Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

I laughed out loud. Bill said, “We shake down Sid for his subscriber list. We lay out Dudley and all the known Kameraden. You write the text, and insert the appropriate initials. We wallpaper Dudley, the comrades, and every conceivable man jack that might be inclined to do the Dudster dirt.”

D.S.: that hellhound Hibernian. Malevolent Mexicans. S.L.: that sicknik psychiatrist and shitbird shrink. Feckless Fascists and riotous Reds. Waterlogged wetbacks. Pustulant policemen and jungle-bred Japs.

I fell off the bed, laughing. I’d never laughed so hard. I thought my roars would never stop.

They reset the stage. The burn-ward room, the bed, the chair. Benzedrine in the fluid bag. The burn salve and charred-flesh stink.

The Mummy and Mr. Moto. Their second encounter. A vitalized Hanamaka. Ashida, poised to interrogate.

“Tell me about the klub haus, Sensei. You might begin by giving me your overall impressions.”

Hanamaka plucked at his bedsheets. He was drug -vitalized. His mind sped. His limbs spastic-twitched.

“Egalitarian and degenerate. Those two words define the klub haus. Mr. Hudgens of the Herald is quite the cheeky man. The German spelling of house. A touch first bestowed by policemen, there on the scene. One can be certain of that.”

Ashida said, “The sexual activity. The use of narcotics. The seemingly at odds political views.”

Hanamaka grinned. Sensei Death rides again. His breath was foul. His teeth rattled. He oozed putresence.

“ ‘At odds’ aptly describes the atmosphere. ‘Fugitives from normalcy’ might best describe the klub haus clientele. There were no racial or political barriers to hinder conversation. The constant jazz music served to alleviate tension. There was a single consensus among the fugitives. ‘The most discordant jazz is our voice.’ ”

Ashida prickled. The queer white boy. A jazz player. His Jap sword man pal. Elmer J. shared the lead.

“Jam sessions. Phonograph music. The proximity of the jazz strip. Diverse characters passing through.”

Hanamaka jiggled his water cup. “You’re leading me, Dr. Ashida. You want me to identify a specific denizen, and you’re disingenuously setting the scene before you ask.”

Ashida coughed. “A white youth. Blond and tall. Most often accompanied by a Japanese man given to licking blood off samurai swords. That was the Japanese man’s parlor trick. I’m assuming he performed it at the klub haus. The white youth was homosexual. Forensic evidence indicates homosexual activity upstairs.”

Hanamaka shrugged and shook his head. Sensei Death emits deceit.

“No. I did not encounter such men at the klub haus. I disdain homosexuals and Japanese who perform parlor tricks. Such individuals would most certainly catch my eye and rouse my indignation.”

Ashida jumped tracks. “Let’s discuss the gold. I want to conclusively determine the chain of possession.”

“The chain began with Leander Frechette and the Reverend Mimms. Meyer considered Leander reliable, because they dated back to Meyer’s previous incarnation, as Fritz Eckelkamp, and Leander was there for the conception of the robbery, along with Wayne Frank Jackson. Meyer trusted Leander, and, by extension, the Reverend Mimms. Meyer put great stock in Negroes, and held them to be avant-garde. The Reverend Mimms’ buffoonish black nationalism delighted him no end.”

Ashida undid his necktie. “Please continue, Sensei.”

“Leander had been exonerated by the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s. He had withstood the brutal ministrations of Deputy Karl Tullock, and had prevailed. The Reverend Mimms bailed Leander out of custody, and was a noted friend of Chief Jim Davis, a nativist huckster known to have close friends on the Left. He later became a comrade — Kamerad, as you must know.”

Ashida said, “The gold. Let’s continue with the chain of possession.”

Hanamaka sipped water. He’d cracked his glass straw. Blood dripped off his lips.

“You must realize that unforeseen events intervened, along with fortuitous circumstances. Dresden Polytechnic, for example. The serendipitous convergence of Hayes, Díaz, Pimentel, and Jamie. The Spanish Civil War converged. Meyer earned his share of battle stripes there.”

Ashida shook his head. “You’re repeating yourself, Sensei. Let’s return to the chain of possession. I’m trying to establish a chronology.”

Hanamaka shrugged. “Frechette and Mimms returned the gold to Meyer at some point. I don’t know where it was stashed during what I would call an ‘intervening period.’ Juan Pimentel took possession of the gold after the Baja conference, at Meyer’s directive. It has since gone to the Stalinist priest-killer. I mentioned him to you in the course of our first interview.”

Ashida said, “Wayne Frank Jackson. Where was he during this interim period?”

“He was in periodic touch with Meyer, but beyond that, I have no idea.”

The room broiled. Steam heat jacked the burn stink. Ashida removed his suit coat.

“Frechette and Mimms returned the gold at some point, and Meyer once again took possession. Were Frechette and Mimms reluctant to relinquish it? Did a disagreement occur? Was force employed?”

“I was surprised at how easily they forfeited the gold. It shocked me at the time. Meyer gloated over the ease of the transaction. He held Negroes to be the most malleable of beasts. He considered them exalted, prone to whimsy, and subservient at their core. When one exalts, one is compelled to demean.”

Ashida coughed into his handkerchief. The burn stink and salve stink accreted.

“Let’s return to the klub haus. I find it illuminating that you decided to nest there, in a hotbed of degenerate behavior and impolitic discourse. Were you sent there? Were you told to observe, inform, or attempt to impose order?”

Hanamaka licked his lips. The blood had congealed. He looked worse today. The give-and-take taxed him more.

“José Vasquez-Cruz sent me in. I knew him from Meyer’s cell, when he was Jorge Villareal-Caiz. He was a Kamerad, in both his guises, and in the latter he was a captain in the Mexican State Police. He smuggled me out of Baja in the wake of Pearl Harbor, at the behest of Governor Lazaro-Schmidt. So, yes, El Capitán installed me in the house down the street. As you state, I was told to visit the klub haus and ‘observe and inform.’ Most preposterously, I was also told to attempt to restore order.”

The room went ice-cold. Ashida glanced out the window. Snowflakes brushed the screen.

“The klub haus offended you. You discontinued your visits. I’m wondering if you were told to investigate the murders of Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta, on your own. The comrades must have feared the police investigation. We had drawn very close to a number of your people. Were you told to investigate? Did you arrive at a suspect or suspects?”

The Mummy cranked his bed up two notches. The Mummy pushed himself off his pillows and bowed at the waist.

“I prevaricated on the topic of your white youth and his Japanese friend. I cannot tell you whether or not the youth was homosexual, but he was surely tall and blond. He played the saxophone, and he worshipped the Negro jazz greats most exaltedly. A woman frequently accompanied him to the haus. She was frizzy-haired and roughly thirty years of age. And, yes, the white youth had a Japanese friend, who was plainly psychopathic.”

Man Camera. Time Machine. The klub haus job now stands some sixty days in. We’re back in the upstairs hallway. There’s dent marks on the wall facing the bedroom. There’s his working hypothesis.