Elmer said, “Don’t stop now.”
Buzz said, “Cut the travelogue and get to it.”
Huey went butch baritone. “So, the party celebrated this noteworthy event, just for giggles. Everybody wore masks, the men wore Nazi uniforms, and the women wore these beautiful gowns. This highbrow opera music played on this Victrola. I was there, my mama was there, and Harry Cohn was there — even though he’s a yid. Lots of Hollywood hotshots were there, Tommy G. was there, and this little Jap guy with burned fingers was there. He told people that he was there for the real Night of the Long Knives, but nobody believed him.”
Elmer got goose bumps. He looked at Buzz. He had goose bumps. Huey sighed and strung out a looooooong pause.
“Well, Dudley was surely there. He was veeery handsome in his SS uniform. He wore a sidearm and a bayonet on a black leather belt. Orson Welles was there. He wore a mask, but I knew it was him. He was chummy with this guy who owned the house — some music maestro. Welles always premiered his smut films at the house, and he showed a new one at the party. It was the dirty version of the Night of the Long Knives — and, daaarlings, it was a hit.”
Huey paused. Huey stage-sighed. Huey tossed his hair. This glue-sniffing psycho mimes Marlene Dietrich.
“Well, meine Herren — the movie. The killing was all faked, but the oooh-la-la was all real. It was men and women, women and women, men and men. The party quieted down when the movie ended, and the guests started fondling out in the open. They started peeling into the maestro’s bedrooms. And, of course — Dudley had women fighting over him.”
Huey paused. Huey stage-sighed. Huey threw his hair over one eye. The fruitcake loon mimes Veronica Lake.
“Uncle Dud kissed and petted with at least a dozen women. The last woman was very tall and thin, and she led Uncle Dud outside and over to a pergola. Tommy and I were close by, but Uncle Dud couldn’t see us. We were wearing Brownshirt uniforms, and we were cuddled up and collaborating with two cute Blackshirt boys. Uncle Dud didn’t know that we saw all of this, but Tommy spilled it to him when Uncle Dud visited him in Quentin last November.”
Huey paused. Huey stage-sighed. Huey blew mock smoke rings. This Nazi shitheel mimes Bette Davis.
“Uncle Dud and the tall woman kissed passionately. Tommy and I watched. The woman knelt between Uncle Dud’s legs. Well, her gown hiked, and Tommy and I saw those hairy gams. The moon passed over, and Uncle Dud saw them, too. The woman coughed, meine Herren — and it was surely a man’s cough.”
Elmer went dry-mouth. The room spun topsy-turvy. Huey turned female for real.
“Well, Uncle Dud screamed then. He pulled out his bayonet and stabbed the girl-boy in the face and the chest. He walked away, sobbing — and if you tell Uncle Dud that I told you all this, I’ll be very peeved with you.”
62
(Los Angeles, 9:30 A.M., 2/9/42)
Rain loomed. Low clouds hovered and seeped. Boyle Heights went garish to bleak.
It was Shitsville, both ways. Shack rows and strutting pachucos. Tripe-stew emporiums. Invasive food stench.
Dudley cruised Brooklyn Avenue. The cholos had subsumed the Jews, circa ’35. The zoot suit reigned now. Frock coats and beanies, verboten.
Three interviews loomed. Thad Brown had cherry-picked a Fed subversive sheet. Local Sinarquista boys. Three, todos. Thad’s curious. Did they frequent the klubhaus?
It’s a bind. He served two factions here. He had to plumb the extent of Wendell Rice and George Kapek’s exposure. He served the PD there. He served Salvy Abascal and the Sinarquistas, most inimically.
He had to warn and exonerate. He wore Sinarquista green himself. He had to revamp the klubhaus job and provide a credible solution.
To wit: kill a plausible suspect or suspects. To wit: spics, spooks, or treasonous swine. To wit: quash crossover leads to the Watanabe job. Nullify Bill Parker’s Free-the-Werewolf extravaganza.
Dudley scanned curb plates. He was vexed. He felt constrained. The fucking klubhaus job consumed him. He should be back in Baja. He had nascent rackets to run. He had to revamp his search for the gold.
He’s vexed. He’s constrained. He’s diverted.
There’s dumb cracker Elmer Jackson and smart Okie Buzz Meeks. He’s constrained there. He cannot dissolve their partnership. Jack Horrall straddles a fence. Clean solve, staged solve — he’s ambivalent. Jackson and Meeks are in Baja now. They have not liaised with the Staties. They may or may not locate Huey. Juan Pimentel has the lad sequestered. Huey was staunch in his way. He would never blab to rogue cops.
He’s vexed, he’s constrained, he’s diverted. He’s buoyant, otherwise.
He has Joan. She exemplifies wartime passion and binds him to the gold. He has his brilliant Hideo.
The lad turned a single fiber. It placed Wendell Rice at chez Hanamaka. Hideo Ashida plumbed minutiae. He turned Hanamaka’s print at the klubhaus. A triple print check revealed it. He endured the raid at the White Dog Klub. The first Jap-internee transport is at the ready now. It will leave for Ventura County tomorrow. A load of “H” will be stashed on the bus. Hideo will debrief the captive Japs at the border.
He’s vexed. He’s constrained and diverted. He’s more optimistic now.
He conducted his three interviews. They ran prosaically. The three boys attended LACC and bunked with their moms and dads. They eschewed zoot suits and went to Mass thrice weekly. They expressed their intent to avoid conscription and sit out this Jew-derived war.
They knew all about the klubhaus. They had never set foot inside. They conceded a stern right-wing presence there. The presence of hopheads and jigaboos negated that. The klubhaus was inherently un-Catholic. Está un sacrilegio.
They offered up no names. They snitched off no klubhaus klubmen. ¿Qué? ¿Qué? ¿Qué? We don’t know mierda.
Three convivial chats. A felicitous morning. Somewhat loosened constraints.
Rain loomed. Black clouds seeped and burst. Dudley drove west and hit his wiper blades. Pachucos ducked under awnings. Note their sodden zoot suits. No Sinarquistas, they.
A car nudged his back bumper. A horn went toot-toot. Dudley checked his rear-view mirror and grinned.
Well, now — it’s Salvador Abascal.
They lunched at a taco tavern. Salvy knew all the good spots. They shared spicy platters and quaffed beer. Their back booth assured privacy. A waitress cleared their table. They lit cigarettes.
Dudley said, “I’m wondering how you knew where to find me.”
“I called Major Melnick in Ensenada, and your Lieutenant Brown here in Los Angeles. He passed me on to the impolitic Sergeant Breuning, who said, ‘Oh, yeah — Dud told me about you.’ ”
Dudley smiled. “You mustn’t consider me suspicious.”
Salvy crushed his cigarette. “You have every right to be suspicious. I entered your life in quite the spectacular fashion. We surveil each other from afar and understand each other adroitly, even though we are but casual friends. We touch upon only the most obvious high points of our shared ideology, and rigorously avoid the specifics. This indicates mutual respect. We are not the type of men who indulge frivolous friendships. For men like us, there is no point in friendships that preclude a defining efficacy.”