Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

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.”

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.