Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Ashida said, “You don’t know me at all. I’m as American as you’re not.”

The main-gate guard left him a package. It contained one letter and one wire spool. An MP sergeant lent him a player and listening earmuffs.

It snowed. Manzanar was socked in tight. Hold for the mid-April thaw. You freeze or broil here. Manzanar’s a two-climate zone.

Ashida holed up. The heating vents hummed. He read the letter four times. He played the wire recording twice.

He paced his suite. He looked out at the snow. A mess corporal brought him his dinner. The burn-ward doctor called. Kyoho Hanamaka died at 8:29 p.m.

The letter rankled. Kay was nothing but Kay-like. She was imperious, didactic, jejune. Kommisar Kay. Categorical and Manichean. There is no way but my way. If I believe it, it’s true.

Your options are do everything or do nothing.

The wire call revealed Dudley in extremis. Mike Breuning levied a multicount indictment. Mike closed with sobs.

Ashida sat in the dark. He sipped champagne and willed the Baja-to-Manzanar call. The MP’s mess hall served chilled champagne nightly. He’d come to expect and enjoy it.

He thought about Kay. She tried to seduce him last December. Kay’s faux Claire letter. Dudley’s effete eye for callow young men.

The phone rang. Ashida grabbed the receiver. Static cut off his “Hello?” Dudley was Dudleyesque. His blunt approach channeled Kommisar Kay.

“You’ve been among the missing, lad. I’ve gotten secondhand reports, from Al Wilhite, but I haven’t heard from you.”

Ashida cleared his throat. “I wanted to conclude my interviews before I reported. I’m sorry if it inconvenienced you.”

“Hanamaka’s dead, lad. Lieutenant Wilhite just called me. You won’t be seeing our fair Kyoho again.”

Man Camera. Let’s frame this moment. There’s the dark room. There’s his window view. It’s all snow and prison-camp searchlights.

“He gave up nothing of note. He was incoherent most of the time, and he gave up nothing we hadn’t already learned.”

Dudley sighed. “The gold? The cabal’s chain of command?”

Ashida said, “No. The decadent behavior at the klub haus amused him, and he provided me with a great many anecdotes. We spoke at length three times. It was very frustrating.”

Dudley sighed. “Soldier on, lad. Study the files I sent you. Put that grand brain of yours to the task.”

Ashida said, “I’m sorry, Dudley.”

Dudley said, “I know you are. I hear it in your voice.”

The line went dead. Ashida stifled a sob. Kommisar Kay had it right. There’s no alternative. It’s everything or nothing.

The El Lay Lowdown. Volume I, issue 4. Our motto? “All the news that’s un fit to print.” April 3, 1942 issue. Surreptitiously circulated since November 1941. Our serpentine circulation: 461 paid subscribers, and climbing via vile word of mouth. Dedicated to the proposition that YOU WANT THE DISH. All items written by Party Peeper 69. Subscription rate: $20.00 per year. Direct all inquiries to PO Box 69, Terminal Annex, Los Angeles.

Peeper 69 last left you in Nazi-nullified Paris, France. There was no need for insinuating initials in my climactic close-out piece. The frazzled frogs can’t lasso me with libel suits from across the U-boat-undulating Atlantic. I joltingly j’accused piano putz ALFRED CORTOT of hunkering down with the Huns. I ditzed divaesque DANIELLE DARRIEUX for bedding down with the Boche. Cello cheese PIERRE FOURNIER? Shacked between the sheets with fetching filmstress LENI RIEFENSTAHL.

A barrage of bilious letters urged me to can the travelogues. If it ain’t happening in El Lay, it ain’t happening. Peeper 69 aims to please his rapacious readers. This issue repugnantly returns us to loopy Los Angeles — but with a twitchy twist.

The El Lay Lowdown speciously specializes in Hollywood dirt. Plus pulsing political scandals and the annihilating antics of El Lay socialites. Our regular “Police Blotter” feature features yet more Tinseltown tattle. And this issue turgidly turns its spotlight on the El Lay Police Department’s most sinfully sinister and snaggled snafu.

Hear those surging saxophones and cloying clarinets? They announce the boogie beat of a big southside murder case. Dead men tell no tales — but we’ve got three stagnant stiffs grousing from the grave. Bent cops W.R. & G.K. demand justice; their Mex muchacho A.A. shrieks in español. Carrion cops case the corpses and lick their lips. This job’s a maximum moneymaker and a shot to unseat J.H. as Chief.

W.H.P. Don’t trust this guy. He’ll sell his soul for the pomp of power and college cooze. Don’t trust H.A. He’s a Mr. Moto manqué and a jittery Jap. Don’t trust pustulant policeman M.B. He’s in league with furtive Fed E.S. There’s a tapped telephone at a Chinatown eatery habituated by hellhound cops. M.B. and E.S. conspire via wire. Mr. B. rats out his maladroit mentor, that hellbound Hibernian hatchet man — D.S. himself.

D.S. is the duped deus ex machina of our dreary drama. Fifth Column finagling defines the big murder case. Caustic Commies M.G. and J.S. frame the fray. Feckless fascists W.J. and J.H. have joined them. Sicknik Sinarquista S.A. is playing D.S. for the fool. We’ve got riotous Reds and nutty Nazis galore. We’ve got farshtinkener factions out to glom gorgeous garlands of gold. Greed and graft, kats and kittens. Peeper 69’s put his paws on the pulse of this story. He knows allllllllll about that perv party at the Maestro’s manse in the winter of ’39. She was really a He, and who can blame D.S. for taking ultimate umbrage? Thank heaven M.B & fellow cop D.C. cleaned up the mess.

It’s hurtling to a head, dear readers. E.S. is under house arrest; H.A.’s joined the Jap diaspora and has been shipped out to Manzanar. Seditionist psychiatrist S.L. has been pounded by the police. Ex-Chief J.E.D. mutters murderous murmurs at a swank beachside retreat. Quo vadis, D.S.? You’re the creepy crux of our drama. You’ve been spread cruciform, and demons of your own devising are coming for you.

Double play. This raid and the scandal-rag blast. The rags went out, first-class mail. They should bull’s-eye today.

And there’s Bev’s. It’s straight across Fountain. It’s transmitting Raid Me rays.

Elmer watched the door. Bill Parker watched the door. They sat in Bill’s civilian sled. They brought shotguns and pry bars. It’s a smash-and-seize job.

Parker smelled like Kay. That musky scent she wore. Elmer got all flustered and jealous. He teethed on them as bedmates. It hurt baaaaaad. He teethed on Wayne Frank Alive for relief.

Wayne Frank Alive hurt. He teethed on Ruth in the Kip. She’ll call when she calls. That was her artiste’s way. He teethed on Doc Lesnick. Thad Brown got a tip. Doc Saul ensconced himself at Terry Lux’s place. He had company there. As in Claire De Haven and gaga Jim Davis.

Salvador Abascal. Teethe on that dink. He sprung Díaz, Carbajal, and Santarolo. He got them habeas. They waltzed out of Fed custody and rewaltzed back to Baja. That was baaaaad grapevine. Here’s the gooooood grapevine. Fletch B. got preemptive acquitted. The grand jury pulled their true bills.

All charges were dropped. Mass acquittals were predicted. Guess who jump-started that shit.

Parker said, “I’m getting antsy.”

Elmer said, “What’s wrong with right now?”

They grabbed their gear. Riot guns and hefty pry bars. They ditched the sled and jaywalked. The front door stood open. They walked right in.