Hideo has omitted and withheld from Dudley. Dudley will not crack unless Hideo cracks first. Dudley sees the Smith-Ashida alliance as a perfect wartime union. Hideo sees it as a vouchsafe of his wartime survival and fugitive sexual urge.
I will rob Hideo of his early-wartime love. I will covertly engage and collaborate with early-wartime fury and racial animus. I will rip Hideo free of Dudley Smith — so help me God.
I am possessed of a ghastly agency here. The war facilitates me; I consider the war to be a dear friend. I worship catastrophe in the manner of the nineteenth-century romantics. Chaos vitalizes me and assigns me tasks. I accede to the fact that this is my personal madness.
The war gave me the great Otto Klemperer and his nightmare story of beating a man to death. The war gave me a small part in the American passage of Shostakovich’s new symphony. The war gave me a brief colloquy with an imbecilic monster.
I’ve been visiting Claire during her dope cure at Terry Lux’s clinic. Jim Davis is now enrolled there. Two male nurses were walking him back from the infirmary. He recognized me from various PD functions and said hi.
I asked him how it felt to betray your country and side with fascist and Communist killers. I asked him why he molested underaged girls. I asked him how it felt to disembowel four human beings and let an innocent man take the rap.
Davis didn’t seem to understand me. Terry most likely had him doped up.
Claire and Chief Jim head the sick list; numerous three-case witnesses top the custody list. Hideo Ashida remains in stir. The internment push has leveled Japanese communities throughout Los Angeles County. City jails, work farms, and barracks shantytowns overflow with imprisoned Japanese. They’ll soon be scoured Jap-free. The exodus to permanent relocation centers will kick into high gear. Hideo Ashida will head northeast to the Owens Valley. Dudley Smith will surely enhance his accommodations. I might run into the Dudster some fine visitors’ day.
Part Four
Manzanar
(March 25–April 2, 1942)
105
(Los Angeles, 8:00 A.M., 3/25/42)
Exodus, 7:14. “And the Lord said unto Moses, Pharaoh’s heart is hardened; he refuses to let the people go.”
He watched. He pointed his binoculars east and tracked the migration. He’d spent his last free night at the Biltmore Hotel. A high terrace supplied the view.
Whole families trudged. They pulled handcarts piled with luggage and folded overcoats. Prowl cars trailed them. FBI men walked alongside. The pickup spot was north-northeast. Army buses revved their engines there.
Ashida watched. He stood by himself. His mother and brother had already been interned. They were sequestered at Heart Mountain. He was Manzanar-bound. The Owens Valley. Up in the Sierras. A two-temperature zone. Broiling heat, freezing cold.
He got off lucky. There would be no Mexican jail or U.S. prison. He sidestepped death by torture and brutal mistreatment. All praise to Dudley Smith.
Manzanar would suit him. Preferential treatment had been arranged. Dudley assured him of that. He canned his I’m catatonic act. They had a nice chat.
He detailed the text of the microdot postcards. He laid out Juan Pimentel’s spy-ring complicity. He did not snitch off the two Lazaro-Schmidts.
Dudley was Constanza’s lover. She was spy-ring complicit. Dudley would or would not determine this for himself.
He played God with Dudley. It was a jilted-lover move. He employed need-to-know tactics with Dudleyesque aplomb. He apologized for killing Pimentel. It left Dudley’s “business fronts” understaffed.
Dudley took it all in. There were no accusations. There were no probes or digs per the murder and no displays of pique.
They embraced. They vowed to retain close contact. Ashida pledged his loyalty.
I’ll remain assiduous. I’ll study any and all files you provide. I’ll press for a three-case solution and shot at the gold.
Dudley said, “Chin up, lad. We’ll both survive and prevail.” Dudley evinced psychopathic good cheer.
That was last night. He trained up from Baja then. He packed one suitcase and ordered a last room-service meal. He slept on the living room couch. Early sunlight roused him.
Ashida walked out. He affixed his blinders and took the back service stairs down. He cut through the lobby and walked north on Olive. The migration was due east. He looped in west of the swarm.
He cut east on 1st Street and passed Central Station. He took a last look up at the crime lab. The pickup spot was dead ahead.
He dawdled over. Two hundred Japanese huddled at 1st and Los Angeles. They pushed off the sidewalk and covered the street. Four buses were double-parked.
Army noncoms cinched luggage to above-the-bus racks. They unloaded handcarts and checked names off clipboard lists. Men, women, children. Knots of four, five, and six. Name tags pinned to overcoats. Families in tight little cliques.
Ashida scanned faces. The Japanese suck it up. The kids stuck close to mom and dad. He saw flat eyes and no spilled tears.
He jostled into the throng. He removed his blinders and donned his Man Camera. He picked out details. People recognized him.
Little girls clutching dolls. Who’s that man there? Little boys clutching toy trucks. It’s Running Dog Ashida.
Name tags pinned to coat lapels. More eyes pinned his way. Old men with canes. Running Dog Traitor. Luggage lashed to bus racks, piled skyscraper high.
He dialed his Man Camera close. He saw men hiss. He saw women dodge his lens. A fat man mimed spitting. A high school boy mimed FUCK YOU.
The boarding commenced. The noncoms herded people onto buses. Ashida stood his ground. Men elbowed and jostled him on purpose. Spit globs hit his coat. He heard Shudo/Werewolf/Watanabe. The crowd thinned a bit. He Man Camera’d the sidewalk and saw them.
Bill Parker. Elmer Jackson. Kay Lake.
They smiled at him. They waved at him. They made no moves to screw it up with words. His eyes clouded over. Tears doused his camera lens.
Two noncoms approached him. They called him Dr. Ashida. They said something about Major Smith and sitting up front.
Ashida waved to his friends. Elmer Jackson bayed like a hound dog. Kay Lake blew him a kiss.
The driver and gun guard gabbed. It was all baseball and promiscuous Wacs. They’d rigged up a jump seat. Ashida sat between them. Wire mesh closed off the hoi polloi Japs.
They looked forlorn and apprehensive. They played it stoic. They saw Ashida up front with the round eyes. Ashida supplied thought balloons. Race traitor/white man’s tool/running dog.
The bus rolled through L.A. and San Berdoo counties. Ashida’s bus took the pole spot. Three buses trailed it. The gun guard yakked Ashida up.
Manzanar ain’t too bad. The weather bites Chihuahua dicks. Families get housed all together. The mess halls are done up homey. You can plant your own garden. There’s Christian and Shinto chapels. There’s work assignments. Kids go to school.
That Major Smith’s a sketch. That’s some brogue he’s got. He’s got swell quarters set up for you.