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?
10
(Tijuana, 3:30 P.M., 1/1/42)
Border cops saluted and waved them through. Bienvenidos, señor y señora.
They were Falangista thugs. They were Francoesque in dress and demeanor. They saw the staff car and Army jefe. They noted the comely mujer. They fawned and clicked their heels.
Mexico. Our grand, if raucous, neighbor. A properly subservient hello.
Dudley and Claire breezed into T.J. Claire drove. Dudley’s arm sling precluded. A late sun lit rain clouds.
They cut inland and south. The coast road detoured through T.J. proper. It’s muy feo. Let’s see how Claire reacts.
The child-beggar swarms. The cat-meat taco vendors. The women-fuck-donkey clubs. The open-air farmacias. Voodoo health cures and sub-rosa dope.
Liquor stores. Niteklubs. Prowling sailors and Marines. Strolling putas. He-she’s in bullfighter garb.
The cops wore mismatched uniforms and drove mismatched cars. Jackboots, jodhpurs, tunics — all Nazi black. Der Führer — style purveyor to the world’s great unwashed.
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 laughed and squeezed her knee. His bad arm ached. Claire caught a lane back to the coast road. To the east: scrub hills and abandoned-car encampments. To the west: cliffside coves and sea swells.
Claire hit the gas. Dudley read her. She wanted to get there and dose herself. She wanted to craft her rich-leftist-among-the-peons persona.
She brooded her way down from L.A. He brooded in inimical sync. He concentrated on Tommy Glennon.
Mike and Dick tossed Tommy’s room. A clerk told them that another cop had already tossed it. The clerk described the doltish Elmer Jackson.
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 missing now. Mike and Dick saw a Spanish-language text in his room.
Dudley scoped the terrain. Eyes left: hills and Jap fishing towns. He’d raid them. He’d roust Fifth Column Japs and plain old Japs set for internment. Eyes right: the cliffs, the coves, the sea.
Storm-tossed now. Like last month. Shallow beachfront/glide-in spots/perfect sub concealment.
Like last month. Like the botched dope raid. Like the Jap sub and blown-to-shit 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 smiled. “You’re a war profiteer.”
Dudley winked. “Bright lass. I knew you’d figure it out.”
Ensenada.
Fishing spot, tourist trap, lovers’ hideout. Cliffside hotels and sportfishing piers. Slum piers crammed with tuna boats and bait shops. Streets named for saints and notable despots.
Claire turned off the coast road. Avenida Costera hugged low cliffs and offered up jazzy views. The Army usurped the Hotel Pacifico del Norte. The third floor was all SIS.
Officers billeted in sea-motif suites. Enlisted men lived in off-site barracks. They were jerry-rigged, post — Pearl Harbor. Convict laborers toiled, posthaste.
The hotel was Moorish-mosque adobe. Eight stories, thick walls, tile roofs. The front entrance was sandbagged. Howitzers and tripod Brownings flanked the doors. Mex Staties stood guard. They held tommy guns at port arms.
Claire pulled into the porte cochere. Greedy valets swooped. Beaners in movie-usher attire. Coolie hats à la Grauman’s Chinese.
A full-dress major broached the car. He was forty-five, short, and porcine. He leaned in on Dudley’s side. He expelled booze fumes.
“Captain Smith, Mrs. Smith. I’m Ralph Melnick, and I’ll escort you to your quarters, and show you around before you can say ‘más rápido.’ ”
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 Claire’s arm. She turned back and smiled — a dazzler.
“I’m not Mrs. Smith, Major. I’m Miss De Haven.”
The tour, then.
The gringo was king here. Army personnel and swank turistas capered. Statie drones worked the desk and switchboard. They wore starched fatigues and packed sidearms. Mix-blood mestizos fetched drinks and scrounged tips. Dark indios slaved.
Three restaurants. Seaside lounge. Private fishing pier and Rose Bowl — sized lobby. Dolores del Rio, engulfed by fawning fans.
Captain Smith’s billet: the Plutarco Calles Suite. Dudley roared — the Red priest-killer, conmemorativo.
Two bedrooms, living room, dining room/kitchen. Ocean-view balcony, mounted trophy fish throughout. Bathrooms with five-foot-deep tubs.
Claire decamped to explore the suite and geez morphine. Major Melnick blushed and curtsied good-bye. He walked Dudley down to 3. The floor had been wartime-gutted. Arriba, SIS. The U.S. Army has arrived.
One massive squadroom. Forty-odd cubicles and desks. Floor-to-ceiling corkboards and file banks. U.S./Baja wall maps.
Switchboard. Forty phone lines. Eight Teletypes. All-new photostat. Coding room and armory. Two dozen men on duty. Twenty-four-hour work shifts.
Captain Smith got a full office. He got a large desk and green leather chairs. The FDR wall pic had to go.
Melnick produced a flask. They traded pops. Dudley turned the FDR pic facedown. Melnick yuk-yukked.
“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 hundred and fifty miles of coastline here, beach coves up the ying-yang, and Jap fishermen with Fifth Column sympathies and the wherewithal to guide a goddamn armada of subs in.”
Dudley passed the flask. “My special duties, sir?”
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 breed named Juan Lazaro-Schmidt. He’s another heel-dragger. He kind of likes Hitler and Tojo, and thinks they just might win the war. So, we try to work around this guy. Our big asset in north Baja’s the new boss of the Statie boys here. José Vasquez-Cruz. He’s coming by to see you at 1800. He’s an honorary white man in my book.”