This Storm Read online

  She skated nice. She dipped her tray nice. She dipsy-doodled and drew wolf whistles and hoochie hoots. She was East Texas/barn dances/male kousins all Klanned up. Kay’s Spiritus Mundi. He saw his shit and Jean’s shit, entwined.

  It perplexed him. He grabbed Tommy G.’s address book. Jean Staley’s initials are in there. That Vice clerk got him her full name. He glommed her PD sheet last month and tumbled to her weed roust. He planted the address book to fuck with Dudley Smith. It’s fake evidence in a real murder case. He planted names in the address book. Lin Chung and Doc Lesnick radiate Fifth Column. The klubhaus is Fifth Column. Jean’s revealed as Red now. Old Saul was her ’33 cellmate. The cell got braced per the ’33 fire.

  Spiritus Mundi? Yeah, he gets that. Beyond that, there’s just this:

  Jean Staley. Barn-dance femme fatale. She sure can sling hash on skates.

  54

  (LOS ANGELES, 4:30 P.M., 2/3/42)

  Ruth Mildred held court. She excelled at screwball comedy. Her office proved the point.

  The dippy Deco furnishings. Props scrounged from Dinner at Eight. The cheesecake wall fotos. Ruth Mildred’s nice-girls-in-a-jam.

  Ruthie pointed to Joan Crawford. She said, “I scraped her. A coon trombone knocked her up.”

  Dudley roared. Juan Pimentel went tut-tut. Huey Cressmeyer snoozed on mama’s couch.

  Ruthie pointed to Katharine Hepburn. She said, “I scraped her. I sold locks of her snatch hair for a C-note a pop.”

  Lieutenant Juan grew a Hitler mustache. It sprang up dark and thick. He wore Statie blacks north of the border. He lived to cause fear, wherever he went.

  Huey snored. He required resuscitation. Model-airplane glue laid him low. He built a Messerschmidt squadron and succumbed.

  Ruthie pointed to Sylvia Sidney. She said, “I scraped her. I licked her bush while she was anesthetized.”

  Dudley yanked Ruthie’s cord. “Regretfully, I must call for an intermission. I have questions for your grand boy before the lieutenant drives him south.”

  Ruthie dug out her dope spike and filled it. Nazi-issue amphetamine possessed pop. Harry Cohn swore by it. Ruthie injected his starlets. They toiled in grade-Z turkeys all day and Harry’s private stag flicks all night.

  “The Dudster’s a killjoy. My baby needs his beauty sleep, and his mommy loves to strut her stuff.”

  Lieutenant Juan said, “Dr. Cressmeyer should resettle in Tijuana. I would see to the reinstatement of her medical license. We are currently battling a VD epidemic. Our vivid nightclub acts have spawned this medical plague. Donkeys, you see. You never know where they’ve been and who they’ve been with.”

  Dudley roared. Ruthie roared big. She swabbed Huey’s arm and tied him off. Huey snored. Ruthie tapped the spike and fed him the juice. She went There, there and held her baby’s hand.

  Lieutenant Juan timed the wake-up. His wristwatch ticked off three minutes. Huey babbled and twitched.

  Dudley shooed Ruthie and El Fasco out. He bolted the door and pulled a chair up to the couch. Huey twitched, babbled, twitched.

  He slurred verses of the “Horst-Wessel-Lied” and “Lili Marlene.” He babbled up the Deutsches Haus and its habitué, “Mitch.” “Model-airplane man, model-airplane man.” Huey made no sense.

  Dudley lit a cigarette and blew smoke in Huey’s face. Huey coughed. His eyes popped open, wide.

  “I have questions, lad. Prompt compliance will earn you a pat on the head. Evasions will earn you a beating.”

  Huey pouted. “I want to go home. You’ve got me on some jaggedy hop, and I’m zorched to the gills. I want to mess with my pin map. I’ve got the Russian campaign all doped out.”

  Dudley twirled his ashtray. “You may have heard that two policemen and a Mex pal of theirs were murdered late last month. Your friend Tommy Glennon may have been involved. Wendell Rice, George Kapek, Archie Archuleta. Do those names sound your chimes?”

  Huey picked his nose and admired a loose nugget. Huey pulled out a paper clip and excavated his ears.

  “I don’t know no Archuleta. I’ve seen Rice and Kapek at the Deutsches Haus, but we just sling a few barbs at the kikes, and let it go at that. They’re far right—but who ain’t? If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

  The Deutsches Haus. It appeared in Tommy’s address book. The PD raided it in December. It was now Fed-infiltrated. That nixed an approach.

  Rice and Kapek appeared in T.J. They wheeled a truck toward the border. He ran photo-device pix and saw them. Photo fuzz obscured the license plates.

  Dudley chained cigarettes. “Far right to the extent that they’d run fugitive Japs?”

  “No, that don’t beat no tom-toms for me. But Rice used to brag that he was running wetbacks—if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

  Dudley said, “Lad, how do you know this?”

  Huey shrugged. “Fifth Column’s Fifth Column. We all drink at the same trough and pick at the same fleas.”

  “On that note, then. Where’s Tommy Glennon?”

  “I ain’t seen him since he left Quentin. That was back in November.”

  “Do any Japs habituate the Deutsches Haus? I’m thinking of a man named Kyoho Hanamaka.”

  Huey scratched his balls. “Japs on the loose, since the Day of Infamy? Japs who ain’t already in stir for the war’s duration?”

  “Can you connect Tommy G. to the Deutsches Haus, or Rice and Kapek?”

  “Nein—’cause the Deutsches Haus didn’t open up until sometime in ’37, and Tommy was in Quentin then. As far as Rice and Kapek go, you’ve got Rice bragging that he ran wets, and Tommy used to run wets for Carlos Madrano. It’s like the Fifth Column concept. Everybody knows everybody—if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

  Dudley cracked his knuckles. “Let’s talk about Tommy’s address book.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me run a few names by you. Lin Chung, Orson Welles, Dr. Saul Lesnick, Wallace N. Jamie. Can you relate these men to Tommy, or to anyone else that you might consider Fifth Column?”

  Huey made the jack-off sign. Huey grabbed his crotch and went Consider this.

  “Moving along, then. Monsignor Joe Hayes, a woman named Jean Staley, the hot-box phone by the L.A. Herald building, and fourteen pay phones in Baja, rumored to receive coded calls of a suspicious nature.”

  Huey squirmed. He was bored. The psycho thrill killer wants his diesel-dyke mommy.

  “No, nix, nein, and nyet, Uncle Dud. All us fascist types use phone drops, but I don’t know nothing about pay phones in Baja.”

  “Your name was in Tommy’s address book.”

  “That ain’t no large surprise. We used to correspond, from here to Quentin.”

  “He wrote ‘Big Dick’ beside your name. I’m wondering if you lads might have traveled the Hershey Highway at any time during your reform-school or on-the-loose sojourns.”

  Thrill-killer Huey. He kills Jews, kills jigs, kills Japs. He kills behind pique, ennui, and glue withdrawal. Now, he’s aghast.

  “It’s a fucking lie! He ain’t never seen my dick!”

  Dudley flashed his photostat. There’s that address-book page. Tommy extolls Huey’s big dick.

  “That ain’t Tommy’s printing! He used to write me! Tommy don’t print that way!”

  * * *

  —

  Huey was credible. He oozed indignation and righteous affront. He went Greek. Tommy went Greek. They sought the Greek grail—but not together.

  The address book had been altered and planted at the klubhaus. That seemed evident now. Who performed these misdeeds? Puerile Elmer Jackson comes to mind.

  Dudley sat in Luke’s Shanghai. It was Bill Parker’s C-town haunt. Parker disdained the ritzier Kwan’s. Uncle Ace vexed him no end.

  Dudley sipped green tea. He’d dropped by Lyman’s en route. The address-book pag
es were photostated and tacked to a bulletin board.

  He studied the block printing. He saw hesitation marks. Huey’s “Big Dick!!!!!” was a badly forged addition.

  The botched New Year’s stakeout. Tommy flees and drops the address book. Cretinous Elmer grabs it. The act spawns his series of inexplicable gaffes. That seems theoretically evident now.

  Hideo called him at Lyman’s. He found a burn-scar print in the book. It matched Kyoho Hanamaka’s print card. Tommy was privy to Baja-based Fifth Column operations. That seems evident now. The print links Tommy to Hanamaka and his faked-death act.

  Parker slid into the booth. He wore civvies and cradled a highball. He’d cut himself shaving. His belt piece weighed down his pants.

  Dudley smiled. “It was good of you to meet me, sir.”

  Parker lit a cigarette. “I’ve told you before, we’re both captains. This pertains to Jim Davis’ admissions, and you’re here as Jack Horrall’s proxy. With that in mind, I’m listening.”

  “And, with that in mind, I’ll open with a question. Have you seen the photostated pages from Tommy Glennon’s address book posted at Lyman’s?”

  Parker said, “No, I have not.”

  Dudley said, “Names from the Watanabe job are crossing over to the klubhaus job. Specifically, Lin Chung, Saul Lesnick, and the Deutsches Haus. We need to address this and limit the extent of Jim Davis’ exposure, along with the risk of discrediting our arrest of Fujio Shudo, soon to be sentenced to death and executed.”

  Parker crossed himself and killed his drink. Beseech Kay and Joan, Bill. They round out the Trinity.

  “We should set terms. Something that will appease Chief Horrall and satisfy both of us. Something we can both live with.”

  Dudley said, “Now, I’m listening.”

  “No frame on this job. No killing convenient suspects. Put Breuning and Carlisle on a tight leash.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Immunity for case-to-case witnesses who provide leads that clear the klubhaus job. We’ve got a rubber-stamp grand jury installed now. We may as well put it to good use.”

  Dudley said, “Agreed—but within that, I must insert a codicil. Rice and Kapek were rogue cops of a most pernicious ilk. We must make every effort to suppress evidence of their malfeasance at trial, to limit general testimony, and to urge the presiding judge to issue a directed guilty verdict.”

  Parker said, “Agreed.” A fresh highball appeared. Parker drained it double quick.

  Dudley smiled. “Full disclosure, Captain. Rice and Kapek were spotted at the border, three nights before their deaths. They may have been running wets or fugitive Japs.”

  Parker shrugged. “You’re Army SIS, Captain. Mexico is your jurisdiction. I don’t care what you do there. Nor do I care if you judiciously abrogate the rule of law here in the States.”

  Dudley bowed. “I consider that a grand declaration and nod to informed latitude. It would please me to grant you a concession.”

  Parker lit a cigarette. His leaky Zippo whooshed.

  “Put Jim Davis under pentothal. Take him to Terry Lux’s farm and forcibly sequester him. Have at him there. We need to determine what he might know about the klubhaus job.”

  Dudley said, “Agreed.”

  Parker said, “I cannot abide executing Shudo. Have Horrall brace the DA and hint at our impasse. We need a true bill from the grand jury, along with a decline-to-file DA’s writ, buttressed by an insanity ruling submitted by a blue-ribbon panel of psychiatrists. We’ve got Shudo on multiple counts of kidnap and sodomy. He’ll never get out.”

  Dudley offered his hand. Parker clasped it. The deal was comme ci, comme ça. The fucking Werewolf survives. Jack Horrall will fucking SHIT.

  * * *

  —

  They made love straight off. They peeled their way to the bedroom and left the lights on. Joan held on his eyes.

  She rolled under him and above him and moved him about. She got him just so and fixed on his eyes.

  He tried to untie her hair. She swatted his hands away and pinned them to the bed. She clamped his head and bent down to kiss him. She did not shut her eyes. He kept his eyes open. It sealed their spell.

  They started that way and finished that way. Joan killed the lights then. She got them cozy. She said, I must tell you something. You must not interrupt.

  She cinched narrative lines. The Rain, The Gold, The Fire. It’s all one story, you see.

  The charred box. The gold chip within. The dead man worked the gold heist. Wayne Frank Jackson died a short distance away. The elements have conspired in our favor. We owe this moment in the dark to The Rain.

  The train journey south. The Griffith Park blaze. The gold bar stored in the locker. The gold bayonet. The burned fingerprint. Did Hanamaka singe his hands in the park that very hot day?

  The Reverend Mimms bailed out the prime gold-heist suspect. The Reverend Mimms owns the klubhaus. It’s all one story, you see.

  Fritz Eckelkamp escapes from the train. There’s a partial bullet match to a robbery spree. Wayne Frank Jackson is detained and released. The spree precedes the fire. The fire occurs. Some Reds are detained and released. I met one of them at a party. It’s all one story, you see.

  Hideo Ashida put most of this together. He urged me to disclose it and to bring you in on the gold. It’s yours as much as ours. Your skills surpass ours. I defer to Hideo in all matters that concern you. He’s far less compromised in his affections. I will never be as exclusively in love with you.

  * * *

  —

  I should be stitching sailors on a battleship somewhere. I attribute all of this to the war. Our convergence is a heady bit of wartime magic. Ask your friend the Wolf about that.

  Have you felt him in your presence? He’s determined to do his part in keeping you safe.

  I wake up and see him at the foot of the bed.

  Claire disdains the Wolf, you know. I find it endearing that a scientist should relinquish herself to this beast.

  You’re the beast I’ve relinquished myself to. I’ll be decorous, and refrain from mentioning your littermate, Bill Parker.

  I deserve such brusque mention. I shouldn’t have brought up Claire.

  I met her at that party I told you about. Did she tell you we’d met? It’s the war again. The party couldn’t have occurred at any other time.

  She told me you were nude together, in a steam room. You and Orson Welles, no less. She didn’t state your name, but I knew it was you. This very tall and brazen redhead, she said.

  It was another magical convergence. Tell Claire that she’s a fool not to believe.

  I’m going to interview young Welles soon. His name turned up in Tommy Glennon’s address book, as I’m sure you already know.

  Tell him Red says hi.

  I’ve been to the Maestro’s house. Another party, some time ago. I may tell you the story one day.

  You owe me a story, given the one I told you.

  I wholeheartedly acknowledge my debt there.

  I went to the party to observe Kay Lake. It should be a bitter rivalry, but we’re becoming friends. She’s got me keeping a diary.

  Write of me frequently and fondly, dear.

  My lips are sealed, but I may show you if the mood strikes me.

  You have me reconsidering the notion of debts. It prompts me to say, How can I ever repay you?

  Well, there’s the gold, of course. And you might also find the man who killed my father. That would be nice of you.

  55

  (LOS ANGELES, 9:30 A.M., 2/4/42)

  She hated him now. She conceded his brilliance and despised his effeminacy. She told him that Dudley was in and cut it off there. Ashida went smarmy and smirked.

  Dr. Nort arrived. His presence muzzled her. She’d prepared jazzy ripostes. They spoofed Ashida’s c
rush on Dudley. He was Renfield in Dracula. He intoned, “Master, I come.”

  Lyman’s back room socked in heat. Joan cracked a window. Shrieks echoed upstairs. Mike Breuning phone-booked a snotty witness.

  Dr. Nort said, “I matched the male pubic hairs to our victims. That leaves the female samples unknown. We’ve got one Latin, and one Caucasian.”

  Ashida said, “The semen stains. Were you able to—”

  Dr. Nort cut in. “Rice and Kapek, most likely. O-positive is a very common type, and that’s as far as I could classify the secretions. Archuleta was AB-neg. I got four differentiated ejaculate groups. Our boys plus two unknown males.”

  Joan lit a cigarette. “I examined the stains. There’s no sign of cellular erosion, so I concluded that the stains were recent—perhaps as recent as the night of the homicides. Can we posit an orgy that went spontaneously bad? Do the unidentified ejaculates correspond to more than one killer? Say it’s an orgy. Did our other men participate, abstain, or were the stains left at varying intervals?”

  Dr. Nort sipped coffee. “We don’t really know who secreted what. Beyond that, we’ve got no leads on the two women.”

  Ashida dunked a tea bag and blew on his cup. The snotty witness screamed. The upstairs floorboards shook.

  “I have a theory. I think the killer led the victims downstairs, individually, with his ice pick pressed to their necks. All three are debilitated from their consumption of terpin hydrate. They stagger, flail, and knock those framed pictures off the right-hand side of the wall. There are a series of kick-mark indentations, low on that wall. They indicate a woman wearing pointed-toe shoes. The kick marks do not indicate any concentrated degree of force. It’s as if she were observing the forced marches downstairs, and the kicks were her form of punctuation.”

  Joan mulled the theory. Dr. Nort shrugged and tapped his wristwatch. The snotty witness screamed. Dr. Nort went eeek and walked out.

  Joan locked the door. She pointed to the corkboard and Jean Staley’s green sheet.