Dudley swiveled his desk chair. He took two full spins. The office went wheeee.
Melnick said, “Miss De Haven sort of bushwhacked me. Your personnel file said you were married.”
Dudley said, “Miss De Haven bushwhacked me. She wasn’t the first woman to contravene my vows, but she may well be the last.”
Dusk hit early. They kept the terrace doors open and the bedroom lights low. Storm clouds brewed just past the harbor. More rain was due.
Claire sat up in bed. Dudley cradled his bad arm. The sling tanked their lovemaking. They laughed it off.
Claire scootched down and got their eyes level. Dudley plumped pillows and drew her in close.
“We’re here now. Are you aware of how much things have changed?”
Claire kissed him. “We of the Left see our lives as History. I find myself counting the days since Pearl Harbor, and chalking all change up to the novelty of the war.”
Dudley kissed her. “We’re both unruly. The war will serve as our justification until we tire of the falsehood. We’ve both endured failures of late. I failed in business, but it has not derailed my resolve. You succumbed to the infiltration efforts of William H. Parker and Kay Lake. They succumbed to war fever and a desire to hunt Reds, and took it out on you. You succumbed to your idealism and susceptibility to fetching waifs, as evinced by Miss Lake. This war will advance our individual and often antithetical agendas. If we remain candid and strong, we will not derail ourselves.”
Claire hooked a leg over him. They were this close.
“Grant me a concession, darling. Merge our agendas just a little bit.”
Dudley laughed. “Hitler is every bit as bad as Stalin. That’s as far as I’ll go tonight.”
Claire laughed. “Quid pro quo, then. Stalin is every bit as bad as Hitler, and in case you’re wondering, it was Kay Lake who first got me to concede that.”
“Then concede this. It’s our war.”
“Yes, love. It is surely our war. And it’s Kay’s war, as much as I dislike her.”
Rain drummed the terrace. Lightning flashed. Claire lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings.
“I’m in the market for a new waif. I might go looking for that girl we saw.”
The coast road, southbound. It’s a rain sieve and slalom course. There’s thunder. There’s wave smash. It’s eerie-beautiful in the dark.
Captain Vasquez-Cruz drove. He proposed the excursion. Here’s his windup and pitch:
“Captain Smith, I have something to show you. It is on the beach a fair way from here. I think it will amuse and confound you.”
They drove due south. Vasquez-Cruz wheeled a Cadillac impound. He called it a “Jew canoe.” He expressed regard for Adolf Hitler and defamed nun-raping Reds. He knew El Dudster’s rep and toiled at rapport.
He was snazzy. He was thirty-two or — three and ever bemused. He wore Statie blacks and spit-shined jackboots.
They comported in a merry monsoon. Vasquez-Cruz sped through it. Dudley futzed with the radio.
He tuned in XERB and Father Coughlin. The pulsing padre praised the Sinarquistas and Salvador Abascal. Static ditzed the broadcast. Dudley skimmed the dial. He caught more static and a coon jazz quartet.
Vasquez-Cruz doused the sound. “I’m glad that you killed Carlos Madrano. It secured me his position.”
Dudley said, “And how did you secure this information?”
“I tortured his ichiban. Scorpions attacked his small dick. He revealed that you and your policeman colleagues attempted to steal Madrano’s heroin cache. You blew up Madrano with nitroglycerin you uncovered at the cache site, but failed to get the heroin.”
“Because you got it?”
“Yes. You killed Madrano, but I commandeered his soul. I assumed his State Police command and appropriated his dope racket. If he had a woman, I would have fucked her or killed her.”
Dudley laughed. “You embody the beating heart of machismo.”
Vasquez-Cruz went tee-hee. He embodied the vicious-bantamweight aesthetic. He tittered in the near-soprano range.
“You and your policeman friends discovered a Jap sub at the Colonet Inlet. You interrogated members of the crew and determined their Fifth Column intent. They were going to pass themselves off as Chinese and perform sabotage in Los Angeles.”
Dudley popped his holster flap. His raincoat featured fast-draw pockets.
“Madrano’s ichiban told you that?”
“Yes, just before I killed him.”
Dudley smiled. Vasquez-Cruz swung a hard right and hit a beach-access road. The Jew canoe brodied on loose mud and sand. He skidded up to the shoreline. His headlights strafed ocean swells.
He set the brake. “We are near the Colonet Inlet. This must seem familiar to you.”
Dudley popped the glove box. He saw two flashlights, straight off.
He grabbed one. Vasquez-Cruz grabbed one. He stepped out of the car and walked ahead. Dudley lagged five yards back. He unbuttoned his raincoat and unholstered his piece.
Low cliffs deflected the rain. They kicked through wet sand and skirted the wave line. Dudley reholstered. Vasquez-Cruz turned on his flashlight. He aimed it at a rock cove. It was shallow — about eight feet deep.
Dudley smelled it and saw it. Dudley noted the drag marks and counted the stiffs.
Sixteen Jap sailors. Not yet decomposed. Close-range gunshot wounds. Shots to the head. Probable close-range ambush.
Tangled bodies. Facial powder burns and jawline stippling. Exploded bridgework and shattered teeth.
Vasquez-Cruz flashed his flashlight ten yards north. There’s the beached sub.
Dudley said, “The Colonet Inlet Japs were a first wave of saboteurs. I would call this a second wave. They were killed by rival Fifth Columnists or rogue State Police. I’ll need to interrogate any and all men you might suspect.”
Vasquez-Cruz bowed. Sí, mi capitán.
Dudley said, “The contact man for the Colonet saboteurs was a Chinese plastic surgeon named Lin Chung. He lives in Los Angeles. The rest of the cabal are wealthy white men, too powerful to touch. Please permit me to work the Los Angeles end of this. I have thoughts already.”
Vasquez-Cruz bowed. ¿Qué, mi capitán?
Dudley lit a cigarette. It smothered the death stink.
“A Chink restauranteur was murdered in Los Angeles last night. He was a tong affiliate, and I’m sure he knew Lin Chung. They were both Jap-haters and committed rightists. This war of ours is breeding some rare birds.”
Vasquez-Cruz said, “Yes. You and I among them.”
Dudley bowed. Sí, mi hermano.
“Do you have access to a capable crime lab? I would like all of this assessed.”
Vasquez-Cruz shook his head. Dudley said, “I know a man in L.A. It may amuse you to know that he’s Japanese.”
11
(Los Angeles, 8:30 P.M., 1/1/42)
Captain Parker was late. Joan nursed a highball and killed time. She felt bushwacked and adrenalized.
She wore a clean uniform. Last night’s blues were a mess. She’d go back to civvies tomorrow. Navy commission, adieu. She’d unpack her lab smock and white shoes.
Pinch me.
The party in Dago. The smash-up and dead men. “Cholos” and “wetbacks” in cop parlance. The City Hall party. All those politicos and policemen.