This Storm Read online

  Elmer dug out his scrapbook. Wayne Frank pix consumed four pages. Wayne Frank in a boxer’s pose, 1924. Wayne Frank in a Klan sheet, 1926. Elmer V. in Marine green, 1930. Wayne Frank giving him the horns.

  Wayne Frank was taller and handsomer. Wayne Frank was smarter and meaner. Elmer V. was slow to rile. He could kick big brother’s hate-dog ass all day long.

  What made Wayne Frank tick? Nobody knew. Wayne Frank was whimsical. Wayne Frank imagined impossible shit and convinced himself that it was true. Wayne Frank developed this big gold-heist fixation.

  May ’31. A mint-train job. A Frisco-to-L.A. gold-transfer run. Gold bars. A small number. Triple-locked in a cage. Shackled passengers under guard. San Quentin convicts bound for retrials in L.A.

  Chaos attends a track switch in Monterey County. All eight cons escape. Seven men are hunted down. They’re shot on sight faaaaast. One man remains at large still.

  More grief. A downed-track snafu two hours south. Chaos atop chaos. Guards and crew succumb to frayed nerves. The heist occurs then. The heister or heisters are smart. Just one box’s worth of bars leaves the train.

  The train treks south. Santa Barbara’s a coal stop. The theft is discovered then. Suspicion falls on Leander Frechette. He’s the train’s odd-job man. He’s dim-witted, Negro, fucking-A strong. The Santa Barbara cops posit a single-o heister. He walked the bars off the train two or three at a clip. It had to be Frechette. Nobody else had the strength. Somebody bossed him. He was too dumb to concoct the plan himself.

  The Santa Barbara cops beat Frechette baaaaad. He refused to confess. A colored preacher with cop clout intervened. Frechette was released. The case fizzled out. It went to open-file status, stale bread.

  Wayne Frank hoarded news clips and treasure-magazine pieces. He studied the heist and worked himself up to fever pitch. Wayne Frank, the dreamer. Wayne Frank, the fantasist. What makes Wayne Frank tick? He’s a news-clip hoarder and treasure-magazine collector. He’s an all-time fabulist.

  “Oh, Lord. He’s in a fugue state. He’s got his scrapbook out, and he’s gone stir-crazy from the rain.”

  Elmer flinched and spilled his highball. Brenda walked soft. She snuck into her own house. It was some trick on high heels.

  “You know what Kay says. ‘Keep referring to me in the third person. It sends me.’ ”

  Brenda shut the door. “Katherine Ann. She’s the first thing out of your mouth. She’s the only one you’ll ever love, in case you ain’t figured it out.”

  Elmer checked his watch. “It’s almost noon. The party must have run long.”

  “I spent some time with Jack. I’ll tell you, so you won’t ask. It was a paid date, and Jack said he wants you to run bag to some city councilmen. Him and Fletch got worries on that phone-tap probe. They’re buying forgiveness in advance.”

  Elmer smiled. “Let’s hit the kip. We ain’t spent time there in a coon’s age.”

  Brenda said, “The weekend, maybe. You know I do my best work by appointment.”

  Elmer scoped the world at large. Hard rain hit, palm trees wiggled, palm fronds flew.

  “There’s too much going on out there. God’s telling us something.”

  Brenda said, “You’re at loose ends, Citizen. You’re looking to louse something up and put yourself in a jam. Go see Ellen and get your ashes hauled. You’ll do us both a favor.”

  * * *

  —

  Ellen tapped his forehead. “You’re broody. Something’s going on in there. And don’t tell me it’s the Fate of Mankind, because you’re not that deep.”

  They were naked. Ellen’s mattress sagged. Her baby boy dozed one room over.

  Elmer said, “It’s too warm in here. You get that with these big buildings. They don’t leave you no choice with the heat.”

  Ellen lit a cigarette. She sat up crossways and blew smoke rings. Their sweat was all mingled up.

  “That’s not a real answer. I could turn down the heat if I wanted to, but I keep it warm for the baby.”

  Elmer said, “We’ve got this rule, remember? We’re not supposed to talk about him.”

  “You’re broody. Give me a hint. There’s the war, the draft, and you blew that stakeout, so maybe Dudley Smith’s peeved at you. You don’t like harassing these so-called innocent Japs, and you wish you could go back to Vice. Give me a little clue.”

  Elmer relit his cigar. Smoke fumes fumed the room up good.

  “One little clue. I’ll hold you captive here until you tell me.”

  Elmer said, “That’s a swell inducement not to talk.”

  Ellen said, “And that’s a swell compliment. But tell me something, or I’ll start brooding on adultery and kick you out.”

  Elmer touched her hair and kissed her. Ellen nuzzled his hand.

  “My life’s too easy. I got the world by the dick, but it don’t sit right with me.”

  * * *

  —

  Loose ends. The New Year’s blahs. Elmer hit the road.

  He drove to City Hall and prowled corridors. The Hall was holiday dead. The PD ran a light crew. The Air Patrol guys stuck to the basement. The mayor’s office and City Council chambers were dark.

  Elmer had keys and a briefcase. He hit Call-Me-Jack’s office and unlocked his desk drawers. Jack left four envelopes. They were marked with initials. They were probably five-yard payoffs.

  The mayor’s office ran swank. Walnut panels and a Mussolini-size desk. Elmer unlocked Fletch Bowron’s drawers. He grabbed four more envelopes. He saw that familiar green binder.

  His binder. Brenda’s. Their merchandise book. Nude pix of their girls.

  He leafed through it. He got titillated and broody, simultaneous.

  He replaced the binder. He hit the Council chambers and divvied up the gelt. The 4th District guy kept a desk jug. Elmer helped himself. He sat in the guy’s green leather chair and put his feet up.

  * * *

  —

  Loose ends. The New Year’s blahs. Elmer hit the road.

  The hard rain subsided. A drizzle held in. Central Station was close. Elmer walked over.

  The crime lab was locked. The main squadroom was locked. The Alien Squad pen was lit bright. Elmer poked his head in. He saw Wendell Rice and George Kapek. They were in their skivvies. They were tossing dice and snarfing pizza pie.

  Elmer said, “Happy New Year.”

  Rice said, “You up and took off last night. Dud wondered what happened to you.”

  “You and George started lifting wallets. I got a burr in my tail.”

  Kapek said, “You’re pious, Jackson. That, and you don’t need the money. You got your girl racket, and you’re Jack Horrall’s favorite Okie.”

  Elmer waved his cigar. “I’m a cracker, not an Okie. There’s a distinction.”

  Rice raised his hands. “Peace, brother. We’re all white men, and we’re going back to rousting Japs first thing tomorrow.”

  Elmer made the jack-off sign. Kapek said, “Last night was a bust. We got no good drift on who sliced Dud, and nothing ripe on Tommy Glennon.”

  Rice said, “Dud’s hipped on Tommy. Something’s going on there that I don’t comprehend.”

  Kapek said, “Dud’s right hand don’t know what his left hand is doing.”

  Elmer gauged the chitchat. Nothing gored him. Fucking Eddie Leng gored him. There was no dead-body call. These humps would have heard. There was no Herald headline: DEEP-FRIED CHINAMAN FOUND! COPS SIFT CLUES!

  Kapek rolled snake eyes. He crapped out and moaned. Rice snatched the dice. His undershirt hiked and exposed his left arm. Note the thunderbolt armband.

  Still life. Geek cops at play. Exiled from home and hearth. Jap hunters in repose.

  Elmer fought off the New Year’s blues. Elmer hit the road.

  * * *

  —

&nbs
p; The hard rain revived. He drove through swamped intersections and sewer floods. Who snuffed Eddie Leng? Who’s the dead man in the box?

  Elmer drove to the Gordon Hotel. Tommy’s “SQ” tattoo stencil tweaked him. He braced the desk clerk. Let me retoss Tommy’s room. Tommy’s a fugitive rape-o.

  The clerk went Nyet, sahib. He said two cops just tore through here. They tossed Tommy’s room. I’m not repeating that grief with you.

  The clerk described Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle. They retossed his first toss. That scotched toss #3.

  Elmer drove back downtown. He hit 11th and Broadway and parked. He recharged with bennies and Old Crow. He got electricized.

  He eyeballed that hot-box phone for no damn good reason. It stood outside the Herald. It was just some coin booth.

  But:

  Tommy called it. Maybe mucho times. Tommy’s address book. Think fast, now. Tommy called fourteen Baja pay phones.

  Elmer glanced across the street. He spotted a Fed sedan. Ed Satterlee was tucked in. He was eyeballing the booth.

  Cop life. Circle jerk. Who you know, who you blow. Satterlee bossed the Fed probe. Satterlee tricked with the Brenda-Elmer service. Satterlee was tonged up.

  Elmer stared at the hot-box. Baja calls. That’s a head-scratcher. Ain’t the Dudster Baja-bound now?

  10

  (TIJUANA, 3:30 P.M., 1/1/42)

  Border cops saluted and waved them through. Bienvenidos, señor y señora.

  They were Falangista thugs. They were Francoesque in dress and demeanor. They saw the staff car and Army jefe. They noted the comely mujer. They fawned and clicked their heels.

  Mexico. Our grand, if raucous, neighbor. A properly subservient hello.

  Dudley and Claire breezed into T.J. Claire drove. Dudley’s arm sling precluded. A late sun lit rain clouds.

  They cut inland and south. The coast road detoured through T.J. proper. It’s muy feo. Let’s see how Claire reacts.

  The child-beggar swarms. The cat-meat taco vendors. The women-fuck-donkey clubs. The open-air farmacias. Voodoo health cures and sub-rosa dope.

  Liquor stores. Niteklubs. Prowling sailors and Marines. Strolling putas. He-she’s in bullfighter garb.

  The cops wore mismatched uniforms and drove mismatched cars. Jackboots, jodhpurs, tunics—all Nazi black. Der Führer—style purveyor to the world’s great unwashed.

  Chevy prowl cars, Ford prowl cars. U.S. confiscations. Wait, there’s a Packard. Note the coyote-pelt seats.

  Claire said, “I left Beverly Hills for this. It must mean that I love you.”

  Dudley laughed and squeezed her knee. His bad arm ached. Claire caught a lane back to the coast road. To the east: scrub hills and abandoned-car encampments. To the west: cliffside coves and sea swells.

  Claire hit the gas. Dudley read her. She wanted to get there and dose herself. She wanted to craft her rich-leftist-among-the-peons persona.

  She brooded her way down from L.A. He brooded in inimical sync. He concentrated on Tommy Glennon.

  Mike and Dick tossed Tommy’s room. A clerk told them that another cop had already tossed it. The clerk described the doltish Elmer Jackson.

  He caught a noon radio broadcast. It stressed “Chinese restauranteur slain.” There was no “victim Leng tong affiliate.” There was no “close pal of Thomas Malcolm Glennon.” Both facts should have been stressed.

  Tommy’s missing now. Mike and Dick saw a Spanish-language text in his room.

  Dudley scoped the terrain. Eyes left: hills and Jap fishing towns. He’d raid them. He’d roust Fifth Column Japs and plain old Japs set for internment. Eyes right: the cliffs, the coves, the sea.

  Storm-tossed now. Like last month. Shallow beachfront/glide-in spots/perfect sub concealment.

  Like last month. Like the botched dope raid. Like the Jap sub and blown-to-shit Carlos Madrano.

  Claire said, “You’re clenching, dear. Your jaw is trembling.”

  Dudley lit a cigarette. “I’m considering failure and the means not to repeat it. Mexico redefines opportunity, and I must not stumble here.”

  Claire smiled. “You’re a war profiteer.”

  Dudley winked. “Bright lass. I knew you’d figure it out.”

  * * *

  —

  Ensenada.

  Fishing spot, tourist trap, lovers’ hideout. Cliffside hotels and sportfishing piers. Slum piers crammed with tuna boats and bait shops. Streets named for saints and notable despots.

  Claire turned off the coast road. Avenida Costera hugged low cliffs and offered up jazzy views. The Army usurped the Hotel Pacifico del Norte. The third floor was all SIS.

  Officers billeted in sea-motif suites. Enlisted men lived in off-site barracks. They were jerry-rigged, post–Pearl Harbor. Convict laborers toiled, posthaste.

  The hotel was Moorish-mosque adobe. Eight stories, thick walls, tile roofs. The front entrance was sandbagged. Howitzers and tripod Brownings flanked the doors. Mex Staties stood guard. They held tommy guns at port arms.

  Claire pulled into the porte cochere. Greedy valets swooped. Beaners in movie-usher attire. Coolie hats à la Grauman’s Chinese.

  A full-dress major broached the car. He was forty-five, short, and porcine. He leaned in on Dudley’s side. He expelled booze fumes.

  “Captain Smith, Mrs. Smith. I’m Ralph Melnick, and I’ll escort you to your quarters, and show you around before you can say ‘más rápido.’ ”

  Dudley grinned and stuck out his hand. Melnick bone-crushed him. Claire saw something. She ignored the exchange and glanced streetside. Dudley tracked her eyes.

  It’s a waif girl. About fifteen, tattered coat and skirt, scuffed Army boots. Dark hair, glasses, feral élan.

  Dudley touched Claire’s arm. She turned back and smiled—a dazzler.

  “I’m not Mrs. Smith, Major. I’m Miss De Haven.”

  * * *

  —

  The tour, then.

  The gringo was king here. Army personnel and swank turistas capered. Statie drones worked the desk and switchboard. They wore starched fatigues and packed sidearms. Mix-blood mestizos fetched drinks and scrounged tips. Dark indios slaved.

  Three restaurants. Seaside lounge. Private fishing pier and Rose Bowl–sized lobby. Dolores del Rio, engulfed by fawning fans.

  Captain Smith’s billet: the Plutarco Calles Suite. Dudley roared—the Red priest-killer, conmemorativo.

  Two bedrooms, living room, dining room/kitchen. Ocean-view balcony, mounted trophy fish throughout. Bathrooms with five-foot-deep tubs.

  Claire decamped to explore the suite and geez morphine. Major Melnick blushed and curtsied good-bye. He walked Dudley down to 3. The floor had been wartime-gutted. Arriba, SIS. The U.S. Army has arrived.

  One massive squadroom. Forty-odd cubicles and desks. Floor-to-ceiling corkboards and file banks. U.S./Baja wall maps.

  Switchboard. Forty phone lines. Eight Teletypes. All-new photostat. Coding room and armory. Two dozen men on duty. Twenty-four-hour work shifts.

  Captain Smith got a full office. He got a large desk and green leather chairs. The FDR wall pic had to go.

  Melnick produced a flask. They traded pops. Dudley turned the FDR pic facedown. Melnick yuk-yukked.

  “So, right now Mexico’s ‘neutral,’ but it’s just a pose, because El Presidente Camacho’s a dick tease, and he wants to extract all the U.S. aid he can get his mitts on before he comes onboard with the Allies. Baja’s full of Japs, with a sprinkling of Krauts, and Camacho’s been dragging his heels on that, while he keeps up his neutrality pose. We’ve got to get these Jap boogers detained and interrogated. We’ve got eight hundred and fifty miles of coastline here, beach coves up the ying-yang, and Jap fishermen with Fifth Column sympathies and the wherewithal to guide a goddamn armada of subs in.”

  Dudley passed
the flask. “My special duties, sir?”

  Melnick said, “You’re my executive officer, with all corresponding authority. You’ll serve as liaison to the Mexican State Police and the California-based police and civilian authorities. You’ll supervise inland airplane searches and shoreline sub checks. You’ll round up Japs and see to their U.S. deportation and internment, because the spic powers that be haven’t got the manpower and facilities to intern the fuckers here, and the Mexican government’s out to steal all the Jap money it can. The Baja governor is a Kraut-Mex breed named Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. He’s another heel-dragger. He kind of likes Hitler and Tojo, and thinks they just might win the war. So, we try to work around this guy. Our big asset in north Baja’s the new boss of the Statie boys here. José Vasquez-Cruz. He’s coming by to see you at 1800. He’s an honorary white man in my book.”

  Dudley swiveled his desk chair. He took two full spins. The office went wheeee.

  Melnick said, “Miss De Haven sort of bushwhacked me. Your personnel file said you were married.”

  Dudley said, “Miss De Haven bushwhacked me. She wasn’t the first woman to contravene my vows, but she may well be the last.”

  * * *

  —

  Dusk hit early. They kept the terrace doors open and the bedroom lights low. Storm clouds brewed just past the harbor. More rain was due.

  Claire sat up in bed. Dudley cradled his bad arm. The sling tanked their lovemaking. They laughed it off.

  Claire scootched down and got their eyes level. Dudley plumped pillows and drew her in close.

  “We’re here now. Are you aware of how much things have changed?”

  Claire kissed him. “We of the Left see our lives as History. I find myself counting the days since Pearl Harbor, and chalking all change up to the novelty of the war.”

  Dudley kissed her. “We’re both unruly. The war will serve as our justification until we tire of the falsehood. We’ve both endured failures of late. I failed in business, but it has not derailed my resolve. You succumbed to the infiltration efforts of William H. Parker and Kay Lake. They succumbed to war fever and a desire to hunt Reds, and took it out on you. You succumbed to your idealism and susceptibility to fetching waifs, as evinced by Miss Lake. This war will advance our individual and often antithetical agendas. If we remain candid and strong, we will not derail ourselves.”