Kay laced up their hands. “What’s the first thing you thought of?”
“You know what it is.”
“Tell me. Confirm how well I’ve come to know you.”
Joan sipped scotch and bitters. The room went too warm. She reached over and reset Kay’s beret. She’d seen Elmer J. do it. He always pulled up the stem.
“I’ve achieved rank parity with William H. Parker. It’s the first thing that popped into my head.”
Kay lobbed a small jewel box. Joan snagged it on the fly. She snuck a look and saw two captain’s bars.
“Don’t you cry, sister. Don’t you dare blush, because you’ve earned it.”
Joan wiped her eyes. “My academy class convenes in October. I’ll ace the pistol range. I used to shoot rabid bats, back at home. I’d nail them from forty yards out.”
Kay lit a cigarette and killed off Joan’s cocktail. The jewel box glowed. The silver bars threw sparks.
“Go home and put some words on paper. Send one up for the ones you left behind. They don’t have your grit, and they’ll never have your luck.”
She prayed for a blackout. Army searchlights strafed the sky, just so. She wanted to count moon craters. Empirical science meets God. Tell me what all this means.
No blackout. Easy come, easy go. It scotched her shot at cheap metaphysics. She took Kay’s advice instead.
She scrawled up her diary. She described the Big Snafu and critiqued her antithetical lovers. She pondered the second gold bayonet. She wrote her name and rank twenty times.
The doorjamb creaked. She looked over. Bill Parker stood in the doorway. He’s in uniform. He’s half-gassed and grinning. He’s cock-of-the-walk smug and proud.
Joan said, “You’re just standing there. You usually walk straight up and kiss me.”
“Don’t look so disappointed. I pulled a coup at the grand jury today. I could have gone home and told my wife, but I came here instead.”
Joan tossed him a breath mint. It hit his gun belt and fell to the floor.
“You could have told Kay Lake. Your wife ignores you, and Kay lusts for you. I don’t really consider your wife much of a rival.”
“You’ve got no beef with Kay. The two of you are friends now.”
Joan tossed a breath mint. It hit his badge and fell to the floor.
“Tell me about your coup, and I’ll tell you about mine.”
Bill weaved and steadied himself. The doorway held him up.
“I nailed those Fed fuckers, and I nailed Jack Horrall. I pulled some wire mounts in December, when the probe was first announced. I gave up Jack H. and told the jury that he ordered it. They granted me full immunity. They were going to rubber-stamp no-bills. Now, they’re going after Jack, Fletch Bowron, Ray Pinker, and the Jamie kid for real. I’ll be the star witness, and I’ll be sitting in Jack’s chair inside six months.”
Joan tossed a breath mint. It hit his necktie and fell to the floor.
“Bravo, Bill. Now, go tell Kay and Dudley. Then all the ones you care about will be up to speed.”
“You’ve got a lot of goddamned nerve, bringing Dudley up to me.”
Joan said, “I’ll tell Dudley. It’s what you really want. Everything you do is about you and Dudley, so why should I deny you that joy?”
64
(Ensenada, 8:00 A.M., 2/10/42)
He returned to the charnel house. Dudley ordered a search. He picked through scorched cadavers and phone-line debris.
Forty-two bookies perished. Most were Fifth Column — adjunct. Their deaths served no purpose. No hard leads accrued.
Ashida sifted rubble. Juan Pimentel searched for lockboxes and safes. A.M. arc lights were up. Statie goons watchdogged the location.
It was the one Baja relay spot. It immolated in ten seconds flat.
Ashida sifted plaster dust. Blasted teeth jammed up his net. He relived the explosion. Fleeing bookies trampled him. He pumped his shotgun and blew their limbs off. He stumbled out the door.
He replayed it awake. He redreamed it asleep. He smelled it right now.
Ashida sifted dust. He snared wood husks and scorched Bakelite chunks. Crazy Juan waved a skull and made kissy sounds. The plaster grit expelled gastric juices. Forty-two men burned alive.
A wedding band dropped from his sift net. It was pure gold.
Joan called him last night. She relayed the Miciak mess. She stressed Wendell Rice and his gold bayonet.
He told her he fiber-swept Hanamaka’s hideaway. It paid off. He notched a fiber match to Rice himself. More threads converged. Dudley dubbed it the “Trifecta.” The gold heist, Fifth Column grief, the klubhaus job.
More evidence and more death. More open-air cadaver rot. More teeth in his sifting pan.
Ashida walked off. Crazy Juan yelled, “Come back, my love!”
Japs.
Japs, Japs, Japs. His ex — racial kin. His pre — Pearl Harbor brethren. His pre — Dudley Smith bund.
Ashida pulled up to the Statie barracks. Dudley shot him a last-second job. It was Jap-derived and Jap-defined. A Jap trial run was set to move north. Dudley and the Ventura County Sheriff colluded.
They moved precipitously. Captain Vasquez-Cruz cosigned the collusion. They bypassed Governor Lazaro-Schmidt.
Ashida parked and walked back to the loading dock. The transport bus stood ready. Two Statie shits guarded it. They packed tommy guns.
Japs, Japs, Japs. Sixty men and women shackled. Japs, Japs, Japs. He employed the common vernacular now.
Dudley told him to interpret. Curry favor and seek last-minute rat-outs. Press on Japs still at large. Pledge snitch rewards. We’ll feed you gourmet dog food and house you in de-luxe horse stalls.
Ashida hopped on the bus. He wore U.S. Army fatigues and jump boots. He carried his evidence kit and wore a holstered .45.
He counted sixty Japs. They were shackle-chained. Their arm and ankle cuffs scraped and drew blood. They were cinched up, seat back to seat back.
Ashida studied them. He stood by the gun guard’s seat and let them notice him. It took a moment. They stopped talking, they looked up, they saw him.
He had them now. They fell quiet and studied him. He issued Dudley’s snitch directive in Spanish and Japanese. A babble rose. He walked through the bus.
People hissed at him. People talked to him. He heard traitor in Spanish and Japanese. He ran the spit gauntlet. He caught globs on his fatigues and globs in his face.
He looked out the rear window. Two Staties stuffed bundles inside the wheel wells. It was uncut heroin.
The curses persisted. The driver and gun guard jumped on board. The driver kicked the ignition.
Ashida about-faced and walked toward the front of the bus. Hisses and curses overlapped. Spittle dripped off his chin. He threw out Spanish and Japanese. Kyoho Hanamaka — do you know him?
He walked seat row to seat row and repeated it. Spit bombs blurred his vision. An old man motioned him close.
Ashida leaned close. The old man spoke English. He said, “Hanamaka fascist. I valet for him. I help him mess up mountain house and pack. Two white policemen drive him over border.”
Ashida opened his evidence kit. He flashed ID pix of Wendell Rice and George Kapek.
The old man nodded YES.
65
(San Diego, 12:00 P.M., 2/10/42)
The boys are—
They hauled north. Elmer drove. Buzz baby-talked his pet scorpion. They left El Huey naked, outside the Klubb Satan. Devil take the hindmost.
The coast road looked good. Eucalyptus trees and big wave swells. The klubhaus job looked bad. Elmer masticated it.