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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?
(TIJUANA, 3:30 P.M., 1/1/42) Border cops saluted
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
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
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
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
Joan
“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
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
Dudley plumped pillows and drew her in close. “We’re here now. Are you aware of how much things have changed?” Claire kissed
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.”
our agendas just a little bit.” Dudley laughed. “Hitler is every bit as bad as Stalin. That’s as far as I’ll go tonight.” Claire laughed. “Quid pro quo, then. Stalin is every bit as bad as Hitler, and in case you’re wondering, it was Kay Lake who first got me to concede that.” “Then concede this. It’s our war.” “Yes, love. It is surely our war. And it’s Kay’s war, as much as I dislike her.” Rain drummed the terrace. Lightning flashed. Claire lit a cigarette and blew smoke
“I’m in the market for a new waif. I might go looking for that girl we saw.” — The
He tuned in XERB and Father Coughlin. The pulsing padre praised the Sinarquistas
and Salvador Abascal. Static ditzed the broadcast. Dudley skimmed the dial. He caught more static and a coon jazz quartet. Vasquez-Cruz doused the sound. “I’m glad that you killed Carlos Madrano. It secured
“You and your policeman friends discovered a Jap sub at the Colonet Inlet. You interrogated members of the crew and determined their Fifth Column intent. They were going to pass themselves off as Chinese and perform sabotage in Los Angeles.”
Perf
Vasquez-Cruz turned on his flashlight. He aimed it at a rock cove. It was shallow—about eight feet deep. Dudley smelled it and saw it. Dudley noted the drag marks and counted the stiffs. Sixteen Jap sailors. Not yet decomposed. Close-range gunshot wounds. Shots to the head. Probable close-range ambush. Tangled bodies. Facial powder burns and jawline stippling. Exploded bridgework and shattered teeth. Vasquez-Cruz
Dudley said, “The Colonet Inlet Japs were a first wave of saboteurs. I would call this a second wave. They were killed by rival Fifth Columnists or rogue State Police. I’ll need to interrogate any and all men you might suspect.” Vasquez-Cruz bowed. Sí, mi capitán. Dudley said, “The contact man for the Colonet saboteurs was a Chinese plastic surgeon named Lin Chung. He lives in Los Angeles. The rest of the cabal are wealthy white men, too powerful to touch. Please permit me to work the Los Angeles end of this. I have thoughts already.” Vasquez-Cruz bowed. ¿Qué, mi capitán? Dudley lit a
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“Do you have access to a capable crime lab? I would like all of this assessed.” Vasquez-Cruz shook his head. Dudley said, “I know a man in L.A. It may amuse you to know that he’s Japanese.”
(LOS ANGELES, 8:30 P.M., 1/1/42) Captain Parker was
She almost met Hideo Ashida. He went out on a dead-body call as she arrived. She talked to a cop named Lee Blanchard. His girlfriend Kay something hovered. Blanchard
He was “Whiskey Bill” and “The Man Who Would Be Chief.” He was a hotshot lawyer, juicehound, and devout Catholic. He was impervious, tough, and commanding. He was somewhat slovenly. He’s married. He hides out from his wife and sleeps in his prowl car. The capper: “You’re too tall for him, Red.” Men
Parker lit a cigarette. “Forty-two hundred dollars a year. You’ll work Central Station, under Ray Pinker and beside Hideo Ashida. Learn what you can, while you can. Pinker’s looking at an indictment in this Fed-probe megillah, and Ashida will probably be interned next month. You’ll be logging property, as well as processing evidence.” Joan snapped her fingers. “Just like that?” Parker snapped
Dr. Nort lived at the morgue. Dr. Nort lived for his work. Corpse gurneys flanked clothes racks. Formaldehyde bottles lined bookshelves. A cot and booze cabinet covered one wall. A charred box lolled on an autopsy table. A skeleton was jammed within. Parker played emcee. The drift was meet your new colleague. She’s credentialed. She’s qualified. She swapped her Navy commission for a crime-lab gig. Dr. Nort blushed. Dr. Ashida bowed Oriental. They stood by the table. The box deterred small talk. Dr. Nort
Joan examined the box. “Look at the flame pattern. The box was surely buried on a hillside, and the flames leapt irregularly and scorched through to dry, freshly excavated dirt, at some point in time before the seeding that produced grass on that hillside. I would conclude that the box was buried immediately before the 1933 fire that Dr. Ashida mentioned, or at the time of the fire itself.” Dr. Nort gawked. Ashida half-grinned. Joan tickled the dead man’s chin. “Run molecular-compound tests on the charred wood, and check the grain markings against the photographic records kept at local
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(LOS ANGELES, 6:00 A.M., 1/2/42) Man Camera. Attach your
He one-upped Miss Conville then. He added ionized water and bonded the particles. He dialed down and caught petrified ash. It theoretically confirmed
the nine-year-old-fire assessment. Maslick
Mineral Canyon. Dry dirt and scrub. It’s undeveloped. There’s no par-3 golf course yet. The
He updated the device. He deployed it at a robbery scene late last year. The forensic application backfired. Dudley coveted the device. Dudley broke into his apartment and covertly studied it. He found the picture stash. Dudley ran the Watanabe job. Dudley blackmailed him and co-opted him to the Werewolf frame. Ashida rubbed his eyes and cracked a window. Cold air rushed in. He felt wind-deflected rain.
Perf
Ashida snatched the call. “Crime lab. Dr. Ashida speaking.” Dudley said, “Good morning, lad. It has been entirely too long.”
(LOS ANGELES, 8:45 A.M., 1/2/42) Today’s B-Squad roust sheet.
Yanigahara, Willy J. Age 47/tavern employee. Rat-off by: Agent Ed Satterlee. Noted Chink-hater. Spotted at bund rallies. Has white girlfriend. Yamazaki, Robert/AKA “Bad Bobby.” Age 34/railroad employee. On Federal rat list. Deutsches Haus habitué. Has Negro
girlfriend. Frequents jazz clubs and tokes maryjane. Matsura, Donald L. Age 41/metallurgist/gold broker/imports samurai swords. Rat-off by: Agent Ed Satterlee. Has Jap Navy KAs. Wears zoot suits. Has Mexican girlfriend. Per above suspects: No wants/no
“You all know this, right? Eddie Leng bought it New Year’s Eve. Safe to say you also know the Japs hate the Chinks. The Chief wants you guys to keep your ears down in J-town.” Blanchard said, “Who’s working it for the Bureau?” Collier said, “Nobody. The Chief’s kicked it over to Ace Kwan. Let the Chinks police the Chinks, he always says.” Elmer said, “Eddie Leng was Four Families, and Ace runs Hop Sing. You see a certain hypocrisy there?” Rice
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.
jammed in. It read “To Willy, love always, Lorene.”
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 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.
Fifth Column
He saw a take-out menu for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon. He
(ENSENADA, 8:00 A.M., 1/3/42) Dudley said, “I’ve
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
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.”
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
‘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,
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.”
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. —
