71
(Los Angeles, 2:15 A.M., 2/25/42)
Sirens kicked on and whooped. They invaded her dream. She was hunting ring-neck birds. She was back in Tomah some—
Joan opened her eyes. Bill stirred. The whoop-whoop hit overdrive. Bill grabbed his glasses. Searchlights swooped. They invaded the bedroom. Blackout drapes went translucent.
Bill got up. The drapes backlit him naked. The alarm felt inadvertent. A bogus one went down last night. Full blackout/false alarm/7:00 to 10:00. One large pain in the ass.
Joan said, “Shit.”
Bill peeled back the wall drapes. Searchlights crisscrossed. The bedroom soaked up light. The phone rang. Oh shit/no shit — three short and shrill bursts.
It was PD code. It meant This Is Real. It meant Report for Duty NOW.
Joan got goose bumps. She stepped into her shoes and threw on last night’s clothes. Bill tripped into his trousers and fell back on the bed. Courtyard doors banged. Rubes jumped out on their porches to gab and watch the show.
Joan buttoned her blouse. Bill tied his shoes and looped his gun belt. Joan tossed him his shirt and necktie. They tripped into each other and ran outside.
A drunk neighbor wolf-whistled. Bill was untucked and disheveled. Joan’s blouse tail drooped. They made the sidewalk. Bill’s prowl sled was haphazardly parked and nosed south.
They slid on damp asphalt. They banged their knees getting in. Sirens whooped loud. Searchlights glared bright.
Joan said, “Shit.”
Bill said, “Shit.”
He kicked the ignition. He pulled out and cut east on 1st. Searchlights flutter-lit the street. Fools stood outside and gawked. Joan dug in Bill’s pants pockets and pulled out his cigarettes.
They tore through Bunker Hill. They hit a rise at Figueroa and got a wide downtown view. They saw it and heard it simultaneous.
Artillery fire. Flak bursts. The antiaircraft guns outside City Hall.
Joan fumbled her cigarette. Bill fumbled his. He fishtailed downhill and bumped the curb upside Central Station. Joan squeezed his leg. Bill touched her hair. She got out and ran inside.
Bluesuits jammed the entrance hall. They wore tin hats and riot gear. They shouted. Two words overlapped.
It’s Real/It’s Real/It’s Real.
Joan heard machine-gun fire. She pegged it northeast. City Hall again. Those .30-caliber BARs with hundred-round belts.
Ceiling lights burned dim. Joan ran down to the basement and hit the generator switch. It juiced up real light. She ran back upstairs. The armory door stood open. The watch sergeant passed out tommy guns.
A bluesuit lobbed a roll of tinfoil. Somebody yelled, “Windows!” Joan snagged the roll and ran upstairs to the lab.
She tore off strips with her teeth. She foil-crimped curtain-windowpane junctures and cut off escaped light. She looked out a window crack. Flak bursts glowed pink. The goddamn sirens and searchlights persisted. She thought she saw an airplane wing.
The phone rang. She snatched the receiver and said her name. Flak noise drowned out her voice. She thought she heard a voice. It was long-distance faint. The flak noise subsided. The voice said, “Joan, is it you?”
Hideo Ashida. Filtered through party-line jabber. She heard Mexican voices. It was switchboard gobbledygook.
Joan talked loud. Mex jabber smothered her voice. She cupped her free ear. Flak noise came and went. Hideo got fractured words out.
It’s real. I’m with Dudley. We’ve seen aircraft heading north. Coastal artillery. We’re coming up. You won’t believe what we’ve—
She lost him. Two minutes passed. She clutched the receiver. She bit her lips and chipped a tooth.
Hideo came back on. The switchboard screech resumed. She caught crazy chatter and fractured-sentence talk.
Alien Squad.
Red Alert roundup list.
Uninterned Japanese.
Stand by.
Take photographs.
Suspects.
Klubhaus job.
Work confiscations.
More jabber-screech. More cacophany. Then profane español. Then a blare disconnect.
Joan dropped the phone and ran down the hallway. She hit the Alien Squad pen at full sprint. The boys were garbed up and armed for JAP.
They wore tin hats and bandoliers. They slid .45 dumdums into tommy-gun drums. Lew Collier dispensed pickup lists and divvied up partners. Lee Blanchard got Robby Moss. Elmer Jackson got Cal Lunceford. Catbox Cal wore gloves. He dipped his dumdums in a jar of liquid strychnine and hand-fed his tommy gun.
Joan opened the supply closet. She pulled three mug-shot cameras off a shelf and quick-loaded film. She affixed flashbulb strips and boxed up everything. Thad Brown spotted her and walked straight over.
He said, “Holy shit, Red.”
She said, “Holy shit, Thad.”
He passed her a canvass list. “Call these people and get them over here. Promise them whatever you have to. Tell them we’re being attacked, so do your goddamn duty, and we’ll shitcan extant warrants, or we’ll tap our slush fund and pay you twenty bucks apiece. They’re our 46th Street locals and jazz-club people — off our first canvass. We’ve got Red Alert Japs coming in, and I want to run lineups. We could get lucky here. This is fresh lineup meat, and I want to see if any of these yokels can make positive IDs. Most of these people won’t have cars or will be too scared to drive, so arrange your pickups with Newton Patrol, and get on it.”
Joan flashed the V sign. Thad said something. Antiaircraft bursts drowned him out. He flashed the V sign and popped in earplugs. Joan laughed and shooed him off.
She walked back to the squad pen and pulled a desk phone over. She yanked the cord taut and barricaded herself in the closet. It was half-ass quiet and claustrophobe-cramped. She began stiffing calls.
She got hang-ups and no-answers. She got fearful yelps and It’s just like Pearl Harbor! She talked nice to folks and harsh to folks and promised police escorts. She shamed folks. She pledged slush-fund gelt and dinner chits for Kwan’s. She worked two hours straight and smoked herself hoarse. She logged I’m not going out in this calls. She logged shit yes calls. She called canvass names and Newton Patrol, contrapuntal. She hooked nine stout souls up with the Newton switchboard.
She’d sweated through her clothes. She stepped back out of the closet and into the blare.
The artillery. The flak. The BARs. The station was sealed tight. The windows were blackout-crimped. The generator lights cut in and out. The blare ate its way inside her head.
Joan lugged her cameras down to the jail. Fourteen Red Alert Japs crammed up the main holding cell. They were beat to shit and ratchet-cuffed behind their backs. They dripped blood on the floor. They saw the big white cooze and spit at her through the bars.
Werewolf Shudo’s cell was straight across the catwalk. He dick-flashed the Red Alert Japs. They dick-flashed him right back.
Joan dodged spit blobs and pressed close to the bars. She deployed all three cameras and snapped photos. The Japs blinked back flashbulb glare. They crowded up to the bars and mugged. They hopped around. They yelled pro-Emperor slogans and stuck out their tongues.
She shot all fourteen men. She unloaded the film and scooped up the spent flashbulbs. She lugged her camera box up to the lab and dropped it off.
The lab windows faced north. City Hall was two blocks off. The trifecta blared: artillery, BARs, flak.