This Storm Page 8

  Elmer said, “Eddie Leng was Four Families, and Ace runs Hop Sing. You see a certain hypocrisy there?”

  Rice said, “Jackson’s a Bolshevik.”

  * * *

  —

  They walked to J-town. Unjailed Japs voodoo-eyed them. Oooga-booga. It’s B-Squad, on the hoof.

  They wore civvies and carried pump shotguns. Rock-salt rounds replaced buckshot. Rock salt knocked you down and pocked your ass bloody. It stopped short of instant death.

  Kapek and Rice dwarfed Elmer. They hoofed three abreast and dwarfed all known Japs. Yanigahara lived on East 2nd. Yamazaki lived on East 1st. Kapek hit a call-box phone and summoned a whore wagon. The wagon met them outside the Yamazaki crib.

  Bad Bobby went peaceful. Elmer wrote the inventory and gave him a cigar. There was no evil swag extant. Bad Bobby owned boocoo jazz records and zoot suits. Plus pulp westerns and a Packard-Bell radio. Nix on hate tracts and guns.

  They tape-sealed the door and dumped Bobby in the wagon. They hit East 2nd Street. Willy J. Yanigahara went peaceful.

  Elmer wrote the inventory and gave him a cigar. There was no evil swag extant. Racy swag, though.

  Kapek found a stack of girlie mags. Rice bootjacked them. Elmer found a locket stuffed with blond pubic hair. A note was jammed in. It read “To Willy, love always, Lorene.”

  Elmer bootjacked it. They tape-sealed the door and dumped Willy in the wagon. The wagon trailed them south on San Pedro.

  Donald Matsura lived at 219 3rd. His pad was upstairs rear. There was no elevator. B-Squad hoofed it up and back.

  Rice banged the door. Music snapped off inside. A skinny Jap opened up.

  He was TB-ward thin. He had gassed hair topped by a jigaboo hairnet. He had pinned-out, darty eyes.

  Oooga-booga. He put out dat fear stink.

  Elmer said, “Son, don’t you rabbit.”

  Matsura squealed words, Jap-talk falsetto.

  Rice and Kapek grabbed him. They smashed him against the door and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Matsura squealed squeal words. They verged on crazy-man squeaks. Rice grabbed his hair and smashed his face into the doorjamb. Matsura screeched falsetto. Elmer ran through the crib and eyeball-tossed it.

  He saw ratty furniture and a fly-swarmed kitchen.

  He saw a console radio and smelled burned-out tubes.

  He dumped a hamper full of sock-padded jockstraps.

  He dumped a nightstand full of gold swastika paperweights and Goldlover magazines.

  He saw a terpin hydrate still. It was hooked up to a four-burner hot plate. It featured feeder vats and four yeast spouts.

  He saw a take-out menu for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon.

  He opened a closet. He saw samurai swords up the wazoo.

  He ran back to the front room. Rice and Kapek had Matsura pinned to that wall.

  They wheeled and saw Elmer. They stopped rabbit-punching Matsura. They dropped their mitts and went Well?

  Matsura squirmed loose and ran out the doorway. Kapek gave him a ten-yard lead and raised his shotgun.

  He let three rounds fly. Rock salt shredded the shirt off Matsura’s back and scalped off most of his hair.

  14

  (ENSENADA, 8:00 A.M., 1/3/42)

  Dudley said, “I’ve issued a blanket arrest order. All Japs registered in the ’40 census. Noncoms and State Police have been dispatched.”

  Coffee klatch. Strict dress code. Olive drabs for SIS. Statie fasco black.

  They perched in Ralph Melnick’s office. The boss served coffee and sweet rolls. His ODs were crumb-flecked.

  “Captain Smith lets no moss grow under his feet. Isn’t that right, José?”

  Vasquez-Cruz winked. Dudley winked back. They sat in Chinese lacquered chairs. Melnick worked the Asia desk back in the Ming dynasty.

  “No, Major. He does not. Captain Smith is not here to coddle Fifth Columnists or view the notorious donkey show at the Blue Fox.”

  Melnick slapped his knees. Almond flecks flew. Desk knickknacks rattled.

  Dudley said, “I’ve reserved cells and interrogation rooms at the Statie barracks. The coastal site has been sealed and is now under guard. My police chemist will be driving down later today. He’ll forensic the sailors and the submarine itself.”

  Melnick said, “¿Qué pasa, amigo? What did you make of it all?”

  “I think Mexican leftists killed the sailors, sir. I’ll investigate with that in mind.”

  Vasquez-Cruz smirked. He knew the truth. Or thought he did.

  Melnick slurped coffee. “We’ve got sixteen dead saboteurs. You could say we got lucky, and let it go at that.”

  “They were Fifth Column, sir. That’s undeniable. I’ll be grilling our in-custody Japs, with an eye toward turning leads along those lines.”

  Melnick checked his watch and went Shit-I’m-late. He saluted and booked out the door.

  Vasquez-Cruz smirked anew. Smug little shit. His mother cavorts with El Burro. He was born at the Blue Fox.

  “ ‘Mexican leftists,’ hardly. You told me something quite different.”

  Dudley lit a cigarette. “Let’s discuss money first.”

  “We should begin with Carlos Madrano. You blew up his car, and a great many burned U.S. dollars were found amid the wreckage. Madrano had just left the Colonet Inlet, where the first sub had berthed. Now we have a second beached submarine. I’m thinking there may be additional monies hidden onboard.”

  Dudley said, “I searched the Colonet sub and found ten thousand dollars U.S. My friend Hideo Ashida did the bulk of the work. We gave the money to Madrano, in exchange for our safety. I think we will find a similar amount in this newly beached craft. We will split the money, of course.”

  Vasquez-Cruz pulled his chair up. “There is more to tell me, I’m sure.”

  Dudley pulled his chair up. Their knees bumped. Burro Junior winced.

  “There’s a fugitive at large in Los Angeles. His name is Tommy Glennon, and I know him rather well. I think Tommy killed a Chinese restauranteur, Eddie Leng, that I told you about. He disappeared the night Leng was killed, and they were both known to be jungled up in the Four Families tong. I also consider it likely that Tommy knows Lin Chung, a dubious physician who is surely privy to both sub berthings and sabotage plots. Tommy ran wets for Carlos Madrano and was dunning me for information about the man, when I last saw him. I think Tommy is part of all this, but he had to have had considerable help here in Baja.”

  Vasquez-Cruz oozed delight. He fluffed his cravat and tee-heed.

  “Such strategic insight. You are Robespierre, reborn.”

  Dudley laughed. “Our mandate is to foil sabotage and make money.”

  Vasquez-Cruz stuck his hand out. Dudley bone-crushed it. Vasquez-Cruz went Caramba—such strength.

  * * *

  —

  Claire was out. Dudley patched switchboard calls straight from the suite.

  He got Mike Breuning. They bypassed amenities. Mike reported this:

  Drift per Tommy Glennon. Tommy owed Eddie Leng money. Eddie was crowding him. Jack Horrall palmed the Leng snuff off on Uncle Ace. Jack hated Chink snuffs. Their heathen customs fucked things up. Chinks should arbitrate Chinks.

  The Alien Squad popped a Jap named Donald Matsura. He was a terp man and renaissance lowlife. He showed up in dead Eddie’s KA file. Matsura knew Tommy and Chink sawbones Lin Chung.

  The phone rang. Dudley jiggled the receiver. The switchboard patched out Mike B. and patched in Uncle Ace.

  Ace gibbered. English and Chinese overlapped. He talked himself dry. He pooped out and coughed himself hoarse.

  Dudley said, “Good morning, my brother.”

  “My Irish brother. I have missed you.”

  “Eddie Leng, my brother. Jack Horrall has appointed you ju
dge and jury.”

  Ace said, “No leads, Dudster. I make piss-poor Charlie Chan. That why white man play him in movies.”

  Dudley laughed. “There’s a Jap named Donald Matsura at Lincoln Heights. Lean on him, and confirm or eliminate him. I think Tommy Glennon killed Eddie, but I could be wrong. Put this matter to rest, my brother. We should seek to avoid a tong war as we pave our way to the money.”

  Phone static hit. Ace talked over it: “Fuck”/“shit”/“money, how?”

  The line cleared. Dudley said, “We run wetbacks. We smuggle heroin in Army vehicles transporting Baja Japs to U.S. internment camps. There’s a sell-Japs-as-slaves scheme I’m pondering.”

  More line hiss. More garbled Ace: “Fuck”/“shit”/“cocksucker.” The line cleared. Ace said, “Jap beast must die.” It was his boffo signature close.

  15

  (LOS ANGELES, 9:00 A.M., 1/3/42)

  The lab smock clashed with her hair. Her sensible shoes lacked panache. Navy blue and gold, farewell.

  She waltzed on the war. She served notice at the Fed Building and cabbed to Central Station. She lugged her gear by the muster room. Short cops ogled her.

  Anchors aweigh.

  Joan schlepped two suitcases. They contained her microscope and textbooks. She trudged the stairs. The lab was unlocked and unoccupied.

  She surveyed it. She smelled luminol and gun oil. The ballistics chute leaked asbestos.

  PD chemists worked sardine tight. Her desk adjoined Dr. Ashida’s. They shared bookshelves and burner plates. Joan unpacked and stashed her suitcases in a closet.

  Dr. Ashida kept his desk tidy. The charred box was propped up against it. Dirt-packed jars sat three across.

  They were evidence-tagged. Mineral Canyon/Griffith Park/1-1-42.

  The case intrigued her. It merged human passion with elemental forces. The rain, the mud slide, a precipitant fire. Possible-probable arson. Her specific métier.

  She went by the L.A. Times yesterday. She flashed her police ID and wheedled a set of page scrapbooks. They detailed the Griffith Park blaze. Santa Ana winds and scorcher heat. A firebug arrested and released. A Communist cell scrutinized. No arrests. No firm forensic determination.

  She should reread and annotate the scrapbooks. She should discuss the case with Dr. Ashida. Catastrophic fire was her métier. Dr. Ashida was prissy and domineering. She should establish crime-lab parity.

  Joan unscrewed a dirt jar. She sniffed the dirt and placed a small clod in a beaker. She filled a stopper with liquid ammonia and squeezed in eight drops. She added sink water and placed the beaker on a hot plate.

  She brought up a flash boil. The heat induced blue coloration. She checked her organic chemistry text and found a color chart. She got a perfect match.

  She studied the charred box. She memorized the wood grain and consulted her woodlot text. There’s one more perf—

  Hideo Ashida walked in.

  He glared. He stomped one foot. Joan preempted him.

  “This batch of wood derives from late summer ’33. It was cut by the Anawalt Lumber Company. My book lists Anawalt’s key 1933 customer as Los Angeles City Parks and Recreation. The dirt I tested contains traces of a four-to-one solution of oil-diluted kerosene, which has been known to be employed as a secondary accelerant to spread already-lit fires. I talked to Dr. Layman and did some newspaper research. Accordingly, I would surmise that the killer had knowledge of an impending arson in Griffith Park, or started the overall fire himself. The box was unearthed in a canyon that was then nearly invisible from the warren of canyons at the apex of the blaze. I would surmise that the killer knew his victim would be in that nearly invisible canyon or lured him there, then killed him, boxed him, covered him in deep, soft earth, and then set the secondary fire.”

  Ashida slack-jawed it. Mr. Brain was struck dumb. Bill Parker lounged right behind him. Joan smelled his dumb lime cologne.

  16

  (TIJUANA, 2:00 P.M., 1/3/42)

  He knew the look. It said YOU’RE A JAP. It vexed him in L.A. This border variant scared him.

  Mexican cops. With their hate glares. With their soiled uniforms and hand-tooled gun belts. Swastikas and coiled snakes carved in.

  Dudley wrangled him an Army pass. A slew of border guards perused it. They hemmed and hawed. Cars piled up behind him.

  Horns blared. A man yelled, “Goddamn Jap!” Time stuttered and stalled flat.

  A guard returned his pass. A guard pointed south. A guard grabbed his crotch. A guard spit on his windshield.

  Ashida floored the gas. He detoured through T.J. and hit the coast road. He counted days backward. He stopped Christmas Day.

  It was his first Baja visit. He joined Dudley, Mike B., and Dick C. He survived the botched dope raid. He survived the Statie jail and mucho torture. He caught the first beached-sub incursion. He questioned captured sailors and beat them with sap gloves. A fat sailor called him a swish.

  He searched the sub. Dudley assisted. They found a cash stash and bought their freedom. They hog-tied the sailors and dumped them in the sub. He started the engines and got the sub out to sea.

  It was explosive-rigged. Twenty-four men fired shotguns and tore out the hull. The sub detonated. The sailors burned alive.

  They drove back to L.A. then. He sat in the backseat. Dudley sat beside him. Their legs brushed. He fluttered, all over.

  Ashida drove south. Rain clouds gathered off the coast. He brought an evidence kit. He left notes for Elmer Jackson and Lee Blanchard.

  He called off their bodyguard schifts. He fed Elmer a P.S. It laid out Joan Conville’s charred-box diagnosis. “I know about your brother. This new wrinkle’s a non sequitur. It shouldn’t bother you.”

  Ashida drove south. He played the radio and caught a news broadcast. “Recent Jap aggressions” blared. He turned the radio off.

  Ensenada came and went. Low clouds seeped rain. He saw Statie goons perched on a beach bluff.

  He pulled over. The goons came on servile. They pointed him down a steep roadway. He skidded on hard dirt and sand.

  The beachfront was right there. He brodied in tight. He hit his headlights and framed the scene.

  Low tide. A beached sub. Dead sailors stacked on wood pallets. A cove entry right behind them.

  Rain tarps at the ready. Two generators. Dry ice, dumped in wire-mesh buckets. It foils decomposition. We’ve got fans rigged. They’ll blow cold air on the stiffs.

  And there’s Dudley. He’s dashing in his olive drabs. He’s with a Statie captain. Note the jodhpurs and peaked Nazi hat.

  Ashida walked over. El Fascisto clicked his heels.

  Dudley embraced him. Dudley said, “Hello, my dear friend.”

  * * *

  —

  He surveyed the scene and went in close. Statie goons held spotlights. The tarps deflected light rain.

  High tides eradicated drag marks. Storm tides hit the cove and wrecked his trace-element search. A Statie van backed down to the tide line. The tailgate gave him a flat place to work.

  Ashida examined the bodies. He saw the facial powder burns that Dudley saw first. He studied a rock outcropping. He found three dead flashbulbs. He restudied the dead men and examined their tunics and exposed upper chests.

  The goons held their spotlights tight-close. Ashida saw silencer threads and noted varied formations. He tweezer-plucked three representative batches and placed them on slides. He carried them to the tailgate and dialed his microscope tight-tight.

  Dudley hovered. Ashida studied the threads. He saw three individuated formations. He looked at Dudley. He smiled and bowed.

  “There were three gunmen. They stood at that near outcropping and hit the sailors with flashbulb glare. They ran up and shot them while they were blinded, and they used silencer-fitted guns.”

  Dudley smiled and bowed. Ashida w
alked back to the pallets. The goons snapped to. He pointed to the sailors’ heads. He said, “Se siente todos.”

  The goons flashed their spotlights. Ashida went in with a surgeon’s ax and knife.

  He cracked skulls. Eyeball sockets collapsed. He scooped brain tissue and dropped it in the sand. He dug out forty-eight spent bullets, todos.

  The goons looked ill. They murmured prayers. Ashida was blood-spattered, blood-smeared, blood-flecked.

  He walked back to the van. Dudley and Vasquez-Cruz hovered. Ashida sprayed his hands with 100-proof alcohol. He dipped the spents in gasoline and blotter-dried them.

  He clamped sixteen spents to microscope slides. He dialed the scope close and passed the slides under his lens. He studied fragmentary striations.

  Dudley and Vasquez-Cruz hovered. They chain-smoked and eyed the process. Ashida ran through said process three times.

  “The lands and grooves are obliterated, but I can state that the bullets themselves are surely of U.S. manufacture. Based on what I can see of circumference, my best guess would be Smith & Wesson Police .38s.”

  Dudley said, “Ambush. Three capable men, identically armed.”

  Vasquez-Cruz went tee-hee. He spoke baritone and tittered soprano.

  Dudley winked at Ashida. “The submarine, lad. We’re looking for money, of course.”

  * * *

  —

  Ashida worked straight through. He felt energized. Dudley worked beside him. Vasquez-Cruz supplied tools. They replicated their first inch-by-inch search.

  They unscrewed bolts and looked behind panels. They unwired instrument clusters. They disassembled the periscope mount. They scuffed their knuckles and gouged their arms. They pulled up loose floor plates and found MONEY.

  It was duffel-bagged the first time. It was attaché-cased tonight. Vasquez-Cruz tee-heed and cut through the locks. The yield: twenty grand, U.S.