Joan caught her breath. She wrote a cover note and dropped it in the box.
“4:30 a.m., 2/25/42. Corroborative photos. Current per this date. Mug-shot comparison/14 male Japanese.”
It was cold. The generator lights usurped the pipe heat. Her blouse stuck to her back. Her wet stockings had stretched.
She walked to the lineup room. Thad Brown chatted up the eyewits.
Four squarejohn whites. Three colored hepcats. Two Mexican boys in aloha shirts and slit-bottomed khakis.
Thad winked and handed her his clipboard. Fourteen rap sheets and mug-shot strips were clipped in.
The hepcats and Mex boys ogled her. She walked to the lineup stage and studied the clips.
Fourteen righteous criminals. No known Fifth Column ties. Uninterned for that reason. Red Alert for that reason. All uninterned Japs posed a threat.
All young men. All ex-cons. 459/211/502 PC. 390 sex deviate. Sodomy/stat rape.
Joan studied the mug shots. All fourteen men wore neck boards. The photos were dated 8/38 to now. All fourteen men had aged. They were all frayed-cum-raggedy ass.
The lineup stage was harsh-lit and one-way glass-fronted. Height strips lined the back wall. Fluorescent lights bore down. Potential eyewits faced the stage and grabbed look-sees.
Joan walked back and milled with the eyewits. Thad Brown passed out dinner chits and sawbucks. The white folks took it stoic. The hepcats and Mex boys yipped. One hepcat said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” A Mex boy said, “Banzai.”
Thad laughed. “You know how this works. We’ve got fourteen suspects. They’ll be wearing neck boards numbered one to fourteen. You study the men and decide for yourselves, without conferring with anyone else. Raise your hand if you’re certain, and talk to Miss Conville.”
A buzzer buzzed. A wall light pulsed. Mike Breuning popped through the stage-right door. The shackle gang dogged him. Their cinch chains dragged on the floor.
They were kicked to shit. Black eyes, cuts, contusions. One half-detached ear. Sap damage. Beavertail saps with rough-stitch edges. Cops armed for JAP.
Breuning positioned the men. They stood behind raised number plates and blinked back bright light. The eyewits eyeballed them. Thad said, “Take your time, folks.”
They grabbed good look-sees. Joan watched their eyes click. She ticked seconds on her wristwatch. Two full minutes passed.
A white lady looked over and held up five fingers. A hepcat looked over and flashed five more. Joan flashed five fingers. Thad caught it and flashed the stage. Joan checked the clipboard. There’s suspect #5.
Hiroshi NMI Yamura. Age 34. Grand Theft Auto/Peeping Tom/Stat Rape.
The white lady said, “I saw him go in and out of that horrible clubhouse. He was always inebriated.”
The hepcat said, “I used to see him at Mumar’s Mosque and Happytime Liquor. He used to shoot craps outside the clubhouse, but after Pearl Harbor he dropped out of sight.”
Breuning detached Yamura. He unlocked his cuffs and shackle chain and threw on a headlock. The stage was soundproof. It went down hush-hush. Yamura thrashed his arms and went dead-legged. Breuning clamped his neck and dragged him off, stage right.
The white lady crossed herself. The hepcat shrugged. A Mex boy said, “Screw his mama sideways. My brother-in-law got it at Pearl.”
The lineup room adjoined sweatbox row. Joan passed Thad his clipboard and took the stage-right door. She heard shrieks and thumps and followed them. Two short hallways intersected. She saw Breuning drag Yamura, and Dick Carlisle kick him from behind.
They dragged him and kicked him. Breuning popped the #3 door and hauled him inside. Carlisle slammed the door. It squelched a loud screech.
Joan walked over. She goosed the wall speaker and peeped the mirror wall. Breuning and Carlisle proned out Yamura. Carlisle kicked his head and back. Breuning rifled his pockets and plucked his wallet and keys. Yamura screamed. Carlisle slid on sap gloves. Breuning went through the wallet sleeves.
He saw something. You could tell that. Joan read him plain. He faced the mirror wall and waved the wallet. He knew somebody’s peeping. Somebody always peeps.
Breuning yelled at the wall mikes. “He’s got a driver’s license in another name. There’s an address on 46th. It’s right by the klubhaus.”
Yamura flailed. He kicked Carlisle off of him. Carlisle tripped and hit the back wall. Yamura reached into his right shoe and pulled something out. He put the something in his mouth and bit down hard.
He Fuck You — fingered the mirror. His legs twitched, his arms twitched, his back arched off the floor. He belched foam and went spastic jerky. The foam was half blood. Dick Carlisle saw it and screamed.
72
(Orange County, 5:00 A.M., 2/25/42)
They cut inland. Coastal roadblocks stalled their progress north. Artillery jolts deafened them. Tracer rounds blurred their sight. Beach guns fired at airplane wisps and plain shadows.
Ashida drove. Dudley commandeered Major Melnick’s staff car. It was full-boat SIS. Big V-8/two-way radio/ammo-packed trunk. They blasted out of Ensenada and went AWOL.
Sirens blared at 3:00 a.m. The Baja alert aped the L.A. alert. Some Statie coastal goon saw Zeros and tripped the alarm. He radioed beach batteries north to San Diego. Full artillery launched at 3:10.
It spread. Whatever this was spread exponential. Jack Horrall patch-called Dudley and ordered them up.
Whatever this was hit Baja and L.A. The City Hall guns blasted Jap Zeros or Jap wisps. The Alien Squad mobilized and roused Red Alert Japs.
Coastal guns blazed. Spotters spotted whatever it was. Juan Pimentel sicced the Baja Staties. They patrolled beachfronts. They ran floodlights and strafed wave lines north to T.J. They shot at Jap subs or Jap wisps or whatever it was.
No Jap subs blew up. No Jap Zeros exploded. Something was up there and/or down there. Somebody saw something and punched the trigger. Chain reaction. Jap fever. Some L.A. somebody. Some Baja somebody. Something was up there and/or down there.
Prophets prophesied that something. Code-call intelligence accrued. Fourth Interceptor logged it. SIS ignored it. Possible airfields in San Berdoo County. Late February attack.
The bookie-front raid backfired. The transmitter exploded. It blitzed a code-call approach. Now hear this: the fucking prophecy’s fulfilled.
Ashida drove blackout-blind. Eastbound streets blurred. He heard ack-ack and siren screech. Predawn lit the sky. A plane passed overhead. He thought he saw wing rivets and a hammer and scythe. Something’s up there. He knew he saw something.
Dudley chain-smoked. He wore his I’m-brooding-don’t-talk-to-me look. He rolled down his window. Ashida smelled cordite and spilled gasoline.
The two-way radio beeped. Dudley flipped switches and plugged in his headset. He said, “Yes, Thad.” He listened. He said, “Yes, Thad,” and unplugged.
“We may have a klubhaus lead. A man named Yamura or Nunakawa killed himself in custody. His driver’s license listed his address as 682 East 46th. That’s the klubhaus block, and Thad wants us there. He’s dispatching Lunceford and Jackson, as well.”
Ashida gunned it. He drove eighty-plus, blackout-blind. They crossed the L.A. County line. Sirens whooped and sputtered. He pushed it to ninety. He hit Gardena and caught Western Avenue. The sky cleared some. He took Imperial Highway east and hooked onto Central north.
Low-rent L.A. at dawn. Gun chatter somewhere. No plane-crash debris. No foot traffic. Locked-tight business fronts.
78th Street. 77th Street. 76, 75, 74. Ashida saw smoke. Two prowl cars sped past them. Their cherry lights whirled.