“Well, there’s that. But mostly I think Dud’s afraid that Tommy will try to ingratiate himself with whoever took over Madrano’s wetback biz, which I bet Dud’s got his eye on himself.”
Elmer said, “That little birdie told me something else.”
Satterlee sighed. “You confide to a woman in the sack, and it’s on the Teletype within twenty-four hours.”
“Sex shakes. You want to put the squeeze on some Fifth Column geeks.”
“Es la verdad, daddy.”
Elmer said, “I’ve got a fuck spot, all wired up. Right on Wilshire, upside the tar pits. Wall peek — the whole deal.”
“I’ll take it. It puts you in contention for White Man of the Week honors.”
Elmer smiled. “Give me more on Tommy.”
Satterlee shrugged. “I don’t consider him a traitor, or a saboteur, or any kind of hot-blood seditionist. To me, he’s just a Sieg Heil boy, looking for giggles. He’s a Coughlinite, and he’s in with these Mex right-wingers called the Sinarquistas. They’re righteous Catholics and anti-Reds, and their boss is some cholo lawyer named Salvador Abascal. Tommy’s in with them, and he’s been poking Dud’s snitch, Huey Cressmeyer, in the keester since the year one. They called him ‘the Sheriff of the Brown Trail’ up at Quentin.”
Elmer slapped his knees. Satterlee said, “I’m ahead on this deal so far. What can I do to even things up?”
“Pick up Huey C. and rattle him. I’ll give you a script, so it don’t come back to me.”
“I’ll consider it. And, while I’ve got you, should I issue a formal warning on the Dudster?”
Elmer said, “I’d just ignore it.”
Harem hideaway. Lovers’ lair. Rendezvous redoubt. The spot radiated S-E-X.
Two rooms. One poontang parlor, one bootie bandits’ boudoir. Brocade walls and French postcard art.
Fake panels hid the peek. Stashed microphones caught the FUCK ME! and pillow-talk sound tracks. A spy mirror framed the bed.
Wall baffles soundproofed the crawl space. The camera guys worked with impunity. The fuckers and fuckees couldn’t hear shit. Special film lit in-the-dark ruts.
RKO hotshots rigged the place. Ed Satterlee would love it. His Fifth Column fuckers and fuckees were fucked.
Elmer hooked up a piggyback camera. He laced wires to the camera already aimed at the bed.
He’d see everything Ed the Fed saw. That meant Ed the Fed was fucked.
26
(Ensenada, 8:00 P.M., 1/8/42)
Polyglot. That said it. We’re this strange new alliance. We’re strange bedfellows all.
Joan Klein — Jewish waif extraordinaire. Red dress and Red Youthbund dialectic. Dos fascistas — José Vasquez-Cruz and Juan Pimentel. His dear Claire. Besotted by her new daughter. Kyoho Hanamaka — present but unseen.
The restaurant stood on the Malecon. Waves smashed below. Table talk flew polyglot.
In English and Spanish. Plus Claire and the Klein girl’s French.
Dudley ignored it. He was back at the hidey-hole. He revisited it at whim. Hanamaka cached his secret life there. That meant he’d be coming back. He might send a trusted stooge in his stead. Captain D. L. Smith crashed his secret life. Hanamaka must not know.
He found a second-floor trapdoor. It supplied quick access and was well devised and disguised. He refitted the boards and replastered the wall he broke in through. He celebrated his seamless job. He stole the gold bayonet.
Table talk droned on. It was trilingual and smug. Vasquez-Cruz flirted with Claire. Pimentel flirted with Joan. The girl found a big sister. Claire found a kid sister. Let’s discuss the war and sing the “Internationale.”
He weighed the bayonet. It ran 8.2 pounds. The swastika was stunningly embossed. He issued an APB. Kyoho Hanamaka/all Mexican states/hold and detain. He studied the photos in his Statie file. Hanamaka’s hands were burn-scarred. It was not explained.
He studied the file. No Baja address was listed. Hanamaka lived at the hideaway. That seemed certain now.
Hanamaka.
Fifth Column warlord. Es la verdad. Embroiled in two sub fiascos. Allied with leftists and rightists abroad. Es la verdad, as well.
The Fatherland and Mother Russia greet him. They present their indigenous horror. He crafts his memory book.
Hanamaka.
He might be in the U.S. His Jap visage would endanger him there. Someone abetted his flight. Governor Juan Lazaro-Schmidt might have pitched in.
The wall-panel cache lies intact. Lieutenant Pimentel is his watchdog. He’s ensconced in a nearby house. He’s got chez Hanamaka surveilled.
Lieutenant Juan’s a technical whiz. He developed a plan to tap incoming calls to Baja pay phones. SIS has shot him a hot work assignment. Decode suspect slug calls from the U.S.
Table talk droned. Young Joan spun tales. Garment strikes and Uncle Shmuel of the Yiddish Tagelblatt. The Jews proclaim their woes and boo-hoo the world’s vexation.
Vasquez-Cruz said, “Captain Smith appears to be bored.”
Pimentel said, “His women are ignoring him. Captain Smith requires their constant attention.”
Vasquez-Cruz twirled an ashtray. “Miss Klein’s regard for Leon Trotsky gets his goat.”
Dudley winked at the lads. “At least he was killed in Mexico. You’ll always have bragging rights there.”
“Trotsky” tweaked Young Joan. She raised her seltzer glass and pinged Claire’s wineglass.
“Comrade Trotsky, lady and gentlemen. The antidote to Fascism at home and abroad.”
Dudley raised his glass. Los fascistas went tut-tut. The whole gang imbibed. Musicians table-hopped and scrounged tips. They wore pink floral shirts and plaid cummerbunds. They carried trumpets and jiggled maracas.
Vasquez-Cruz ordered a rhumba and slipped the maraca man chump change. He bowed to Claire. She stood up and offered her hand. They walked to the dance floor and found their hip-popping fit.
Dudley watched. It sent him back. This spic’s hands on Claire. He recalled a precedent.
That dance in London. 1922. The Irish Citizens Army sent him in to plant bombs. A protty boy asked his date to dance. He said, “You don’t mind, do you, Paddy?”
The boy danced with her. He encircled her waist. Dudley Liam Smith, age sixteen. Here’s a dilemma.
The dance crowd dwindled. His date drifted off with her sister. He followed the boy down a dark road and blew his brains out.
Vasquez-Cruz held Claire’s hips and steered her. Pimentel watched Dudley watch. Young Joan watched it all.
She had small brown eyes. She wore glasses. She spoke Yiddish and French. She had long black hair with gray swirls. Gray hair at fifteen. Your call — benighted or possessed.
Pimentel said, “My captain has abridged the social code. I would not ask another man’s woman to dance without first seeking permission.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “You abridge the officers’ code of conduct, Lieutenant. Your comment was impolitic, however well put and well taken.”
Pimentel smiled. “My captain appears to have misjudged you. You demand diffidence from your fellows. You offer loyalty and camaraderie in return.”
Young Joan walked out on the dance floor. She tapped Claire on the shoulder and cut in. Claire bowed and deferred. Vasquez-Cruz and Young Joan took up the beat. His hands went straight to her hips.
Claire walked back to the table. Pimentel excused himself and walked off. Good lad — such decorum.
Claire pointed to Vasquez-Cruz. “I’ve seen him before. I know it.”
Dudley pointed to Young Joan. She danced a mean rhumba.