Ray Pinker said, “I’ve forensic’d the place three times. It was repeatedly vacuumed, so there’s no trace elements worth a shit. I can’t turn a latent print to save my life. There’s rubber-glove prints on all the room surfaces and cooking utensils, so I’d bet the inhabitants were gloved up at all times.”
Thad leaned into the blackboard. “What about the klubhaus torch?”
Pinker kicked his chair back. “It was deliberately set. I found powdered-accelerant traces on a downstairs floorboard. The first floor ignited, and the rioters caught arson fever and started chucking bottle bombs.”
Breuning said, “Monkey see, monkey do. The firebug lays down the accelerant and drops a match. He’s got the blackout and all the air-raid grief for cover. The jigs go all copycat and get up a bonfire.”
Thad cracked his knuckles. “We’re coming up against that Miciak shitheel’s statement. There’s the sheer bulk of all the criminal and PD-implicated shit that transpired at the klubhaus. We’ve got to work the confiscated guns that Rice and Kapek were selling. I want to run a sweep out of Hollenbeck Station. We’ll raise some hell, rattle some cages, and see if we can tie some beaners to our homicides.”
The room rumbled. That’s policework. The boys foot-stomped the floor. Ashida went aw-OH.
Blanchard said, “My so-called drunk act on the jazz strip is going nowhere. I’m a well-known cop, and the coons have got all closemouthed since the riot.”
Carlisle smirked. “Mr. Celebrity. ‘The Southland’s good but not great white hope.’ He spawns fear and envy wherever he goes.”
Blanchard kicked Carlisle’s chair. Carlisle cringed and unsmirked. Fight fever peaked and fizzled, fast.
Thad pitched Blanchard. “You and Lieutenant Ashida work a Mutt and Jeff and comb the strip again. We’ve got to ID the women who left those pubic-hair samples.”
Blanchard said, “We should try to ID the other cops who habituated the klubhaus. We might pull some leads there.”
Thad went nix. “Chief Horrall says no. He thinks it’ll open a whole can of worms.”
The Teletype clacked and unfurled paper. Parker walked up and tore out the sheet.
He read it. He rubbed his split lip. He glanced at Ashida.
“They’re moving the Werewolf back to Atascadero today. I thought you’d want to know.”
Ashida watched the move-out. Sayonara, Werewolf — thanks for the memories.
Two male nurses plucked him out of his cell. They wrestled him to the catwalk floor and shot him up with jungle juice. The Werewolf flailed and bared his fangs. He bayed at some nutso moon and went loosed-limb floaty.
Ashida stood close by. The nurses fish-eyed him. He’s a Jap. He’s Army brass. Who gave him that .45? The Werewolf’s his daddy.
They cuffed and shackled the Werewolf. They straitjacket-wrapped him. They grabbed his arms and wrangled him upstairs and outside. Ashida followed them out.
Newshounds sent a cheer up. Sid Hudgens and Jack Webb led the pack. The hounds howled and pawed the sidewalk outside Central Station. Flashbulbs pop-pop-popped.
Ashida blinked back bulb glare. Monster Matinee. He saw passing papas hold their toddlers up to watch.
Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle lounged on the steps. Breuning flicked his cigarette butt and hit the Werewolf’s back. A little girl tossed her ice-cream cone and missed the Werewolf by inches. The Sidster scribbled up a scratch pad.
A nuthouse wagon idled curbside. The driver slid out a gurney on casters. The nurses hoisted the Werewolf and triple-wrapped him in. More flashbulbs popped.
The nurses hopped in the back. The driver fishtailed eastbound on 1st Street. News fotogs snapped Ashida. He’s this Jap stoic. He’s all dolled up, Army style.
Ashida rubbed his eyes. That bulb glare had him seeing double. He saw two Elmer Jacksons, straight across the street. Two Elmers bolted the Moonglow Lounge and booze-weaved toward the station.
Ashida blinked and got back his eyesight. He saw one Elmer now. Elmer stumbled over the curb and made straight for him. He got up in booze-breath range and cut loose.
You little Jap shit/you should have told me/my brother died in that fire/you fuckers wanted the gold/I watchdogged your ass when the Japs bombed Pearl/you should have told me/you little Jap shit, you—
Mike Breuning stepped in. He grabbed Elmer’s coat collar and jerked him half off his feet. Elmer wheeled and sucker punched him. His Marine Corps ring gouged Breuning’s cheek down to the bone. Breuning yelped and threw sissy punches. Elmer moved close and slammed elbows. He smashed Breuning’s nose, Breuning’s teeth, Breuning’s dumb jug head overall. He put Breuning down on the ground and kicked one jug ear half off.
86
(Los Angeles, 11:00 A.M., 3/5/42)
His elbow hurt. He was skunk drunk. Breuning’s snaggle teeth snagged up his suit coat. He snagged Dumb Cracker of All Time honors. They foretold his futile fate. Dudley Smith would fuck him up the dirt road.
Elmer lurched through City Hall. He lurched toward the Vice squadroom and his cozy cubicle. He lurched by sweatbox row. He thought he saw Buzz Meeks in box #2. He lurched past box #3 and hit the home stret—
Something bushwhacked him. Two geeks snatched him and shoved him into box #4. He hit the bolted-down table and plopped into the bolted-down chair.
Bill Parker kicked the door shut. Thad Brown thunked a thermos down on the table. Parker unscrewed the top and poured out hot coffee.
Elmer took a test sip. It burned his tongue and stung his teeth. Parker and Brown pulled up chairs. Parker said, “We talked to Buzz Meeks. He told us you forged up Tommy Glennon’s address book and placed it at the klubhaus. He also mentioned that the two of you put the boots to Huey Cressmeyer, down in T.J. Huey purportedly snitched off Dudley Smith’s racket schemes, up here and in Baja.”
Elmer sipped too-hot coffee. His hands shook. He scoped Parker’s fat lip and willed savoir faire.
“Who smacked you, Bill? Was it Kay, or some other swift college girl?”
Brown chortled. “My money’s on Kay.”
Parker deadpanned the shtick. “We don’t know if Meeks gave us the whole drift on you two and Huey, and it doesn’t really matter. The spatials on the Lunceford shooting are off, and you’ve quite noticeably ditched your ankle piece. That doesn’t matter, either. You fired it on a liquor-store stakeout in October of ’40, and a spent-ballistics file exists. Guess what, dipshit? We got a match to the pills you pumped into Catbox Cal.”
The green room looms. The last mile beckons. Your ass is grass, son.
“So, I’m fucked.”
Brown shook his head. “No, you’re not. Lunceford was Fifth Column, and he was in with that Jap hump, Hanamaka. You’re getting a waltz on Manslaughter One. We consider the shooting kosher, and this room is as far as it goes.”
Parker said, “Thad and I have read Joan Conville’s diary, and I’ve discussed the text with Kay Lake. I know that Miss Lake has discussed that text with you and Hideo Ashida, but I’ll add that she omitted one key narrative thread.”
No green room. The coffee had cooled down. Elmer took a big gulp.
“I already figured that out. The Dudster, Joan, and that little shit Ashida were out for the gold from the git-go. I sensed that Kay was fibbing on that. She didn’t tell me, because she thought I’d go berserk on account of my brother. She didn’t tell Ashida, because he’s Dudley’s lapdog, and he’s a participant in this whole crazy gold hunt anyways.”