The phone rang. Ashida grabbed the receiver. Static cut off his “Hello?” Dudley was Dudleyesque. His blunt approach channeled Kommisar Kay.
“You’ve been among the missing, lad. I’ve gotten secondhand reports, from Al Wilhite, but I haven’t heard from you.”
Ashida cleared his throat. “I wanted to conclude my interviews before I reported. I’m sorry if it inconvenienced you.”
“Hanamaka’s dead, lad. Lieutenant Wilhite just called me. You won’t be seeing our fair Kyoho again.”
Man Camera. Let’s frame this moment. There’s the dark room. There’s his window view. It’s all snow and prison-camp searchlights.
“He gave up nothing of note. He was incoherent most of the time, and he gave up nothing we hadn’t already learned.”
Dudley sighed. “The gold? The cabal’s chain of command?”
Ashida said, “No. The decadent behavior at the klubhaus amused him, and he provided me with a great many anecdotes. We spoke at length three times. It was very frustrating.”
Dudley sighed. “Soldier on, lad. Study the files I sent you. Put that grand brain of yours to the task.”
Ashida said, “I’m sorry, Dudley.”
Dudley said, “I know you are. I hear it in your voice.”
The line went dead. Ashida stifled a sob. Kommisar Kay had it right. There’s no alternative. It’s everything or nothing.
Part Five
Realpolitik
(April 3–28, 1942)
The El Lay Lowdown. Volume I, issue 4. Our motto? “All the news that’s unfit to print.” April 3, 1942 issue. Surreptitiously circulated since November 1941. Our serpentine circulation: 461 paid subscribers, and climbing via vile word of mouth. Dedicated to the proposition that YOU WANT THE DISH. All items written by Party Peeper 69. Subscription rate: $20.00 per year. Direct all inquiries to PO Box 69, Terminal Annex, Los Angeles.
Peeper 69 last left you in Nazi-nullified Paris, France. There was no need for insinuating initials in my climactic close-out piece. The frazzled frogs can’t lasso me with libel suits from across the U-boat-undulating Atlantic. I joltingly j’accused piano putz ALFRED CORTOT of hunkering down with the Huns. I ditzed divaesque DANIELLE DARRIEUX for bedding down with the Boche. Cello cheese PIERRE FOURNIER? Shacked between the sheets with fetching filmstress LENI RIEFENSTAHL.
A barrage of bilious letters urged me to can the travelogues. If it ain’t happening in El Lay, it ain’t happening. Peeper 69 aims to please his rapacious readers. This issue repugnantly returns us to loopy Los Angeles — but with a twitchy twist.
The El Lay Lowdown speciously specializes in Hollywood dirt. Plus pulsing political scandals and the annihilating antics of El Lay socialites. Our regular “Police Blotter” feature features yet more Tinseltown tattle. And this issue turgidly turns its spotlight on the El Lay Police Department’s most sinfully sinister and snaggled snafu.
Hear those surging saxophones and cloying clarinets? They announce the boogie beat of a big southside murder case. Dead men tell no tales — but we’ve got three stagnant stiffs grousing from the grave. Bent cops W.R. & G.K. demand justice; their Mex muchacho A.A. shrieks in español. Carrion cops case the corpses and lick their lips. This job’s a maximum moneymaker and a shot to unseat J.H. as Chief.
W.H.P. Don’t trust this guy. He’ll sell his soul for the pomp of power and college cooze. Don’t trust H.A. He’s a Mr. Moto manqué and a jittery Jap. Don’t trust pustulant policeman M.B. He’s in league with furtive Fed E.S. There’s a tapped telephone at a Chinatown eatery habituated by hellhound cops. M.B. and E.S. conspire via wire. Mr. B. rats out his maladroit mentor, that hellbound Hibernian hatchet man — D.S. himself.
D.S. is the duped deus ex machina of our dreary drama. Fifth Column finagling defines the big murder case. Caustic Commies M.G. and J.S. frame the fray. Feckless fascists W.J. and J.H. have joined them. Sicknik Sinarquista S.A. is playing D.S. for the fool. We’ve got riotous Reds and nutty Nazis galore. We’ve got farshtinkener factions out to glom gorgeous garlands of gold. Greed and graft, kats and kittens. Peeper 69’s put his paws on the pulse of this story. He knows allllllllll about that perv party at the Maestro’s manse in the winter of ’39. She was really a He, and who can blame D.S. for taking ultimate umbrage? Thank heaven M.B & fellow cop D.C. cleaned up the mess.
It’s hurtling to a head, dear readers. E.S. is under house arrest; H.A.’s joined the Jap diaspora and has been shipped out to Manzanar. Seditionist psychiatrist S.L. has been pounded by the police. Ex-Chief J.E.D. mutters murderous murmurs at a swank beachside retreat. Quo vadis, D.S.? You’re the creepy crux of our drama. You’ve been spread cruciform, and demons of your own devising are coming for you.
118
(Los Angeles, 2:00 P.M., 4/4/42)
Double play. This raid and the scandal-rag blast. The rags went out, first-class mail. They should bull’s-eye today.
And there’s Bev’s. It’s straight across Fountain. It’s transmitting Raid Me rays.
Elmer watched the door. Bill Parker watched the door. They sat in Bill’s civilian sled. They brought shotguns and pry bars. It’s a smash-and-seize job.
Parker smelled like Kay. That musky scent she wore. Elmer got all flustered and jealous. He teethed on them as bedmates. It hurt baaaaaad. He teethed on Wayne Frank Alive for relief.
Wayne Frank Alive hurt. He teethed on Ruth in the Kip. She’ll call when she calls. That was her artiste’s way. He teethed on Doc Lesnick. Thad Brown got a tip. Doc Saul ensconced himself at Terry Lux’s place. He had company there. As in Claire De Haven and gaga Jim Davis.
Salvador Abascal. Teethe on that dink. He sprung Díaz, Carbajal, and Santarolo. He got them habeas. They waltzed out of Fed custody and rewaltzed back to Baja. That was baaaaad grapevine. Here’s the gooooood grapevine. Fletch B. got preemptive acquitted. The grand jury pulled their true bills.
All charges were dropped. Mass acquittals were predicted. Guess who jump-started that shit.
Parker said, “I’m getting antsy.”
Elmer said, “What’s wrong with right now?”
They grabbed their gear. Riot guns and hefty pry bars. They ditched the sled and jaywalked. The front door stood open. They walked right in.
Raid Me rays? — shit. Here’s what they got:
Mail-Drop Holocaust. Mail-Drop Inferno. Mail-Drop Mud Slide. All the mail slots were spread wide. There was no mail stuffed inside.
Elmer orbed the walls. Whiskey Bill, ditto. They saw open file drawers and no files visible. Plus open desk drawers in plain sight.
Plus Blow Job Bev and Wallace Jamie, perched in deck chairs. Looking smug. You can’t seize vapors. You can’t raid stale air.
Parker said, “You were tipped.”
Jamie said, “People talk. Word travels. Fellow travelers travel, too.” Bev giggled and flipped them the bird.
Parker went for Jamie. He kicked his chair over and smashed his head on the floor. Jamie bitch-yelped. Parker kicked him in the balls and cuffed his hands behind his back. Bev jumped up and whore-yelped. Her deck chair capsized.
Elmer scoped the room. He saw juncture cracks behind the file banks. He dropped his pump gun and ran to the east wall. He jammed his pry bar behind the A to D bank and pulled.