“Are the refreshments to your liking, Captain?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I thought you might appear at the grand jury. The Watanabe job was your overall command.”
“My testimony would have proved redundant. You were the lead investigator.”
“Yes, but I thought you might have felt compelled to present an alternative solution.”
“Your solution was expedient and stunningly crafted — if speciously reasoned and fallacious in your presumption of guilt.”
Dudley laughed. “Aaahh, there’s our impasse.”
Cantwell coughed. “You boys quell your differences. We’re five good Catholic men here to get shit-faced.”
Hayes said, “Hear! Hear!”
Coughlin said, “Let the Japs kill the Japs with impunity, then fry the Jap who killed the Japs in the first place.”
Cantwell said, “Dud’s spoiling for a tiff. The Mexican sun’s broiling that grand brain of his.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Mexico’s an opportunity in search of a solution, Your Eminence. On that note, I should add that Father Coughlin’s friend Salvador Abascal did me quite the favor recently.”
Coughlin said, “Salvador’s quite the lad. An honorary mick, that one. I’ll set up a feed the next time I’m in T.J.”
Nuns wheeled in a steam tray. Dinner is served. It was god-awful corned beef and cabbage. It smelled like canned dog food.
The clerics dug in. Dudley cracked a window. Cabbage fumes dispersed.
Parker flashed the malocchio. He was half-tanked. Dudley evil-eyed him back. Parker blinked first.
Frat-boy antics. Such cheap diversion. Wholly indecorous and undignified.
Joan Conville wisped by. Dudley caught her musk and savored it. She crashed his dreams most nights.
Bill Parker entraps young women. It’s one per month now. His patronage carries a price. It creates exploitable rage.
Joe Hayes ignored his food. He checked his watch once per second. Monsignor Joe possessed family money. He kept a beachfront apartment. He held all-male retreats there.
Hayes stood up and murmured good-byes. The gang waved and laced back to their grub. Dudley ticked off thirty seconds and excused himself.
He walked outside. He caught Hayes in the rectory lot. Family money. Such a smart roadster. Wire wheels and red leather seats.
The engine throbbed. Hayes looked up and fluttered. Dudley reached in and cut back the key. The engine coughed and died.
“Hot date, Monsignor?”
“I don’t care for your tone, Dud.”
“Where’s Tommy Glennon, Monsignor? I won’t comment on your relationship, but I do need to see him.”
Hayes wore driving gloves and a puce muffler. They clashed with his penguin suit.
“Tommy comes and goes as he pleases. I’m his confessor, not his nursemaid. I haven’t seen him since he left San Quentin.”
Blunt lies. This sacrosanct fairy. Not some thug you rubber-hose.
“You’re Bill Parker and my Claire’s confessor, as well. I’d pay good money to hear their confessions.”
Hayes smoothed his muffler. His clan assimilated. He left his brogue in Galway, 1919.
“I’m your confessor, to boot. You surely have much to tell me, if Bill Parker is to be believed.”
“I’m beyond sin, Monsignor. I was killing Black-and-Tans when you were in the seminary. I’m bucking for Pope Pius’ job. Do you think the Vatican Council will grant me a dispensation to fuck women?”
Hayes laughed. “Check the rightist mailing lists. Tommy’s quite the avid reader. You might get a line on him that way.”
Dudley flicked the key. The engine purred.
Hayes donned a tweed cap. “ ‘Pride goeth before a fall,’ Dudley. Not everyone fears you. Men like you tend to trip and fall in the shit.”
35
(Los Angeles, 9:30 P.M., 1/26/42)
Joan walked home. She felt dream-smacked and wispy.
She cut west on 1st Street. She crossed Bunker Hill and bypassed Belmont High. She caught wisps of Hideo Ashida. He ran track at Belmont. Gold dust wisped by.
She floated. She drank two terp vials back at the lab. It was blackout dark and cool-evening still.
Faces popped here and there. She saw Dudley Smith and Bill Parker. Terp had that effect. It unlocked doors and let you peek in.
Joan cut north on Carondelet. Her courtyard was blackout black/shades drawn/we do our part. She got out her keys. She heard, “Hello, lass.”
She dropped her purse. He caught it and stood up. He’d camped out on her steps and popped up in the dark.
Tall. The trim-cut Army uniform. The cross-draw .45.
Joan mimicked his brogue. “ ‘Lass,’ is it? Not ‘Miss Conville’? How long have you been in America? Shouldn’t you have lost your accent by now?”
“That’s a great many questions. I’ll note that you didn’t ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ ”
Joan unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Dudley followed her in. She tracked his eyes. She saw him catch this:
Her framed diplomas. Her mounted shotguns. Her sepia prints of Big Earle. Her microscope and chemistry texts.
“Policeman’s daughter, are you? That man in the photographs is wearing a badge.”
“You’ve dimmed the brogue, Captain. And, yes, my father was the game warden of Monroe County, Wisconsin.”
Dudley singled out the diplomas. “I admire scientists. I know nothing of science, so I stand naïve and admiring before those of your stripe.”
Joan smiled. “Call me naïve, Captain. I can’t see you as a supplicant outside of church, and even then I’d have doubts.”
Dudley said, “And I’m sure you doubt the probity of this visit.”
Joan said, “I’ve narrowed it down. You were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d drop by. You’re monitoring your longtime nemesis, Bill Parker, and you’d like a hand with that task. Lastly, you’d like to screw me, which is a motive that I’ve encountered before.”
Dudley bowed. He mimed Hideo Ashida. The little Jap taught the big Irishman style.
“One drink, then. That’s my motive. Before you ask, I’ll concede that I called the lab for your address.”
Joan walked to the kitchen. She took some deep breaths and poured two double scotches. Her hands shook.
She carried the drinks back. Dudley sat on the couch. He skimmed a typed manuscript. Lee Blanchard leaked it to her. “Beethoven and Luther,” by Katherine Lake.
“Reading up on a rival, are you?”
Joan sat beside Dudley. She tossed Kay’s manuscript on the floor and handed him his drink. She caught his fine French cologne.
“Kay’s deft. She’s mad to attribute meaning, which is a trait that good scientists share.”
They lit cigarettes. They sipped scotch. Her float intensified. A thunderstorm kicked in. A window breeze tossed her hair.
“Your father looks like a bold lad. You used ‘was’ to describe him. Has he left us?”
Joan said, “He died in a fire, back in ’38. I’ve spent some time investigating it. I need to go back and reassess my notes. I’m not giving up.”
Dudley said, “I’ve heard reports of the charred box unearthed in Griffith Park. The genesis of your great interest comes into focus now.”
“Hideo Ashida reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”
Dudley went Tu salud. “I live to attribute meaning. By your lights, it makes me as one with scientists and unschooled essayists.”
Joan crushed her cigarette. “Should I bluntly note the genesis of that? Your dirt-poor childhood in Dublin? The gun money you funneled to then-Monsignor Cantwell? The Ulster Constabulary men you’ve killed?”