He’d utilize his secret fashion runway. He’d wear Sinarquista green and black SS kit. He’d swing the gold bayonet.
The Teletype clacked and popped a page into his tray. Dudley snatched it and skimmed it. Fourth Interceptor blared cautionary drift.
L.A. defense plants targeted/Red Alert imposed. Secret air bases in San Berdoo County/Red Alert imposed. Jap sub berthings in Baja/Red Alert imposed. L.A. pay-phone communiqués decoded. Jap air attack on L.A. predicted. Red Alert: hold for late February.
Dudley teethed on it. Red Alert/Jap Alert/alarmist rhetoric. He was Japped to the gills. The Statie jail was Japped, floor-to-rafters. Jap overflow was Japped up in slum cribs Baja-wide. Statie goons tortured Japs for hot leads and kicks.
He called the Ventura County Sheriff. He offered him bribe cash and proposed a sub-rosa deal. House Baja Japs on county work farms. Bunk them in horse stalls. Rent them out as stoop labor. We’ll split the money.
The Sheriff agreed. Dudley called José Vasquez-Cruz and cut him in on the deal. José said he’d oversee the inmate transfer. Their racket front now bears fruit.
Japs, Japs, Japs.
Slant-eyed intruders. They haunt his dreams. The Wolf stalks them across the Baja plains. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? No one has visited his mountain hideaway. Juan Pimentel surveills it. Hideo Ashida’s photo device has snapped no license plates. Lieutenant Juan tortures Japs. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? None of the Japs knows shit.
Japs, Japs, Japs.
Fourth Interceptor’s besieging SIS. Major Melnick’s crawling up his ass. Interdict coastal sabotage without further delay.
Juan Pimentel has chartered a twin-engine plane. They’ll cruise the coastline later today. They’ll scan for sub berths and dip south to Magdalena Bay. They’ll swoop by the Sinarquista encampment.
Japs, Japs, Japs.
The Wolf hunts Japs in his dreams. The Wolf rips them and eats them and shits them out, postmortem. Last night’s dream dissolved a memory glitch.
The Wolf cornered an unruly Jap. The Wolf said something’s troubling my old pal Dudley Smith. There’s a backhouse/klubhaus on East 46th. Herr Dudley thinks someone’s mentioned it before. He can’t dredge the memory. What say ye to this?
The Jap feared the Wolf. The Jap had the inside dirt. The Jap revealed this:
Hector Obregon-Hodaka blabbed to the Dudster. He mentioned the klubhaus and wild goings-on there. He said two rogue cops ruled the roost.
All hail the Wolf. The Wolf retrieved that lost memory.
Mike Breuning called him. He bore hot news. Nort Layman tagged the klubhaus job Murder One. Hector’s rogue cops? Surely Wendell Rice and George Kapek.
Hector’s a Kyoho Hanamaka KA. He’ll photostat Hector’s Statie print card. He’ll get it to Hideo Ashida. Hideo will redust the klubhaus and try to fix Hector’s presence there.
Mike B. updated Dudley. Mike B. reported this:
There’s that dead Mex. El Dudster’s Spanish-fluent. Jack Horrall thinks the klubhaus job could dip south. He wants Dudley to consult, long-distance. Bill Parker’s set to oversee. It’s their Watanabe-case assignments, grandly reprised.
With attendant sidebars. Werewolf Shudo’s innocence and Jim Davis’ guilt. Sinarquista flags at the klubhaus. Elmer Jackson on the job. Hideo’s Baja posting on hold.
Dudley touched green twill and black leather. He should buy the Wolf a black leather harness and spiked collar. The Wolf retrieved that memory. He deserves a treat.
Lieutenant Juan flew low. The Army supplied a twin Beechcraft and all-purpose weaponry. Flamethrowers, tommy guns, grenades.
They hugged the coastline. Dudley binocular-scanned.
The cockpit was sun bright and altitude cold. Dudley sat behind the pilot’s seat and peered out. He marked latitudes on a relief map. He X’d coves and inlets and saw no signs of life.
They flew south. Dudley scanned fishing boats. They featured all-Mex crews and came off kosher. Lieutenant Juan refueled the plane in Puerto Romulo. They swung back south and cruised Magdalena Bay.
Lieutenant Juan swooped low and dipped toward the Sinarquista encampment. He’d prepped a leaflet drop. Hate tracts en español. He got them at the Deutsches Haus in L.A. They featured German death-camp photos with humorous captions. Lieutenant Juan found them howlarious.
Dudley saw men tilling soil and women dunking clothes in a stream. Lieutenant Juan dipped to three hundred feet. Los cameradas looked up and waved. Lieutenant Juan dropped the cargo hatch. Hate tracts hit blue sky.
The kameraden whooped en masse. They jumped up and down. The tracts caught air streams and flew. The sky went craaaazy-paper white and eclipsed all sunlight.
Lieutenant Juan U-turned and gained altitude. They flew northbound and low. Lieutenant Juan dropped down to two hundred feet and air-trekked the coastline. Dudley binocular-scanned.
It got boring. Rocks, waves, and sand. Time stands still. Rocks, waves, sand shoals. The same shit — por vida and beyond.
Then — bip! — there’s this lone Jap.
He’s just outside an inlet. He’s tossing a fishing net. He’s not looking up.
Dudley jabbed Lieutenant Juan. Lieutenant Juan looked down and went Caramba.
He dipsy-doodled up and east. He cut past the coast road and nosed the plane down. There’s a flat dirt patch/mock runway.
The ground came up faaaaaast. Dudley braced himself against the seat back. Lieutenant Juan hopscotched around rocks and dumped trash. He found a clear stretch. He cut the flaps and put the wheels on the ground. The plane fishtailed and pulled two full doughnuts.
The engine thumped and stalled dead. The propellers tapped out. Dudley went whew! They jumped out and indulged abrazos. They armed themselves.
Dudley grabbed a tommy gun. Lieutenant Juan grabbed a flamethrower. They ran across the dirt patch and dodged cars across the coast road. They hit an embankment. A carved path led down to the beach.
Dudley saw an outcropping due north. That was his landmark. He spotted that Jap forty yards up.
He pointed north. Lieutenant Juan gripped the flamethrower and fell in beside him. They trekked down to the beachfront. The sand was wet-wet. Wavelets doused them knee-high.
They walked north. Wet sand sucked at their feet. They approached the inlet. It fronted a cove cave. Dudley saw fishing-net drag marks. Dudley heard jabber: Mex, Jap, Mex.
They hugged the rocks and crept close. The jabber escalated. Dudley craned and looked into the cave. A Jap flag hung off a two-by-four. Voices jabbered — men, women, kids.
Lieutenant Juan went So, Jefe? Dudley went Of course. They wheeled and walked right in.
The cave was muy deep. They hit a left fork and veered toward the voices. Dudley saw them then.
Thirty-odd souls. Fifth Column familia. Half Jap and half Mex. Right there in front:
Hector Obregon-Hodaka, himself.
Lieutenant Juan kicked a rock, inadvertent. The noise echo-chambered. La familia turned and looked. Hector looked straight at Dudley and pulled a waistband piece.
Lieutenant Juan aimed and cut loose. Flames shot up and out. They hit Hector. He screamed and went all bugshit on fire. Lieutenant Juan hit the kill switch. The barrel whoosh died. La familia ran, todos. They reached the back of the cave and hit a dead end.