Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Buzz cracked his knuckles. “I intend to have words with that whipdick.”

Kay said, “That entails finding him first.”

Parker four-eyed Elmer. He tapped his wristwatch. We’ve got pressing biz downtown.

They reconvened outside the Fed Building. Elmer lapel-pinned his badge. Parker displayed his search warrant.

“A Fed district judge signed it. He’s an old law school classmate, and he hates Fey Edgar like death itself.”

Elmer skimmed the legalese. Limited premises/custody vault only/all wire recordings on-site. On-site listening consent granted/one day only.

“We’ve got to erase the whole kit and caboodle. That’s the only sure way to cover ourselves and Sheriff Gene’s guys. It’s a whole shitload of work, with the Fed squadroom right down the hall.”

Parker pinned up his badge. “The judge called ahead. We’re covered there. We’ve got the means to scotch the whole probe, but they’ll know it was us. We’ll have to ride out whatever shit hits the fan.”

Elmer gulped. “Fey Edgar will wet his pink-lace undies. He’ll be on the horn to the U.S. attorney inside half a second.”

Parker winked. It fell flat. He possessed no savoir faire. He lacked Dudsteresque panache.

They breezed in and breezed up the side stairs. The Bureau owned the full third floor. A desk agent manned the lobby. They walked up. He looked up. Parker passed him the paperwork.

He read the full writ. He said, “The vault, huh? You fellows must be turncoats. A whole lot of PD guys are going to burn in this deal.”

Parker said, “We’ve been detached to the grand jury. We’re on your side as far as this one goes.”

The agent yawned and stretched. He passed the paperwork back. This rebop left him nonplussed.

“Judge Leffler called ahead. You know the rules, right? You can listen to whatever you want, but nothing leaves the room. You know how to use the machines?”

Parker nodded. Elmer broke a sweat. The desk man led the way back.

Elmer stared straight ahead. They passed boocoo doorways. Elmer heard squadroom bustle and counted his footsteps. He hit eighty-nine. The desk man turned right and unlocked a door.

Some vault. Just this dumb room crammed with boxes. Note the wire spools sticking out. Two player contraptions. Two earmuff sets. One beat-up desk and two chairs. A wire log clamped to a clipboard.

The desk man said, “I leave you to it.”

Parker saluted him. Elmer feigned nonchalance. The desk man vamoosed. Parker locked the door.

Elmer went wheeewww. Parker picked up the log and skimmed it. You had twenty-some pages. Maybe eight hundred calls and taps.

Parker scanned pages. Elmer dumped his coat and undid his necktie. He futzed with the gizmos. He plugged in the earmuffs and ID’d the erase switch. Parker got all bug-eyed.

He crossed himself. He waved wolfsbane. He did all this papist shit.

“The Feds bugged the pay phone at Kwan’s. We’ve got EX-4991 calling MA-2668. PC Bell tagged the call at 3:14 a.m., on March 6. It’s a West L.A.-to-downtown toll call, and it runs sixteen minutes.”

EX-4991. That’s Ed Satterlee’s home number. Holy heart attack—

The wire log listed box 56. They tore through four box stacks and found it. Two spools were stuffed in one envelope.

Elmer rigged the two gizmos. The wires spooled up tight. Parker passed him his flask. They traded pops and tamped down their wigs. Parker kicked the chairs back. They sat side by side. They donned the earmuffs and replayed the call.

The phone rang. Static and line fuzz bled into this:

“There you are. I figured I’d get you sooner or later, and 3:00 a.m. in a Chinatown slop chute doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Ed Satterlee speaks. He’s crusty, per always.

“Ed, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Mike Breuning speaks. He’s servile, per always. Elmer and Parker swapped looks.

Satterlee said, “I gathered that. You called the Bureau nine goddamn times. You’re lucky I’m a night owl, or I wouldn’t have caught you at all. I’m just hoping you aren’t jerking my chain.”

Breuning said, “It’s Dudley, Ed. He’s gone batshit. You wouldn’t believe some of the stunts he’s been pulling.”

Satterlee said, “I’d believe anything you might want to tell me about Dudley Liam Smith, which is one damn good reason why I do my best to avoid him and stay on his good side.”

Breuning said, “I’ve got to get out from under him, Ed. He’s gone off the deep end, and I thought maybe you could help.”

Breuning speaks, frazzled. He’s caught the snitch virus. Oooga-booga. Snitch fever permeates the call.

Satterlee whistled. The phone line hissed.

“If you’re asking for help, you’ve got to pay for that help. If you’re offering me an up-to-date derogatory profile on Dudley, I’d be inclined to help you, if and when the time is right.”

Breuning said, “That’s awful damn equivocal.”

Satterlee said, “Lay it out for me. And it better be a little spicier than Dud’s framing a few jigaboos for the Rice-Kapek job.”

Breuning speaks. He’s delirious now. Dat snitch voodoo’s gone to his head.

“He’s hooked on Benzedrine and opium. He’s geezing morphine, but he thinks nobody knows. Bill Parker’s checkmating him. He’s gone full-fledged Nazi. He parades around in Nazi uniforms and preens like a fruit. He’s running heroin and wetbacks. He’s selling Japs off as slave labor. He’s in with this Sinarquista hump Salvy Abascal, who’s playing him like he’s the village idiot. He was in with Joan Conville and Hideo Ashida on some gold angle, but Joan’s dead and Ashida will be heading to Manzanar, and now he’s flapping in the wind all by himself. He told me he found the guy who killed Joan’s dad and made Joan kill him. He killed a drag boy at a pervert party in ’39, and Dick Carlisle and me cleaned it up. He’s murdering Reds in Mexico. He killed a Statie captain who was screwing his Commie girlfriend. The Baja governor’s sister has got him pussy-whipped, and Abascal’s got him hoodwinked. I’m way far exposed, Ed. I’ve run point for Dud for eleven goddamn years. I need a safe-haven deal with an outside agency. He’s a Nazi and a traitor, and he’s chopping the heads off these Redshirt guys who kill priests. I’ll depose, Ed. I’ll give Dudley up. He’s a feather in your cap, Ed. He’s the biggest scalp you’ll ever take. Ed, you’ve got to help—”

The line fritzed. The call died. It cut off Mike Breuning’s sobs.

Doc Saul slogged it. His gourd was elsewhere. That was evident. Boolah, boolah. Annie gave it the college-girl try.

Elmer and Parker watched. Elmer ran the camera. They were dead bushed. They’d erased all the Fed vault wires. It took ten hours. They heard Mike Breuning’s sobs the whole time.

They discussed the Breuning-Satterlee call. They caught Breuning’s snitch virus. Ed the Fed was house-arrested. He posed no threat to Dudley Smith. They stole the Breuning-Satterlee wires. They could ditz Dud with them. They could pass the virus on.

The crawl space was tight-cramped. Elmer and Parker smoked it out. Smoke hazed the see-thru mirror. Elmer placed the camera lens flat on the glass. Their sound gear caught pillow talk.

Saul waved off the woof-woof. He was abstracted and limp-noodled. Two-minute Saul. He’d rather talk anyway.

Grave Saul. Distracted Saul. He suffers from de white man’s burden. De chickens be comin’ home to roost.

Annie said, “What is it, sugar? What happened to my stallion of the sack?”

Elmer yukked. Parker oozed pious censure. Annie smoothed out the bedsheets. Saul assumed a crucifixion pose. Nobody knows de trouble he’s seen.

Annie goo-goo-eyed him. Annie tickled his ribs and got bupkes.