Ashida floored it. He fishtailed and blew a string of red lights. Dudley unholstered his sidearm and winked.
Smoke roiled up dark and thick. Ashida got it now. He hit the siren and unholstered. He steered the car with his knees and jacked a shell into the breech.
Full dawn hit. 51, 50, 49. Black smoke plumed. Parked cars issued flames. Here’s your something. It’s for sure. There’s a Negro Riot on the Jazz-Club Strip.
They drove into it. Dudley cracked his windwing. Negroes rock-shattered windows and hauled off whiskey crates. 48, 47. Negroes bashed down the doors of the Club Zamboanga and Port Afrique. They swung two-by-four bashing rams. They smashed parked-car windows and hurled wine-bottle bombs. Car seats ignited, car windows blew.
Ashida downshifted and pulled right. Somebody somewhere yelled, “It’s a Jap!”
Shots hit the car. The windshield exploded. Shots dinged the trunk and pierced the rear doors. Dudley grabbed the wheel and pulled it hard right. The car banged the curb and stalled flat.
Dudley got out. Ashida got out a split second on. Dudley braced his arm on the car-top and fired into the mob.
Three Negroes fell. A man’s chest blew up. Dudley fired hollow points. He shot one man in the neck and blew a man’s arm off.
The mob issued one big scream. Ashida aimed and fired straight at it. He shot two men in the back. They careened and crashed and bumped heads.
Dudley ran toward 46th Street. Ashida ran after him and caught up. They turned the corner. They saw the klubhaus, ablaze.
Flames scorched the top floor. The air stung. Negroes hauled swag out the front door. Furniture, radios, trombones. Sinarquista tapestries.
Ten Negroes. Twenty Negroes. Negroes in gang silks and zoot suits. Negroes slurping muscatel. Negroes waving Nazi flags on sticks.
Somebody somewhere yelled, “Dig the Jap!”
Dudley walked toward them. Ashida followed him. The Negroes made buzzing-airplane sounds and turned their arms into wings.
Dudley aimed and fired. Two zoot suiters fell. The mob screeched and dispersed all whichways.
A kid stumbled to the sidewalk. He cradled a big saxophone and peeled toward the avenue. Ashida saw his coffee skin and almond eyes. Tokyo meets the Congo.
Ashida aimed at his face. He squeezed the trigger and saw it break red. The sax pitched backward with him. The kid death-cradled it.
73
(Los Angeles, 6:00 A.M., 2/25/42)
The tin hat mussed his hair. The tommy gun weighed ten tons. He gots dem Red Alert Blues.
Cal Lunceford wrote dem blues. Catbox Cal. A hate dog to rival Wayne Frank. Wayne Frank hated up dem jigs and dem Jews. Sergeant E. V. Jackson disapproves. He gots dem Red Alert Blues.
Elmer breezed into Central Station. Catbox Cal lagged back. They steered a six-man shackle chain down to the jail. Joan Conville was there. She circled the holding pens and snapped photographs.
The Jap attack or big scare or plain fuckup fizzled out. It was all for Jap naught and OOPS writ large. Fletch B. scheduled a press confab. He’d dish the gist later today.
The jail overflowed. Werewolf Shudo waved his pecker at his Red Alert pals. Elmer unshackled the new fish and got them penned up. Catbox Cal sulked.
Thad Brown walked over. He looked spookified.
“You and Lunceford roll back out. We’ve got a riot at 46th and Central. The klubhaus has been torched. Dudley and Ashida put down some shines.”
Elmer gulped. Catbox Cal giggled. Thad snatched a cigar from Elmer’s coat pocket.
“Check this address. 682 East 46th. It’s right by the klubhaus. We took it off a DL on one of our suspect Japs. He killed himself with a cyanide pill, which I don’t like the looks of. Get over there. Dud and Ashida are busy with the fire department.”
Lunceford snatched a cigar. “How many shines did they bag?”
Thad said, “Eight.”
Lunceford said, “There’s hope for this world. I wouldn’t have thought Ashida had it in him.”
L.A. was deadsville. It’s The War of the Worlds, redux. Orson Welles did that radio show. Flying saucers and zombies. Folks thought it was real. Folks wigged out, resultant.
Elmer drove. Catbox Cal resulked. They ran Code 3/lights and siren. They ignored traffic signs and laid tracks.
They hauled south and east. There’s the jazz-club strip. It’s been manhandled. Note the scorched cars. Note the smashed windows. Note the kicked-in doors. Note the soot-filtered air. Note the blues holding spectators back.
Elmer cut left on 46th. Sayonara, klubhaus.
It was torched toast. The upstairs had smooshed the downstairs. Hose steam hissed. Beams wiggled and collapsed. Rubble mounds sizzled.
Note the two fire trucks. Note the three morgue wagons. Note the eight sheet-draped gurneys. The Dudster posed for pictures. Firemen aimed box cameras. Ashida looked shell-shocked.
Lunceford said, “Coon hunt.”
Elmer said, “Son, you are wearing me thin.”
Lunceford shut up. Elmer shot east. He checked curb plates and read addresses. 674, 676, 678. There’s no 680. There’s 682—
It’s a small wood-frame job. It’s one-story and dilapidated. Dig that porch rat. He’s big and black and scaly-tailed. He exemplifies beady-eyed evil.
Elmer parked at the curb. They got out and walked up the steps. The soul rat skittered off. The dump radiated quietude.
Lunceford pulled his roscoe. Elmer eared the door and got all-quiet squared. He nudged the door. It slid open easy.
Lunceford squeezed in ahead of him. The front room was musty. Thin curtains let in light. Pizza-pie boxes were stacked on a table. Elmer smelled stale cheese and mold.
All quiet. Oooga-booga. Where de peoples at?
Lunceford walked ahead. He cut through the front room and eased toward a back hallway. Elmer slow-orbed the front room.
He caught stale food and stale air. His hackles jumped. The joint felt quick-vacated. That proclaimed Hideout.
He eased toward the hallway. He thought he heard footfalls. Wood planks squeaked. The squeaks overlapped. He thought he heard footfalls — two sets.
He thought he heard whispers. He froze right there. His ears perked. He thought he heard “Run.”
He crouched and stared down the hallway. Something moved. He thought he heard something. He caught a shutter-click glimpse.
It’s a Jap. He’s going for the back door. Shutter click. There’s that surveillance pic. Shutter click. Ed the Fed showed it to—
It’s Kyoho Hanamaka, that evil little—
There’s “Run” again. There’s footsteps heading back this way. There’s a stumble sound and Lunceford in the hallway. He’s quick-walking straight for—
Elmer hit the floor. Lunceford pulled his gun. Elmer pulled his ankle piece and aimed straight up.
He squeezed slow. He got Lunceford in the legs and the gut. Lunceford lost his legs and dropped his gun and flew ass-backward. Elmer squeezed slow. He got the cocksucker in the chin and took his fucking face off.
74
(Los Angeles, 10:30 A.M., 2/25/42)
Flashbulbs popped. Newshounds swarmed and scrawled notes. Mayor Fletch blathered. He lived to jive the Fourth Estate.
City Hall was Jap Attack and Fed Indictment HQ. The briefing room overflowed. Dudley stood at the back. Sid Hudgens sidled up to him. He flashed the a.m. Herald. The attack claimed ten-point headlines. The backup piece ran under the fold.
INDICTMENTS ISSUED IN PHONE-TAP PROBE!!! PROMINENT ANGELENOS J’ACCUSED!!!!