Ashida arrived early. He wanted to reconnoiter. He wanted to check his photo device.
He got out and examined it. The trip wire stretched the full carport width. The photo housing was dust-streaked. It appeared operational. He pressed levers and heard car-tire thuds. The picture tube showed three rear license plates.
Two Baja diplomatic plates. One U.S./state of California plate.
Ashida memorized the numbers. He walked up to the house and unlocked the door. He had his own keys. Dudley trusted him.
The front room was breezy cool. Dudley kept the windows open. The telephone still worked. Dudley saw to that.
Pimentel was late. Ashida left the door cracked. He’d hear Kamerad #1 arrive.
Ashida dialed the Mexican Motor Vehicle Bureau. A male clerk took the call. Ashida cited his Army rank and serial number. He stiffed the plate request and stressed diplomatic.
The clerk went Un momento. Ashida eyed the door. The clerk came back on the line. He kicked loose the name and address stats.
Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. Constanza Lazaro-Schmidt. Two La Paz addresses.
Ashida hung up and dialed the Ensenada operator. He asked her for a stateside hookup. The main DMV in Los Angeles. Person-to-person. The head clerk, por favor.
The operator Sí, sí’d him. Ashida hung up and eyed the door. Pimentel was late-late now. The phone rang inside three minutes. Ashida jumped on the call.
He laid out his Army credentials. He recited the plate number. The clerk had him hold the line.
He held. He watched the door. The clerk came back on the line. She kicked loose the name and address stats.
Claire Katherine De Haven. A 1910 DOB. A Beverly Hills address.
Ashida hung up. The room warmed up. He walked to the back window and took some deep breaths.
He counted lies, omissions, distortions. What he’d told Dudley. What he hadn’t told Dudley. Joan’s diary. The East L.A. sweep. His end run with Elmer Jackson. His microdot findings. What he learned about Juan Piment—
“Alone at last. However you might judge me, you can’t say that I haven’t been patient.”
Ashida wheeled. Pimentel wore Statie black. His tunic was custom-tailored. Silver daggers marked the Waffen-SS. Braided shoulder boards marked the Red Guard.
Ashida said, “Should I call you Reichsführer? I don’t know the equivalent rank in the Russian Army.”
Pimentel blew a kiss. “You’ll call me sweetie pie in just a few minutes, once you’ve seen what I have to show you.”
Ashida backed away. He bumped a window sash and froze. Pimentel crooked one finger and walked past him. He turned down a short hallway.
He sashayed. He rolled his hips. He did mambo steps and went Tra-la-la. Ashida followed him. The hallway dead-ended ten feet ahead. Brushed-oak panels. No doors inset. A tight cul-de-sac.
Pimentel tapped a wall plank. A panel slid back. Ashida saw pulleys and hinges. A dark space opened up.
Pimentel said, “Kyoho was quite the pack rat. Dudley never discovered this little cache.”
Ashida caught up. Pimentel pulled a light cord. Presto — cul-de-sac, cubbyhole, closet.
It’s six feet wide and deep. It holds period costumes. They’re all nineteenth century and displayed on wall pegs. Pastel silk gowns. Cossack cavalry wear. German Navy kit. Imperial couture. The czarist era. The reign of Otto von Bismarck.
Pimentel giggled. “Does it make you feel special? There’s really just a very few of us who know.”
“Like the Lazaro-Schmidts? Like Claire De Haven?”
Pimentel went tsk, tsk. “The disapproving American. Ever so judgmental. He can’t see through to the roots of what we have here. It’s like your national treasure, the motel. Couples dress up to meet in sordid little places. We have this snazzy dressing room, and a surfeit of bedrooms upstairs.”
Ashida said, “Couples?”
Pimentel touched his coat sleeve. Ashida pulled away. Pimentel went tsk, tsk.
“Well, the Lazaro-Schmidts are a couple, however much you might disapprove. And Claire met José Vasquez-Cruz here, up to the point that he was revealed to be a Communist priest-killer, and our gorgeous comrade Dudley killed him. People come here to don costumes, and who can blame them? We all want to be something more beautiful and gilded than what we really are.”
Ashida shuddered. “What costume will you wear? Are you a comrade or a Reichsführer at this moment?”
“That’s hardly the question. The question is what you’ll wear.”
Ashida froze. Pimentel leaned close and kissed him. Ashida grasped his arms and opened his mouth. He felt Pimentel’s tongue. He felt Pimentel’s hand between his legs.
He kissed back. He smelled mothballs and old wool. He shut his eyes and saw Bucky and Dudley. He opened his eyes and saw the moles on Pimentel’s eyelids. He smelled talc and cheap aftershave.
He stifled a screech. He shut his eyes. He clamped down and bit Pimentel’s tongue off. Blood burst into his mouth. Pimentel screeched. Ashida pulled his piece and emptied the clip.
Pimentel pitched and flailed. He took down a row of hatboxes. He smashed into mothball sachets and gold brocade gowns.
102
(Los Angeles, 3/12–3/25/42)
This kiss.
His first kiss with Ruth. It started something. Kay told him she peeped the event and saw worlds implode. He hasn’t forsaken Brenda, Ellen, or hot-damn Annie Staples. Ruth hasn’t forsaken her hot-damn yen for both girls and boys. Kay told him about this other kiss. That kiss got him all brain-broiled.
Kay visited Hideo Ashida. He was plunked in the Army stockade outside T.J. Dudley extracted him from the Statie jail. The beaner cops popped him and held him there. He snuffed that Juan Pimentel cat. Hideo Ashida, tagged for Murder One.
The Mex cops tortured Hideo. They beat him and attached electrodes to his balls. They installed hungry rats in his cell. The Dudster wangled a writ and secured him a stockade berth. Kay saw him there. Hideo was woozed up on morphine. The Army docs prescribed it for his thumped-upon head. Kay asked him why he juked Pimentel. Hideo babbled, “This kiss.”
“This Kiss” tweaked him. It cinched him up to “This Case” and all the attendant queer shit. Queer Tommy Glennon. Queer Joe Hayes. Queer Huey Cressmeyer and queer klubhaus traffic. Pimentel got snared in a queer-bar raid. San Diego, ’37. That cinch-up cinched numerous threads.
He goosed Thad Brown. Thad record-checked Captain Juan, back to his bassinette. He glommed El Juan’s Statie file and some adjunct paperwork. Pithy dish was revealed.
Pimentel studied in Krautland. He attended Dresden Polytechnic, circa ’35. Class lists came with the paperwork. Wallace Jamie, Mondo Díaz, and Padre Joe Hayes were Dresden alums. Pimentel studied relay-telephone techniques. That cinched him up to a slew of pay-phone snafus. Pimentel studied microdot technology. Pimentel hobknobbed with Nazis and Reds at that Baja shindig. That cinched him to this whole shit-shrouded conspiracy.
Hideo killed him at Kyoho Hanamaka’s place. He called the Staties and surrendered right there. Pimentel — microdot whiz. Hideo — forensic whiz. Microdot postcards. The Staley-Jackson snafu. Hideo’s pledge to decode them postcards.
The overall dish strained his brain waves. He dished it straight back to Kay. She dished Bill Parker. Whiskey Bill dished Thad Brown. They held an All-Dish Summit at Lyman’s. Buzz Meeks joined them. They made no progress toward a three-case solve.
Ace Kwan dished some dish. Ace said Dudley pentothaled Jim Davis. Chief Jim revealed gibberish. Dud ensconced him at the Terry Lux nut farm. Jim’s got congestive heart disease. Jim’s going through the DTs. Jim’s tick-tight with Mondo Díaz. Jim’s cinched to the left-right combine. Sieg Heil, you fat sack of shit.