Ace phone-booked El Chungo. The hot seat shimmied. The floor hinges creaked.
Chung whimpered and snitch-babbled. Ace said, “I hear song on radio. This cocksucker ‘popcorn kernel too pooped to pop.’ ”
Dudley laughed. “What did he just say?”
“He say he hear rumor. Jap Navy man hiding in L.A. plan second incursion. Man’s name Kyoho Hanamaka. He don’t know where man hide.”
Bravos pour Le Chung. That’s a swell lead.
Dudley said, “Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta. Ask him what he knows.”
Ace asked. Chung answered. He slurred his words one at a time.
Ace translated. “This cocksucker say he meet Rice and Kapek at Deutsches Haus. Very casual. They talk race science and go Sieg Heil. He say Archie C-town and J-town fool. Buy terp and pharmacy hop from illegal sources.”
Chung rebabbled. Ace retranslated him.
“This cocksucker say he just waiting to see who win war. U.S. go postwar kaput. Nazis or Reds take over world then. Democracy for nancy boys and weak sisters. ‘Comrade’ or ‘Kameraden.’ All same to this shitbird.”
Dudley hit the lights. The storeroom went vivid bright. Lin Chung lolled in the hot seat. He’s cuff-gouged down to the bone.
Ace ripped his shirt down the middle. Ace waved two glass jars. One jar of honey. One jar of big red ants.
Chung screamed.
Dudley said, “Restate the threat, my brother. No U.S. sabotage from this point on.”
Chung caught the gist. He went No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Ace applied the honey. Ace applied the ants. They were fat red fuckers. They verged on King Kong size. They were famished and deserved a tasty treat.
Lin Chung screamed. The Wolf materialized. He bayed. Dudley ruffled his fur and kissed his snout.
Chung plus Jamie. That meant two names down. One name remained. This lad deserved a rebuke.
Dudley took Los Feliz east. Der Wunderkind was der Flash-in-der-Pan and L’Arriviste. He rented a show-off shack in the hills. His type lived to soak up praise and impress.
Dudley went by the Herald first. He talked to Sid Hudgens and abridged his right of free speech. He laid down the law. I’m your new editor. I will edit all your klubhaus reportage. Give me the final say-so. Let me peruse all your texts.
Sid agreed. Dudley jumped topics. Sid was a horse-race fanatic. Sid knew from hot-box phones and bookie rooms. Dudley pumped him for this:
Pay-phone relay bets. L.A. to Baja. Wallace Jamie’s technical spiel. Sid, you dirtmeister. What say ye to this?
Sid knew three relay spots in Ensenada. Two were floating and unstable. Spot #3 stood upside the White Dog Klub.
El Dudster thanked El Sidster. And, by the way:
Mr. Hearst hates Citizen Kane. Orson Welles adroitly defamed him. Would he enjoy a spot of revenge?
Sid said, “In spades, Daddy.” Dudley grabbed Sid’s Leica then.
Der Fat Boy’s house was two blocks up Berendo. Dudley caught the light and read curb plates. Spanish casas predominated. Fat Boy rented a posh Tudor job.
Dudley parked curbside and walked up the driveway. A gate stood ajar. He smelled swimming-pool chlorine and detoured on back.
Welles was alone. He lounged in a poolside lounge chair. He wore a terry-cloth lounge shirt and swim trunks. He skimmed a film script and oozed lounge ennui.
L’Auteur looked over. He clocked his visitor and gulped. There’s a big man with a camera. He’s got a badge and gun clipped to his belt.
Dudley walked up close. Welles said, “Hello there. Are you who I think you are?”
Dudley tapped the chair-back catch and put him flat on his back. Welles squealed. The film script flew. Dudley foot-stomped Fat Boy’s neck and pinned him faceup.
“Do you know a man named Tommy Glennon?”
“Your name’s in his address book.”
“Are you a Communist?”
“Are you a Nazi?”
“When do you leave on your goodwill tour of Latin America?”
“Did you know that the OIACC is a Communist front?”
Welles croaked out answers. Straight nos eked out. His eyes bulged. His face flushed. Die fahne hoch!!! He endured the Hobnailed Boot.
Dudley hummed “Deutschland Über Alles.” Dudley clicked his heels and slipped on sap gloves. Lead weights were stitched in.
He said, “No more steam-room encounters with Claire. I will not permit it.”
Welles raised his hands and covered his face. Dudley kicked his hands away. Welles sissy-shrieked.
Dudley slammed him. Dudley aimed downward shots. He got Fat Boy’s back, Fat Boy’s gut, Fat Boy’s legs. Fat Boy shrieked and chewed his shirt collar off.
“I’m building a network of informants, to be run out of Mexico. You are my first recruit. You will rat out leftists and outré rightists within the OIACC and your Hollywood circle. You will rat out the Jewish exiles who sponge off Maestro Klemperer. You will nod once to signal your compliance.”
Welles squealed. Welles went Yes/yes/yes/yes/yes/yes—
Dudley kicked him in the balls and beat his face bloody. The camera contained color film. The blood red would predominate.
59
(Los Angeles, 9:30 A.M., 2/7/42)
Thad Brown said, “We’re ten days in. Somebody say something to cheer me up.”
Crash Squad briefing. All hands on deck. Torpor had set in. The klubhaus job as snorefest. Lyman’s back room as sleepwalkers’ den.
Joan stood by the coffee urn. The klubhaus job was the gold job. She fretted her gold cuff links and stayed wide-awake.
Mike Breuning mock-yawned. Dick Carlisle lolled his head. Lee Blanchard mimed a heroin nod-off. Buzz Meeks stretched out across three chairs and played dead.
Dr. Nort laughed. Her Dudley laughed. Her Bill looked nonplussed. Two-lover tension popped between them. Joan recalled the Herald headline. WEREWOLF BEATS GAS CHAMBER!!!
She sensed the story behind it. Jack Horrall had panicked. Dudley laid out Jim Davis’ confession and caused a big uproar. Jack decreed a Smith-Parker summit. Bill seized the reins and forged a mercy deal.
Thad said, “Don’t speak up all at once. I don’t think I could take it.”
Dudley said, “I cleared Lin Chung, Orson Welles, and Wallace Jamie.”
Buzz said, “An ambulance took Chung to Queen of Angels. It seems that some hungry ants had themselves a nice lunch.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Meeks, you are treading a thin line here.”
Buzz hooted. The room hubbubed. Elmer Jackson played diplomat.
“I cleared Jean Staley. She was a Commo back in the ’30s, but that’s all she wrote.”
Buzz said, “I cleared Monsignor Hayes. He’s Tommy’s priest, so his ass was in the book for a reason. I’ve been looking for Huey Cressmeyer, and I spotted him outside Columbia Pictures. He got into a Mexican Statie sedan, and I trailed him. I lost him on the coast road outside Balboa, and I’m betting he’s in Mexico now.”
Looks traveled. The whole squad clicked to Buzz. Huey was Dud’s snitch. The whole squad knew it.
Thad Brown played diplomat. “You and Elmer head down to Baja and shake the trees for Huey. Consult the Staties first thing.”
Elmer said, “Yeah, boss.” Buzz winked at Dudley.