He was at Joan Conville’s place. He was hot to pour Big Joan the pork. Joan was terped up. She was burbling, out of her gourd. She kept mumbling shit about the gold and her diary. He found the diary and read it. He learned everything. He put the diary back where he found it. He bid Joan adieu and waltzed off, unlaid.
The story played goooooood. It jibed with Ashida’s lie to Dudley. Joan burned the diary. She was suicide-fevered. Ashida found that burned-page mess.
The rousts proceeded. The Cockroach went easy. Papa Roach fumed. Mama Roach wrung rosary beads and went Aaay, caramba. The Cockroach submitted to cuffing and shackling. Elmer gave him a cigar. They hoisted him into the paddy wagon and split for El Casa de Perro.
The Dog went easy. Mama and Papa Dog whimpered and retreated. El Perro wore a Sir Guy shirt and slit-bottom khakis. He submitted to cuffing and shackling. Buzz gave him a cigar. They hoisted him into the paddy wagon and hit El Casa de Cabrón.
The Fucker went rough. He tried to run and tripped over a lamp stand. Buzz grabbed his hair and smashed his face on the floor. Elmer cuffed him. Buzz shackled him. Mama and Papa Fucker evinced boredom. They were blitzed on white port and lemon juice.
The extraction went rough. The Fucker flailed and kicked. They tossed him in the paddy wagon. Elmer sat on his legs. Buzz sat on his head. The Dog and Cockroach haw-hawed. The driver cop hauled for Hollenbeck Station.
Four bluesuits met them. They grappled the punks through the jail door and got them ensconced. The Dog and the Cockroach went in the drunk tank. One Squad’s and Three Squad’s geeks were already there. That made eight geeks, all in all. They whooped and demanded their rights. A colored trusty slapped them around.
The blues dumped the Fucker in sweatbox #2. Buzz recuffed him to a chair. Oooh — what’s that on his right hand?
It’s a coiled-snake tattoo. It’s El Symbol of Sinarquismo. This mandates some thought.
Elmer ducked down to the file room. He tapped the C cabinet and pulled Frankie Carbajal’s sheet. Aaay, caramba. Frankie peddled maryjane, Frankie 211’d bodegas, Frankie whipped his chorizo out on women.
That was it. Just one file sheet. No Fed routing stamps. No subversive rebop noted. No KA list attached.
Elmer walked back to the sweatbox. Frankie was trussed to that chair. Buzz rode a matching chair and skunk-eyed him. Elmer pulled a chair close and relit a cigar.
Buzz lit a cigar. He got it going good. The sweatbox fumed up. Frankie cough-coughed.
“You guys are sadistic. I’ve got asthma. Those cigars aren’t doing me any good.”
Buzz said, “Did you catch Frankie’s tattoo?”
Elmer nodded. “We got that to consider, along with the fact that Frankie’s a whipout man.”
Buzz said, “I’ll bet he habituates schoolyards and whips it out on little kids.”
Frankie said, “I whipped it out on Eleanor Roosevelt. She was serving cookies and punch at some crippled kid’s gig in the Heights.”
Elmer said, “A whipout man’s a whipout man. I don’t see no distinction between kids and our swell First Lady.”
Frankie squirmed in his chair. He looked consumptive. He sported a hairnet conk. His zoot pants rode up to his sternum.
“I whipped it out on Ann Sheridan and the Liltin’ Martha Tilton. They were at this war-bond drive on Hollywood Boulevard. I escaped into the crowd and whipped it out on a B-girl at the Firefly Lounge.”
Elmer sighed. Buzz sighed. Elmer uncuffed and unshackled Frankie. Buzz slipped on sap gloves.
“Your whipout escapades don’t interest us. Your tattoo interests us. There’s some names we’d like to run by you. There’s a certain spot on East 46th Street that we’d sure like to discuss. Fifth Column shit’s a hot topic these days, and we’d sure like to hear your thoughts about that.”
Frankie rubbed his wrists and ankles. Frankie said, “Viva Sinarquismo. Chinga tu madre.”
Buzz roundhoused him. One slap/ten-ounce palm weights/see Frankie fly. El Whipout Man whipped off the chair and hit the floor flat on his back. Buzz stepped on his neck and pinned him supine. Elmer read him the riot act.
“Here’s where you determine your fate, son. Prompt answers get you a cozy cell and a shot at a kick-out. Horseshit and jive gets you a bunk in the fruit tank at Lincoln Heights. Gene ‘the Mean Queen’ Kefalvian’s in custody there. He goes for Mexican shrimps like you.”
Buzz released his foot. Frankie coughed and rubbed his neck. Elmer helped him up and sat him back in his chair. Buzz slipped off his sap gloves and pat-patted him on the head.
“I’ll take the cozy cell and the shot at a kick-out. I saw Gene the Queen fight Chuco Ortiz at the Olympic. He put a drubbing on him.”
Buzz said, “Señor Carbajal’s no dummy.”
Elmer said, “Señor Carbajal’s on the Fed’s subversive list, or he wouldn’t have been on our roust list. He’s got no routing tags on his green sheet here, so I’m guessing that all the Feds have got on him is his membership in them goofy Sinarquistas.”
Buzz cracked his knuckles. “Let’s see what Señor Carbajal has to say about that.”
Frankie flashed three fingers downward. It was Klan kode. It meant KKK. This beat-on beaner aped redneck rubes.
“I say ‘¡Viva Sinarquismo!’ I say, ‘¡Sinarquismo por vida!’ ”
Buzz relit his cigar. “Let’s note Frankie’s point, and get to them names.”
Elmer said, “Let’s start with Archie Archuleta. He’s Mex, and he hails from Frankie’s neck of the woods.”
Frankie snapped his suspenders. “I knew Archie. He’s dead now, and he got snuffed along with two cops — which is sure as shit what all this is about.”
Buzz said, “Frankie’s quick on the uptake.”
Elmer said, “Don’t stop there, Frankie.”
Frankie fluffed out his conk. It glistened with Lucky Tiger pomade.
“Archie recruited Mexican boys for La Causa. He pulled them out of the CYO at St. Vibiana’s. This priest named Joe Hayes ran the St. Vib’s chapter. He was a Coughlinite and a big Sinarquista contributor, not to mention a big sissy. He was poking this crazy Tommy Glennon guy up the culo. I didn’t know Tommy too good. He was just a face in the right-flank crowd.”
Elmer said, “The klubhaus. 46th, just east of Central. Wendell Rice, George Kapek, and a cop named Cal Lunceford.”
Frankie shrugged. “I dropped in for visits. A bunch of my fellow Greenshirts did, and so what? I won’t give up no active shirts, but I’ll tell you I hardly knew Rice and Kapek, and Lunceford didn’t show up there all that much. He was a keep-to-himself sort of guy. They all took the blood oath and joined La Causa, but they’re dead now, so who cares?”
Elmer said, “Let’s get this out of the way. We all know a Jap spy killed Lunceford, and you’ve got no goddamn idea who killed Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta.”
Frankie said, “Sí. Es la verdad, muchacho.”
Buzz slipped on his sap gloves. “Son, I don’t like you telling us who or what you won’t give up, and you trying to set the terms of this here interrogation.”
Frankie flashed the Klan sign. Frankie flexed his coiled-snake tattoo.
“I curse your syphilitic mama, Tex. I curse your white Protestant-oppressor ancestors going back six generations, and—”
Buzz roundhoused him. Teeth and gold bridgework flew. Ditto blood. Ditto gum flaps. Ditto a slice of his tongue.
Frankie pitched backward. The chair jerked loose of its struts. Frankie crashed into the wall. The chair toppled. Buzz balled his fists and cocked big left-rights.