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  Brenda dosed her eggs with hot sauce. “You go straight to shoptalk.”

  Elmer said, “A good host plays to his guests, honey. Shoptalk is the only sort of talk that Miss Katherine Lake enjoys.”

  I laughed and picked at my food. Brenda and Elmer were nearly ten years older than I. They were professionals; I was a cop’s quasi-girlfriend. The disparity rankled. We all went back to Bobby De Witt and the Boulevard-Citizens job. Open secrets and unspoken truths began germinating there. I wanted to peddle myself to wash the stink of Bobby off of me; Brenda refused to let me do it. She said, “You live by these crazy-girl notions you get from books and movies. I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I let you take that nonsense too far.”

  Elmer handed me a cocktail. I wondered how up-to-date he was on Lee and Ben Siegel. “Bugsy” is now ensconced in a “penthouse” suite at the Hall of Justice jail. Sheriff’s deputies serve as valets, flunkies and chauffeurs for visiting starlets. Velvet curtains provide privacy for Ben and his overnight guests. His release is imminent. Abe Reles’ “swan dive” scotched the prosecution’s case against him.

  Elmer smiled and waggled his cigar stub. We possess an odd telepathy and often seem to know what the other is thinking. It always pertains to “shoptalk.”

  He said, “Lee paid off his chit with Benny Siegel.”

  I said, “Yes, I figured it out.”

  Brenda crushed her cigarette on a bread plate. “Tell all, honey. Don’t be a C.T.”

  I said, “No, your lover goes first.”

  Elmer sprawled in a chair and grabbed Brenda. She fell into his lap and went Whoops! He said, “Thad Brown drove Dudley Smith and Lee to Union Station. He read the papers a few days later and put it together.”

  Brenda said, “How’d you figure it out?”

  I made that zip-the-lips gesture. Elmer said, “Give, sister.” Brenda said, “Don’t be a C.T.”

  I played coy. “There’s a Traffic captain who knows a lot about Lee.”

  Elmer draped an arm around Brenda. “How do you know that?”

  “Because Captain William H. Parker is courting me.”

  Brenda hooted. “Honey, that sanctimonious son of a bitch does not court women in any kind of classic sense.”

  I lit a cigarette. “You mean he doesn’t take bribes, beat confessions out of suspects, or screw your girls in the back of Mike Lyman’s Grill, where I’m meeting him at 1:00.”

  Brenda looked aghast. Elmer looked flabbergasted. He said, “Kay, how do you know that Whiskey Bill Parker knows a lot about Lee?”

  I blew an imperiously high smoke ring. “Because Parker is courting and coercing me. Because he has me transcribing wire recordings at City Hall before he tells me his play. Because you, Brenda and Lee had a very injudicious conversation on August 14 of ’39. You discussed your ‘service,’ the Boulevard-Citizens robbery and Lee’s debt to Ben Siegel. Elmer, you actually said, ‘If you owe Ben, he makes you kill somebody for him.’ ”

  Elmer bolted his drink. Brenda waved mock wolfsbane.

  I said, “Do you think that William H. Parker is incapable of extrapolating and reaching the conclusion that Lee and Dudley Smith killed Abe Reles? Do you think that William H. Parker doesn’t know that half of the Detective Bureau phones are tapped? Do you honestly think that you’re as smart as William H. Parker?”

  Brenda fished a pack of cigarettes from Elmer’s coat pocket. “I can’t believe it. You honest to God like that son of a bitch.”

  I felt myself blush. Elmer said, “No more calls from City Hall.”

  Brenda lit a cigarette and blew her own high ring. “Gossip always comes in droves, Citizens. One of our girls picked up a tip from a G-man she tricked with. Some fellow named Ward Littell.”

  Elmer said, “Give, sister. Who’s the C.T. now?”

  Brenda said, “The Feds are going after the Department, strictly on the phone taps. Art Hohmann snitched the listening posts and the whole kaboodle.”

  I said, “I destroyed that recording I described to you.”

  Brenda said, “There’s oodles more, Citizen. Can you recall what you said on any given phone call from two years ago? Uh-uh, you can’t.”

  Elmer cracked his knuckles. “I’ll tell Jack Horrall. He’ll pull the wires with the good dirt, and leave the Feds the pablum.”

  I heard radio buzz next door. An announcer was almost shouting. The noise was high-decibeled and insistent.

  Brenda climbed off Elmer’s lap and smoothed out her dress. She said, “Sweetie, please set Sister Lake straight on Whiskey Bill.”

  Elmer leaned toward me. “Don’t hold no goodwill for that Pope-loving bastard,” he said. “He’s as ruthless as Dudley Smith, he was bone-dirty with Jim Davis, he’ll get the Chief’s job come hell or high water and take the Department down out of spite if it don’t fall his way. He uses people and tosses them away like fucking Kleenex. He’s a hatchet man, an extortionist and a fucking prig who gets shit-faced drunk, talks to God and moves his lips while he does it. He ran the ‘Bum Blockade’ for Two-Gun, he shackled Okies in the back of freight cars and sent them off to the lettuce fields up in Kern County, where the goddamn farm bosses paid Davis a buck a man a day. He ran bag to the Mexican Staties back when Carlos Madrano and Davis were supplying wetbacks to every Jap farm between here and Oxnard. You run, sister. Whatever that man has planned for you ain’t nothing you’d ever want for yourself.”

  Brenda said, “Amen.” That radio blasted. I didn’t want to address Elmer’s pitch. I walked to the window and glanced out.

  A man next door saw me. Our windows were wide open. His radio was earsplitting. He reached over and turned it off.

  He said, “The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”

  11:34 a.m.

  I ran outside. Elmer and Brenda blurred. Radios blared all around me. It was one enraged shout.

  I got my car and pulled out, southbound. Traffic was light. I turned on my own radio. The news was all WAR.

  It was a sneak attack. Japanese air squadrons bombed Hawaii early this morning. The Pearl Harbor naval base was brutally hit. The Pacific Fleet was decimated.

  Massive casualties. Vital seacraft sunk. Hickam Field attacked. Soldiers machine-gunned at Schofield Barracks. Honolulu under siege. Two-faced Jap envoys. Roosevelt’s imminent declaration of war.

  I turned east on Beverly. The newsstand at Fairfax was swamped. Newsboys ducked into traffic and yelled, “No papers yet!”

  I knew I was running. I didn’t know where I was going. I knew who I was running from. Elmer’s indictment of William H. Parker echoed.

  The news was spreading. I saw men affix flags to storefronts. I saw men on rooftops with binoculars and rifles. Police cars sped past me, Code 3. The street tableaux cohered. It told me where to go. I turned off the radio and floored the gas.

  Prowl cars swerved across westbound lanes and tore eastbound. I approached downtown. Cops had a dozen Japanese boys spread prone outside Belmont High. They frisked them, kicked them and held shotguns to their heads.

  I crossed the 1st Street bridge and pulled into a parking lot. An attendant yelled, “The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor!” I tossed my keys at him and ran.

  City Hall was under siege. Prowl cars were up on the south-facing lawn. The doorways were flanked with cops armed with machine guns.

  I ran. People clustered on the 1st Street curb and played their car radios. I turned north on Spring. Yes, already—men on the Federal Building steps.

  The line extended down the sidewalk, a good twenty-deep. The men had mobilized within moments of the news. There were young men, older men and high school boys. One boy dribbled a basketball. I heard JAPS and WAR ten thousand times.

  I got in line. I was the only woman. The men jabbered and smiled at me. I heard GIRL along with WAR and THE JAPS. An olive drab sedan pulled to the curb. A Marine Corps captain, an Army major and a Navy lieutenant got out. The men in line cheered them. They ran up the steps and stood by the ground-floor doorway.

  The
doors flew open. Three sailors carried out tables and chairs. They positioned them, facing the crowd. The captain and lieutenant sat down. A sailor flashed V for Victory. The major pulled a Japanese flag from his pocket and spit on it. The men in line cheered.

  The major tossed the flag into the crowd. A boy grabbed it, spit on it and passed it back. The next boy spit on it and tore off a piece of the fabric. The cheers became a continuous roar. The flag traveled back down the line, shredded and drenched in spittle.

  The flag came to me. I spit on it, threw it down and ground it under my feet. The cheers escalated to roars.

  Two tall young men picked me up and held me at full arm’s length. I floated above the crowd, in my very own swirl. The whole world dipped into me. I yelled, “AMERICA!” as loud as I could.

  The roar went louder and louder. Motorists whistled and waved. Every man in line looked up and saluted me as I swirled.

  The tall young men lowered me; I kissed them as my feet touched the ground. The line pressed toward the recruiting stand. It extended down to 1st Street now. Men impulsively leaped from passing cars, ran up and got in line.

  The line inched toward the steps; we were pressed tightly together; we moved as one body, connected. Time went haywire. We lit cigarettes. Flasks went around. Conversations overlapped. I got more and more details. The death toll was mounting. Big battleships went down. We’ve got to nip this shit in the bud.

  The line moved. Motorists honked their horns and cheered us. I studied the Marine captain’s uniform. The deep green against khaki was a knockout. Semper Fi. Screw Captain William H. Parker and his shrouded agenda. I decided to join the United States Marine Corps.

  The men in front of me were given forms and told to return for further processing. I was hoarse from cheering and too many cigarettes. The Army major motioned me over. He seemed to be amused. He said, “Sorry, sweetheart. We aren’t taking girls yet.”

  I said, “I’m willing to go now.” The major looked at the other officers. They all seemed amused.

  The Navy man said, “We didn’t make the rules, sister.”

  The Marine said, “The canteens’ll need volunteers. You dance with the boys and send them off happy.”

  I said, “Give me one of those forms. I’ll come back tomorrow. The rules will change between now and then.”

  Boos and catcalls broke out behind me. The Navy man went Shush now. I started to say something. A wadded-up ball of paper hit the back of my head.

  A man yelled, “Stow it, lady!” A man yelled, “You had your solo! Give us a chance!”

  I turned around. Another paper bomb hit me. A chorus of raspberries blew.

  The major thumbed a stack of carbon sheets with photo strips attached. He hit a sheet and went Aha. He held it up. I saw myself in a snapshot.

  “There’s a subversive hold on you, Miss Lake. Some kind of meetings you went to.”

  Men jostled me off the steps and jeered me. I stared at them and started to walk back toward the sidewalk. A paper ball bounced off my skirt. Men put their thumbs on their noses and made pig sounds. I stopped and stared harder. It made them laugh. Two men spit on me. I balled my fists and went toward them. Then I sensed something.

  I wiped spit off my blouse. That Something stepped in front of me.

  It was a boy-man. He was about six foot six and seemed too big for his clothes. He wore a brown wool suit, a white shirt and a tartan bow tie.

  The spitting men looked at him. He grabbed their heads, smashed them and brought a knee up. I heard bones break and saw blood burst like they only had one face.

  The spitting men screamed. The enlistment lines dispersed. The recruiters stood up and plain stared.

  Then the boy-man took my elbow and steered me. Then we were down on the sidewalk and around the corner. Then we were sitting in the Hall of Justice cafeteria.

  Where a waitress ran up and said, “The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor!”

  Where the boy-man grinned and said, “No shit?”

  The waitress huffed and walked off. I said, “My name is Kay Lake.” The boy-man said, “Scotty Bennett.”

  I poured two cups of serve-ur-self coffee. My hands shook. I said, “To victory.”

  We clinked cups. A radio was bolted to the wall above our table. The broadcast was all Japs! Scotty Bennett doused the volume.

  “Some day, huh? We’ll be telling our kids about it.”

  I laughed. “ ‘Our’ kids, or kids in general?”

  He laughed. “It’s one of those days where you can’t rule anything out.”

  It was warm. I untied my scarf and unbuttoned my sweater. My body settled back in. I studied the boy-man.

  He was one or two years younger than I. He had curly light brown hair and the world’s greatest kid smile. No one ever called his bluff. His simple presence was that stunning.

  “What do you do, Mr. Bennett?”

  “I was about to join the Marines when I met you.”

  “I was doing the same thing.”

  “What happened?”

  “They aren’t signing up women yet. And I went to some socialist meetings a few years ago, which didn’t do me any good.”

  Scotty Bennett smiled. “They should let you in anyway. We can’t win this war unless we let bygones be bygones.”

  I lit a cigarette. “What were you doing before you decided to enlist?”

  “I applied to the L.A. Police Department three months ago, but they found out I was shy of twenty-one. What do you—”

  “My boyfriend’s in the Department. Do you follow boxing? His name is Lee Blanchard.”

  Deft boy—he put his hands up and mimicked “The Southland’s Great White Hope.”

  “You’ve seen Lee fight?”

  “He kicked the you know what out of that Mex with the harelip. I was four rows back from ringside.”

  I blew a smoke ring. Quick boy—he reached up and pulled the wisps out of the air.

  “Will you stand with me while I talk to the recruiter?”

  “Yes. Do you promise not to rescue any more women?”

  Scotty Bennett crossed his heart. Rough boy—don’t think I can’t see you.

  “Bucky Bleichert’s fighting at the Olympic tonight. Would you like to go?”

  “Yes. I certainly would.”

  “Lee sleeps at City Hall most nights.”

  Mean boy—he mimicked my pseudo lover catching a right hand.

  “My dad came over from Scotland in 1908. He’s a minister, and he always says ‘God moves in mysterious ways.’ I think I just figured out what he means.”

  I touched his hand. Our knees brushed under the table.

  2:09 p.m.

  She was late.

  One hour and nine minutes.

  She fucking stood him up.

  The back room was all his. The back room was the PD’s private playpen. Mike Lyman’s Grill was open twenty-four hours. Ditto the back room.

  Mike Lyman loved cops. Here’s why. Buzz Meeks iced a cholo who flashed his schvantz at Mike’s wife. Grateful Mike anointed the back room.

  Spicy wall prints, a full bar, a police Teletype. A private phone line and a foldout bed for woo-woo. Brenda Allen’s girls had carte blanche. The back room was open-all-nite. It serviced a rankingcop clientele.

  Parker nursed his fourth double bourbon. He’d been holed up since 8:00 a.m. Mass. The goddamn phone kept ringing. He kept ignoring it. The Lake girl knew he was here. Nobody else did.

  Mass was problematic. Archbishop Cantwell had a hangover and suggested a hair of the dog. He acceded. One drink became four. Cantwell harped on Dudley Smith. The fucking Irish stuck together. Dudley missed Mass. Cantwell was fucking stood up.

  Dud’s got four dead Japs, Your Eminence. It’s probably hara-kiri. Well, William—they’ll sure as shit rot in hell.

  He boozed with His Eminence and went to confession. He found a box and waited. He recognized Monsignor Hayes’ voice.

  His confession ran erratic. He confessed his scurrilous a
cts on the PD. He confessed his crush on Joan from Northwestern.

  Te absolvo ergo sum. Monsignor Hayes was brusque. He was an isolationist mick, like Dudley and Cantwell. Father Coughlin’s Sunday broadcast loomed.

  Parker nursed his drink. He was half in the bag. The Lake girl was one hour and twelve minutes late. The fucking phone kept ringing.

  Again and again. Here it comes again. Eight rings, ten, twelve—

  Parker grabbed the receiver. Fuzz hit the line. Call-Me-Jack came on.

  “Are you there, Bill? I didn’t know where else to call.”

  “I’m here, Chief.”

  “Good. Now get over here.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what, Chief?”

  “The goddamn Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”

  He dropped the phone and ran. He felt the booze evaporate. He ran out the door. He ran up 8th to Broadway and cut north. He caught it all at a sprint.

  The radios blaring from storefronts. The people huddled outside a hat shop with their ears cupped.

  Squelch, fuzz, static, crackle, hiss.

  Hawaii, sneak attack, Pacific Fleet sunk.

  Thousands dead, Pearl Harbor, Pearl Harbor.

  Vile, atrocious, cowardly. Fifth Column–instigated.

  Japs, Japs, Japs, Japs, Japs.

  Parker ran up Broadway. His suit coat flapped. He held his hat firm on his head. Herald trucks passed him. Newsboys folded quickie editions in the back. He hit 6th, 5th, 4th, 3rd, 2nd. He looked east. There’s Little Tokyo. There’s Sheriff’s bulls in riot gear, swarming the sidewalk.

  Up to 1st Street. A lawn hubbub at City Hall. Cops and MPs with riot guns. Black-and-whites and jeeps, parked snout-to-snout. Strafe lights aimed at the sky.

  Parker held his badge up. He stumbled on a light cord and ran toward the doors. An MP saluted and stepped aside.

  The foyer was all cops and war-jazzed reporters. He walked to a freight lift and pushed 6. The doors closed. He got some breath. The sweat purge sobered him up.

  The lift hit the sixth floor. He straightened his necktie and buttoned his coat. He hit the Chief’s office, squared-up.