Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Dudley hovered. Ashida studied the threads. He saw three individuated formations. He looked at Dudley. He smiled and bowed.

“There were three gunmen. They stood at that near outcropping and hit the sailors with flashbulb glare. They ran up and shot them while they were blinded, and they used silencer-fitted guns.”

Dudley smiled and bowed. Ashida walked back to the pallets. The goons snapped to. He pointed to the sailors’ heads. He said, “Se siente todos.”

The goons flashed their spotlights. Ashida went in with a surgeon’s ax and knife.

He cracked skulls. Eyeball sockets collapsed. He scooped brain tissue and dropped it in the sand. He dug out forty-eight spent bullets, todos.

The goons looked ill. They murmured prayers. Ashida was blood-spattered, blood-smeared, blood-flecked.

He walked back to the van. Dudley and Vasquez-Cruz hovered. Ashida sprayed his hands with 100-proof alcohol. He dipped the spents in gasoline and blotter-dried them.

He clamped sixteen spents to microscope slides. He dialed the scope close and passed the slides under his lens. He studied fragmentary striations.

Dudley and Vasquez-Cruz hovered. They chain-smoked and eyed the process. Ashida ran through said process three times.

“The lands and grooves are obliterated, but I can state that the bullets themselves are surely of U.S. manufacture. Based on what I can see of circumference, my best guess would be Smith & Wesson Police .38s.”

Dudley said, “Ambush. Three capable men, identically armed.”

Vasquez-Cruz went tee-hee. He spoke baritone and tittered soprano.

Dudley winked at Ashida. “The submarine, lad. We’re looking for money, of course.”

Ashida worked straight through. He felt energized. Dudley worked beside him. Vasquez-Cruz supplied tools. They replicated their first inch-by-inch search.

They unscrewed bolts and looked behind panels. They unwired instrument clusters. They disassembled the periscope mount. They scuffed their knuckles and gouged their arms. They pulled up loose floor plates and found MONEY.

It was duffel-bagged the first time. It was attaché-cased tonight. Vasquez-Cruz tee-heed and cut through the locks. The yield: twenty grand, U.S.

Dudley grabbed half. El Fascisto grabbed half. A fat goon grabbed the attaché.

On to photographs. Let’s capture the dead and shoot for long-shot IDs.

El Fascisto tipped his goons. He was one high-stepping jefe. He dispensed C-notes. The goons genuflected. They went Sieg Heil and called Vasquez-Cruz “Führer.” Dudley dog-bayed and laughed himself hoarse.

It was full dark now. The goons erected arc lights. Ashida loaded his lab camera and close-up shot the stiffs.

He went through sixteen flashbulbs. He dumped bulbs and duplicated the pix. He shot two full sets. One for the Staties, one for SIS.

On to fingerprints. That was a long shot. The sailors were surely native-born Japanese. Their prints were filed in Tokyo and nowhere else.

Ashida hustled up the goons. They were half-tanked on mescal. They weeeaved through more arc-light work.

Ashida numbered sixteen print cards and inked thirty-two hands. Rigor mortis worked against him. The goons supplied weavy light. He placed the cards on a wood plank and maneuvered stiff fingertips.

Some were too stiff. He knife-severed those fingers and rolled them free and clear.

Dudley’s staff car stood cliffside. Ashida washed his hands and walked up. Dudley and Vasquez-Cruz worked in the backseat.

They dug through file carbons. Resident-alien files. Baja-resident Japanese/pickup orders issued. They trawled for Japanese Navy KAs.

Ashida sat up front. Dudley passed him a file stack. Ashida trawled for KAs. He trawled twelve files and tapped out. He hit on file #13.

The file tapped one Kyoho Hanamaka. He was an “Imperial Navy attaché.”

Ashida said, “I’ve got a man named Hanamaka here. He’s tagged as a naval attaché, but he’s got very few KAs, and none in the Navy.”

Vasquez-Cruz said, “He’s one slippery eel. He’s quite the friend of Juan Lazaro-Schmidt, the Baja governor.”

Supper at the Hotel del Norte. The beach-view dining room served late. Picture windows and wave crash. Your host, Dudley Smith.

In civvies now. Blue blazer, gray slacks. Claire De Haven sat to his left. She satirized this arrangement and tossed barbs at El Fascisto. Vasquez-Cruz indulged her and laughed.

He wore his black uniform. He came off sinister. Ashida cleaned up and changed in his room. He showered off brain matter. He scrubbed off fingerprint ink.

Pacific lobster and champagne. Convivial Dudley. No man should be so handsome. Ashida tried not to stare.

Talk flowed. Ashida sipped club soda and ignored his food. He counted days back to Pearl Harbor. He hit the Bill Parker/Kay Lake pogrom.

His role was Kay’s lover. He failed at it. Claire threw a party. Leftist Los Angeles bickered and preened. Kay caused a scene. She deployed her Jap paramour and overplayed the pose. Claire saw through Kay. Claire teethed on her nonetheless.

Dudley dropped a bon mot. Vasquez-Cruz laughed. No El Fascisto titter. He laughed deep baritone.

He played to Claire. He moved his chair close and leaned in.

“You must not judge neutral Mexico too harshly, Miss De Haven. This dinner conclave proves my point. We have a Latin man and a Japanese man. We have an Irish-Catholic immigrant and a landed Protestant lady.”

Claire lit a cigarette. “I converted to the Roman Church, Captain. I’m an apostate in my faith as well as my politics. You’ll have to cite pithier examples if you wish to make time with me.”

Vasquez-Cruz went Salud. “Perhaps I should cite Mr. Leon Trotsky. He fled Stalin’s death squads and found asylum nowhere but here. President Cárdenas provided him with a home when no one else would.”

“Only as a means to counter accusations that he was a Stalinist, Captain. And, of course, Trotsky was assassinated in your selfsame country, under that selfsame capitalista poseur.”

Vasquez-Cruz smiled. “Spanish and French in one sentence. Aaay, caramba.”

Claire blushed. Ashida caught her dope-pinned eyes. Dudley winked at him. It conveyed subtext. If El Fascisto gets too frisky, I’ll kill him.

Ashida laughed. It verged on a squeal. He covered his mouth and muzzled himself.

Claire said, “Is something amusing, Dr. Ashida? Something you forgot to tell me when you were a much-welcome but finally intrusive guest in my home last month?”

Ashida said, “I’m quite tired, Miss De Haven. I’ve spent a busy day in Captain Smith’s employ.”

Claire glanced away. She looked out the window and stood up. Ashida clocked the window. He saw a raggedy girl on the beach. The girl picked up a starfish and cradled it to herself.

Vasquez-Cruz stood for Claire. Call him Señor Decorum. She touched his hand — un momento.

She walked out. El Fascisto watched her go. He clicked his heels and bowed to Dudley. He pivoted and walked off.

Ashida said, “He’s going to check on Claire. He must have police friends in Los Angeles.”

Dudley said, “You’re a very bright penny tonight.”

Ashida blushed. He looked out the window. Claire engaged the raggedy girl. They fussed over the starfish and had quite a chat.

Dudley rocked his chair back. “My Claire has an enormous and impetuous heart.”

Ashida went dizzy. The dining room tilted. Spots popped in front of his eyes.

“What is this? Why am I here?”

Dudley tapped his knee. “There’s my ex-snitch Tommy Glennon, and a dead Chinaman named Eddie Leng. There’s our old friend Lin Chung, and the scent of money.”