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step. He discussed it with José Vasquez-Cruz. El Fascisto was bored. They discussed their racket plans. That perked him up. Running wetbacks. Running heroin. Moving wets and “H.” Their Utopian vision, shared. It’s all
has summoned him. He’s set to testify. He’ll be resolute. Werewolf Shudo killed the four Watanabes. He’ll concede that
may be insane. It’s all grand, but— Jim Davis and Bill Parker remain meddlesome. A recent
(LOS ANGELES, 9:00 A.M., 1/24/42) Collusion. City Hall. Room 546. Today’s Monster
colored girls. Shudo’s lawyer was ex-PD. He had a night-school diploma and serviced a Negro pimp clientele. He procured for the DA. Joan doodled up a scratch pad. She’d done research. She knew gold-per-ounce prices in ’31 and today. She teethed on the upswing. $20.67 then. $35.50 now. Mint bars
Werewolf dozed. His lawyer skimmed the racing form. Ashida breezed through the forensics. He described various documents and their evidential value. He forged those documents. Bill Parker told her that. Persuasive Ashida. Submissive dog Ashida. Fetch, running dog. Ashida
hands laced up for one second. Parker weaved to the back room. Joan stood up and shoved her way over. She hit a waiter. His drink tray flew. Some Shriners got booze-doused. A whole table, spritzed. A fat man eeked and wiped his face with his fez. Joan hit the door at a sprint. The hinges shook. Parker stood by the Teletype. He held a photostat and a cold beer. He saw Joan and blinked. Joan
ripped up the photostat. She got this close to him. Parker just stood there. They were this close. Joan said, “Whose man are you? Are you your wife’s, mine, or
Kay Lake’s?” They were this close. Joan said, “How dare you tell me that Jim Davis killed those people, and you refuse to reveal it? How dare you lay that burden on me?” They were this close. Joan said, “Or, did you dream it all up? Does that make Dudley Smith and Hideo Ashida credible? Is Fujio Shudo’s life worth s...
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(LOS ANGELES, 8:30 P.M., 1/24/42) His photostat popped from the
Ashida unrolled the photostat and read at his desk. He saw a Fed-routing code. He jumped on the text. Two agencies weighed in. Two agencies zeroed in on the Young Socialist Alliance. The YSA was a Red front.
membership fluctuated. College kids came and went. The state AG’s Office deemed the group harmless. One fact bothered them. The YSA
boss man was one Meyer Gelb. He was a Pershing Square slogan shouter and didactical creep. Gelb’s really Comrade Gelb. The Comintern bankrolled the cell and presumably issued directives. Bold obfuscation spawns bold cover. Gelb, the florid buffoon. Gelb, the cell Führer. Kommisar Gelb, the Red cell master of: Jorge Villareal-Caiz. A Mexican national. No further facts. Jean Clarice Staley. No further facts. Saul Lesnick, M.D. No further facts.
Ashida wiped his face. He fought off the mean megrims and stifled some shakes. He went through the L.A. phone books. The lab kept a full set. There was no Meyer Gelb listed. There was no Jean Staley and no Villareal-Caiz. Dr. Saul’s office was listed. There was no Andrea Lesnick listing. The cell
They lived in the non sequitur void of snitch-out information. This new lead felt seductive and inconsequential. It was more than trivial and less than germane. Ashida plumbed the lead. He vowed to withhold it from Joan Conville. She craved the gold to his exclusion. He held the upper hand there. He possessed a gold bar and she didn’t. The bar troubled him. It was casually but expertly stashed. The heist occurred almost eleven years ago. The bar remained unutilized. He’d
“Fourth Interceptor has approved your commission, and there’s a great many papers to sign. Your mother and brother have been granted Mexican amnesty for the war’s duration. You will serve as my adjutant in Baja. You will interpret the Japanese language,
(LOS ANGELES, 11:00 P.M., 1/24/42) J. Kurakami/DR #8619641/one console radio, one snubnose .38. Check. D. Matsushima/DR #8619642/one spring-loaded sap, twelve Nazi armbands, one lead-filled baseball bat. Check. H. “Hophead” Hayamasu/DR #8619643/one hypodermic syringe, one rising-sun flag, twelve Mr. Moto novels, twenty-nine vials of terpin hydrate. Check. Elmer prelogged confiscations. He called out the juicy bits. Rice and Kapek ran their mouths. Catbox Cal Lunceford picked his nose and watched. They slogged through a late duty stint. The fucking squad pen froze. The fucking janitor fucked
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and Kapek habituated the squadroom. Their fucking wives tossed them out like the fucking shitheels they were. A. Takamina/DR #8619644/one vial of Spanish fly, fourteen smut books, 142 Japs-kill-Chinks atrocity pix. Check. Rice said, “That Takamina guy’s a beast. I pondered killing him for a minute there.” Kapek said, “You should have. I know this Chink’s selling Jap shrunken heads.” Lunceford said, “I heard about that. Frisco PD put out a bulletin. They found twenty-one decapitated Japs in the bay.” Rice said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” Kapek said, “I remember—but don’t tell my draft board
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Ed Satterlee walked in. Elmer clocked him. The kibitzers flashed fuck-the-Fed looks. Satterlee hooked a finger. Elmer dumped his confiscation box and trailed him out to the hall. “I’m in a bind tonight, Elmer. I figured you
“And the girl’s all primed to pump him?” Satterlee lit a cigarette. “That’s right. Annie Staples. She could get the sphinx to cut loose.” College Girl Annie. The bobby-sox type. Woof!!!
“Who’s the mark?” “An informant of mine. A geezer named Saul Lesnick.” The name reverberated. It reprised some Kay
Annie said, “Come on, baby. Let’s get back to Mr. Welles.” Old Saul sighed. “All right, Comrade Welles. He’s going out on one of FDR’s diplomatic missions, to Latin America, so that he can shtup Dolores del Rio and espouse the Red cause with all the gifted-dilettante fervor he’s capable of, which is considerable. He’s been my analysand dating back to his radio days, and his best work isn’t Citizen Kane, believe me. It’s the smut films he makes with big-name movie stars. You wouldn’t believe the names.” Annie put out big eyes. The mike volume glitched. Elmer caught “Kurt Weill,” “Bertolt
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The glitch unglitched. Full volume kicked on. Old Saul said, “I saved his life, too. I’ve got a Chinaman pal. He’s a plastic surgeon, and he performed skin grafts on Meyer.” Elmer
Elmer snagged it. Wooo—Claire the D. and El Dudster Alert. Annie lit a cigarette. “You told me about her. She’s
Claire and I have phone sessions twice a week. She’s behaving paranoically, I’m afraid. She thinks that a transplanted prairie tart named Kay something stabbed her lover last month, and I can in no way dissuade her.” Wooo—
(LOS ANGELES, 3:00 A.M., 1/25/42) Pub crawl. Movie shitbirds slumming.
deep. “I would summarize as follows, my brother. The plan entails corrupting, usurping, and co-opting the Ensenada contingent of the Mexican State Police, under Captain José Vasquez-Cruz. Once accomplished, we would create a mass exodus of wetback workers, to pick crops at San Joaquin Valley farms.” Ace
It will be signed into law by our Governor Olsen, and Baja’s governor, Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. It will effectively legalize slave immigration, and all attendant profits will bypass us. We need to preempt and supersede
“I still listen raptly. Please tell me more.” Dudley lit a cigarette. “We’ll take handsome kickbacks from the farmers and attach our wets’ wages. We’ll house the more educated wets in the dwellings of interned Japs and grab a percentage of the rent they pay, along with a percentage of their wages from the better jobs they secure. Conversely, we will reduce the Jap population of Baja through a concerted internment effort, and will seek U.S. government assistance in housing Mexican Japs in U.S. internment centers. We will house rich Mexican Japs here in Los Angeles, under your Chinese
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“I find Captain Vasquez-Cruz problematic, and Claire agrees with me. He’s inherited Carlos Madrano’s heroin business, and we’ve struck an alliance of sorts. El Capitán has welcomed me to Baja, but I suspect that he has designs on my designs. This brings us to our long-lost pal, Kyoho Hanamaka.” “I keep eye down here. No Hanamaka. No tickee,
the gold bayonet. “Hanamaka disappeared on December 18. He should have been detained on Pearl Harbor day, which leads me to believe that he was allowed to remain at large. It now appears as though he’s faked his own death. He’s the logical man to run sabotage operations in Baja, and I’m determined to capture him. Our ventures in Baja will succeed in direct proportion to my success in interdicting the Baja Fifth Column.” Ace said,
money. Good tickee-washee there.” Dudley said, “We’ve picked up code calls from here to Baja. There’s allegedly hidden air bases in Indio and Brawley. It may or may not be credible innuendo. Should the former be true, I would tag Hanamaka my number-one suspect.” Ace squinted. The dope fumes stung his eyes. “You
Maybe Vasquez-Cruz help? You get proof and extort his greaseball ass? We take over ‘H’ trade then?” Dudley sm...
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my Chinese brother.” Ace bowed. “Tommy Glennon. He remain at large also?” “Yes, and vexingly ...
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“Tommy kill Eddie Leng. You think so, Dudster?” “Yes. It’s likely, but I don’t know why.” “I rubber-hose Don Matsura. He don’t know
Year’s. I don’t see how he could have done it without professional help. My instincts tell me that he’s in Baja, and that Hanamaka’s here.” Ace said,
He read Alien Squad files and trawled for notes on Hanamaka. No mentions popped up. He walked J-town and flashed his Baja file pic. Hanamaka? Me no see him. He logged that response, ceaselessly. He
first possessed the gold? Who forged the bayonet? He recalled a mint-train job. It went down in the spring of ’31. The job stood unsolved. It felt non sequitur.
Eminence. On that note, I should add that Father Coughlin’s friend Salvador Abascal did me quite the favor recently.” Coughlin said, “Salvador’s quite the lad. An honorary mick, that one. I’ll set up a feed the next
“Hot date, Monsignor?” “I don’t care for your tone, Dud.” “Where’s Tommy Glennon, Monsignor? I won’t comment on your relationship, but I do need to see him.” Hayes wore driving gloves and a puce muffler.
Hayes laughed. “Check the rightist mailing lists.
(LOS ANGELES, 9:30 P.M., 1/26/42) Joan walked home. She felt
Dudley said, “I’ve heard reports of the charred box unearthed in Griffith Park. The genesis of your great interest comes into focus now.” “Hideo Ashida reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.” Dudley
“I’m starting to see how far I’ll go to get what I want. It’s exhilarating beyond anything that I’ve ever experienced.” Dudley said, “I know.” Joan touched his captain’s bars. She held on
They kept the light off and the windowpanes up. Rain hit frayed screens and sprayed them. The breeze cooled their sweat. It rained all night. They made love all night. They talked in between. Don’t you have a wife and kids somewhere?
(LOS ANGELES 12:00 P.M., 1/27/42)
looks. He was pissed off. He tried to shuck the FBI. He forged Ray Pinker’s name to a file request. He marked it “Urgent.” All mint-train-heist paper/please expedite. He stressed a collateral case. Forensic evidence has
abroad.’ ” Ashida said the words. The major shook his hand. The crowd whistled and clapped. Dudley stepped up. He said, “Lieutenant Ashida.” He pinned gold bars on his suit coat.
Dudley went Hush. The hubbub subsided. Dudley picked up a long leather case. He held it out, presentation-style. The crowd circled tight. Dudley opened the case. It was black velvet–lined. Black velvet cradled a gold bayonet. It was two feet long. It was blood-guttered and swastika-embossed. Ashida saw faint blade etchings. They might be mint marks. The crowd ooohed and aaahed. Dudley said, “The spoils of war you’ll encounter in Mexico, lad.”
(LOS ANGELES, 2:00 P.M., 1/27/42)
