He scooped wet paper and smeared the inside of the wastebasket. He covered all contingencies. The ruse stood complete.
Joan’s telephone worked. The landlord forgot to kill her service. Ashida roused a local operator and placed a long-distance call. Person-to-person. La Paz, Baja. Hotel Los Pescados/Captain Dudley Smith.
The operator said she’d place the call and ring him back. Ashida hung up and prowled the bungalow. He caught Joan’s tobacco and lilac soap scent. He examined her Navy uniforms. He saw red hairs caught in a fine-bristled brush.
The phone rang. Ashida grabbed it.
Dudley said, “Hello, lad. You’re calling from Joan’s apartment, I take it.”
Ashida coughed. He white-knuckled the receiver. The phone cord went taut.
“There’s no diary. She burned the pages in the kitchen sink, and left unmistakable traces. The cops who came through missed them. I raised a few indentations off her desk blotter. I saw partial sentences, along with your name and Captain Parker’s.”
Dudley laughed. “I’m sure she wrote my name a great many more times than his, and wrote it with far greater passion.”
Ashida forced a laugh. “I’m sure she did. And I’m sure a trained graphologist would confirm it.”
“Lad, you delight me. Such wit on such short notice. Go forth and do your duty now. Put your grand mind to work on the klubhaus mess, before Major Melnick calls you back.”
Ashida forced a joke. “I’ll call you if I find the gold.”
Dudley said, “Yes, lad — you do that.”
The line went dead. Ashida replaced the receiver. He’d committed treason. His motive revealed itself.
You’ll never love me as I love you. I cannot place Kay Lake in jeopardy. This ruse punishes you.
82
(Los Angeles, 3:30 P.M., 3/2/42)
The headstone read thus. № 211 Man. No Gold-Heist Goon. No Embroiled with Communists. No Fifth Column — Adjunct.
Elmer stood graveside. He was half-tanked. He flagellated his dumb cracker ass and hexed Hideo Ashida.
Ashida broke his heart. Ashida should have told him the whole story. Joan wrote it all out. Kay regurgitated it. The bad news hurtled, here to Hell.
The Dudster, Joan, and Hideo. They harbored leads. They knew he planted the address book at the klubhaus. Two-Gun Davis iced the Watanabes. Joan writes it out. Kay regurgitates it. Here’s the part he don’t get:
Kay says Joan told all. Thus, Kay told all. But — one thing don’t conform to type.
Dud, Joan, and Hideo. Three covetous cookies. Wouldn’t they go for the gold? Where’s their big fat doughnut? Did Joan fail to write that down or did Kay fail to mention it?
Inglewood Cemetery. Wayne Frank’s wobbly stone. It didn’t read Klan Klown. It didn’t read Kid Brother Elmer’s Got de Hellhound on His Trail.
The furry fucker’s name is Fear. Buzz and him thumped Huey C. Did Dud find out? Dud snuffed a fruit at a Nazi bash and waltzed on it. Does Dud know that he knows?
Nobody knows de trouble I’se seen, nobody knows my redneck sorrow—
Elmer scrammed. He sprinkled flask booze on Wayne Frank’s grave and hit the road. Three bennies detoured his hooch load. He drove home and fed his tropical fish.
The mailman was due. Jean Staley owes him a nice postcard. Elmer J. digs Jean S. Sister, why’d you run out on me?
Elmer sat on his porch. He lit a cigar and watched storm clouds brew. The mailman showed. He dropped off the light bill and a card, postmarked St. Louis.
The front displayed the churning Mississippi. Jolting Jean scribbled up the back.
Dear Elmer (You Sweet Dog),
My eastward trek continues. I’m looking forward to a party with some old friends in Albuquerque. Wish you were escorting me. XOXOXO, Jean.
Tilt. His shit detector clicked on. Something ain’t right here.
The card was postmarked St. Louis. St. Louis is way northeast of Albuquerque. Jean’s headed for Des Moines. Des Moines is northwest of St. Louis. Jean’s not taking no regular route. Here’s the capper here:
He got a Texas-postmark card, two days back. Jean’s hot to hit that Albuquerque wingding. Texas is east of New Mexico. It’s all fucked-up geography.
The mailman stuffed mailboxes. Elmer ducked into his flop and grabbed the stack of cards Jean sent.
He studied them. He tracked postmarks and skimmed Jean’s scrawl. Ooops, there’s—
The Kansas City card preceded the Denver card. KC’s east of Denver and should have come first. Here’s one he missed. The Lubbock card extolls the Rocky Mountains. That don’t fit. Jean ain’t seen those mountains yet.
The cards are all checkmarked. Oooga-booga. There’s all these different shades of ink.
Elmer goosed the mailman. “Lou, what’s with these cards? They’re coming all out of sequence, like this girl’s trying to put one over on me. And what’s with all these checkmarks?”
Lou studied the cards and tapped them on his teeth. Lou shiteater grinned.
“It looks like these cards got routed through a mail-drop system and sent on to you from a drop here in L.A. You know from mail drops, right? They’re these services that gigolos and call prosties use, all over the country. It’s like a relay pipeline for people on the run and on the lam, who want certain folks to think they’re somewhere else. Mail comes in, and the drop employees log it in or out and charge your account. These places are all over the U.S., so mail gets forwarded, and that way you can get whatever postmark you want. You get a lot of smut books and hate tracts sent that way. It’s like a cheating-wife-and-husband parlay. You can’t be in two places at the same time — but sometimes you’d like to convince folks that you are.”
Elmer snatched the cards and fanned them out. He fanned a spray and pointed to the checkmarks.
“What’s with these here marks, boss?”
Lou went oooh-la-la. “I know those marks. Look — they’re half cross, half X mark. That’s Bev’s Switchboard. It’s out in West Hollywood. Blow Job Bev Shoftel runs the place. She’s one for the record books.”
Nite-owl stakeout. 1:00 a.m. — Fountain and Crescent Heights.
Bev’s Switchboard was county turf. It was a rinky-dink storefront upside a swish bar. Elmer brought his B and E tools. He parked his sled across the street and got up some gall.
He ran a routine check first. He went by the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station and braced the Vice boss. The boss confirmed Lou the mailman.
Blow Job Bev turned out the twelve-year-old sons of the L.A. elite. She devirginized movie-biz scions and the offspring of Hancock Park swells. Bev’s Switchboard was a racket drop. It serviced smut merchants, hate-tract purveyors, and filmland shitheels. Plus homo prosties, dirty-picture girls, dubious “actors” and “musicians.” The service passed on phone messages and forwarded mail. The service rented on-site mailboxes. Sometimes the mail just jumped box-to-box. Bev’s been popped for smut and indecent exposure. She flashed her snatch at some dowagers at the Wilshire Country Club.
Bev’s got a pedigree. Bev snitches for Sheriff Biscailuz. Bev’s Switchboard is Sheriff’s-protected. Yeah, and there’s this:
The Feds are homed in on Bev’s. Sheriff Gene just quashed a premises search warrant.
Elmer said, “What were they looking for?”
The Vice boss said, “They were looking for incoming mail sent from mail drops in Phoenix, Albuquerque, Salt Lake City, Denver, Kansas City, and St. Louis.”
That meant pay dirt. Jolting Jean sent him cards from those cities. Jolting Jean allegedly passed through them.
The Vice boss said, “The requesting agent was this nosebleed Ed Satterlee. He’s purportedly tonged up and on the grift.”
They wrapped up at 5:00 p.m. Elmer split West Hollywood Station and went shopping then. He bought a miniature camera, film, and some flashbulbs. He popped bennies and brainstormed names.
Three-case names. Crisscrossed through three case lines:
Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta. More names: Fritz Eckelkamp, Eddie Leng, Donald Matsura. Still more names: Martin Luther Mimms, Leander Frechette, George Lincoln Rockwell. Yet more names: Harold John Miciak, Cedric Francis Inge, Catbox Cal Lunceford. Boocoo names: Meyer Gelb, Jean Staley, Dr. Saul and Andrea Lesnick. Mucho names: Jorge Villareal-Caiz, Kyoho Hanamaka, Lin Chung, Tommy Glennon. Bent-cop names. Fifth-Column names. Commo names. Nazi names. Jap names, Chink names, Mex names—
Elmer checked his watch. It was 1:19 a.m. The fruit bar roiled. The jukebox blared and supplied noise cover. Do it now, son.
He’d packed his B and E and camera shit in a gym bag. He grabbed it and crossed the street, fast. Traffic was scarce. Bev’s Switchboard was flat brick. A door awning covered him. The door was push lock/one keyhole.
Elmer got out a #4 pick. He probed said keyhole. The booger failed to fit. He got out a #6. That booger probed deep. He twisted it left/right, left/right. The mechanism snapped, the doorjamb shimmied and popped.
He stepped inside and threw the reverse bolt. The joint was deep dark. He pulled his flashlight and got his eyeballs adjusted. He beam-strafed the whole premises. He saw this:
The back wall was rigged with pullout mail slots. The east wall was lined with file cabinets. A desk and chair faced the front window. The west wall was foto-festooned. Film-biz schleppers mugged. For sure: part-time talent/full-time gigolos and whores.
Elmer walked to the back wall. He yanked a dozen mail-slot pulls and got no give. They were locked crab’s-ass tight. He kept his beam low and walked to the east wall. The cabinets ran alphabetical. Little letter plates were stuck to the drawers. He slid over to the S-for-Staley drawer and gave it a tug.
He hit pay dirt. Woo-woo! — the booger’s unlocked.
The drawer was jammed with file folders. Elmer maneuvered his flashlight and lit the name tags. He finger-walked from Sadler and Samuelson on. He saw the odd name Szigeti, Ruth. Two non-S files were clipped to it. Koenig, Miklos & Magda, Abromowitz, Sandor.
Elmer finger-walked. No familiar names mauled him. He hit Sperling, Phil and Sroloff, Ralph. Bam! — he hit Staley, Jean.
He pulled the file. It contained one sheet only. “Recent transactions” was typed at the top. Plus notes on “postcards received & forwarded/out-of-town postmarks assured.”
Postcards forwarded. To one geek only. A lunkhead named E. V. Jackson. Postcards from Phoenix, Albuquerque, Salt Lake City. Postcards from Denver, Kansas City, St. Louis. That means this: Jean sure as shit sandbagged him.
Elmer got out his camera shit and foto-snapped the page. The flashbulb popped bright. Elmer extracted it and dropped it in the gym bag.
Names. Names. Names. Take your pick. Open file drawers await you. It hit him, quick. Jean’s Commo cell. Villareal-Caiz, the Lesnicks, Meyer Gelb.
Elmer file-jumped. He pulled the V drawer and finger-walked. Bam! — there’s no Villareal-Caiz. He pulled the L drawer and finger-walked. Bam! — no Saul or Andrea Lesnick. He pulled the G drawer and finger-walked. Bam! — there’s Meyer Gelb.
The file contained one sealed envelope. It was addressed to “MG 226/CO Bev’s Switchboard.” That was plain dumb code. 226 was Gelb’s box number. Note the return address: “PO Box 1823/La Paz, Baja.”
Elmer slid to the front desk and rifled the drawers. Shit — there’s no envelope steamer. He slid back to the G drawer. Fuck it. He ripped the letter open with his teeth.
For what? There’s just this blank sheet of paper. It’s a head-scratcher. What’s that there? It looks like a dried stain.
Elmer head-scratched it. He worked his dim brain every which way. It hit him, belated.
Blotter paper. Microdots. Fourth Interceptor issued a bulletin. “Report all such/A-Level evidence.”
He nicked the envelope. He brain-broiled. He ran more names and pulled more file drawers. He pulled the H drawer and got zilch for Kyoho Hanamaka. He repulled the L drawer and got nyet on Catbox Cal Lunceford. He repulled the G drawer and finger-sprinted.
He hit Gainford, Garfield, Gersh, Gifford. He hit Glennon, Thomas Malcolm. That’s some pay dirt.
Elmer skimmed the transaction sheet. There were no mail-outs scrawled. Tommy’s PO box number was scrawled in. Box 7669/La Jolla, California.
La Jolla. A swank enclave down by San Diego. It’s close to the Baja border. It’s a hot lead. More circles loop and constrict.
Elmer went through Tommy’s file. It contained one fat envelope. Elmer ripped it open and yanked the contents.
Tracts. Little hate pamphlets. Hate, hate, hate. Kill, kill, kill. Recipes for Jap fricassee and Chinaman stew. Kill the jigs, kill the Jews, kill the British Protestant oppressor!!!
Elmer dumped the tracts in his gym bag. He broiled more names. He hit the A drawer and trawled for Archie Archuleta. He got nein there. He hit the C drawer and trawled for Lin Chung. Tuff luck — there’s no Chinaman Chung.
He went light-headed. He weaved. This was all some wild-ass shit. He got his feet under him. He pulled the R drawer and trawled for George Lincoln Rockwell.
He finger-walked. Rehnquist, Rillard, Roberts, Robertson — Rockwell, George Lincoln. No transaction sheet. One fat envelope stuffed in the file.
Note the note clipped to it. “Forward to T. M. Glennon, Box 7669/La Jolla.”
Elmer slit the envelope. He banked on more hate tracts. He got smut pix instead.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suck, suck, suck. All black-and-white glossies. Pokey-pokey shots. In the mouth, up the love trail, up the dirt road. Two men and two women. The men wear leather masks. One man wears a Nazi uniform. One man wears Red Guard threads. The women wear zero. One woman’s white, one woman’s Mex.
Circles constrict. Oooga-booga. Circles meld and overlap.
The pubic-hair samples. Ashida found them. Doc Layman typed them. Two samples are female. One sample’s white, one sample’s Mex. Note the foto backdrop. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Suck, suck, suck. It’s there in all the pix.
It’s the upstairs bedroom at the klubhaus.