Ashida sat up front. Dudley passed him a file stack. Ashida trawled for KAs. He trawled twelve files and tapped out. He hit on file #13.
The file tapped one Kyoho Hanamaka. He was an “Imperial Navy attaché.”
Ashida said, “I’ve got a man named Hanamaka here. He’s tagged as a naval attaché, but he’s got very few KAs, and none in the Navy.”
Vasquez-Cruz said, “He’s one slippery eel. He’s quite the friend of Juan Lazaro-Schmidt, the Baja governor.”
Supper at the Hotel del Norte. The beach-view dining room served late. Picture windows and wave crash. Your host, Dudley Smith.
In civvies now. Blue blazer, gray slacks. Claire De Haven sat to his left. She satirized this arrangement and tossed barbs at El Fascisto. Vasquez-Cruz indulged her and laughed.
He wore his black uniform. He came off sinister. Ashida cleaned up and changed in his room. He showered off brain matter. He scrubbed off fingerprint ink.
Pacific lobster and champagne. Convivial Dudley. No man should be so handsome. Ashida tried not to stare.
Talk flowed. Ashida sipped club soda and ignored his food. He counted days back to Pearl Harbor. He hit the Bill Parker/Kay Lake pogrom.
His role was Kay’s lover. He failed at it. Claire threw a party. Leftist Los Angeles bickered and preened. Kay caused a scene. She deployed her Jap paramour and overplayed the pose. Claire saw through Kay. Claire teethed on her nonetheless.
Dudley dropped a bon mot. Vasquez-Cruz laughed. No El Fascisto titter. He laughed deep baritone.
He played to Claire. He moved his chair close and leaned in.
“You must not judge neutral Mexico too harshly, Miss De Haven. This dinner conclave proves my point. We have a Latin man and a Japanese man. We have an Irish-Catholic immigrant and a landed Protestant lady.”
Claire lit a cigarette. “I converted to the Roman Church, Captain. I’m an apostate in my faith as well as my politics. You’ll have to cite pithier examples if you wish to make time with me.”
Vasquez-Cruz went Salud. “Perhaps I should cite Mr. Leon Trotsky. He fled Stalin’s death squads and found asylum nowhere but here. President Cárdenas provided him with a home when no one else would.”
“Only as a means to counter accusations that he was a Stalinist, Captain. And, of course, Trotsky was assassinated in your selfsame country, under that selfsame capitalista poseur.”
Vasquez-Cruz smiled. “Spanish and French in one sentence. Aaay, caramba.”
Claire blushed. Ashida caught her dope-pinned eyes. Dudley winked at him. It conveyed subtext. If El Fascisto gets too frisky, I’ll kill him.
Ashida laughed. It verged on a squeal. He covered his mouth and muzzled himself.
Claire said, “Is something amusing, Dr. Ashida? Something you forgot to tell me when you were a much-welcome but finally intrusive guest in my home last month?”
Ashida said, “I’m quite tired, Miss De Haven. I’ve spent a busy day in Captain Smith’s employ.”
Claire glanced away. She looked out the window and stood up. Ashida clocked the window. He saw a raggedy girl on the beach. The girl picked up a starfish and cradled it to herself.
Vasquez-Cruz stood for Claire. Call him Señor Decorum. She touched his hand — un momento.
She walked out. El Fascisto watched her go. He clicked his heels and bowed to Dudley. He pivoted and walked off.
Ashida said, “He’s going to check on Claire. He must have police friends in Los Angeles.”
Dudley said, “You’re a very bright penny tonight.”
Ashida blushed. He looked out the window. Claire engaged the raggedy girl. They fussed over the starfish and had quite a chat.
Dudley rocked his chair back. “My Claire has an enormous and impetuous heart.”
Ashida went dizzy. The dining room tilted. Spots popped in front of his eyes.
“What is this? Why am I here?”
Dudley tapped his knee. “There’s my ex-snitch Tommy Glennon, and a dead Chinaman named Eddie Leng. There’s our old friend Lin Chung, and the scent of money.”
“Yes, but what’s in it for me?”
Dudley said, “I intend to rescue you and your family from the internment. Would a U.S. Army commission and a posting here suit you?”
17
(Los Angeles, 10:00 P.M., 1/3/42)
Elmer doodled. It soothed his gourd and vitalized his brain cells.
Lyman’s was jam-packed. He nursed a highball and worked at his table. He scribbled up napkins. He drew pit dogs with sharp fangs and big dicks.
He wrote, “DUDLEY SMITH EATS SHIT!!!!!” He laughed. He scoped the bar and saw Thad Brown and Two-Gun Davis. The highball kicked in. He quit futzing around and got to it.
He wrote, “D.S. & T.G.” He underlined it and added question marks. He wrote, “T.G. to E.L. (murder vict)” and underlined it.
He wrote, “Donald Matsura & E.L. — ???” He wrote, “Can’t talk to Breuning & Carlisle — D.S.’s goons.” He wrote, “Kapek & Rice — too corrupt.”
He circled. He underlined. He drew arrows and Xs and stitched all this shit up. He got bored and periscoped Lyman’s.
He saw Kay in a back booth. He saw Bill Parker’s redhead at the bar. She wore civilian vines now. Jim Davis crowded her. He blathered and sprayed pretzel gack.
Elmer wrote, “E.J. & J.C.” and drew a heart around it. He added Cupid’s arrow and got back to work.
He wrote, “T.G.’s address book—???” He wrote, “Hot-box phone calls—???” He wrote, “Calls to 14 Baja pay phones—???”
He drew an SQ circled by snakes. He drew more question marks. He drew Eddie Leng’s death rictus and french-fried feet.
Kay hopped in his booth. There she is, her all-time self.
Elmer scooped up his doodles. Kay laid down her Manhattan. Elmer plucked out the cherry and ate it.
“Tell me something I don’t know. And make it interesting, because it’s Saturday night, and the world’s got me batshit.”
Kay laughed. “Thad told me about the DB call New Year’s morning. I thought, Uh-oh, Elmer’s brother died close by there. That’s the chickens come home to roost.”
Elmer spit the cherry pit in an ashtray. Elmer jiggled Kay’s hands.
“I got no dish on this one. It’s ’42 now, and Wayne Frank cashed out back in ’33. I don’t see no hook between him and this here DB. And if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do, because I’m really just a whore-peddler, a bagman, and a strongarm thug. I might be the world’s luckiest white man, but I sure as shit am not much of a detective.”
Kay lit a cigarette. “There’s a look you get. Your jaw sets a certain way, and your eyes go flat. It’s like you’re saying, ‘The comedy hour’s over.’ ”
Elmer snatched her drink. He plucked an orange rind and waved the swizzle stick.
“The Dudster sent me out to kill a man, but I couldn’t do it. I been reading some C-town files, and it looks to me like that selfsame geek killed himself a tonged-up Chinaman.”
Kay looked him over. She had well-known X-ray eyes. Elmer squirmed and relit his cigar.
Bar chat escalated. Elmer caught threads. Jim Davis called FDR “Double-Cross Rosenfeld.” Joan Conville took offense.