Ashida crouched by the pay phone. The doorman missed him. Johnny pitched a fit. I’m an American, Sambo. You’re just some nigger to me.
Folks looked over. Folks hubbubbed. Johnny pitched that loud fit. The doorman pulled a waistband sap and swung it. Johnny pulled a hip piece.
He drilled the doorman. Two shots echoed. The doorman collapsed and convulsed. Folks started screaming.
Chuckie flinched. Chuckie did this big double take. Chuckie made the big man at the bar.
Dud caught it. They drew down simultaneous and fired point-blank. Chuckie blew out a shelf of booze bottles. Dud shot muzzle-tight. Chuckie’s face blew up, muzzle-burned. His hair shot flames.
Buzz froze and unfroze. Elmer froze and unfroze. They stood up and unholstered late-late. Ashida stumbled toward Dudley. Elmer and Buzz aimed and let fly.
More bottles exploded. Elmer shot high and off left. Buzz nailed Johnny. Sword man pitched back and shot back. His shots hit high and off right.
Elmer braced his gun hand and aimed real careful now. He triggered in on Dudley Smith and squeezed off two perfect shots. He caught a blur simultaneous. He saw Ashida’s suit coat. He blew Ashida up against Dudley. They toppled bar stools and crashed to the floor, all tangled up.
Elmer screamed. Buzz crashed tables and ran to the bar. Johnny slumped up against it. He’d dropped his piece. He was gut-shot and woozed. Buzz shot him straight in the face.
The whole room screamed. Elmer screamed over it. He kicked screamers out of the way and pushed to the bar. Ashida’s suit coat was powder-scorched and tattered. He’d bled up the floor. Dudley sobbed and held him tight.
L.A. Herald Express. Monday, April 13, 1942. Page-two feature. Byline: Sid Hudgens.
An ill wind blew the blues last nite, at the noxious near-southside nitespot, the Taj Mahal. It’s unlicensed; it’s unsanitary; it serves bilious booze and jittery jazz out of season. It caters to caustic cats and kittens, and a catastrophic convergence has caused it to close its doors for good.
Police Sergeants Elmer V. Jackson and Turner “Buzz” Meeks appeared, hot on the trail of jazz jackal Charles “Chuckie” Duquesne, and his jackalesque Jap henchman, John Kimoji Shinura — suspects in the baffling “klubhaus” slayings of January 29. Policemen Wendell Rice and George Kapek were killed, along with their savvy Sancho Panza, Arturo “Archie” Archuleta. Sergeants Jackson and Meeks tracked Duquesne and Shinura to the tempestuous Taj, where four fearsome fates fatally intervened.
Enter legendary Police Sergeant Dudley L. Smith, currently on leave to serve with the Army’s crack Secret Intelligence Service. Enter Hideo Ashida, the PD’s crack forensic chemist and sly sleuth, who puts Charlie Chan and Mr. Moto to shame. They were on the Jackal and Johnny the Jap’s trail, as well. Enter the Taj Mahal’s tipsy doorman, Willis “Big Daddy” Gordean. Shots shattered the smoke-smacked air as the Bolts from the Blue blasted onstage. The police contingent made their move, and Duquesne, Shinura, Ashida, and Gordean lay dead. Colored canary Loretta McKee caught the two killers’ dying declarations and last words. “They were in awful bad shape, and on their way out,” she said. “But I managed to hear what they were mumbling.”
And, what’s that, our sepia songbird?
“Chuckie said, ‘I am the klubhaus killer,’ and ‘Man, what a gas.’ Johnny said, ‘Viva Hirohito’ and ‘Pearl Harbor was cool.’ ”
Infamous last words, dear reader. But here’s our heroic happy ending. Police Chief C. B. “Jack” Horrall has stamped the coruscating klubhaus job “Case Closed.” Mayor Fletch Bowron will bestow the Los Angeles Civic Service Award on Hideo Ashida, posthumously. Elmer Jackson and Buzz Meeks will be feted with the Los Angeles Police Department’s Medal of Valor. Citing nervous exhaustion, Sergeant Dudley Smith has resigned his Army commission and is now recuperating at a swank beachside retreat.
131
(Los Angeles, 4/14–4/26/42)
Niteclub Blastout to wartime exile. Official forfeiture and unofficial censure. Malibu is rarely intemperate. He goes back with Terry Lux. The Wolf carries news from the outside world.
Deals were struck. Jack Horrall brokered them. The Staties commandeered his biz fronts. He resigned his Army commission and will not be court-martialed. He will not be prosecuted for his misjudged stateside misconduct. Here’s a cheeky footnote: “Sepia Songbird” Loretta McKee is DA Bill McPherson’s girlfriend.
The Baja authorities will not seek indictments. Terry’s dry-out farm is not Folsom or San Quentin. He enjoys a grand suite of rooms. They remain locked at all times, and thus constitute custody. Two-man guard teams police him. He’s permitted late-night strolls around the property. His guards eavesdrop on his chats with the Wolf. They consider him whimsically insane.
Meyer Gelb is dead. The true killer remains unknown. El Salvy remains at large. Jack H. has implied that he will be sternly rebuked. Mexican cops have been charged to infiltrate the Sinarquistas and disrupt them from within. Ed Satterlee remains under house arrest and has cut immunity deals. Monsignor Joe Hayes has been granted immunity. Wallace Jamie has divested his financial interest in Bev’s Switchboard and has pledged to leave L.A. The klubhaus job has been officially stamped a clean solve. Chuckie Duquesne’s woman friend remains unidentified.
Jim Davis and Saul Lesnick also bunk at Terry’s farm. Lesnick resides in a locked ward and is prone to screaming fits. The gold remains unfound. Postal inspectors grabbed Bev Shoftel and arrested her on eighty-four counts of felony mail fraud. Treasury agents raided mail drops in twelve U.S. cities. The comrades-Kameraden have been nullified to the point of extinction. Jack H. was blunt here. Bill Parker told him the whole story. A ragtag band of opposed comrades engineered the coup. Parker, Elmer Jackson, Buzz Meeks. Kay Lake — most spectacularly.
Claire has kicked morphine. She’ll leave the farm soon. Constanza joined her brother in Havana. She plays in a string quartet there. Terry said they’ve received a recording contract with RCA Victor. Resourceful Constanza. She’s taken Cuban strongman Prío Socarrás as her inaugural lover.
He spends his time reading and contemplating his ultimate release. He’ll remain a policeman as long as Jack Horrall remains Chief. He plays the Bruckner symphonies. Otto Klemperer’s interpretations hold him spellbound. He plays Tristan und Isolde most obsessively. Kirsten Flagstad sings the latter part. He listens and transmogrifies her to Kay Lake.
He sips mint juleps with Jim Davis. Chief Jim is lucid on one topic only. The Fifth Column is everywhere but rarely achieves coherence. It’s no more than an amalgam of mischief-minded souls hooked on current dangerous ideas. Jim mentioned a pervert party, back in ’39. Salvy noticed you then, Dud. He was there, but he was costumed and masked up. He had plans for you from that time on. He’s not really a fascist. He’s a Stalinist. He killed those priest-killers because they were Trotskyites. It’s a wild and fucked-up world, ain’t it?
Yes, it certainly is. And he must absent himself for a spell.
He needs rest. He’s earned this interval of meditative renewal. He’s a privileged dry-out-farm inmate. Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda caters his meals. Special chop suey cartons conceal opium. Uncle Ace visits him often. They guardedly discuss their postwar plans.