Dudley said, “Bill Parker reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”
Joan laughed. “Sometimes I don’t want the war to end. If it ends, people will fall back into their old circumspect ways. They won’t talk as much and delight me as much and give me all this crazy drift to attribute meaning to. We’re the end result of our curiosities and the extent to which they’re sated. Has that ever occurred to you?”
Dudley said, “Yes, it has.”
“I’ve begun to see the war as an opportunity. The realization confounds me.”
Dudley said, “I understand.”
“I’m starting to see how far I’ll go to get what I want. It’s exhilarating beyond anything that I’ve ever experienced.”
Dudley said, “I know.”
Joan touched his captain’s bars. She held on his eyes. She said, “I was a Navy lieutenant for ten seconds.”
Dudley smiled. Joan leaned in and kissed him.
They kept the light off and the windowpanes up. Rain hit frayed screens and sprayed them. The breeze cooled their sweat.
It rained all night. They made love all night. They talked in between.
Don’t you have a wife and kids somewhere?
In Van Nuys, I think. I forget my daughters’ names sometimes.
Those scars on your back. What happened there?
Some Ulstermen hooked me up to a truck battery. I broke free and killed them.
My sister married a Catholic. It caused a big uproar in Tunnel City, Wisconsin.
Your father. Do you think it was arson?
I lean that way. I’ve sworn vengeance, but the war’s hexed me. I don’t think of my father as much as I should.
In the first war, was he?
He killed Germans in the Ardennes. Not enough, he always said. It looks like history has proved him right there.
I prefer them to the Reds.
We should sic them on each other and bow out. Bill Parker always says that.
Aaah, our friend Bill.
The first time you sleep with someone, all these other people hop in the bed.
Who were you thinking of here?
Bill, Claire what’s-her-name, and Hideo Ashida. Kay Lake, most of all.
Aaah, La Belle Kay. The poor man’s Kirsten Flagstad and Eleanora Duse. I’ve never seen the allure, but my Claire credits her with a wide array of mischief.
I think she’s capable of anything.
36
(Los Angeles 12:00 P.M., 1/27/42)
Boomerang.
Ashida trudged the Biltmore lobby. He wore blinders. They scotched You’re a Jap looks.
He was pissed off. He tried to shuck the FBI. He forged Ray Pinker’s name to a file request. He marked it “Urgent.” All mint-train-heist paper/please expedite.
He stressed a collateral case. Forensic evidence has surfaced. Please expedite ASAP.
He hovered by the stat tube. A reply arrived fast. It read “Request Denied.”
Ashida trudged up to his floor. He was past mortified. He lived at the Biltmore. Elmer said, “You’re shitting in tall cotton, son.”
A colored maid dipped by. She sneered at him. The slave class revolts. You’re the slant-eyed Jim Crow. That means You’re a Jap.
Ashida unlocked the door. The lights were off. Somebody flipped a wall switch. Somebody yelled, “Surprise!”
The parlor was SRO. Somebody’d hung red-white-and-blue bunting. People stood and clapped. Somebody hummed for spacious skies and amber waves of grain.
People. Dudley, Jack Horrall, an Army major. Dr. Nort, Ray Pinker, Lee Blanchard.
People. Elmer Jackson, Joan Conville, Kay Lake. Note the full bar and buffet. Note the tipsy Mariko and Akira.
They swarmed him, they pumped his hand, they clapped his back. Ashida went slaphappy. They circled up and enclosed him. It all felt rehearsed.
Call-Me-Jack raised a glass. “Our very own enemy alien. A thorn in my side on the Watanabe case, but he delivered in the end.”
Some people laughed. Some people cringed. Some people rolled their eyes. They all raised their goblets and went L’chaim.
The major stepped close and held out a Bible. Ashida placed his left hand atop it and raised his right hand high.
“Repeat this, son. ‘I, Hideo Ashida, do swear the following oath. I will observe the rules and regulations of the Army Officer Corps and will defend the United States Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, at home and abroad.’ ”
Ashida said the words. The major shook his hand. The crowd whistled and clapped. Dudley stepped up.
He said, “Lieutenant Ashida.” He pinned gold bars on his suit coat. People cheered and whistled. Lee Blanchard handed him champagne.
A conga line formed. Dudley steered Ashida through. People shook his hand and tossed congratulations. Dudley swapped looks with Joan Conville. Ashida caught a two-way surge.
Dudley went Hush. The hubbub subsided. Dudley picked up a long leather case. He held it out, presentation-style.
The crowd circled tight. Dudley opened the case. It was black velvet — lined. Black velvet cradled a gold bayonet.
It was two feet long. It was blood-guttered and swastika-embossed. Ashida saw faint blade etchings. They might be mint marks.
The crowd ooohed and aaahed. Dudley said, “The spoils of war you’ll encounter in Mexico, lad.”
Ashida went eyes right. Joan went eyes left. Their eyes met and held. Ashida trembled. They orbed back to the bayonet.
Dudley said, “It’s solid gold.”
Ashida said, “I’d like to commemorate the moment. May I take some photographs?”
37
(Los Angeles, 2:00 P.M., 1/27/42)
Fucking Hideo Ashida. The brilliant little hump transcends.
Or exploits.
Or steps from shit to clover.
Or sells his soul to Dudley Smith.
The party throbbed. Elmer circulated. Hideo donned his full uniform. Dig the tight-creased trousers and holstered .45.
Jack Horrall was blotto. Hideo’s mom and brother, likewise. Lee Blanchard jawed with Doc Layman. Dudley slow-cruised by.
He said, “Are you behaving, lad?”
Elmer said, “You bet I am, boss.”
Dudley slow-cruised Big Joan. He caressed her shoulder. Big Joan went Oooh, baby.
Elmer caught it. Kay caught it. Elmer caught her rebound catch. He grabbed a bottle of champagne. Kay scoped the grab and pointed straight up. Elmer winked assent. Kay blew a kiss back.
Elmer strolled.
He sidled out of the suite. He hit the corridor and tapped an elevator. He whooshed to the penthouse floor and jogged up to the roof.
Downtown L.A. sparkled. Storm clouds brewed, north and east. The San Gabriels were all snowflake white.
Kay stood by a storage shed. She wore a black beret and a jazzy wool suit. She looked très swell.
Elmer walked over. Kay popped the champagne. They bottle-chugged. It was bargain-basement swill. Elmer gulped and tossed a flare.
“Tell true, now. Did you shank Dudley Smith?”
Kay gulped. “Elmer, come on.”
“Come on, yourself. You shivved Dot Rothstein.”
Kay lit a cigarette. It took three match swipes. Her hands shook that bad.