Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

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.”

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.

She meets ex-Chief “Two-Gun” Davis. She meets the L.A. mayor and the current chief, “Call-Me-Jack” Horrall. Count Basie says, “Hi there, Red.”

Now she’s here. Mike Lyman’s Grill, 8th and Hill streets. A long oak bar and red leather booths.

Parker chose the spot. The PD had its own private room. Parker laid out the gist.

You had couches, chairs, and a Murphy bed. A police Teletype and phone line were laid in. Mike Lyman supplied free cold cuts and liquor. Married cops “poked” their girlfriends there. “Famous madam” Brenda Allen supplied high-class prostitutes.

Pinch me.

Joan lit a cigarette. Her booth faced the bar and the front door. Lyman’s was packed. War chat bubbled.

Jap atrocities. FDR’s draft quota. I heard Hitler’s really Jewish. The Jews started this boondoggle, if you ask me.

Joan sipped scotch and bitters. The Navy bash faded out, the cop bash faded in.

She almost met Hideo Ashida. He went out on a dead-body call as she arrived. She talked to a cop named Lee Blanchard. His girlfriend Kay something hovered. Blanchard ran down the Captain Parker gestalt.

He was “Whiskey Bill” and “The Man Who Would Be Chief.” He was a hotshot lawyer, juicehound, and devout Catholic. He was impervious, tough, and commanding. He was somewhat slovenly.

He’s married. He hides out from his wife and sleeps in his prowl car. The capper: “You’re too tall for him, Red.”

Men always called her “Red.” They thought it was hep. Said men were dinks and buffoons.

I ain’t jiving you, cousin. Hitler’s a lox jockey from way back. My wife’s cousin’s a full-blood Kraut. He knows whereof he speaks.

Parker walked in. He wore a fresh uniform. He’d trimmed his hair. He primped and slid into the booth.

He wore piss-poor lime cologne. He sucked a hide-the-hooch lozenge.

He tossed his cigarettes on the table. A waiter materialized. Parker pointed to Joan’s glass and held up two fingers.

Joan slid the ashtray over. “Am I officially employed by the Los Angeles Police Department?”

Parker lit a cigarette. “Forty-two hundred dollars a year. You’ll work Central Station, under Ray Pinker and beside Hideo Ashida. Learn what you can, while you can. Pinker’s looking at an indictment in this Fed-probe megillah, and Ashida will probably be interned next month. You’ll be logging property, as well as processing evidence.”

Joan snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

Parker snapped his fingers. “I called in a favor. We don’t have to discuss it. You’re in means you’re in.”

“Yes, but you’ve got me at a disadvantage. You’ve placed me in your debt, and you know a great deal about me, while I know virtually nothing about you.”

Their drinks arrived. Joan let hers sit. Parker bolted his.

“You’re being disingenuous, Lieutenant. You read men like you read chemical tables. You met Lee Blanchard and Jim Davis at the party and solicited information. You gauged their bias and arrived at conclusions. You’re as up to speed on me as I am on you. I’ll concede my crush on the lithe Northwestern coed, if you won’t labor the point.”

“I’ll concede the scope of my debt, then, and refrain from judging your motives.”