“I don’t suppose you know where Huey is? I heard he calls you ‘Uncle Dud,’ which sure implies family to me.”
Joan flinched and dropped her coffee cup. It doused her skirt. The room froze. Dudley went for his belt sap. He froze a split second on.
“That line is about to fray, Meeks.”
Buzz grabbed his crotch. “Does it gall you that you don’t scare me? That you’re just some Pope-sucking shitheel as far as I’m concerned?”
Dudley pulled the sap. Elmer stepped between him and Buzz.
Thad said, “Enough.”
Bill Parker said, “This stops now.”
Dr. Nort said, “Somebody else report.”
Joan stepped in. “I dismantled the terp stills at the klubhaus. I ran tests and determined that the terp in the feeder vats possessed the same molecular componentry as the terp from the still of a Japanese man named Donald Matsura. Hideo Ashida and I confiscated that still last month. Matsura committed suicide at the Lincoln Heights Jail.”
Icebreaker. The floe snapped. The room thawed out some.
Lee Blanchard said, “I’ve recanvassed until I’m blue in the face. I got a lead that the klubhaus fools filled up their own trash cans and started dumping their debris in their neighbors’ cans. It was all booze bottles, used rubbers, musical-instrument reeds, and otherwise what you might expect. The neighbors said the haus was a hot-sheet spot, a jam-session joint, and a hobknob pit for whites, spooks, and beaners — which I think is what’s behind these snuffs, not all this Sinarquista and Nazi jive. I’ve also got four eyeball-wit sightings of Rice and Kapek in the thick of it with colored whores that they obviously picked up on the jazz-club strip — even though them snatch-hair samples that Ashida found belonged to a white girl and a Mex girl. I realize that all of this contradicts Sid Hudgens’ campaign to whitewash our dead pals, but then I’m not the one telling Sid what to write.”
Mike Breuning coughed. “Dick and I have put together a list of the Japs that Rice and Kapek rousted while they worked the Alien Squad. We’re doing divisional DB checks now, looking for cross-filed paperwork. Jack Horrall sealed their Narco files, so we’ve got no truck there. We’re looking for file notes on Archuleta, but I think Jack foiled us there, too. He’s trying to build a wall between our guys and Archie, because Archie’s a low-life sack of shit.”
Thad coughed. “Post the list and stand ready to roust the Japs who’ve managed to stay out of custody since the night of the homicides. Blanchard, you hit the jazz strip, get drunk or act drunk, and try to get a line on any whores or other women who might have frequented the haus.”
Joan said, “There’s been no mail deliveries since two days before the homicides. I called the branch P.O. on Slauson and asked why. It seems that the route carrier’s been off on a toot, and his mail’s gone undelivered. He’s out of the honor farm and back at work now. There should be a large stack of mail delivered later today.”
Thad nodded. “Grab it, Joan. Read it, catalogue it, and compile a list of the senders.”
Dr. Nort raised a hand. Thad went Hold on, now.
“I’m thinking of running a series of lineups. One for jazz-club types, one for suspect Japs, and one for Mex political types. The Deutsches Haus keeps popping up, and I’m thinking of raiding it, even though half of the habitués are Fed plants. Those Sinarquista flags keep vexing me, so I got Sinarquista membership lists from Treasury and the Feds’ Subversive Detail. We’ve got a whole battalion of those punks right here in Boyle Heights.”
Dudley cracked his knuckles. “I’m Spanish-fluent. I’ll make a stab at some interviews before I head back.”
Thad nodded and yawned. He went shoo. Get out of here/solve this fucking thing/don’t scotch my fucking shot to be Chief.
The room evaporated. Dudley signaled Joan. It meant Tonight? She signaled back. It meant No, I’ve got Bill. Her Dudley chuckled. Her Bill caught the exchange.
Joan pulled a klubhaus shift. She worked, distracted.
Hideo Ashida booked to Baja and left tasks incomplete. It vexed her. The Dudley-Meeks tiff vexed her. Her Dudley — baited and goaded. Her Dudley — enraged past control.
Joan print-dusted. Ashida left her an undone-surface list. Pipe fittings, radiators, phonograph legs.
She did the work. She powdered hard-to-reach places and got bupkes. She worked, distracted.
The gold quest felt stillborn. Dudley nixed more file checks. He believed they’d arouse suspicion. Don’t state undue interest or provoke it.
Ashida backstopped Dudley in Baja now. It juked his propensity to lust and deceive. Ashida tweaked Dudley’s vanity perversely. Dudley viewed their compact as two geniuses entwined. Baja inspired corruption. It played to the venal and rewarded deceit. Ashida would seek to undermine Dudley. His lust was covetous and malignantly defined. He would conspire against her. His motive was jealousy. She had what he did not. He would attempt to steal her fair share of the gold.
Joan dusted phonograph tubes. She worked, distracted. Sid Hudgens had jammed her outside the haus. He flashed a sheaf of color snapshots.
It’s Orson Welles. He’s tear-streaked and bloody. There’s poolside cushions soaked red.
Sid said, “Guess who?” It was easy. Welles saw her naked. He saw Claire De Haven, likewise. Actions spawn consequences. “Big Red” made this occur.
Joan dusted tubes. Large tubes and small tubes. It was tight brushwork. She got smudges, smears, and one latent print.
She applied tape and lifted it. She pressed it to stiff cardboard. She pulled her elimination-print file and ran comparison checks. She got no match.
She slipped on her headband light and reading glasses. She counted loops, whorls, and pocket dents. She numbered an unknown-print card.
The doorside mailbox clanged. There’s the postman. He’s back from his dry-out retreat.
Joan walked out to the porch. Two Newton blues stood guard. One woofed her and waved. One said, “Hey, Red.”
The mailbox was stuffed. Joan dislodged manila envelopes. Wendell Rice received four parcels. They were sent from Terminal Annex. All box mail was rerouted there. It bollixed mail traces up.
She opened a six-by-eight parcel. A small booklet was stuffed in. It was glossy-bound and cheaply printed. It comprised a gold-case lead.
The Back-to-Africa Manifesto. Authored by Martin Luther Mimms. The Rev bailed out Leander Frechette. Elmer and Buzz interviewed him.
Joan skimmed the text. It was plainly nuts. Nazi U-boats would escort Negro warships to the verdant Congo. Pilgrims would feast on barbecued Jews. Enslaved Congolese would guide the pilgrims downriver. Tame crocodiles would pull ten-ton canoes.
Joan slit the second envelope. It contained a sister tract.
AmeriKKKa for Whites!!! AfriKKKa for Blacks!!! (in support of the Reverend M. L. Mimms), by G. L. Rockwell.
The young Navy flyer. The Rev’s white sidekick. Elmer and Buzz braced him.
Joan skimmed the text. It predicted racial apocalypse. The Learned Elders of Zion had annexed the Jewnited States. The Ku Klux Klan fought them back. Noble Negro legions rallied and joined their KKKause. The Jews sought to Jewnify the U.S. and Russia. All noble Negroes must flee to AfriKKKa NOW!!!!!
Joan recalled pillow talk. Dudley riffed on Wendell Rice and George Kapek. One — they were batshit crazy. Two — Hideo Ashida’s photo device snapped them in Tijuana. Three — they were probably running wetbacks and/or fugitive Japs.