Ashida sighed. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ll be stationed in Ensenada. If the Staties require assistance, I’ll be happy to provide it.”
Pinker sighed. “God bless you, Hideo. And, before you say it, I’ll concede that I’m a shitheel. And, before you ask, I’ll kick back half the gelt.”
Joan Conville walked in. She sidestepped Pinker and Ashida. Pinker skulked back out the door. He dragged his feet. He looked hangdog.
Joan stood at Ashida’s desk. She looked in his microscope and adjusted the right- and left-side eyepieces. She dialed tight and saw the two photo blowups. She glimpsed the gold bar that he’d hid from her.
Ashida shut his eyes. He shut out Reckless Girl and Cunning Girl. He braced for her voice.
She said, “Well?”
Ashida opened his eyes. Reckless Girl and Cunning Girl stared him down. Shameless Girl. He saw suck marks on her neck.
“We both want the gold. You’ve withheld from me. That might be a good place to start.”
He stammered. His hands twitched. He fought back chills and nausea. He laid out what he’d withheld.
Joan said, “Half the gold’s mine. Don’t trifle with me. I’ll ruin you with Dudley Smith if you do.”
41
(Los Angeles, 11:00 A.M., 1/29/42)
Annie was goooooood. She laid on the gee-whiz. Her tell-me-more, sweetie? The cream de la cream.
Elmer adjusted his headphones. The wire gizmo covered his desk. He kicked his chair back and put his feet up.
The Vice squadroom was yawnsville. Elmer’s cubicle cocooned him. He heard party sounds and extraneous voices. Annie laid dat voodoo on old Saul.
She said, “That was Red Claire you were talking to, right? I’ll tell you this. She looks like a hophead. I know from hopheads, ’cause my kid brother’s one.”
Old Saul said, “I’ll credit Claire with a certain courage. She took that Parker and Lake pogrom that I told you about in her stride. Did I tell you that she converted to Catholicism a while back? It softened her regard for Parker, I’m afraid. They attend the same church and confess their specious woes to the same priest. I met the man at one of Claire’s tedious mixers. He impressed me as a fruitcake.”
Go, Annie, go! You gots me all voyeurizized!
Old Saul hacking-coughed. It fritzed up Elmer’s headphones. He said, “...and she’s prone to grandiose whim. To wit — this brutal cop-beast she’s shtupping. Her soul veers right as she poses left, and she thinks I don’t notice. To wit — she critiques my friendship with the esteemed racial scientist Lin Chung, who’s more politically savvy than ten Claire De Havens at their dilettante best.”
Annie lobbed a soft one. Gee-whiz meets sugar pie. “Racial science. It’s the same thing as ‘eugenics,’ right?”
Old Saul harrumphed. “Yes, and in that regard, I must concede that Hitler really does stand as the vanguard of a new world order. Who can fail to applaud his stand on euthanasia and the sterilization of mental misfits? Are we seriously to believe these idiot claims that he’s slaughtering Jews en masse? I pose that question as an informed Jew myself, and I’ll go on to add that all enlightened people must be ready to accommodate Hitler, should he win the war.”
Annie said, “Gee, Saul. You’ve really given this some serious thought.”
Elmer haw-hawed. Go, Annie! Skewer that bug-fucker!
Old Saul said, “Claire accedes to none of this, of course. She accedes to her cop-brute lover and passively condones his horrid beliefs, but she can’t comprehend the simple truth as far as Hitler is concerned.”
Party noise escalated. Elmer heard strange music. Annie came through, skunked.
“Welles... oh, dear... he’s put on weight.”
Old Saul said, “Orson was coddled in his crib and improperly toilet-trained. He wet his bed into his teens and still sucks his thumb when nobody’s looking. He eats too much, drinks too much, fucks too much, and sniffs too much cocaine. He’s a sucker for flattery and a shill for the OIACC — and every other acronym shuck that FDR’s ever dreamed up. Claire’s been known to orally copulate him in steam rooms—”
Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle popped in the door. They looked hot-fevered. Elmer dumped his headphones.
Mike said, “There’s a callout. We’ve got three down at 46th and Central. Thad Brown wants you there.”
It was niggertown. It was Code 3, lights and siren. Jack Horrall decreed a hot rush.
Eight vehicles rolled. Lab car/foto car/morgue vans. Newton Station sleds ran escort.
Thad Brown ran the pole car. Breuning and Carlisle dogged him. Elmer bumper-locked them. Sirens blared god-awful loud.
It was one fucking big cop armada. It rolled eastbound and south. It magnetized street fools. They bug-eyed the white man’s hurried-up shit.
Call-Me-Jack was due later. He told Thad to tight-seal the location. It can’t be some triple shine killing. Shine killings drew zero heat.
Cop cars made like bumper cars. They siren-blared and snout-bashed civilian cars out of the way. The caravan strafed the jazz-club strip. Elmer gassed on the marquees.
Club Zamboanga, Port Afrique, Club Alabam. Pasteboard music clefs two stories high. Club Zombie, Ivy’s Chicken Shack, Mumar’s Mosque #3. The Church of the Living Dead and Congregation of the Congo. Rae’s Rugburn Room — the darktown dyke den.
There’s 46th. It’s a sharp left turn. Newton blues have got the crib cordoned off.
It’s a two-story backhouse. It’s dilapidated. The in-front house looks gutted. Note the surrounding crabgrass and discarded short dogs.
The caravan screeched up and braked all in sync. Fenders smashed and locked eight in a row. The blues stepped aside. Plainclothesmen hauled ass straight over and in.
Elmer elbowed up to the front. He got there first. He saw this:
It’s some jazz fiend/dope fiend/right-wing-geek klubhaus. There’s two pool tables. There’s ratty furniture. There’s a terp still. There’s a dry bar stocked with Mex mescal and tequila.
There’s a phonograph. There’s a sax, trombone, and trumpet dumped on a chair. There’s smut mags piled beside them. There’s Hitler pix taped to the walls. There’s Sinarquista flags interspersed.
Thad Brown ran in. Breuning and Carlisle crowded up. It got real hushed inside and real noisy out.
Sirens whooped and cut off. Car doors slammed. Doc Layman ran in. Hideo Ashida and Joan Conville followed. Everybody eyeballed the death crib. Everybody cased the stiffs.
Three dead men. All clothed. Perched upright on one couch. They’ve got upraised heads and wide open mouths. They’re sucking in last gasps of breath.
A low-life Mex.
Officer George Kapek.
Officer Wendell Rice.
42
(Ensenada, 12:30 P.M., 1/29/42)
Dudley said adios. Long-distance fuzz skunked the call. He got the gist but no context.
Mike called from the Club Alabam. There’s three dead in some coontown shithole. Two Alien Squad humps and a Mex rumdum. It might be homicide. It might be terp ODs. Thad Brown’s got the command.
Thad formed a crash squad. Mike and Dick from Homicide. Hideo and Joan from the lab. Lee Blanchard and Elmer Jackson from the Alien Squad.
Blanchard was lackluster. Jackson was meddlesome. Elmer’s proximity troubled him. It recalled Chinatown, New Year’s Eve.
The botched stakeout. Tommy Glennon escapes. He forms a posse. Mike and Dick suit up. Ditto Jackson. Ditto dead cops Kapek and Rice. Add on Catbox Cal Lunceford.
Eddie Leng is snuffed that night. Proximity as destiny. Design within the chaotic.