Wooo — that’s a hot one. It’s a Code 3 Alert.
Annie patted her mouth. “Claire what’s-her-name bores me. Tell me more about Mr. Welles.”
She was goooooooooood. She neon-beamed SHAKEDOWN. Ed the Fed was out to jack Reds. Fey Edgar Hoover loathed Orson Welles. It was common-knowledge drift.
Old Saul popped a boner. Annie google-eyed the event. The bedsheet stretched and held taut.
“That ogre William Randolph Hearst is out to fuck Orson for Citizen Kane. Conversely, I would add that Orson would surely love to fuck you.”
34
(Los Angeles, 3:00 A.M., 1/25/42)
Pub crawl. Movie shitbirds slumming. We’re at Kwan’s “O” den. It’s open-all-nite.
Amateur pipe fiends hold sway. Orson Welles and Ann Sheridan. Plus froufrou hairdressers and prop boys. They’re film geeks hot to restage Fantasia.
They settled on pallets. Seasoned Chinks ignored them. They sucked smoke and coughed a great deal.
Dudley and Uncle Ace watched. They rode chairs upside a back wall. Ace wore a KILL THE JAPS T-shirt and an I AM NOT A JAP armband.
Fumes drifted over. Dudley breathed deep.
“I would summarize as follows, my brother. The plan entails corrupting, usurping, and co-opting the Ensenada contingent of the Mexican State Police, under Captain José Vasquez-Cruz. Once accomplished, we would create a mass exodus of wetback workers, to pick crops at San Joaquin Valley farms.”
Ace said, “I listen raptly, my Irish brother. Please tell me more.”
Dudley clocked Orson Welles. Fat Boy purportedly fucked Claire. They coupled at Terry Lux’s clinic. Rumors persist.
“Mexico will ditch its neutral stance in May, and throw in with the Allies. A guest-worker program will go into effect in August. It will be signed into law by our Governor Olsen, and Baja’s governor, Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. It will effectively legalize slave immigration, and all attendant profits will bypass us. We need to preempt and supersede the program with our own wetback exports.”
Ace pissed in a drainage sluice. He was earthy. He exemplified the hearty-peasant aesthetic. He possessed a cashew-sized dick.
“I still listen raptly. Please tell me more.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “We’ll take handsome kickbacks from the farmers and attach our wets’ wages. We’ll house the more educated wets in the dwellings of interned Japs and grab a percentage of the rent they pay, along with a percentage of their wages from the better jobs they secure. Conversely, we will reduce the Jap population of Baja through a concerted internment effort, and will seek U.S. government assistance in housing Mexican Japs in U.S. internment centers. We will house rich Mexican Japs here in Los Angeles, under your Chinese protection. The reduced Jap population in Baja will alleviate the specter of coastal sabotage and infiltration, which will fulfill my Army mandate.”
Ace said, “Kill the Japs.”
“A hearty and well-informed sentiment, my brother.”
Ace laughed. Dudley clocked a peep show. Ann Sheridan hopped on Fat Boy’s pallet. She tossed her hair and went for his fly.
“I find Captain Vasquez-Cruz problematic, and Claire agrees with me. He’s inherited Carlos Madrano’s heroin business, and we’ve struck an alliance of sorts. El Capitán has welcomed me to Baja, but I suspect that he has designs on my designs. This brings us to our long-lost pal, Kyoho Hanamaka.”
“I keep eye down here. No Hanamaka. No tickee, no washee.”
“O” fumes circulated. Dudley caught wisps. He drifted a bit. He dream-caressed the gold bayonet.
“Hanamaka disappeared on December 18. He should have been detained on Pearl Harbor day, which leads me to believe that he was allowed to remain at large. It now appears as though he’s faked his own death. He’s the logical man to run sabotage operations in Baja, and I’m determined to capture him. Our ventures in Baja will succeed in direct proportion to my success in interdicting the Baja Fifth Column.”
Ace said, “You interdict, we make money. Good tickee-washee there.”
Dudley said, “We’ve picked up code calls from here to Baja. There’s allegedly hidden air bases in Indio and Brawley. It may or may not be credible innuendo. Should the former be true, I would tag Hanamaka my number-one suspect.”
Ace squinted. The dope fumes stung his eyes.
“You think Staties help Hanamaka escape? Maybe Vasquez-Cruz help? You get proof and extort his greaseball ass? We take over ‘H’ trade then?”
Dudley smiled. “Great minds think alike, my Chinese brother.”
Ace bowed. “Tommy Glennon. He remain at large also?”
“Yes, and vexingly so. He was Carlos Madrano’s boy, and he’s a long-standing Mex-o-phile. He could very well fall prey to the charms of José Vasquez-Cruz.”
“Tommy kill Eddie Leng. You think so, Dudster?”
“Yes. It’s likely, but I don’t know why.”
“I rubber-hose Don Matsura. He don’t know shit. I fake suicide. Hang that Jap fucker in his cell.”
Dudley whooped. Ace was a good dog. Ace always fetched.
“Tommy’s been out in the vapors since New Year’s. I don’t see how he could have done it without professional help. My instincts tell me that he’s in Baja, and that Hanamaka’s here.”
Ace said, “Tommy Fifth Column. Crazy fuckers jungled up in strange ways.”
Dudley said, “He’s Catholic Fifth Column, my brother. Sadly, I see more sinister forces at play.”
Fat Boy’s pallet shook. He squealed and bit his pillow. Lovely Ann wiped her chin and zipped him up.
Whiskey Bill fought the booze. He had one drink. Then one more drink. His thirst persisted. Dudley watched him dither and succumb.
Stag dinner at St. Vib’s. Archbishop Cantwell hosted. Joe Hayes slurred the kikes and the prods. Father Coughlin slurred the frogs and the coons. Every man jack slurred the Japs.
The Archbishop’s study. Packed with golf-themed artwork. Golf as holy sacrament. Heretical horseshit.
Deep chairs bid sleep. Parker bid scrutiny. Dudley yawned. He took bennies yesterday. He charged thirty-six hours straight.
He read Alien Squad files and trawled for notes on Hanamaka. No mentions popped up. He walked J-town and flashed his Baja file pic. Hanamaka? Me no see him. He logged that response, ceaselessly.
He issued a U.S. APB. All points/hold and detain. His mind churned. He teethed on the gold bayonet.
It’s provenance. The who/the why/the upscut. He indulged fantasy. He merged reality. Who first possessed the gold? Who forged the bayonet? He recalled a mint-train job. It went down in the spring of ’31. The job stood unsolved. It felt non sequitur. Impecunious heist men and gold fenced down in value. Gold now long gone.
Cantwell said, “Dud’s tired. He’s been yawning since he walked in the door.”
Hayes said, “He’s got one eye fixed on Bill, though. Those two share a history.”
Cantwell said, “Like Scylla and Charybdis. Evenly matched apparitions in the Old Testament.”
Hayes said, “Greek mythology, Your Eminence.”
Coughlin said, “Lay off the ‘Greek,’ Joe. You’ll get all fluttered.”
Hayes blanched and gulped. Coughlin winked at Cantwell. Dudley tweaked Whiskey Bill.