Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Father Coughlin liked raw discourse. His trinity was booze, slander, and foment. He loathed the Reds and the kikes. He played to the nuns at St. Vib’s and sundered them with hate tracts. He lived to sway souls and spawn discontent.

A waiter restocked the table. He bowed and laid out scotch, gin, and ice. The waiters were county jail trusties. This lad was a weenie waver. He habituated schoolyards and slammed his ham.

Claire freshened drinks. The clerics lit cigarettes and imbibed. The Archbishop ogled Claire. Monsignor Joe ogled the waiter. Father Charles doodled up a napkin. He drew swastikas dripping blood.

Dudley adjusted his sling. His left arm had sustained multiple shiv wounds. A pesky Chink, surely. Tong intrigue, most likely. He was allied with Uncle Ace Kwan and Hop Sing. Said alliance might have spawned rival-tong enmity. Said shiv man would soon be sternly rebuked.

Claire shared her morphine. It facilitated his rapid recovery. Her love for him outweighed her habit. The drug salved pain and rendered the world elegiac. It granted noblesse oblige.

It deadened his recent failures. Pearl Harbor and the Jap roundups as one big botched business deal.

He hatched war-profit schemes. Ace Kwan assisted him. They all went blooey. He chased a heroin stash in Baja. Mike Breuning, Dick Carlisle, and Hideo Ashida assisted. That went blooey. It was Captain Carlos Madrano’s stash. Madrano and the Mex Staties interdicted the Smith cartel. A Jap sub fiasco played in. He planted nitro in Madrano’s car and blew up El Capitán. It was small recompense.

Father Coughlin knew Madrano’s replacement. José Vasquez-Cruz was anti-Red and anti-Jew, but less overtly Fascista. Baja bodes again now. Police Sergeant Smith as Army Captain Smith. He’ll meet Vasquez-Cruz and perhaps seek to suborn him. Baja bodes as opportunity reborn.

Count Basie kicked off a Latin-tinged ballad. Claire squeezed his good arm. Let’s dance, mi corazon.

The sling curtailed movement. Dudley let Claire help him up and lead him. She cradled his bad arm. They danced close. Claire laid her head on his shoulder.

She said, “We’ll be there in two weeks. We’ll get tired of this music.”

“Major Melnick has secured us a grand hotel suite. We’ll have our own terrace, with a lovely ocean view.”

Claire nuzzled up. “We’ll go to Mass and observe all the saints’ days. We’ll be taller and better-looking than everyone else, and they won’t believe how well we speak Spanish.”

Dudley laughed. “The hoi polloi will adore you. They’ll call you ‘La Gringa’ behind your back, and wonder how this mick thug got so lucky.”

“Don’t deride yourself, dear. Never forget that I’ve civilized you more than you’ve corrupted me.”

“It’s a toss-up, isn’t it? It’s a determination that time and fate will reveal.”

Claire said, “Yes, darling. It is all of that.”

The dance floor was packed. Revelers bumped and tangled up their feet. Dudley swapped grins with his fellow policemen.

There’s Lieutenant Thad Brown. He’s jawing with a high-yellow songstress. There’s ex-Chief Davis, spiking the punchbowl. There’s Captain Bill Parker and Kay Lake. They comprise a dashed romance. There’s a full room between them. They shoot sparks across it, nonetheless. Parker’s a persistent burr in his tail. Miss Lake’s comely, if fatuous.

Parker’s in uniform. Note his soggy blues and drooping gunbelt. He’s been clocking traffic grief in the rain. He’s hiding out from his wife. He’s here to ogle comely Kay Lake.

Many men find La Lake brilliant and alluring. Parker surely does. He himself does not. She’s a dilettante and a round-heeled police buff. She’s nonconjugally shacked with surly Officer Lee Blanchard. Parker is pious and dangerous. He may ascend to Chief one day.

Bill Parker. The Watanabe case. Roadblocks on his sprint, post — Pearl Harbor.

Fujio Shudo. The Werewolf psychopath. He was Sergeant D. L. Smith’s proffered slayer. Bill Parker worked for a true solve. Bill Parker failed. Hideo Ashida assisted Sergeant Smith. It cinched the whole deal.

Claire swayed close. Dudley felt her tremors. She’d excuse herself soon. She’d retrieve her hypodermic.

He steadied her. She steadied him. It was a new love affair and a most tender pact.

His arm ached. He’d lost weight. The attack climaxed his post — Pearl Harbor sprint.

He vowed vengeance. Mike and Dick were meeting him later. They recruited some Alien Squad muscle. A grand tong sweep loomed.

The Count segued to “Adios.” Soft reeds with low-brass punctuation. A Mexican motif.

Claire said, “Good-byes are never that beautiful.”

Dudley kissed her neck. She was damp there. He knew her body and her dope habit already.

“It’s our song, for the war’s duration. It prohibits all farewells.”

Claire shuddered. He eased her back to their table. Father Charles launched a raw joke. “Have you heard it, Your Eminence? It’s the swell tale of Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker.”

J. J. Cantwell roared. Joe Hayes glowered. Claire snatched her clutch and made for the loo.

She cuts a swath. Drunken cops step aside. She betrays no haste and smiles at each one.

Dudley checked his watch. It’s 11:51. Where’s Mike and Dick? Where’s dim bulb Elmer Jackson?

Quo vadis, Tommy Glennon?

Tommy self-decreed his extinction. A three-count indictment levied charges. Count One: Tommy raped women and thus annulled the civil contract. Count Two: Tommy was Sergeant D. L. Smith’s ex-snitch and pal of current-snitch Huey Cressmeyer. Count Three: Tommy ran wetbacks for ex — Baja kingpin Carlos Madrano.

Count Three, subordinate clause:

He visited Tommy at Quentin, mid-November. Tommy pumped him per Madrano and his own Mexican plans. He has grand Mexican plans. He will exploit his Army SIS status to implement them. He will push heroin and run wetbacks. He will sell jailed Japs into slavery. Tommy could fuck it all up. Thus, Tommy must die.

Dudley chased pills with club soda. Two for knife-wound pain. Three bennies for late-night woo-woo.

Cantwell, Hayes, and Coughlin were shit-faced. They defamed the coons and Red scourge Joe Stalin. The English prottys concocted this war and brought in the Jew bankers. They fixed the ’36 Olympics. That shine Jesse Owens? He runs slow as me old Irish granny.

Ten seconds to midnight. Count Basie rolled the trumpets — 9, 8, 7, 6—

Dudley stood up. Cops waved table flags. Dudley waved the Stars and Stripes and Irish Republican green.

— 5, 4, 3, 2—

Mike and Dick walked in. Dudley saw them. Such grand goons they were. They saw Dudley and cringed.

Dudley waved and went Tommy? Mike and Dick shook their heads no.

— 1, zero, HAPPY NEW YEAR—

Shouts, back slaps, popped corks galore. Noisemaker blare and flags on sticks—

The Count kicked off “Auld Lang Syne.” Dudley reeled. The mock ballroom went hothouse hot and spun topsy-turvy.

His arm throbbed. He thought he’d faint. Claire sailed up to him.

She steadied him and kissed him.

She said, “It’s our time, love.”

Should auld acquaintance be—

Yells and hoots. Noisemaker shriek. Shouted toasts and Remember Pearl Harbor!!!

Revelers crammed up the Sky Room. You’ve got Navy brass on a toot. There’s grabbing and groping. There’s full-length necking on the dance floor.

Stan Kenton presents “Artistry in Rhythm.” The Misty June Christy purrs select vocals. The Sky Room was glass-walled and umpteen floors high. You got wide views of battle-dressed beachfront. You got storm clouds and the world’s darkest sky.