A grand lad. A mind reader and a seer. Father Coughlin thought the world of him. “He’s an honorary mick, that one.”
“I’m wondering how you came to save my life, and how you arrived at that man Trejo Caiz as my potential assassin.”
Mariachi men strolled up. Salvy slipped them a dollar and shooed them off.
“Trejo Caiz was a Stalinist and a wheelman for the murder of Leon Trotsky. He had compiled a death list of fascist sympathizers, and you were on it. I learned of this in quite the roundabout way. Some three years ago, the late Carlos Madrano told me about you. He described you as a ‘budding American fascist with profound law-enforcement credentials,’ and a ‘notable killer for Irish Republican causes.’ I despised my boon acquaintance Madrano, and was overjoyed to learn that you had killed him and would soon join the SIS contingent in Ensenada. I have a superb intelligence network. They learned of Trejo Caiz’s plan to kill you. I had both of you under surveillance up to the moment of your convergence.”
Dudley roared. The Wolf appeared and lapped beer from the pitcher. Dudley reversed his coat lapel. Joan Klein’s swastika map pin gleamed.
Salvy laughed. “Victor’s brother lives on. Jorge Villareal-Caiz. A yet more pernicious comunista. There are no photographs of this evil puto extant. I see his face everywhere and nowhere, which confounds me. He is a priest-killer with many scalps to his credit. I have vowed to kill him.”
The Wolf trusted Salvy. He was a discerning beast. He rarely bestowed approval.
“Let me indulge a hunch here. Did you and your stout Kameraden kill sixteen Jap submariners shortly after New Year’s?”
Salvy smiled. “Yes. I received a tip that they were arriving, and carrying a great deal of money. Their plan was to impersonate Chinese men and perform sabotage in and around Los Angeles. We killed the men but did not find the money on the submarine.”
Dudley winked. “Captain Vasquez-Cruz and I found the money and split it. My half was ten thousand dollars. I will acknowledge the sixteen scalps you took, and donate that amount to the Sinarquista war chest.”
Salvy raised his glass. “Meine Kameraden.”
Dudley raised his glass. “Do you have intelligence on a naval attaché named Kyoho Hanamaka?”
“No.”
“Are you privy to plans for an air attack on L.A. later this month?”
“No.”
Dudley said, “I pledge 15 % of the profits from my admittedly criminal ventures to our shared cause.”
Salvy said, “I am most humbly grateful, although I must risk your displeasure with two requests.”
“Which are?”
“That you do not permit the sale of heroin to Mexicans, and that you quash all mentions of the appellation ‘Sinarquista’ as they might pertain to this scurrilous investigation of yours.”
“I am in no way displeased, and I am happy to comply.”
Salvy lit a cigarette. “These ventures of yours. Do they proceed apace?”
“Yes and no. I’ll need to speak to Governor Lazaro-Schmidt soon. I require some assistance in the matter of exporting guest workers.”
Salvy laughed. “You deftly omitted the word wetback in my presence.”
Dudley laughed. “Lazaro-Schmidt. I’m assuming that you’ve met the man?”
“I have. He is un hombre simpático, if un hombre quite covetous and greedy. I find his relationship with his sister disturbing, though. She is a concert violist, and quite lovely. I must accede to decorum here and say no more.”
Their waitress hovered. She poured tequila shots and hootchie-eyed dos hombres guapos.
Dudley downed his shot. He got that quick burn and glow. The Wolf licked his glass.
Salvy coughed. “If I were to tell you that I have plans to perform what might be termed ‘cosmetic sabotage’ on U.S. soil — gadfly gestures only — will you intercede and seek to expose me?”
Dudley leaned close. “You must solemnly promise that no American men, women, or children will be harmed.”
Salvy leaned close. “Yes, you have my most solemn word.”
Dudley sighed. “I’ll profess vexation here. Gadfly gestures aside, I’m wondering what the world will be like when all of this is over.”
Salvy twirled his shot glass. “Perhaps Europe and the East will realign. Perhaps the Hitler-Stalin pact will be reinstated as a hedge against chaos and the new American hegemony. I despise communism but quite often fail to see it as fascism’s antithesis. A conference transpired in Ensenada, in the fall of ’40. It was comunista-fascista and purportedly amiable. I have heard that numerous top dogs attended. It was the high-water point of the Nazi-Soviet Pact, and postwar escape strategies were discussed. It was reportedly proclaimed that the war would kill both Stalin and Hitler, along with all paper currencies, save the U.S. dollar. All those in attendance were urged to hoard gold.”
Gold. Ever synchronous. The Spiritus Mundi speaks.
Dudley said, “My fascist brother.”
Salvy said, “A Catholic hegemony. We must stake our loyalty there.”
The Wolf jumped on the table. He cocked his head and howled his love for Salvador Abascal.
63
(Los Angeles, 1:00 P.M., 2/9/42)
The lab buzzed. Joan called it Japwerk. She worked Japwerk all day and all night.
Two chemists logged in radios. They scrawled serial numbers and searched for stashed contraband. Their gig was straight Jap internment. Joan’s gig was Jap internment plus klubhaus job.
She culled Rice and Kapek’s Jap busts. She logged arrest and court dispositions. She wrote it all up and cross-referenced it. She determined custody status. She noted habeas writs. She tagged current known whereabouts.
She pulled mug shots and clipped dispo bulletins. It was advance work. Thad Brown had ordered massive roundups. His goal was massive lineups. He’d subdivided the suspect types.
In-custody Japs. Released Japs. Known cholos. Jazz-club denizens. Perverted hepcats. Nazi-esque types.
We’ll run lineups. We’ll parade the above. 46th Street locals will orb them. Have you seen these dinks at or near the klubhaus?
The job was twelve days in. They’d turned zero at-the-scene eyewits. Thad decreed one last shot at that.
Joan worked. Joan worked, distracted. It was drudgewerk and scutwerk. She worked, bored and gored.
That hate mail. The Back-to-Africa screed. Preacher Mimms, gold heist — linked. The Red Swastika. Salvador Abascal critiques the Ensenada conclave.
Fall 1940. Nazi and Russian hotshots meet. They discuss potential world-war outcomes and ponder potential means of ascent. She read the tract three times. The Nazis and Reds huddle and conclude this:
They must exploit a new postwar gold standard.
That tract gored her. Gold, gold, gold. Gold in the vox populi. Gold, omnipresent. Gold, subsuming her.
She read the Mitch Kupp tract. Her own past and dead father subsumed her. It wasn’t a hate tract. It was scholarly and altogether nuts.
Joan worked. Joan worked, distracted.
Bill and Dudley. Bill’s jealous outburst. Weepy Bill and imperious Dudley. She wants Dudley more than Bill. She wants to talk gold with him. Dudley savaged Orson Welles. The wunderkind saw her naked. It drove Dudley to brutal rage. Bill would have sulked and hexed Welles from afar.