“A gal in my building works as a file clerk at the Naval Auxiliary Air Station in Oakland,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind doing something like that.”
But later, when I mentioned my idea to Charlie, he scoffed. “My Oriental Danseuse spending her time filing? You’re already doing more for morale than most women.”
Maybe Charlie was right. Then Irene Mak volunteered as a Gray Lady. Once a week, she hired a sitter for her kids, put on her uniform-a gray dress with a white collar, white cuffs, and a white hat embroidered with the Red Cross insignia-and went to the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital, where she escorted injured boys to the X-ray department, took amputees to a nearby golf course to get them “back in the swing of things,” and helped some of those with grievous injuries write letters to their girls back home breaking off their relationships so they wouldn’t be “a burden.” It wasn’t long before Helen joined Irene-two mothers helping the war effort. So much for sticking together, but I didn’t let it bother me. I was glad she’d found something to make her feel useful.
IN LATE APRIL, I received a letter from Joe. He was stationed at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal, and he’d just flown his first mission:
I got assigned a P-38 Lightning. Just what I wanted. The Germans call it “the fork-tailed devil.” The Japs say, “Two planes, one pilot.” It’s great for dive-bombing, level-bombing, and ground attacks. I’ll be flaming Jap bastards out of the sky. My first time up, I inflicted damage on the enemy, but I wasn’t able to shoot down the plane. That’s all right. This little fighter is responsible for destroying more enemy aircraft than any other. We’re cleaning up the Pacific one island at a time. I’ll get mine next time. Grace, baby, I’m coming back to you an ace. I promise you that.
He added that he loved me and wrote words I would hold in my heart forever.
IN MAY, CHARLIE and Mr. Biggerstaff began putting together a new show to carry us through the summer. Ida had been at the club since the beginning, and I pushed her to create a solo to get her own spot at the bottom of the bill. We practiced in our apartment, and I helped her design a costume: skintight, rose-tinted satin shorts and jacket, cream-colored peep-toes, a matching top hat, and a walking stick. The night before she was to audition, her boyfriend came to town. She visited with Ray during the breaks at the club, but she also chatted with servicemen, sitting on their laps as she typically did and signing napkins for boys to take with them to battlefields. Ray seemed more steamed than usual, which only egged Ida on to act even more devil-may-care. After the show, Ray and Ida went their way, while the rest of us went to the Variety Club. Around 5:00 A.M., I headed home.
I should have suspected something when I saw the door to my apartment was ajar, but I figured Ida and Ray had just come in, or he’d just left to drive back to Visalia. Police sirens wailed in the street. Didn’t the cops realize folks were sleeping? I shut the door behind me as I turned on the light. Something that looked like red paint spattered the walls and blinds. A horrible rusty smell filled my nostrils and the back of my throat. Blood smeared across the floor to Ida’s bedroom. Suddenly, there was Ray holding a long knife wet with blood. I was too terrified to scream or run.
“Maybe I’ve lost,” he said in an oddly calm voice, “but at least the other guys won’t win.”
He stepped toward me. I closed my eyes. Then something crashed through the door.
“Police! Drop the weapon!”
Officers tackled Ray to the ground. I sprinted into Ida’s room. Her head was twisted back, and her neck was slit. The rest of her body lay splayed at unnatural angles, with her legs and arms askew. Her glassy eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling. Her blood was slick on the floor. I skidded and fell, then groped my way to Ida’s side and touched her hand. It was still warm.
“Ida!” But it was useless. She was dead.
Jack Mak and Chan-chan, one of the acrobats from downstairs, elbowed their way through the phalanx of cops and into the room.
“We heard fighting-”
“I called the cops-”
“So did I-”
“Ida,” I said.
That shut them up. Chan-chan looked like he might keel over. Jack grabbed the acrobat’s arm and helped him back to the living room. “Put your head between your knees-”
The policemen handcuffed Ray to a chair. I made myself stay with Ida. Jack returned to the bedroom and hovered over us protectively. Ida had always been so ready with the wisecracks. She’d made me laugh and cringe with her “I Do Annie” song. And now all that vibrancy was gone, leaving an empty shell.
“Look through her dresser drawers,” Ray kept repeating. “You’ll see I’ve done the country a favor.”
The detectives-one burly, one stout-arrived, did a quick survey of the scene, and then motioned to the police officers to join them in a corner. The cops spoke in low voices; the detectives scribbled into notebooks, lifting their eyes occasionally to glance into the bedroom at Ida, Jack, and me, over to Ray on his chair, and to Chan-chan, who sat on the sofa. Finally, the four men nodded in agreement and started to break apart.
“Search the girl’s room,” the burly detective ordered. Then he beckoned to me with a finger. “Come here.”
Jack followed me out to the living room. The stout detective glowered at him; the other shot his thumb. Scram. They waited until Jack and Chan-chan had slouched out of the apartment.
“I’m Detective Collins,” the burlier of the two men said. “This here’s my partner, Detective Flynn. Can you tell us what happened?”
My story was short. I came home, saw Ray with the knife, concluded I was going to die… When I finished, Detective Collins asked, “How well were you acquainted with Miss Wong?”
“We’re roommates. We met about six years ago,” I answered. “We’re dancers at the Forbidden City-”
“So the two of you were close,” Detective Collins prompted.
I nodded.
“Do you know the suspect?”
“His name is Ray Boiler.”
“And you say that you and Miss Wong were close.”
“I already said that.”
“Have you met her parents?”
“No, but she hasn’t met mine either.”
“What do you imagine Mr. Boiler meant when he said”-here the detective read from his notebook-“ ‘Maybe I’ve lost, but at least the other guys won’t win’?”
“Ida had a lot of admirers,” I explained. “Ray was jealous.”
“Would you say Miss Wong had a penchant for servicemen?”
Penchant? I wasn’t a college girl, but I got the drift. “We try to keep up our boys’ spirits. If they ask us to dance with them, we dance with them.” Then I emphasized, “I dance with them, because it’s my duty. My boyfriend isn’t jealous. Ray was different. He was obsessed with Ida. He gave us the heebie-jeebies and we tried to warn her, but-”
One of the policemen came out of Ida’s room, holding a packet of letters. “Take a gander at these, Detective.”
Detective Collins studied the envelopes before directing his gaze back to me.
“We get mail from servicemen stationed overseas,” I said, trying to be helpful. “They write to us, and we write back. It’s our duty.” Even to my ears that explanation was starting to sound weak.
Detective Collins opened one of the letters, scanned it, and then sauntered across the room to where the killer sat in his chair. The detective leaned down and spoke quietly with Ray. A few minutes later, the two detectives put an officer in charge, and then they left the apartment. Ida still lay on the floor, growing colder. I shivered from shock, afraid to move from my spot on the sofa. An hour later, the detectives returned. Detective Collins ordered the policemen to “see what else you find in the girl’s room. Make it thorough, boys.” I watched as the cops opened Ida’s dresser drawers and pulled out the contents, letting her panties, bras, stockings, and nighties sail-like leaves torn from trees in an autumn storm-into her blood on the floor.