This Storm

by James Ellroy

Drift per Tommy Glennon. Tommy owed Eddie Leng money. Eddie was crowding him. Jack Horrall palmed the Leng snuff off on Uncle Ace.

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

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 judge and jury.” Ace said,

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.

(LOS ANGELES, 9:00 A.M., 1/3/42) The lab smock clashed

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

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

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

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

(TIJUANA, 2:00 P.M., 1/3/42) He knew the look. It

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

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 walked back to the pallets. The goons snapped to. He pointed to the sailors’ heads. He said, “Se siente todos.” The

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

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

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. Dudley

They dug through file carbons. Resident-alien files. Baja-resident Japanese/pickup orders issued. They trawled for Japanese Navy KAs. Ashida

Ashida trawled for KAs. He trawled twelve files and tapped out. He hit on file #13. The file tapped one Kyoho Hanamaka. He was an “Imperial Navy attaché.” Ashida said, “I’ve got a man named Hanamaka

none in the Navy.” Vasquez-Cruz said, “He’s one slippery eel. He’s quite the friend of Juan Lazaro...

Claire glanced away. She looked out the window and stood up. Ashida clocked the window. He saw a raggedy girl on the beach. The girl picked up a starfish and cradled it to herself. Vasquez-Cruz

Joan

“What is this? Why am I here?” Dudley tapped his knee. “There’s my ex-snitch Tommy Glennon, and a dead Chinaman named Eddie Leng. There’s our old friend Lin Chung, and the scent of money.” “Yes, but what’s in it for me?” Dudley said, “I intend to rescue you and your family from the internment. Would a U.S. Army commission and a posting here suit you?”

(LOS ANGELES, 10:00 P.M., 1/3/42) Elmer doodled. It soothed his gourd and

around and got to it. He wrote, “D.S. & T.G.” He underlined it and added question marks. He wrote, “T.G. to E.L. (murder vict)”

it. He wrote, “Donald Matsura & E.L.—???” He wrote, “Can’t talk to Breuning & Carlisle—D.S.’s goons.” He wrote, “Kapek & Rice—too corrupt.” He circled.

He wrote, “T.G.’s address book—???” He wrote, “Hot-box phone calls—???” He wrote, “Calls to 14 Baja pay phones—???” He drew an SQ circled by snakes. He drew more question marks. He drew Eddie Leng’s death rictus and french-fried feet. Kay hopped in his booth. There she is, her all-time self.

“I got no dish on this one. It’s ’42 now, and Wayne Frank cashed out back in ’33. I don’t see no hook between him and this here DB. And if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do, because I’m really just a whore-peddler, a bagman, and a strongarm thug. I might be the world’s luckiest white man, but I sure as shit am not much of a detective.”

“The Dudster sent me out to kill a man, but I couldn’t do it. I been reading some C-town files, and it looks to me like that selfsame geek killed himself a tonged-up Chinaman.”

ask Bill Parker.” Kay jiggled his hands. Elmer laced up their fingers. “Kick Lee out. You don’t sleep with him, anyway. Tell Parker to leave his wife and marry you. If he nixes it, I’ll marry you. I’ll get a cop job in Bumfuck, Indiana. We’ll live fat and sassy on a farm someplace.” Kay laughed and unlaced their fingers. She scanned the bar and X-ray-eyed Big Joan.

Hit the Lincoln Heights Jail. Brace Crazy Don Matsura. Remember? He had that menu for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon. — The rain got worse. He

him in.” The night cop said, “He ain’t so frisky now. Banzai, if you know what I mean.” “Why don’t you explain what you mean?” “I mean, Chief Horrall called the watch commander. He said Ace Kwan would like a few words with your boy. As in, ‘Put him in a sweatbox and then walk away.’ ” Elmer slipped

Four twelve-by-twelve rooms. All the same. Look-see mirrors/floor-bolted tables/two screwed-down chairs. Elmer cut straight left. He peeped three mirrored doors and got bupkes. He peeped room #4 and got the real shit. There’s Demon

this: You Jap fucker/you tonged up/Four Families/sell terp/winos and dope fiends. You sell pharmacy hop/with Lin Chung/you know Tommy Glenn— Ace

down the middle. Ball bearings flew— Elmer grabbed Ace by the neck and hard-shoved him.

(ENSENADA, 9:15 A.M., 1/4/42) That cretinous redneck. That Klan-klique

enraged him. Claire missed Mass this morning. It vexed him. Claire was off with her fetching, if feral, new waif. The girl vexed him no end. Joan Klein was age fifteen. She was a New York runaway and a Zionist Jew. Her immigrant kin veered hard left. Claire found the girl très enchanting.

She bought the girl clothes. She got her a room down the hall. The girl told tall tales. Labor agitators clash with Fed thugs. Mayhem results. He

thought she gored him. That was très Claire. She confused enmity with mild contempt. She said, “I think I’ve seen him before. Somewhere—perhaps a demonstration.”

Where?

Admin featured file vaults and cramped office suites. Dudley called ahead. He talked to a lieutenant named Juan Pimentel. They gabbed at length. Lieutenant

Juan Pimentel was muy bueno. He jumped on all the small shit. He head-counted jail Japs. He got 44 in custody/182 still loose. He prepped admin suite 214. He stacked the custody files and made a pot of coffee. Dudley

chain-smoked. He read from this spark point: Kyoho Hanamaka. He’s a naval attaché. Hideo skimmed his file and nailed a big inconsistency. There were very few KAs. There were no naval KAs. It startled Hideo. Hanamaka was still on the loose. That fact troubled him. Dudley reread the file and studied the clipped photograph. Hanamaka looked psychopathic. Born in Kyoto, 1898. Career Navy man. Intel background. Toured Europe, ’35-’36. Toured Russia, likewise. Brilliant student at the German Naval Warfare School. There were three male KAs listed. They were all fishermen. That was enticing. Jap Navy man, the Baja coast, beached submarines. Three KAs. Hiroshi Takai, Hector Obregon-Hodaka, Akira Minamura. All coastal fishermen.

Dudley thumbed custody files. He checked name tabs and hit Obregon-Hodaka. He read the file. The man was a Jap-Mex half-breed. He spoke English. His moniker was “Big Tuna.” He had a valid U.S. travel visa. Dudley snatched the desk phone and dialed double ought. A jail noncom picked up. Dudley said, “Inmate Obregon-Hodaka. Room 214, please.” — “I know

Dudley bowed. “You have convinced me of your political solvency and your allegiance to the Allied cause, sir. Now, please describe your relationship with the Japanese naval attaché, Kyoho Hanamaka.” Hector

Dudley said, “Did the quantities that he purchased in any way arouse your suspicions?” “Yeah, they did. After Pearl Harbor, I started thinking, What’s he want all that fish for? You follow me, boss? Fish, submarine crews, sailors with hearty appetites?” Dudley lit a cigarette. “We are having parallel thoughts, sir.” “Okay, so I’ll wrap it up, then. I was

having these suspicious thoughts, and Hanamaka owed me money. He lives up in the Baja hills, so I drove up there to collect. It was December 18—I remember because it’s my birthday. I drove up there, but the house had been cleaned out.” Dudley

Jam sessions. Back-to-Africa mosques. Political clubhouses. Zoot-suit pachucos, zorched on Sinarquismo. These two rogue cops and

He looked right and saw dumped furniture. He looked left and saw a blood-spattered wall.

(LOS ANGELES, 4:30 P.M., 1/4/42) Morgue Powwow. One forensic agenda.

the Charred-Box Man. Morgue