “I found an address book under a piece of carpet upstairs. Ray Pinker swooped by and dusted it for me. He turned up two latents. They match to a hot-prowl hump named Tommy Glennon.”

Breuning and Carlisle went lockjawed. Elmer woof-woofed them.

“Tommy the G. Does it get you all nostalgic for New Year’s Eve?”

Call-Me-Jack said, “Tommy G. That Irish cocksucker has been a thorn in my side since God was a pup.”

Buzz said, “The Chief knows from Irish cocksuckers, given his long-standing friendship with Dudley Smith.”

Call-Me-Jack went tut-tut. Breuning and Carlisle trembled. Elmer blew Buzz an Okie-redneck kiss.

Joan laughed outright. Pinch me. What am I doing—

Thad Brown said, “Jackson, Blanchard, Meeks. You take the address book. Jump on the names, jump on Glennon, and jump on all of it now.”

Call-Me-Jack yawned. I’m half-gassed, I need a nap, you’re wearing me thin.

“Get out of here. All of you. Find the guy who killed our pals Wendell and George, and try not to kill him until he’s confessed.”

Parker dashed for the door. He detoured and slipped Joan a note. It read “Tonight?”

Joan whistled and brought him up short. Parker turned and faced her. Heads shot their way. Joan spoke full vibrato. Damn circumspection. Let the world know.

“Yes, Bill. I’d love to see you tonight.”

The all-clear horn blew. The Army searchlights kept swirling. They lit up clouds you just never saw. False-alarm nights moved her. The war had its upsides.

Joan said, “When peace comes, we’ll lose this.”

Parker said, “They magnify the moon. That’s the part I like best.”

They sat on Joan’s back steps. Joan sat one step down. His feet were right there. Joan held an ankle just so she could touch him.

“You’ve been detached to work this job. I thought you’d be more displeased than you are.”

Parker touched her shoulder. “We’re skirting that topic we weren’t going to discuss.”

“You’re saying Jack Horrall’s pining for a certain case last month, so he’s assembled a near-identical Crash Squad.”

“You understand this police department very damn well. You wouldn’t have learned the ins and outs of the Navy anywhere near as fast.”

“I dreamt about the Mexicans last night. I was being tried for vehicular manslaughter, and the DA asked me if I knew the names of the victims. I said, ‘Well, my policeman colleagues call them wetbacks and cholos.’ ”

Parker touched her hair. “Don’t do that. Don’t derail yourself when things start going your way.”

Joan kissed his hand and placed it back on his knee. A searchlight beam crossed the moon. Joan saw little craters.

She left City Hall and drove back to the klubhaus. She redusted and rephotographed all day. She hadn’t seen the Santa Barbara file. Ashida was there all day. He hadn’t seen it, either.

Parker tapped her shoulder. “You’ve developed a particular habit. You keep worrying those gold cuff links, like you’re checking for signs of stigmata.”

Joan smiled. “There’s a story behind it, but I’m not going to tell it to you.”

“I’ll quote Jack Horrall, then. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ ”

Joan looked up at him. His dumb sport coat complemented his dumb cologne. His trousers drooped. He wore a cross-draw belt gun.

“I went to a wild party, just to observe Kay Lake. I took a steam bath with a famous actor and your old nemesis Claire De Haven. I kept thinking, Why am I naked with people I don’t even know? and They don’t do this in Tomah, Wisconsin.”

Parker looked down at her. “What are you saying? You’re a scientist, and you never speak elliptically. I admire that about you. I never have to strain myself to grasp your intent.”

Joan touched his leg. “I’m saying, ‘Darling Bill, you’ve given me a life that I never could have imagined, and I will remain forever grateful, however this thing of ours plays out.”

Parker tripped down two steps instead of just one. Joan grabbed his arm and pulled him back up. She brought him in close. They kissed. His glasses snagged in her hair. They stumbled inside and into the bedroom. They knocked over a wobbly lamp as they fell.

48 (Los Angeles, 5:00 A.M., 2/1/42)

Ashida dawdled. He felt gob-smacked. It felt indolent and all wrong.

He made beaker-brew coffee. It salved his drinks-with-Dudley hangover. He ran checklists. He cleaned his lab gear. He replayed last night.

They met at the Windsor and sat at the bar. They wore their uniforms and turned heads. It felt like a hot date.

Dudley ordered stingers. Ashida felt like a girl plied with booze. Dudley brought a Statie print card. Hector Obregon-Hodaka/Kyoho Hanamaka’s KA.

The klubhaus job dips south. It melds with Hanamaka and his gold bayonet. The bayonet’s mint marks match the marks on his gold bar. The mint-train heist and Griffith Park fire further intersect.

Ashida cracked windows. Cold air fanned a lab-solvent stink. He sipped coffee. He tallied case points. What he knew and Joan Conville knew. What Dudley knew nothing of.

He lost track of his falsehoods. He realized this:

He was Dudley’s idolatrous accomplice. Joan was Dudley’s lover. He saw them together and sensed it. They had to disclose everything. They had to share the gold, three ways.

Rain bounced off window screens. The coffee induced cold sweats.

Dudley loved the bayonet. Its utility superseded 8.2 pounds of gold. The bayonet accessorized his fascist aesthetic. Captain D. L. Smith killed people and communed with a fantasy wolf. Lieutenant H. J. Ashida’s fantasy lover was quite insane.

The bayonet was History. The bayonet was Dudley’s beloved Wagner and Norse myth. Dudley would accede to gold as money. The Myth of This Gold would gob-smack him and inspire him to possess it.

Ashida checked his watch. He was due at the klubhaus. He had three lab tasks first.

Test the semen-stained sheets. Run the Mexican’s prints. Study the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s heist file. Hope that Reckless Girl hasn’t studied it first.

He’d blood-typed the ejaculate and ID’d four secretors. Two O-positive/one A-negative/one rare RH-positive. Dr. Nort would comparison-type the victims’ blood types. He was set to run foreign-substance tests himself.

He prepped a burner and preheated an acid-phosphate solution. He added purified water and brought up a boil. He placed sheet swatch #1 in the liquid. The semen stain eroded in two seconds flat.

Ashida noted swirling particles. One type was dark and granular. One type was viscous and near-transparent.

He naked-eyed them. They were forensically compatible and easily ID’d.

Human fecal matter. A glycerin-based lubricant. Most likely K-Y jelly.

Ashida flinched. He turned off the burner and set the other swatches aside. He wide-cracked windows. A wet breeze raised goose bumps. He pulled the Unknown Mexican print card.

Drudgework now. The print-card index. Card drawers subdivided by gender and race. Twelve drawers for “Mexican, Male.”

Ashida microphotographed the Unknown Mex card. He got all ten digits and hit the photo lab. He locked himself in the darkroom. He worked with scissors, dip solvents, and a magnifying camera. He shot ten six-by-eight prints.

A heater fan dried them inside twenty minutes. They developed white on black. He taped them to the wall above the print-card bank. He pencil-marked significant ridges and whorls. He pulled out the A drawer and worked standing up.

He started at Abrevaya, George and Acosta, Ramon. He noted inconsistent whorl patterns and moved on. He went through Alvarez, Alvaro/Alvarez, José and Alvarez, Juan. Alvarez was a dirt-common name.

He studied nine more Alvarez cards. He hit Archuleta, Arturo, aka “Archie.”

There’s a tweaker. Check the left-forefinger print. Look — the top ridge patterns match.

Ashida snatched his eyepiece scope. He went up/down, up/down, up/down. He studied Archuleta’s left-hand prints. He eyeball-skimmed the unknown Mex fotos.

He counted comparison points. He got ten points, fourteen points, a big twenty-one. That cinched it. Bam! — Archie Archuleta was klubhaus stiff #3.

The lab went sauna hot. Ashida cracked all the windows. A breeze blew loose papers off desks.

He hit the green-sheet index. He yanked the A to B file drawer and finger-walked. He pulled Archuleta’s green sheet. It revealed this:

Born: Tijuana, Mexico — 8/19/89. Narco jolts back to ’15. Two years at the dope hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Two Chino terms here. Popped for plain drunk/drunk 502/forging doctors’ scripts. 27 dope rousts, total. LKA: 841 Wabash, Boyle Heights. No KAs listed. Last bounce: drunk 502/3-6-39. Popped in ’35 Ford/59th and Central.

Ashida wrote up his findings. He’d call Thad Brown and inform him. He’d paper-post his reports at Lyman’s.

He got out the heist file. The page stack felt heavy. He checked the bottom of the pile and saw loose paperwork. It pertained to the ’33 liquor-store jobs. Robbery Division weighs in.

Reckless Girl forged a file-request slip. She was Sloppy Girl here. His forgeries surpassed hers. Her “Ray Pinker” sigs looked like tomb hieroglyphs.

Ashida skimmed the heist file. It detailed the mint train’s Santa Barbara stop. It featured Leander Frechette and Deputy Karl Tullock.

Negro youth Frechette. He’s six-eight and weighs 340. He’s mentally dim and inhumanely strong. The Santa Barbara cops posit this:

The gold-cage lock was removed. A look-alike lock was cosmetically affixed. Just enough gold was clouted. The low bar count ensured that the cache would not appear ransacked.

The bars were wheeled off, walked off, or tossed off the train. Waiting confederates grabbed them. The cops canned the toss-off theory. It entailed confederates in moving surveillance. Said confederates could not know this:

When the gold-cage walkway would stand unobserved. When the theft and toss-off would occur.

The cops canned the wheel-off theory. Somebody would have seen it. The walk-off theory remained. The bulk weight of the bars meant this:

The thief is exceptionally large and strong. He hides the bars on his person and obfuscates the load. He walks on and off the train. His confederates grab the gold.

It’s a stop-for-coal stop. The eight convicts escape precedingly. The overall atmosphere remains chaotically charged. It obscures the thief’s actions.

One train worker possesses just such strength and bulk. It’s Leander Frechette. Deputy Karl Tullock has at him.

Tullock badgers and beats on Frechette. Leander holds firm. I didn’t do it/I don’t know who did it/I don’t know nothing.

Frechette remains in stir. A Negro man named Martin Luther Mimms secures his release. Mimms is tight with L.A. Police high-ups. Frechette is released to his custody.

Ashida kicked it around. This seemed certain now:

The mass escape and train heist comprised one event. The two repair stops were caused by staged mechanical glitches. It all cohered behind Fritz Eckelkamp.

He escapes and remains at large. He was a career heist man. The other escaped cons are shot on sight. It feels like preengendered chaos.

Cut to the klubhaus job. Hector Obregon-Hodaka laid the haus gestalt out to Dudley. Hector knew Kyoho Hanamaka. Hanamaka’s gold bayonet: cast from the same ore as the bars on the train. This seems certain now:

Eckelkamp, the German Marxist. Hanamaka, the left-right horror connoisseur. The klubhaus as haunt of debauched politicos. There’s a stench here. It’s Fifth Column mischief couched in criminal greed.

Two mug shots were clipped to the file. Fritz Eckelkamp looked Teutonic fierce. Leander Frechette looked bewildered.

Ashida jumped files. He went gold heist to liquor-store jobs in one heartbeat. He saw the witness-composite sketch. He saw a list of look-alike vagrants. They were detained, un-ID’d, released for lack of proof.

The fourth name down: Jackson, Wayne Frank.

49 (Los Angeles, 10:00 A.M., 2/1/42)

The boys are back in town.

That bluegrass ditty nailed them. The KKKlan outkast and Okie shitkicker. Sergeants E. V. Jackson and T. R. Meeks their own selves.

With their own prowl sled. On this big case. Fuck struck with bitching intent.

Elmer drove. Buzz kibitzed. They got pigshit lucky. Hotdog Ashida notched a print make. The dead Mex now stood ID’d.

Boyle Heights was Baja north. Shack rows on flat streets and hillsides. Tacofied taverns and pachucoized pool halls. Lots of Catholic churches. Sinarquista decals on souped-up cars.

Elmer said, “Wabash. It’s around here somewhere.”

Buzz said, “She’ll take it rough. Her Archie treated her raw, but he gave her the big chorizo like nobody else.”

Elmer went nyet. “What did our first two widows give us? Nothing but relief that their hubbies were dead, and ‘Where’s my survivors’ pension check?’ ”

“Twenty says you’re wrong.”

“Twenty says I’m right.”

They shook on it. It sealed their Pax Redneckiana. They’d breached Jack Horrall’s orders already. They braced the Personnel Division boss and the two widows. It revealed this:

Call-Me-Jack pulled Rice’s and Kapek’s Personnel files. Them boys were just toooooooo dirty. Dirt leaks might besmirch the PD. Their bust lists were in those files. The Crash Squad needed a look-see. Maybe some crazed felon was fresh out of stir and hot for revenge.

The widows pissed on Rice and Kapek, postmortem. You want baleful bile? Gas on this:

Rice pimped his wife to cover his poker debts. Rice fathered Kapek’s three kids, and vice versa. The widows were lezbo lovers and turned dyke tricks out of Linda’s Little Log Cabin. Rice and Kapek filmed their antics and peddled the lez epics down in T.J.

The widows evicted their hubbies at least once a week. They had a hideout somewhere. The widows knew zilch per the klubhaus and hubbies’ KAs. They knew their hubbies veered far right. Rice and Kapek made them wear dirndl skirts and Nazi armbands. Their kids wore lederhosen and Tyrolean beanies to school. They frolicked at German-American Bund summer camp.

Elmer and Buzz eyeball-tossed their two domiciles. Rice possessed some farkakte fly-ur-self/build-from-scratch model-airplane kit. The fucking thing consumed half his garage. It had rivet-attached wings. It had Luftwaffe insignia and a cockpit-mounted machine gun. The Widow Rice said he bought it from some right-wing geek in Minnesota.

Georgie Kapek possessed twenty-six incendiary bombs. The Widow Kapek called him a “Secret Firebug.” Georgie possessed two terp stills and thirty-four back issues of Goldlover Magazine.

Georgie’s swag gored Elmer’s gourd. He knew he’d seen similar shit somewhere. It hit him belated:

The late Don Matsura owned that selfsame shit. Terp stills and Goldlover Magazine.

Elmer and Buzz logged man-hours. They quizzed the Alien Squad guys per Kapek and Rice. Nobody coughed up good drift. They said Georgie and Wendell were bent. So what? We all are. We’re bent in the ways of this bent PD in this bent and fucked-up town.

That approach tanked. They braced the watch boss at Newton Station then. They pressed on complaints levied against the klubhaus. Nope — there were none. That approach tanked, likewise.

Buzz said, “That’s the address.”

Elmer pulled to the curb. Said address: a cinder-block and wood firetrap. Note the fat mamacita ensconced on the porch.

The boys piled out and drifted over. Mama-san sniffed bad news. She had good feelers. Her snout twitch-twitched.

“You’ve got him downtown, right? He topped out his parole, but you still got him for some dumb law he shouldn’t have broke.”

Buzz doffed his hat. “Archie’s dead, ma’am. It took a few days to identify him, but it’s him. He was killed, along with two policemen. It occurred in a little clubhouse down in the colored side of town.”

Mama shrugged. “Live by the sword, die by the sword. Adios, Arturo. With him you always knew the other shoe would drop.”

Elmer said, “How so, ma’am?”

Mama said, “Archie ran with lower companions. Water seeks its own level. He was a pendejo and a borracho. He snitched to the police and mainlined the white horse. You pay the piper, the piper calls the tune. You buy trouble, you get what you pay for.”

Buzz spit tobacco juice. He doused the porch steps good.

“Did he snitch to any particular policemen?”

Mama shook her head. “I always told him ‘Don’t name me no names, ’cause what I don’t know can’t hurt me.’ I know he snitched to these two fools on the Alien Squad, but I made sure he didn’t name no names.”

Elmer relit his cigar. “You’re saying you didn’t know Archie’s running partners, and you only had a general sense that he was out in the world, causing trouble.”

“That’s right. Archie was a snake in the grass, but I told him ‘Don’t you bring no mice home to me.’ ”

Elmer said, “Archie must have had himself a parole officer. He’d have known Archie’s associates.”

“He always topped out his parole, so there’d be no strings attached. He said that way, he’d have the world on a string.”

Buzz said, “How many niños you got, ma’am? You think they’d have more details on their daddy’s pals and activities?”

Mama snorted. “Arturo was a back-door man. You don’t conceive no niños that way.”

Elmer whooped. Ashida posted a lab report. Oooga-booga. Jizz stains, K-Y jelly, shit traces.

“Here’s a question, ma’am. You’re the late Archie Archuleta. You’ve got time on your hands and a penchant for trouble. How do you spend your days?”

Mama picked her nose. “Arturo knew his way around C-town and J-town. He sought most of his trouble there. ‘Seek and ye shall find.’ He sold his dope and bought his dope there, and he snitched to these two Alien Squad bulls who worked around there. He knew lots of tong men, crooked Japs, and these Jap Fifth Column types. He bought these Nazi-type trinkets from some Jap, and he sold them to the zoot-suit pendejos here in the Heights.”

Elmer said, “Is that the Sinarquistas you’re talking about?”

Mama crossed herself. Mama whipped out some voodoo amulet and hexed the world at large.

“Evil fascistas. May they boil in a vat of nigger pus and potato-chip lard.”

Buzz winked at Elmer. “What about that clubhouse, ma’am? 46th and Central, off the jazz strip?”

Mama went ¿Qué?/Who cares?/So what?

Elmer said, “These two Alien Squad cops. Do the names Wendell Rice and George Kapek sound familiar?”

Mama went Huh?/¿Qué?/So what?

Buzz spritzed tobacco juice. He nailed Mama’s mailbox gooooood.

“Give us some names, mama. Feed these two weary dogs a bone.”

“I don’t got no names. I know Arturo went back with them Alien Squad bulls, to when they worked the Narco Detail. Arturo said, ‘Better to snitch to the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.’ ”

Rice and Kapek worked Narco. They allegedly grafted there. It was pre-established drift.

Elmer teethed his cigar. “What else can you tell us about these nameless Narco guys?”

Mama waved her amulet. “They were dos fascistas. They loved Hitler, Tojo, and Father Coughlin. Arturo mostly finked out these Jap pharmacists who wouldn’t sell him no morphine.”

Buzz said, “Names, ma’am?”

A rat zipped across the porch. A big cat-sized fucker. Mama hexed him.

“Arturo said he only snitched off one real Fifth Column fool. Some fool white boy named Huey Cressmeyer. The Alien Squad bulls said, ‘Huey’s sacrosanct. He’s got high-up friends, and he’s our pal.’ ”

50 (Los Angeles, 5:00 P.M., 2/1/42)

Call-Me-Jack shagged phone calls. He lived to wheedle, bully, and schmooze. Dudley shagged the chair by his desk.

Jack blah-blahed and yeah-yeahed. He bloviated with Fletch Bowron and Fourth Interceptor. Dudley lit a cigarette. Jack went Un momento.

His phone-light blinked. He winked at El Dudster. He coo-coo’d and oh-baby’d now.

It was surely Brenda Allen. The two shared a history. It predated Brenda’s liaison with doltish Elmer Jackson.

Dudley wore civvies and a belt piece. He drove up rápido. Mike B. called him in Baja. Mike reported this:

Tommy Glennon’s address book appeared at the klubhaus. It contained Huey Cressmeyer’s name. Ditto Lin Chung’s name and Saul Lesnick’s name. Plus more provocative listings.

Chung and Lesnick were Watanabe-case adjunct. That mandated discretion. Huey was a glue addict and plainly psychopathic. That mandated a T.J. retreat.

Jack coo-coo’d good-byes and hung up. He stared across his desk. He read the Dudster’s dire look.

“Lay it out. Bypass the blarney and get to it.”

“Jim Davis killed the Watanabes. Bill Parker put it together. Jim confessed to him in late December, and unburdened himself to me more recently. I’m assuming that no one else knows. That stated, I should add that we now have peripheral names crossing over to the klubhaus job. Dare I say that we need to be careful here?”

Jack went deep-vein sclerotic. He chugged digitalis straight from the vial. He chased it with desk-jug scotch.

“Parker won’t blab. He goes way back with Jim, and Jim’s got dirt on him that could sink his career.”

Dudley said, “Yes, but our Bill is nothing if not capricious. He’ll do anything to appease God and impress young women.”

The desk phone rang. Jack squelched the call.

“Adjudicate this thing with Parker, Dud. Make whatever concessions you deem necessary. Brace Jim D. and tell that lunatic cocksucker in no uncertain terms to keep his fucking mouth shut. As for the klubhaus job, I’ll state this. We need a clean solve and dead suspects who’ll never enter a courtroom. Keep that in mind, along with this. Do whatever you deem necessary to put the quietus on those ‘peripheral names’ you just mentioned. ¿Tú comprende, muchacho?”

Dudley chained cigarettes. “You pulled Rice’s and Kapek’s Personnel files. That severely restricts our access to their arrest records. I’ll hazard a guess here, sir. They ran bag for you when they worked the Narco Squad back in the Davis regime.”

Call-Me-Jack tipped scotch. The pills kicked in. His color receded.

“They covered niggertown for Jim D. and yours truly. Envelopes changed hands. My old Army pal the Reverend Mimms greased the skids south of Slauson. That’s the drift, and here’s the upscut. I burned the Personnel files and the Narco files. Leave Mimms alone, and get me a clean solve despite those restrictions. Elmer Jackson and Buzz Meeks are playing gadfly with you, but I’m disinclined to cut them loose. As our pal Sid Hudgens says, ‘That’s all the news that’s unfit to print.’ ”

The phone rang. Jack squelched it. He slurped scotch and wagged his eyebrows.

“You’re working angles in Baja. My best guess is that Ace the K. is covering you here. By my calculations, I should be in for 8 %.”

Dudley smiled. “12 %, sir. With a codicil attached.”

“Would that be latitude on everything we’ve just discussed?”

“Yes, and I would like you to detach Lieutenant Ashida, effective immediately.”

“Yes to the former, no to the latter. I need Ashida here.”

Dudley stood up. Jack said, “I met Jim Davis in 1919. He’s always been good to me. Here’s my codicil. I positively forbid you to kill him.”

Whiskey Bill dozed in his prowl sled. Long naps served to revive him. Dudley tagged him in the City Hall lot.

Herr Bill snored. He was unkempt and looked stale overall. Note the photograph taped to the dashboard.

Joan Conville, hometown seductress. She’s posed on a split-rail fence. Note her fetching huntress ensemble.

Fierce Joan. Note the shotgun. She blew a randy redskin’s foot off with it.

The passenger door stood ajar. Dudley slid in beside Parker. He rattled him awake. Parker flinched and went for his gun.

Dudley pinned his hand. “Wake up, Captain. We’ve a serious matter to discuss.”

Parker blinked and rubbed his eyes. He had boozehound breath. Dudley passed him a mint lozenge.

“You woke me up.”

“Yes, and with good cause. Jim Davis told me that he killed the Watanabes. He told you in December, and I’m wondering who else he might have told.”

Parker crossed himself. His eyes zipped to the dashboard.

“There’s the issue of who you’ve told, Captain. Have you confessed to Monsignor Hayes? Have you told your wife or the twin sirens, Miss Conville and Miss Lake?”

Parker recrossed himself and reogled the dashboard. Of course — the sodden shit told Joan.

Sea winds bore down. Bad rain threatened. Wave chop doused his boots. It rendered the beach trek unpleasant.

He drove back last night. He left pressing biz in L.A. A deal with Bill Parker. A bedroom chat with fair Joan.

The Wolf urged his return. The Wolf told him to check the other caves near the death cave. The Wolf wondered this:

Juan Pimentel. Did he torch those saboteurs with undue haste? Herr Juan was the slow-torture type. French-fried Japs and spics played out of character. The Wolf was most emphatic here.

Dudley trekked north. He carried a flashlight and a tommy gun. He saw the death cave and smelled it concurrent.

The scorched flesh. The stale stomach gas and burst entrails.

He entered the cave. The Wolf growled. They walked back and viewed the charred-corpse mound. The Wolf wagged his tail and gnawed flame-bleached bones. Dudley counted thirty-four dead.

They walked back to the beach and turned north. Dudley spotted a cave cove fifty yards up. They walked over. Dudley racked his tommy gun and stepped in. The Wolf walked point ahead of him.

Yes. It’s the same setup. A deep cave. Numerous forks. Beachfront recessed. Wave-free access.

They explored the cave. The Wolf chased enticing scents. They saw this:

Empty food cans. Two dozen bedrolls. A smashed and thus useless shortwave radio set.

Plus this:

Charred airplane parts. Oddly flimsy. Rivet perforations. Incongruous construction.

The wings snapped onto the fuselage. Flimsy wires secured them. They resembled model-airplane parts.

The engine compartment laid there, exposed. Four small cylinders leaked gas. There’s a flywheel and an automotive gear train attached. There’s hammer-and-sickle decals on a wing plate.

The Wolf cocked his head and perked his ears. Dudley said, “Yes, I know — it’s quite the mad contraption.”

They left the cave and trekked farther north. The Wolf frolicked and chased beach rats. They found four more saboteur nests.

All abandoned. Smashed radios/empty cans/dumped bedrolls. No more jig-rigged airplane parts.

The Wolf possessed a keen intellect and sharp fangs. He gnawed on this:

Did Herr Juan torch those shits judiciously? Did he torch them to warn off other cave dwellers?

Dudley had sharp fangs. He gnawed on it.

A thunderstorm blew in. The Wolf stayed home with Claire and the Klein girl. Dudley teethed and drove back out in the rain.

He gnawed on the Jim Davis snafu. He gnawed on the klubhaus job. He gnawed on his nascent Baja rackets and José Vasquez-Cruz. He gnawed on his L.A. versus Mexico duties and his Army mandate. He gnawed on Kyoho Hanamaka and the gold bayonet.

He took Benzedrine and gnawed with revived gusto. He drove to T.J. and bootjacked a Border Patrol office. The Benzedrine induced brainstorms. It said do this:

Study photo-device footage. Check the northbound passages only. Look for covered vehicles and exposed license plates. Test the efficacy of Hideo Ashida’s grand creation.

The Staties had stockpiled eight photo boxes. Trip wires caught approaching and departing bumper plates. They’d rigged a viewfinder thingamajig in the office. It was crank-scroll operated. Plate numbers appeared on a bubble screen. Date markings ran below them.

Let’s look for suspect vehicles. Let’s study upward-jerking pix and nail suspect trucks.

Overpacked trucks. Trucks riding low on their axles. Fleeing Japs. Internment-dodging Japs. Saboteur Japs.

Dudley scrolled and rescrolled. His mind scrolled and unscrolled as he descrolled license plates. He saw Joan Conville naked. He saw her dressed in SS black. She swung the gold bayonet. She killed the man who killed her father.

License plates abundant. License plates redundant. Front plates, rear plates. Car plates, truck plates, all heading-adios plates.

Dudley got eyestrain. He went through two full boxes. He scrolled up to 1/25/42. He kept seeing Jap goblins who weren’t really there. He kept seeing Joan naked and the Wolf abed with naked Claire.

He fed in the 1/25 pix. He scrolled through boring turistas waving good-bye and leering jarheads sated from the Blue Fox. His brain scrolled/unscrolled/rescrolled/descrolled.

He kept seeing Joan naked/Joan naked/JOAN NAKED. He blinked to rescroll reality. He reinstilled the imposition of boring license plates. He plate-scrolled up to 10:14 p.m., 1/25/42.

He caught a northbound bumper plate and truck grill. The camera lens jerked upward. He caught an up-to-the-windshield shot and caught this:

Wendell Rice and George Kapek — right there in the cab. They’ve got three fucking nights left to live.

51 (Los Angeles, 9:00 A.M., 2/3/42)

Cramped quarters. They verged on SRO. Lyman’s back room as Crash Squad HQ.

The crammed-in chairs. The food table and coffee urn. The Teletype and phone lines. The corkboard-hung walls.

The booze table. The sweat room upstairs. A bolted-down chair for recalcitrant suspects. Rubber hose and phone-book-thumping tools, on call.

Joan sat between Elmer and Buzz. Ashida sat beside Dr. Nort. Breuning, Carlisle, and Blanchard hogged the back row. Bill Parker and Thad Brown stood and faced their crew. Brown summarized.

We’re six days in. We’ve ID’d the Mex. He long-term snitched for Kapek and Rice. Jack Horrall dumped their Personnel and Narco files. The Mex topped out his paroles. We’ve got no leads there.

We’ve got two rogue cops. They’re embroiled in a secret life deal. We’ve got Tommy Glennon’s address book and jizz-stained sheets. We’ve established a unique cause of death. The lab folks are still at the klubhaus. We need names. We’ve got to stretch this goddamn thing.

Joan ignored the spiel. She jotted gold-heist notes and snuck looks at Bill Parker. Call him lover #1. Dudley was here in L.A. She was seeing him tonight. Call him lover #2.

Brown haggled with Breuning and Carlisle. They wanted to haul in “jazz-club niggers” and “put the boots to them.” Brown told them to pipe down. Joan tuned most of it out.

She doodled. Her thoughts scattergunned. She had breakfast with Kay. They discussed Kay’s diary. She started it the day before Pearl Harbor. Bill Parker knocked on her door that night.

They discussed Joan’s diary. She started it right after the Maestro’s party. Bill Parker lay insensate in her bedroom. Bill Parker, ubiquitous. La Conville and La Lake — now screwball friends.

Lee Blanchard squawked. He canvassed ninety-one houses and didn’t learn shit. Joan tuned him out. She fretted her gold cuff links and rehashed the Santa Barbara file.

Ashida got to it first. He’d thumbed it. She saw that. She’d dog-eared random pages. He undid them. She set a trap for him. He fell into it.

She left the file out for him. He hadn’t mentioned it. He was starting to omit and dissemble again. She simply knew it.

She’d included some liquor-store 211 reports. She’d skimmed that paperwork first. There’s “Jackson, Wayne Frank” on a detain-and-release slip.

Ashida had thumbed that file. Ashida did not mention the Wayne Frank Jackson lead.

It was Bingo #1. Bingo #2 surpassed it.

Martin Luther Mimms sprung Leander Frechette. That was 5/31. Now jump to 1/42. Martin Luther Mimms owns the klubhaus. Elmer Jackson and Lee Blanchard turned up the lead.

Mimms: purportedly tight with high PD brass. Mimms: southside slumlord and bilk-the-poor preacher. Mimms: there for the gold-heist aftermath.

The room trapped cigarette smoke. Ashida fanned it away and made faces. Elmer and Buzz winked at Joan. Joan smiled and winked at Bill Parker. Lover #1 blushed.

Thad Brown said, “Breuning and Carlisle. Check DB files and see if you turn any paper submitted by Kapek and Rice. Blanchard, you recanvass the same radius, whether you like it or not. Jackson and Meeks, shake the names in Tommy Glennon’s address book, and put your snouts down for Tommy himself.”

Get it? We’re finished here. Go to work. This fucking job’s going nowhere so far.

Chairs scraped. The room thinned out. Parker shot Joan a look. It meant Tonight? Joan shot a look back. It meant Sweetie, I can’t.

Parker slunk off. A bottleneck hit the door to Lyman’s proper. The room thinned all-the-way out.

The smoke clouds dispersed. Ashida hit the doorway. Joan grabbed his arm and pulled him back in. She slammed the door and leaned against it. Talk to me, you prissy queen.

“You’ve seen all the paperwork, and you haven’t said a word. We need to follow up on Mimms and see what we can get on Wayne Frank Jackson.”

Ashida shook his head. “I’ll be called down to Baja soon. The gold bayonet derives from there. I’ll uncover leads in Mexico. That’s how I can best serve this venture.”

“That’s not an answer. It’s an evasion. And ‘this venture’ does not begin to describe all of this.”

“Yes, and ‘all of this’ means that ‘half of this’ is down in Mexico. I told you about Kyoho Hanamaka and Dudley’s fixation with him, and we’re not going to turn leads on him here in Los Angeles.”

Joan shook her head. “That’s not what you’re saying. You’re leading me and playing me blithe, and you’re withholding the punch line.”

Ashida shook his head. “All right. Here’s your denouement. Dudley’s in Mexico, and we don’t stand a chance without cutting him in. He uncovered the Mexican lead, but I know he hasn’t connected the bayonet to the heist. We can’t work around him, not with leads crossing over to the klubhaus job. He has to be told, and he has to share in whatever gold we take possession of.”

The room spun off-kilter. Joan got ground-floor vertigo. The prim little shit—

“Who tells him?”

“You do. You’re his lover.”

Joan said, “Yes, I am — however much you’d like to be.”

Ashida hurled his coffee cup across the room. It hit a file cabinet and shattered.

52 (Los Angeles, 11:00 A.M., 2/3/42)

He hid from Reckless Girl. The klubhaus as hideout. He worked upstairs. She worked downstairs. The klubhaus as haunted house. He felt her through the floorboards and walls.

Reckless Girl. Brutal Girl. Hausfrau and Harlot. Consort of two brutal cops.

Ashida rephotographed the upstairs bedroom. He wanted to re-create the full-scale haus and run forensic reconstructions. He cracked the front window. Full-scale chatter chattered up.

Patrol cops and press. They crowded the yard and spritzed rumors. “It’s a coon caper” persisted. “It’s a jealous-wife job” ran second. “Nazis and Sinarquista humps” ran third.

Gossip persisted. Sid Hudgens said he got a tip. There’s a big powwow brewing. It’s a face-off. Whiskey Bill versus Dudley Smith.

It pertains to Rice-Kapek. It pertains to Watanabe. My lips are sealed past that. It’s all very hush-hush.

Jack Webb bird-dogged Sid. Jack was a Belmont alum. He bird-dogged Ashida and Bucky Bleichert in high school. He bird-dogged cops now. He was the PD’s favored stooge-mascot.

A hot dog vendor worked the front yard. Cops and reporters swarmed him. Ashida shut the window and rephotographed.

He deployed a Man Camera variant. It merged Man Camera and Camera Camera and created a merged tableau. His goal was full depiction. Capture the klubhaus-deathhaus full on.

Ashida shot baseboards and closet corners. He worked with and without flashbulbs and lights. He got the walls. He got stacks of Thunderbolt and Stormtrooper Magazine. He should print-dust them. They hadn’t been dusted. There was no powder residue.

He shot every page. Thunderbolt featured hate diatribes and cheesecake pix. Ashida saw Wendell Rice’s wife in fishnet stockings. He recognized a contributor’s name. George Lincoln Rockwell penned a back-to-Africa screed. He praised “Ebony Führer” M. L. Mimms at great length. Elmer Jackson and Lee Blanchard braced Mimms and Rockwell. They’d posted their report.

Rockwell, Navy pilot. Mimms, gold-heist periphery.

Ashida shot wall cracks and warped floorboards. He saw shoe scuffs on both sides of the bed. The bed engaged heavy traffic. He knew that.

The floor creaked behind him. The bedroom door creaked.

“I brought you some lunch, Hideo. Worker bees have to eat sometime.”

Ashida wheeled. Jack Webb tossed him a hot dog. Ashida tossed his camera on the bed and snagged it.

Jack said, “I’d call you the world’s hardest-working white man, except you’re not white.”

Ashida laughed and unwrapped the hot dog. Jack lounged in the doorway.

“I’m chasing leads for Sid’s private dish sheet. Like, ‘Call-Me-Jack’s dragging his heels on cutting old Hideo loose for the Army.’ Like, ‘Jack wants to build a new crime lab before he retires, and Bill Parker or Thad Brown ascends to the throne.’ Like, ‘Jack’s got it bad for the Conville cooze, and he’s sending her to the Academy and swearing her in as a captain.’ She’ll command the division, and you’ll jump to civilian chief chemist. How do them apples sound?”

Ashida ate half the hot dog and wiped his hands. Jack smirked. He was Mr. Insider’s scent dog. He sniffed out the dirt.

“Tell me about the Reverend Mimms. He owns this property, and he impresses me as someone you and Sid would have the lowdown on.”

Jack chortled. “Hideo Ashida says ‘lowdown.’ Coontown’s getting to him. He’ll be wearing zoot suits and poking colored girls before you know it.”

“Come on, Jack. Mimms. You and Sid must know something.”

Jack ticked points on his fingers. Jack aped the Sidster’s gruff growl.

“Okay, boychik. He’s the white sheep of a prominent Negro family. He bilks his own people with that return-to-our-homeland shuck. He’s got a southside network of snitches reporting to him, and he reports to Jack the H. exclusive, because they’re pals from ‘The War to End All Wars.’ As a snitch himself, he always bypasses the Dudster and goes straight to Jack. He’s got his minions pushing maryjane, in corrosive counterpoint to these Armenian shits who push white horse under Jack’s aegis, with Dud as the middleman. Both these factions service an all-jig clientele, which is the way Jack H. and his unillustrious predecessor, Two-Gun Davis, think narcotics should play out in our town.”

Ashida said, “And that’s all the news that’s unfit to print?”

“Well, you got your costar in this Mimms drama. He’s this Navy flyboy named Link Rockwell. He’s the white Abbott to Mimms’ Costello. He passes through L.A. when he’s on leave, and he’s a bagman for these rich white guys who back the Rev’s deport-the-spooks agenda.”

Ashida sifted it. His brain gears clicked and meshed. Mimms was sacrosanct. That scotched an approach.

Jack said, “Mimms has got darktown hot-wired. He could help the PD out with this job, but you’d have to bypass Chief Jack. He don’t like to be reminded that he’s asshole tight with the Rev.”

Reckless Girl went to lunch. He hid upstairs and watched her walk to Central Avenue. He deployed Man Camera. He close-up shot photo trails.

He began downstairs and worked upstairs. He detail-shot the stairway to the landing and the bedroom door. He was a camera lens and shutter. He went objective and subjective. He posited this:

He’s a left-handed killer. He walks Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta downstairs. He walks them individually. His victims are terped to the gills. He’s got his ice pick pressed to their necks.

His victims flail and bounce off the walls. Note the wall pictures knocked to the floor.

Man Camera. Let’s shoot reverse-angle snapshots downstairs.

Ashida walked back down. He’s the killer. His victims have ingested carbolic acid. All three are near death. He positions them on the couch. He’s got his ice pick to their necks. He steadies them with it. He one-hand strangles them. Or — he has help.

Ashida went back upstairs. He reversed field and walked from the bedroom door to the stairway. He Man Camera’d the right-side hallway wall and the floor-juncture points. He snapped the downed pictures. Palm trees and seascapes. Pix that came with the crib.

Let’s shoot close-ups now. Let’s shoot those floor-juncture points.

He did it. He snapped scuff-mark indentations. They were low on the wall. They were sharp-point indentations. They’re in with the dumped pictures. Dent, dent, dent — here to there:

Straight across from the bedroom doorway. Dent, dent, dent — all along the right-side wall. Dent, dent, dent — terminating at the steps leading downstairs.

Man Camera. Let’s hypothesize. Let’s hazard a guess.

They’re scuff-mark indentations. They’re sharply pointed. They connote a woman wearing high-heeled shoes.

It’s all theoretical. It’s inconclusive and unprovable at this point.

Ashida walked into the bedroom. He dumped his Man Camera and opened his evidence kit. He studied photos of the semen-stained sheets.

Four semen stains. Four differentiated blood types. Two O-positives. One O-negative. One rare RH-positive. Dr. Nort blood-tested the dead men. Archuleta was AB-neg/not applicable. Rice and Kapek were O-positive secretors. It was odds-on NA. O-positive was the most common white-European blood type.

Whorehouse. Fuck flop. Acey-ducey antics. Differentiated jizz stains. Perverted acts performed. Performed with men, performed with women. There’s no way to tell.

Did sex acts precede the murders? Did the victims or their killer or killers watch/abstain/perform? There’s no way to determine that.

Ashida donned his headband light. He bent over the bed and went in close. He quadrant-scanned and saw five small hairs. He’d run two prior scans and missed them.

Dark hairs, curled hairs. Surely pubic hairs. The three victims were dark-haired men.

He tweezed the hairs and prepped his kit microscope. He dialed tight and scoped the hairs, one-off and collectively. He determined this:

Three hairs are male. Two hairs are female. The maxilla circumference indicates gender. He’s not a physician. It’s Dr. Nort’s final call.

Ashida walked downstairs. He grabbed the PD’s callout phone and buzzed Dr. Nort. He described the hair samples and said he’d bring them in. Dr. Nort said he’d compare them to the stiffs’ pubic hair.

Reckless Girl was due back. Ashida walked upstairs and went back to work.

He stifled shrieks. He quashed effete exhalations. It came on belatedly. He knew what it meant.

The stains. The shit traces. Inverted sex acts. He ran from Reckless Girl. She understood inversion and called him an invert. He should have fought back.

Ashida wiped his face and caught his breath. He redusted. He redid touch-and-grab planes. He hit one dresser, two nightstands, the closet door and shelves. He got smudges, smears, distressed latents. He pulled a stack of phonograph records. The grooved plastic would thwart lifts. The covers would sustain.

Jazz records. Duke Ellington and Count Basie. Obscure Negro ensembles. The klubhaus rolls heterodox.

Ashida dusted. He powdered twenty-one album covers. He got smudges, smears, badly distressed latents. He dusted cover #22. Erskine Hawkins and his ’Bama State Collegians. The White Dog Blues.

He got more smudges and smears, more badly distressed latents. He got one partial latent — a top-half fingertip.

Ashida tape-lifted it and rolled it on blank cardboard. The partial looked near-familiar. He checked it against his elimination prints. No loops, whorls, and ridges matched. He saw the two Statie print cards that Dudley supplied. Hector Obregon-Hodaka and Kyoho Hanamaka.

He instantly nixed Hanamaka. All his fingertips bore burn scars. He ran eye clicks. He clicked the partial to the Obregon-Hodaka card. He matched three comparison points. He fell short of a conclusive ID.

He dusted four more album covers. He got smudges and glossy-surface smears.

He got out Tommy Glennon’s address book. Ray Pinker pulled two Glennon latents off the front cover. He didn’t dust the pages. They were semigloss paper. They might sustain prints.

Ashida flipped through the book. He got hackle bumps. Something seemed wrong. He noted four names. All four played wrong.

Dr. Lin Chung.

Dr. Saul Lesnick.

Orson Welles.

Wallace N. Jamie.

Tommy Glennon’s a rape-o. Lesnick and Chung are dubious physicians. He knows their reputations himself. Jamie and Welles. A private eye and a film wunderkind. Those names, this address book. It does not logically track.

The address book was pocket-sized. Page dusts were difficult work.

Ashida adjusted his headband light. He placed the book atop the dresser and opened it flat. His car keys held it steady. He arrayed his powder and brushes and jumped—

He got thumb-ruffle smears on page one. He got straight smears on page two. He got zero on pages three, four, and five. He got something on page six.

It looked familiar. I’ve seen you before. You look like a smooth-glove print, but—

You lie flat below the top-digit line. Glove prints don’t do that. I’ve got a hunch that I know what you are.

Man Camera now. Strike an all-objective pose. Observe yourself as you do this.

It’s auspicious. You’re trembling. Open your evidence kit. Pull that print card Dudley sent you. There it is. You willed it. Yes — it’s a perfect match.

Kyoho Hanamaka. His burn-scarred right forefinger. The ghoul touched Tommy Glennon’s address book.

53 (Los Angeles, 2:30 P.M., 2/3/42)

The boys are back in—

Elmer and Buzz hit the Gordon Hotel. They parked their prowl sled on the sidewalk and opened strong. They pinned their badges to their sport coats and tornado’d the lobby. The desk clerk went Oh shit.

Elmer went Oh shit. That selfsame guy worked the desk New Year’s Eve. He’d tossed Tommy G.’s room then. Buzz knew shit per all that.

Rumdum tenants snoozed in chairs. A radio spieled war news. The fucking Japs stormed the Pacific. They barbecued white missionaries and keestered stray cats.

The clerk said, “Gentlemen?”

Buzz said, “We’re looking for Tommy Glennon. This is his last known address. We figure he might have come by for old times’ sake, or he might have had folks coming by to say hi.”

The clerk eyeballed Elmer. Buzz retrieved the look. Elmer gulp-gulped.

The clerk picked his nose. “Tommy skedaddled New Year’s Eve. He said, ‘Adios, muchacho,’ so I figured he was Mexico-bound. He gave me ten clams to store his boxes, which I summarily did.”

Buzz slid him a ten-spot. “ ‘Summarily,’ huh? That’s fine for then, but now’s now, which means you should show us Tommy’s shit.”

The clerk unlocked a door upside his switchboard. He pulled a light cord, all nice-nice.

Elmer and Buzz stepped behind the desk and scoped the doorway. Elmer gulp-gulped. Buzz woo-woo’d Tommy’s shit.

It was old news to Elmer and new news to Buzz. There’s Tommy’s New Year’s Eve gear.

The smut books. The Jap flags and Nazi armbands. The tattoo stencils — swastikas and Sinarquista snakes.

The clerk futzed with the switchboard. Buzz pulled Elmer in tight.

“You seen all this before. How’s New Year’s Eve sound? You, Breuning, and Carlisle fluffed that stakeout on Tommy. You got this dimwit notion to go out rogue.”

Elmer smiled and zipped his lips. Buzz said, “Who put that burr in your tail?”

“I wasn’t about to shoot some fucker in cold blood. It all came down to the Dudster messing with me.”

Buzz winked. “This partnership is starting to gel. We’re looking at some big fun.”

Big fun, huh?

Buzz tattled his own Dudley tale. It’s the Watanabe job, post — Pearl Harbor. Dud’s working a land grab. He’s out to snatch Jap property and promote boocoo gelt. Buzz extorts the mick fucker. He gets cash plus a biiiiiiiiiiiig bonus.

Buzz had three pregnant girlfriends. Dud was tight with Huey Cressmeyer’s mom, Ruth Mildred. Ruthie was a licentious lez and defrocked physician. She worked at Columbia Pictures. She did all the film-goddess scrapes. She scraped Buzz’s girlfriends, gratis.

Big fun, huh? Yeah — and Buzz figured this:

Dud would up and kill him. He’d frame some jigs for it and get away clean. He figured he should bide his time and kill Dud first.

Big fun, huh?

Elmer perched in Lyman’s back room. Lunch was two highballs and three bennies. He was alone. The rest of the Crash Squad was gonesville. Buzz was occupied elsewhere.

They went by Huey C.’s bungalow and saw Dud’s prowl car out front. They staked the crib and saw Dud lead Huey outside. Huey’s face was glue-smeared. Huey was glued to the planet Mars. Dud tossed him in his car and drove off.

Address-book duty loomed. Elmer had dropped Buzz at St. Vibiana’s. His gig: brace Monsignor Joe Hayes. Elmer drove to Lyman’s then. His gig: bone up on Jean Clarice Staley.

Jean bounced for maryjane, back in ’36. He knew that already. It was old news. Lee Blanchard posted a background-check note. Jean Staley was allegedly an ex — Paramount starlet. She works as a carhop now. Blanchard attached a mug-shot strip. The Jeanstress wore glasses and still looked goooooooood. Blanchard closed out his note: “Additional file at Red Squad office/Wilshire Station.”

Oooga-booga. That’s food for thought.

The Red Squad was hush-hush. It was cloak-and-dagger and a one-man show. Lieutenant Carl Hull lock-and-keyed the files at the Wilshire DB. Hull was in the Navy now. Hull was an ardent anti-Red and pal of Whiskey Bill Parker. Hull hoarded one file set only:

The Communist Party (U.S.A.), its own self.

Parker greased the skids. The Crash Squad rated top access. He called Whiskey Bill. Whiskey Bill called Wilshire. The watch boss opened the office and found the file.

Some file. It ran mucho brief. Tortilla-thin meets threadbare.

Elmer sat at Carl Hull’s desk and put his feet up. He looted Hull’s cigar and liquor stash and got comfy. He read through the file. There’s our girl:

Staley, Jean Clarice. White female American. DOB: 1/28/09/Beaumont, Texas.

Jean graduates high school, 1926. Jean migrates to L.A. Jean’s mom and dad kick in a dust storm, summer ’32. Jean’s got a kid brother. Robert Arthur Staley’s a homo prostitute. He does a two-spot juvie bounce at Preston. Jean does that reefer bounce. Before that, there’s this:

She’s live-wire CP. She’s in a cell with four other Reds. She carries the card. She toes the Red line and wears the Red beret. She’s a part-time starlet and full-time Red reptile.

The cell boss is one Meyer Gelb. Jean’s cellmates are a beaner named Jorge Villarreal-Caiz and two Commos—

Oops—

Named Lesnick.

Dr. Saul. Dr. Saul’s daughter, Andrea.

It’s old home week. Small world, huh? What goes around comes around. Life’s one big circle jerk. It’s who you know and who you blow.

Old Saul. Annie Staples’ trick. Ed Satterlee’s snitch. Psych doc of Orson Welles and Claire De Haven. Fuck-flop target of Sergeant E. V. Jackson.

Elmer skimmed file sheets. They ran threadbare. He ran dozy. An occurrence sheet jerked him awake.

October ’33. That very hot month. The PD Arson Squad rousts the cellmates.

Per the Griffith Park fire. The blaze that scorched Wayne Frank. It’s all Meyer Gelb’s fault. He made “apocalyptic remarks.” He predicted “big antifascist chaos.”

The rousts went nowhere. Gelb retracted his remarks. The hullabaloo died out.

Kay Lake jive-talked this deal called the Spiritus Mundi. It’s some eastern swami hoodoo. It’s the place where all our shit coheres and our souls intersect.

Elmer got the heebie-jeebies. Kay just sold him on the Spiritus Mundi. Woo-woo — he’s heading there now.

The carhops hopped on skates. They hopped cars-to-kitchen, round-trip. They wore red-and-white tunics and puffed-leg slacks. The girls looked good and hopped good. Jean Staley looked and hopped the best.

Simon’s Drive-in stood across from Hollywood High. It was a streamline-moderne job. Cars circled a walkway ramp and an inside counter. Some bleached-blond cooze hopped Elmer. He popped her for whore vag in ’39. She didn’t recognize him.

Elmer sipped a pineapple malt. He spiked it with Old Crow and three bennies. Jean Staley hopped cars in his perv-view. He watched her sling burgers and glom tips.

She skated nice. She dipped her tray nice. She dipsy-doodled and drew wolf whistles and hoochie hoots. She was East Texas/barn dances/male kousins all Klanned up. Kay’s Spiritus Mundi. He saw his shit and Jean’s shit, entwined.

It perplexed him. He grabbed Tommy G.’s address book. Jean Staley’s initials are in there. That Vice clerk got him her full name. He glommed her PD sheet last month and tumbled to her weed roust. He planted the address book to fuck with Dudley Smith. It’s fake evidence in a real murder case. He planted names in the address book. Lin Chung and Doc Lesnick radiate Fifth Column. The klubhaus is Fifth Column. Jean’s revealed as Red now. Old Saul was her ’33 cellmate. The cell got braced per the ’33 fire.

Spiritus Mundi? Yeah, he gets that. Beyond that, there’s just this:

Jean Staley. Barn-dance femme fatale. She sure can sling hash on skates.

54 (Los Angeles, 4:30 P.M., 2/3/42)

Ruth Mildred held court. She excelled at screwball comedy. Her office proved the point.

The dippy Deco furnishings. Props scrounged from Dinner at Eight. The cheesecake wall fotos. Ruth Mildred’s nice-girls-in-a-jam.

Ruthie pointed to Joan Crawford. She said, “I scraped her. A coon trombone knocked her up.”

Dudley roared. Juan Pimentel went tut-tut. Huey Cressmeyer snoozed on mama’s couch.

Ruthie pointed to Katharine Hepburn. She said, “I scraped her. I sold locks of her snatch hair for a C-note a pop.”

Lieutenant Juan grew a Hitler mustache. It sprang up dark and thick. He wore Statie blacks north of the border. He lived to cause fear, wherever he went.

Huey snored. He required resuscitation. Model-airplane glue laid him low. He built a Messerschmidt squadron and succumbed.

Ruthie pointed to Sylvia Sidney. She said, “I scraped her. I licked her bush while she was anesthetized.”

Dudley yanked Ruthie’s cord. “Regretfully, I must call for an intermission. I have questions for your grand boy before the lieutenant drives him south.”

Ruthie dug out her dope spike and filled it. Nazi-issue amphetamine possessed pop. Harry Cohn swore by it. Ruthie injected his starlets. They toiled in grade-Z turkeys all day and Harry’s private stag flicks all night.

“The Dudster’s a killjoy. My baby needs his beauty sleep, and his mommy loves to strut her stuff.”

Lieutenant Juan said, “Dr. Cressmeyer should resettle in Tijuana. I would see to the reinstatement of her medical license. We are currently battling a VD epidemic. Our vivid nightclub acts have spawned this medical plague. Donkeys, you see. You never know where they’ve been and who they’ve been with.”

Dudley roared. Ruthie roared big. She swabbed Huey’s arm and tied him off. Huey snored. Ruthie tapped the spike and fed him the juice. She went There, there and held her baby’s hand.

Lieutenant Juan timed the wake-up. His wristwatch ticked off three minutes. Huey babbled and twitched.

Dudley shooed Ruthie and El Fasco out. He bolted the door and pulled a chair up to the couch. Huey twitched, babbled, twitched.

He slurred verses of the “Horst-Wessel-Lied” and “Lili Marlene.” He babbled up the Deutsches Haus and its habitué, “Mitch.” “Model-airplane man, model-airplane man.” Huey made no sense.

Dudley lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Huey’s face. Huey coughed. His eyes popped open, wide.

“I have questions, lad. Prompt compliance will earn you a pat on the head. Evasions will earn you a beating.”

Huey pouted. “I want to go home. You’ve got me on some jaggedy hop, and I’m zorched to the gills. I want to mess with my pin map. I’ve got the Russian campaign all doped out.”

Dudley twirled his ashtray. “You may have heard that two policemen and a Mex pal of theirs were murdered late last month. Your friend Tommy Glennon may have been involved. Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta. Do those names sound your chimes?”

Huey picked his nose and admired a loose nugget. Huey pulled out a paper clip and excavated his ears.

“I don’t know no Archuleta. I’ve seen Rice and Kapek at the Deutsches Haus, but we just sling a few barbs at the kikes, and let it go at that. They’re far right — but who ain’t? If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

The Deutsches Haus. It appeared in Tommy’s address book. The PD raided it in December. It was now Fed-infiltrated. That nixed an approach.

Rice and Kapek appeared in T.J. They wheeled a truck toward the border. He ran photo-device pix and saw them. Photo fuzz obscured the license plates.

Dudley chained cigarettes. “Far right to the extent that they’d run fugitive Japs?”

“No, that don’t beat no tom-toms for me. But Rice used to brag that he was running wetbacks — if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Dudley said, “Lad, how do you know this?”

Huey shrugged. “Fifth Column’s Fifth Column. We all drink at the same trough and pick at the same fleas.”

“On that note, then. Where’s Tommy Glennon?”

“I ain’t seen him since he left Quentin. That was back in November.”

“Do any Japs habituate the Deutsches Haus? I’m thinking of a man named Kyoho Hanamaka.”

Huey scratched his balls. “Japs on the loose, since the Day of Infamy? Japs who ain’t already in stir for the war’s duration?”

“Can you connect Tommy G. to the Deutsches Haus, or Rice and Kapek?”

“Nein — ’cause the Deutsches Haus didn’t open up until sometime in ’37, and Tommy was in Quentin then. As far as Rice and Kapek go, you’ve got Rice bragging that he ran wets, and Tommy used to run wets for Carlos Madrano. It’s like the Fifth Column concept. Everybody knows everybody — if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

Dudley cracked his knuckles. “Let’s talk about Tommy’s address book.”

“Okay.”

“Let me run a few names by you. Lin Chung, Orson Welles, Dr. Saul Lesnick, Wallace N. Jamie. Can you relate these men to Tommy, or to anyone else that you might consider Fifth Column?”

Huey made the jack-off sign. Huey grabbed his crotch and went Consider this.

“Moving along, then. Monsignor Joe Hayes, a woman named Jean Staley, the hot-box phone by the L.A. Herald building, and fourteen pay phones in Baja, rumored to receive coded calls of a suspicious nature.”

Huey squirmed. He was bored. The psycho thrill killer wants his diesel-dyke mommy.

“No, nix, nein, and nyet, Uncle Dud. All us fascist types use phone drops, but I don’t know nothing about pay phones in Baja.”

“Your name was in Tommy’s address book.”

“That ain’t no large surprise. We used to correspond, from here to Quentin.”

“He wrote ‘Big Dick’ beside your name. I’m wondering if you lads might have traveled the Hershey Highway at any time during your reform-school or on-the-loose sojourns.”

Thrill-killer Huey. He kills Jews, kills jigs, kills Japs. He kills behind pique, ennui, and glue withdrawal. Now, he’s aghast.

“It’s a fucking lie! He ain’t never seen my dick!”

Dudley flashed his photostat. There’s that address-book page. Tommy extolls Huey’s big dick.

“That ain’t Tommy’s printing! He used to write me! Tommy don’t print that way!”

Huey was credible. He oozed indignation and righteous affront. He went Greek. Tommy went Greek. They sought the Greek grail — but not together.

The address book had been altered and planted at the klubhaus. That seemed evident now. Who performed these misdeeds? Puerile Elmer Jackson comes to mind.

Dudley sat in Luke’s Shanghai. It was Bill Parker’s C-town haunt. Parker disdained the ritzier Kwan’s. Uncle Ace vexed him no end.

Dudley sipped green tea. He’d dropped by Lyman’s en route. The address-book pages were photostated and tacked to a bulletin board.

He studied the block printing. He saw hesitation marks. Huey’s “Big Dick!!!!!” was a badly forged addition.

The botched New Year’s stakeout. Tommy flees and drops the address book. Cretinous Elmer grabs it. The act spawns his series of inexplicable gaffes. That seems theoretically evident now.

Hideo called him at Lyman’s. He found a burn-scar print in the book. It matched Kyoho Hanamaka’s print card. Tommy was privy to Baja-based Fifth Column operations. That seems evident now. The print links Tommy to Hanamaka and his faked-death act.

Parker slid into the booth. He wore civvies and cradled a highball. He’d cut himself shaving. His belt piece weighed down his pants.

Dudley smiled. “It was good of you to meet me, sir.”

Parker lit a cigarette. “I’ve told you before, we’re both captains. This pertains to Jim Davis’ admissions, and you’re here as Jack Horrall’s proxy. With that in mind, I’m listening.”

“And, with that in mind, I’ll open with a question. Have you seen the photostated pages from Tommy Glennon’s address book posted at Lyman’s?”

Parker said, “No, I have not.”

Dudley said, “Names from the Watanabe job are crossing over to the klubhaus job. Specifically, Lin Chung, Saul Lesnick, and the Deutsches Haus. We need to address this and limit the extent of Jim Davis’ exposure, along with the risk of discrediting our arrest of Fujio Shudo, soon to be sentenced to death and executed.”

Parker crossed himself and killed his drink. Beseech Kay and Joan, Bill. They round out the Trinity.

“We should set terms. Something that will appease Chief Horrall and satisfy both of us. Something we can both live with.”

Dudley said, “Now, I’m listening.”

“No frame on this job. No killing convenient suspects. Put Breuning and Carlisle on a tight leash.”

“Agreed.”

“Immunity for case-to-case witnesses who provide leads that clear the klubhaus job. We’ve got a rubber-stamp grand jury installed now. We may as well put it to good use.”

Dudley said, “Agreed — but within that, I must insert a codicil. Rice and Kapek were rogue cops of a most pernicious ilk. We must make every effort to suppress evidence of their malfeasance at trial, to limit general testimony, and to urge the presiding judge to issue a directed guilty verdict.”

Parker said, “Agreed.” A fresh highball appeared. Parker drained it double quick.

Dudley smiled. “Full disclosure, Captain. Rice and Kapek were spotted at the border, three nights before their deaths. They may have been running wets or fugitive Japs.”

Parker shrugged. “You’re Army SIS, Captain. Mexico is your jurisdiction. I don’t care what you do there. Nor do I care if you judiciously abrogate the rule of law here in the States.”

Dudley bowed. “I consider that a grand declaration and nod to informed latitude. It would please me to grant you a concession.”

Parker lit a cigarette. His leaky Zippo whooshed.

“Put Jim Davis under pentothal. Take him to Terry Lux’s farm and forcibly sequester him. Have at him there. We need to determine what he might know about the klubhaus job.”

Dudley said, “Agreed.”

Parker said, “I cannot abide executing Shudo. Have Horrall brace the DA and hint at our impasse. We need a true bill from the grand jury, along with a decline-to-file DA’s writ, buttressed by an insanity ruling submitted by a blue-ribbon panel of psychiatrists. We’ve got Shudo on multiple counts of kidnap and sodomy. He’ll never get out.”

Dudley offered his hand. Parker clasped it. The deal was comme ci, comme ça. The fucking Werewolf survives. Jack Horrall will fucking SHIT.

They made love straight off. They peeled their way to the bedroom and left the lights on. Joan held on his eyes.

She rolled under him and above him and moved him about. She got him just so and fixed on his eyes.

He tried to untie her hair. She swatted his hands away and pinned them to the bed. She clamped his head and bent down to kiss him. She did not shut her eyes. He kept his eyes open. It sealed their spell.

They started that way and finished that way. Joan killed the lights then. She got them cozy. She said, I must tell you something. You must not interrupt.

She cinched narrative lines. The Rain, The Gold, The Fire. It’s all one story, you see.

The charred box. The gold chip within. The dead man worked the gold heist. Wayne Frank Jackson died a short distance away. The elements have conspired in our favor. We owe this moment in the dark to The Rain.

The train journey south. The Griffith Park blaze. The gold bar stored in the locker. The gold bayonet. The burned fingerprint. Did Hanamaka singe his hands in the park that very hot day?

The Reverend Mimms bailed out the prime gold-heist suspect. The Reverend Mimms owns the klubhaus. It’s all one story, you see.

Fritz Eckelkamp escapes from the train. There’s a partial bullet match to a robbery spree. Wayne Frank Jackson is detained and released. The spree precedes the fire. The fire occurs. Some Reds are detained and released. I met one of them at a party. It’s all one story, you see.

Hideo Ashida put most of this together. He urged me to disclose it and to bring you in on the gold. It’s yours as much as ours. Your skills surpass ours. I defer to Hideo in all matters that concern you. He’s far less compromised in his affections. I will never be as exclusively in love with you.

I should be stitching sailors on a battleship somewhere. I attribute all of this to the war. Our convergence is a heady bit of wartime magic. Ask your friend the Wolf about that.

Have you felt him in your presence? He’s determined to do his part in keeping you safe.

I wake up and see him at the foot of the bed.

Claire disdains the Wolf, you know. I find it endearing that a scientist should relinquish herself to this beast.

You’re the beast I’ve relinquished myself to. I’ll be decorous, and refrain from mentioning your littermate, Bill Parker.

I deserve such brusque mention. I shouldn’t have brought up Claire.

I met her at that party I told you about. Did she tell you we’d met? It’s the war again. The party couldn’t have occurred at any other time.

She told me you were nude together, in a steam room. You and Orson Welles, no less. She didn’t state your name, but I knew it was you. This very tall and brazen redhead, she said.

It was another magical convergence. Tell Claire that she’s a fool not to believe.

I’m going to interview young Welles soon. His name turned up in Tommy Glennon’s address book, as I’m sure you already know.

Tell him Red says hi.

I’ve been to the Maestro’s house. Another party, some time ago. I may tell you the story one day.

You owe me a story, given the one I told you.

I wholeheartedly acknowledge my debt there.

I went to the party to observe Kay Lake. It should be a bitter rivalry, but we’re becoming friends. She’s got me keeping a diary.

Write of me frequently and fondly, dear.

My lips are sealed, but I may show you if the mood strikes me.

You have me reconsidering the notion of debts. It prompts me to say, How can I ever repay you?

Well, there’s the gold, of course. And you might also find the man who killed my father. That would be nice of you.

55 (Los Angeles, 9:30 A.M., 2/4/42)

She hated him now. She conceded his brilliance and despised his effeminacy. She told him that Dudley was in and cut it off there. Ashida went smarmy and smirked.

Dr. Nort arrived. His presence muzzled her. She’d prepared jazzy ripostes. They spoofed Ashida’s crush on Dudley. He was Renfield in Dracula. He intoned, “Master, I come.”

Lyman’s back room socked in heat. Joan cracked a window. Shrieks echoed upstairs. Mike Breuning phone-booked a snotty witness.

Dr. Nort said, “I matched the male pubic hairs to our victims. That leaves the female samples unknown. We’ve got one Latin, and one Caucasian.”

Ashida said, “The semen stains. Were you able to—”

Dr. Nort cut in. “Rice and Kapek, most likely. O-positive is a very common type, and that’s as far as I could classify the secretions. Archuleta was AB-neg. I got four differentiated ejaculate groups. Our boys plus two unknown males.”

Joan lit a cigarette. “I examined the stains. There’s no sign of cellular erosion, so I concluded that the stains were recent — perhaps as recent as the night of the homicides. Can we posit an orgy that went spontaneously bad? Do the unidentified ejaculates correspond to more than one killer? Say it’s an orgy. Did our other men participate, abstain, or were the stains left at varying intervals?”

Dr. Nort sipped coffee. “We don’t really know who secreted what. Beyond that, we’ve got no leads on the two women.”

Ashida dunked a tea bag and blew on his cup. The snotty witness screamed. The upstairs floorboards shook.

“I have a theory. I think the killer led the victims downstairs, individually, with his ice pick pressed to their necks. All three are debilitated from their consumption of terpin hydrate. They stagger, flail, and knock those framed pictures off the right-hand side of the wall. There are a series of kick-mark indentations, low on that wall. They indicate a woman wearing pointed-toe shoes. The kick marks do not indicate any concentrated degree of force. It’s as if she were observing the forced marches downstairs, and the kicks were her form of punctuation.”

Joan mulled the theory. Dr. Nort shrugged and tapped his wristwatch. The snotty witness screamed. Dr. Nort went eeek and walked out.

Joan locked the door. She pointed to the corkboard and Jean Staley’s green sheet.

“She’s on Elmer Jackson and Buzz Meeks’ interview list. We already know a few things that they don’t. They may learn that she was in Meyer Gelb’s cell, and that the members were questioned about the fire that killed Elmer’s brother.”

Ashida studied the green sheet. He scanned the text and tapped a routing stamp.

“She has a CP file. They keep all those files at Wilshire Station.”

Joan pointed to the wall phone. Ashida walked up to it and dialed out. He spoke low and listened. He hung up and stamped one foot.

“Elmer saw the file yesterday. Captain Parker arranged it.”

Joan said, “Here’s what we’re up against. Is Jean Staley germane to this case, or to the fire case, or to our other one? Will the fire be mentioned in the CP file? If so, how will Elmer react?”

“He’s been alerted to a possible fire-case link. A gold-robbery link is most unlikely here.”

Joan mulled it. Ashida slouched against the wall and twirled the phone cord.

“Miss Staley’s name appeared in Tommy Glennon’s address book. I find that book suspect in and of itself.”

Joan leafed through the corkboard reports. She studied the book photostats. They were white on black and tacked straight across.

She saw what Ashida saw. Block-print forgeries. Hesitation marks and ruler marks. Four names were forged. The name Jean Staley was discernibly legit.

“You’re right. Chung, Welles, Lesnick, and Jamie are forged.”

The Teletype clattered. Joan tore off the sheet. Fourth Interceptor sent a communiqué. Lieutenant H. J. Ashida/you’ve been summoned south.

“This should please you, Hideo. Our handsome Irish friend has mischief in mind.”

56 (Tijuana, 5:30 P.M., 2/4/42)

It’s dusk in teeming T.J. Soldier, beware. The ghastly ghouls are out.

The he-shes. The whores. The jarheads down from Dago. The zip-gun boys.

Ashida parked on Revolución. He gave a zip-gun boy ten centavos to watchdog his car. The boy was eight years old. He goofed Ashida’s Army duds. Ashida mind-read him. Usted es un Jap.

Dudley shot him a note at the Biltmore. It said Jack Horrall kowtowed and pink-slipped his early release. The note critiqued probable address-book forgeries. The key suspect was one E. V. Jackson.

Ashida agreed. The why of it perplexed him. The note concluded: “Meet Lieutenant Juan Pimentel at the Blue Fox.”

Strolling ghouls checked out Ashida. The sex-show barkers. The rat-meat taco vendors. The male prosties in bullfighter chaps. Ashida rigged his Man Camera and shuttered them out.

This is Mexico. Certain questions persist. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? The fourteen Baja pay phones in Tommy’s address book. Qué es el truth there?

Ashida strolled. There’s the Blue Fox. It’s licentious and lewd-legendary. Hoochie girls lured sailors inside. They wore blue fox masks and tails. They were otherwise nude and single-digit pubescent.

Ashida shut his eyes and pushed past them. He entered the Fox. Big noise hit him. He opened his eyes and saw this:

A bandstand. An androgynous trio. A tethered donkey sporting red devil horns. Tables packed with U.S. Marines.

The trio featured a sylph vocalist, trumpet, and sax. They whipped through the “Marines’ Hymn” and segued to this:

“Mama’s on welfare!!!”

“Papa’s in jail!!!”

“Little sister’s on the corner — yelling, pussy for sale!!!”

“Grandma’s on white horse!!!”

“Grandpa’s on glue!!!”

“Little brother’s getting cornholed by some jigaboos!!!”

Ashida stood, stunned-o. Ghouls fluttered by. A girl tongued his neck. A boy grabbed his crotch. A he-she fondled his holster. He tried to move. He failed to move. The ghouls glued his feet to the floor.

He deployed Man Camera Left. Nude girls danced on a bartop. Seated sailors muff-munched them and jerked off. He deployed Man Camera Right. Fox-face girls table-hopped and fellated Marines.

He shut his eyes and shut it out. A schizy sound track rolled in the dark.

“There he is.”

“You are very astute, Huey. Of course it is him. He is the only Japanese within view.”

“Come on. You said you’d call me ‘mein Führer.’ ”

“If it pleases you — yes, of course.”

“I think he’s cute.”

“He’s Oriental cute, which is not my sort of indulgence.”

“He won’t open his eyes. This place must seem pretty raw to him.”

“Come, Lieutenant Ashida. Captain Smith has a full night’s work for you.”

They took Ashida’s car and hit the coast road south. Ashida drove. His ghoul colleagues lounged in the backseat. Pimentel sniffed cocaine. Führer Huey made kissy sounds. Pimentel reached over and played the radio. Father Coughlin proclaimed.

The drive protracted. Pimentel mimicked Jap Zeroes at Pearl. Huey mimicked bomb blasts and sailors fried alive.

They passed Ensenada and cut inland. They climbed scrub hills and found it: this weird A-frame chalet.

The lights were on. Dudley stood outside. He wore a kimono. He embraced Ashida and called him “Ichiban.”

Pimentel and Führer Huey peeled off. They were bivouacked in the surveillance haus up the next hillside. Ashida unloaded his lab gear. Dudley assisted. Ashida Man Camera’d him.

He swayed here. He walked inimically straight in L.A. He’s T. E. Lawrence West now. He’s gone native. Call him Smith of Mexico. He overlords the brown hoi polloi.

His kimono swirled. Ashida studied the design. It was orange-and-black silk. Little Sinarquista snakes were inlaid.

They toured the hideaway. Dudley dubbed it the “Wolfschanze.” He’d appropriated the chalet and planned to remodel it. Maestro Klemperer’s L.A. spread inspired him. Claire had showed him jazzy snapshots.

Ashida viewed Hanamaka’s hidey-hole. Dudley posed in Nazi tunics cut to fit him. Ashida read Hanamaka’s journal. He trembled as he flipped pages. The lunatic Left and Right merge behind one banner. This war marks a prophecy fulfilled.

They sat down in the living room. Faded bloodstains covered one wall. Dudley served warm sake. A phonograph murmured Parsifal, low.

They discussed the gold and all events related. They time-machined back to May ’31 and October ’33. They stopped at the klubhaus today.

They tracked police-file revelations. Fritz Eckelkamp and Wayne Frank Jackson. The liquor-store spree. Tommy Glennon’s address book. Brother Elmer’s forgeries.

Jean Staley. Elmer, poised to brace her. Miss Staley’s membership in Meyer Gelb’s cell. Martin Luther Mimms. Dudley’s plan to brace Chung, Jamie, and Welles.

The dialogue wound down. Untersturmbannführer Ashida remained attentive.

Dudley said, “Comb the place, top to bottom. See what you can find.”

A midnight rainstorm came and went. Dudley drove back to Ensenada. Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey stuck to the lookout haus. Ashida roamed the Wolfschanze. He’d inventoried his gear. It covered all contingencies.

Three microscopes. Three forensic hot plates. Print cards and print-lift tools. Evidence pouches/beakers/Bunsen burners. Three forensic vacuums.

The task was confirm or refute. Try to match L.A.-to-Baja locations. The Hanamaka print linked the klubhaus to the Wolfschanze. Try to link conversely here.

Prints first.

Ashida dusted the downstairs walls. He powdered wide swaths and naked-eyed them. He saw washcloth wipe marks overlaid with dust.

Thick dust. Hanamaka vanished on December 18. It was now February 5. The washcloth marks and dust overlay confirmed his departure date.

Ashida dusted downstairs furniture. He hit hard surfaces only. They were all print-sustaining/all touch-and-grab.

He got wipe marks, smudges, and smears. It confirmed the professional wipe job. The smudges and smears overlaid the marks. That meant they were recent. The smudges and smears were surely Herr Dudley Smith’s.

Ashida dusted the upstairs walls and furniture. He got the same results. The upstairs dust had settled in thick. Dudley kept the windows cracked wide.

Fibers next.

He installed vacuum bags and worked with flat and scooped nozzles. He vacuumed carpets, soft furniture, floor-to-wall points. He pulled up rug grit and dust and filled three bags.

He emptied the bags on Dudley’s kitchen table. He naked-eyed the contents. It was all dust and rug grit.

Ashida switched nozzles. He installed a soft-bristled one. It caught buffed-surface particles best.

The one bathroom had been wall-and-fixture wiped. Washcloth swirls plainly showed. This was in-tight work. Get behind the toilet and under the sink.

Ashida worked on his knees. He swept the nozzle over flat surfaces and pushed it against sink pipes and wall planes. He got the sink, the bathtub, the toilet. No suction sounds reverberated. All fiber snags would run silent here.

Dawn broke clear and bright. His muscles throbbed. He smelled his own sweat.

He walked to the kitchen table. He donned his headlamp and looked into the bag. He naked-eyed toilet-paper scraps and one dark blue thread.

He plucked the thread and placed it on a microscope slide. He dialed close and saw the interior shaft. The weave indicated fine silk. The cross weave indicated cheap dye.

Maybe. Just possibly. This could be—

Ashida rigged a comparison scope. He removed the thread and placed it on the right-side mount. He dug in his evidence kit. He found his comparison thread.

He placed it on the left-side mount. He dialed both lenses tight. He looked left-right, left-right, left-right. He made this determination. It’s an identical match.

Wendell Rice. His Hawaiian shirt. The shirt he died in. Wendell Rice was here at the Wolfschanze. Wendell Rice died at the klubhaus.

Ashida went up-all-night woozy. He stumbled around the kitchen. He went weak-kneed. Flashes lit the one window. It startled him.

The flashes repeated. They hit once, twice, three times. A pattern repeated. Short, long, short. It was Morse code/dot, dash, dot.

Light hit the window. The same sequence repeated. Ashida knew Morse code. He deciphered it.

Dots and dashes. Dashes and dots. They spelled out “We love you.”

The flashes hit windowpane glass. They hit downward. They flashed from somewhere outside and above.

Ashida brought binoculars. He grabbed them and held them up to the window. He dialed in. He glanced up and out and saw this:

The lookout haus. A wide window there. Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey. They’re holding up a hand mirror. They’re flashing “We Love You/We Love You/We Love You.”

Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey. They’re stark nude and entwined.

57 (Los Angeles, 10:00 A.M., 2/5/42)

The Herald headlined it. Tall type jumped out and slammed you. Sid Hudgens inked the piece.

WEREWOLF BEATS GAS CHAMBER!!! D.A. MANDATES LUNACY BOUNCE!!!

Elmer read the piece and reread it. He sat in his prowl sled. Simon’s was packed. He read and perv-viewed Jean Staley, intermittent.

The Sidster’s style packed panache. Chief Horrall was a “heartbroken humanist.” He could not “abysmally abide” a “Werewolf barbecue.” “Devoted-to-justice detectives” brokered a deal. NO GREEN ROOM TREK FOR WEREWOLF, D.A. BILL MC PHERSON SEZ.

Elmer tossed the paper and snarfed his breakfast. He noshed nutritious today. His pineapple malt was infused with Old Crow. Oooga-booga. The Werewolf gets a skate. Sid fed him the inside dish back at Lyman’s.

Bill Parker got all weepy. Poor Werewolf — boo-hoo, boo-hoo. He confabbed with El Dudster. Demands went down. It was a frame job, anyway. Fuck the fucking Watanabes. Who cares who killed them? The Werewolf rates a stroll.

Elmer scoped Jolting Jean. Her tortoiseshell glasses wowed him. She packed panache herself.

That same bleached-blond carhop hopped him today. That was good. He was saving Jungle Jean. He had to scurrilously scope her out first.

Her CP file hexed him. He got weepy for Wayne Frank. He recalled the good times. He ignored Wayne Frank’s shitbird demeanor and Klan escapades.

Buzz hopped in the car. Wham! — this Okie cyclone.

“I ain’t seen you in two days, but I thought I might find you here.”

Elmer said, “I’m staking out a suspect.”

Buzz wagged his eyebrows. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“You feel like reporting? I ain’t seen you in two days, either.”

Buzz torched a cold cigar. “I braced that papist hump, Joe Hayes. He impressed me as a froufrou, but he didn’t reveal no racy drift on Tommy. He said he was Tommy’s confessor, and that was it.”

Elmer made the jack-off sign. Buzz said, “I went back to Lyman’s then. Breuning and Carlisle had posted a note. It said Dud’s coming back in. He’s all set to brace Chung, Welles, and Jamie.”

Elmer yocked. Buzz blew smoke in his face.

“Then I remembered that Huey Cressmeyer’s mama works at Columbia, right by Huey’s flop. So I drove over there, and the first thing I see is Dud’s car, parked outside on Gower — with a Mex Statie sedan parked right behind it. I got the plate number, called the Ensenada barracks, and learned that that particular sled was checked out to some lieutenant named Juan Pimentel. This led me to believe that Dud and mama were baby-sitting Huey until Pimentel could get him down to Baja and hide his homo ass out.”

Elmer whooped. “Because Huey’s in Tommy’s address book, and he’s Dud’s snitch, and he’s jungled up with Dud in three thousand questionable ways — and we’re set to pull him in for questioning.”

Buzz rewagged his eyebrows. “So, I played a hunch on Pimentel. I called the Sheriff’s Office here, plus Orange County and San Diego County. Get this. San Diego R & I has a green sheet on old Juan. He got popped in a fruit-bar raid in ’37, but it got hushed up, because Juan’s got juice with the Staties. Then, I go back to my stakeout at Columbia. I see Dudley, Huey, and some uniformed beaner who’s got to be Pimentel walk out. Him and Huey wave bye-bye to Dud and take off in that Statie sedan. I tail them to the coast road southbound, and that’s all the news that’s unfit to print.”

Elmer slurped his malt. He eyeballed Jean Staley. He mulled the Huey dish. Jean did this nifty tray dip.

Buzz said, “Are you going to brace her, or peep her for the rest of your life?”

Brace her, boss. You gots her under yo skin.

He swooped that night. He hit at 8:00 p.m. He bopped to her Beachwood Canyon hut. He wore his best chalk-stripe suit and new brogans. He primped and rang the bell.

She cracked the door. He saw one eyeball and badged her. She pulled the door wide.

She wore dungarees and a white tennis shirt. She’d pinned up her hair. She wore schoolmarm glasses. Her joy de viver undermined the dowdy effect.

“You’re not the Sheriff’s, because they’ve got that six-pointed thing. You’re not the state AG, because they don’t come around anymore. You’re not the FBI, because Mr. Hoover goes for beefcake types, and that’s not you.”

Elmer smiled. She talked East Texas. She downplayed it. It still poked out some.

“If you’re trying to tell me you’ve been around, you’ve succeeded.”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I’m just wondering why you’re letting me give you so much guff from jump street.”

“Well, I did have some questions.”

“All spiffed up, at this time of night?”

“Let me in, will you? It won’t take that long.”

Jean squinted. Her cheaters magnified her eyes. Jean the Defiant. Screw you — I still look good.

“You’re stalling me. There’s a whole lot of things I want to talk to you about, but I can’t do it standing at your door.”

She had buck teeth and sleek hair. Note the gray strands in with the brown.

“You’ve been frequenting Simon’s. All the girls knew you were up to something.”

Elmer said, “I popped that blond girl for pros vag a while back. She must have spread the word.”

Jean went Well, all right. Elmer walked in. The front room featured Navajo rugs and green leather chairs. Stand-up ashtrays clinched it. Some men’s club tossed a yard sale.

Elmer took a seat. Jean took a seat. Wind blew the door shut.

Jean said, “What’s on your mind?”

“My name’s Elmer Jackson, in case you were wondering.”

“Is it Lieutenant?”

“It’s Sergeant, and I’m lucky to have that.”

“I’m not going to ask you what it’s all about. Cops always get to it soon enough.”

Elmer peeled a cigar. “Why was the state AG coming around?”

Jean crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. She hunkered in some.

“I was a Communist, back when lots of folks were. A dumb hillbilly girl — that was me. And the CP was something I sure as you know what came to regret.”

Elmer said, “You must have had a lot of visitors. Red Squad men, Feds, Racket Squad guys up the ying-yang.”

Jean blew smoke rings. Elmer glimpsed her starlet side. She crouched inside herself and played to men.

“I was in a cell. All we did was rattle our own cages and listen to ourselves talk. We went to labor marches and carried banners. The Feds carried cameras and got pictures of us. We were real-live CP. We shot our mouths off, and you boys started coming around asking questions. That was enough for this little Red duck.”

Elmer blew smoke rings. They came out all dispersed.

“Did you fink? You got disillusioned, it was the Depression, you realized the Party was all full of crap. I’m just thinking aloud now. Finking was a way out for most of you Commo types.”

Jean crushed her cigarette. “There were five of us in the cell. I finked the guy I liked the least, and the one I figured would do the most harm in the long run.”

“Who was the guy? Come on. His name’s on six dozen lists somewhere.”

Jean said, “Saul Lesnick. I finked him because he talked too much, and got people to convert to the Party just by wearing them down with the yak-yak. He was a Beverly Hills psychiatrist, if you can figure that.”

Blackout sirens whooped. Elmer and Jean froze. The all-clear signal blew. They unfroze quick.

“Who else was in the cell?”

“A man named Meyer Gelb. He was the leader, and another big fatmouth. We had a brief wingding, which shows you how susceptible I was in those days. There was Dr. Saul’s nutty daughter, Andrea, and a Mexican named Jorge Villareal-Caiz. He went back to Mexico and hooked up with his brother, Victor. They got embroiled in the plot to clip Leon Trotsky, then I heard they went fasco. If you want my opinion, the Party was no longer au courant, so in the end everybody just picked up their toys and went home.”

Jungle Jean rats Old Saul. That was prime drift. Beyond that — c’est la guerre.

Jean said, “You look parched.”

“Does it show that bad?”

“I’ll whip us up mai tais. I used to barmaid at the Wan-Q.”

“A mai tai and some peanuts. It sounds like supper to me.”

Jean smiled. “Atlanta, Georgia?”

“Wisharts, North Carolina. Like Beaumont for you. It’s this place you leave from.”

“Leave for where?”

“The Marine Corps and Nicaragua. Then L.A., on a bet.”

“That’s your lifetime itinerary?”

“That’s right. And it’s all been prelude up to you.”

Jean rolled her eyes and cut to the kitchen. Elmer heard drawers scrape and slam. He scoped the front room. The crib played bohemian. The weird blankets induced eyestrain.

The Jeanstress returned. She dipped and posed, carhop-style. Elmer snatched a drink off her tray.

“Everybody’s got an itinerary. I’d sure like to hear yours.”

Jean sipped her drink and plopped her feet on a hassock. She said, “My name’s in six dozen files you’ve read. You’ve got it down pat.”

Elmer sipped his drink. “I’m just prolonging the interview. You’ll say, ‘What’s this all about?’ pretty damn soon, which will damn near break my heart.”

Jean futzed with her tumbler. Ice cubes click-clicked.

“I’m dead bored, and you’re not the only one prolonging. If you intended grief, you’d have dropped the punch line by now. It’s Thursday night, and I’ve got tomorrow off. I’ve got nobody to stay up late with, and this is a swell diversion.”

Elmer stretched his legs and plopped his feet on the hassock. Jean’s feet bounced a half inch away.

“I’ve got a part-time girlfriend named Ellen Drew. She goes back to the ’30’s, at Paramount. Did you see If I Were King?”

“I knew Ellen. We used to schmooze at Lucy’s El Adobe. She’s still at Paramount, and she’s on her second part-time husband. I also heard she turns tricks for Brenda Allen.”

“Brenda’s my other part-time girlfriend. I run that call service with her.”

Jean lit a cigarette. “Your face just dropped down to your lap. Does running girls chagrin you?”

Elmer relit his cigar. The whore biz double-chagrined him. Jean had good sonar.

“Did you know a Paramount geek named Ralph D. Barr? He was some sort of stagehand or carpenter.”

Jean said, “I knew Ralphie, but Meyer knew him better. Meyer had a cameraman gig at the studio, and he used to recruit for the Party there. He was running a one-man book on the side. He had his Commo aspect and his money-grubber aspect, and never the twain shall meet.”

Ralph D. Barr. Arsonist and whipout man. Detained and released, 10/33.

“Barr was a firebug, wasn’t he?”

“Coy doesn’t suit you. You know from Ralphie. He set fires and pulled his pud until the fire engines came.”

Elmer played somber. “My brother died in the Griffith Park fire. Remember? October ’33?”

Jean played no-shit footsie. Her foot tapped his foot. She tapped with expertise.

“Here’s something else that you know damn well, and I damn well remember. The cops rousted our cell. Because of that fire, because Meyer was making speeches, predicting fires and tidal waves and all sorts of CP hoo-ha, because capitalism was producing spontaneous combustion, so get ready for some god-awful thunderstorms and conflagrations. He was preaching that crap before the fire, so the cops came around, and then it all went blooey.”

Blooey. That said it. Gasbag Gelb. Gasbag Lesnick. He gasbags to Annie Staples.

Jean said, “Meyer knew this fruity English poet. W. H. Auden, his name was. W.H. wrote a poem for one of his numerous boyfriends, and it had the words ‘This Storm’ in it. Meyer read the poem at his rallies, to work up the rubes. You know how this works. You provoke the rubes, and the cops come nosing around.”

Elmer tapped Jean’s foot. “Like yours truly.”

Jean went Yep. Elmer said, “You and your comrades got leaned on, but it was just routine.”

Jean went Yep. Elmer said, “What about the old gang? Do you still stay in touch?”

“Not much. Meyer loops through my life every so often. I saw him at a party a week or so back. Otto Klemperer’s place. You know — that hotshot maestro who had the brain tumor. The Lesnicks were there, so we all said hi and bemoaned the Hitler-Stalin pact. It was typical CP horseshit.”

Elmer heh-heh’d. Annie Staples was there. He’d hot-wired her.

Jean sighed. She’d had enough. ¿Qué es this jive, muchacho?

Elmer came clean. “Your name turned up in a hoodlum’s address book. Tommy Glennon. It all pertains to a case I’m on. The fire stuff is incidental. My brother died that day, and it’s always mauled me.”

Jean drained her drink. “My kid brother Bobby goes for boys. To each his own, okay? Bobby met Tommy at some kind of Catholic youth event, because that’s where those type of boys go to find chicken. Okay, they got something percolating. Bobby was staying with me then, and Tommy was calling him here. Bobby was crushed when Tommy got sent to San Quentin.”

Elmer tapped Jean’s foot. Jean tapped his foot back.

“Did Bobby know that Tommy raped women? That the evil little shit worshipped Hitler?”

Jean sighed. “Love is blind. Don’t they say that?”

“I say we’re both stir-crazy. I’ve got a fat roll yelling ‘Spend me,’ and I want to spend it on you.”

Jean dressed up nice. She put on a floral-print dress and new glasses. A fox throw topped her off. For-real fox heads and fox paws stuck out. Elmer goo-goo’d the foxes. It coaxed Jean to laugh.

They played southern rubes on a date. They talked up Wisharts and Beaumont and all points between. He told Jean he hated the Klan. She loved that. She told him she hated the Reds now. He double-loved it.

They drove up to the Strip. It hopped sans marquee lights. The blackout created this ghost-town effect. Elmer played the big kahuna out to paint the town red.

He overtipped lavish. Waiters and barmen genuflected. They hit the Troc and the Mocambo. They danced fast and slow and worked up an appetite. Elmer waved to Charlie Barnet and Lena Horne. He made like he knew them. Jean knew it was a shuck.

Dave’s Blue Room was straight across Sunset. Brenda and him owned 10 %. They made a big entrance. Kay Lake and Joan Conville waved from the bar. The standard Elmer Jackson hubbub ensued.

He’s that bagman cop. He runs girls with Brenda A. Who’s that cooze with the glasses? That fox throw’s from hunger.

They noshed steak sandwiches and slurped Dave’s renowned gin fizzes. They hashed out queer kid brothers and Klanned-up brothers roasted alive. A tipster cruised their table. He ratted a coon 211 gang. Elmer whipped a yard on him. The tipster salaamed. Jean said, “He was yanking your chain.” Elmer said, “I’m out to spread the love tonight.”

They ditched the Strip and levitated to browntown. Hear dem tom-toms? Let’s get tantalizized.

They cruised the Club Alabam. Elmer knew the hostesses and bar crew. He’d canvassed them on the klubhaus job and treated them white. They treated him white right back.

High-yellow girls circled their table. They served illegal corn-liquor shots, on the house. Elmer and Jean downed three shots and toured the solar system. Elmer dispensed C-note tips. You gots to lay down dat love.

A bouncer played escort and dropped them at the Club Zombie. Elmer slid him two yards and sent him off loved. They entered the dark dinge dive. Elmer saw the tall jig he muscled with Lee Blanchard.

He soothed his tall ass. He genuflected his own self. He coaxed numerous smiles off of him. The tall jig poured two Baron Samedi cocktails. “One sip leaves you zombified.”

Dat’s no muthafuckin’ shit, Daddy-O.

Four sips dive-bombed them. They side-draped themselves and weaved back to Elmer’s sled. Elmer close-cleaved the middle lane and slow-crawled them up Central.

Per blackout regs. Under the speed limit. With cellophane taped to the headlights.

God got them to Lyman’s, undead. The joint jumped with nite-owl cops and their consorts. A waiter read their zombified state and brought them coffee. Elmer crumbled bennies into their cups. The brew took hold faaaaaast. They went zombified to electrified.

They talked a lot. They drew stares. Elmer quick-sketched the barside gang. Buzz Meeks, Two-Gun Davis. Kay and Big Joan, reprised. Their talk drifted over. They spritzed heady concepts and big words.

Elmer talked. Jean talked. Elmer said he saved Two-Gun’s life and got on the PD. Jean said she saw a colored man lynched in Beaumont. Elmer said him and Buzz were fucking with one very bad hombre.

It got late-late/early-early. The sky lit up gray-gray. They walked to Elmer’s car in the rain.

Their electric charge waned. They both started yawning. Jean said, “Not right now, okay? I’m too bushed to be much use to either one of us.”

Elmer said, “Okay.”

The rain accelerated. Thunder boomed them up to Hollywood and Beachwood Canyon. Elmer parked outside Jean’s place. They huddled up and ran inside. Jean’s fox throw got soaked.

They kissed some. Elmer went dizzy. Joan ran her coil heater. They kicked off their shoes and fell asleep on the couch with their clothes on.

58 (Los Angeles, 10:00 A.M., 2/6/42)

The whiz kid. Fletch Bowron’s shoofly. His swell apartment as fix-it shack.

The Bryson. Wilshire and Rampart. A swell spot with a high-window view. Blocked by workbenches. Crammed with disassembled radios and test tubes.

Wallace Jamie was portly and twenty-four years old. He lived to snoop and snitch. He’d keestered crooked cops in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Fletch hired him to rebuff the Feds and watchdog the PD. The move backfired. Indictments loomed.

They stood by the benches. Jamie issued halitosis and fondled dead tubes.

“This grand jury deal’s a stifferoo. Everybody made suspect phone calls. You can’t indict the whole world.”

Dudley said, “I’m sure you’re right, sir. This is strictly a routine inquiry, and I’ll be out of your way in a very few minutes.”

“I don’t get this. You’re an Army captain and a sergeant on the PD.”

“Yes, and I have questions about a punk criminal named Tommy Glennon, whose dubious endeavors have aroused my interest in both of my professional guises. Your name appeared in his address book, you see.”

Jamie shrugged. “Well, I’d like to help you out, but I don’t know any Tommy Glennon. I’ve got a listed phone number, so maybe this chump got my name and address there.”

Dudley said, “Yes, and you’ve been in the news lately.”

Jamie smirked. “I get fan letters, sometimes. My uncle’s Eliot Ness, and he’s a well-known hotshot. I haven’t gotten letters from any Tommy Glennon, though.”

He evinced no hink whatsoever. He beamed forthcoming youth.

“I had a few technical questions, if you’d be so kind. You’ve convincingly cleared yourself in the matter of Tommy Glennon, and I’d like to move on.”

“Well... sure.”

“Let’s take the hot-box phone outside the L.A. Herald as our exemplar. It’s a bookie-drop phone, which in no way concerns me. What does concern me are the implementations of Los Angeles-to-Baja pay-phone calls of a Fifth Column nature. Coded calls — pay phone to pay phone.”

Jamie went bulb bright. His eyes popped. He almost drooled.

“Okay, this is what you might call intermediate spycraft. You’d have to have a dot-dot substitution code worked out in advance, and agreed upon by both the sending and receiving parties. It would have to be wire-recorded, and the sender would have to hold the device up to the pay-phone receiver. Code calls from regular phones to pay phones wouldn’t work, because of the U.S.-to-Mexico relay systems involved.”

Dudley said, “Please continue.”

Jamie said, “It was canny of you to cite that hot-box phone as your exemplar, so I’ll proceed in that vein. That hot-box phone is internally drilled to accept slugs, and you would need that type of drilling to gain access to the applicable Los Angeles-to-Baja relays, all of which have been rigged to feed into bookie rooms in T.J. and Ensenada. Slug calls to outside Baja pay phones would thus reach their terminus point inside those bookie rooms, if a subsidiary dot code were applied. American hoods developed this system in order to relay split-second information on fixed horse races to bookmakers operating in Mexico. That’s the way it works. Your L.A. spy calls are intentionally made to terminate at the phone banks of bookie operations.”

Such a bright lad. A swift autodidact. Pudgy and erudite.

“SIS has a tap on one specific Ensenada pay phone. That’s how the coded calls have been picked up and decoded. There have been U.S. air-attack pronouncements, which seem fanciful to me.”

Jamie said, “And I’m sure that that specific pay phone has been fruitlessly surveilled. Here’s why that’s the case. The code calls are retrieved from their bookie-room terminus. Your in-country spies work at that particular bookmaker’s front.”

He honey-trapped Lin Chung. Uncle Ace stoutly assisted.

Chung was a surefire traitor. Jim Davis revealed that. Chung bankrolled the first Baja sub deal. Chung deserved a good scare.

Dudley lounged upstairs at Lyman’s. Ace promised Chung cocaine and white girls. He laced chloral hydrate in Chung’s chop suey. Chung passed out in Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda and woke up cuffed to a floor-bolted chair.

He rattled his cuff chain. He wiggled his chair. He grasped his I’m-in-the-shit dilemma.

The storeroom was window-taped and cloaked blackout black. Chung screamed and wet his pants. Dudley caught the telltale piss scent.

Ace phone-booked Chung. Dudley caught the telltale head thumps.

Chung screamed. Dudley said, “Why would your name appear in Tommy Glennon’s address book, Doctor?”

Chung screamed. Ace rethumped him. Chung rescreamed and Chink- babbled. Ace said, “This cocksucker speak English good as me.”

Dudley roared. Chung rebabbled Chink. Dudley said, “As you wish, Doctor. But please allow my Chinese brother to translate before you continue.”

Chung babbled Chink. Short bursts, long bursts, Chink gobbledygook.

Ace said, “This cocksucker say Tommy don’t have his address. Say he only know Tommy from eugenics study group at Four Families clubhouse.”

He was credible. His name had been forged. That fact alone cleared him.

Dudley said, “What do you know about coded pay-phone calls from Los Angeles to Baja?”

Chung babbled polyglot. Dudley caught Spanish and French. The glot devolved to pure Chink.

Ace said, “I miss some of it. Gist is this cocksucker don’t know shit.”

Dudley said, “Two tangentially related events occurred in December, Doctor. A Japanese family was murdered in Highland Park, and a Jap sub came ashore on the coast, south of Ensenada. You were part of a plan to disguise Jap saboteurs as Chinese and hide them in and around Los Angeles. I would like you to admit your complicity, and give me your solemn promise that you will not engage in further sabotage aimed at the United States.”

Chung babbled Chink. Ace said, “He can’t speak no English back. He now in second childhood. We pour water on his brain.”

Dudley laughed. “Please translate the Chinese idiom, my brother.”

Ace said, “This cocksucker admit complicity. He blame crazy cop Bill Parker. Crazy Bill break up cabal and scare white partners away.”

That was true. Jim Davis revealed that detail.

Chung babbled. Ace phone-booked him. He swung the fat main directory. He hurled good head-thwapping shots.

Chung gurgled now. He issued babble, down at a hush.

Ace said, “This cocksucker offer vow of fealty and eternal brotherhood. He say if you got daughter, he perform free nose job.”

Dudley laughed and lit a cigarette. The sealed room sealed in heat. He cranked the wall heater off.

“There was a second sub incursion, early in January. What do you know about that?”

Chung blathered Chink. He slather-talked now. He oozed discombobulation.

Ace said, “This cocksucker say he don’t know shit from shinola. It not his bund, ’cause his bund disband. He say one rumor heard. He say second sub fiasco copycat of first plan.”

Ace phone-booked El Chungo. The hot seat shimmied. The floor hinges creaked.

Chung whimpered and snitch-babbled. Ace said, “I hear song on radio. This cocksucker ‘popcorn kernel too pooped to pop.’ ”

Dudley laughed. “What did he just say?”

“He say he hear rumor. Jap Navy man hiding in L.A. plan second incursion. Man’s name Kyoho Hanamaka. He don’t know where man hide.”

Bravos pour Le Chung. That’s a swell lead.

Dudley said, “Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta. Ask him what he knows.”

Ace asked. Chung answered. He slurred his words one at a time.

Ace translated. “This cocksucker say he meet Rice and Kapek at Deutsches Haus. Very casual. They talk race science and go Sieg Heil. He say Archie C-town and J-town fool. Buy terp and pharmacy hop from illegal sources.”

Chung rebabbled. Ace retranslated him.

“This cocksucker say he just waiting to see who win war. U.S. go postwar kaput. Nazis or Reds take over world then. Democracy for nancy boys and weak sisters. ‘Comrade’ or ‘Kameraden.’ All same to this shitbird.”

Dudley hit the lights. The storeroom went vivid bright. Lin Chung lolled in the hot seat. He’s cuff-gouged down to the bone.

Ace ripped his shirt down the middle. Ace waved two glass jars. One jar of honey. One jar of big red ants.

Chung screamed.

Dudley said, “Restate the threat, my brother. No U.S. sabotage from this point on.”

Chung caught the gist. He went No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Ace applied the honey. Ace applied the ants. They were fat red fuckers. They verged on King Kong size. They were famished and deserved a tasty treat.

Lin Chung screamed. The Wolf materialized. He bayed. Dudley ruffled his fur and kissed his snout.

Chung plus Jamie. That meant two names down. One name remained. This lad deserved a rebuke.

Dudley took Los Feliz east. Der Wunderkind was der Flash-in-der-Pan and L’Arriviste. He rented a show-off shack in the hills. His type lived to soak up praise and impress.

Dudley went by the Herald first. He talked to Sid Hudgens and abridged his right of free speech. He laid down the law. I’m your new editor. I will edit all your klubhaus reportage. Give me the final say-so. Let me peruse all your texts.

Sid agreed. Dudley jumped topics. Sid was a horse-race fanatic. Sid knew from hot-box phones and bookie rooms. Dudley pumped him for this:

Pay-phone relay bets. L.A. to Baja. Wallace Jamie’s technical spiel. Sid, you dirtmeister. What say ye to this?

Sid knew three relay spots in Ensenada. Two were floating and unstable. Spot #3 stood upside the White Dog Klub.

El Dudster thanked El Sidster. And, by the way:

Mr. Hearst hates Citizen Kane. Orson Welles adroitly defamed him. Would he enjoy a spot of revenge?

Sid said, “In spades, Daddy.” Dudley grabbed Sid’s Leica then.

Der Fat Boy’s house was two blocks up Berendo. Dudley caught the light and read curb plates. Spanish casas predominated. Fat Boy rented a posh Tudor job.

Dudley parked curbside and walked up the driveway. A gate stood ajar. He smelled swimming-pool chlorine and detoured on back.

Welles was alone. He lounged in a poolside lounge chair. He wore a terry-cloth lounge shirt and swim trunks. He skimmed a film script and oozed lounge ennui.

L’Auteur looked over. He clocked his visitor and gulped. There’s a big man with a camera. He’s got a badge and gun clipped to his belt.

Dudley walked up close. Welles said, “Hello there. Are you who I think you are?”

Dudley tapped the chair-back catch and put him flat on his back. Welles squealed. The film script flew. Dudley foot-stomped Fat Boy’s neck and pinned him faceup.

“Do you know a man named Tommy Glennon?”

“Your name’s in his address book.”

“Are you a Communist?”

“Are you a Nazi?”

“When do you leave on your goodwill tour of Latin America?”

“Did you know that the OIACC is a Communist front?”

Welles croaked out answers. Straight nos eked out. His eyes bulged. His face flushed. Die fahne hoch!!! He endured the Hobnailed Boot.

Dudley hummed “Deutschland Über Alles.” Dudley clicked his heels and slipped on sap gloves. Lead weights were stitched in.

He said, “No more steam-room encounters with Claire. I will not permit it.”

Welles raised his hands and covered his face. Dudley kicked his hands away. Welles sissy-shrieked.

Dudley slammed him. Dudley aimed downward shots. He got Fat Boy’s back, Fat Boy’s gut, Fat Boy’s legs. Fat Boy shrieked and chewed his shirt collar off.

“I’m building a network of informants, to be run out of Mexico. You are my first recruit. You will rat out leftists and outré rightists within the OIACC and your Hollywood circle. You will rat out the Jewish exiles who sponge off Maestro Klemperer. You will nod once to signal your compliance.”

Welles squealed. Welles went Yes/yes/yes/yes/yes/yes—

Dudley kicked him in the balls and beat his face bloody. The camera contained color film. The blood red would predominate.

59 (Los Angeles, 9:30 A.M., 2/7/42)

Thad Brown said, “We’re ten days in. Somebody say something to cheer me up.”

Crash Squad briefing. All hands on deck. Torpor had set in. The klubhaus job as snorefest. Lyman’s back room as sleepwalkers’ den.

Joan stood by the coffee urn. The klubhaus job was the gold job. She fretted her gold cuff links and stayed wide-awake.

Mike Breuning mock-yawned. Dick Carlisle lolled his head. Lee Blanchard mimed a heroin nod-off. Buzz Meeks stretched out across three chairs and played dead.

Dr. Nort laughed. Her Dudley laughed. Her Bill looked nonplussed. Two-lover tension popped between them. Joan recalled the Herald headline. WEREWOLF BEATS GAS CHAMBER!!!

She sensed the story behind it. Jack Horrall had panicked. Dudley laid out Jim Davis’ confession and caused a big uproar. Jack decreed a Smith-Parker summit. Bill seized the reins and forged a mercy deal.

Thad said, “Don’t speak up all at once. I don’t think I could take it.”

Dudley said, “I cleared Lin Chung, Orson Welles, and Wallace Jamie.”

Buzz said, “An ambulance took Chung to Queen of Angels. It seems that some hungry ants had themselves a nice lunch.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. “Meeks, you are treading a thin line here.”

Buzz hooted. The room hubbubed. Elmer Jackson played diplomat.

“I cleared Jean Staley. She was a Commo back in the ’30s, but that’s all she wrote.”

Buzz said, “I cleared Monsignor Hayes. He’s Tommy’s priest, so his ass was in the book for a reason. I’ve been looking for Huey Cressmeyer, and I spotted him outside Columbia Pictures. He got into a Mexican Statie sedan, and I trailed him. I lost him on the coast road outside Balboa, and I’m betting he’s in Mexico now.”

Looks traveled. The whole squad clicked to Buzz. Huey was Dud’s snitch. The whole squad knew it.

Thad Brown played diplomat. “You and Elmer head down to Baja and shake the trees for Huey. Consult the Staties first thing.”

Elmer said, “Yeah, boss.” Buzz winked at Dudley.

“I don’t suppose you know where Huey is? I heard he calls you ‘Uncle Dud,’ which sure implies family to me.”

Joan flinched and dropped her coffee cup. It doused her skirt. The room froze. Dudley went for his belt sap. He froze a split second on.

“That line is about to fray, Meeks.”

Buzz grabbed his crotch. “Does it gall you that you don’t scare me? That you’re just some Pope-sucking shitheel as far as I’m concerned?”

Dudley pulled the sap. Elmer stepped between him and Buzz.

Thad said, “Enough.”

Bill Parker said, “This stops now.”

Dr. Nort said, “Somebody else report.”

Joan stepped in. “I dismantled the terp stills at the klubhaus. I ran tests and determined that the terp in the feeder vats possessed the same molecular componentry as the terp from the still of a Japanese man named Donald Matsura. Hideo Ashida and I confiscated that still last month. Matsura committed suicide at the Lincoln Heights Jail.”

Icebreaker. The floe snapped. The room thawed out some.

Lee Blanchard said, “I’ve recanvassed until I’m blue in the face. I got a lead that the klubhaus fools filled up their own trash cans and started dumping their debris in their neighbors’ cans. It was all booze bottles, used rubbers, musical-instrument reeds, and otherwise what you might expect. The neighbors said the haus was a hot-sheet spot, a jam-session joint, and a hobknob pit for whites, spooks, and beaners — which I think is what’s behind these snuffs, not all this Sinarquista and Nazi jive. I’ve also got four eyeball-wit sightings of Rice and Kapek in the thick of it with colored whores that they obviously picked up on the jazz-club strip — even though them snatch-hair samples that Ashida found belonged to a white girl and a Mex girl. I realize that all of this contradicts Sid Hudgens’ campaign to whitewash our dead pals, but then I’m not the one telling Sid what to write.”

Mike Breuning coughed. “Dick and I have put together a list of the Japs that Rice and Kapek rousted while they worked the Alien Squad. We’re doing divisional DB checks now, looking for cross-filed paperwork. Jack Horrall sealed their Narco files, so we’ve got no truck there. We’re looking for file notes on Archuleta, but I think Jack foiled us there, too. He’s trying to build a wall between our guys and Archie, because Archie’s a low-life sack of shit.”

Thad coughed. “Post the list and stand ready to roust the Japs who’ve managed to stay out of custody since the night of the homicides. Blanchard, you hit the jazz strip, get drunk or act drunk, and try to get a line on any whores or other women who might have frequented the haus.”

Joan said, “There’s been no mail deliveries since two days before the homicides. I called the branch P.O. on Slauson and asked why. It seems that the route carrier’s been off on a toot, and his mail’s gone undelivered. He’s out of the honor farm and back at work now. There should be a large stack of mail delivered later today.”

Thad nodded. “Grab it, Joan. Read it, catalogue it, and compile a list of the senders.”

Dr. Nort raised a hand. Thad went Hold on, now.

“I’m thinking of running a series of lineups. One for jazz-club types, one for suspect Japs, and one for Mex political types. The Deutsches Haus keeps popping up, and I’m thinking of raiding it, even though half of the habitués are Fed plants. Those Sinarquista flags keep vexing me, so I got Sinarquista membership lists from Treasury and the Feds’ Subversive Detail. We’ve got a whole battalion of those punks right here in Boyle Heights.”

Dudley cracked his knuckles. “I’m Spanish-fluent. I’ll make a stab at some interviews before I head back.”

Thad nodded and yawned. He went shoo. Get out of here/solve this fucking thing/don’t scotch my fucking shot to be Chief.

The room evaporated. Dudley signaled Joan. It meant Tonight? She signaled back. It meant No, I’ve got Bill. Her Dudley chuckled. Her Bill caught the exchange.

Joan pulled a klubhaus shift. She worked, distracted.

Hideo Ashida booked to Baja and left tasks incomplete. It vexed her. The Dudley-Meeks tiff vexed her. Her Dudley — baited and goaded. Her Dudley — enraged past control.

Joan print-dusted. Ashida left her an undone-surface list. Pipe fittings, radiators, phonograph legs.

She did the work. She powdered hard-to-reach places and got bupkes. She worked, distracted.

The gold quest felt stillborn. Dudley nixed more file checks. He believed they’d arouse suspicion. Don’t state undue interest or provoke it.

Ashida backstopped Dudley in Baja now. It juked his propensity to lust and deceive. Ashida tweaked Dudley’s vanity perversely. Dudley viewed their compact as two geniuses entwined. Baja inspired corruption. It played to the venal and rewarded deceit. Ashida would seek to undermine Dudley. His lust was covetous and malignantly defined. He would conspire against her. His motive was jealousy. She had what he did not. He would attempt to steal her fair share of the gold.

Joan dusted phonograph tubes. She worked, distracted. Sid Hudgens had jammed her outside the haus. He flashed a sheaf of color snapshots.

It’s Orson Welles. He’s tear-streaked and bloody. There’s poolside cushions soaked red.

Sid said, “Guess who?” It was easy. Welles saw her naked. He saw Claire De Haven, likewise. Actions spawn consequences. “Big Red” made this occur.

Joan dusted tubes. Large tubes and small tubes. It was tight brushwork. She got smudges, smears, and one latent print.

She applied tape and lifted it. She pressed it to stiff cardboard. She pulled her elimination-print file and ran comparison checks. She got no match.

She slipped on her headband light and reading glasses. She counted loops, whorls, and pocket dents. She numbered an unknown-print card.

The doorside mailbox clanged. There’s the postman. He’s back from his dry-out retreat.

Joan walked out to the porch. Two Newton blues stood guard. One woofed her and waved. One said, “Hey, Red.”

The mailbox was stuffed. Joan dislodged manila envelopes. Wendell Rice received four parcels. They were sent from Terminal Annex. All box mail was rerouted there. It bollixed mail traces up.

She opened a six-by-eight parcel. A small booklet was stuffed in. It was glossy-bound and cheaply printed. It comprised a gold-case lead.

The Back-to-Africa Manifesto. Authored by Martin Luther Mimms. The Rev bailed out Leander Frechette. Elmer and Buzz interviewed him.

Joan skimmed the text. It was plainly nuts. Nazi U-boats would escort Negro warships to the verdant Congo. Pilgrims would feast on barbecued Jews. Enslaved Congolese would guide the pilgrims downriver. Tame crocodiles would pull ten-ton canoes.

Joan slit the second envelope. It contained a sister tract.

AmeriKKKa for Whites!!! AfriKKKa for Blacks!!! (in support of the Reverend M. L. Mimms), by G. L. Rockwell.

The young Navy flyer. The Rev’s white sidekick. Elmer and Buzz braced him.

Joan skimmed the text. It predicted racial apocalypse. The Learned Elders of Zion had annexed the Jewnited States. The Ku Klux Klan fought them back. Noble Negro legions rallied and joined their KKKause. The Jews sought to Jewnify the U.S. and Russia. All noble Negroes must flee to AfriKKKa NOW!!!!!

Joan recalled pillow talk. Dudley riffed on Wendell Rice and George Kapek. One — they were batshit crazy. Two — Hideo Ashida’s photo device snapped them in Tijuana. Three — they were probably running wetbacks and/or fugitive Japs.

Envelope #3. The Red Swastika, by Salvador Abascal. It’s a catchy title. Pithy subtitles cover a full page.

A Polemic on the Potential Brotherhood of Dispossessed Totalitarians.

A Utopian Vision of Hoarded Monies and the Promulgation of a New Gold Standard to Assure the Solvency of Catholic Nationalists Worldwide.

Joan skimmed the text. Abascal was a devout papist and proponent of Sinarquismo. The tract extolled Nazis and defamed Jews. It extolled the Spanish Falange and defamed the Loyalist cause. It extolled Irish nationalism and defamed the British-Protestant oppressor. It was anti — U.S. imperialist. It was pro — Catholic workers worldwide.

Abascal veered hard right. He added hard-left hoo-ha and spiced up the brew. His first subtitle stated the theme. He described its first “radical implementation.”

November 1940. A secret conference is held in Ensenada. The Hitler-Stalin pact flows in full bloom. Nazi and Soviet high-ups attend. They pooh-pooh their political divisions. They blare their antidemocratic ideals. They discuss fascism and communism. They define it as one philosophy, united. They acknowledge the curse of factionalism. They defame the divergent rhetoric that individuates and self-defines them. They redefine themselves as nonopposites. They are as one in their hatred of the democratic West.

Hitler will breach the pact. The Germans and Russians both know this. Hitler will invade Russia. The cost will be ghastly. America will enter the war. America will align with Russia and turn against Russia should the Allies win. How will WE survive such a catastrophe? How will WE surmount the horror of an Axis victory? What will WE do should der Führer decree Russia’s annihilation?

The dialogue extends. Postwar strategies are discussed. What should WE do? WE must probe beneficial solutions. WE must assure totalitarian survival.

Joan caught the upscut. The all-caps WE said it. How do WE prepare for contingent postwar shitstorms? What do WE enlightened few do?

Abascal was crazy draconian. Rockwell and Mimms were race-baiting buffoons. They were collectively ridiculous. All three “Polemicists” were booby-hatch bait.

Joan slit envelope #4. She slipped out a tract. The title packed punch:

New Implementations of Air Attack in the Coming World Conflict, by Mitchell A. Kupp.

Bill talked a blue streak. Joan tuned him out. They lay in bed. She heard every third word he said.

Mitch Kupp. The airplane nut and Charles Lindbergh boon companion. Her father’s death. Her personal vendetta. Kupp was her one hard suspect.

Kupp charters a plane in Duluth. He flies over Monroe County, Wisconsin. A blaze consumes Big Earle Conville that day.

There’s a fuel spill nearby. She cannot prove that it caused the fire. She traces the fuel to the charter service. She cannot attribute motive. Mitch Kupp did not know Earle Conville. It all goes away.

She built her own arson file. She worked on it all through grad school. She moved to L.A. and neglected the file. Kupp’s tract brought it all back.

Bill talked a blue streak. Joan heard every fourth word. She read the airplane pamphlet. It was not a hate tract or a political screed. It was scholarly and technically dense. Mitch Kupp believed that everyday Joes could fly model planes. He did not advocate race hate or seek to barbecue Jews. He advocated an armed civilian air corps. Airplanes could be built from prefabricated parts. Automotive drivetrains and rivet-forged wings would do the trick.

Bill talked a blue streak. It was all Dudley Smith and Werewolf Shudo and Look what I did. It was all Don’t you love me for it?

She couldn’t think. She was back at Big Earle’s wake. She pried off the casket lid and viewed his charred corpse. She made herself look.

“You haven’t been listening. I’ve been talking to the bedpost.”

“I’m sorry. I know what you’ve been saying, though — and I admire what you did.”

Bill flinched. “You don’t act as if you feel that way. You act like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

She touched his face. “I’m here, and I’m with you. We’re in bed, and we’ve just made love, and I don’t know why you require more than that.”

His eyes glazed up. He knuckled back some tears.

“I know you’re sleeping with Dudley. I figured it out today. You know what he is, and you still dishonor me in that way. I tell you that I saved a man’s life that he tried to destroy, and you aren’t even listening.”

Joan brushed off his tears. “Don’t ask me to love you for a self-absorbed grand gesture, when you make such gestures routinely. I won’t let Dudley go, any more than I’d let you go. The difference between the two of you is that he wouldn’t ask.”

60 (Ensenada, 11:00 A.M., 2/8/42)

Stakeout.

They perched on Avenida Floresta. They packed zoom-lens cameras and box lunches. They sat in a surveillance sled and orbed the White Dog Klub.

Sid Hudgens supplied the lead. Wallace Jamie supplied the phone-relay perspective. Dudley supplied the ’34 Ford. Ashida and Lieutenant Juan wore tattered civvies.

The bookie front worked out of a two-story row house. The house was bright peach stucco. Brisk foot traffic traipsed in and out.

Ashida had the front seat. Lieutenant Juan had the back. They raised their cameras and shot the basement entry.

Lieutenant Juan said, “It’s supposedly a forty-man operation. I’ve seen these places. There might be as many as forty phones hooked to a relay board. Look how many men we have walking in.”

Ashida shot sidewalk loiterers. He’d shot four rolls of film already. Lieutenant Juan ran his mouth. He was an invert. He was a pederast/péde/maricón. Ashida replayed the surveillance haus moment. “We Love You” tapped out in Morse code.

Men dawdled by the basement steps. El Lieutenant shot them.

“I’ve got thirty-odd scalps on my belt, you know. I burned up some saboteurs in a coastal cave. I saw loose teeth expelled. Their abdominal cavities burst.”

Ashida reloaded his camera. Lieutenant Juan draped his arms off the seat back.

“I hope you enjoy gossip. You’ll become bored with me if you don’t.”

A woman stood at an upstairs window. Ashida shot her. Lieutenant Juan made a face. Women — ick.

“Wendell Rice and George Kapek ran wets for Carlos Madrano. I’m not sure that Dudley knows that. They did a trial run for Captain Vasquez-Cruz, too. Dudley distrusts Captain José, because he thinks he has designs on his Claire. She injects morphine, in case you didn’t know. I know the pharmacist who supplies her.”

The window woman shifted. Her robe fell open. Ashida saw her breasts.

Lieutenant Juan went Ick. “Nice, if that’s your sort of gambit.”

Ashida shot the woman. A man appeared behind her. He slipped off her robe and kissed her neck. Lieutenant Juan sighed.

“Mexican men run teensy. You know that old joke? How can you tell a Mexican man in the dark? He’s got a big belt buckle and a small pee-pee.”

Ashida squirmed. La Juan’s hands were too close.

“Salvy Abascal’s seducing Dudley. Not in that way, of course. Salvy’s killed a great many priest-killers, which I applaud him for. He’s muy guapo. Don’t you think he’s got a big—”

Ashida muzzled him. “Dudley told me a story about a gold bayonet. It was inlaid with swastikas.”

“Well, the swastikas sound like Dudley. He’s gaga for fascist knickknacks. Don’t get me going on that.”

“I thought he might have told you about the bayonet.”

“Well, all I know is that there was supposed to have been a secret Nazi and Russian meeting here, sometime in ’40. All these alleged counteropposites got cozy. They discussed melting some gold cache into political artifacts, to save their keesters regardless of who wins the war. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. Dudley’s bayonet story sounds rather like that. The nice thing about gossip is that it doesn’t matter whether or not it’s true.”

SIS was Sunday dead. Ashida worked the squadroom, solo. The Klein girl studied surveillance files and kept to herself. Dudley gave her a kid task. It kept her busy and supplied pocket change.

The gold cache. Melted artifacts. The Red-Nazi confab. La Juan’s gossip reverberates.

Ashida pushed it aside. He developed the bookie-drop snapshots. It took three hours. He pulled SIS sedition sheets. Mug-shot strips were attached.

It was drudge work. Cull the bookie-drop shots. Cull the mug shots and compare faces. Confirm or refute bookie-drop/Fifth Column malfeasance.

Ashida worked photo-to-photo. The Klein girl kept to herself. Ashida eyeball-hopped. Bookie shots, mug shots, repeat the process.

It was drudge work. He viewed right-wing and left-wing fiends and traveled sedition-sheet byways.

With Redshirts and Goldshirts. With priest killers and priest avengers. With Stalinists, Trotskyites, and Sparticists. With the full idiot spectrum.

Ashida flipped photographs. The mug-shot stack dwindled. He yawned. He scratched. He chugged coffee. He rubbed his eyes and—

Hit Santa Cruz, Luis Ramon. Born 4/19/11, Ensenada.

Santa Cruz killed two puto comunistas. He beat them with a nail-studded plank and cut their dicks off. All misdemeanor charges were dropped.

Luis Santa Cruz:

Snapped outside the bookie front. Exalted Cyclops of the White Dog Bund.

Dudley decreed a raid. He said, “Go in with shotguns, lad. You and our chum Juan. The Wolf will walk point and provide for your safety.”

It was a test. Ashida knew that. He must not disappoint.

They parked by the White Dog Klub. They’d discussed the play. They carried 12-gauge pumps. Dudley decreed lethal loads. Oooh — double-aught buckshot, rat poison — laced.

Lieutenant Juan ticked off numbers. On three, now. Uno, dos, tres—

They ran across the street. Pedestrians wigged out and scattered. They charged the basement door. It refused to give. Lieutenant Juan racked his shotgun and blew off the lock and jamb.

Ashida kicked the door in. The bookie room was right there. Bookie dinks saw them and raised a raid ruckus. An alarm siren blew.

Fifty-some desks. Fifty-some men. Blaring telephones and stacks of flash paper. Wall-to-wall chalkboards, chalked with horse-race odds.

The dinks lit the flash paper. Bet slips ignited. Ashida saw a relay transmitter at the front of the room.

Lieutenant Juan triggered a spread. A chalkboard blew up. Men yelled en español. Smoke covered the room. Ashida triggered a spread and blew up a chalkboard. The recoil knocked him flat.

He hit the floor and crawled forward. Scrambling legs hit him. He crawled toward the transmitter. A man stopped to kick him. Ashida took four head shots. He jammed his shotgun up against the man’s belly and blew his guts out.

His own scream outscreamed fifty-some screams. Blood spattered wide. Ashida crawled under the smoke line. He saw Luis Santa Cruz by the transmitter. Luis Santa Cruz flipped a switch.

The transmitter exploded. Santa Cruz vaporized. Legs ran over Ashida. Men fell on top of him. Flames shot up and out.

Ashida crawled and fired his shotgun. He hit legs and severed legs and brought down fleeing men. He killed them and crawled over them. He screamed in English and Japanese. He coughed out black smoke and crawled for the door.

61 (Tijuana, 8:00 P.M., 2/8/42)

The boys are back—

Said boys crossed the border. Elmer wheeled his spiff ’40 Buick. It featured wide whites and an 8-ball shifter. Buzz badged the turnstile goons. They salaamed to los jefes. Buzz dispensed dollar bills and contraband smut pix.

The goons cheered. They wore Nazified threads and went Willkommen. Buzz Sieg Heil’d them back. Elmer haw-hawed.

He peeled rubber southbound. We’re here now. We’re sanctioned. Let’s find Huey C.

Elmer yodeled Old Crow. “We’ve got to bypass the Staties. It’ll get back to Dud, rápidamente.”

Buzz snatched the jug. “I’ve been thinking about that hump, and I’ve come to some ripe conclusions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, he’s a sissy. Such as, he’s pussy-whipped. He’s got his put-upon Irish wife and his bitch-in-heat Claire what’s-her-name, and his umpteen daughters and that bastard girl Beth Short — and without them goo-goo talking him, he ain’t shit. In my view, he ain’t nothing but a charming lunatic who’s got the world bamboozled. Moreover, he ain’t as smart as Bill Parker — which just about kills him.”

Elmer snatched the jug. “They’ve got each other dialed, that’s for sure.”

“You want the drumroll here? They’re both poking the big redhead, which means they’ve got some juice that we don’t.”

Elmer brain-broiled the spiel. It got him torqued. He chronologized his own Dudster drift.

He don’t gun down Tommy G. He finds char-broiled Eddie Leng. Eddie’s Fifth Column, boocoo. He’s Tommy’s KA. Dud wants Tommy muerto. Sergeant E. V. Jackson’s bored. He goes rogue behind feisty ennui.

Buzz gargled Old Crow. “We got to wrangle Huey someplace secluded and put the spurs to him. All these Fifth Column geeks are jungled up. Huey’s got some answers that’ll take us back to Kapek and Rice.”

“Jack Horrall wants a clean solve on this one. Clean by his standards, I mean.”

Buzz said, “Ditto yours truly. A clean solve puts it to Dud, not that I give a shimmering shit about those whipdick cops and how bad the PD looks.”

They hit T.J. proper. Elmer slow-trawled Revolución. Buzz checked their backseat stash.

Brass knucks. Beavertail saps. Two sawed-off shotguns. Leg restraints. Come-along chains. Thumb screws. Friction tape. Wadded-up socks. This cattle-prod gizmo.

Elmer slow-trawled. Buzz orbed multitudinous street whores. Elmer daydreamed.

He daydreamed Jean Staley. Their hot date reverberated. He called Jean mucho times and got no answer. She didn’t call him. He sent her flowers. No sweet thank-you call ensued.

He daydreamed Jean and Wayne Frank. Jean’s Red cell ran adjunct to the Griffith Park fire. He sleep-dreamed Wayne Frank scorched alive and living flush on some island. Brown girls engulf him. He’s melting gold bars into greenbacks.

They passed a farmacia. Buzz went Whoa now and jabbed him. Elmer idled the sled curbside. Buzz jumped out and ran in.

Kid beggars swarmed the car. Mangy muchachos all. They hawked religious medals and nudie pix of their mamas. They jabbered, “Joo want pussy?”

Elmer dispensed chump change and illustrated hate tracts. FDR with fangs and Jew beanie. Frau Eleanor blowing Joe Stalin. The kids whoop-whooped. Buzz hopped back in the sled. He waved a brown paper bag.

The kids waved adios. Elmer peeled out. Buzz dumped the bag in his lap. It contained this:

Liquid terp. Bennie rolls. 180-proof mescal. Diseased worms afloat in the brew.

They pulled into an alley and fortified. It juked their resolve. They jammed the knucks and saps in their waistbands. They ate two worms apiece.

Elmer said, “He’s in T.J., if he’s anywhere.”

Buzz said, “He’ll have some Statie watchdog. Dud won’t let him go around unchaperoned.”

Elmer said, “We’ve got to get him alone.”

Buzz said, “You can chaperone me. Them worms got me seeing double and thinking evil thoughts.”

T.J. by nite. It’s this fucked-up phantasm. White man, beware. Hock your souls at your own risk.

They ditched the sled behind a church and paid two nuns to guard it. They scoured on foot. Buzz packed the flash roll. It was all yanqui five-spots. Elmer packed pidgin Spanish and bilingual savoir faire. They bopped loose and orbed for Hugh C.

Huey was a notable pervdog. He sniffed cocaine and model-airplane glue. He boffed boys and butch dykes like his mama. He was a Fifth Column shitheel and smut-film connosewer. T.J. offered all such deelites.

They scoured accordingly. They hit farmacias and flashed Huey mug shots. You see this fucker? He buy dope from you? No, señor — he don’t.

The sky melted. The sidewalks weaved. Terp and mescal supplied the effect. The bennies supplied bounce. The terp supplied grip. The mescal sent sparks off their footsteps. Elmer saw his dead redneck kin in with all the nite-hopping spics.

They braced cat-meat taco vendors. They braced sailors down from Dago. They logged nada and no. They braced male prosties in Roman breastplates and padded jockstraps. They got ditto and nix. They hit the noxious nitespots next.

The Chicago Club. The Blue Fox. The Red Cat. Donkey dives. Cunnilingus caves. Fellatio fiefdoms. Cocktail bars with built-in piss troughs. All-nude stage acts. Connie Lingus and her Cunt Corsairs. Some Cuban coon with a two-foot dick. Dig: he table-hops and dunks it in your drink!!!

They flashed Huey mug shots. Buzz dispensed five-spots. Elmer logged ¿Que? and Huh? They weaved outside and over to Klub Falangisto. The motif celebrated boss man Franco. The walls featured atrocity shots from Guernica and Bilbao. Mex girls danced nude on tabletops. Marines match-singed their snatch hair and made them hop-hop.

Elmer and Buzz table-hopped. Buzz flashed the mug shots. Elmer gagged on burned-hair fumes. They got no, no, no, and one yes.

A fat corporal pointed upstairs. He said there’s a camera club. He saw that Huey guy there. Look for a bare-chested Mex. He wears chaps. He’s got bad acne. Huey keestered him while some slumming Shriners snapped pix.

Elmer and Buzz weaved over to a freight lift. An old guy in Sinarquista garb operated it. Buzz whipped a fivesky on him. The old guy ran them up. The doors slid open. They saw this:

One jumbo room. Blasting flashbulbs and wall-to-wall bedrolls. Ten thousand penetrations. Disembodied dicks and holes. Camera fiends jumping bedroll-to-bedroll. More flashbulb blips. “In The Mood” blasting from wall vents. Ten thousand fuck shrieks.

Elmer just stood there. Flashbulb pops made him see quintuple. He saw five of everything. He thought he saw a guy in chaps. Buzz ran toward him or it.

He stumbled over bedrolls and kicked fuckers and fuckees elsewhere. He dumped camera fiends and sent cameras airborne. Elmer saw it all quintuple and lost it just as quick. He popped sweat. He almost lost his legs and his lunch. He shut his eyes and felt himself grabbed.

Buzz screamed upside his face. Elmer heard gibberish and “We got us a lead!”

Here’s the drift:

The Mex in chaps turned tricks with El Huey. He poked Huey last night. Huey stole his trick stash. Huey’s got a Statie bodyguard. His name’s Juan. He goes Greek, too. Huey ex-capes from Juan and spawns trouble. Huey’s HQ is the Klubb Satan. It’s due east of T.J. He’s bunked in at El Kasa 69. It’s close by.

The boys are back in—

They scrammed. They retrieved Elmer’s sled and tore eastbound. Buzz drove. Elmer mixed terp-and-bennie cocktails. Buzz made a purchase en route.

A roadside vendor sold scorpions in small cages. One sting and you’re dead. They ate bugs and made dandy pets.

El Scorpio snoozed in his cage. Elmer prepped a kidnap kit. It featured one stuffed-sock muzzle/two brass-knuck persuaders/one come-along chain.

They tore east. They hit dirt roads and scrub hills. They topped a rise and caught this red neon blaze.

Buzz pulled up to it. There’s Klubb Satan. It’s perched on a packed-dirt flat.

The red blaze was El Diablo. He was two feet high. His dick was fifteen feet long. Said dick blinked, on and off. Note the pulsing pitchfork head.

The building was all cinder block. Sandbags formed the foundation. Locals porked in parked jalopies. Transaxles banged the dirt.

Buzz parked snout-out. Let’s be prudent here. Let’s boogie and ex-cape quick.

Elmer winked at Buzz. El Buzzo winked back. They slurped some mescal. Elmer noshed a toxic worm. They got out and stretched their legs. They hit the Klubb two abreast.

Loud noise/barnyard stink/tethered donkeys onstage. Wraparound booths and a strolling trio. They crooned into microphones. A Mex castrato warbled this:

“I’ve got a girl, her name’s Roseanne, she uses a tortilla for a diaphragm!!!”

Elmer clocked the room. He went eyes left. Buzz clocked eyes right. Elmer clock-snared Huey — right there at ten o’clock high.

He’s in this big booth. He’s biting some boy’s neck. Pervdog Huey. The boy was twelve, tops.

Buzz clocked left and caught it. He nudged Elmer. They slid on their knucks and threaded on over. They came off overt and covert.

They bopped up behind the booth. Buzz grabbed a fistful of Huey’s hair and plain pulled. Huey flew up and out. He flailed his legs and shrieked soprano. His kiddie paramour shrieked. Elmer kicked Huey in the balls and stuffed a sock in his mouth. A big ruckus materialized.

Satanites craned their necks and peered over. They jumped up and out of their booths. They went ¿Qué? and ¡Madre mio! Buzz pulled his piece and popped two shots at the ceiling. The donkeys strained at their tethers and brayed.

Elmer slammed a knuck shot. Huey’s rib cage deflated. Buzz regripped Huey’s hair and plain dragged him. Elmer ran up on the stage and untied the donkeys. They jumped off the stage and did some goooood Satanite trampling. Elmer pulled his piece and popped two shots at the ceiling. Buzz dragged Huey to the door and kicked it open.

The donkeys capsized tables and hoof-stomped revelers. Ten thousand Satanites screamed. The donkeys made for the door. Elmer held it open. The furry fuckers ex-caped into the night.

El Kasa 69 was out in the boonies. It was perched behind some hills and tucked out of sight. Buzz rifled Huey’s pockets and plucked his room key. Elmer stashed his car in a scrub grove. He walked back to the room. Buzz had Huey double-cuffed.

El Kasa was a hot-sheet hellhole. Tar-paper huts. Rafter rats. Mismatched wood-plank walls. Huey’s room was a pus pit. Piss troughs and one bare mattress. Huey restrained thereupon.

He wore a Luftwaffe jumpsuit. He was wrist- and ankle-cuffed. He’d drooled up the sock in his mouth. Buzz dangled El Scorpio upside his head.

El Buggo malo y feo. He poked at his cage bars and issued evil intent. Huey fright-eyed him. He pissed his pants. The lap lake spread.

Elmer said, “It’s about Dudley Smith. We want whatever you’ve got.”

Buzz said, “That means all his current racket plans and everything he’s got on Tommy Glennon and Fifth Column grief here in Baja. That also means whatever you’ve got on Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta, and those homicides in L.A.”

Elmer crouched by the mattress. Buzz scootched Huey’s legs over and took a seat. Elmer plucked the sock gag. Huey whimper-screeched.

Words poked through. It was all I-love-Uncle Dud and I-ain’t-no-snitch. Buzz sapped his legs. Elmer sapped his arms. Huey screeched and thrashed and went hoarse quick.

Buzz unlocked El Buggo’s cage and poked him out on the mattress. El Buggo gravitated toward Huey. He crawled up Huey’s legs and sniffed Huey’s crotch. Huey screamed. Buzz positioned the cage on Huey’s chest and lured El Buggo back in.

Elmer uncorked the mescal. Huey went Gimme, gimme. Elmer bottle-fed him three good pops. Huey flushed roseate.

Buzz placed the cage next to his head. El Buggo stretched his legs through the bars. He got love-struck and tried to nuzzle Huey.

Elmer said, “Tick, tick, tick.”

Buzz said, “That’s the clock running out on your life.”

Elmer said, “These fucking scorpions go straight for your dick. They inject their poison there.”

Huey went Okay, okay. Elmer bottle-fed him. A worm dribbled out and hit Huey’s chest. Buzz plucked him and dropped him in El Buggo’s cage. El Buggo devoured him faaaast.

Huey coughed and drooled mescal. Huey evinced snitch fever. Huey tattled this:

“Uncle Dud’s got these plans to run wetbacks and push horse to the niggers in L.A. He’s got this sort-of partner, who runs the Baja Statie Constabulary. His name’s José Vasquez-Cruz, and Uncle Dud don’t really trust him. He glommed Carlos Madrano’s dope stash, and Uncle Dud’s got these dope-cadre guys in L.A., all ready to go.”

Buzz said, “Where’d you get this?”

Huey said, “My pal Juan Pimentel. He’s my bodyguard here. He feeds me all this good dish.”

Elmer sap-tickled Huey. “For instance?”

“For instance, this. Uncle Dud’s got his wetback deal all brainstormed, but he’s got to clear it with the Baja governor first. The guy’s name is Juan Lazaro-Schmidt, and he veers mucho right. There’s got to be some kind of U.S.-Mexico ‘guest worker’ pact in place before Uncle Dud starts moving the wets north in big numbers. It’s a combo deal. You pack the horse in the trucks hauling the wets, and kill two birds with one stone.”

Elmer slurped mescal. Buzz snatched the jug. Elmer sap-tickled Huey. The shitbird resnitched.

“Okay, you’ve got a bunch of resident Japs all rounded up here in Baja. Okay, so Uncle Dud and this Vasquez-Cruz dink have got this piggyback plan cooked up, all abetted by Uncle Ace Kwan in L.A. The deal is, they’ll move the Baja Japs north and jungle them up with the L.A. Japs, and hire them out as slave labor. Uncle Dud’s already got the Ventura County Sheriff on board. Uncle Dud and Vasquez-Cruz also got plans to move horse up to L.A. in the trucks hauling all the Jap internees. Ace the K.’s got plans to pass off rich Japs as Chinks and hide them out in C-town while he bleeds their Tojo-loving asses dry.”

Elmer and Buzz swapped looks. They conveyed Vintage Dudster. Huey went Gimme. Elmer bottle-fed him. Huey re-resnitched.

“There’s been scuttlebutt disseminated at the Deutsches Haus. Uncle Dud don’t credit all this, but I tend to. There’s supposed to be a Jap air attack on L.A. later this month, with some sub shellings of these oil refineries north of Santa Barbara, coming before it. Uncle Dud holds the line at sabotage on U.S. soil. You got to give him that — he’s a pro-U.S. white man. But this Vasquez-Cruz geek’s allegedly bent on chaos. To top all this off, Uncle Dud’s allegedly scared that this here klubhaus job will bleed into the Watanabe job and deep-six the PD.”

Elmer said, “Where’d you get this? The last part, I mean.”

Huey went snitch smug. “I got it from Claire De Haven. I’ve been selling her morph on the sly, and she sure loves to talk. She’s also screwing Vasquez-Cruz on the sly, and he tattles her things that she tattles me.”

Buzz whooped. “Son, don’t you stop there.”

Huey coughed. “Claire loves Uncle Dud, but she thinks he’s in over his head with all these racket gigs of his. Plus, she knows that Uncle Dud’s putting the boots to some redhead in L.A., that Bill Parker’s likewise poking. Claire says the redhead is just some ‘incremental advance in the Parker-Smith exchange.’ ”

Elmer and Buzz swapped looks. They conveyed More Vintage Dudster. Huey yawned. Huey said, “I’m half in the bag.”

Elmer fed him three bennies and one jolt of mescal. Buzz uncuffed him. Huey stretched and rubbed his ankles and wrists.

“You boys should visit the Deutsches Haus. There’s this Mitch guy who frequents the place. He’s from the Midwest — maybe Minnesota or Wisconsin. He’s a brother model-airplane fiend. He knows all about air warfare, and he builds these real, flyable planes from prefabricated parts. I’m not jiving you, cousins. You can build your own airplane, and fly it. Mitch is always talking up this notion of Japs dropping flammable bombs and setting forest fires. He calls it ‘chaos from the air.’ ”

Elmer mock-yawned. “What’s this chump got to do with our shit at hand?”

Huey real-yawned. “Nothing.”

Buzz jiggled El Buggo’s cage. “What’s with Dud and Tommy Glennon? He was Dud’s snitch, but now Dud wants him clipped. I sense a lively tale there.”

Huey went harrumph. “I never poked Tommy. Uncle Dud tried to lay that on me, but it was a humbug rap. Tommy’s squeeze was this priest named Joe Hayes. Tommy likes his brown eye Irish and Catholic. He got turned out by priests, so he has to have it that way.”

Elmer said, “Thank you for them unsolicited comments.”

Buzz said, “Let’s get back to Tommy and Dud.”

Huey scratched his balls and picked his nose. He got this bennie-revved look.

“You want Tommy and Dudley? If you’re sweet to me, I’ll give you Tommy and Dudley like you’ve never had it before.”

Buzz said, “Don’t you get flirty or pouty with us. You do that, I let this centipede loose.”

Elmer lit a cigar. “One bite and you’re paralyzed. Two bites and you’re dead.”

Huey went Oooh, I’m scared. He put on an archfruit lisp.

“Okay, here’s your Tommy and Dudley. It’s the winter of ’39, and there’s a very posh costume party at a very swell mansion in Brentwood. North of Sunset, daaaarlings — pheasant under glass all the way.”

Elmer said, “Don’t string this out.”

Huey tittered. “The party was aaaall about the Night of the Long Knives, which anybody who’s anybody will tell you occurred in Germany in the summer of ’34, when boss man Hitler had a beef with his Brownshirt Sturmbannführer, Ernst Röhm. Ernst liked boys, which anybody who’s anybody does, but boss man Hitler just couldn’t countenance that. So, he rounded up some hunky young Blackshirts and sent them to this spa hotel in Munich, where Ernst and numerous like-minded Brownshirts were consorting, and the Blackshirts found the Brownshirts all cozily entwined, and liquidated them presto-changeo.”

Elmer said, “Don’t stop now.”

Buzz said, “Cut the travelogue and get to it.”

Huey went butch baritone. “So, the party celebrated this noteworthy event, just for giggles. Everybody wore masks, the men wore Nazi uniforms, and the women wore these beautiful gowns. This highbrow opera music played on this Victrola. I was there, my mama was there, and Harry Cohn was there — even though he’s a yid. Lots of Hollywood hotshots were there, Tommy G. was there, and this little Jap guy with burned fingers was there. He told people that he was there for the real Night of the Long Knives, but nobody believed him.”

Elmer got goose bumps. He looked at Buzz. He had goose bumps. Huey sighed and strung out a looooooong pause.

“Well, Dudley was surely there. He was veeery handsome in his SS uniform. He wore a sidearm and a bayonet on a black leather belt. Orson Welles was there. He wore a mask, but I knew it was him. He was chummy with this guy who owned the house — some music maestro. Welles always premiered his smut films at the house, and he showed a new one at the party. It was the dirty version of the Night of the Long Knives — and, daaarlings, it was a hit.”

Huey paused. Huey stage-sighed. Huey tossed his hair. This glue-sniffing psycho mimes Marlene Dietrich.

“Well, meine Herren — the movie. The killing was all faked, but the oooh-la-la was all real. It was men and women, women and women, men and men. The party quieted down when the movie ended, and the guests started fondling out in the open. They started peeling into the maestro’s bedrooms. And, of course — Dudley had women fighting over him.”

Huey paused. Huey stage-sighed. Huey threw his hair over one eye. The fruitcake loon mimes Veronica Lake.

“Uncle Dud kissed and petted with at least a dozen women. The last woman was very tall and thin, and she led Uncle Dud outside and over to a pergola. Tommy and I were close by, but Uncle Dud couldn’t see us. We were wearing Brownshirt uniforms, and we were cuddled up and collaborating with two cute Blackshirt boys. Uncle Dud didn’t know that we saw all of this, but Tommy spilled it to him when Uncle Dud visited him in Quentin last November.”

Huey paused. Huey stage-sighed. Huey blew mock smoke rings. This Nazi shitheel mimes Bette Davis.

“Uncle Dud and the tall woman kissed passionately. Tommy and I watched. The woman knelt between Uncle Dud’s legs. Well, her gown hiked, and Tommy and I saw those hairy gams. The moon passed over, and Uncle Dud saw them, too. The woman coughed, meine Herren — and it was surely a man’s cough.”

Elmer went dry-mouth. The room spun topsy-turvy. Huey turned female for real.

“Well, Uncle Dud screamed then. He pulled out his bayonet and stabbed the girl-boy in the face and the chest. He walked away, sobbing — and if you tell Uncle Dud that I told you all this, I’ll be very peeved with you.”

62 (Los Angeles, 9:30 A.M., 2/9/42)

Rain loomed. Low clouds hovered and seeped. Boyle Heights went garish to bleak.

It was Shitsville, both ways. Shack rows and strutting pachucos. Tripe-stew emporiums. Invasive food stench.

Dudley cruised Brooklyn Avenue. The cholos had subsumed the Jews, circa ’35. The zoot suit reigned now. Frock coats and beanies, verboten.

Three interviews loomed. Thad Brown had cherry-picked a Fed subversive sheet. Local Sinarquista boys. Three, todos. Thad’s curious. Did they frequent the klubhaus?

It’s a bind. He served two factions here. He had to plumb the extent of Wendell Rice and George Kapek’s exposure. He served the PD there. He served Salvy Abascal and the Sinarquistas, most inimically.

He had to warn and exonerate. He wore Sinarquista green himself. He had to revamp the klubhaus job and provide a credible solution.

To wit: kill a plausible suspect or suspects. To wit: spics, spooks, or treasonous swine. To wit: quash crossover leads to the Watanabe job. Nullify Bill Parker’s Free-the-Werewolf extravaganza.

Dudley scanned curb plates. He was vexed. He felt constrained. The fucking klubhaus job consumed him. He should be back in Baja. He had nascent rackets to run. He had to revamp his search for the gold.

He’s vexed. He’s constrained. He’s diverted.

There’s dumb cracker Elmer Jackson and smart Okie Buzz Meeks. He’s constrained there. He cannot dissolve their partnership. Jack Horrall straddles a fence. Clean solve, staged solve — he’s ambivalent. Jackson and Meeks are in Baja now. They have not liaised with the Staties. They may or may not locate Huey. Juan Pimentel has the lad sequestered. Huey was staunch in his way. He would never blab to rogue cops.

He’s vexed, he’s constrained, he’s diverted. He’s buoyant, otherwise.

He has Joan. She exemplifies wartime passion and binds him to the gold. He has his brilliant Hideo.

The lad turned a single fiber. It placed Wendell Rice at chez Hanamaka. Hideo Ashida plumbed minutiae. He turned Hanamaka’s print at the klubhaus. A triple print check revealed it. He endured the raid at the White Dog Klub. The first Jap-internee transport is at the ready now. It will leave for Ventura County tomorrow. A load of “H” will be stashed on the bus. Hideo will debrief the captive Japs at the border.

He’s vexed. He’s constrained and diverted. He’s more optimistic now.

He conducted his three interviews. They ran prosaically. The three boys attended LACC and bunked with their moms and dads. They eschewed zoot suits and went to Mass thrice weekly. They expressed their intent to avoid conscription and sit out this Jew-derived war.

They knew all about the klubhaus. They had never set foot inside. They conceded a stern right-wing presence there. The presence of hopheads and jigaboos negated that. The klubhaus was inherently un-Catholic. Está un sacrilegio.

They offered up no names. They snitched off no klubhaus klubmen. ¿Qué? ¿Qué? ¿Qué? We don’t know mierda.

Three convivial chats. A felicitous morning. Somewhat loosened constraints.

Rain loomed. Black clouds seeped and burst. Dudley drove west and hit his wiper blades. Pachucos ducked under awnings. Note their sodden zoot suits. No Sinarquistas, they.

A car nudged his back bumper. A horn went toot-toot. Dudley checked his rear-view mirror and grinned.

Well, now — it’s Salvador Abascal.

They lunched at a taco tavern. Salvy knew all the good spots. They shared spicy platters and quaffed beer. Their back booth assured privacy. A waitress cleared their table. They lit cigarettes.

Dudley said, “I’m wondering how you knew where to find me.”

“I called Major Melnick in Ensenada, and your Lieutenant Brown here in Los Angeles. He passed me on to the impolitic Sergeant Breuning, who said, ‘Oh, yeah — Dud told me about you.’ ”

Dudley smiled. “You mustn’t consider me suspicious.”

Salvy crushed his cigarette. “You have every right to be suspicious. I entered your life in quite the spectacular fashion. We surveil each other from afar and understand each other adroitly, even though we are but casual friends. We touch upon only the most obvious high points of our shared ideology, and rigorously avoid the specifics. This indicates mutual respect. We are not the type of men who indulge frivolous friendships. For men like us, there is no point in friendships that preclude a defining efficacy.”

A grand lad. A mind reader and a seer. Father Coughlin thought the world of him. “He’s an honorary mick, that one.”

“I’m wondering how you came to save my life, and how you arrived at that man Trejo Caiz as my potential assassin.”

Mariachi men strolled up. Salvy slipped them a dollar and shooed them off.

“Trejo Caiz was a Stalinist and a wheelman for the murder of Leon Trotsky. He had compiled a death list of fascist sympathizers, and you were on it. I learned of this in quite the roundabout way. Some three years ago, the late Carlos Madrano told me about you. He described you as a ‘budding American fascist with profound law-enforcement credentials,’ and a ‘notable killer for Irish Republican causes.’ I despised my boon acquaintance Madrano, and was overjoyed to learn that you had killed him and would soon join the SIS contingent in Ensenada. I have a superb intelligence network. They learned of Trejo Caiz’s plan to kill you. I had both of you under surveillance up to the moment of your convergence.”

Dudley roared. The Wolf appeared and lapped beer from the pitcher. Dudley reversed his coat lapel. Joan Klein’s swastika map pin gleamed.

Salvy laughed. “Victor’s brother lives on. Jorge Villareal-Caiz. A yet more pernicious comunista. There are no photographs of this evil puto extant. I see his face everywhere and nowhere, which confounds me. He is a priest-killer with many scalps to his credit. I have vowed to kill him.”

The Wolf trusted Salvy. He was a discerning beast. He rarely bestowed approval.

“Let me indulge a hunch here. Did you and your stout Kameraden kill sixteen Jap submariners shortly after New Year’s?”

Salvy smiled. “Yes. I received a tip that they were arriving, and carrying a great deal of money. Their plan was to impersonate Chinese men and perform sabotage in and around Los Angeles. We killed the men but did not find the money on the submarine.”

Dudley winked. “Captain Vasquez-Cruz and I found the money and split it. My half was ten thousand dollars. I will acknowledge the sixteen scalps you took, and donate that amount to the Sinarquista war chest.”

Salvy raised his glass. “Meine Kameraden.”

Dudley raised his glass. “Do you have intelligence on a naval attaché named Kyoho Hanamaka?”

“No.”

“Are you privy to plans for an air attack on L.A. later this month?”

“No.”

Dudley said, “I pledge 15 % of the profits from my admittedly criminal ventures to our shared cause.”

Salvy said, “I am most humbly grateful, although I must risk your displeasure with two requests.”

“Which are?”

“That you do not permit the sale of heroin to Mexicans, and that you quash all mentions of the appellation ‘Sinarquista’ as they might pertain to this scurrilous investigation of yours.”

“I am in no way displeased, and I am happy to comply.”

Salvy lit a cigarette. “These ventures of yours. Do they proceed apace?”

“Yes and no. I’ll need to speak to Governor Lazaro-Schmidt soon. I require some assistance in the matter of exporting guest workers.”

Salvy laughed. “You deftly omitted the word wetback in my presence.”

Dudley laughed. “Lazaro-Schmidt. I’m assuming that you’ve met the man?”

“I have. He is un hombre simpático, if un hombre quite covetous and greedy. I find his relationship with his sister disturbing, though. She is a concert violist, and quite lovely. I must accede to decorum here and say no more.”

Their waitress hovered. She poured tequila shots and hootchie-eyed dos hombres guapos.

Dudley downed his shot. He got that quick burn and glow. The Wolf licked his glass.

Salvy coughed. “If I were to tell you that I have plans to perform what might be termed ‘cosmetic sabotage’ on U.S. soil — gadfly gestures only — will you intercede and seek to expose me?”

Dudley leaned close. “You must solemnly promise that no American men, women, or children will be harmed.”

Salvy leaned close. “Yes, you have my most solemn word.”

Dudley sighed. “I’ll profess vexation here. Gadfly gestures aside, I’m wondering what the world will be like when all of this is over.”

Salvy twirled his shot glass. “Perhaps Europe and the East will realign. Perhaps the Hitler-Stalin pact will be reinstated as a hedge against chaos and the new American hegemony. I despise communism but quite often fail to see it as fascism’s antithesis. A conference transpired in Ensenada, in the fall of ’40. It was comunista-fascista and purportedly amiable. I have heard that numerous top dogs attended. It was the high-water point of the Nazi-Soviet Pact, and postwar escape strategies were discussed. It was reportedly proclaimed that the war would kill both Stalin and Hitler, along with all paper currencies, save the U.S. dollar. All those in attendance were urged to hoard gold.”

Gold. Ever synchronous. The Spiritus Mundi speaks.

Dudley said, “My fascist brother.”

Salvy said, “A Catholic hegemony. We must stake our loyalty there.”

The Wolf jumped on the table. He cocked his head and howled his love for Salvador Abascal.

63 (Los Angeles, 1:00 P.M., 2/9/42)

The lab buzzed. Joan called it Japwerk. She worked Japwerk all day and all night.

Two chemists logged in radios. They scrawled serial numbers and searched for stashed contraband. Their gig was straight Jap internment. Joan’s gig was Jap internment plus klubhaus job.

She culled Rice and Kapek’s Jap busts. She logged arrest and court dispositions. She wrote it all up and cross-referenced it. She determined custody status. She noted habeas writs. She tagged current known whereabouts.

She pulled mug shots and clipped dispo bulletins. It was advance work. Thad Brown had ordered massive roundups. His goal was massive lineups. He’d subdivided the suspect types.

In-custody Japs. Released Japs. Known cholos. Jazz-club denizens. Perverted hepcats. Nazi-esque types.

We’ll run lineups. We’ll parade the above. 46th Street locals will orb them. Have you seen these dinks at or near the klubhaus?

The job was twelve days in. They’d turned zero at-the-scene eyewits. Thad decreed one last shot at that.

Joan worked. Joan worked, distracted. It was drudgewerk and scutwerk. She worked, bored and gored.

That hate mail. The Back-to-Africa screed. Preacher Mimms, gold heist — linked. The Red Swastika. Salvador Abascal critiques the Ensenada conclave.

Fall 1940. Nazi and Russian hotshots meet. They discuss potential world-war outcomes and ponder potential means of ascent. She read the tract three times. The Nazis and Reds huddle and conclude this:

They must exploit a new postwar gold standard.

That tract gored her. Gold, gold, gold. Gold in the vox populi. Gold, omnipresent. Gold, subsuming her.

She read the Mitch Kupp tract. Her own past and dead father subsumed her. It wasn’t a hate tract. It was scholarly and altogether nuts.

Joan worked. Joan worked, distracted.

Bill and Dudley. Bill’s jealous outburst. Weepy Bill and imperious Dudley. She wants Dudley more than Bill. She wants to talk gold with him. Dudley savaged Orson Welles. The wunderkind saw her naked. It drove Dudley to brutal rage. Bill would have sulked and hexed Welles from afar.

Joan werked. She logged evidence and ran circuits to the Alien Squad pen. She snagged file carbons and checked the Jap-arrest index. She ran into Lee Blanchard, outside the upstairs cot room. He stood by the file bank and flashed a shit-eating grin.

“We turned a habitué. Breuning and Carlisle grabbed him. They’ve got him in #3. Jack H. said you could watch.”

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Harold John Miciak. Breuning told me he’s a lulu.”

Joan stashed her carbons and walked to sweatbox row. #3 was spy-mirrored. A hall speaker spritzed sound. The hallway was SRO.

Jack Horrall. Sid Hudgens. Catbox Cal Lunceford. They played Mr. First Nighter and pressed their snouts up to the glass.

Joan joined them. Sid woo-woo’d her. Call-Me-Jack said, “Hi, Red.”

The sweatbox ran standard. Twelve by twelve, cork-baffled walls, floor-bolted table and chairs. Miciak sat and feigned nonchalance. Breuning and Carlisle hovered. They phone-booked dipshit’s shoulders and head.

The hall speaker spritzed. Breuning said, “Come on, give.” Carlisle said, “We can keep this up all day.” Miciak sustained swats. His forehead and cheekbones grew welts.

He was too thin. He looked used up. He sported a hairnet conk and shaved whitewalls. He wore a gone jacket with wide-wing lapels.

He raised his hands. “Feel free to desist. I always like to absorb some hurt before I grovel and spill. It reestablishes my white-man credentials.”

Breuning and Carlisle desisted. They hankie-wiped their brows. Breuning fed Miciak a cigarette. Carlisle lit it. Call-Me-Jack nudged Joan. Some floor show, huh?

Breuning straddled the spare chair. Carlisle sat on the table. Miciak blew smoke their way. Hudgens and Lunceford yukked.

Miciak cracked his knuckles. “You had some questions about that crib on 46th, right? You were seeking the lowdown from an informed perspective.”

Breuning said, “Come on, give.”

Carlisle said, “We’ll give you a lunch chit for Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda if you give good.”

Miciak picked his nose. “That’s a swell inducement.”

Breuning said, “Give. We’re not getting any younger here.”

Miciak scratched his balls. “I would call the 46th Street spot an arsenal of democracy and a monument to free-thinking egalitarianism. It’s what you might variously call a fuck joint, a blowhole, a jam-session crib, and a redoubt for thugs, goons, and the pro-Nazi crowd — but hep niggers, nigger jazz musicians, Mexicans, Mexicoons, and square-ass cops are welcome, too. Let me not tread lightly here. You’ve got jazz fiends, hopheads, boozehounds, terp men, bennie eaters, untold numbers of right-wing blowhards and Jew-haters, along with some name jazz guys. You’ve got coons like Wardell Gray, Dexter Gordon, and Charlie Parker — not to mention white cats like Stan Kenton, Art Pepper, and Bart Varsalona. You’ve got coon cops bringing in colored whores they popped for Pros-1 and fucking them upstairs. You’ve got mud-shark white girls who crave dark meat cavorting with shine smut-film actors with king-sized dicks, while the late Georgie Kapek takes pictures and peddles them for fifty cents apiece.”

Miciak stopped flat. Miciak mugged at the mirror. Miciak performed a smut-film trick. He stuck out his tongue and stretched it up to his nose.

The hallway crowd slack-jawed it. Joan lit a cigarette. Call-Me-Jack popped digitalis. The Sidster sucked his pocket flask.

Breuning said, “Don’t stop now.”

Carlisle said, “We’ll throw in free-drink coupons for Kwan’s.”

Miciak lit a cigarette. “Let us not euphemize or tread lightly here. You might call this exalted spot a lewd liaison lair. You’ve got divorced cops with no place to live paying the late Wendell Rice a buck a night to sleep on the floor. I would call the late Rice and Kapek the overlords of this hallowed joint. They’re selling confiscated Jap flags and crib sheets for the war-hire cop exams, not to mention confiscated Jap swords, daggers, and guns to these Mexican zoot punks out in Boyle Heights. The late Sensei Rice showed me a bayonet that must have been solid gold, all inlaid with this hammer-and-sickle design, made out of real rubies—”

Joan dropped her cigarette. It bounced off the mirror ledge and singed her skirt. She fretted her gold cuff links, and—

“—and you got this kid Link Rockwell. He’s on leave from the Navy, and he’s this jig preacher’s pal. He sells tickets to these sex shows upstairs — and you got lots of pro-Nazi, pro-Jap, and pro-Sinarquista talk, and lots of Sieg Heil, and hate tracts being passed around, and traffic cops fixing tickets for a buck a pop, and auto-theft cops selling hot cars and counterfeit license plates, and—”

Joan lit a fresh cigarette. Her hands shook. She looped back to the gold bayonet. She fretted one gold cuff link clean off.

Jack H. grabbed her arm and steered her down the hall. He was I-need-a-drink trembly and pre-heart-attack flush.

“It’s the guns, Red. It’s all bad, and the guns are the worst of it. Check the Alien Squad’s gun-confiscation roster and note all of Rice and Kapek’s filings. Cross-check that against the lab’s ballistics-comparison log, and pray that we’re not too far exposed and deep in the hole. Do it now, and I’ll owe you a very large favor.”

Kay was late. Joan hogged their regular booth at Dave’s Blue Room. She sipped her third scotch mist and chain-smoked. She respooled Japwerk and Jackwerk. It comprised a six-hour sprint.

She logged 161 guns. They ran the gamut. Revolvers/automatics/rifles/shotguns. Rice and Kapek seized them all. They were all missing.

Gone meant gone. They’re not in the lab vault. They’re not in the Central Station and/or DB vault. There’s no backup paperwerk. They haven’t been test-fired. There’s no ballistics-comp sheets.

She did the werk. Lee Blanchard kibitzed. He laid out THIS BIG SNAFU and the upshot.

Breuning and Carlisle hard-nosed Miciak. They took him to the Lyman’s sweat room and black-gloved him. He gave up relative bupkes. He refused to rat his other klubhaus confreres. He said that Rice and Kapek bought off a slew of Newton Street blues, and quashed reports of klubhaus misconduct. The haus thrived behind quasi-official approval. Local yokels ignored it. Preacher Mimms owned the property. He greased the yokels with fat Christmas baskets. They recruited saps for his back-to-Africa shuck. The klubhaus was protected and sacrosanct.

Breuning and Carlisle beat Miciak half-dead. Thad Brown halted it. He drove Miciak to Queen of Angels and pledged a waltz on two 459 warrants. Miciak was half-dead and relieved.

She werked. She reported to Jack Horrall. Call-Me-Jack pledged his large favor. It floored her. She got floored twice in one day. Miciak blabs. Wendell Rice shows off this gold bayonet. Pinch me, I’m—

There’s Kay. She’s wearing her houndstooth-huntress ensemble. The black beret clashes. The saddle shoes are pure Kay.

Joan said, “You’re late.”

Kay slid into the booth. “Ask me why I’m late.”

“Why are you late?”

“I’m late, because I ran into Jack Horrall. He told me the whole story three times, and to his credit, he never once mentioned your legs. I’m late, because I was looking for a certain item in sterling silver.”

Joan laughed. “He served drinks in his office. He said, ‘Don’t you dare cry,’ and ‘Quit blushing, you’ve earned it.’ ”

Kay laced up their hands. “What’s the first thing you thought of?”

“You know what it is.”

“Tell me. Confirm how well I’ve come to know you.”

Joan sipped scotch and bitters. The room went too warm. She reached over and reset Kay’s beret. She’d seen Elmer J. do it. He always pulled up the stem.

“I’ve achieved rank parity with William H. Parker. It’s the first thing that popped into my head.”

Kay lobbed a small jewel box. Joan snagged it on the fly. She snuck a look and saw two captain’s bars.

“Don’t you cry, sister. Don’t you dare blush, because you’ve earned it.”

Joan wiped her eyes. “My academy class convenes in October. I’ll ace the pistol range. I used to shoot rabid bats, back at home. I’d nail them from forty yards out.”

Kay lit a cigarette and killed off Joan’s cocktail. The jewel box glowed. The silver bars threw sparks.

“Go home and put some words on paper. Send one up for the ones you left behind. They don’t have your grit, and they’ll never have your luck.”

She prayed for a blackout. Army searchlights strafed the sky, just so. She wanted to count moon craters. Empirical science meets God. Tell me what all this means.

No blackout. Easy come, easy go. It scotched her shot at cheap metaphysics. She took Kay’s advice instead.

She scrawled up her diary. She described the Big Snafu and critiqued her antithetical lovers. She pondered the second gold bayonet. She wrote her name and rank twenty times.

The doorjamb creaked. She looked over. Bill Parker stood in the doorway. He’s in uniform. He’s half-gassed and grinning. He’s cock-of-the-walk smug and proud.

Joan said, “You’re just standing there. You usually walk straight up and kiss me.”

“Don’t look so disappointed. I pulled a coup at the grand jury today. I could have gone home and told my wife, but I came here instead.”

Joan tossed him a breath mint. It hit his gun belt and fell to the floor.

“You could have told Kay Lake. Your wife ignores you, and Kay lusts for you. I don’t really consider your wife much of a rival.”

“You’ve got no beef with Kay. The two of you are friends now.”

Joan tossed a breath mint. It hit his badge and fell to the floor.

“Tell me about your coup, and I’ll tell you about mine.”

Bill weaved and steadied himself. The doorway held him up.

“I nailed those Fed fuckers, and I nailed Jack Horrall. I pulled some wire mounts in December, when the probe was first announced. I gave up Jack H. and told the jury that he ordered it. They granted me full immunity. They were going to rubber-stamp no-bills. Now, they’re going after Jack, Fletch Bowron, Ray Pinker, and the Jamie kid for real. I’ll be the star witness, and I’ll be sitting in Jack’s chair inside six months.”

Joan tossed a breath mint. It hit his necktie and fell to the floor.

“Bravo, Bill. Now, go tell Kay and Dudley. Then all the ones you care about will be up to speed.”

“You’ve got a lot of goddamned nerve, bringing Dudley up to me.”

Joan said, “I’ll tell Dudley. It’s what you really want. Everything you do is about you and Dudley, so why should I deny you that joy?”

64 (Ensenada, 8:00 A.M., 2/10/42)

He returned to the charnel house. Dudley ordered a search. He picked through scorched cadavers and phone-line debris.

Forty-two bookies perished. Most were Fifth Column — adjunct. Their deaths served no purpose. No hard leads accrued.

Ashida sifted rubble. Juan Pimentel searched for lockboxes and safes. A.M. arc lights were up. Statie goons watchdogged the location.

It was the one Baja relay spot. It immolated in ten seconds flat.

Ashida sifted plaster dust. Blasted teeth jammed up his net. He relived the explosion. Fleeing bookies trampled him. He pumped his shotgun and blew their limbs off. He stumbled out the door.

He replayed it awake. He redreamed it asleep. He smelled it right now.

Ashida sifted dust. He snared wood husks and scorched Bakelite chunks. Crazy Juan waved a skull and made kissy sounds. The plaster grit expelled gastric juices. Forty-two men burned alive.

A wedding band dropped from his sift net. It was pure gold.

Joan called him last night. She relayed the Miciak mess. She stressed Wendell Rice and his gold bayonet.

He told her he fiber-swept Hanamaka’s hideaway. It paid off. He notched a fiber match to Rice himself. More threads converged. Dudley dubbed it the “Trifecta.” The gold heist, Fifth Column grief, the klubhaus job.

More evidence and more death. More open-air cadaver rot. More teeth in his sifting pan.

Ashida walked off. Crazy Juan yelled, “Come back, my love!”

Japs.

Japs, Japs, Japs. His ex — racial kin. His pre — Pearl Harbor brethren. His pre — Dudley Smith bund.

Ashida pulled up to the Statie barracks. Dudley shot him a last-second job. It was Jap-derived and Jap-defined. A Jap trial run was set to move north. Dudley and the Ventura County Sheriff colluded.

They moved precipitously. Captain Vasquez-Cruz cosigned the collusion. They bypassed Governor Lazaro-Schmidt.

Ashida parked and walked back to the loading dock. The transport bus stood ready. Two Statie shits guarded it. They packed tommy guns.

Japs, Japs, Japs. Sixty men and women shackled. Japs, Japs, Japs. He employed the common vernacular now.

Dudley told him to interpret. Curry favor and seek last-minute rat-outs. Press on Japs still at large. Pledge snitch rewards. We’ll feed you gourmet dog food and house you in de-luxe horse stalls.

Ashida hopped on the bus. He wore U.S. Army fatigues and jump boots. He carried his evidence kit and wore a holstered .45.

He counted sixty Japs. They were shackle-chained. Their arm and ankle cuffs scraped and drew blood. They were cinched up, seat back to seat back.

Ashida studied them. He stood by the gun guard’s seat and let them notice him. It took a moment. They stopped talking, they looked up, they saw him.

He had them now. They fell quiet and studied him. He issued Dudley’s snitch directive in Spanish and Japanese. A babble rose. He walked through the bus.

People hissed at him. People talked to him. He heard traitor in Spanish and Japanese. He ran the spit gauntlet. He caught globs on his fatigues and globs in his face.

He looked out the rear window. Two Staties stuffed bundles inside the wheel wells. It was uncut heroin.

The curses persisted. The driver and gun guard jumped on board. The driver kicked the ignition.

Ashida about-faced and walked toward the front of the bus. Hisses and curses overlapped. Spittle dripped off his chin. He threw out Spanish and Japanese. Kyoho Hanamaka — do you know him?

He walked seat row to seat row and repeated it. Spit bombs blurred his vision. An old man motioned him close.

Ashida leaned close. The old man spoke English. He said, “Hanamaka fascist. I valet for him. I help him mess up mountain house and pack. Two white policemen drive him over border.”

Ashida opened his evidence kit. He flashed ID pix of Wendell Rice and George Kapek.

The old man nodded YES.

65 (San Diego, 12:00 P.M., 2/10/42)

The boys are—

They hauled north. Elmer drove. Buzz baby-talked his pet scorpion. They left El Huey naked, outside the Klubb Satan. Devil take the hindmost.

The coast road looked good. Eucalyptus trees and big wave swells. The klubhaus job looked bad. Elmer masticated it.

They called Thad Brown from T.J. They said Huey was just plain nowhere. Thad laid out the Miciak mess. The looted guns were the gnarly nadir. Thad issued an APB on Link Rockwell. Flyboy Link staged klubhaus sex shows and sold tix.

The klubhaus job was Shit City. Buzz and him brain-waved it. There had to be an upside somewhere. Huey’s Dudster tale, ditto. Dud attends a pervert hoedown and snuffs a he-she. That’s blackmail bait. It could rescind Dud’s hex on Buzz.

Elmer relit his cigar. A light drizzle hit. They passed Del Mar Racetrack. Buzz dropped bundles there on his days off.

They did one good deed already. He called Fourth Interceptor and played Mr. Anonymous. He tattled that so-called Jap sub attack. It retattled Huey’s tattle. Sub attack planned!!! Japs target Santa Barbara refineries!!!

That was tattle #1. Tattle #2 was stale bread. Jap air attack!!! Late February, banzai!!! It was most likely vapors and bullshit.

El Scorpio snoozed in his cage. Buzz stuck a finger in and stroked his pincers. A pet store on Fairfax sold dead crickets. Buzz planned to stock up. Keep El Scorpio fat and sassy.

“Here’s something I don’t get. There’s those fourteen Baja pay-phone listings in Tommy G.’s address book. My question’s Why? Why’s a psycho jerkoff like Tommy have those numbers? Is he really some hot-blood seditionist? On top of that, this English-language paper ran a story this morning. The Staties knocked over a pay-phone relay spot and disabled it. Does that mean them pay phones in Tommy’s book are dead?”

Elmer said, “I got phone slugs in the trunk. We’ll try to call those phones from that hot-box by the Herald. If we get dead air, we’ll know something’s cooking.”

Buzz rogered him and yawned wiiiiiide. He tipped his hat low and snoozed off. Elmer chained cigars and daydreamed Jean Staley. He dressed her in Kay Lake threads. Kay had this black cashmere dress. He liked it best.

Full-on rain hit outside L.A. Elmer cut east on rinky-dink streets and north on Figueroa. The rain abated, the clouds dispersed, some sunshine poked through. Buzz yawned and stirred.

“Looks like home to me.”

Elmer cut east on Pico and north on Broadway. There’s the Herald building. There’s the hot-box. There’s Ed Satterlee, parked upside.

Elmer U-turned and pulled up behind him. He got out and unlocked his trunk. He kept his extralegal shit there. Throwdown guns, burglars’ tools, maryjane to plant on suspects. Pay-phone slugs. Crib notes per Tommy G.’s address book.

Buzz got out and stretched. They waved to Ed Satterlee. Ed the Fed waved back. They ducked into the phone booth. Elmer passed Buzz the address-book numbers and a handful of slugs.

El Buzzo spoke okay Spanish. He got the place-the-calls gig. The gambit was station-to-station. The L.A. operator hails the Baja operator. She shoots the actual calls.

Buzz went to work. Elmer moseyed up to Ed’s sled and popped the passenger door. Ed nipped on a hip flask. Elmer slid in and went Gimme that.

Ed passed the flask. “Your boy Bill Parker pulled a fink play with the grand jury. Those halfhearted bills rigged to produce acquittals don’t look so assured now.”

Elmer sipped cheap brandy. “Bill Parker’s right hand don’t know what his left hand is doing.”

Buzz lounged half outside the phone booth. Elmer eyeballed him. Buzz held up three fingers and pointed them down. That meant three disconnects.

Ed slurped cheap brandy. “What’s Meeks doing?”

“We’re tracking Baja pay phones. It pertains to the klubhaus job.”

“Are you working with Fourth Interceptor? They’re chasing Baja pay phones.”

Elmer went nix. “No, it’s something else.”

Ed the Fed shrugged. “As numerous wags have said, ‘Fifth Column’s Fifth Column.’ We get lots of those Deutsches Haus creeps making calls from here.”

Elmer orbed the phone booth. Buzz wagged nine fingers and pointed them down. That meant nine disconnects.

“How do you know this, sahib?”

Ed gargled cheap brandy. “We run photo surveillance. We take pictures and match them to the plate numbers of the cars the creeps get back into. We get the registration details from the DMV and run the names against known-subversive files.”

Buzz flashed fourteen fingers and pointed them down. That meant all disconnects.

Elmer said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any of those pictures on you?”

Ed reached under his seat. He snagged a stack of glossies and dropped them on Elmer’s lap.

Elmer thumbed through. He saw a slew of unknown phone callers. He saw a far shot of Ensign Link Rockwell. Oooh — there’s a tight shot. Dig that mean-looking Jap.

Jap on the loose. Oooga-booga. Why ain’t this fucker detained?

“You got a name on him?”

Ed flipped the picture over. Scrawled on the back:

Kyoho Hanamaka.

66 (Los Angeles, 7:00 A.M., 2/11/42)

Breakfast at Kwan’s. Flapjacks and Bloody Marys. Jack Horrall, half-blitzed and dyspeptic.

“What you’re saying in no way surprises me. Bill Parker rats to the Feds. It’s on a par with ‘dog bites man.’ ”

Dudley sipped coffee. He left Joan’s bed for this bereavement. She finked Parker’s fink play. She finked Wendell Rice’s gold bayonet. La Bonne Joan — ever opportunistic.

“It ups the odds that the grand jury will issue binding indictments, sir. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Jack dosed his morning jolt. He added Tabasco and Worcestershire. His highball glass glowed malignant.

“Parker’s making his move. If I’m convicted at trial, he’ll grab my job early. He’ll work some voodoo on the City Council and push Thad Brown aside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Talk to him. Horse trade. White man smoke heap big peace pipe. Tell that pious cocksucker that I’ll pull my support of Thad if he recants his testimony extant.”

Dudley scanned the room. The City Hall crowd noshed early. Fletch Bowron, Sheriff’s brass, Jew lobbyists. They waved to Chief Jack and the big mick.

“I’ll call Parker this morning, sir.”

Jack salted his drink. His liver was shot. His pump was shot. His arteries bulged. His life span loomed as next week.

“You heard about that Miciak fuck? We’ve got Rice and Kapek selling Jap guns now.”

“I was informed, sir. Mike Breuning called me.”

“I’m starting to think I should countermand my clean-solve directive. Rice and Kapek’s shit should never see the light of day. I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought. It’s causing me to wax profound. I’m also shit-faced at seven-fucking-a.m.”

Dudley grinned. “You’ve always been a lively man, sir.”

“I’m also very enlightened, and not averse to enlisting jigaboos in our noble crusade. Which brings me to my pal Preacher Mimms.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. Call-Me-Jack resalted his drink.

“Preacher Mimms owns the klubhaus. That gives him a stake in this. He’s also got his snout dunked in a great many poisoned streams.”

Such as the gold heist. May ’31. Mimms bails out Leander Frechette. Hideo and Joan uncovered it.

“You’ve piqued my interest, sir.”

“Talk to Preacher Mimms. Ask him about his numerous enemies embroiled in perverted walks of life. Get a sense of the ones he’d like to see dead.”

They shared rank now. Two uniformed captains/two august agencies. They drew stares at Kwan’s.

Parker slouched. Dudley sat stiff straight. Joan would notch rank soon. Jack H. shot her an Academy slot. Captain J. W. Conville, Los Angeles PD.

Parker sipped coffee. His glasses were Scotch-taped. He’d chewed his nails raw.

“I read the posted summary at Lyman’s. The stolen guns constitute a shitstorm.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. “Yes, and a discomfiting and potentially scandalous one.”

“Was that what you wished to discuss?”

“Among other matters, yes.”

Kwan’s buzzed. It was a lawyers’ lair this a.m. Fletch B. and counsel. Ray Pinker and counsel. It refracted Whiskey Bill’s snitch ploy. The Fed probe snarls and shows teeth.

Parker said, “I’m listening.”

“Please restate your promise not to reveal Jim Davis, per a certain quadruple homicide.”

“So stated, with a codicil. We still need to put him under pentothal, voluntarily or coerced. There’s the currently pending matter of the klubhaus job, and what he might know.”

“I’ll do it. Would you care to witness the interview?”

Parker nodded. Archbishop Cantwell walked in the door. He wore kelly green golf togs and drew delighted stares.

“Do I have your word that you will not seek to countermand my efforts in l’affaire klubhaus?”

“End it. It’s a lake of shit our police department will drown in.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Parker lit a cigarette. “Let me anticipate your next salvo and nip it in the bud. No, I will not recant at the grand jury — even if Jack Horrall pulls his support of Thad Brown.”

The Archbishop worked the room. He swapped jokes with Battling Gomez. He ogled Betty Grable and winked at Harry James.

Dudley said, “Would you reconsider if I offered to walk away from Joan?”

Parker said, “Emphatically no.”

J. J. Cantwell sidled over and approached their table. He looked vividly elfin today.

“What are you two brilliant lads discussing so heatedly?”

Dudley said, “Women, Your Eminence.”

Cantwell winked. “That’s a topic I know nothing of, regardless of any rumors you may have heard.”

The drive back protracted. There were flash storms and coast road tie-ups. The jaunt ran six hours, door-to-door.

He got a late start. A bayonet search postponed his departure. He badged the widows Rice and Kapek and tossed their houses, floor-to-floor. He searched two domiciles and two detached garages. The Widow Rice said two shitkicker cops had already been through.

No gold bayonet appeared. The widows knew nothing of it. They’d dumped Wendell’s and Georgie’s Nazi gear. Their loony husbands gored their goats. Goodbye to all that.

Alas.

Dudley parked and lugged his grip upstairs. Music surged within his suite. It was dank and dissonant. Claire and Young Joan doted on Shostakovich.

He unlocked the door. Young Joan blasted the dour maestro. She sprawled on the couch. The Wolf sprawled beside her. Young Joan ruffled his coat.

Dudley doused the Victrola. Loud brass diminuendoed. Bass cellos swooped and died.

Young Joan said, “Hi, Uncle Dud.” She patted a folder on her lap. The Wolf stirred and nuzzled her hand.

“I have something to show you.”

Dudley smiled. “Perchance?”

“I found an L.A. Police intel file, in with some blank forms. It’s good you came home when you did. Aunt Claire’s out, and she wouldn’t want you to see it.”

The girl Mata Hari. His very own Hebraic offspring. She’s always concocting intrigue.

Dudley dropped his grip and perched on the couch. Young Joan passed him the file.

“It’s a CP cell, back in the ’30s. I recognized one of the pictures.”

Dudley opened the folder. It was standard Red Squad paper. A cover note prefaced it. Five suspect sheets and photographs were included. The note listed five CP members. The names stood out.

Saul Lesnick, M.D. Claire’s psychiatrist and confidant. Her L.A. dope conduit. Plus Andrea Lesnick. Plus Meyer Gelb, plus Jean Staley and Jorge Villareal-Caiz.

It’s the cell. Hideo and Joan uncovered the lead. The cell drew heat per the Griffith Park fire. Said heat cooled and died. It was stale news today.

Sicknik seditionists. Dr. Saul’s schizy daughter. Florid cell boss Gelb. Red pawn Jean Staley. Priest-killer Villareal-Caiz. Reviled by the great Salvy Abascal.

Young Joan said, “Look at the pictures.”

Dudley flipped through the suspect sheets. Four pix beamed, innocuous. Villareal-Caiz stood out.

As he well should. Here’s the punch line. He’s really José Vasquez-Cruz.

Claire found Vasquez-Cruz familiar. She’d “seen him somewhere, maybe a demonstration.” She found him attractive. He concurrently repulsed her. Claire viewed all men that way.

Young Joan stroked the Wolf. He hated priest killers and Communists. His hackles flared.

History. Munich, ’34. The Night of the Long Knives. Brentwood, ’39. A costume party replicates slaughter. Ensenada, now. History as fused circuit and final reprise.

Dudley brought the gold bayonet. He wore SS black. Salvy brought two stilettos. He wore Wehrmacht gray. They took Salvy’s car. The Wolf lounged between them. He wore his spiked collar, swastika-pinned.

3:00 a.m. Calle Diamante. The priest-killer lives in a bluffside casa. It’s bleached-white adobe. There’s a wide front lawn and eucalyptus trees.

Dudley knew the floor plan. Cruz-Caiz threw a party. Claire danced with El Communisto. He was El Fascisto then.

Salvy parked across the street. The Wolf growled and flashed his fangs. He told them to carry their weapons unsheathed.

They walked over. They veered toward the right-side front of the house. French doors marked the master bedroom. Gargoyle doorstops held them open. A breeze stirred sheer drapes.

Dudley heard snores and smelled stale perfume. It was Claire’s scent.

They walked in. Salvy patted the side wall and tripped a light switch. The room went too bright too fast. The priest-killer sleeps, the priest-killer stirs.

He’s wearing silk pajamas. The bedsheets are mussed. He’s almost awake.

Dudley stepped up. He gripped the bayonet two-handed. The priest-killer opened his eyes. Dudley slammed the blade into his face.

It crushed his skull and tore one eye out. Blood exploded. It sprayed Dudley’s tunic and drenched the pillows and sheets. The priest-killer gurgle-screamed. Dudley slammed the blade into his mouth.

It choked off all sound. Severed bridgework snagged the blade. Dudley yanked it free. He stabbed the priest-killer’s face and smashed into his brains.

Salvy stabbed. He arced two knives, in and out. He stabbed one flailing arm and severed it. One knife blade broke off in his hand.

Dudley swung the bayonet crossways. He shattered the priest-killer’s ribs and lanced through to his heart.

All that blood. Comunista red. All that offal and blood stink. Dudley smelled Claire through all of it.

67 (Los Angeles, 2/12–2/25/42)

I will take fate by the throat.

Beethoven said it. Dudley passed the maxim along. She repeated it to Kay. Diarist Kay loved epigraphs and thus lectured diarist Joan. She said, “It consecrates your opportunism. This war honors arrivistes. So does Los Angeles.”

She should be in Wave training now. She should be field-dressing wounds and reading male VD charts. Fate intervened. A new set of should be’s unfurled. She got drunk and caused four deaths. She should be in Tehachapi now. Elmer Jackson said, “You’re the world’s luckiest white woman, Red. You plowed some wetbacks hauling maryjane.”

That’s true. Luck and fate intertwine and spawn opportunity. And opportunity carries a price. Consider this nightmare.

New Year’s Eve through a booze veil. Blinding rain and the crash. The jail cell wake-up and policeman standing there. He’s an opportunist, as well.

That dream bearably repeats. Repetition renders it banal. The dream sound track retains its verve. She hears young voices and pounding fists. They emanate from some enclosed space. The sound track horrifies.

Fate, thus defined. Cop life beckons her. She joins her fellow opportunists — wartime irregulars all.

Bill Parker and Dudley Smith. Hideo Ashida and Kay Lake. Thad Brown, Nort Layman, Call-Me-Jack Horrall. Elmer Jackson, Lee Blanchard, Buzz Meeks.

All task-assigned. All duty-driven. There for the body-in-the-box and the dead-cops caper. It’s all one story, you see.

The story coheres in her diary. The supporting players recede and make room for the stars. She’s as one with Dudley and Hideo. They all want the gold — and that’s all that counts.

Fate. Opportunity. Misalliance. Fool’s errand. Sacred quest. The gold heist and the fire. It’s all one story, you—

She stands poised. Her forensic skills verge on genius. Hideo supersedes her in all things scientific. Dudley’s fierce will supersedes all forensic application. It’s their one story. It will culminate if and when they solve their intertwined cases. It will end if and when they get the gold.

It’s Fate, prophesied. It’s Opportunity, writ large. It’s Luck, in the form of a boozed-up policeman and his college-girl crush.

I can help you, Lieutenant. Of course you can. I’ve always had my way with men. And you won’t be the only man who finds me.

Her Bill. Her Dudley. A troika yet to resolve. She shared lust and gold fever with Dudley. She shared hurt and dashed faith with Bill. She holds her own with both of her lovers. She shares their stalemates. She shares their secrets. She knows things that no woman of her station should know.

Two-Gun Davis killed the four Watanabes. Werewolf Shudo was framed. Dudley did it. Bill plucked Shudo from death row. He did it to impress her and to wow God. He performed a penitential act to negate his adultery.

You do not cut deals with God. Protestants know this. Catholics do not. Bill snitched to the Fed grand jury. He did it with self-seeking aplomb. Dudley told her that he and Jack Horrall are scheming countermeasures. They will address Bill’s grand-jury play and the ghastly klubhaus case itself. Her lovers blur within their machinations. She’s aswirl with their secrets. She’s powerfully indebted to their conflict. The realization stuns her.

Dudley has pledged to solve her father’s murder. It was not an idle boast. He added the caveat: “If a solution is there to be had.” She told him about the air-warfare tract, mailed to the haus.

Mitch Kupp authored the tract. It was sent to Wendell Rice. That fact stunned Dudley. He held forth on fate and lunar tides. Dudley puts faith in talking animals and spirit worlds aligned. Bill cuts deals with God and weeps in shame. He comes to her nakedly revealed and blinded with desire. She will not give up either man.

Kay Lake mediates both men. She’s the Bill-loves-Joan deus ex machina and piquantly critiques their affair. Schoolgirl intrigue is at play here. Kay is waiting out Bill’s fatuous crush on the big redhead. Kay mediates Dudley Smith with bald malice.

She despises Dudley. She purports to see through to his cold, evil heart. She may or may not know that Dudley and Big Red share the sheets. Kay eavesdrops at Lyman’s. She gleefully catalogues and passes on gossip. She should know the story. She’s never said, “Are you or aren’t you?” That seems odd in itself.

Kay collects rumors, Kay reveals rumors, Kay constellates rumors herself. One pithy rumor surfaces on occasion. Kay Lake shivved Dudley Smith late last year.

It was ridiculous. She didn’t believe it. It exposed the fault lines of the Lyman’s rumor mill. Cop work was inherently outré and given to extravagant expression. All provocative rumors have legs. The Kay-Dudley dish was pure fantasia.

Kay was triangle-happy. She observed troikas, and slid in and out of them. There’s Joan/Dudley/Bill. There’s Joan/Bill/Kay. There’s Joan/Dudley/Claire De Haven. Can she credit the war, or is it all just luck and lust, defined?

She’s visited Otto Klemperer’s spread on three more jazzy occasions. Kay and the Maestro play the piano together. The Maestro enjoys flirting with young women. He’s hinted that his house holds a dark secret. Kay plays improvised piano chords. They’re dark and secretly descriptive. There’s an open secret swirling at chez Klemperer. Kay and the Maestro lead a cabal of New York leftists and their “Mexican friend.” They’re smuggling Shostakovich’s new symphony out of Russia. The Maestro intends to conduct a preemptive performance. All proceeds will go to European war relief.

It’s a benign secret. It dovetails with malign cop-world secrets. Kay told her that Dudley smokes opium. Kay said, “Don’t tell anyone — it’s a secret.”

She hoards secrets as well as Kay does. She keeps a secret diary and performs secret deeds. She met Meyer Gelb at her first Maestro bash. He was Griffith Park fire — adjunct and thus adjunct to Karl Tullock and Wayne Frank Jackson. She checked statewide DMV records. There were no Meyer Gelbs listed. She ran nationwide records checks, with identical results. She attended her second Maestro bash. She prowled the Maestro’s office and went through his Rolodex. There was no Meyer Gelb listed. She performed this secret deed sans compunction.

Jean Staley attended her maiden Maestro bash. She once belonged to Comrade Gelb’s Commie cell. Miss Staley was listed in the ’38 L.A. White Pages. She lived in Beachwood Canyon. It mandated a covert approach.

Burglars’ tools. Easily accessible. The crime lab kept an exemplar set.

She surveilled Jean Staley’s bungalow. Miss Staley’s car was missing. Miss Staley appeared to be missing herself. She let herself in to the bungalow. It was musty. The gas had been turned off. The walls bore print-eradication marks. The place had been deftly wiped.

Secret indications. Secrets, not yet revealed.

Claire De Haven attends the Maestro’s parties. Kay calls her the “doomed poetess.” Claire’s morphine habit is a poorly kept secret. Guests see her coming and mime her deft touch with a spike. Claire remains a most stately dope fiend. She observed Claire and Orson Welles talking. Welles refused to go in the steam room with her. He saw both of Dudley Smith’s women naked. Dudley issued commensurate warnings and a brutal rebuke. He probably possessed a secondary motive. She had no idea what. It was Dudley’s secret — and she’s not one to pry.

Terry Lux recut Orson’s face. Orson recuperated in secret. Terry Lux is American First. Bill Parker spilled Terry’s big secret. Terry was privy to the Watanabe snuffs.

Secrets.

Her secrets. The gold cabal’s secrets. Cop secrets, above all else.

Navy blue to police blue. Fate, luck, and opportunity conjoined. Jack Horrall likes her legs and knows grit and brains when he sees them. She joins the ranks October 4. She’ll be Captain J. W. Conville and the highest-ranking woman on the PD. Her precipitous commission will spawn cop resentment. She will rebuff it with imperious ease. Her serendipity mirrors that of Lieutenant Hideo Ashida. Fate, luck, opportunity. Cop noblesse oblige. Dudley Smith’s largesse.

They both love him. They both know what he is. It’s their dark secret, shared.

They talk, long-distance. Their mutual enmity has waned. They speak as fellow scientists and gold questers. She accepts his prissy deviance. He accepts her bedroom bond with the man he loves. They talk for hours. The U.S. Army pays for the calls. They discuss crossover leads in their three complex cases. They dissect every single lead and clue and possible connection. They do not covet the gold from an aggrieved perspective. They’ve both played this war for all it’s worth and come out ahead.

She lucked out of Manslaughter One. He lucked out of the internment. Their war efforts run parallel to their personal ambition.

Hideo fights the Fifth Column in Mexico. His Jap-toady work repulses him. That’s his only rub. It’s her rub, as well. The internment is a disgrace. Wendell Rice and George Kapek exemplify the injustice. J-town stands decimated. The Manzanar camp opens next month. Hideo Ashida dodged that bullet. Great shame undermines his great luck.

Hideo works in Baja. Her L.A. workload has now doubled. It’s all Japwerk and klubhaus job. Thad Brown ran three lineups at Newton Station. Lineup #1 featured jazz-club patrons. #2 featured “political types.” #3 featured uninterned Japs.

46th Street residents viewed fifty-odd men. No positive IDs resulted.

The Crash Squad meets daily at Lyman’s back room. Their APB turned Link Rockwell. Ensign Rockwell was ensconced at a Navy flight school in Florida. Jack Horrall declined to extradite. Young Link and Call-Me-Jack were tight with Martin Luther Mimms.

Jack wants to bury the klubhaus job. Dudley considers it insoluble. He wants to isolate klubhaus leads that point to the gold and shitcan the rest. She and Hideo want the gold and a unified solve. Dudley is currently pondering klubhaus countermeasures. Hideo told her that. The phone receiver froze in her hand.

Secret measures. Secret pleasures. Secret locales.

Dudley smoked opium. She asked Kay where. Kay said, “The basement at Kwan’s.”

She crashed the party there. Uncle Ace proved amenable. They’d met socially. Ace fed PD folks on the cuff.

He supplied the tar, the pipe, and the pallet. She joined twenty-odd Chinamen and DA McPherson’s colored girlfriend. The pallet was too short for her. She smoked opium and flew off someplace. She traveled in a gold rocket ship. Gold dust dropped from the clouds.

68 (Tijuana and Ensenada, 2/12–2/25/42)

He jumped rank. Major Melnick passed the word. He’s now First Lieutenant Hideo Ashida.

Silver outranks gold in the U.S. Army. He traded gold bars for silver. The bookie-front fiasco secured his promotion. Juan Pimentel moved up to captain. He replaced the late José Vasquez-Cruz. Vasquez-Cruz está muerto. La Juan is the new Baja Statie boss.

Who killed Vasquez-Cruz? His first thought was rival wetback and/or dope runners. The Mexican papers set him straight. Vasquez-Cruz was really Jorge Villareal-Caiz.

The ex-Communist. Once installed in Meyer Gelb’s cell. Linked to the Griffith Park fire. Linked to Dr. Saul Lesnick. Linked to Jean Staley. Linked to Tommy Glennon’s address book.

Consider this:

It’s January 8. Victor Trejo Caiz misbehaves. He’s Jorge’s brother. He foolishly draws down on Dudley Smith. Salvy Abascal slays him right there.

Dudley Liam Smith — ever present. Dudley Liam Smith — por vida.

Dudley instigates his promotion. Dudley recommends and vets Juan Pimentel. Note the design. Pimentel is fearsome and most competent. He’ll serve as Dudley’s enforcer. Wetbacks/heroin/the Jap-prisoner dodge. Dudley has plans for La Juan.

Dudley — por vida. All circuits terminate there. Dudley rules his thoughts. La Juan flits in counterpoint. All alliances reign under Dudley Smith’s command. Dudley indebts his underlings. Dudley corrupts and/or seduces. Ask Joan Conville. Ask Lieutenant Ashida himself.

They’ve been seduced and corrupted. They’ve become inexplicable friends. Comrades says it best. They’re rogue scientists held spellbound by one man.

Phone calls sustain their new kinship. There’s long stints of forensic and investigatory surmise. They interpret evidence across three case lines. They fondle gold objects as they talk.

They’ve reached conclusions. They agree. It’s not a single conspiracy. It feels like three conspiracies and random events interlocked. The conspiracies are imperfectly contrived and erratically enjoined. The klubhaus murders do not mark termination. All of it continues. The acquisition of the gold and the explication of all things past is the only permissible end.

He thinks that. Joan thinks that. They move from gold heist to fire to klubhaus to now — ceaselessly. They never-endingly probe evidence and indulge supposition. As per Tommy Glennon’s address book. As per the Baja pay phones listed. They indicate a new and revised Tommy G.

He’s more than Dudley’s snitch and a pro-Axis blowhard. He’s more than a rapist and wetback runner for Carlos Madrano. He’s more sinister than that. Consider this fact. Kyoho Hanamaka touched Tommy’s address book. He left a burn-scarred fingerprint.

The fourteen pay phones. Plus the coded slug calls. The bookie-front inferno blitzed that line of inquiry. No more code calls will be received. No more messages will pass through the front. They can’t trace Hanamaka and Tommy G. that way.

Where are they? Hanamaka’s a long-gone fugitive. Japs on the hoof draw heat. Tommy’s a disordered psychopath. Such fiends leave traces. No one has visited Hanamaka’s hideaway. Juan Pimentel continues to surveil it. No cars have tripped the photo-device wires. No license plates have been glimpsed. All this dizzies and confounds him.

He feels overmatched. Joan feels overmatched. The Jap and The Skirt. Sid Hudgens wrote them up that way.

He secured permission to visit L.A. and conduct field interviews. Dudley spoke to Major Melnick and got his okay. He’ll drive up on his days off. Lee Blanchard will bodyguard him.

He’s overmatched in L.A. and Baja. Dudley commands him in both locales. Dudley commands him domestically and commends him to voyeurize.

He lives in the Hotel del Norte. His suite adjoins Dudley and Claire’s. He hears them make love. He rarely hears words and often gleans impressions. He senses chaos.

Claire now appears gaunt. She accosted him in the lobby one morning. She said, “Do you know what Dudley’s capable of?”

He said, “Do you know the extent of my debt?”

Claire rarely speaks to him. The feral Joan Klein talks blue streaks. She spins teenage-girl tales. She’s expecting an “important package from the East.” Her comrades in New York will pass it on to her. She’ll deliver it to “the Maestro in L.A.”

Young Joan excels in puerile blather. One schoolgirl yarn stands out.

She’s “spot-tailed” Aunt Claire. She got that term from one of Uncle Dud’s soldiers. Aunt Claire had an affair with José Vasquez-Cruz. She saw them at it once. Vasquez-Cruz was really Villareal-Caiz. Somebody “slayed his greaser ass.” She got that term from one of Uncle Dud’s soldiers.

Spot-tails. Uncle Dud and Aunt Claire. Dudley Smith adopts and corrupts children.

Cruz-Caiz is dead. Dudley must have killed him. La Juan has replaced him. A second batch of Jap slaves will ship out on March 10. Manzanar opens its Jap-slave doors on March 25. Internment centers have sprung up regionwide. The Jap-slave diaspora now runs on overdrive.

His most pressing Army task is Jap-language translation. He gets Japs to rat other Japs. This Army task sickens him. His secret task thrills him. He tweaks Japs per gold-germane and three-case-germane topics.

Herr Hanamaka and Herr Rice. Gold political artifacts and the Nazi-Soviet meet. He’s got zilch thus far. He logs sullen looks and spit globs. He now carries two handkerchiefs.

He’s a traitor and a war profiteer. His fellow Japs sense that.

They’re right. He’s a gold bug. He wants to touch THE specific gold cache. It’s alchemized gold. It’s been molded into artifacts. It consecrates monstrous ideologies. It’s his world war/I was there/I did my part souvenir.

He wants to earn the enhanced esteem of the monstrous Dudley Smith. He wants to pave a gold pathway through this war. He will see his racial countrymen slaughtered. He will see his native countrymen imprisoned in horse stalls. He wants to pave a gold pathway to a three-case solve. He wants to alchemize the riddles of that shithole backhouse on East 46th Street. He wants Dudley Smith to love him — because he’s fought and endured.

He’s heard Harold John Miciak’s wire-recorded statement. It vividly explicates the cut-loose male id. The staggering range of misconduct. The mixed-race escapades at a fascist meeting spot. The booze- and dope-fueled obliviousness.

The klubhaus commemorates nihilistic bonhomie. It’s avant-garde in that way. The klubhaus feels Fifth Column — tangential. The murders have begun to feel incidental. They are thus coincident to the ’31 gold heist and the ’33 Griffith Park fire. The crossover leads to those earlier cases are simply address-book and police-file names. The Hanamaka-to-Rice leads are all present-day. There’s Rice’s gold bayonet. There’s Hanamaka’s print in Tommy G.’s address book.

The klubhaus caper. It feels like a sexual crime. It reads as coincident to Fifth Columnism and all preceding cases. Two women left pubic-hair exemplars upstairs. Said women play as prostitutes or jazz-club pickups and thus as non sequiturs. The klubhaus job feels like a homosexual crime. It may possess roots within the wide range of klubhaus misbehavior.

The bedroom sheet. Stained with feces and K-Y jelly. It’s the sole forensic indicator. It complements his overarching instincts. The upstairs wall indentations. Low indentations. Surely made by a woman’s right shoe. That indicates a two-person/three-victim crime. He postulates a homosexual man with a female accomplice.

Sexual crimes are lust and jealousy crimes. They are impetuously performed and irrational in nature. Sexual crimes are personal-animus crimes. They are directed at one victim only — even when two killers kill.

Wendell Rice.

George Kapek.

Archie Archuleta.

One man was the sole intended victim. He knows this. He knows this because he’s a homosexual. He must solve this gaudy murder case and justify the admission.

69 (Los Angeles, 2/12–2/25/42)

Oooga-booga. Hear dem tom-toms? Dat hellhound’s still on his trail.

He’s jungled-up and fucked-up with Buzz Meeks now. Their T.J. swoop was hopped-up and shook-up and altogether nuts. The Huey Cressmeyer snatch was jacked-up and jumped-up and ill-advised. Buzz wants to kiss up and suck up to El Dudster or conversely slay him dead. Buzz wants to clip Tommy Glennon. Maybe Dud will make up with him then.

Maybe. Maybe not. Buzz is scared. He’s scared. What if Huey blabs? It’s katy-bar-the-door then.

They work the Big Case. It’s Crash-Squad Apocalypse and Crash-Squad Abyss. They’ve canvassed from 46th Street to the planet Mars. Jack H. constrains them. He’s sealed pertinent records. He’s nixed further chats with Preacher Mimms. He’s nixed a Newton Station approach. Rice and Kapek bought off the night-watch blues and the fucking Vice Squad en masse. There’s no occurrence sheets extant. There’s no loud-noise reports and D&D lists. Thad Brown’s three lineups dry-humped the whole universe.

Harold John Miciak. That fat-mouthed bugfucker. He monkey-wrenched the whole case. He ran his mouth and glued his mouth shut. Get it? He named no names. He ratted out the looted guns and Wendell Rice with some gold bayonet. He dick-teased the Crash Squad and the whole PD and zipped his trap shut.

Miciak’s pitch could tank the PD. Jack H. and Dud know it. They’ve got to be brainstorming.

Figure this. They’ve formulated kill lists. Kill, kill, kill. Kill some right-wing spics. Kill some jazzhound jigs. Kill some white Nazi shits. Plant some evidence on them and coonvene a new grand jury. Nail postmortem indictments.

It sounds goooooood. It might relieve overall tension. It might remove him and Buzz from the Dudster’s gun sights. It floodlights his own mixed motives. He’d loooooove to file a clean solve. He’d looooove to end all this shuddering shit.

He’d love to gun-sight Jean Staley. Tough luck there. She flew the coop. She’s off for Des Moines. She’s driving sloooooow and sending him postcards. It’s hinky. It gores his gonads. It dings his dick. It torques his tail raw. It’s got him thinking.

Jean was ex-CP. That was back in ’33. The Griffith Park fire occurs. Wayne Frank dies. Jean’s cell catches heat. Call it coincidence. It was the Depression. The Red Beast got plain folks het up. Yeah, there’s that. Then, there’s this:

Wayne Frank was his brother. It could have been arson. He’s supposed to be a detective. Jolting Jean jumped loose of their should-have-been love.

He B and E’d her crib and tossed it. Too much stuff was gone. The walls were all print-wiped. She left behind some lingerie. He sniffed it and went euphoric.

Jean weighs on him. He might call up some Arson Squad paper. Why’d she hink and boogaloo? It was just getting gooooood.

Dud weighs on him. He’s the hellhound. Elmer J. gave the hellhound a hotfoot for kicks and suffered comeuppance. He’s not the hotfoot type. That’s strictly Bill Parker’s MO.

Dud won’t fuck with Whiskey Bill. Parker’s too far up the PD’s ass to mess with. Joan Conville laid some lowdown on Kay Lake. La Kay relaid it to him. Dig: Parker sold the PD out to the Fed grand jury.

He could do something similar. He had the grit to survive and thrive. He could shadowbox Dud the Impaler and Jack H. himself. Elmer V. was no Whiskey Bill. He lacked Parker’s stature and juice. He had some backwoods skills, nonetheless.

He should do the PD a big favor. It would buy him love from Dudley and Jack. It would offset the chance that Dud would clip him and Buzz. The favor should pertain to the klubhaus job or Parker’s Fed-probe play.

He gave it one shot so far. Thad Brown refused to raid the Deutsches Haus. The December raid went bust. So Sergeant E. V. Jackson donned disguise and worked his way back in.

He bought some two-tone loafer jackets and Tyrolean porkpies. He laced venom into his Carolina drawl and played Klansman adrift. He tossed barbs at the Jews and ballyhooed the L.A. Reich. He drank German beer. He jumped three fat fräuleins. He pulled this out of his hat:

He’s Herr Doktor Vengeance. His brother fried in the Griffith Park fire. He’s out to vaporize the Commie cell that started the blaze. Herr Doktor Vengeance knows some names.

Meyer Gelb. Jean Staley. Dr. Saul Lesnick. Andrea Lesnick. Jorge Villareal-Caiz. Who’s got the scarified skinny? Herr Doktor Vengeance pays cold cash for hot drift.

Die Krautniks went Vass? They were ditzy dilettantes. They were juvenile jerkoffs hooked on hate and the “Horst-Wessel-Lied.” Herr Doktor Vengeance dropped more names.

Wendell Rice. George Kapek. Archie Archuleta. You know these guys? John Harold Miciak. You know him? You dig the Sinarquistas? You like nigger jazz? You been to this hot spot on East 46th?

Nobody bit. Herr Doktor Vengeance hunkered in and observed. He attended a eugenics lecture. A three-hundred-pound porker extolled the master race. He attended a lecture on postwar reconciliation.

The Nazis and Russkis kiss and make up. They’ve got some mysterious gold cache. They hatched a plan in Mexico. Let bygones be bygones. The real foe is democracy.

Herr Doktor yawned through the lecture. His luck fizzled then. Some just-out jailbird busted him.

This Klan fool’s a cop. I saw him last month. He’s on the Alien Squad. I was locked up in Lincoln Heights. He was hauling in Japs.

Deutsches Haus — auf Wiedersehen. Fat fräuleins, adios.

He misses Jean Staley. He sleeps with Brenda and thinks about her. He sleeps with Ellen and thinks about her. He sleeps with Annie Staples and thinks about her.

He thinks about Dudley Smith. He got terped at Ellen’s place and woke up on the floor. A speckled bug started talking to him.

The bug rebuked his promiscuous ways. The bug said shit like “You’re scared — but somebody’s got to take that mick booger down.”

The bug egged him on. He started tapping the piggyback mounts at Brenda’s trick spot. He’s been playing the recordings of Annie S. and Saul Lesnick. He heard gasbag Saul gasbag this:

His analysand Claire De Haven’s been running distraught. She’s miffed at her lover man, Dudley. She thinks he killed a passing fling of hers. The man was a Mexican State Police captain. His name was José Vasquez-Cruz. That name played out pseudonymous. He was really a Commo named Jorge Villareal-Caiz.

Old Saul found this flabbergasting. He said, “I knew Jorge! He was in my CP cell with Meyer Gelb! Remember? I introduced you to Meyer at Otto Klemperer’s party!”

Annie remembered it good. He remembered it good. He planted Annie at that party. He hot-wired her. He heard that introduction as it transpired. He thought nothing of it then.

Old Saul regasbagged. Annie reran her gee-whiz shtick. Old Saul resnitched his analysand.

Claire told him that Dudley beat up Orson Welles. Lover man added insult to injury. Dudley made Orson his informant. Orson told her all of this. He’s now finking leftists on his OIACC tour. Dudley forbids Claire to see Orson. She sees him anyway. Fuck lover man. He’s screwing a red-haired tart in L.A.

Old Saul re-regassbagged. He dropped the kicker then.

“Claire was very agitated. She kvetched throughout the whole session. She said, ‘Kay Lake will surely be at Otto’s next party. I’m going to make up to her and talk to her about Dudley. The girl is a seasoned gossip. I’m sure she knows things about Dudley that I don’t.’ ”

The recording spritzed out. He spent three full days restitching this:

Klemperer’s party. In Brentwood. Huey’s Night of the Long Knives party. In Brentwood. “North of Sunset, daaarlings.” Orson Welles was there. “He was pals with the guy who owned the house — some music maestro.”

He let it sit for a week. He rehashed it with Buzz Meeks. They grabbed a reverse directory and looked up Klemperer’s address. Yep — it’s Brentwood, north of Sunset.

They brainstormed their next move. Eyewits didn’t apply here. All the Long Knife party guests wore masks. Huey and Tommy G. saw it. Their “dates,” ditto. Dudley pulls his bayonet and chops the he-she.

Huey and Tommy. Call them hostile eyewits. Huey wouldn’t reblab. Tommy wouldn’t blab at all. Their dates were unknown. It was a perv bash. There’d be no formal guest list.

They checked dead-body reports. West L.A. Division. Winter ’39. Up near Brentwood. North of Sunset Boulevard. Up in that très posh turf.

They snagged a dumped-body decomp. It was up in Mandeville Canyon. It was out in some woodsy preserve. A male stiff got chomped by coyotes. The critters ate his feet and his dick. The dump site was half a mile from Klemperer’s crib.

The DB report was dated 3/5/39. The stiff was roughly two weeks DOA. The cops ID’d him. The coroner tagged cause of death. The hump died from stab-wound trauma.

He’s Cedric Francis Inge. Age twenty-seven. White male/6'3"/135. Sixteen sodomy beefs. Drag-revue performer. “Gene the Queen” Harlow to his-her friends.

So far, so goooood. Here’s the next angle. Dudley Smith’s got his nuts in a vise. Who would he call? Who else? He’d call Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle.

Buzz and him checked old duty rosters. Breuning and Carlisle worked the Bunco night watch then. There it is — 2/19/39.

Breuning and Carlisle clock out. It’s “personal business.” They vamoose at 11:20 p.m.

Buzz and him hashed it out gooooood. He said, “Do you really want to blackmail Dudley Smith?”

Buzz gulped and popped sweat. Buzz said, “Not right yet, I don’t.”

They let it sit for a week. He called Annie Staples then. She met him at Scrivner’s Drive-in on 6th and Vermont. They slurped pineapple malts and discussed Annie’s crush on Orson Welles.

He said, “I foresee a date at Brenda’s trick spot. I’ll be in the camera hole. Notable woof-woof may well ensue.”

Annie said, “Orson needs to lose weight.”

He said, “I’ll slide you a grand.”

Annie said, “Let me guess. You want me to pump him for certain information.”

He said, “Winter ’39. A party at Otto Klemperer’s place, and a movie he screened. Put the spurs to him. I want to see how he reacts.”

70 (Los Angeles and Baja, 2/12–2/25/42)

The Wolf licked the blood off his gold bayonet. It consecrated his conversion.

He’s a reborn apostate. He mimed History and reprised the Night of the Long Knives. It erased his wretched moment at Herr Klemperer’s house. He’s a fascist now. He’s more specifically a Sinarquista.

The Wolf decreed a commemorative rampage. He enlisted Salvy and Juan Pimentel and issued the Wolf’s directive. They staged a raid and stole Cruz-Caiz’s heroin stash. He killed El Communisto’s key henchmen. Sinarquista Greenshirts cut up the bodies and buried the offal. He kept Hideo out of it. Hideo would have had qualms.

The rampage continued. Salvy had kill-listed eight former Redshirts. They were torturers and nun-rapers of the Calles regime. They lived in seclusion throughout Baja. El Dudster and Plucky Salvador slaughtered them. Stout Juan fed their guts and limbs to greedy ocean sharks.

Traitors and rapists, all. Thirteen deaths in all. He filed thirteen notches on his bayonet. The Wolf drank thirteen drafts of blood.

Reprise and revision. Munich, ’34. Brentwood, ’39. The lakeside spa and Herr Klemperer’s house. The Brentwood bash spawned chaos. Mike and Dick salvaged him. Tommy Glennon forced him to relive the nightmare. San Quentin, last November. Tommy’s smirky blackmail pass. He’ll find Tommy and kill him. He’ll nullify all impediments. He’ll kill Buzz Meeks and Elmer Jackson as whim dictates.

He told Salvy about the gold. He omitted nothing. He pledged 15 % of all gold profits to the Sinarquista cause. Salvy joined the gold-questing band. He’ll tell Hideo and Joan in due time.

Said band is egalitarian. There’s an Irishman, a Japanese, a woman. A Mexican lawyer and rightist firebrand now join them. Está la nueva familia and cause to exult.

Hideo and Joan talk long-distance. Their one topic is gold. They remain his L.A. family. They supplant the wife and daughters he never sees. Favored daughter Beth Short lives up near San Francisco. She promises visits but repeatedly renegs. Beth is boy crazy. She may be spreading herself thin.

His Mexican family sports fractures. Young Joan Klein first detected the schism. She’d tailed Claire to liaisons with El Puto Cruz-Caiz. It explains Claire’s recent sobbing fits and bedroom retreat. Young Joan remains secretive and obstreperous. It befits a fifteen-year-old girl born on Halloween. She speaks in riddles and hints at her “package from the East.” He deadpans these salvos. The girl has a fantastical penchant for left-wing intrigue.

His own intrigues consume him. The klubhaus job remains in acute disarray. Jack Horrall has granted him sanction. He’s free to plumb more immediate paths to a solve.

He schmoozed up Sid Hudgens. He told him to plant three pithy items in the Herald.

Hot item!!! PD stalwarts pursue Fifth Column suspects!!! Klubhaus solve at hand?

Hot item!!! PD stalwarts pursue Mexican suspects!!! Klubhaus solve at hand?

Hot item!!! PD stalwarts pursue Negro suspects!!! Klubhaus solve at hand?

Martin Luther Mimms will supply suitable suspects. Call-Me-Jack is convinced of that. Preacher Mimms is out of town now. He’s recruiting for his back-to-Africa shuck. Herr Mimms gleefully bilks his own people. A Smith-Mimms summit must be penciled in. They’ll eat soul food and drink corn liquor. They’ll trip the dark fantastic.

The klubhaus job is all taxing tangents. Huey Cressmeyer escaped from Juan Pimentel and remained at large for three days. Huey revealed that two cornpone cops snatched him. The crazed crackers roughhoused Huey. He rebuffed their hurt. Huey said he snitched Tommy G. and Wendell Rice, los dos. He stuck to this tale.

Thad Brown said Redneck Elmer worked a Deutsches Haus incursion and learned less than zilch. Cretin Elmer and Cagey Buzz may be harboring leads. He should kill them both. Now might be good. Why wait for Armistice Day?

Taxing tangents. Jackson and Meeks. Likewise, James Edgar Davis.

He’s cultivated Two-Gun. He’s coddled and cajoled him. He’s endured a slew of boozy dinners at Kwan’s. Jim will not submit to pentothal. “I spilled my guts on the Watanabe job, Dud. You and Bill Parker know, you sure as shit told Jack Horrall, and Bill must have told the latest college girl he’s perved on. That’s status quo for me, and I’m sticking to it.”

Two-Gun Jim remains balky. He radiates intransigence. His sclerotic face pulses and beams Fuck You. This may necessitate force.

Like his Orson Welles approach. Fat Boy in blood-soaked lounge garb. That was a crackerjack play.

Orson passed through Ensenada. El Porko was on his goodwill tour. They enjoyed a beachside dinner. Orson waxed acquiescent. He exemplified the if-you-can’t-beat-’em-join-’em school of cowed informants. He tattled numerous tinseltown Reds.

As in his own psychiatrist. There’s a red reptile. Saul Lesnick, M.D.

He was Claire’s headshrink. The gold-quest gang knew all about him. Lesnick snitched Reds to Ed Satterlee. Lesnick tooled for Meyer Gelb. Orson met Gelb at Otto Klemperer’s place. Orson showed up at the ’39 Walpurgisnacht. They crossed paths in costumes and masks and never knew it. Orson screened his Long Knives smut film. He dressed as a Red Guardsman and rolled film. Leni Riefenstahl mocked him and tossed a drink in his face.

Psychic recurrence. Confounding convergence. Chez Klemperer as star-crossed place. The cosmos sends a message. Hark — the gold is yours.

The cosmos speaks to the Wolf. The Wolf drinks the blood of his master’s victims and licks the gold bayonet clean. The Wolf sniffs out strategic imperative and reports back to him. Governor Juan Lazaro-Schmidt appeared at the Hotel del Norte. His sister Constanza played with a middling string quartet. They performed a recital at the del Norte. Beethoven and Hindemith. The Wolf scared up a ticket and arranged a chance meet with Governor Juan.

The Führer and Herr Goebbels detest Hindemith. They are hidebound in that regard. The sonata was lovely. It was properly dissonant and no more. The Wolf hopped onstage and curled up at Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt’s feet. She played achingly well. She paused to let the violins and cello ascend. She stroked the Wolf then.

Stunning creature. Dark hair and eyes. Long legs and almost too broad shoulders. She bit her lips as she played. Her white gown bunched at the hips. She kicked off her shoes for the “Grosse Fugue” and dug in barefoot.

The Wolf approved of Constanza. Her scene enticed. The Wolf escorted him to the lobby at intermission. Hark — there’s the governor. The Wolf introduced them and trotted off.

He was a slight man. He was elegant and smaller than his sister. They wore identical lapel pins. The pin clasps faced outward. The gold swastikas were tucked out of sight.

They chatted up the war and made nice-nice. He brought up the U.S. crop-worker conundrum and requested a chance to discuss it. They made plans to meet in a fortnight.

The recital concluded. Beethoven 131 went out in a rush. The Wolf led him back to the artists’ dressing rooms. He saw Constanza unhook her gown and adjust her brassiere. The fabric was sheer. She had lovely dark nipples.

J. Lazaro-Schmidt and sister. Salvy distrusted their relationship. Salvy urged him to hold that thought.

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 closet. 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.

The bookie-front raid backfired. The transmitter exploded. It blitzed a code-call approach. Now hear this: the fucking prophecy’s fulfilled.

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.

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 vicinity 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 pens. 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.

She swerve-walked to City Hall and elevatored to the DB. She stared at the floor and cringed at hellos. Ringing telephones scared her. Door slams turned to thumps. Soft voices turned to shrieks.

Dudley was out. Bill was gone. She looked everywhere and gave up. She locked herself in the women’s washroom. It was somebody else in the mirror. She hid from the thumps and the shrieks. They blasted her through the locked door.

She killed Mitch Kupp. She did it to break the impasse of Dudley and Bill. She sided with Dudley there. Dudley gave her sex and danger and recast her as himself. She coveted his mastery. She murdered and gave him the power to destroy her. Bill covered up the children. She gave him the power to destroy her before they’d formally met.

Indictments. True bills. No gold and no captaincy. Justice carries a price.

Joan swerve-walked to her car and drove to the Strip. She knocked on Kay’s door and got no answer. She sat on the steps and considered true bills and justice. She drove back downtown and conjured the means.

Central Station. Still vividly chaotic. Don’t fuck with America. The thought startled her and moved her.

She cleaned out her locker. She placed her microscope in Hideo’s locker and removed her gold cuff links. She placed them face-out on his desk.

Central Station. Big Earle would have loved it. She memorized every face she saw and sent up appropriate prayers.

Forgive this theft, Lord.

She broke the clasp on the evidence locker. She stole fourteen terpin hydrate vials and stashed them in her purse.

Nursing school in Oak Park. That hot Chicago night. Sirens like last night. Prowl cars and morgue sedans. The Feds got Dillinger outside the Biograph. Crowds formed. She saw his hearse on Lincoln Avenue. Woman waved handkerchiefs, men doffed their hats. Vendors sold ice-cream bars.

Joan looked out her bedroom window. Dusk came on pink-gray.

She bundled up her diary pages and boxed them. She postage-stamped the box and addressed it to Miss Katherine Lake. She placed it outside for the postman.

Rain hit. Her next-door neighbor spun disks. Joan heard “Moonlight Serenade” and “Tuxedo Junction.”

She drank the terp. It burned going down and stayed down. She prayed for her police friends and all the people she’d gone through. She asked God to punish her for her vile and reckless actions and her sinful misconduct with men.

Forgive my proud follies.

Forgive my fatuous dream of the gold.

Forgive my lifelong arrogance.

Forgive my regret without remorse.

Forgive my remorse without repentance.

Forgive this final heedless act and condemn not this expiation.

Shapes and colors took hold. She stretched out on the couch and kicked her shoes off. She saw Dudley’s wolf. The Maestro’s steam room appeared.

There’s Orson Welles and Claire De Haven. Orson’s a Wisconsin boy. He hails from Kenosha. She shouldn’t be naked with a wraith socialite and a movie star.

The steam turned all different colors. Rainbows drifted by.

Orson said, “So long, Red.”

Claire said, “Good-bye, Joan. See you in church.”