53
(Los Angeles, 2:30 P.M., 2/3/42)
The boys are back in—
Elmer and Buzz hit the Gordon Hotel. They parked their prowl sled on the sidewalk and opened strong. They pinned their badges to their sport coats and tornado’d the lobby. The desk clerk went Oh shit.
Elmer went Oh shit. That selfsame guy worked the desk New Year’s Eve. He’d tossed Tommy G.’s room then. Buzz knew shit per all that.
Rumdum tenants snoozed in chairs. A radio spieled war news. The fucking Japs stormed the Pacific. They barbecued white missionaries and keestered stray cats.
The clerk said, “Gentlemen?”
Buzz said, “We’re looking for Tommy Glennon. This is his last known address. We figure he might have come by for old times’ sake, or he might have had folks coming by to say hi.”
The clerk eyeballed Elmer. Buzz retrieved the look. Elmer gulp-gulped.
The clerk picked his nose. “Tommy skedaddled New Year’s Eve. He said, ‘Adios, muchacho,’ so I figured he was Mexico-bound. He gave me ten clams to store his boxes, which I summarily did.”
Buzz slid him a ten-spot. “ ‘Summarily,’ huh? That’s fine for then, but now’s now, which means you should show us Tommy’s shit.”
The clerk unlocked a door upside his switchboard. He pulled a light cord, all nice-nice.
Elmer and Buzz stepped behind the desk and scoped the doorway. Elmer gulp-gulped. Buzz woo-woo’d Tommy’s shit.
It was old news to Elmer and new news to Buzz. There’s Tommy’s New Year’s Eve gear.
The smut books. The Jap flags and Nazi armbands. The tattoo stencils — swastikas and Sinarquista snakes.
The clerk futzed with the switchboard. Buzz pulled Elmer in tight.
“You seen all this before. How’s New Year’s Eve sound? You, Breuning, and Carlisle fluffed that stakeout on Tommy. You got this dimwit notion to go out rogue.”
Elmer smiled and zipped his lips. Buzz said, “Who put that burr in your tail?”
“I wasn’t about to shoot some fucker in cold blood. It all came down to the Dudster messing with me.”
Buzz winked. “This partnership is starting to gel. We’re looking at some big fun.”
Big fun, huh?
Buzz tattled his own Dudley tale. It’s the Watanabe job, post — Pearl Harbor. Dud’s working a land grab. He’s out to snatch Jap property and promote boocoo gelt. Buzz extorts the mick fucker. He gets cash plus a biiiiiiiiiiiig bonus.
Buzz had three pregnant girlfriends. Dud was tight with Huey Cressmeyer’s mom, Ruth Mildred. Ruthie was a licentious lez and defrocked physician. She worked at Columbia Pictures. She did all the film-goddess scrapes. She scraped Buzz’s girlfriends, gratis.
Big fun, huh? Yeah — and Buzz figured this:
Dud would up and kill him. He’d frame some jigs for it and get away clean. He figured he should bide his time and kill Dud first.
Big fun, huh?
Elmer perched in Lyman’s back room. Lunch was two highballs and three bennies. He was alone. The rest of the Crash Squad was gonesville. Buzz was occupied elsewhere.
They went by Huey C.’s bungalow and saw Dud’s prowl car out front. They staked the crib and saw Dud lead Huey outside. Huey’s face was glue-smeared. Huey was glued to the planet Mars. Dud tossed him in his car and drove off.
Address-book duty loomed. Elmer had dropped Buzz at St. Vibiana’s. His gig: brace Monsignor Joe Hayes. Elmer drove to Lyman’s then. His gig: bone up on Jean Clarice Staley.
Jean bounced for maryjane, back in ’36. He knew that already. It was old news. Lee Blanchard posted a background-check note. Jean Staley was allegedly an ex — Paramount starlet. She works as a carhop now. Blanchard attached a mug-shot strip. The Jeanstress wore glasses and still looked goooooooood. Blanchard closed out his note: “Additional file at Red Squad office/Wilshire Station.”
Oooga-booga. That’s food for thought.
The Red Squad was hush-hush. It was cloak-and-dagger and a one-man show. Lieutenant Carl Hull lock-and-keyed the files at the Wilshire DB. Hull was in the Navy now. Hull was an ardent anti-Red and pal of Whiskey Bill Parker. Hull hoarded one file set only:
The Communist Party (U.S.A.), its own self.
Parker greased the skids. The Crash Squad rated top access. He called Whiskey Bill. Whiskey Bill called Wilshire. The watch boss opened the office and found the file.
Some file. It ran mucho brief. Tortilla-thin meets threadbare.
Elmer sat at Carl Hull’s desk and put his feet up. He looted Hull’s cigar and liquor stash and got comfy. He read through the file. There’s our girclass="underline"
Staley, Jean Clarice. White female American. DOB: 1/28/09/Beaumont, Texas.
Jean graduates high school, 1926. Jean migrates to L.A. Jean’s mom and dad kick in a dust storm, summer ’32. Jean’s got a kid brother. Robert Arthur Staley’s a homo prostitute. He does a two-spot juvie bounce at Preston. Jean does that reefer bounce. Before that, there’s this:
She’s live-wire CP. She’s in a cell with four other Reds. She carries the card. She toes the Red line and wears the Red beret. She’s a part-time starlet and full-time Red reptile.
The cell boss is one Meyer Gelb. Jean’s cellmates are a beaner named Jorge Villarreal-Caiz and two Commos—
Oops—
Named Lesnick.
Dr. Saul. Dr. Saul’s daughter, Andrea.
It’s old home week. Small world, huh? What goes around comes around. Life’s one big circle jerk. It’s who you know and who you blow.
Old Saul. Annie Staples’ trick. Ed Satterlee’s snitch. Psych doc of Orson Welles and Claire De Haven. Fuck-flop target of Sergeant E. V. Jackson.
Elmer skimmed file sheets. They ran threadbare. He ran dozy. An occurrence sheet jerked him awake.
October ’33. That very hot month. The PD Arson Squad rousts the cellmates.
Per the Griffith Park fire. The blaze that scorched Wayne Frank. It’s all Meyer Gelb’s fault. He made “apocalyptic remarks.” He predicted “big antifascist chaos.”
The rousts went nowhere. Gelb retracted his remarks. The hullabaloo died out.
Kay Lake jive-talked this deal called the Spiritus Mundi. It’s some eastern swami hoodoo. It’s the place where all our shit coheres and our souls intersect.
Elmer got the heebie-jeebies. Kay just sold him on the Spiritus Mundi. Woo-woo — he’s heading there now.
The carhops hopped on skates. They hopped cars-to-kitchen, round-trip. They wore red-and-white tunics and puffed-leg slacks. The girls looked good and hopped good. Jean Staley looked and hopped the best.
Simon’s Drive-in stood across from Hollywood High. It was a streamline-moderne job. Cars circled a walkway ramp and an inside counter. Some bleached-blond cooze hopped Elmer. He popped her for whore vag in ’39. She didn’t recognize him.
Elmer sipped a pineapple malt. He spiked it with Old Crow and three bennies. Jean Staley hopped cars in his perv-view. He watched her sling burgers and glom tips.
She skated nice. She dipped her tray nice. She dipsy-doodled and drew wolf whistles and hoochie hoots. She was East Texas/barn dances/male kousins all Klanned up. Kay’s Spiritus Mundi. He saw his shit and Jean’s shit, entwined.
It perplexed him. He grabbed Tommy G.’s address book. Jean Staley’s initials are in there. That Vice clerk got him her full name. He glommed her PD sheet last month and tumbled to her weed roust. He planted the address book to fuck with Dudley Smith. It’s fake evidence in a real murder case. He planted names in the address book. Lin Chung and Doc Lesnick radiate Fifth Column. The klubhaus is Fifth Column. Jean’s revealed as Red now. Old Saul was her ’33 cellmate. The cell got braced per the ’33 fire.