They called Thad Brown from T.J. They said Huey was just plain nowhere. Thad laid out the Miciak mess. The looted guns were the gnarly nadir. Thad issued an APB on Link Rockwell. Flyboy Link staged klubhaus sex shows and sold tix.
The klubhaus job was Shit City. Buzz and him brain-waved it. There had to be an upside somewhere. Huey’s Dudster tale, ditto. Dud attends a pervert hoedown and snuffs a he-she. That’s blackmail bait. It could rescind Dud’s hex on Buzz.
Elmer relit his cigar. A light drizzle hit. They passed Del Mar Racetrack. Buzz dropped bundles there on his days off.
They did one good deed already. He called Fourth Interceptor and played Mr. Anonymous. He tattled that so-called Jap sub attack. It retattled Huey’s tattle. Sub attack planned!!! Japs target Santa Barbara refineries!!!
That was tattle #1. Tattle #2 was stale bread. Jap air attack!!! Late February, banzai!!! It was most likely vapors and bullshit.
El Scorpio snoozed in his cage. Buzz stuck a finger in and stroked his pincers. A pet store on Fairfax sold dead crickets. Buzz planned to stock up. Keep El Scorpio fat and sassy.
“Here’s something I don’t get. There’s those fourteen Baja pay-phone listings in Tommy G.’s address book. My question’s Why? Why’s a psycho jerkoff like Tommy have those numbers? Is he really some hot-blood seditionist? On top of that, this English-language paper ran a story this morning. The Staties knocked over a pay-phone relay spot and disabled it. Does that mean them pay phones in Tommy’s book are dead?”
Elmer said, “I got phone slugs in the trunk. We’ll try to call those phones from that hot-box by the Herald. If we get dead air, we’ll know something’s cooking.”
Buzz rogered him and yawned wiiiiiide. He tipped his hat low and snoozed off. Elmer chained cigars and daydreamed Jean Staley. He dressed her in Kay Lake threads. Kay had this black cashmere dress. He liked it best.
Full-on rain hit outside L.A. Elmer cut east on rinky-dink streets and north on Figueroa. The rain abated, the clouds dispersed, some sunshine poked through. Buzz yawned and stirred.
“Looks like home to me.”
Elmer cut east on Pico and north on Broadway. There’s the Herald building. There’s the hot-box. There’s Ed Satterlee, parked upside.
Elmer U-turned and pulled up behind him. He got out and unlocked his trunk. He kept his extralegal shit there. Throwdown guns, burglars’ tools, maryjane to plant on suspects. Pay-phone slugs. Crib notes per Tommy G.’s address book.
Buzz got out and stretched. They waved to Ed Satterlee. Ed the Fed waved back. They ducked into the phone booth. Elmer passed Buzz the address-book numbers and a handful of slugs.
El Buzzo spoke okay Spanish. He got the place-the-calls gig. The gambit was station-to-station. The L.A. operator hails the Baja operator. She shoots the actual calls.
Buzz went to work. Elmer moseyed up to Ed’s sled and popped the passenger door. Ed nipped on a hip flask. Elmer slid in and went Gimme that.
Ed passed the flask. “Your boy Bill Parker pulled a fink play with the grand jury. Those halfhearted bills rigged to produce acquittals don’t look so assured now.”
Elmer sipped cheap brandy. “Bill Parker’s right hand don’t know what his left hand is doing.”
Buzz lounged half outside the phone booth. Elmer eyeballed him. Buzz held up three fingers and pointed them down. That meant three disconnects.
Ed slurped cheap brandy. “What’s Meeks doing?”
“We’re tracking Baja pay phones. It pertains to the klubhaus job.”
“Are you working with Fourth Interceptor? They’re chasing Baja pay phones.”
Elmer went nix. “No, it’s something else.”
Ed the Fed shrugged. “As numerous wags have said, ‘Fifth Column’s Fifth Column.’ We get lots of those Deutsches Haus creeps making calls from here.”
Elmer orbed the phone booth. Buzz wagged nine fingers and pointed them down. That meant nine disconnects.
“How do you know this, sahib?”
Ed gargled cheap brandy. “We run photo surveillance. We take pictures and match them to the plate numbers of the cars the creeps get back into. We get the registration details from the DMV and run the names against known-subversive files.”
Buzz flashed fourteen fingers and pointed them down. That meant all disconnects.
Elmer said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any of those pictures on you?”
Ed reached under his seat. He snagged a stack of glossies and dropped them on Elmer’s lap.
Elmer thumbed through. He saw a slew of unknown phone callers. He saw a far shot of Ensign Link Rockwell. Oooh — there’s a tight shot. Dig that mean-looking Jap.
Jap on the loose. Oooga-booga. Why ain’t this fucker detained?
“You got a name on him?”
Ed flipped the picture over. Scrawled on the back:
Kyoho Hanamaka.
66
(Los Angeles, 7:00 A.M., 2/11/42)
Breakfast at Kwan’s. Flapjacks and Bloody Marys. Jack Horrall, half-blitzed and dyspeptic.
“What you’re saying in no way surprises me. Bill Parker rats to the Feds. It’s on a par with ‘dog bites man.’ ”
Dudley sipped coffee. He left Joan’s bed for this bereavement. She finked Parker’s fink play. She finked Wendell Rice’s gold bayonet. La Bonne Joan — ever opportunistic.
“It ups the odds that the grand jury will issue binding indictments, sir. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Jack dosed his morning jolt. He added Tabasco and Worcestershire. His highball glass glowed malignant.
“Parker’s making his move. If I’m convicted at trial, he’ll grab my job early. He’ll work some voodoo on the City Council and push Thad Brown aside.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Talk to him. Horse trade. White man smoke heap big peace pipe. Tell that pious cocksucker that I’ll pull my support of Thad if he recants his testimony extant.”
Dudley scanned the room. The City Hall crowd noshed early. Fletch Bowron, Sheriff’s brass, Jew lobbyists. They waved to Chief Jack and the big mick.
“I’ll call Parker this morning, sir.”
Jack salted his drink. His liver was shot. His pump was shot. His arteries bulged. His life span loomed as next week.
“You heard about that Miciak fuck? We’ve got Rice and Kapek selling Jap guns now.”
“I was informed, sir. Mike Breuning called me.”
“I’m starting to think I should countermand my clean-solve directive. Rice and Kapek’s shit should never see the light of day. I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought. It’s causing me to wax profound. I’m also shit-faced at seven-fucking-a.m.”
Dudley grinned. “You’ve always been a lively man, sir.”
“I’m also very enlightened, and not averse to enlisting jigaboos in our noble crusade. Which brings me to my pal Preacher Mimms.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. Call-Me-Jack resalted his drink.
“Preacher Mimms owns the klubhaus. That gives him a stake in this. He’s also got his snout dunked in a great many poisoned streams.”
Such as the gold heist. May ’31. Mimms bails out Leander Frechette. Hideo and Joan uncovered it.
“You’ve piqued my interest, sir.”
“Talk to Preacher Mimms. Ask him about his numerous enemies embroiled in perverted walks of life. Get a sense of the ones he’d like to see dead.”