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.
83
(La Paz, 8:00 P.M., 3/3/42)
Seduction.
He knew it. She knew it. Her coy act at the exile bash proclaimed it. The Wolf caught her scent and proclaimed her lust.
Constanza recorded the Wieniawski Légende. She played the soaring violin part. A randy Pole composed the piece. The motif was explicitly Latin. Recurrent themes depicted star-crossed lovers aswirl.
Dudley sat in a harborside cantina. His booth overlooked the east-facing gulf. He sent Constanza a mash note-cum-invitation and got no response. He purchased her phonograph record and slipped it to the maître d’. A fat bribe assured steady play.