Central Station supplied distraction. It remained chaotic. The air-raid snafu and the riot. The klubhaus blaze and Cal Lunceford’s death. Last night and this morning blurred. She thrived on police disorder. She threw herself into it. She superimposed her father’s killer. Muzzle-flare sparks flame.
She developed her booking photographs and file-clipped them. The station teemed. She saw new cop faces. War-hire rookies came by to help. They talked up the Fed-probe indictments and Bill Parker’s role. She kept hearing Bill. It registered as incantation. The same with Dudley. War-hire babble. This Dudley guy waxed some shines.
Bill and Dudley. One of them would call her. She’d sleep with one of them tonight.
Joan walked down to the jail. She pulled log-in duty. The jail was SRO. Red Alert Japs, held for transfer. Mexican illegals — INS transfer bait.
Wetbacks. They exploited the air raid and border grief and broke for L.A. The PD snagged three truckloads. That meant work. Log property. Fumigate ragged apparel. Call the INS.
Joan worked in the property office. It adjoined the main catwalk and holding pens. The jail was wall-to-wall shouts and jeers.
Packed pens. Trilingual ruckus. War hires baited the inmates and cracked jokes.
The babble distracted her. She dumped confiscated satchels and searched for contraband. She logged zip guns and hair pomade. She logged fotografías de niños and Spanish fly.
Two war hires lounged by her door. They dropped double entendres and defamed the wets. Come-san-chin, the Chinese cocksucker. This cholo I popped worked at the Blue Fox. He said the donkey poked Eleanor Roosevelt. I’d pay to see that.
Joan half-heard it. She logged contraband and fixed on her task. Brass knuckles. Matchbooks and swizzle sticks. A .45 ACP clip.
“The goddamn wets. Listen to that racket. It’s like New Year’s Eve. Remember that rainstorm? They were swarming over the border fences and clouting cars. They thought we’d have our guard down, on account of the rain.”
“They were right about that. We were stretched, ’cause all the drunks and the rain had us hopping.”
“They sent me out to Venice. Some Navy woman blitzed a jalopy with four beaners up front. She’s dead drunk, and she dispatches all four. Then we find two dead kids in the trunk. Cute little kids — a boy and a girl.”
“Oh shit. That’s a rough go.”
“ ‘Rough go’ don’t say it. They were breathing through airholes on the ride up from T.J., but the trunk got crushed and they smothered to death.”
“A six-down 502. Tell me that ain’t a world record, and tell me the Navy skirt didn’t draw twelve to life, wets or no wets.”
“Nix to that. The drift is Bill Parker put the fix in. He had it bad for that cooze, and he got her a skate.”
Shock failed to say it. Numb missed the point. It explained recurrent nightmares. Thumps and muffled shrieks.
She bolted. The war hires went Say what? She swerved and bumped her way out to the sidewalk. DT shakes developed. Her hands trembled. She tried to light cigarettes and gave up.
She swerve-walked to City Hall and elevatored to the DB. She stared at the floor and cringed at hellos. Ringing telephones scared her. Door slams turned to thumps. Soft voices turned to shrieks.
Dudley was out. Bill was gone. She looked everywhere and gave up. She locked herself in the women’s washroom. It was somebody else in the mirror. She hid from the thumps and the shrieks. They blasted her through the locked door.
She killed Mitch Kupp. She did it to break the impasse of Dudley and Bill. She sided with Dudley there. Dudley gave her sex and danger and recast her as himself. She coveted his mastery. She murdered and gave him the power to destroy her. Bill covered up the children. She gave him the power to destroy her before they’d formally met.
Indictments. True bills. No gold and no captaincy. Justice carries a price.
Joan swerve-walked to her car and drove to the Strip. She knocked on Kay’s door and got no answer. She sat on the steps and considered true bills and justice. She drove back downtown and conjured the means.
Central Station. Still vividly chaotic. Don’t fuck with America. The thought startled her and moved her.
She cleaned out her locker. She placed her microscope in Hideo’s locker and removed her gold cuff links. She placed them face-out on his desk.
Central Station. Big Earle would have loved it. She memorized every face she saw and sent up appropriate prayers.
Forgive this theft, Lord.
She broke the clasp on the evidence locker. She stole fourteen terpin hydrate vials and stashed them in her purse.
Nursing school in Oak Park. That hot Chicago night. Sirens like last night. Prowl cars and morgue sedans. The Feds got Dillinger outside the Biograph. Crowds formed. She saw his hearse on Lincoln Avenue. Woman waved handkerchiefs, men doffed their hats. Vendors sold ice-cream bars.
Joan looked out her bedroom window. Dusk came on pink-gray.
She bundled up her diary pages and boxed them. She postage-stamped the box and addressed it to Miss Katherine Lake. She placed it outside for the postman.
Rain hit. Her next-door neighbor spun disks. Joan heard “Moonlight Serenade” and “Tuxedo Junction.”
She drank the terp. It burned going down and stayed down. She prayed for her police friends and all the people she’d gone through. She asked God to punish her for her vile and reckless actions and her sinful misconduct with men.
Forgive my proud follies.
Forgive my fatuous dream of the gold.
Forgive my lifelong arrogance.
Forgive my regret without remorse.
Forgive my remorse without repentance.
Forgive this final heedless act and condemn not this expiation.
Shapes and colors took hold. She stretched out on the couch and kicked her shoes off. She saw Dudley’s wolf. The Maestro’s steam room appeared.
There’s Orson Welles and Claire De Haven. Orson’s a Wisconsin boy. He hails from Kenosha. She shouldn’t be naked with a wraith socialite and a movie star.
The steam turned all different colors. Rainbows drifted by.
Orson said, “So long, Red.”
Claire said, “Good-bye, Joan. See you in church.”
Part Three
Sinarquismo
(February 28–March 25, 1942)
76
Kay Lake’s Diary
(Los Angeles, 9:00 A.M., 2/28/42)
The rental pastor substituted Housman for Scripture. He had quite obviously compiled notes as to who this woman was and opted for lilting elegy. She was cut off in her prime; she had everything this life offers to look forward to; her seat at the banquet was very much assured.
Hardly, sir. Joan Woodard Conville killed herself. She had gorged herself at your banquet already. Stop reciting “To an Athlete Dying Young.” Let me offer up a more suitable graveside selection.
“This storm, this savaging disaster.”
It’s from Auden, sir. Joan quoted it repeatedly and never ascribed a specific source. Auden’s lines summarize Joan’s life since New Year’s Eve. Catastrophic events subsumed her; she fell into the police demimonde that has threatened to subsume me. Her proud grit and resourcefulness took her only so far. Ask the man standing next to me. He was Joan’s lover, and should have been mine. When this service concludes, I will reach into his left pants pocket and pull out his cigarettes. He’s a feckless and erratic man, which serves to blunt his great ambition and yet more spectacular gifts. He’ll flinch when I touch him, and know that I’ve restated my claim.