Fletch B. himself. Chief Clemence “Jack” Horrall. Hotshot PI Wallace Jamie. Police chemist Ray Pinker. Lesser-known legal beagles galore.
Sid said, “I never thought the Japs were up there. Pearl taught us they come in fast and low.”
Dudley winked. “There was a grand scuffle at 46th and Central. Let’s see if Fletch deigns to mention it.”
Fletch drooped off the lectern and mauled the microphone. He lived to grandstand and distort.
“For those of you who remain unconvinced, let me repeat. There was no air attack, Jap or otherwise. There were shells dropped, but we don’t know by who, and they failed to detonate. Several folks throughout the city were struck by falling debris, but there were no serious injuries and no fatalities.”
Dudley grinned. Credit a madcap inventor. Build-ur-self airplanes aloft.
Fletch coughed and hankie-wiped the microphone. He thrived on deceit.
“The only fatalities resulted from a Negro riot, in the vicinity of 46th Street and Central Avenue. Negroes looted numerous liquor stores and jazz clubs. A score of Negroes were fatally wounded by other Negroes, who have not yet been identified.”
Sid whistled shrill. “I hope they didn’t torch Minnie Roberts’ Casbah. The DA gets his ugambo there.”
Laffs rocked the room. Sid lived to offend and provoke. Fletch undid his necktie and buffed the microphone.
“On a more dour note. The Negroes set fire to a clubhouse under police investigation. And, in an unrelated incident, Officer Calvin S. Lunceford was shot and killed by a Jap seditionist, who has not yet been identified, and who remains at large.”
Catbox Cal. A jailbait-jumper and a sloven at best. The world will not mourn.
The room rumbled. Dead cops goosed circulation. The Hearst rags would pounce and exploit.
Fletch said, “It would have been impossible for any unlogged airplanes to have taken off or landed unseen in L.A. County or any adjoining county. Those shells were most likely unintentionally dropped by U.S. Army scouting craft, sent up in the wake of the preceding yellow-alert blackout.”
Sid whistled shrill. “There’s been reports of coded calls from here to Baja. They supposedly mentioned secret air bases in San Berdoo County, and inquiring minds want to know if Jap planes could have departed and returned there.”
Fletch said, “Poppycock. Inquiring minds should inquire about the rising tide of Negro crime in Los Angeles.”
Sid despised Fletch. Mr. Mayor picked his pockets bare at PD pokerfests.
“How does it feel to be under Federal indictment, boss?”
Fletch said, “The truth shall set me free.”
San Berdoo was sixty miles out. It was a tank town. Farmhands and low-rank Army. Package stores and whorehouses. Shitkicker cops up for grabs.
Dudley dawdled en route. He called Joan and gave her the address. He pledged a grand surprise. He sidestepped discussion of the fool air attack and declined to ascribe blame.
He’d spotted a kit plane, down in Orange County. The car-engine hum alerted him. The hammer and sickle gave it away. He got the picture then.
It was cloudless and midmorning cool. He’d changed into civvies. The riot left his uniform soot-streaked. Hideo impressed him. He followed his Führer’s lead and shot quick and true. He’d ride out conscience pangs in due course.
The Lunceford item troubled him. Catbox Cal dies. Elmer J. survives. An alleged Jap slayer remains at large. Elmer’s proximity was worrisome. The lad magnetized trouble and/or caused it himself.
He hit San Berdoo proper and drove straight to the address. The garage door stood open. He parked across the street and walked over.
A breeze kicked in. Solvent fumes blew down the driveway. Dudley scanned the garage. He saw blueprints for build-yourself torpedoes. He saw tin snips and hand-cut propellers.
Drivetrains and flywheels. A box of clutch pedals. Spark plugs, rivet guns, Messerschmitt stencils. Bottled arson accelerants. A snap-in-place airplane control board.
Dudley walked around to the back. Tarpaulins dotted the yard. They covered irregular mounds. Fuselage panels stuck out.
A back door was propped open. He saw a kitchen crammed with boxes. He smelled glue and saw legs jammed under a table.
He walked in and skirted the boxes. Madcap Mitch glued up a toy Stuka. He was forty-five or so. He sported a goatee and a soil-crusted smock.
Dudley said, “Hello, sir.”
Mad Mitch looked up. He had quick blue eyes.
“Cop, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Federal?”
“No, city.”
Mad Mitch went You got me. “I’ll admit I dropped those bombs. They were deliberate duds, and nobody got hurt. I didn’t drop any gas or set any fires, which I damn well could have done.”
Dudley smiled. “I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. I’m here to compliment you on your work.”
Mad Mitch picked up the Stuka and zoomed it. The great Charles Lindbergh admired this man. He had deft hands and nativist chutzpah.
“I picked up rumors of an air attack and alerted the kids in my squadron. We decided to launch an armada and do some joyriding.”
“Your kids, sir? Your squadron?”
Mad Mitch scratched his arms. They were solvent-scarred and overlaid with ripe sores.
“Frat boys, mostly. Engineering students. They build my kits and go hog wild. You can’t keep good kids down on the ground when they want to be up in the air.”
Dudley smiled. “You sell your kits through the mail, do you?”
Mad Mitch smiled. “Blueprints and parts. U.S. and Mexico. The spics are my best customers. Yo habla español, daddy?”
Dudley heard footsteps behind him. Stacked-heel footsteps. A tall woman’s gait.
“Are you a saboteur or a spy, sir? Are you a Fifth Columnist?”
“Nix to all three. I’m just a card-carrying white man, and I’m proud to attend the beerfests at the convivial Deutsches Haus.”
Dudley heard short breaths behind him. She stood out of sight. She was sight-and-sound close.
“I read your air-warfare tract, sir. I’m wondering if you ever considered the setting of forest fires as an implementation.”
Mad Mitch slapped his knees. The table jolted. The toy Stuka jumped.
“I most certainly have, and I’ve already done the research. April 9, 1938. I took a joyride and dropped a torch bomb near Tomah, Wisconsin. I got up a sweet bar-bq.”
Joan stepped up. She wore a tweed skirt and a green cashmere sweater. Mad Mitch said, “Hello there, sweetie.”
Dudley felt her hand at his belt line. She pulled out his piece and shot off the full clip. She bull’s-eyed Mad Mitch. Muzzle flare scorched his face. His teeth exploded. His hair caught fire.
75
(Los Angeles, 4:00 P.M., 2/25/42)
Time blurred. She dropped things. Shock failed to explain it. Numb missed the point.
They left him there. Dudley swatted out the fire and jacked the pipe heat. It would speed decomposition and foil time of death. Dudley knew the San Berdoo Sheriff. They’d schemed together. They’d schemed per wetbacks and captive Japs.
Time blurred. She dropped things. She saw rural Wisconsin sans through line. The fuel spill. Big Earle’s wake. She hunts quail off Lake Mendota. She shoots rabid bats. She visits the Little Bohemia Lodge. Dillinger escaped from there. It was April ’34. She’d just turned nineteen.
Vindication distorted it. Barrel through said it best. It’s the Conville code. She said she’d do it and did it. Dudley made it happen. Men always indulged her.