The train treks south. Santa Barbara’s a coal stop. The theft is discovered then. Suspicion falls on Leander Frechette. He’s the train’s odd-job man. He’s dim-witted, Negro, fucking-A strong. The Santa Barbara cops posit a single-o heister. He walked the bars off the train two or three at a clip. It had to be Frechette. Nobody else had the strength. Somebody bossed him. He was too dumb to concoct the plan himself.
The Santa Barbara cops beat Frechette baaaaad. He refused to confess. A colored preacher with cop clout intervened. Frechette was released. The case fizzled out. It went to open-file status, stale bread.
Wayne Frank hoarded news clips and treasure-magazine pieces. He studied the heist and worked himself up to fever pitch. Wayne Frank, the dreamer. Wayne Frank, the fantasist. What makes Wayne Frank tick? He’s a news-clip hoarder and treasure-magazine collector. He’s an all-time fabulist.
“Oh, Lord. He’s in a fugue state. He’s got his scrapbook out, and he’s gone stir-crazy from the rain.”
Elmer flinched and spilled his highball. Brenda walked soft. She snuck into her own house. It was some trick on high heels.
“You know what Kay says. ‘Keep referring to me in the third person. It sends me.’ ”
Brenda shut the door. “Katherine Ann. She’s the first thing out of your mouth. She’s the only one you’ll ever love, in case you ain’t figured it out.”
Elmer checked his watch. “It’s almost noon. The party must have run long.”
“I spent some time with Jack. I’ll tell you, so you won’t ask. It was a paid date, and Jack said he wants you to run bag to some city councilmen. Him and Fletch got worries on that phone-tap probe. They’re buying forgiveness in advance.”
Elmer smiled. “Let’s hit the kip. We ain’t spent time there in a coon’s age.”
Brenda said, “The weekend, maybe. You know I do my best work by appointment.”
Elmer scoped the world at large. Hard rain hit, palm trees wiggled, palm fronds flew.
“There’s too much going on out there. God’s telling us something.”
Brenda said, “You’re at loose ends, Citizen. You’re looking to louse something up and put yourself in a jam. Go see Ellen and get your ashes hauled. You’ll do us both a favor.”
Ellen tapped his forehead. “You’re broody. Something’s going on in there. And don’t tell me it’s the Fate of Mankind, because you’re not that deep.”
They were naked. Ellen’s mattress sagged. Her baby boy dozed one room over.
Elmer said, “It’s too warm in here. You get that with these big buildings. They don’t leave you no choice with the heat.”
Ellen lit a cigarette. She sat up crossways and blew smoke rings. Their sweat was all mingled up.
“That’s not a real answer. I could turn down the heat if I wanted to, but I keep it warm for the baby.”
Elmer said, “We’ve got this rule, remember? We’re not supposed to talk about him.”
“You’re broody. Give me a hint. There’s the war, the draft, and you blew that stakeout, so maybe Dudley Smith’s peeved at you. You don’t like harassing these so-called innocent Japs, and you wish you could go back to Vice. Give me a little clue.”
Elmer relit his cigar. Smoke fumes fumed the room up good.
“One little clue. I’ll hold you captive here until you tell me.”
Elmer said, “That’s a swell inducement not to talk.”
Ellen said, “And that’s a swell compliment. But tell me something, or I’ll start brooding on adultery and kick you out.”
Elmer touched her hair and kissed her. Ellen nuzzled his hand.
“My life’s too easy. I got the world by the dick, but it don’t sit right with me.”
Loose ends. The New Year’s blahs. Elmer hit the road.
He drove to City Hall and prowled corridors. The Hall was holiday dead. The PD ran a light crew. The Air Patrol guys stuck to the basement. The mayor’s office and City Council chambers were dark.
Elmer had keys and a briefcase. He hit Call-Me-Jack’s office and unlocked his desk drawers. Jack left four envelopes. They were marked with initials. They were probably five-yard payoffs.
The mayor’s office ran swank. Walnut panels and a Mussolini-size desk. Elmer unlocked Fletch Bowron’s drawers. He grabbed four more envelopes. He saw that familiar green binder.
His binder. Brenda’s. Their merchandise book. Nude pix of their girls.
He leafed through it. He got titillated and broody, simultaneous.
He replaced the binder. He hit the Council chambers and divvied up the gelt. The 4th District guy kept a desk jug. Elmer helped himself. He sat in the guy’s green leather chair and put his feet up.
Loose ends. The New Year’s blahs. Elmer hit the road.
The hard rain subsided. A drizzle held in. Central Station was close. Elmer walked over.
The crime lab was locked. The main squadroom was locked. The Alien Squad pen was lit bright. Elmer poked his head in. He saw Wendell Rice and George Kapek. They were in their skivvies. They were tossing dice and snarfing pizza pie.
Elmer said, “Happy New Year.”
Rice said, “You up and took off last night. Dud wondered what happened to you.”
“You and George started lifting wallets. I got a burr in my tail.”
Kapek said, “You’re pious, Jackson. That, and you don’t need the money. You got your girl racket, and you’re Jack Horrall’s favorite Okie.”
Elmer waved his cigar. “I’m a cracker, not an Okie. There’s a distinction.”
Rice raised his hands. “Peace, brother. We’re all white men, and we’re going back to rousting Japs first thing tomorrow.”
Elmer made the jack-off sign. Kapek said, “Last night was a bust. We got no good drift on who sliced Dud, and nothing ripe on Tommy Glennon.”
Rice said, “Dud’s hipped on Tommy. Something’s going on there that I don’t comprehend.”
Kapek said, “Dud’s right hand don’t know what his left hand is doing.”
Elmer gauged the chitchat. Nothing gored him. Fucking Eddie Leng gored him. There was no dead-body call. These humps would have heard. There was no Herald headline: DEEP-FRIED CHINAMAN FOUND! COPS SIFT CLUES!
Kapek rolled snake eyes. He crapped out and moaned. Rice snatched the dice. His undershirt hiked and exposed his left arm. Note the thunderbolt armband.
Still life. Geek cops at play. Exiled from home and hearth. Jap hunters in repose.
Elmer fought off the New Year’s blues. Elmer hit the road.
The hard rain revived. He drove through swamped intersections and sewer floods. Who snuffed Eddie Leng? Who’s the dead man in the box?
Elmer drove to the Gordon Hotel. Tommy’s “SQ” tattoo stencil tweaked him. He braced the desk clerk. Let me retoss Tommy’s room. Tommy’s a fugitive rape-o.
The clerk went Nyet, sahib. He said two cops just tore through here. They tossed Tommy’s room. I’m not repeating that grief with you.
The clerk described Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle. They retossed his first toss. That scotched toss #3.
Elmer drove back downtown. He hit 11th and Broadway and parked. He recharged with bennies and Old Crow. He got electricized.
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.