This Storm

The El Lay Lowdown. Volume I, issue 4. Our motto? “All the news that’s unfit to print.” April 3, 1942 issue. Surreptitiously circulated since November 1941. Our serpentine circulation: 461 paid subscribers, and climbing via vile word of mouth. Dedicated to the proposition that YOU WANT THE DISH. All items written by Party Peeper 69. Subscription rate: $20.00 per year. Direct all inquiries to PO Box 69, Terminal Annex, Los Angeles.

Peeper 69 last left you in Nazi-nullified Paris, France. There was no need for insinuating initials in my climactic close-out piece. The frazzled frogs can’t lasso me with libel suits from across the U-boat-undulating Atlantic. I joltingly j’accused piano putz ALFRED CORTOT of hunkering down with the Huns. I ditzed divaesque DANIELLE DARRIEUX for bedding down with the Boche. Cello cheese PIERRE FOURNIER? Shacked between the sheets with fetching filmstress LENI RIEFENSTAHL.

A barrage of bilious letters urged me to can the travelogues. If it ain’t happening in El Lay, it ain’t happening. Peeper 69 aims to please his rapacious readers. This issue repugnantly returns us to loopy Los Angeles — but with a twitchy twist.

The El Lay Lowdown speciously specializes in Hollywood dirt. Plus pulsing political scandals and the annihilating antics of El Lay socialites. Our regular “Police Blotter” feature features yet more Tinseltown tattle. And this issue turgidly turns its spotlight on the El Lay Police Department’s most sinfully sinister and snaggled snafu.

Hear those surging saxophones and cloying clarinets? They announce the boogie beat of a big southside murder case. Dead men tell no tales — but we’ve got three stagnant stiffs grousing from the grave. Bent cops W.R. & G.K. demand justice; their Mex muchacho A.A. shrieks in español. Carrion cops case the corpses and lick their lips. This job’s a maximum moneymaker and a shot to unseat J.H. as Chief.

W.H.P. Don’t trust this guy. He’ll sell his soul for the pomp of power and college cooze. Don’t trust H.A. He’s a Mr. Moto manqué and a jittery Jap. Don’t trust pustulant policeman M.B. He’s in league with furtive Fed E.S. There’s a tapped telephone at a Chinatown eatery habituated by hellhound cops. M.B. and E.S. conspire via wire. Mr. B. rats out his maladroit mentor, that hellbound Hibernian hatchet man — D.S. himself.

D.S. is the duped deus ex machina of our dreary drama. Fifth Column finagling defines the big murder case. Caustic Commies M.G. and J.S. frame the fray. Feckless fascists W.J. and J.H. have joined them. Sicknik Sinarquista S.A. is playing D.S. for the fool. We’ve got riotous Reds and nutty Nazis galore. We’ve got farshtinkener factions out to glom gorgeous garlands of gold. Greed and graft, kats and kittens. Peeper 69’s put his paws on the pulse of this story. He knows allllllllll about that perv party at the Maestro’s manse in the winter of ’39. She was really a He, and who can blame D.S. for taking ultimate umbrage? Thank heaven M.B & fellow cop D.C. cleaned up the mess.

It’s hurtling to a head, dear readers. E.S. is under house arrest; H.A.’s joined the Jap diaspora and has been shipped out to Manzanar. Seditionist psychiatrist S.L. has been pounded by the police. Ex-Chief J.E.D. mutters murderous murmurs at a swank beachside retreat. Quo vadis, D.S.? You’re the creepy crux of our drama. You’ve been spread cruciform, and demons of your own devising are coming for you.

118 (Los Angeles, 2:00 P.M., 4/4/42)

Double play. This raid and the scandal-rag blast. The rags went out, first-class mail. They should bull’s-eye today.

And there’s Bev’s. It’s straight across Fountain. It’s transmitting Raid Me rays.

Elmer watched the door. Bill Parker watched the door. They sat in Bill’s civilian sled. They brought shotguns and pry bars. It’s a smash-and-seize job.

Parker smelled like Kay. That musky scent she wore. Elmer got all flustered and jealous. He teethed on them as bedmates. It hurt baaaaaad. He teethed on Wayne Frank Alive for relief.

Wayne Frank Alive hurt. He teethed on Ruth in the Kip. She’ll call when she calls. That was her artiste’s way. He teethed on Doc Lesnick. Thad Brown got a tip. Doc Saul ensconced himself at Terry Lux’s place. He had company there. As in Claire De Haven and gaga Jim Davis.

Salvador Abascal. Teethe on that dink. He sprung Díaz, Carbajal, and Santarolo. He got them habeas. They waltzed out of Fed custody and rewaltzed back to Baja. That was baaaaad grapevine. Here’s the gooooood grapevine. Fletch B. got preemptive acquitted. The grand jury pulled their true bills.

All charges were dropped. Mass acquittals were predicted. Guess who jump-started that shit.

Parker said, “I’m getting antsy.”

Elmer said, “What’s wrong with right now?”

They grabbed their gear. Riot guns and hefty pry bars. They ditched the sled and jaywalked. The front door stood open. They walked right in.

Raid Me rays? — shit. Here’s what they got:

Mail-Drop Holocaust. Mail-Drop Inferno. Mail-Drop Mud Slide. All the mail slots were spread wide. There was no mail stuffed inside.

Elmer orbed the walls. Whiskey Bill, ditto. They saw open file drawers and no files visible. Plus open desk drawers in plain sight.

Plus Blow Job Bev and Wallace Jamie, perched in deck chairs. Looking smug. You can’t seize vapors. You can’t raid stale air.

Parker said, “You were tipped.”

Jamie said, “People talk. Word travels. Fellow travelers travel, too.” Bev giggled and flipped them the bird.

Parker went for Jamie. He kicked his chair over and smashed his head on the floor. Jamie bitch-yelped. Parker kicked him in the balls and cuffed his hands behind his back. Bev jumped up and whore-yelped. Her deck chair capsized.

Elmer scoped the room. He saw juncture cracks behind the file banks. He dropped his pump gun and ran to the east wall. He jammed his pry bar behind the A to D bank and pulled.

Metal screeched against linoleum. The file bank slid out. No paper scraps or mail debris got revealed. Elmer yanked out the E to J bank. Lice eggs got revealed. Elmer yanked out the K to R bank. A mousetrap and stale cheese got revealed.

Metal screeched against linoleum. Jamie and Bev screeched Fascist Assault! Elmer pulled out the S to Z bank. He saw boocoo mail debris.

Glossy stuff. Spilled catalogues. Jammed upside the walls. In there with mouse turds and soot.

Elmer knelt down and pored through it. S to Z skank got revealed.

Sally’s Sexy Lingerie. Crotchless Panties Our Specialty. Fat models with full beavers exposed. Silver Shirt closeout. Lo prices on bullwhips and nigger knockers. The Best in the West. Tasty Tessie. Hairpie deluxe. Pubic locks 4-sale. Your choice of blond, brunette, or red bush. Write to Tasty Tessie 2-day!!!

Vivid Violet. Certified nympho. Frat parties welcome. Special college-boy rates. Call Sharon, 24 hours. Your place or mine? No Negroes, Mexicans, or sailors. Call for introductory rate. Boys, Boys, Boys!!! Wicked Willie’s got ’em!!! See fotos in May ’41 issue of Hung Magazine!!!

Parker stomped the premises. Blow Job Bev pitched a fit. Jamie yelped for Uncle Eliot Ness. Elmer snagged a crumpled catalogue.

Johnny Shinura Curios. Exotic & Erotic Items. The Mysterious Orient Lives! 482 East 2nd Street, Los Angeles.

Oooooh, what’s—

East 2nd Street. J-town. The Jap sword man. He’s a curio dealer. 482’s not a storefront. The Crash Squad would have nailed it already. It’s some warehouse stash hole. It has to be that. The sword man, the blood licker, the queer white boy’s—

Elmer thumbed the catalogue. Check this out. You’ve got iron maidens and swastika branding irons. There’s SS tunics for your dog. You’ve got a Jap soldier suit of arms. It features sharp spikes inside. It’s now available in four sizes!!! It’s guaranteed to cause EXCRUTIATING DEATH!!!

119 (Ensenada, 5:00 P.M., 4/4/42)

The watch sergeant called in sick. It was SOP. He was an all-time goldbrick. He habituated the Blue Fox and White Dog Klub. His work went undone.

Dudley filled in. Major D. L. Smith, among the squadroom pogues. He worked at the sergeant’s desk. He filled out the duty roster and sorted the mail.

The squadroom buzzed. SIS ran full Saturday shifts. Dudley buzzed. He had Benzedrine for breakfast and lunch. The Wolf was down in La Paz. Constanza doted on him.

Dudley slit envelopes. The mail was SOP-plus. Fourth Interceptor demands Jap head counts. The Staties demand liaison meets. There’s Jap sub alerts. There’s Redshirt rallies east of Piedra Rojas. Please infiltrate.

Plus a plain envelope. Addressed direct to him. An L.A. postmark and no return address.

Dudley slit the envelope. Three mimeo sheets were stuffed in. The cheap ink bled. The cheap paper wilted. Say what? It’s Sid Hudgens’ private rag.

The El Lay Lowdown. Sid’s standard fare, free of restraints. 461 subscribers. William Randolph Hearst, take note.

Dudley skimmed through it. He skimmed through Hollyweird tattle, couched in Sid’s standard style. Men’s room hijinks and gang bangs. Sid’s standard fare. He skimmed to “big southside murder case.” He hit “pustulant policeman M.B.” He quick-skimmed to “D.S. himself.” He went hot/cold/hot and skimmed the full text.

He made this noise. Code clerks glanced over. He threw an arm across the desk and dumped a file box. He made a worse noise. It just seeped out. More clerks looked over. He dumped his coffee cup and smashed a typewriter into the floor.

He made a worse noise. It was screechy effete. The whole squadroom watched.

Opium.

The tar, the match, the pipe.

Stopover, Dublin. He views James Conroy Smith’s resurrection. A brotherly reunion turns sanguine. They go on the hunt together. Protty militiamen fall. The Wolf hunts with them. Bloodthirsty beast. He slays and eats his prey.

Stopover, Rome. Salvy’s confession and papal audience. I did not betray Dudley Smith, Your Holiness. He is my Führer as thou art God’s sole worldly lord.

Stopover, L.A. Meyer Gelb assumes a supplicant’s pose. He bows. He bestows the gold. He explains everything.

Stopover, New York. Maestro Klemperer conducts at Carnegie Hall. It’s the Shostakovich symphony. He’s proud of Young Joan. She did her part. Uncanny child. Gray hair at fifteen. She’s surely the spawn of the Wolf.

The bedroom door slid open. The Wolf followed Constanza in. He called her, or thinks he did. The night’s been a blur. He thinks he described the letter. She must have sensed his duress.

The Wolf jumped on the bed. Constanza sat on the edge. She took his hands. Her voice was soft.

I journeyed up to love you and assuage your fear. It is all hearsay. It’s a smear tactic employed by my brother, allied with Meyer Gelb. They are creating dissension among the Kameraden, because they fear you so. They possess the gold or know where it is. They fear that we will take it from them. We ourselves will live in fear as long as my brother remains alive.

I cannot believe that Salvy would betray me. You were his lover. Please refute the assertion and tell me that it isn’t true.

You collect acolytes and younger brothers. It is not a trait I admire in you.

Harsh you. Your stern words wound me.

You have never been wounded as I have. Consider the horror my brother inflicted, as you permit him to draw breath.

You were approached and offered the minutes for the Baja conference. Has a sum been mentioned? Was the approach credible?

The approach was tendered through my mail drop in Los Angeles. The note was block-printed with a ruler, which bespeaks spycraft to me. The sender failed to explain himself further. The sum mentioned was ten thousand dollars.

120 Kay Lake’s Diary (Los Angeles, 1:00 P.M., 4/5/42)

Chez Lux. Health retreat, dry-out farm, divorce hideaway. Sid Hudgens has dubbed it the “Nose Job Notre Dame.” Jack Horrall and Gene Biscailuz boil the booze out under Terry’s supervision. Fritz Eckelkamp was cut into Meyer Gelb here. The guest bungalows are enclosed by high hedgerows and pepper trees. The medical buildings resemble a Bauhaus college campus. There are tennis courts, putting greens, a first-run movie house. Noted comrades skulk in residence. Saul Lesnick, Two-Gun Davis. Lin Chung concocts eugenics potions in Terry’s lab. Orson Welles will soon engage Terry’s weight-loss regime. Steam baths and cocaine do the trick.

Claire and I sipped coffee on her terrace. Our own comrades were otherwise deployed. Buzz was chasing Meyer Gelb; Elmer was chasing J-town leads in the wake of the Bev’s Switchboard raid. Bill assigned my own Lee Blanchard to bodyguard Sid Hudgens. The mock scandal sheet had been widely received; the Sidster feared Dudster reprisals.

The setting was lovely. Claire and I sat side by side; Claire kept a hand on my knee. It was companionable, more than seductive. Ten years separated us; the war enthused us equally; my enthusiasm was girlish and ghoulish when compared to hers. Claire saw the war as the culmination of her long leftist immersion. The current worldwide horror was the horror of her failed attempts to spark revolution. She failed to grasp the horror of her own profligacy and could not acknowledge its self-perpetuation. She viewed her personal life and the war as one inextricable struggle. I viewed my personal life and the war as an opportunity. I put my hand on Claire’s hand on my knee. I thought of Edna St. Vincent Millay as I did this. “Through my mother’s hand. / I saw the web grow, / And the pattern expand.”

Claire said, “I’m not going to issue a false confession to Monsignor Hayes. I’ve read your script a dozen times, and I’ve decided that I cannot and will not do it. I called Captain Parker this morning. We discussed the matter, and he told me that he has arrived at the same resolve. He said the monsignor has consented to a formal police interview. Your scandal mock-up must have frightened him, dear.”

I squeezed Claire’s hand. “You called Bill Parker. I must say I’ve heard everything now.”

“God despises half-assed apostates. I can’t justify that scripturally, but I know it to be true.”

We lit cigarettes and blew smoke at the sky. The retreat caught sea breezes; cloud patterns expanded and swirled. I released my enclosing hand and let it fall free; Claire laced up our fingers.

“I did something you should know about.”

“Yes?”

“It began back in Ensenada. It was shortly after I realized that Dudley had become involved with the Lazaro-Schmidt woman. I heard them talking on the phone, and eavesdropped. He was discussing a Nazi-Soviet conference with this creature, and I picked up quite a few details. The conference occurred in Ensenada, in the fall of ’40. Dudley said he’d pay dearly to acquire any typed minutes that might exist.”

I squeezed Claire’s hand. “I know about that conference,” I said. “It was all over Joan’s diary.”

Claire placed my hand on her knee. Mature woman, young woman. Edna St. Vincent Millay and early-wartime flirtation. Pinch me — I’m a South Dakota farm girl.

“I did something precipitous, Katherine. I recalled what you told me about Bev’s Switchboard and mail drops, and I ruler-printed a note to the Lazaro-Schmidt woman. I told her I had the minutes, and I’d be willing to sell them to her for ten thousand dollars.”

Claire, the bold apostate. Claire, the vengeful lover. Precipitous, indeed.

“Did you tell her where to contact you?”

“No. I wrote that I’d contact her again.”

I said, “We can’t overdo it here. We sent your letter to Dudley, as well as the scandal sheet. I was going to send notes from Beth Short and Joan Klein, but it may be altogether too much, and alert him.”

Claire smiled. “I should mention that Joan has moved into Otto’s guesthouse. She’s become a yet-younger version of your still-young version of Mata Hari. If the Shostakovich symphony ever arrives in this country, it will be due to that rather outré child’s efforts.”

Jean Staley vacates the guesthouse; Young Joan Klein moves in. Otto Klemperer’s Home for Wayward Women.

“Otto told me a horrible story, Claire. It goes back to the time of his blackouts, and it has the feel of a blackout itself. A man was making ‘vile comments’ to him, and he beat the man to death. He told Saul Lesnick about it. Lesnick and Ed Satterlee exploited the situation and hushed it up. Otto paid them a good deal of money, of course.”

Claire said, “Otto killed no one, dear. Saul was drunk one night, and explained it all to me. The man was Japanese. He sold rather horrific curios, and he rented a few items to Orson Welles, to use as props in a smut film he was making — one that I appeared in, as a lark. The film was debuted at what I’ve been told was a rather decadent party at Otto’s house, while Otto was here at Terry’s place, taking a rest cure. Otto met the Japanese man at some point after that party. He beat the man, but not badly. He was insensate from the pain medicine that Saul had prescribed, and convinced himself that he’d committed murder. Saul and Ed Satterlee were more than willing to exploit this addled belief.”

The drive to Manzanar consumed eight full hours. I journeyed from springtime Los Angeles to a bleak outpost of the California Sierras. Bill secured me a visitor’s pass and warned me that an MP lieutenant named Al Wilhite was a Dudley Smith toady and had likely been assigned to watchdog Hideo Ashida.

Hideo was expecting me. Bill called him on his scrambler phone and arranged the rendezvous. Dudley might well learn of it; I didn’t care; my visit was contrived to place Hideo in a state of moral jeopardy from which he could not run.

I drove into snow country; the temperature dropped at dusk; mountain winds slammed my car as icy blacktop skewed the traction. I concentrated on driving and nothing else. I learned to drive on winter prairie roads; this was more of that; I hit a flat plane right before Manzanar and slalomed just as I did in rural South Dakota.

Road signs announced the camp; I saw perimeter lights a half mile ahead and slid the last hundred yards up to the gate. I saw cabin rows, bisecting paths, barbed wire, and pivoting floodlights. The gate guard issued me a parking pass and gave me directions to the canteen. Visiting hours were over, he said. But they made exceptions for Dr. Ashida — he was a star boarder here.

I could have visited Hideo in the plush suite that Dudley had secured for him — but Hideo nixed that idea. He knew I was coming to further recruit and suborn him. He wanted me to feel ill at ease within a public context of his own people.

I parked and began my trek uphill. Mountain gusts pushed me forward, back, from side to side. The canteen was three paths up and three paths over. I trudged a good mile and a half; the family huts stretched just that far and wide. They were dimly lit and shuttered; no faces peered out at anomalous me.

I found the canteen. It was dim bulb — lit and hung with frayed Japanese lanterns. The interior walls were rough pine-planked and joined at severe right angles. One small room, rough wood furniture, wall photographs of majestic Mount Fuji.

Hideo sat off by himself. Four older men sat in a group. The canteen was a Japanese bachelors’ club, prison camp — style.

I sat down across from Hideo. He said, “No outrage, please. It’s spartan, but it’s not the Warsaw Ghetto or the Lubyanka.”

He’d lost weight. He wore gray flannels and a brown anorak. He warmed his hands on a thermos and poured me a cup of hot tea.

I took off my gloves and sipped at it. I played cutup and waved to the old men; they looked down and made me feel like a farceur and wretch. Hideo said, “At least you tried. I’d have thought you’d become someone else if you hadn’t.”

I smiled. “I subjected you to that wiretap,” I said. “You’re subjecting me to your fellow bachelors and this spartan accommodation.”

“You didn’t subject me to anything I didn’t already know about Dudley. You tend to overplay your hand, Kay. Your subtext was ‘he’s finished,’ but I’m not sure I agree with that.”

Touché, Hideo. We’re here to bargain, and I know you’ll set boundaries. You fear implacable women. I know that about you.

“I spoke to Claire today. She told me Otto Klemperer crossed paths with our Japanese sword man. It confirms his presence in our suspect pool.”

Hideo said, “I consider him tangential. The homosexual youth may or may not be an actual suspect. Kyoho Hanamaka placed him with a white woman, about thirty. It confirms my key thesis. Without actual names and evidence, these confirmations are no more than supposition.”

I said, “You’re a killjoy. You’re like those old men over there.”

“Since you’re fishing for compliments, I’ll provide one. Your epistolary approach is inspired. You surely got Dudley’s attention with the scandal sheet, but I wish you hadn’t sent it to the Staties.”

“It lured Monsignor Hayes. He’s coming in, with a lawyer. Bill’s set to interview him.”

Hideo sighed and stomped one foot. He was impatient. Tell me what you expect of me. You’re a woman. I’m bored already.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll say yes or no immediately.”

“I want you to forge a document. Minutes for the Baja conference in ’40.”

“To be sent to whom, and under what cover?”

“Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt,” I said. “It should be crafted to induce greed for the gold, and I want it sent anonymously.”

Hideo drummed the table. “Quid pro quo? There’s two specific concessions I require.”

I said, “Tell me what you want. I’ll say yes or no immediately.”

The riposte sailed right by him. He said, “I want to conduct the interviews with Leander Frechette and Martin Luther Mimms.”

“And, second?”

“I do not want Dudley Smith harmed. You may expose him and seek to contravene his designs. You may not kill him, physically harm him, or seek to imprison him. Tell your vindictive lover Bill Parker that. Tell your volatile friend Elmer Jackson that. Tell the trigger-happy Buzz Meeks that. All four of you must know that I will not permit Dudley Smith to be harmed in those specific fashions.”

Touché. You trumped me. This girl knows when she’s ceded the high ground, and when she’s licked.

“I’ve never seen you this passionate.”

Hideo said, “I love him. He gave me the world, and it was not an insignificant gift.”

121 (Lone Pine, 10:00 A.M., 4/6/42)

You’re a Jap.

The main drag bustled. The spring thaw hit all at once. It engendered foot traffic. Folks stormed the grocery store and the hardware store. Who’s that big goon cuffed to that Jap?

The goon wore civvies. He was an MP PFC. Ashida wore civvies. The cuff chain dangled in plain sight.

You’re a Jap.

Folks saw them. Folks passed comment. It was snide but civilized. Manzanar was close by. It juiced local business. The war had its upside. Why’s this Jap on the loose?

Because he’s Manzanar’s star boarder. Because he’s out shopping. Because he’s buying forgery gear.

The MP mapped the excursion. They hit a stationery store and a bookstore. It created a mild upscut. Biz was biz, though.

Ashida purchased four reams of quality bond paper and four fountain pens. He bought corresponding bottles of ink and German- and Russian-language study texts.

They hit the hardware store. Ashida bought a rubber-stamp kit and three hobbyist’s knives. Ranch locals cruised him. He bought a bottle of gum arabic. A ranch boy sidled close. He pulled his eyes into Jap slits and giggled. The MP moved him along.

His lab was well stocked and equipped. All praise to you know who. The shopping jaunt bypassed Al Wilhite. Subterfuge and spycraft. He slid the MP fifty scoots and made him pledge silence. You know who taught him well.

Ashida skimmed the usage books. He gained German and Russian vocabulary and enhanced his syntactical grasp. He was Spanish-fluent. He possessed one typewriter. It was a ’36 Underwood. Verisimilitude. The concept buttressed his Baja ’40 construction.

The minutes were composed and typed at the conference. The German and Russian factions shared this one machine. It was a late-vintage U.S. import. Verisimilitude. Staff flunkies typed in Ensenada hotel rooms. It was a rush job. Be sure to flub and overscore words.

Ashida composed at his desk. He typed off his hand-scrawled notes. He kept the German text lofty and ambiguous. The Kameraden fear committed words on paper. The Russian comrades are less circumspect.

Man Camera. Time Machine. Spring ’42 as the fall of ’40. Retrospective verisimilitude. You must express ridicule and contempt. It must wound Dudley Smith in the present tense.

Ashida assumed a Russian voice. He’s a high-up apparatchik. He castigates the Dresden Poly boys. Díaz, Jamie, Hayes, Pimentel. They are all rightist refuseniks and deviationists. They cannot comprehend the grand ideal of left-right amity.

Ashida played a hunch. He recalled Joan’s diary. She described a tract sent to the klubhaus. Salvy Abascal wrote it. The tract critiqued the Baja conference and the postwar utopian dream promulgated there. The tract suggested Abascal’s presence at the confab. Call him a right-wing stooge at the prom and no more.

Here’s the hunch. He cruised through Dresden Poly. He knew the boys there. He withheld this from Dudley. He’s a longtime outlier in the left-right cabal.

That’s the hunch. Here’s the fictive reinterpretation.

Abascal is no more than a stooge racketeer. He’s out to grab the gold for himself. The apparatchik has heard rumors. Abascal’s militant Catholic stance is a ruse. He’s a Brit-loving monarchist. The Irish are subhuman pigs.

Salvador has hoodwinked Dudley. That’s confirmed evidence now. It should be retroactively advanced. The apparatchik should express it. Abascal’s goal has always been racket appropriation. He’s been looking for a U.S. sugar daddy. His goal foreshadows this:

He found his sugar daddy. Dudley Smith’s muddleheaded when it comes to wild young men. Exploit the Dudley-Salvador fissure. Render it a chasm. Grant Meyer Gelb retrospective Führer status.

Ashida wrote Russian text. The apparatchik defamed Salvador at great length. Meyer Gelb was conversely lauded. Ashida overscored and flubbed words deliberately. The German and Russian texts stood complete. He forged varying ink signatures.

The textual work took eight hours. He aged his paper next. He boiled a hydroxide solution and laced it with tap water. He filled an atomizer and sprayed his pages. He fan-dried them. It created a frayed yellow effect. He repeated the process four times. Verisimilitude. Quadruple-aged paper. He worked through the night and into the next day.

He built the stamp. He devised one symbol for one cause united. He cut rubber and sawed wood and glued ink pads tight. He worked through that next day. He forgot to eat.

Die Fahne hoch!!! Beastly ideology, one savage beast. He’s half Nazi eagle, half Russian bear. He’s a lumbering creature with wings. His claws drip blood. His contorted beak screams. Crossed hammers offset the swastika. The four points are sharp workers’ scythes.

122 (Los Angeles, 4:00 P.M., 4/7/42)

Papal slugfest. Bill Parker versus Padre Joe Hayes and some dioscean shyster.

They hogged a DB sweatbox. Parker wore civvies. Hayes wore his penguin suit. The lawyer wore a blue blazer with a Loyola crest. Elmer peeped the see-thru. He goosed the hall speaker up high.

Parker and Hayes indulged blah-blah. Elmer tuned it out. He gassed with Kay yesterday. She passed on Hideo’s report. Kyoho Hanamaka was dead now. He supplied good drift, premortem.

It confirmed the Jap sword man and the queer white boy. The white boy had a white girl pal. Archie Archuleta peddled the sword man’s trinkets. Jean Staley masterminded the mail-order biz. Fruit brother Robby helped out.

Padre Hayes told stale jokes. The prelude protracted. Elmer brain-revved. The sword man had to be Johnny Shinura. That Bev’s Switchboard catalogue spelled it out plain. Shinura had no green sheet. Shinura was uninterned and out on the hoof. Shinura peddled his shit out of a J-town loft. The Feds seized the building a month ago. It was government-sealed. Where’s Sword Man Johnny now?

The prelude deprotracted. Joe Hayes lit a cigarette. Shyster McBride lit a cigar. Parker pushed an ashtray across the table.

“The Sinarquistas, Monsignor. Their leader, Salvador Abascal. They’re going on the Feds’ 1-A subversive list next month.”

Hayes said, “I wouldn’t call them subversive. A great many Catholics support them, morally and financially, and I’m proud to stand among them. We’re not subversives — we’re just concerned Catholics, like you.”

Parker said, “Like Dudley Smith?”

“Yes, like Dudley.”

McBride said, “Captain Parker’s a nonpracticing lawyer. I’ve got a hunch he’s about to introduce People’s Exhibit A.”

Parker popped his briefcase. He pulled out a wire-player gizmo and plugged it into the wall. He tapped two switches. Hold tight, fuckers. Dud’s in the hot seat now.

Mike Breuning and Ed Satterlee gabbed. Elmer gassed on the replay. Breuning finked El Dudster. Hayes got the scandal sheet already. This tapped call doubled it down.

Wetbacks. Heroin. Jap slaves. Nazi fucks and Red fucks and a lost gold cache. Dud’s priest-killer snuffs.

Hayes went pale. McBride went all flushed. Parker turned the gizmo off.

“There are a few issues I’d like to discuss, Monsignor. Chiefly, your partial ownership of Bev’s Switchboard, and your Dresden Polytechnic alliance with Wallace Jamie, Mondo Díaz, and Juan Pimentel.”

McBride shook his head. “Monsignor Hayes declines to answer.”

Parker lit a cigarette. “Continuing, then. Bev’s Switchboard as a confirmed seditionist mail drop. Your own mail-drop collaborations, coded phone calls to a relay station in Ensenada, and the general range of your far-right, and/or far-left, alliances.”

McBride said, “Monsignor Hayes declines to answer.”

Hayes squirmed. He quick-lit a cigarette and fumbled the match. Elmer gassed on the show.

Parker said, “Continuing, then. Mr. Abascal as a possible saboteur and/or seeker and hoarder of a gold cache stolen from a U.S. Mint train in 1931.”

Elmer squirmed. That saboteur query ditzed him. Frankie Carbajal blabs at the sweep. El Salvy plans sabotage in the San Joaquin Valley. Him and Buzz held back the lead. It’s their fallback card. It’s insurance against all forms of censorious shit.

Hayes and McBride huddled. They pressed heads. Whisper, whisper. Parker cleaned his glasses on his necktie. He looked devil-dog pissed.

McBride said, “Monsignor Hayes will issue a blanket statement that addresses your last few points. No rebuttals, Captain. This is a police interview, not a courtroom proceeding.”

Hayes said, “I would never condone sabotage. I seriously doubt that the Sinarquistas would ever perform it or even consider performing it. I have heard vague rumors as to a cache of gold, including the rumor that Salvy took possession of it, and somehow all of this pertains to a leftist-rightist cabal out to establish their postwar credentials, regardless of which side wins. Concludingly, let me state that these rumors impressed me as poppycock, and the Salvy I know would never collaborate with anyone on the Left.”

Elmer relit a cigar. Fuck you, Father Joe. You speak with forked tongue.

Parker said, “Continuing, then. A clubhouse on 46th Street, east of Central Avenue. Homosexual activity, on the premises. One Thomas Malcolm Glennon, one Robert Clinton Staley, a homosexual jazz musician and his known associate — a Japanese purveyor of fetishistic curios.”

Hayes and McBride huddled. Whisper, whisper. They pressed heads again. McBride snapped his suspenders and kicked his chair back.

“The Monsignor admits to intimate relationships with Tommy Glennon and Robby Staley. Should you be fishing for leads on the murders of Wendell Rice, George Kapek, and Arturo Archuleta, I’ll state that the monsignor has a beaut, and it’s yours for across-the-board immunity.”

Parker went all Donald Duck. Steam hissed out his ears. His eyeballs popped in rage. His glasses fogged up.

“DA McPherson has authorized me in that regard. I’m listening, Monsignor.”

Hayes said, “I know of the musician, but I don’t know his name. His Japanese friend is named Johnny Shinura, and his curio business is located on East 2nd Street. The musician has a friend. She’s a high-strung woman, about twenty-eight years of age. I don’t know her name, either. Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta purportedly raped a woman at the klubhaus. I credit the rumor, but I don’t know the victim’s name. One might call rape a good motive for a triple homicide, although I’ve never seen the allure.”

Elmer brain-drained the lead. It played good and backstopped Hideo Ashida. Hideo theorized a male-female deal.

A Vice bull walked up a desk phone. He looked bored. The phone cord was stretched taut.

“It’s Meeks. He sounds agitated.”

Elmer snatched the receiver. “Yeah, boss.”

Buzz said, “I found Meyer Gelb.”

123 (Ensenada, 3:00 P.M., 4/8/42)

AWOL. “Absent without official leave.” Abdication, flight, retreat.

He trashed the squadroom four days back. He abandoned his command. SIS men witnessed his tantrum. He holed up with Constanza. They made love and sniffed cocaine. They donned Nazi uniforms and fondled his gold bayonet.

He told her he killed Cruz-Caiz with it. She told him to kill her brother with it. She reprised haughty words.

“I cannot truly give myself to a man as long as my brother remains alive.”

Dudley drove the coast road north. Constanza left this morning. She flew back to La Paz. She has a chamber recital tonight. Call him the widower, adrift.

Adrift, untethered, bereft.

He assigned himself tasks. Make phone calls. Shore up the home front. Visit the dope ranch. Issue command directives. Visit the Jap holding pens. Hold sway over your peons. Return to duty, starched and pressed.

Dudley cut inland. His phone task had backfired. He called Claire’s house in Beverly Hills. A maid brushed him off. He called Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle at home and got no answer. He called Beth at her real dad’s place in Vallejo. She hung up on him.

He’d lost weight. His trousers hung slack. He stood two days awake. He’d brought Claire’s stash kit with him. He could geez and rest up at the ranch.

Constanza called him an hour ago. She told him that Bev’s Switchboard had contacted her. Bev said she’d received a letter. He told Constanza to read it to him.

She did. The note was ruler-block-printed. It restated a prior note she’d received.

“I’ve got the minutes. I want ten thousand dollars. I’m tired of waiting. I’ll write again soon.”

Dudley cut through scrub hills and desert patches. A warm wind kicked in. Tumbleweeds hit the car and caromed off. He ran a tumbleweed gauntlet. Tumbleweeds scraped the windshield and rendered him blind. He floored the gas and plowed past them. He got scared and went whee! and laughed.

It hurt to laugh. He sounded shrill. Wisps passed in front of his eyes. The wind lulled and died. He saw the ranch up ahead. He saw cars he knew and cars he didn’t recognize.

He pulled up and parked outside the lab hut. He saw the foreman’s car and the head chemist’s car. He saw no straw-boss jalopies. He saw a low-chopped ’40 Ford and a ’38 Packard. He smelled high-test gasoline fumes.

He got out and stretched his legs. He unholstered his piece. He weaved and saw wisps, wisps, and wisps.

The lab door flew open. The sound echoed loud. Three Blackshirt Staties walked toward him. He smelled burnt-almond fumes.

Boots scuffed gravel behind him. The Wolf growled, out of nowhere. A wet rag smothered him and scoured out the wisps.

Stench. Mildew and urine. Words — off to what we call left. Cognizance. Brain function. Spanish words. What we call language. Crackle sounds. What we call radio.

“Bombing attacks.”

“Suspected sabotage.”

“Crop-farm acreage.”

“San Joaquin Valley.”

Cognizance. Scent. Of blood and entrails, of rancid fur. His face burned. Burnt almonds means a chloroform tincture. That’s brain function. It’s the will to forge thought and isolate sensation. It’s the ability to link sensation to thought.

Dudley Liam Smith, you’ve been sandbagged. Dudley Liam Smith — you took a nap.

He opened his eyes. He saw four squashed rats and his own bloody hands. Entrails and fur. Bite marks on his wrists. He’d squashed them himself.

The Wolf licked his face. It revived him. The Wolf supplied a travelogue.

We’re in the Statie barracks jail. Blackshirts commandeered your biz fronts. Japs, dope, wetbacks. You’ve been usurped.

He kissed the Wolf and thanked him. The Wolf told him to torture and kill Meyer Gelb. Herr Gelb has the gold. Es la verdad. Kill Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. Constanza will leave us if you don’t.

Cognizance. Brain function. They stole his gun, his watch, his money. He’s on a bare cement floor. Cognizance. Language. “Sabotage,” “San Joaquin Valley.” Brain function. The ability to extrapolate.

You’re still exhausted. You remain impaired. Let the Wolf explicate here.

Sid Hudgens spoke la verdad. Salvy Abascal has betrayed you. He smuggled saboteurs in with that last batch of wets. It’s why he refused to ride north. Salvy es El Grand Jefe de los Kameraden. You are a dupe of your own sentimentality. Trust wolves before you trust dashing and fawning young men.

124 Kay Lake’s Diary (Los Angeles, 7:00 P.M., 4/8/42)

The Crash Squad HQ stood abandoned. Daily briefings had been discontinued; the report boards drooped off the walls. The once-hot cop murder job now ran parallel to cases going back eleven years. Attrition and factionalism had decimated the squad proper. Mike Lyman’s back room returned to what it once was: a rendezvous spot for married cops and their girlfriends.

Like Bill Parker and me, drinking highballs and dining on cheese puffs. Meeting in cop-assigned places. Utilizing them as love shacks and hole-ups, where we hashed out What the hell is all this?

Elmer was off somewhere; Buzz notched an address for Meyer Gelb and was staking out the location. He talked to that bail bondsman in San Francisco; the man kicked loose Leander Frechette’s address. The DA granted Joe Hayes immunity. The Japanese sword man was ID’d as Johnny Shinura. The invert white boy had a gal pal. Hideo Ashida considered them viable klubhaus suspects. Kyoho Hanamaka was dead. Hideo lied to Dudley. Sensei Death told me nothing. Hideo crossed the line over to God’s side.

It might all be breaking. It might dwindle down to dashed leads and misinformation. None of us knew.

We had the back room to ourselves. I wanted to head to our Ambassador spot and make love. Bill wanted to hash out What the hell is all this?

I said, “Hideo wants to interview Frechette. It’s part and parcel of his forged-document deal.”

Bill said, “We’ll have Lee bodyguard him. He can’t go to San Francisco alone.”

“Hideo called me this morning. He’s completed the minutes, and he’ll be sending them along to the Lazaro-Schmidt woman.”

Bill just nodded. I dug through his pants pockets and pulled out his cigarettes. It was a regular routine of ours; Bill always gasped.

“Say something, please. It’s a nice breezy night, and I’m antsy.”

Bill smiled. “Here’s two observations. First, you know how to get a man’s attention. Second, I need to have a talk with Buzz Meeks. He most certainly intends to kill Dudley, and I have to dissuade him, before he goes off half-cocked.”

I laughed. The Teletype clacked and rolled paper; Bill got up and detached the sheet. He read through it and crossed himself.

“It’s from Fourth Interceptor. They’re reporting multiple incidents of sabotage, up near Bakersfield. There’s three dead at a private-plane hangar. A garage filled with bomb materiel was blown up in Taft, with two more dead there. Maricopa’s got a Bund hall, arsoned. It was packed with illegal ordnance, and was torched to the ground.”

I crossed myself. “It’s truck-farm country. Dudley’s running illegals up there.”

Bill ran the full distance Code 3, lights and siren; we made the night trek to Kern County in probable record time. Bill called ahead and spoke to a Sheriff’s captain. The man said his Subversive Squad had raided the Bund hall on Pearl Harbor Day. The ordnance had remained on the premises; the county and the Feds were embroiled in a big jurisdictional brouhaha. The man closed with “If you’ve got questions, I might have some answers by the time you get up here. And there might be an L.A. angle on this thing.”

Kern County was low, wide, and flat; U.S. 99 north cut straight through it. It was farm and oil country. Pump derricks stood tall; they framed the low-lying terrain. We crossed the Maricopa city limits and saw lights beamed up a half mile ahead. It had to be arc lamps at the arson scene. Bill sighted in on the glow and drove straight to it.

Forty-odd lamps threw light on a half block torched to a husk. Rubble mounds stood ten feet high. Firemen probed them with axes and shovels. Bill parked beside a perimeter rope closing off a slew of fire trucks and prowl cars. The mounds hissed and spat embers. Uniformed deputies lounged around and watched.

We got out and walked over to them; a tall man noticed us and ambled up. He said, “Captain Parker and Miss Lake, right? Who else could it be at this time of night?”

Bill flashed his badge; the captain introduced himself as Bob Boyd and passed us calling cards and BIG BOB BOYD FOR SHERIFF campaign buttons. I pinned on my button; Big Bob all but swooned.

He said, “Here’s what we’ve got, and here’s the consensus. We’ve got eight dead at three sites, with three holed-up winos fried in this Bund hall. We think some ex-caped wetbacks from some farms south of here are good for all three jobs. They took off just preceding the blasts, so that has to be it. We tossed out a dragnet right quick, and we snagged a hinky Mex named Mondo Díaz at the Bakersfield bus depot. We ran a subversive-sheet check on him, and damned if he didn’t get nailed by your police department just recently. He bailed into Federal custody, hightailed to Mexico, then made his way back here. He’s not a righteous wet — but we think he’s the ringleader of these bomb-tossing sacks of shit. We leaned on him at the county jail, and he admitted as much. He’s in with some Nazi beaners called the Sinarquistas, so why they’d want to up and bomb a Bund hall, I’ll never know.”

Bill said, “Plant Mr. Díaz in a sweatbox, Captain. I’d like to have a few words with him.”

The All-Star PD hits Kern County. Big Bob Boyd proves himself a most gracious host.

The Sheriff’s Detective Bureau hopped at midnight. Off-duty deputies showed up for the show. They brought their wives and girlfriends; they were all Big Bob supporters and inclined to think I was swell. The incumbent Sheriff, “Kickback” Kit Denkins, was a notorious no-goodnik. He took bribes from crooked building contractors and solicited high school girls for their soiled underwear. Big Bob was running an insurgent campaign against him. He called up a group of his partisans and suggested a hoedown. The bite was a dollar a head. All the proceeds went to his campaign pot. Big Bob provided corn liquor and potato chips. Plus a gallery peek at the Bill Parker — Mondo Díaz tiff.

The gang convened in sweatbox #2. A see-thru mirror framed booth #1. I dropped a ten-spot in the kitty and drew a round of applause. It was an SRO crowd: eighteen deputies and their dates. Big Bob joined his fans. He jacked up the volume on the wall speaker and supplied us with swell front-row seats.

Bill and Mondo Díaz sat at the #1 table. Why mince words? Díaz looked beat to shit. The gang tossed back corn-liquor shots. A preperformance hush enveloped us. We crowded up to the see-thru and watched.

Bill dispensed commiseration. Those hayseed cops sure thumped you. I don’t feature that, myself. Mondo, you’re looking at a gas-chamber bounce. We’ve got you for eight counts of Murder One, easy. Plus capital-charge sedition and treason. You’ll suck gas inside six months.

The gang cheered. “Suck gas” spurred the ovation.

Díaz said, “Your mama sucks Chihuahua dicks.”

The gang booed. “Chihuahua dicks” spurred the response.

Bill pulled out his pocket flask and urged Díaz to take a few pops. The gang rumbled; they admired the ploy; the city-slicker cop knew his stuff.

Díaz chugalugged Old Crow. Bill spoon-fed him. Things look grim, Mondo. I won’t lie to you there. One hand washes the other. There’s a few things I’d like to know about Salvy Abascal and the Sinarquistas. If you’ll provide a few answers, I’ll see what I can do for you.

Díaz said, “Okay, pendejo. Ask me something simple first, so I don’t get all gun-shy talking to you.”

Bill slid his cigarettes across the table. He smiled as Díaz lit up.

So, Mondo. Tell me this, Mondo. Why would a right-wing cabal like the Sinarquistas blow up a Bund hall? I’m perplexed, Mondo. I’m out of my depth here. Call me a pendejo — but you’re taking me beyond my ken.

Díaz killed off the flask. Entranced cops pressed up to the see-thru and left nose prints on the glass.

“Here’s your primer on the new dialectic, pendejo. Sinarquismo’s left as much as it’s right. Suppose I told you La Causa’s financed by the NKVD, out of Moscow? Suppose I told you the Hitler boys contribute to the Redshirt Brigade in Ensenada? Suppose I quote this Greek guy, Aristophanes? He said, ‘Whirl is king.’ ”

A fat deputy said, “What’s ‘dialectic’?”

Big Bob said, “This guy’s the guy talking Greek, not that Aristo-whoever guy.”

Mrs. Big Bob said, “This is wearing me thin. Bob, you get in there and phone-book that creep.”

I said, “Hush, now. You don’t get a show like this every day.”

Bill enacted deep befuddlement. I can’t piece this together, Mondo. I know you went to this German technical college. You’re educated, so you know all about the Greeks and all this other highbrow shit. I’ve read your green sheet, Mondo. You can’t be a Red and a Nazi at the same time. Any fool with a high-school education knows that much.

Üntermensch Bill baited the hook. Übermensch Mondo snapped up the bait.

“Here’s the thing about History, pendejo. Every so often someone comes around and explains that what’s what ain’t what. This is by way of saying that Salvy Abascal gave a talk at Dresden Poly. It was pro-Nazi, which wowed my little clique. He had this Jewish pal named Meyer Gelb, which conversely ticked us off. He explained the rudiments of totalitarianism, which allowed us to see that the Reds saw things the same way we did. He pointed out that Jew Hatred and Workers Unite was all the same shuck. Do you know what ‘prescience’ is, pendejo? It’s when you predict the future and it comes true, against all empirical evidence. Which is by way of saying that Salvy predicted this war we’re in, along with a U.S. and Russian victory, which necessitates the need for a potently inclusive new totalitarian alliance to surmount the inevitable postwar chaos and monkey-wrench the world’s new idiot taste for democracy.”

Bill said, “I read a Federal subversive summary. It described a conference, along the lines of what you just described. I’m wondering if you were there.”

“Of course I was there. I was there when they signed the Magna Carta and when Moses parted the Red Sea. I was there when your puto forefathers signed the Declaration of Interdependence. You’re wearing this look I’ve seen before, pendejo. You just figured out that what’s what ain’t what, and I’m not just some dumb pachuco.”

Bill said, “Do minutes for the conference exist?”

Díaz laughed. “They’re a myth. They’re like Das Kapital and the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. They’re some jive that the great unwashed thinks is real.”

“The gold, Mondo? What about that? Is that just a pipe dream, too?”

“It’s all a pipe dream. It’s a nightmare, and nobody knows where the goddamn gold is. Ask Salvy and that cracker pal of his. For all I know, they cashed it in for S & H Green Stamps.”

Big Bob said, “Miss Lake’s right. You don’t get a show like this every day.”

125 (San Francisco, 10:00 A.M., 4/9/42)

Blanchard crowed and groused. The Fed-probe acquittals. His domestic woes. He blew steam from Manzanar to Golden Gate Park.

“Whiskey Bill and Elmer J. That’s the word. They pulled some mischief in the Fed vault. Nobody doubts that Bill Parker’s smart. But he’s out in the open with Kay now, and that ticks me off.”

Ashida ignored him. They sat outside Kezar Stadium. Leander Frechette picked the spot. Leander will walk up. He’ll ask how things stand. They’ll trek memory lane.

The Alameda County Jail. Remember, Leander? You, Fritz Eckelkamp, and Wayne Frank Jackson. Your screwball alliance. You conceived a daring gold heist.

Blanchard arranged the meet. He called Frechette last night. Leander was affable. Blanchard assured him — this ain’t a roust.

It’s a waltz. He’ll know that. His criminal actions preceded all legal cutoff dates. How’s this shit stand now? That’s easy. Chaos has intervened.

Blanchard said, “Parker’s a pervdog. I respect him, but I don’t like him. He’s out to set the white man’s world record for entrapping college girls. First Kay, then Big Joan. The war put a bug up his ass. His libido’s overheated. He’s been running roughshod since Pearl.”

Ashida ignored him. Chaos has intervened. He sent the forged minutes out. Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt will receive them. Dudley Smith will read them. Dudley might note a grievous narrative lapse.

Elmer called him this morning. Elmer sobbed and begged forgiveness. He’d just heard a radio broadcast.

Eight dead in Kern County. Three sabotage attacks. Farmworker saboteurs. Mondo Díaz, in custody. Díaz, the ringleader. Wetbacks for the drudge work.

The report stunned Ashida. He’d interviewed Díaz at Hollenbeck Station. Elmer sobbed. He said he’d withheld crucial drift. The East L.A. sweep. Elmer and Buzz Meeks squeeze Frankie Carbajal. Frankie reveals the sabotage plan. He reveals the plan under duress.

Escaped wetbacks. All torch men. Salvador A. was behind it. Dud S. didn’t know shit. Elmer and Buzz withheld the lead. They’d gone rogue. The lead was their hole card. It’s their redneck mea culpa now. Eight people got blown up.

Elmer sobbed and hung up the phone. Kay called a few minutes later. She’d been up to Kern. Bill Parker braced Mondo Díaz. Mondo riffed dialectic and finked the deal out.

The Kameraden pulled the sabotage. Salvador A. ordered it. He’s Comrade Number One. That puto Irishman didn’t know shit.

Chaos intervenes. It’s hubris ascendant. Comrade Ashida perpetrates it. He plays a hunch based on a specious assumption. Salvador is not El Grande Jefe. Meyer Gelb is. The faux minutes proceed off that hunch. Comrade Ashida writes as Herr Apparatchik.

Herr Apparatchik defames Abascal. He’s a cholo chump out for the gold. Herr Apparatchik ignores Comrade Hanamaka’s lead. Hanamaka said the big boss is a “Mexican Stalinist.” Here’s a revised hunch. Abascal is that Stalinist.

The minutes go out. They are geared to spark two confrontations. Dudley versus Abascal, Dudley versus Gelb. Chaos intervenes. Dudley reads the minutes. They contradict breaking news. His wetbacks as saboteurs? Unknown to him? He might sense Salvador’s hand. He might sense Salvador as El Boss Führer. He might sense the document had been faked.

Chaos intervenes. Statie goons pop Dudley at his dope ranch. Dick Carlisle shot that dizzy dish to Lee Blanchard. Dudley called Jack Horrall. Chief Jack pulled strings and got him released. Dudley’s on the loose now. He’s a gone-rogue Army major. He’ll probably run to Constanza. He’ll be with her when the minutes arrive.

Herr Apparatchik. Née Comrade Ashida. He sent the minutes out precipitously. He demanded no money. He disregarded consequences. He’s culpable here.

Elmer’s culpable. Buzz is culpable. They should have reported the sabotage lead. Kay’s the most culpable. She’s their La Jefa and queen bee. She bends men who want to fuck her to her impervious will. She assessed him as a man who declines to fuck women and adroitly massaged his love for Dudley Smith. The minutes have gone out. Dudley will know that Comrade Ashida forged them. He has the skill. No one else does. Dudley will know that he betrayed him.

Chaos intervenes. They’re closing in on the klubhaus killer. It seems like small recompense. Jean Staley and brother Robby. Johnny Shinura, curio broker. Johnny’s the Jap sword man. Who’s the queer jazzman? Who’s the woman who got raped?

A clean solve looms. The details remain uncertain. Chaos may subsume all resolution. Winner take nothing — if he forfeits Dudley Smith’s love.

Nannies pushed strollers by. Vendors pushed food carts. Storm clouds whooshed overhead.

Blanchard nudged him. “You got tears in your eyes, Hideo.”

“I thought I could have something both ways, but I forgot to consider the price.”

“Welcome to the world, son. Our friend Kay taught me that selfsame thing, quite a while back.”

They walked and talked. Kezar to the rose garden, Stanyan Street to Fell. Ladies pushing strollers gawked them. It was relative size more than race.

Ashida was small and slight. Leander loomed high and blocked out the sun. Folks called him “Skyscraper” and the “One-Man Eclipse.”

He confirmed Dr. Death’s chronology. He confirmed the cabal’s chain of command. Salvy was the Stalinist and Top Dog Comrade. Meyer Gelb deferred to him.

Leander was affable. He worked as a longshoreman. He eschewed agitation and indulged a yen for 459 PC. He had a wife and kid here in Frisco and a wife and three kids in L.A. He kept in mail-drop touch with select comrades. He refused to name names.

They bought ice-cream bars and lounged on the grass. Blanchard lounged twenty yards back. He was the bodyguard. Ashida ran the Q & A.

“Hanamaka told me the gold has lain fallow for some time. Gelb and Abascal are the only ones who know where it is.”

Leander shook his head. “I’ve never known Comrade Kyoho to be mistaken about anything, but I think he’s wrong here. I think Wayne Frank and the Reverend Mimms might be able to give you a more recent accounting.”

“Why?”

“The Rev wanted to repo the gold, and I can’t say that I blame him. I’d call him the first man among us who wised up to the way life plain old is. He’d come to see the Kameraden as a bunch of treacherous shitbirds who’d blow the whole world up if they got half a chance. All that 1931 idealism and commitment got to be ancient history, and the Rev wanted his fair share of the gold, just like any other properly self-interested man in your run-of-the-mill democracy. He heard that the Sinarquistas and some of their satellite thugs were looking for a clubhouse rental, so he had Link Rockwell rent them the 46th Street place. Link stayed on and did some infiltration. The Rev figured Link might get some leads on the gold there, which he sure as hell did. He heard Salvy and Wayne Frank took hold of the gold, not Comrade Gelb. That’s as far as the Rev takes the story, because he always busts out laughing then.”

Ashida said, “That’s all you know? They took possession of the gold, and that’s it?”

Leander winked. “The Rev’s got the storytelling prowess. He can surely tell you more.”

Ashida let it go. Leander ran intractable. He held his hole cards tight.

“Jean Staley. Her brother, Robby. A Japanese curio peddler named Johnny Shinura. A purportedly homosexual jazz musician. He’s tall and blond, and he has a female companion, purportedly very nervous and roughly thirty years of age. The three klubhaus victims purportedly raped her.”

Leander tossed his ice-cream stick and wiped his hands on the grass. A stroller lady strolled by. She gawked the jig and the Jap.

“Jean’s brother was a homo, for what that’s worth. Johnny S. was bughouse crazy, but you must already know that. I don’t know any woman who got raped, but the jazz quiff has got to be Chuckie Duquesne.”

126 (Los Angeles, 9:00 A.M., 4/10/42)

Ruth practiced. She played Sibelius and lit the whole courtyard. He recognized composers now. He heard concerto strains out here on the street.

Elmer fought the jimjams. He’d had the sweats and frets since he got the word. Eight Kern County dead. Him and Buzz could have stopped it. They held it back and covered their backsides.

He sobbed to Kay and Hideo. He sobbed to Buzz. He sobbed himself into these frets. He sat in his sled and waited out Sibelius. Don’t interrupt Ruth. She’ll bite your head off. She’s caught the muse.

She fed her lovers cues. Morning practice meant Get Out. Elmer sat in his sled. He had a clear courtyard view. Some geek will exit her bungalow. Ruth sustained heavy bed traffic. Kay called her “relentless” and “egalitarian.”

Elmer fought the frets. He fretted up the Kern County dead and Meyer Gelb. Buzz found Comrade Meyer. Buzz conceived a bold approach and pin-mapped that shitheel.

The hump lived in L.A. The hump had to. The hump attended Otto Klemperer’s parties. He always arrived alone. Joan’s diary stated that. How’d Gelb get to the parties? Let’s try taxicabs.

Buzz called the Maestro. He laid out a line of officious shit and coaxed a list of party dates. He canvassed cab dispatchers then. He had the party dates and the Maestro’s address. He checked evening pickup logs for dates going back to Pearl Harbor. He checked sixteen cab companies. Company seventeen — tilt.

He tagged seven parties and seven pickups in Beverly Hills. The Simon’s Drive-in at Wilshire and Linden. It’s a neutral pickup spot. Comrade Gelb’s cautious. Comrade Gelb must live nearby.

Buzz tagged seven pickups. Buzz tagged the same hackie three of those times. Buzz braced the cat and lubed him. The hackie had good recollection. He remembered this guy. The guy had burn-scarred hands.

Buzz pounded pavement then. He made Gelb for an apartment-house dweller. The blocks south of Charleville were all house blocks. That restricted his range. He schlepped Wilshire to Charleville, Charleville to Beverly Drive. He entered apartment-house foyers. He scanned mailbox slots. He got no Meyer Gelbs and no hinky M.G.s. That approach tapped out. He ran block-to-block stakeouts then.

He car-perched and peeped doorways on Linden. He saw Gelb on stakeout night #3.

We got him pin-mapped. What’s next? That’s obvious. We kidnap him and turn on the heat.

Elmer eyeballed Ruth’s bungalow. He had peeper tendencies. He liked to perch and watch. He saw nifty shit that way.

Sibelius diminuendoed. Babs Stanwyck breezed out Ruth’s door. Note her wet hair and love-struck demeanor. Woo-woo! Round Heel Ruth rides both ways!

Babs breezed to her boss Packard coupe and peeled northbound. Elmer breezed into the courtyard. Ruth sat on her steps. She looked flustered and distractified.

“Sergeant Elmer has once again been lurking. It is a leitmotif with him. He lurks to allay his restlessness and to sate his curiosities. Sergeant Elmer is a voyeur. He should move to Berlin and join the Gestapo.”

Elmer yukked. Ruth had that mordant streak. It played off-kilter now. She still played distractified.

“I liked the Sibelius.”

“There was nothing to like. You are an undiscerning listener. Barn-dance music is more your métier.”

Elmer sat down beside her. Their arms brushed. He felt tremors. Round Heel Ruth, electrizized.

“You seem shook up, sweetie. You’d think a sleepover with Babs would have you all pacified.”

Ruth lit a cigarette. “I was at the Musicians’ Local on Vine Street all night. I filled in for an absent first violin and recorded the third Bartók Quartet. Babs came by to pick up a book I’d borrowed, and to wash her hair. She enjoys my shampoo, more than she appreciates my prowess. You are ever the policeman, Elmer. You attribute motive in a most paranoic way.”

Elmer laughed. “Let’s hit the hay. It’s been too long, and I’ve missed you.”

Ruth X-ray-eyed him. “You’ve been crying. Your face is flushed and mottled, and your beady eyes are bloodshot. Am I the source of your tears? I would think a man as promiscuous as you would engage a woman such as I with more distanced affections.”

Elmer teared up. Not that much. He was done in and sobbed out.

“I withheld a confession. Eight people died. I’m in some shit I can’t step out of, in more ways than I can count.”

Ruth flicked her cigarette. It hit a wet grass strip and fizzled.

“Scheiss, eh? Are you in the scheiss as the Koenigs, Sandor, and I seem to be? We are facing a Federal deportation order, my callow friend. The lawyer Otto secured for us explained the motive behind it, so I will explain it to you. Your Mr. Hoover is perturbed, because our names were mentioned in a memorandum pertaining to extortion and an FBI agent under house arrest. Expulsion from the United States. Does not my scheiss exceed your scheiss, mein herr?”

Extortion. House arrest. That meant Ed the Fed Satterlee.

“I didn’t come here to brawl with you, love. I didn’t show up to compare notes on who’s got it worse, either.”

Ruth said, “You have blood on your hands. Allow me to commiserate, and add that it is not Jewish blood, and not the blood of three hundred.”

“Are we going for volume here? Is Jewish blood any better than plain old white and Mexican blood?”

Ruth wheeled and slapped him. She knocked off his hat. Her nails raked his cheek and drew blood.

Buzz said, “I’m going to kill him. Dudley Liam Smith, muerto. It’s the only way this deal makes any sense.”

Elmer relit a cigar. “This deal has never made sense, and it never will. There’s too much to it, and it goes back too far. It’s not supposed to make sense. Kay told me that, and if Kay says something, it’s true.”

Daylight stakeout. Elmer’s sled. Four eyes on 562 South Linden. This four-flat apartment house. This pink mock château. Gelb had the upstairs-left spot.

Buzz relit a cigar. “I rented a motel room, up the Ridge Route. Nice and secluded. We’ll put the blocks to El Comrade there.”

Elmer said, “Bring your pet scorpion. One look at him, and Gelb’ll shit his britches.”

Buzz scoped Elmer’s cheek. “Ellen clawed you, right? I’ve seen a couple of her pictures. She’s got that caged-tigress thing going.”

Elmer tiger-growled. “Girlfriend #4 scraped me. She’s your jungle cat.”

Buzz said, “I mixed a terp and chloral hydrate cocktail. We’ll sedate Gelb and toss him in the trunk.”

Elmer blew smoke rings. “You don’t seem too upset about those dead folks up in Kern.”

Buzz said, “Easy come, easy go. It’s not like losing your own near and dear.”

Elmer dozed. He dipped to some torrid locale. Jungle Cat Ruth scratched him. Jungle Cat Annie loved him. Jungle Cats Brenda and Ellen tossed him out in the rain. Jungle Cat Kay took him home to her glade.

Some stray cat nudged him. Elmer blinked and opened his eyes.

Buzz went Looky, looky. He pointed across the street and up. Frankie Carbajal ambled toward Comrade Gelb’s place. He wore a Sir Guy shirt and loose flannels. Note the creepy-crawler tennis shoes and gun bulge.

Elmer rubbed his eyes. It’s no mirage. Frankie’s out of custody and up from Mexico. El Whipout Man de Sinarquismo. He’s loose in Beverly Hills.

Buzz said, “We’ll give him five minutes. If he comes out with Gelb, we’ll grab them from behind.”

Elmer said, “We’ll work singles otherwise. I’ll flip you for who takes Gelb.”

Frankie jogged up to Gelb’s door. He knocked. The door stayed shut. Frankie whipped out a set of lock picks. He had fast hands. He picked the lock and crept in. The door slammed shut.

Buzz dug out a quarter and flipped it. Elmer called heads. The quarter hit tails. Elmer went Shit.

They timed Frankie’s visit. Elmer orbed his wristwatch. It ticked off two minutes flat. The door popped open. Frankie stumble-walked back out. He looked all of a sudden fright-wigged and racked with the frets.

He stumble-walked down the stairs and weaved back toward Wilshire. Elmer and Buzz piled out and foot-dogged him. They closed the gap. They closed too fast. Frankie looked back and saw them.

Buzz pulled his roscoe. Elmer pulled, likewise. Frankie pulled his waistband piece. They all got their bearings. They all dug in and aimed straight and threw shots all at once.

Frankie stood his ground. He popped two rounds. They hit parked cars and zinged wide. Elmer and Buzz ran up, shooting. Buzz cracked this Chevy’s windshield and tore up the ragtop. Elmer nailed Frankie, waist-high. Frankie pitched ass over elbows and popped shots at the sky.

Elmer and Buzz ran up. Frankie sprawled, supine. Elmer kicked his gun hand. Frankie spit blood and dropped the piece. Looky-loos craned out their windows. What’s this big noise about?

Buzz looked around. Frankie bit his lips and pawed at his hip wound. Elmer went Aw-oh. An old lady across the street screamed.

Elmer reholstered. Buzz grabbed Frankie’s neck scruff and dragged him down the Wilshire-flank alley. Frankie wailed and flailed. Buzz looked around. Parked cars and hedgerows covered him. He shot Frankie three times in the head.

Muzzle job. Frankie spilled the sabotage lead. Dead men tell no—

Elmer wheeled and ran. He ran to the mock château and stumble-tripped up the stairs. He kicked the door off the hinge plates. It caved in and crashed upside Meyer Gelb’s legs.

He’s flat on his back. He’s been tortured. There’s congealed cuts on his arms and his neck. There’s a bullet hole in his forehead. It’s small caliber. The blood’s dried maroon.

Elmer prowled the room. The walls were plastered with pix of Boss Man Hitler and Butcher Stalin. Note the scrawled-up margins. It’s all weird shit about fires and storms.

127 (La Paz, 9:00 A.M., 4/11/42)

The plaza newsstand hawked the L.A. papers. The Herald headlined the Fed-probe acquittals. They ran the snuff piece, page two.

BEVERLY HILLS SHOOT-OUT! POLICE KILL SUBVERSIVE! MAN SLAYS COMMUNIST BOSS!

Dudley stood by Constanza’s PO box. He read the snuff piece three times. Sid Hudgens inked it. Jackson and Meeks blew up Frankie Carbajal. Frankie torture-slashed and shot Meyer Gelb. “ ‘Gelb snuff open and shut,’ B.H. cops state.”

Constanza was late. Like Salvy was late. Like Welles was late. People stood him up now. People sandbagged him and jailed him. People ignored his phone calls.

Hideo was nowhere. He was AWOL himself. He’d bolted the squadroom and relinquished his command. Jack Horrall bailed him out. The Staties seized his biz fronts. Jack told him to lay low in Baja. “We’re holding your job for you, Dud. The PD’s your home, and always will be. Poke some señoritas, and work on your tan.”

Constanza was late. She said she’d meet him at 9:00. She was expecting a package. From Russia, no less.

From a “Comrade Dimitri.” A package of “grave import.” Constanza spoke in riddles now. She ignored him in bed. His squadroom outburst and jail stint provoked the retreat. She patronized him. She urged him to buck up and fly right.

Dudley chain-smoked. He reread the Herald piece. Sid Hudgens, ubiquitous. Sid’s scandal rag slandered him. It was true drift, regardless. He called Sid and left a message with the copy chief. Sid ignored his call.

Constanza showed. She ran a sorry-I’m-late number and kissed him on the cheek. Put some oomph in it, you chola whore. I’m still Dudley Smith.

She unlocked her box. Two packages were crammed in. One rolled package. One flat package. The rolled package was V-mail-stickered and Russian-postage-stamped. It was addressed to Comrade C. Lazaro-Schmidt.

The flat package was ruler-marked. Straight edges, right angles, no cursive exposed. It was sent from Bev’s Switchboard. It’s the minutes, dear Lord.

They read in Constanza’s bedroom. The text was Russian and German. Constanza was fluent in both. The paper looked authentic. The seal looked authentic. The Nazi eagle and Russian bear were conjoined as one beast. The Wolf disapproved.

Constanza read him through the text. Inconsistencies accrued. Dudley considered them. Constanza read him through again. Dudley nailed a basic falsehood.

The text read wrong, overall. It stooped to defamation. It defamed Salvy Abascal as it exalted Meyer Gelb. It plainly stated Salvy’s presence at the confab. That was patently untrue. Dudley plumbed connective threads and nailed the source.

Joan Conville. She reads a tract Salvy wrote. It was sent to the klubhaus. It critiqued more than praised the Baja confab. The minutes ridiculed Salvy. He loved the British monarchy. He hated the Irish. He despised Catholicism. He wished to appropriate the Baja rackets. He needed a ruthless American front man for this.

Joan reads the tract. She tells him about it. She tells Hideo Ashida. The basic falsehoods of these minutes germinate there.

The minutes have been forged. They were retroactively composed and geared to provoke confrontation. Salvy is underestimated. The forger lays out divisive fodder. He seeks to spark a Smith-Abascal war. His duplicitous design reveals itself here:

The sabotage incursion. It violates D. L. Smith’s no-sabotage decree. Salvy declines to ride north with the wetback saboteurs. It underlines D. L. Smith’s jailhouse revelation. Salvy is Comrade #1.

He is locked-in fucking certain of it. These minutes were composed and sent before the attacks. They exposit a preattack assertion.

Meyer Gelb is Comrade #1. He believes it. Hideo Ashida believes it. A second confrontation is provoked here. It’s D. L. Smith versus Comrade Gelb. The forger cannot foresee the attacks or Comrade Gelb’s death. Genius is one thing. Prescience is another. The minutes are brilliantly conceived and executed. The technical skill. The boldness and glibness. Hideo Ashida forged the minutes. Hideo Ashida betrayed him and trashed his deep love.

Dudley said, “They’re a fake. It’s Hideo Ashida’s work. He’s the only one capable of it.”

Constanza said, “Betrayal does not occur in a vacuum. Ashida had to have help. You will notice that my brother is not mentioned in this document. The omission is deliberate. Ashida wants to protect Juan. First he rapes me and pimps me to his Kameraden. Now he attempts to rape you. Dry your wet eyes, my frail darling. Kill Juan in my name. Kill him before I cease to love you.”

El Governor always worked late. Constanza told him that. He worked at home and at the Baja Government Palace. Go by the palace. Look for a fourth-floor light burning. He might be there. He might be at home.

Dudley drove by the palace. No fourth-floor light burned. He brought his gold bayonet. Constanza decreed death by blade.

They’d sniffed cocaine and made love. She encouraged him. She urged him to seek her favor and atone for his recent sloth. She bundled him off with the Wolf.

Dudley drove by the house. Juan’s office light burned. A winding footpath led to a backdoor. Juan kept it unlocked. Constanza told him that.

He parked streetside. He consulted the Wolf. They discussed political and romantic alliance. Constanza had coupled with Salvy and Kyoho Hanamaka. She admitted the liaisons. She did not withhold love affairs past. Lovers past withheld from her. They withheld the truth of the gold. She knew no more than he did. The Wolf told him that.

Dudley left the car unlocked. The Wolf walked point. He sniffed the footpath and low-growled. They hooked around to the back door. Dudley swung the bayonet and mauled rosebushes and shrubs.

The door stood ajar. They entered the house. Turn right and then left. Constanza told him that. “Juan never shuts his office door. He’ll look up from his desk and see you. I know him as a sister and lover does.”

They followed her dictates. They stepped into the office. Constanza failed them here. The office was lit bright. There was no Juan.

Dudley dropped the bayonet. The Wolf cocked his head. Dudley walked to Juan’s desk. A note had been placed on the blotter. Juan employed an elegant cursive. It covered a single sheet.

128 Kay Lake’s Diary (Los Angeles, 8:00 A.M., 4/12/42)

Claire was off at Mass. She intended to pick Joan Klein up at Otto’s place and bring her back here for a visit. Young Joan had a surprise for us; it entailed the piano in Claire’s suite. I had joyous notions about that surprise — but the swirl of what I now call All of It ruled my thoughts.

I enjoyed the view from Claire’s terrace. The setting was lovely; the passing parade was provocative. Terry Lux walked Saul Lesnick by a few minutes ago; a doddering Jim Davis had preceded them. All of It. Supporting cast glimpses. Joan Conville’s All One Story.

Elmer, Hideo, and I conferred on the phone, at least once a day. I was kept up to speed on All of It and shared the information with Bill. Meyer Gelb, once Fritz Eckelkamp, had been murdered. Elmer and Buzz shot and killed the fleeing Frankie Carbajal. The Beverly Hills PD made Frankie for the homicide. Elmer saw the body and thinks otherwise.

The corpse was stiff-cold. The torture cuts had congealed. Elmer talked to Dr. Nort Layman. Dr. Nort had performed the postmortem; he tagged the time of death as 2:00 a.m. Elmer found the body at 11:30. Dr. Nort removed a .25-caliber bullet. The cause of death: one small-bore gunshot wound to the head. The postmortem exonerated Frankie Carbajal. The Beverly Hills cops liked him, regardless. A Mex fascist kills a Communist. Cops slay the slayer. It played nicely open-and-shut.

The Carbajal shooting troubled Elmer. It came on the heels of the sabotage revelations. Frankie had pretipped Elmer and Buzz. They sat on the lead. Then Frankie appears and enlivens their stakeout. Elmer may confirm my hunch or play it mum. Buzz killed Frankie in cold blood. It silenced Frankie. He could not snitch the held-back lead now. His death bought Elmer and Buzz a skate.

What they hath wrought. What we have all precipitated.

The forged minutes have gone out. Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt must have received them; Dudley must have read them. How will he react? The minutes pushed him toward Meyer Gelb and Salvador Abascal. Dudley could not have killed Gelb. He was ensconced in Baja and did not know where to find him. Gelb was killed by a small-bore weapon. Dudley employed big-bore weaponry.

Thad Brown passed Bill a tip. Jack Horrall had issued an ultimatum. Dudley has one week to turn himself in or suffer PD-sanctioned reprisals. Call-Me-Jack has sought outside-agency help here. A Federal posse stands on call. Postal inspectors and Treasury agents. Ex — Texas Rangers. The hard boys who took down the Ma Barker mob, along with Bonnie and Clyde.

What fate hath wrought. What we have all precipitated.

Dudley might go after Salvador. Dudley might deem the minutes a ruse and comport circumspectly. Dudley might surmise that Hideo Ashida forged the minutes. What Hideo hath wrought, in the name of love. What early-wartime L.A. has done to us all.

I heard voices out on the walkway. Young Joan sounded gleeful; Claire kept going Ssshhh, people sleep late on Sunday. The terrace door swung open; Joan saw me and crashed into me and waved a poster tube.

I noted the V-mail sticker and Russian postage stamps; I saw that the tube had been resent by Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt. Confluence. Comrade Shostakovich to a fascist seductress to Maestro Klemperer. What this war hath wrought. Otto could now upstage Maestro Toscanini and stage his benefit show.

We ran inside. We crash-landed the piano and pulled out the score. I sight-read my way through it and isolated the best three-handed part. It was the tanks-approaching-Leningrad passage that Otto had already played for me. Claire arrayed the appropriate sheets on the music stand; Joan sat down at the bench between us. We were the just-formed Dry-out Farm Trio. We poised our hands over the keys. Claire gave the downbeat.

Boom, boom, boom. Nazi tanks circle Leningrad. It was bluntly ominous music that made us all roar. We hit true notes and flubbed notes and laughed through it all. Boom, boom, boom. What life hath wrought. How did I get this pigshit lucky? I’m a rogue prairie girl from Sioux Falls.

129 (Los Angeles, 1:00 P.M., 4/12/42)

Coffee klatch. Crash Squad alumni, at loose ends. Lyman’s back room, now moribund.

The alums kicked their chairs back and got cozy. Ashida, Lee Blanchard, Buzz Meeks.

Buzz sipped coffee. “BHPD likes Carbajal for the Gelb job. Elmer and me are breathing a big sigh of relief.”

Blanchard sipped coffee. “Dr. Nort disagrees.”

Ashida sipped coffee. “I gave Elmer Frechette’s lead on Chuckie Duquesne. He’s on his way up to the Musicians’ Local right now.”

Buzz said, “Elmer’s a busy bee. He told me he went by Johnny Shinura’s building and did some shinnying up a drainpipe. Johnny’s roost had been cleaned out, but he found two bedrolls on the third floor. He figures Johnny and Chuckie were hiding out there, up until the Feds seized the place.”

Blanchard lit a cigarette. “If Chuckie’s our queer white boy, then who’s the woman who got raped? Joe Hayes says that’s our motive, right there.”

The back room oozed sloth. Ashida tidied up. He straightened the report boards and emptied ashtrays. He tossed stale cold cuts. He dumped booze empties.

Buzz lit a cigar. “I caught Jack Horrall and Brenda A. going at it here. The ’36 Olympics were on the radio. Jack’s a floor man from way back.”

Blanchard said, “Hideo’s due back at Manzanar. I’m driving him up.”

Buzz tossed a paper sack. Ashida snagged it on the fly. Buzz said, “I almost forgot. Elmer snatched this from Shinura’s place. He wanted Hideo to see it.”

Ashida emptied the sack. Leather strangling gloves fell out.

Black leather. Fetishistic. A Weimar Berlin and red-light Tokyo item. Palm-weighted. One size fits all.

Buzz whistled. Blanchard went oooh-la-la. Ashida held the gloves up.

“They explain the single-hand-span bruises on the victims’ necks. All the killer had to do was apply moderate pressure. The palm weights would do the rest.”

Buzz said, “Hideo’s theorizing here.”

Blanchard said, “As theories go, I like it. It fits Hideo’s man-woman theory. The man holds the ice pick and keeps our guys immobilized, while the woman applies the elbow grease.”

Buzz waved his cigar. “I’ll bite. But who is this crazy ginch?”

The Teletype tapped-tapped and furled paper. Blanchard tore it off the spool.

“M. L. Mimms is back from his rouse-the-natives tour. Two airport cops saw him get off the late New York flight. The Navy JA’s kicked Link Rockwell loose. He was on the same flight as the Rev.”

He saw Dudley everywhere. Cri de coeur. He saw him conjured and unbidden. All men looked like him. No man looked like him. Je m’excuse, pour ma trahison.

Ashida cabbed southbound. The hackie You’re a Jap’d him. Ashida shut his eyes and saw Dudley. The cab passed through darktown. Je ne te verrai pas blessé.

Kay pledged him the Mimms interview. It secured their forgery deal. She stipulated a co-interviewer and suggested Elmer. He tried to find Elmer. He called the DB and Brenda’s house. Elmer was out. He called Kay’s place and got no answer. He tried the Musicians’ Local. He asked if a Sergeant Jackson had been by. Sergeant Jackson was looking for a horn man named Chuckie Duquesne.

The clerk said, “No, but that’s an odd coincidence. An Army major named Smith called and asked for Chuckie’s address, which I sure don’t have. This major was some mick with a brogue. He told me a nutso story about how he identified Chuckie from some smut film that Orson Welles showed him. I told him Chuckie’s a clandestine sort of guy, but he’ll be gigging at the Taj Mahal tonight. Orson Welles himself. Don’t that take all?”

The hackie cruised Central Avenue. They hit a midday traffic lull. Ashida steered him by the klubhaus. It was a flat vacant lot now. Jordan High footballers scrimmaged. They were colored. The white coach looked like Dudley Smith.

The hackie U-turned back to Central. There’s the jazz strip. Club Alabam, Port Afrique, Club Zombie. The façades have been refitted. Rioters had torched cars and business fronts. He killed two of them. Dudley Smith killed many more.

The cab dropped him at 48th Street. The Congregation of the Congo hogged half a block. A wide storefront with wide picture windows. Easel-propped window art.

Colored pilgrims in Africa. They rode lions and zebras and boiled white folks alive. The Rev offered steerage and deluxe passage rates. The USS Negro sailed monthly.

Ashida walked in. White janitors dusted the pews and swept the aisles. The Rev and Link Rockwell stood by the pulpit. Link wore Navy khakis. Both men smoked corncob pipes.

They saw Ashida. Looks flew, bilateral. He’s that Jap cop.

Ashida walked up. Both men grinned. Both men proffered handshakes. Both men jut-jawed their pipes.

Rockwell said, “Leander told us you might drop by.”

The Rev said, “Dr. Ashida’s hipped on the gold. I don’t think I’m being precipitous by stating that. Will you give him a gander, Link?”

Rockwell went After you. Ashida trudged a short hallway. The Rev trailed him. Rockwell opened a closet door and pulled a light cord.

Hosanna. At long last. Come let us adore it. Behold the sacred vault. It’s a good-sized closet. Gold bars are stacked floor to chest-high.

The Rev chortled. “Too bad it’s not real. If you’ve got a moment, Link will elaborate.”

Rockwell said, “As Leander told you, the Rev had me infiltrate the klubhaus. I made friends with the late Frankie Carbajal, who had developed quite a dislike for his onetime hermano, Salvador Abascal, along with his close friend, Wayne Frank Jackson. Frankie coveted the gold, which was then believed to be in the possession of the late Meyer Gelb and Señor Abascal. The late Frankie put together some leads and learned that the gold was stashed in a bank safe-deposit vault in San Diego. The Rev and I brought in Ed Satterlee then. Ed secured a seizure writ that allowed him to secure the gold and sequester it in a nearby warehouse. I flew the gold up to L.A., and the Rev brought in a metallurgist to weigh the bars and calculate their value. He was the one who determined that they were all fake.”

The Rev kicked at the bars. The Rev jabbed his pipe at Ashida.

“Cast iron, and thick-gold-plated. Formed to exactly resemble and weigh the same as solid-gold bars. Even the mint markings match, down to a tee. The bars were designed to fool the naked eye, and no more than that.”

Ashida grabbed a bar and hefted it. He’d held a real bar. The fake bar was indistinguishable.

“The robbery itself. The chain of possession and levels of dispersal. Did factionalism occur? The robbery preceded all known accounts of the forming of the Kameraden. I have a well-developed theory, and I’m wondering if you’ll confirm or refute it.”

The Rev winked. Link Rockwell winked. Mr. Moto’s got the floor. Both men jut-jawed their pipes.

“Leander walked the bars off the train. He portrayed the dumb Negro kid. The Reverend Mimms portrayed a colored sleeping-car porter. Kyoho Hanamaka portrayed a Japanese chauffeur, and Wayne Frank Jackson portrayed a white swell, perched in a limousine. Salvador portrayed a Mexican youth, hovering in the background. Skin color as disguise. Racial prejudice as a means of obfuscation. The switch was accomplished in that manner.”

The Rev bowed. “You left out Eddie Leng and Don Matsura. They were in on the job. They played Oriental train-yard workers. They also helped out with the escapes and the track-switch snafus.”

Rockwell said, “Otherwise, you’re right with Eversharp.”

Ashida said, “The initial cadre of Kameraden was formed at Dresden Polytechnic. Kyoho Hanamaka underplayed its importance to me. Abascal gave a speech, and Carbajal, Pimentel, Jamie, and Hayes heard the message. The Spanish Civil War loomed. The big war loomed, and Salvador saw it as a fait accompli. He prophesied the Hitler-Stalin pact and Hitler’s ultimate abrogation. The idea of a left-right postwar alliance took hold and flourished intellectually. The initial heist conspirators — Eckelkamp-Gelb, Wayne Frank, Leander, Salvador, Hanamaka, the Reverend Mimms, Leng, and Matsura — were watching gold prices escalate and waiting out the statute of limitations on the robbery. The statute clock stopped on May 18, 1940. The original conspirators were caught up in the crazy politics of upcoming war, but not to the extent of the Dresden Poly boys. The boys had been to Spain, the Fatherland, and Russia. Kyoho and Salvador had spent time there, and forged connections. High-level Nazis and Soviets knew the war would go bad for them, as early as the late ’30s. Salvador and Kyoho exploited their fear, and proposed the Baja conference of November ’40. The gold lured the bigwigs in. They capitulated to Abascal’s vision of postwar alliance, but the gold cinched the deal.”

The Rev bowed. Rockwell said, “Right with Eversharp.”

Ashida said, “You were perpetrating a shell game. The gold achieved the status of an open secret and a wet dream. Your informal alliance grew as the war loomed that much more palpably close. Kyoho and Meyer Gelb went back to the heist and the fire. They were Communists and arsonists and God knows what else together. Saul Lesnick signed on from the Left. He was in Gelb’s CP cell. Ed Satterlee played tangential to the heist. He signed on in a fix-it man capacity. Jim Davis signed on from the Right. Salvador killed priest-killers at Meyer’s behest. It all blew chaotically out of proportion. Idiot ideologues shot their mouths off, and rumors spread. Terry Lux, Lin Chung, Wendell Rice, and George Kapek. The Lazaro-Schmidts, Villareal-Caiz, crazy Bundists, Reds, and Sinarquistas. Come, one and all. We’ll survive this war or we won’t. The bigwigs were over in Russia and Germany, engaged in a fight for their everyday survival. They had no idea that the original conspirators had no intention of sharing the gold with them, after postwar gold prices had skyrocketed. Factionalism and personal rivalries raged within the original robbery band. Rancor fell short of fatality. The chain of possession shifted along those lines as gold prices and war catastrophe escalated. Salvador Abascal succeeded Meyer Gelb as the Kameraden’s top dog. The title is surely meaningless, if illustrative of how deep this self-deluded madness goes. Salvador got the job because he was in the original robbery band and because he recruited the Dresden Poly boys. The Nazi bigwigs loved him because they thought he was a fascist. The Soviet bigwigs loved him because they considered him a Red, and because he’d slaughtered Trotskyites. The Rev’s got his back-to-Africa con. Gelb was extorting Jewish refugees that the Kamerad-Nazis had cut loose. You’re all criminals first, and ideologues a distant second. You’ll split the gold on Armistice Day, and you’ll sell out the comrades overseas to the highest intelligence-agency bidder.”

The Rev went whew. Rockwell wiped his face with a handkerchief.

Ashida wiped his face. “Here’s a prudent guess. Wayne Frank shipped the real gold to Switzerland, right after the Baja wingding.”

The Rev said, “Mr. and Mrs. Ashida didn’t raise any dumb kids.”

Rockwell said, “I met some real hot dogs at the wingding. I got Ernst Kaltenbrunner and Anastas Mikoyan’s autographs.”

The Rev jabbed his pipe. “Take a bar with you, Doctor. Makes a swell paperweight.”

130 (Los Angeles, 4:00 P.M., 4/12/42)

Peep job. Girlfriend #4 evinced hinky behavior. That mandates brainwork and eyeball scrutiny.

Elmer peeped Ruth’s courtyard. He car-lounged. He popped bennies and gargled Old Crow. 1 plus 1 equals 2. He pondered a quick-toss B and E.

He’d gone by the Musicians’ Local. A clerk fed him a hot lead on Chuckie Duquesne. Chuckie, aka “Kid Lightning.” He was gigging at the Taj Mahal tonight.

The Taj. A coonverted garage at 28th and Budlong. He schmoozed the clerk and got her phone number. She just loooooved policemen. He brought up his friend Ruth Szigeti. She played the violin. She recorded a Bartók piece, here at the Local. That was three nights back. The quartet worked dusk to dawn.

The clerk went nix. She worked the late shift that night. No such quartet passed through.

That’s 0 plus 1 equals 1. Add this to that:

Ruth lied to him. Ruth came off flustered that last time they gassed. He talked to Nort Layman. Dr. Nort autopsied Meyer Gelb. Dr. Nort confirmed his I Was There/I Saw The Stiff call.

Gelb was cold. Frankie Carbajal didn’t snuff him. Nort fixed the TOD as 2:00 a.m. The torture cuts were inflicted postmurder. Said cuts were all fussy. It felt like a squeamish-woman job. The small-bore gun, the cuts, the prissy gestalt. Cherchez la fucking femme.

1 plus 1 equals 2. 2 plus 2 equals 4. Gelb was a shakedown man. He extorted Ruth and her refugee chums. He victimized Ruth. La Ruth brooked no shit from man or beast. That’s 4 plus 4 equals 8. 8 equals confirm or refute.

Bennies and booze equals pins and needles and juiced-up intent. Elmer got out and breezed through the courtyard. It was pin-drop quiet. Ruth’s door was locked.

He got out his pick set. He pulled a thin-edge pick and jabbed the keyhole. He pushed deep and rode the door in.

He shut the door. The front room looked okay. No hink details jabbed him. He walked through the kitchen. It smelled like fried eggs. Ruth left her breakfast dishes out. No hink details jabbed him.

He shinnied through the bedroom and checked out the porch. A taut clothesline ran through it. Damp clothes were pinned on.

Two brassieres. One camisole. One pinned-up white blouse. Spots down the front of it. Almost removed. Blood red fades to pale pink.

Elmer cut back to the bedroom. He’d slept with Ruth here. He knew the layout. He went straight for the one chest of drawers.

The top drawer featured underwear. He ran a hand through it. The middle drawer featured scarves and folded skirts. He ran a hand through it. His hand hit metal. He pulled a small revolver out.

A purse gun. 25-caliber. A five-shot cylinder. 1 plus 1 equals 2.

Elmer sniffed the barrel. He caught cordite fumes. He broke the cylinder. He saw one shell gone.

The front door jiggled. Stacked heels tapped the floor. He caught cigarette smoke and bath scent.

She walked straight to the bedroom. He gave her a heartbeat to see him. She stopped short. He turned around.

She wore a flower-print dress and a mousy cardigan. He held up the gun. She grabbed an ashtray off the bookcase and crushed her cigarette.

“So?”

“So, why?”

“So, what can one more death mean to me now?”

Elmer shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that. I don’t want to hear ‘the war made me do it.’ ”

Ruth said, “He called me and ordered me to his apartment. He ordered me to lure Otto Klemperer into my bed and make him admit his Communist Party allegiance. I told him that he had created enough chaos, and condemned him for the idiotic ideals his idiotic alliance had foisted upon us. I was enraged in that moment. I demanded the gold that I had heard so many rumors of. I told him that I would use it to ransom Jews out of Germany. He said, ‘Why should I care about Jews?’ I knew he was Fritz Eckelkamp then, and that was when I shot him.”

She was touch-me close. He smelled her breath and counted her gray hairs.

“It’s a gas-chamber job. You’d do better with a jealous-lover plea.”

“What will you do?”

Elmer said, “I don’t know.”

The Taj was unlicensed and nouveau-swank. It was couched behind a house row. Four garages got bulldozed and comprised one cabaret. The refurb job was par excellent.

You had booths, tables, and a raised bandstand. There’s an ebony bar and blue-flocked wallpaper. It’s a boss swami’s playpen.

You had standard booze and bootleg booze. There’s absinthe and Everclear. You’ve got colored waitresses in saris. The Taj welcomes a race-mixed clientele.

Elmer and Buzz showed early. They grabbed a prime wallside booth. They figured they’d take Chuckie backstage. Chuckie foxed them there. He was onstage with his sidemen already. Chuckie played bass sax. A white dink played trombone. A black hepcat played fluegelhorn.

Chuckie was tall and blond. He ran six-two and 140, tops. He sported a ducks-ass haircut. He wore zoot pants and a plaid Sir Guy shirt.

Buzz craved results. Let’s move now. Elmer nixed it. Let’s wait. Johnny Shinura might show. A Chuckie’s gal-pal type might materialize.

The Taj filled up. A good crowd filtered in. They snatched the wallside booths and floor tables. They swarmed the bar. They flirted and gassed. They craved Le Jazz Hot and distraction.

Elmer and Buzz drank Green Lizards. Their swell waitress made them as cops. Green Lizards were 151 rum and crème de menthe. Buzz was half-tanked. Elmer was benzified out of his gourd. Killer Ruth ruled his thoughts.

The combo tuned up. Kid Lightning and his Bolts from the Blue. They honked and blatted. The blue motif prevailed. Blue spotlights lit them up.

The low ceiling trapped cigarette smoke. Elmer and Buzz orbed the premises. Where’s Sword Man Johnny? Where’s the Gal Pal? Elmer watched the door. Oooga-booga. Dudley Smith walked in.

Elmer nudged Buzz and pointed over. Looky, looky. Dud wore civvies and looked whippet thin.

Buzz clenched up. Dud walked to the bar. He ordered a drink and glanced around. Elmer and Buzz were perched off aways. Dud didn’t see them. Dud eyed the bandstand and Chuckie D.

The Bolts tuned up. Chuckie’s king-sized sax weighed him down. Elmer watched the door. Race-mix cliques filed in. Hideo Ashida followed them.

Elmer nudged Buzz and pointed over. Looky, looky. Buzz saw Ashida. Hideo stood barside. He saw Dudley. Elmer and Buzz caught that, plain. Dud was preoccupied. He missed Ashida and eyeballed Chuckie D.

The music wasn’t music. It was fucking noise stew. Elmer killed his drink and watched the door. Where’s the gal pal? What does she look like? Fuck — Johnny Shinura walked in.

Elmer saw him. Buzz saw him. They swapped oooga-booga looks. Ashida saw Johnny. Elmer caught that. Dud missed Johnny altogether. He sipped his drink and eye-drilled Chuckie D.

Ashida stood upside the pay phone. He eye-clicked Dud to Johnny. Jap Johnny stood tiptoed and waved his arms at the bandstand. Chuckie caught it and unstrapped his sax.

Chuckie tromped Johnny’s way. Dud caught it. He unbuttoned his coat and touched his belt piece. Oooga-booga. A colored doorman braced Johnny. Hit the road, Tojo. We don’t seat no Japs.

Ashida crouched by the pay phone. The doorman missed him. Johnny pitched a fit. I’m an American, Sambo. You’re just some nigger to me.

Folks looked over. Folks hubbubbed. Johnny pitched that loud fit. The doorman pulled a waistband sap and swung it. Johnny pulled a hip piece.

He drilled the doorman. Two shots echoed. The doorman collapsed and convulsed. Folks started screaming.

Chuckie flinched. Chuckie did this big double take. Chuckie made the big man at the bar.

Dud caught it. They drew down simultaneous and fired point-blank. Chuckie blew out a shelf of booze bottles. Dud shot muzzle-tight. Chuckie’s face blew up, muzzle-burned. His hair shot flames.

Buzz froze and unfroze. Elmer froze and unfroze. They stood up and unholstered late-late. Ashida stumbled toward Dudley. Elmer and Buzz aimed and let fly.

More bottles exploded. Elmer shot high and off left. Buzz nailed Johnny. Sword man pitched back and shot back. His shots hit high and off right.

Elmer braced his gun hand and aimed real careful now. He triggered in on Dudley Smith and squeezed off two perfect shots. He caught a blur simultaneous. He saw Ashida’s suit coat. He blew Ashida up against Dudley. They toppled bar stools and crashed to the floor, all tangled up.

Elmer screamed. Buzz crashed tables and ran to the bar. Johnny slumped up against it. He’d dropped his piece. He was gut-shot and woozed. Buzz shot him straight in the face.

The whole room screamed. Elmer screamed over it. He kicked screamers out of the way and pushed to the bar. Ashida’s suit coat was powder-scorched and tattered. He’d bled up the floor. Dudley sobbed and held him tight.

L.A. Herald Express. Monday, April 13, 1942. Page-two feature. Byline: Sid Hudgens.

131 (Los Angeles, 4/14–4/26/42)

Niteclub Blastout to wartime exile. Official forfeiture and unofficial censure. Malibu is rarely intemperate. He goes back with Terry Lux. The Wolf carries news from the outside world.

Deals were struck. Jack Horrall brokered them. The Staties commandeered his biz fronts. He resigned his Army commission and will not be court-martialed. He will not be prosecuted for his misjudged stateside misconduct. Here’s a cheeky footnote: “Sepia Songbird” Loretta McKee is DA Bill McPherson’s girlfriend.

The Baja authorities will not seek indictments. Terry’s dry-out farm is not Folsom or San Quentin. He enjoys a grand suite of rooms. They remain locked at all times, and thus constitute custody. Two-man guard teams police him. He’s permitted late-night strolls around the property. His guards eavesdrop on his chats with the Wolf. They consider him whimsically insane.

Meyer Gelb is dead. The true killer remains unknown. El Salvy remains at large. Jack H. has implied that he will be sternly rebuked. Mexican cops have been charged to infiltrate the Sinarquistas and disrupt them from within. Ed Satterlee remains under house arrest and has cut immunity deals. Monsignor Joe Hayes has been granted immunity. Wallace Jamie has divested his financial interest in Bev’s Switchboard and has pledged to leave L.A. The klubhaus job has been officially stamped a clean solve. Chuckie Duquesne’s woman friend remains unidentified.

Jim Davis and Saul Lesnick also bunk at Terry’s farm. Lesnick resides in a locked ward and is prone to screaming fits. The gold remains unfound. Postal inspectors grabbed Bev Shoftel and arrested her on eighty-four counts of felony mail fraud. Treasury agents raided mail drops in twelve U.S. cities. The comrades-Kameraden have been nullified to the point of extinction. Jack H. was blunt here. Bill Parker told him the whole story. A ragtag band of opposed comrades engineered the coup. Parker, Elmer Jackson, Buzz Meeks. Kay Lake — most spectacularly.

Claire has kicked morphine. She’ll leave the farm soon. Constanza joined her brother in Havana. She plays in a string quartet there. Terry said they’ve received a recording contract with RCA Victor. Resourceful Constanza. She’s taken Cuban strongman Prío Socarrás as her inaugural lover.

He spends his time reading and contemplating his ultimate release. He’ll remain a policeman as long as Jack Horrall remains Chief. He plays the Bruckner symphonies. Otto Klemperer’s interpretations hold him spellbound. He plays Tristan und Isolde most obsessively. Kirsten Flagstad sings the latter part. He listens and transmogrifies her to Kay Lake.

He sips mint juleps with Jim Davis. Chief Jim is lucid on one topic only. The Fifth Column is everywhere but rarely achieves coherence. It’s no more than an amalgam of mischief-minded souls hooked on current dangerous ideas. Jim mentioned a pervert party, back in ’39. Salvy noticed you then, Dud. He was there, but he was costumed and masked up. He had plans for you from that time on. He’s not really a fascist. He’s a Stalinist. He killed those priest-killers because they were Trotskyites. It’s a wild and fucked-up world, ain’t it?

Yes, it certainly is. And he must absent himself for a spell.

He needs rest. He’s earned this interval of meditative renewal. He’s a privileged dry-out-farm inmate. Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda caters his meals. Special chop suey cartons conceal opium. Uncle Ace visits him often. They guardedly discuss their postwar plans.

The Wolf sleeps at the foot of his bed. Their dialogue takes in the world and the cosmos. They mourn their most dear Hideo Ashida.

He misses Hideo. He snipped a lock of his hair in the ambulance that transported him to the morgue. Hideo’s betrayal does not trouble him one whit. The great gift of Hideo himself renders it small.

Hideo was put to rest at Manzanar. He wires graveside flowers each week. He sent condolence notes to his mother and brother and got thank-you notes back. He keeps the lock of hair in a Japanese lacquered box.

His bedroom window overlooks a tree-lined walkway. He keeps vigilant watch for Kay Lake. She wears cashmere dresses and heather-toned skirts. Her eyes are so dark brown that they’re black.

Stunning girl, I can’t begin to imagine your fate.

132 Kay Lake’s Diary (Los Angeles, 8:00 A.M., 4/27/42)

A certain Kamerad was due. I expected her to be prompt and to be candidly forthcoming. It took a great deal of effort to ascertain her identity and determine her whereabouts at the time of the klubhaus killings.

I sat on a walkway bench near Claire’s bungalow. I was within view of Dudley’s locked domicile. Extensive records checks and cross-checks brought me here. I began pulling paper in the wake of the Niteclub Blastout. The Blastout was a local sensation. Elmer Jackson was its most auspicious surviving casualty. His stray shots killed Hideo Ashida. He aimed at Dudley Smith, fully intending to kill him. He told me this and told no one else. The papers pinned the blame on the conveniently dead Big Daddy Gordean and Johnny Shinura. My dear Elmer. Volatile and impetuous. Sweet-natured and tolerant for a cop. Guilt-racked now. Done in by internal sabotage and Hideo Ashida’s death. The man who reminded me that Hideo had sussed it all out. A woman attended the klubhaus deaths and may have helped commit them. We owed Hideo his clean solve. Elmer said, “Maybe there’s some records checks you can run.”

I was at loose ends; Elmer was at loose ends, verging on shell shock. He was estranged from Ruth; Annie was visiting her ailing dad in rural Idaho. Ellen was off with her husband and son; Brenda was tending to their call-service business. The Blastout remained hot news. Loretta McKee replaced Lena Horne as Charlie Barnet’s colored canary. Mrs. Big Daddy sued Los Angeles County. Duke Ellington was busy composing his “Niteclub Blastout Suite.” A land baron purchased the Taj Mahal, with plans to refurbish and reopen it as the Klub Blastout. Jo Stafford and the Pied Pipers will play the gala opening.

This blithe exploitation enraged Elmer. He raged against himself and the Kameraden and his long-gone brother, who started the whole thing. He told me to run directory and phone-call checks on Chuckie Duquesne. “You might turn something there.”

Bill swore me in as a PD clerk-typist. He assigned me a cubicle with a desk and a telephone. I ran jail checks first. I learned that Johnny Shinura was in Lincoln Heights on the night of the murders. Chuckie Duquesne had never been arrested. Johnny and Chuckie were bunked in at the East 2nd Street warehouse then. That was their collective last known address. They squatted there after the Federal seizure and Johnny’s formal eviction. Chuckie lived somewhere before that. He had to have had a formal address. I ran DMV checks and turned up an address in Echo Park.

Chuckie rented a house there, and had a telephone installed. I called PC Bell and secured his phone bills from October ’39 up through last year. One suggestive female name repeatedly popped up.

I recalled Hideo’s theory. The case was definitively homosexual. It derived from two-person animus. The foot scuffs on the upstairs hallway wall had been made by a woman.

I ran DMV checks. I learned that Chuckie did not own a registered automobile. I secured car stats for Chuckie’s female friend. I spent many hours in the former Crash Squad command post. I studied the master file; I studied the initial canvassing sheets in particular. I noted the north/south/east/west canvassing perimeters. The crime occurred on a Wednesday night into Thursday morning. The proximity of the jazz strip troubled me. I walked the strip and saw that most of the clubs possessed no parking lots or assigned parking spaces. The strip hopped on weeknights; patrons had to park their cars somewhere; the somewhere within the canvass perimeters would be packed with club hoppers’ cars. The klubhaus killer or killers would have had to park outside those perimeters and walk to the haus.

I drove to 46th and Central and walked my own expanded perimeter. I noted NO NIGHTTIME PARKING signs in all directions. That’s when I knew I had a chance to solve it; that’s when I knew that the debt to Hideo might be repaid.

It took one more phone call. I buzzed the PD’s Traffic Bureau and requested a list of parking tickets issued on the night in question. Her name was on it. She had parked on 41st Street, east of Hooper. It was three blocks past the northeast perimeter.

I placed my cigarettes and matches on the bench beside me. I’d met the woman twice before; she bummed out of my pack on both occasions. She smoked too much and talked too much and divulged inappropriately. I beckoned her here. I wrote to her and told her I knew. She had my full consent to divulge inappropriately.

Andrea Lesnick walked up. She sat down and went straight for the cigarettes. Her fingers were nicotine-stained; her nails were bitten down to the quick.

She said, “Miss Lake knows my secret. She figured out what the dumb cops couldn’t.”

“You parked in a red zone. They missed the citation you were issued.”

“They raped me.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been to Tehachapi. San Quentin can’t be any worse. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ I’ll enter the green room with my head held high. I’ve groveled enough in my lifetime. Chuckie convinced me of that.”

I lit a cigarette. “I was wondering how you met him.”

Andrea said, “I met him at a party at Otto’s place. Everybody who was anybody was there, but we all wore masks. Chuckie was gigging there. Wendell and George were there, but they were chauffeuring some America Firsters, so they had to stay outside. Archie stayed outside, too. The car-park boys were Mex, so Archie spoke Mex to them, and Jewed them for half of their tips.”

“I’ve heard of this party, Andrea. People wore Nazi costumes. Orson Welles screened a pornographic movie.”

Andrea shook her head. No, no, no. Let me tell it my way.

“Miss Lake’s a C.T., and a provocateur. She’s a snitch, and she’s in with the cops. It’s my story, and I don’t have to let her prompt me or tell me how I should confess.”

I touched Andrea’s arm. She pulled away and chained cigarettes.

“Wendell and I got stoked on each other, and we necked in this limousine he was driving. We petted, but he wanted more than I wanted to give him, so I said, ‘Whoa, son.’ Wendell got ticked off, because the party was very libertine, and he told me I should give him what everybody else was getting, but I left him high and dry instead. Chuckie and a boy Robby Staley set him up with were necking, outside by a pergola. They witnessed some horrible thing that gave Chuckie nightmares for the rest of his life, but he never told me what it was.”

I glanced out at Dudley’s jail suite. Andrea poked me and brought my gaze back to her. Look at me, look at me. It’s my story I’m telling you.

“Wendell was hateful and spiteful. He started sending me letters and snapshots of him and his wife, doing you know what in the you know where. It went on for a year and a half or so, then it stopped, and some time passed. Then my daddy sent me to the klubhaus to pick up a eugenics book he’d lent this boy Link Rockwell. Wendell, Georgie, and Archie were there, alone. That was when they raped me.”

She’d dribbled ash on her blouse and sweater. Both garments were burn-marked already. Her fingers were gnawed. She gnashed her hands when she wasn’t smoking. She was unbearable to behold. She condemned me as glib. She commanded my prayers for the rest of my life.

“ ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith You Know Who. Which is just what Chuckie and I started planning. It was a double-dip. I got keestered, and he got nightmares from that party. We started frequenting the klubhaus, and Chuckie poked boys upstairs. I told Wendell, Georgie, and Archie that I wanted to do it again with them, while Chuckie watched. That’s how we got them alone at the haus.”

Her hair. She curled strands around her fingers and twisted them taut. She maimed herself. She left bald spots. Self-inflicted stigmata. Collaborator women shaved bald.

“We lured them upstairs. Chuckie gave them terp cigarettes laced with poison. They smoked them and became woozy, and we led them back downstairs. Chuckie sat them down on the couch. He was left-handed, so I had to scooch around him just so. He held an ice pick to their necks, and I put on these strangling gloves that Johnny Shinura gave me, and I strangled them right there.”

I looked in her eyes. One was blue, one was gray. Her eugenicist daddy. I suspected experiments gone awry. She sat on her hands so she wouldn’t gnash or pull her hair out. What would Hideo Ashida do? It came down to that. I said, “I wish you safety,” and walked away.

133 (Los Angeles, 8:00 A.M., 4/28/42)

Union Station. The Welcome Wagon awaits. They’re packing brass knucks and belt saps. Bienvenidos, señor.

Jack Horrall dispatched them. His orders ran succinct. Beat the fuck half dead. Tell him no sabotage. Return to Mexico. Come back, we kill your spic ass.

Elmer and Buzz lurked outside the station. Cars clogged the front lot. The breezeway hopped. Porters schlepped suitcases. Tourists hailed taxicabs. The Baja train was past due.

Elmer and Buzz lurked. They got their orders. They got their reward. They were acknowledged whizbang detectives. Jack H. shot them two Homicide slots.

El Salvy walked outside. He scanned the front lot. Cars zigzagged through. Elmer and Buzz swooped.

They grabbed him and hustled him. They pinned his arms. He went along, peaceful. They worked the two-man accordion press.

Salvy complied. They waltzed him off to the side of the building. Elmer grabbed his hair and elbowed him in the windpipe. Salvy gasped and squeaked. Buzz pinned him against the wall. Elmer stuffed a sock in his mouth. They unhooked their knucks and saps and let fly.

Octopus job. They worked him, four-fisted. Elmer smashed his ribs. Bones crunched and snapped. Buzz squatted low and ripped uppercuts at his balls. Elmer punched his teeth out. The sock trapped loose choppers and sopped up blood.

Buzz hurled sap shots. They sliced Salvy’s ears half off. Buzz intoned the edict. Elmer hummed the “Marine’s Hymn.” He checked the parking lot. He saw this man upside a Cadillac. He thought, Maybe, maybe not.

He dropped his hurt kit and walked over. Well now — and amen. It was good old good-looking Wayne Frank.

He sported some gray hair. He wore wingtip shoes and a swell chalk-stripe suit.

He said, “Try not to kill Salvy. Him and me share a history.”

Elmer said, “I like your car. Life’s been good to you.”

Wayne Frank spit tobacco juice. “I’ve got a wife and two kids in New Orleans, and a wife and three kids in Atlanta. If I can avoid this here futile war, I’ll have it made in the shade.”

Elmer smiled. “You always believed in the Resurrection. It was your favorite Bible story. You always said you might die young, but you’d just as likely return.”

Wayne Frank smiled. “I visited Wisharts last year. Sue Bailey asked about you. She’s with the TVA now. She had herself a damn fine job with the Willkie campaign.”

Sue B. was a six-foot blonde. She justified the climb. Him and Wayne Frank fought over her. He kicked Wayne Frank’s ass good.

“Those New Year’s rainstorms stirred up some grief, didn’t they?”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“New Year’s is New Year’s. Remember? We always listened to Cliffie Stone’s Hometown Jamboree.”

Wayne Frank spritzed tobacco juice. “You look pretty good, for a man who’s just seen a ghost.”

“I’ve learned a few things since New Year’s. I’ve had a good spell to prepare.”

Wayne Frank said, “I always told you I’d make something of myself.”

Ghosts. Apparitions. Warlocks, poltergeists, ghouls. Wayne Frank’s alive. Hideo Ashida’s dead.

Elmer drove out to Santa Monica. He hadn’t seen Ruth in a coon’s age. He should put her at ease. You never know. She might throw him some woof-woof.

Wilshire was bright and breezy. The beach air felt sweet. He parked outside Ruth’s courtyard. Longhair music wafted over. Ruthie sat on her porch. She played her radio full blast.

Elmer got out and walked over. Ruthie saw him. She primped and turned off the radio. She looked grim — per always, these days.

“I’ve been reading about you. The widow Big Daddy Gordean asserts that you are trigger-happy.”

Elmer dittoed Wayne Frank. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“Shall we discuss Brahms? That was the Double Concerto I was enjoying.”

Elmer relit a cigar. “Let’s discuss what’s eating you. Maybe I can help you out.”

Ruth said, “You have not the cachet. A deportation order has been issued against me. I am held to be a seditious alien, and I have no means of redress.”

She had green panther eyes. He had beady eyes. They discussed it their first night. Elmer slalomed in and dialed their eyes tight.

“You can’t deport the wife of a U.S. citizen. Husbands can’t fink out their wives for Murder One.”

Ruth turned on the radio. A violin and cello tangled chords and fought. She kept the volume low.

“Might we have a Jewish wedding?”

Elmer said, “Don’t press your luck.”