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  A secretary juggled phones. Her switchboard was full-lit and full-plugged. Parker went through a side door and caught a full house.

  Jack Horrall, Sheriff Biscailuz, Mayor Fletch Bowron. DA Bill McPherson—passed out, narcoleptic-style.

  Call-Me-Jack was at his desk. Parker pulled a chair up. A Teletype clattered. Jack reached back and pulled out a sheet.

  “This is from the Army’s Fourth Interceptor Command. There’s a fifteen-mile coastline blackout, from San Pedro, Terminal Island and Fort MacArthur north to the southwest edge of city police jurisdiction. Jap fighters could hit us at any minute, and we can’t give them lit-up coastal targets to bomb. That’s a full-nighttime blackout, in effect until further notice. The only L.A. Police Department divisions affected will be San Pedro and Venice, because they’re on the water. We’ll have two formal citywide test blackouts tomorrow, 5:00 to 7:00 a.m. and 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. All L.A. residents are required to draw their shades at home and drive with their parking lights only. The Fort MacArthur and Terminal Island gun placements are now operational, and the whole coastline down there is covered by aircraft spotters.”

  Fletch B. went Whew! McPherson stirred and snored. Biscailuz tossed a chair cushion at him.

  The room spun. Parker popped a cough drop. Call-Me-Jack said, “We’ve got the Feds due in a minute. There’s some Jap subversives we’ve got to round up.”

  Biscailuz said, “I dispatched some boys to Little Tokyo. They’re standing ready. We all knew the war was coming, but I didn’t see an attack on us.”

  Bowron said, “Cocksuckers. They’ll rue the fucking day, believe me.”

  Biscailuz said, “Yellow bastards. I was hoping for a white man’s war. Us versus the Krauts, on foreign soil. This is turning into a shit deal at the start.”

  Bowron said, “Gene’s right. The Krauts are off the deep end with the Jews, but it’s not like—”

  Jack cut in. “Not like you can blame them?”

  Biscailuz laughed. Bowron roared. Parker sucked his cough drop. WAR—the Krauts, the Japs.

  The Teletype spit paper. Jack’s phone rang. Jack hit the squelch knob and pointed to Parker.

  “I’m starting up an Alien Squad. I want my Department in on this shit with the Japs from the ground floor. I’ll put together some hard boys to work with Gene’s deputies and the Feds. Bill Parker will serve as liaison, and the Department’s monitor for any and all blackout-related operations. We’re going to be running you ragged, Bill—but I know you can take it.”

  Parker said, “I’m in, Chief. It’s an honor, and I’ll carve out the time for the work.”

  Bowron laughed. “It’s ink on your résumé, Bill. It’ll look good when you go for Jack’s job.”

  Jack laughed. “Don’t talk about me when I’m still in the room.”

  Biscailuz laughed. “Bill won’t mind the work. It means more time to hide out from his wife.”

  Jack said, “Let’s wrap this up. My Moose Lodge has a block of tickets for the Rose Bowl, so we’ve got to put the quietus to the Japs by New Year’s.”

  Bowron and Biscailuz yocked. Parker sucked another cough drop. Three men walked in. Parker recognized them.

  Feds. The L.A. boss, Dick Hood. Special Agent Ed Satterlee. Ward J. Littell, the bleeding-heart Fed.

  Introductions circulated. Handshakes and backslaps, ditto. Jack laid out folding chairs. The Feds straddled them. Jack opened a humidor and lobbed cigars.

  Bowron arranged standing ashtrays. The gang lit up. The room smoked up, quick.

  Hood said, “Let’s discuss the roundups. Outside of Tokyo, this is the Jap capital of the known world.”

  Littell said, “Let’s clear the legalities first, Mr. Hood. The three agents in this room are lawyers, as is Captain Parker.”

  Hood brushed ash off his vest. “Make your point, Ward.”

  “It’s the criteria for identifying enemy aliens, beyond their racial distinction. Roosevelt’s going to declare war on Japan tomorrow, and Germany and Italy sometime next week. The Japanese are easily identifiable, Germans and Italians much less so. We don’t want to needlessly harass innocent Japanese, and we need to recognize the fact that German- and Italian-born and -derived aliens are potentially more dangerous, due to their enhanced level of anonymity.”

  Parker smiled. Ward’s sidebar was legally and morally astute. The room froze up.

  Jack said, “I can’t tell the Japs from the Chinks, which invalidates Mr. Littell’s concerns.”

  Biscailuz said, “I can’t, either.”

  Bowron said, “Ask Uncle Ace Kwan. He’ll set you straight on that.”

  Jack said, “Ace is sending dinner over at 5:00. We’ll run these sensitive racial matters by the delivery boy.”

  Satterlee shook his head. “You astound me, Ward. How did someone with your sensibilities get on the FBI?”

  Littell blew smoke at Satterlee. Bowron and Biscailuz chortled. Hood said, “The only criteria for the detention of alien Fifth Columnists is the established fact that the fucking Japs bombed a U.S. territory early this morning and killed at least two thousand Americans, and the fucking Germans and Italians did not. And, as I stated a moment ago, L.A. is chock-fucking-full of fucking Japs, so let’s cut the fucking shit and discuss the best means to kibosh potential sabotage.”

  Call-Me-Jack said, “Hear, hear.”

  Bowron said, “Crudely put, but pithy.”

  Biscailuz said, “Special Agent in Charge Dick Hood does not mince words.”

  Satterlee popped his briefcase and removed a pile of folders. Hood grabbed them and passed them around.

  “Sixteen pages of Jap names, gentlemen. When it became apparent that we might go to war with Japan, we compiled a list of known and suspected Fifth Columnists for possible detention. These Japs are known fascists, members of suspect fraternal organizations and general Emperor-worshiping bad apples. You’ll see that the list is divided into A’s, B’s and C’s. The A’s are the Japs considered the most dangerous, and they’ve been earmarked for immediate detention.”

  The room was one big smoke cloud. Call-Me-Jack cracked a window. Street noise drifted up. Parker heard Japs, Japs, Japs.

  He skimmed the file. The A list ran eight pages. There, on page four: “Watanabe, Ryoshi and family/​produce farmer/​Highland Park.”

  Hood crushed out his cigar. “Secretary of War Stimson has issued a top-priority bulletin. It mandates the seizure of property belonging to the A-list subversives. The commander at Fort MacArthur has allotted cell blocks at the Terminal Island pen for detention housing. You’ve got shitloads of Jap fishing boats moored down in Pedro, and the Army’s gearing up to tow them in for inspection.”

  Littell and Satterlee swapped glares. The Teletype kicked out a typed page and wanted-poster set. Call-Me-Jack scanned them.

  “Here’s one for you, Bill. Apparently, the Federal Building is swamped with men trying to enlist. The state AG sees it as a godsend to fugitive felons looking to flee the country, so he sent some priority wanted listings along. Go over and check faces, will you? I’ll have some bluesuits meet you downstairs. If you see any of the poster guys, send the blues in for the rough stuff.”

  Parker nodded and held up his A list. He pointed to the name Ryoshi Watanabe. He eye-drilled Call-Me-Jack.

  “Last night, Chief. The dead Japs in Highland Park. I caught a broadcast. It’s Dudley Smith’s job, and it’s homicide or suicide.”

  Call-Me-Jack shrugged. “It looks like suicide. I got that straight from the Dudster. Nort Layman’s performing the autopsies right now. We’ll know more fairly soon.”

  Parker said, “A Jap homicide case wouldn’t hurt us. Mr. Littell might have something. Say we take some guff for the roundups. We’re at war, but we still give these dead Japs a full play.”

  Call-Me-Jack shut his eyes. Parker read his brain waves.

  He’s weighing pros and cons. He’s overbooked. I want his job. Dudley and I tend to clash. He probably wants a leash on Dud. He’s m
ore afraid of him than of me.

  Call-Me-Jack opened his eyes. “You oversee the job, Bill. I know you’re busy and you’re not really a case man, but—”

  Parker said, “I’ll do it.”

  The City Hall clock hit 3:00. Bowron said, “Two hours to dinner.” Hood said, “I wouldn’t mind a drink. And it wouldn’t surprise me if Chief Horrall had a bottle.”

  Call-Me-Jack smiled. “I do, if you call me Jack.”

  Biscailuz said, “Jesus, the fucking Japs.”

  3:01 p.m.

  The freight lift took him down. Eight blues met him in the foyer. They wore tin hats and packed tear-gas bombs. They were geared for Jap insurrection.

  Parker felt stupid. He wore his church suit and a snubnose .38. They cut across the south lawn. Jeeps and half-tracks chewed up the grass.

  Fool’s errand. Ten faces on ten posters. Felony punks—rape, ADW, mayhem. One pachuco and nine white-trash sons of bitches. Fools’ odds—these fucks would never try to enlist.

  They turned north on Spring Street. The Fed Building was straight up. Parker blinked. A roar hit him.

  The enlistment line went down the steps and the sidewalk to the corner. It ran two thousand men. They were singing. “God Bless America” rang.

  Parker ran toward it. He dropped the posters. His eyes welled. His glasses slid down his face. The blues ran behind him. Their riot gear slowed them down. They couldn’t keep up.

  Parker ran. The voices drew him in. They echoed louder and louder. He got up to the steps. He forgot what he was here for. The riot cops caught up and just stood there.

  Discordant voices hit him. Parker looked around and saw a commotion. A big white kid beat on three white kids pounding a little Jap. A white woman kicked a white kid sprawled on the steps.

  The Jap ran off. The big white kid threw fists and elbows. Parker stood and stared. The two-thousand-voice hymn went dissonant. The white woman turned his way.

  It was Kay Lake.

  She saw him.

  She struck a pose, with chaos all around her.

  Parker ran up the steps.

  Kay Lake waved and disappeared.

  3:16 p.m.

  Four Japs on morgue slabs. Caustic fumes. A big stink in a small room.

  Dudley stood with Lee Blanchard and Nort Layman. They smoked to stifle the stink. The morgue adjoined Chinatown. The Chinks kicked up a ruckus outside.

  They banged drums. They tossed firecrackers. They celebrated the attack. The Chinks hated the Japs, and vice versa. Chinatown would swing and sway tonight.

  Blanchard said, “Fucking Japs.”

  Layman said, “Fucking Chinks. I’ve got a headache from those fucking drums.”

  Dudley yawned. He was tired. He’d been up since yesterday morning. He killed a man. He smoked opium and took Benzedrine. He wrote Beth Short a fatherly letter. He honed his plan to meet Bette Davis. He caught this fucking Jap job. The fucking Japs bombed America into a Jew-devised war.

  Blanchard blew smoke on Ryoshi Watanabe. “Hey, pops. Fuck your emperor and fuck you.”

  Dudley laughed. Layman slapped his knees. Firecrackers popped outside.

  Blanchard blew smoke on Nancy Watanabe. “Give me some pussy, baby.”

  Layman said, “You’re a troubled man, Leland.”

  Blanchard said, “I like it when they don’t move.”

  A cherry bomb exploded. The window glass shook. Dudley reached for his gun.

  “Sadly, this comic sojourn must conclude. Norton, please report your findings.”

  Layman said, “Pending toxicology and whatever advanced tests I can dream up, I’d call it homicide or homicide-suicide, and I think the former’s more likely. All the blood was intermingled, so individual typings were difficult. I got random chunks of A negative, and the kids would have inherited either mama or papa’s blood type, so that muddles things. The wound flaps were shredded, which indicates blade wiggle and a natural hesitation and/​or coercion at the moment of the piercings. The paraffin checks on their hands came out negative, so we can’t attribute that bullet hole on the second-floor landing to them, at least not in the past forty-eight hours. So far, I’d say this. I’ve handled four Jap sword suicides, and this doesn’t fit my empirical bill. And here’s the strangest goddamn thing. I found an oily residue on their feet and tested it. It was shrimp oil.”

  Blanchard tossed his cigarette. It hit a blood spill and fizzled.

  “If it’s murder, we lost time on the house-to-house, and now everybody’s got a bug up their ass about the bombings, so they won’t recall if they saw anything right before the snuffs occurred.”

  Layman said, “You’re right on that. Big events induce a collective loss of memory. More important, who cares? I want to work this job for the pure science of it, but does anybody give a shit about four dead Japs on the day we went to war with Japan?”

  The suicide note. The “looming apocalypse.” It was grandly evocative. Was it portentous?

  Dudley kicked it around. Blanchard was right. A house-to-house would prove futile. Jack Webb was out with the locals. His silly radio chats were their “house-to-house.” That angle was pure futile.

  The wall phone rang. A blue light blinked—police call.

  Dudley grabbed the receiver. “Sergeant Smith.”

  “It’s Jack Horrall, Dud.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “What a day, huh?”

  “Surely one to remember, sir.”

  “I hope you don’t have plans to enlist.”

  Dudley said, “I do, sir. I see a grand career for myself in Army intelligence, and I have an influential friend who could secure me a commission.”

  “Joe Kennedy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Call-Me-Jack whistled. It squelched the connection.

  “For now, no dice. That’s final, until this war heats up or settles down, and we figure out where the Los Angeles Police Department stands in all of this.”

  “Yes, sir. And on that note?”

  “On that note, what’s Nort’s take on the Watanabe job so far?”

  Cherry bombs blew up outside. Dudley cupped his free ear.

  “He leans toward homicide, sir.”

  “Well, then we’ll try to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, to show how impartial we are. I’ve talked to Mayor Bowron. He’s afraid of a backlash if our boys start taking grief for rounding up all these so-called loyal Japs. Are you reading me, muchacho?”

  “I am, sir. The implications are quite clear.”

  “Good. It’s a 100% Jap world we’re living in now, and I want to make hay out of it while the sun shines.”

  “The rising sun, sir?”

  Call-Me-Jack yukked. “That’s rich, Dud. I’ve got some boys here in my office. I’ll pass it along.”

  Flies buzz-bombed the stiffs. Nort aerosol-sprayed them. They dropped dead on Aya Watanabe.

  “Please do, sir.”

  Call-Me-Jack said, “Don’t get your dander up, but I’ve assigned Bill Parker to supervise the investigation. He’s a savvy political beast, and I want him to ride a gentle herd on you and your boys.”

  Dudley lit a cigarette. “Whiskey Bill is bereft of gentleness, sir. He’s an administrative drone, he’s not a detective, his sole aim is to oust you and become Chief, and his considerable savvy is entirely in the service of personal advancement.”

  Call-Me-Jack belched. “Parker stays. And don’t worry—he won’t crowd you. I’ve got him working the blackouts, the roundups and a liaison job to the Army. He’ll be too goddamn tired to crowd you.”

  Dudley said, “Yes, sir. I’m sure that Captain Parker and I will form a nonaggression pact.”

  Call-Me-Jack said, “Hear, hear.”

  “May I suggest a fourth man, to supplant Dick Carlisle and Mike Breuning? My choice would be Lee Blanchard. He’s been with me since I caught the squawk.”

  Jack said, “Nix. He’s a patrol boy, and I’m forming an Alien Squad to help the Feds out with the rousts. That
job’s got Blanchard’s name written all over it.”

  Festive music reverberated. Chinks shouted gobbledygook. Dudley looked out the window. Paper dragons whooshed by.

  “Yes, sir. I still request—”

  “I’ll give you Buzz Meeks. He’s good muscle when push comes to shove.”

  Background noise fuzzed the line. The connection sputtered and died.

  Blanchard said, “How come the Chinks have this beef with the Japs? They all look alike to me.”

  3:36 p.m.

  The natives were restless.

  Dudley blew out of the morgue. He was Chinatown’s sole white man. He strolled and enjoyed the show.

  Fireworks, dragons, heathen babble. Tong boys with kettledrums. The Hop Sing lads wore red kerchiefs. The Four Families boys wore blue. They beat time like that grasshopper Gene Krupa.

  Tojo dummies dangled from streetlights. Tong punks swung hatchets at them. Pillow stuffing swirled.

  Dudley walked into the Pagoda. A radio blared WAR! Busboys laid down Jap flags as floor mats. City councilmen cheered.

  Thad Brown slurped wonton soup. He saw Dudley and waved. Dudley winked and walked down to the basement.

  Uncle Ace had redecorated his office. New pix had been framed and hung. FDR adjoined that white actor who played Charlie Chan.

  “It is a great day, Dudster. The Chinese man and the U.S. Caucasian will align to slay the Jap beast.”

  Dudley bowed. “Yes, but we must not lose perspective on our German Kameraden. They remain our first line of defense against the Reds and the Jews.”

  Ace bowed. “My Irish brother seems weary. Might I suggest an invigorating tea?”

  Dudley smiled and pulled a chair up. Ace laid out a kettle, powders and cups. Aaaaaah, so—Benzedrine and Ma Huang.

  The scent invigorated. Ace poured two cups. Dudley sipped and cut through some cobwebs.

  Ace said, “I have been thinking.”

  “Yes, my yellow brother?”

  “The folly of the attack on Pearl Harbor presents us with opportunities to exploit the Jap beast. We can hide fugitive Fifth Columnists here in Chinatown and charge them exorbitant rates. We can exploit the white man’s native bias toward the yellow man and profit from his inability to discern the differentiating aspects of Oriental physiognomy. White men cannot tell us apart. I see money in that shortcoming.”