Elmer looked at Blanchard. Blanchard looked at Elmer. They went Holy shit in sync.
They bopped in and bopped up to the altar. A colored man and white man counted collection-plate cash.
The colored man was heavyset and cleaved close to fifty. The white man was twenty-three, tops. He was tall and fit. He wore a Navy ensign’s uniform, with flyboy wings. He smoked a corncob pipe.
Elmer badged them. The screwy duo made nice-nice. They dropped their cash count and laid down handshakes. It settled everyone’s hash.
The colored man said, “I’m Martin Luther Mimms. You can call me ‘Reverend’ or ‘Rev.’ ”
The white boy said, “Link Rockwell.”
Mimms chided him. “George Lincoln Rockwell. Be proud of that. Your namesake freed the slaves.”
Rockwell pipe-jabbed the Rev. It came off rehearsed. They worked their salt-and-pepper act.
“A dubious distinction, sir — especially coming from a well-known slave driver like yourself.”
Mimms took the cue. “Link thinks I’ll reinstate the Dred Scott decision over on African soil. Colored folk as chattel, to do with as I wish. I’ll have them excavating gold from secret mines in Zimbabwe. I’ll be putting the boots to the best-looking yellows and putting the horns on their men.”
Blanchard jiggled a cash plate. “Business is good. Huh, Rev?”
Mimms cued Rockwell. “This is Officer Lee Blanchard. He was once billed as ‘the Southland’s good but not great white hope.’ ”
Rockwell tapped his pipe on the pulpit. “You should fight Joe Louis, Officer Blanchard. A white man deserves a shot at the crown.”
Elmer harrumphed. “We had some questions, Rev.”
Mimms grinned. “I’ll be pleased to answer them, in my sanctum sanctorum. If you’ll follow me.”
Elmer and Blanchard swapped looks. Link Rockwell resumed his cash count. Mimms played pontiff and strode on ahead. Elmer gassed on his act. He sucker punched the white man and called all the shots.
Mimms waked to a side door and swung it open. Elmer and Blanchard caught up. The room was knotty pine — paneled. The walls were foto-festooned. The Rev’s desk was eight feet long and all knickknacked. It featured big-dick crocodiles and pygmy-goddess statuettes.
Mimms said, “My people will be knee-deep in zebra shit by this time next year. The USS Negro will be sailing about then. We’ve got to be watchful, though. Hitler’s U-boats pervade the Atlantic, and are ever alert to torpedo Allied shipping. Let me state for the police record that I’ve got no beef with the Führer, and that I admire his subjugation of the Jews, the colored man’s traditional foe.”
Blanchard cleared his throat. “We appreciate your hospitality, daddy — but there’s still some questions we’ve got to ask.”
Elmer orbed the wall pix. Oh, yeah. They explicate some shit.
There’s the young Mimms. He’s standing with the young Jack Horrall. They’re doughboys. Jack’s a major. Mimms wears captain’s bars.
There’s colored cops in formation. There’s Mimms with Fletch Bowron. There’s Mimms with our mud-shark DA.
Blanchard scoped the wall pix. He went Man-O-Manischewitz.
Mimms said, “As you can see, Jack Horrall and I go back. He commanded a colored battalion, and I was his staff adjutant. I might add that we’ve stayed in touch, and that I get my people on your police department — for prudent remuneration, of course.”
Blanchard cracked his knuckles. “Sounds like a sweet deal.”
Mimms said, “Let colored police colored. Keep colored south of Slauson until the pilgrimage begins. Keep your colored cops south of Slauson, where they know the turf.”
Elmer winked. “That’s white of you.”
Mimms guffawed. Blanchard said, “We’ve got these questions. We know you own that backhouse on 46th, and you must have got the word by now.”
Elmer flashed his foto spray. PD pix of Rice and Kapek. The Mex, DOA.
Mimms studied them. Mimms went nix.
Elmer said, “Tell us about the backhouse. Two cops were killed there.”
Mimms popped his suspender straps and pulled himself tall. Hold for a sermonette.
“I own fourteen houses in these parts, and half of them have backhouses that have come to be utilized as playpens by unruly elements. Over the years, the backhouses have been taken over by my acolytes, all of whom live squeaky-clean. The only exception is my backhouse on East 46th. It’s a place where coloreds, spics, and ofay hepcats congregate, hold jam sessions, and are assured of the privacy they require to drink and fuck in peace. That particular clubhouse took on a political bent — but as long as it isn’t the Reds or the Klan, I don’t give a rat’s ass. The front house has been empty for a while — but I’ll find a new tenant sooner or later.”
Elmer said, “Let me guess. All your tenants pay in cash, and you don’t keep written records.”
Mimms said, “That is correct.”
Blanchard said, “Let me guess. You’ll beef us to Jack Horrall if we start poking too deep into your financial shit.”
Mimms said, “That is correct.”
Elmer relit his cigar. “Who specifically rents this backhouse? Who pays the rent every month?”
Mimms snapped his suspenders. “As stated, I keep no records and recall no specific names. The clubhouse denizens pay in cash, and anonymous cholos drop off the gelt on the first of the month. I would guess that the habitués take up a collection.”
Blanchard said, “There’s a terp still on the premises. That’s illegal.”
Mimms resnapped his suspenders. “I don’t condone terp. I exhort my people to live clean.”
Blanchard lit a cigarette. “The dump’s full of Nazi regalia.”
“You had best check with the fearsome Gestapo and the illustrious SS about that. And, once again, let me state that I bear no grudge against the Nazis — but the Reds and the Klan bear the full brunt of my enmity.”
Elmer blew smoke rings. “What about the Sinarquistas?”
Mimms said, “Tacoheads and fools from the gate. Just another copycat movement trying to piggyback Adolf Hitler and make hay while the zeitgeist bends their way. I would advise them to refine their wardrobe, though. Green doesn’t cut it. You’ve got to go with basic black, and snazzy armbands.”
46
(Ensenada, 10:00 A.M., 1/30/42)
Green twill and black leather. The green connotes Ireland and Mexico. The black boldly stamps Sinarquismo. It’s a right-wing affront.
Starched green twill. Cut to fit him. Shirt, necktie, pants. Stiff black leather. Boots, holster, belt. A red-white-and-black armband. It stamps resurgent realpolitik.
Dudley sat in his office. The squad bay buzzed bilingual. Army noncoms and Staties shared desk space. Anti-Jap fever raged.
He just missed El Flaco. He found this grand ensemble placed on his desk. Salvy came and went, rápidamente.
The courtship continues. Salvy bears gifts. There’s still unanswered questions. They’re couched in unstinting rapport.
Victor Trejo Caiz planned to kill him. How did Salvy know? Salvy understands him. How much does Salvy know and where did he learn it?
The squad bay bustled. Japs, Japs, Japs. The internment push roared. Dudley shut his door and muzzled the blare.
He touched green twill and black leather. He rolled the armband on and off his left sleeve. He decided to stage a dress rehearsal. He’d don Salvy’s gift and pose in K. Hanamaka’s lair.