“What about a plain old microscope? Could that get us in close?”
Ashida said, “Meet me at the lab. I’ll see what I can do.”
They two-carred over and hooked up at six. The day-shift chemists had clocked out. Ashida locked them in. Elmer jammed a chair under the doorknob.
Ashida scissor-cut the paper and shaped three equal strips. Elmer watchdogged the process. Ashida rigged a microscope and slide-clamped swatch #1. He dialed down to maximum range. Faint ink blurs appeared.
He ran swatch #2 and swatch #3. He got eight more ink blurs.
Ashida shook his head. Elmer went Shit. Ashida placed the strips back in the envelope and resealed it.
“There’s something you should know, Elmer.”
“Let me guess. You can’t withhold this here lead from Dudley, like you withheld Kay’s spiel on Joan Conville’s diary.”
Ashida balled his fists and fumed. He despised that mannerism. It made him look eff—
Elmer woofed him. “You’re on the fence about Dud now, aren’t you? I’m not all that surprised. Kay wouldn’t have clued you in if she thought you’d tattle to him. And here’s something you might want to consider. Maybe Kay’s smarter than you are, and maybe she’s cooking up something good.”
Ashida stomped one foot. Elmer haw-hawed. Ashida walked to the mail slot and dropped the envelope in.
“It’s out of our hands now. I might be on the fence, and I might not be. You’ve got the box number in La Paz as a lead, and that’s it.”
Elmer stomped one foot. He did good impersonations. He mimed effete rage, c’est bon.
“You’re trumping me, Hideo. I’m coming out second-best here.”
Ashida walked to his locker. He turned away from Elmer and unlocked it. He grabbed the gold bar off the top shelf.
Robbery swag. Thirty-three pounds plus. Worth twenty grand, U.S.
He turned and faced Elmer. Come, let us adore it. He held it out, worship me — style.
Elmer trembled and dropped his cigar. He lurched and bumped a glassware shelf. A glass beaker toppled and shattered on the floor.
Ashida said, “Take it. Your brother died for this, and I don’t want it anymore.”
Elmer picked up his cigar. He looked electrified. He dredged half a voice.
“What do you want?”
“A clean solve on the klubhaus job.”
Elmer kicked glass under a work desk. He brushed ash off his suit coat and went Nyet. Ashida placed the bar back in his locker. He tossed a lab rag over it. Gold as holy sacrament. Men died for this.
“Tell me how you turned the lead on Bev’s Switchboard.”
Elmer said, “It commenced with Jean Staley. I braced her, and she jobbed me out of my socks. We had a nifty first date, and then she plain vanished. I started getting postcards from U.S. 66, but Jean was really here in L.A. Bev’s Switchboard was stiffing the cards and jobbing up the postal cancellations.”
D. L. Smith on E. V. Jackson. He’s half smart here and there. He trips on his dick otherwise.
“I need those cards. They may contain microdots, inserted between the inside and outside pieces of cardboard. I’ll take them back to Ensenada with me. I might be able to locate a microdot camera there.”
Elmer said, “Okay, boss.”
Ashida said, “I’ll try to work out a truce for you and Buzz. Keep the bar. I’m sure Dudley will accept that concession.”
“All I want is a fair shot at whoever killed my brother. It has to be a plain murder. The gold’s just a way in to figure all that out.”
Ashida bowed. “I lost my taste for the gold when Joan died. All I want is a shot at a solve.”
Elmer relit his cigar. Lab fumes and hot ash. Ignition, combustion, explos—
“I got no beef with that. You’re Dud’s boy, so you handle everything pertaining to that fucker.”
“That’s fine, but he’ll want to know how you know whatever you know, and we have to keep Kay and Joan’s diary out of it.”
Elmer said, “You’re right, boss.”
Ashida said, “You should know something. You should know that I’ll reveal whatever I learn at the sweep tonight to Dudley.”
Elmer said, “You should know that fence-sitters tend to teeter and fall. You should also know that Buzz and me did Dud quite the solid. You know our missing chum, Tommy Glennon? Buzz and me braced him and killed him.”
Ashida teetered. The fence wobbled. The floor dipped.
“What did he tell you?”
“My lips are sealed, boss.”
94
(Los Angeles, 8:30 P.M., 3/10/42)
The boys are back in town.
El Towno said it best. Boyle Heights was T.J. North. It was tacofied territory. It was one big beaner bin.
Hola, fuckers. Here comes trouble. All you wicked Juans and dirty Diegos gonna get shit-kicked tonight.
Elmer and Buzz comprised Two Squad. They wore tin hats and lugged cut-down shotguns. They packed grand-jury subpoenas. Said paperwork was stamped “Alien Sedition Act.”
A paddy wagon trailed them. Two Squad worked the flats upside Lincoln Heights. One Squad and Three Squad were off elsewhere. Three squads, three turf quadrants, three righteous roust lists.
Three three-man rousts. That standardized the sweep. Elmer and Buzz caught three doozies. Chuy “El Perro” Mendez. Frankie “El Cabrón” Carbajal. Carlos “El Cucaracha” Calderon. The Dog, the Fucker, the Cockroach. Suspected 211 men and right-wing nuts. The flats gots to swing tonight.
Two Squad worked north-northeast. Los cholos lived in a tight radius. Elmer and Buzz walked. The paddy wagon chugged in low gear. Elmer was fitfully fucked-up and dizzy distracted.
It was Ashida. It was Ashida’s microdot play. It was Ashida’s gold bar. It was Ashida’s implied double-cross of one Dudley Smith. It was Tommy Glennon, to boot.
Buzz snuffed Tommy, impromptu. That didn’t faze him. They dumped Tommy in the waste dump and let the swamp beasts eat him up. That was likewise okay. But Tommy bleated a klubhaus lead in his pickled prelude to death.
This Jap. Rice and Kapek popped him. He was a “sword man.” He had this queer white-boy pal. The white boy might be a musician. The white boy frequented the jazz strip and poked boys at the haus. The Jap sword-sliced chickens at J-town slop chutes. The Jap licked blood off the swords that he used. The Jap made habeas and was on the loose somewhere.
Elmer teethed the lead. He was fungooed and fucked-up. He was ditzy and diverted. The shotgun weighed ten tons. The tin hat banged his head. He walked the flats, distracted.
He’d witnessed a property log-in. It was late January. Kapek and Rice talked up a sword man. The sword man licked blood off his swords. It disgusted Kapek and Rice.
He checked Alien Squad roust sheets last night. Guess what? No fucking sword man was listed. Guess what? No Jap swords were property-logged during that time span. Guess what? No chicken-killing sword lickers were tagged in the MO file.
He’d read the initial log-in report. He recalled that much. He had the sword man’s name tucked someplace unconscious. Rice and Kapek pulled his paperwork. That had to be it.
The sword man. Hideo Ashida. Cause for ditzy distraction.
He got Jean Staley’s postcards to Ashida. Army SIS just might possess a microdot camera. Him and Ashida worked out a cover story. It explained how he knew all this three-case hullabaloo. It served to cloak his ass with Dudley Smith.
Dig this: