Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Padre Hayes told stale jokes. The prelude protracted. Elmer brain-revved. The sword man had to be Johnny Shinura. That Bev’s Switchboard catalogue spelled it out plain. Shinura had no green sheet. Shinura was uninterned and out on the hoof. Shinura peddled his shit out of a J-town loft. The Feds seized the building a month ago. It was government-sealed. Where’s Sword Man Johnny now?

The prelude deprotracted. Joe Hayes lit a cigarette. Shyster McBride lit a cigar. Parker pushed an ashtray across the table.

“The Sinarquistas, Monsignor. Their leader, Salvador Abascal. They’re going on the Feds’ 1-A subversive list next month.”

Hayes said, “I wouldn’t call them subversive. A great many Catholics support them, morally and financially, and I’m proud to stand among them. We’re not subversives — we’re just concerned Catholics, like you.”

Parker said, “Like Dudley Smith?”

“Yes, like Dudley.”

McBride said, “Captain Parker’s a nonpracticing lawyer. I’ve got a hunch he’s about to introduce People’s Exhibit A.”

Parker popped his briefcase. He pulled out a wire-player gizmo and plugged it into the wall. He tapped two switches. Hold tight, fuckers. Dud’s in the hot seat now.

Mike Breuning and Ed Satterlee gabbed. Elmer gassed on the replay. Breuning finked El Dudster. Hayes got the scandal sheet already. This tapped call doubled it down.

Wetbacks. Heroin. Jap slaves. Nazi fucks and Red fucks and a lost gold cache. Dud’s priest-killer snuffs.

Hayes went pale. McBride went all flushed. Parker turned the gizmo off.

“There are a few issues I’d like to discuss, Monsignor. Chiefly, your partial ownership of Bev’s Switchboard, and your Dresden Polytechnic alliance with Wallace Jamie, Mondo Díaz, and Juan Pimentel.”

McBride shook his head. “Monsignor Hayes declines to answer.”

Parker lit a cigarette. “Continuing, then. Bev’s Switchboard as a confirmed seditionist mail drop. Your own mail-drop collaborations, coded phone calls to a relay station in Ensenada, and the general range of your far-right, and/or far-left, alliances.”

McBride said, “Monsignor Hayes declines to answer.”

Hayes squirmed. He quick-lit a cigarette and fumbled the match. Elmer gassed on the show.

Parker said, “Continuing, then. Mr. Abascal as a possible saboteur and/or seeker and hoarder of a gold cache stolen from a U.S. Mint train in 1931.”

Elmer squirmed. That saboteur query ditzed him. Frankie Carbajal blabs at the sweep. El Salvy plans sabotage in the San Joaquin Valley. Him and Buzz held back the lead. It’s their fallback card. It’s insurance against all forms of censorious shit.

Hayes and McBride huddled. They pressed heads. Whisper, whisper. Parker cleaned his glasses on his necktie. He looked devil-dog pissed.

McBride said, “Monsignor Hayes will issue a blanket statement that addresses your last few points. No rebuttals, Captain. This is a police interview, not a courtroom proceeding.”

Hayes said, “I would never condone sabotage. I seriously doubt that the Sinarquistas would ever perform it or even consider performing it. I have heard vague rumors as to a cache of gold, including the rumor that Salvy took possession of it, and somehow all of this pertains to a leftist-rightist cabal out to establish their postwar credentials, regardless of which side wins. Concludingly, let me state that these rumors impressed me as poppycock, and the Salvy I know would never collaborate with anyone on the Left.”

Elmer relit a cigar. Fuck you, Father Joe. You speak with forked tongue.

Parker said, “Continuing, then. A clubhouse on 46th Street, east of Central Avenue. Homosexual activity, on the premises. One Thomas Malcolm Glennon, one Robert Clinton Staley, a homosexual jazz musician and his known associate — a Japanese purveyor of fetishistic curios.”

Hayes and McBride huddled. Whisper, whisper. They pressed heads again. McBride snapped his suspenders and kicked his chair back.

“The Monsignor admits to intimate relationships with Tommy Glennon and Robby Staley. Should you be fishing for leads on the murders of Wendell Rice, George Kapek, and Arturo Archuleta, I’ll state that the monsignor has a beaut, and it’s yours for across-the-board immunity.”

Parker went all Donald Duck. Steam hissed out his ears. His eyeballs popped in rage. His glasses fogged up.

“DA McPherson has authorized me in that regard. I’m listening, Monsignor.”

Hayes said, “I know of the musician, but I don’t know his name. His Japanese friend is named Johnny Shinura, and his curio business is located on East 2nd Street. The musician has a friend. She’s a high-strung woman, about twenty-eight years of age. I don’t know her name, either. Rice, Kapek, and Archuleta purportedly raped a woman at the klub haus. I credit the rumor, but I don’t know the victim’s name. One might call rape a good motive for a triple homicide, although I’ve never seen the allure.”

Elmer brain-drained the lead. It played good and backstopped Hideo Ashida. Hideo theorized a male-female deal.

A Vice bull walked up a desk phone. He looked bored. The phone cord was stretched taut.

“It’s Meeks. He sounds agitated.”

Elmer snatched the receiver. “Yeah, boss.”

Buzz said, “I found Meyer Gelb.”

AWOL. “Absent without official leave.” Abdication, flight, retreat.

He trashed the squadroom four days back. He abandoned his command. SIS men witnessed his tantrum. He holed up with Constanza. They made love and sniffed cocaine. They donned Nazi uniforms and fondled his gold bayonet.

He told her he killed Cruz-Caiz with it. She told him to kill her brother with it. She reprised haughty words.

“I cannot truly give myself to a man as long as my brother remains alive.”

Dudley drove the coast road north. Constanza left this morning. She flew back to La Paz. She has a chamber recital tonight. Call him the widower, adrift.

Adrift, untethered, bereft.

He assigned himself tasks. Make phone calls. Shore up the home front. Visit the dope ranch. Issue command directives. Visit the Jap holding pens. Hold sway over your peons. Return to duty, starched and pressed.

Dudley cut inland. His phone task had backfired. He called Claire’s house in Beverly Hills. A maid brushed him off. He called Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle at home and got no answer. He called Beth at her real dad’s place in Vallejo. She hung up on him.

He’d lost weight. His trousers hung slack. He stood two days awake. He’d brought Claire’s stash kit with him. He could geez and rest up at the ranch.

Constanza called him an hour ago. She told him that Bev’s Switchboard had contacted her. Bev said she’d received a letter. He told Constanza to read it to him.

She did. The note was ruler-block-printed. It restated a prior note she’d received.

“I’ve got the minutes. I want ten thousand dollars. I’m tired of waiting. I’ll write again soon.”

Dudley cut through scrub hills and desert patches. A warm wind kicked in. Tumbleweeds hit the car and caromed off. He ran a tumbleweed gauntlet. Tumbleweeds scraped the windshield and rendered him blind. He floored the gas and plowed past them. He got scared and went whee! and laughed.

It hurt to laugh. He sounded shrill. Wisps passed in front of his eyes. The wind lulled and died. He saw the ranch up ahead. He saw cars he knew and cars he didn’t recognize.

He pulled up and parked outside the lab hut. He saw the foreman’s car and the head chemist’s car. He saw no straw-boss jalopies. He saw a low-chopped ’40 Ford and a ’38 Packard. He smelled high-test gasoline fumes.