Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

Ace knifed a fried shrimp. “You bring to basement. We put balls in vise and burn with cigarettes.”

Elmer gulped. His windpipe bobbed. Dudley clocked it. Elmer clocked his clock.

Kapek said, “Say we get us a whole shitload. Call for a whore wagon then?”

Dudley said, “Shackle chains. Hook them up and march them down Broadway. Create a stir. Make a statement. The PD stands with Hop Sing. Four Families chingasos y putasos. ”

Lunceford said, “Dud’s practicing. He’s Mexico-bound.”

Ace knifed a rumaki. “Viva the Chinaman and white man! Kill all jigaboos and Japs!”

Elmer yukked. Ace was a moondog psycho. He ran afield sometimes.

Breuning drained his mai tai. “Tommy’s tonged up the ying-yang. Him and Four Families go way back.”

Elmer unwrapped a cigar. “We should issue an APB and call the Immigration cops. Tommy used to run wetbacks. He’ll have a green sheet, sure as shit.”

Dudley smiled. “No. You precipitated this fuckup, Elmer. Now, go forth with your grand colleagues and remedy that.”

Two squads swamped C-town. They wore rain slickers and packed shackle chains and belt gear. Lunceford went with Breuning and Carlisle. Elmer went with Kapek and Rice.

North Broadway was all bars and slop chutes. Local Chinks and white stiffs hobknobbed. New Year’s increased foot trade. The big rain de creased it. Both squads trekked north.

Elmer’s squad took the west flank. Elmer packed his .45 and a buckshot-stitched sap. He walked point and carried the billy club. It was Chink sweep de rigeur.

Rice and Kapek lugged the shackle chains. They were six-two beefcake types and well suited. They shoulder-draped the chains and went hunchback. It pissed them off.

The PD was Hop Sing — allied. Uncle Ace was Jack Horrall’s #1 Chink. Hop Sing joints were sacrosanct, Four Families the converse. Fuck last month’s tong truce.

Elmer walked point. He smashed front windows and galvanized attention. He went in the door first. Rice and Kapek fanned out behind him. They ignored eeeeks, shrieks, and flustered women. They braced blue-kerchief tong guys and went in tough.

Elmer took the bar-stool guys. He sap-smashed hands on bartops and broke bones. He kicked over bar stools. He logged bilingual eeeeks and shrieks.

Rice and Kapek took the booths and tables. They donned sap gloves and broke faces. They dunked said mugs in tureens of shark-fin soup.

The boys hovered close and tossed questions. They pushed past eeeek and shriek. They got Don’t know nothing, don’t know nothing! They got Nobody know who slice Dudster — not us, not us!

Elmer stood by. He posed tough. He looked un tough upside Kapek and Rice. He leaned close. He logged gibberish laced with rat-outs.

Tommy Glennon know Huey Cressmeyer! Tommy go queer up at Preston!

It was pidgin English. Elmer called it “ Chink lish.” Sputters and nonsense talk. Some enticing tattle. Huey C. was a known Dudster snitch.

That’s it for bars and slop chutes. That’s it for North Broadway. It’s all lackluster leads. There’s no shackle bait yet.

The boys cut west on Ord. Elmer smashed clubhouse windows. Rice and Kapek kicked in doors. They tore down to basements and stormed opium dens.

They encountered noxious smoke and hopheads on pallets. Coolies packed pipes and lugged water bowls. You know Chiang Kai-shek, papa-san? You know famous sleuth Charlie Chan?

The dens served a Chink clientele. Some white swells made the scene. There’s a city council hump. There’s Ellen’s studio rival — ice-blond Veronica Lake.

Rice and Kapek thumped blue-kerchief guys. They imitated Jap Zeros. They knocked tong punks off pallets and hauled them down from Cloud 9. Elmer water-doused them. The noxious fumes messed with his gourd.

He clubbed “O” fiends. Ankle and wrist shots. Eeeek-and-shriek inducers. Rice and Kapek lobbed queries. Gibberish and half-baked leads accrued.

Tommy G. run wets from T.J.! Tommy G. supply truck farms in Imperial Valley! Don’t know who slice Dudster — don’t know, don’t know, don’t know!

Elmer laid on the hurt. Rice and Kapek worked their sap gloves. They got more eeeek and more shriek, and more Chink lish.

Tommy nancy boy! Don’t know where he is! Tommy poking some priest!

Elmer caught that one. It brought back Tommy’s address book. It underlined the St. Vib’s listing.

Rice and Kapek went pure rogue. They lifted wallets and plucked cash rolls. The fumes got to Elmer. “O” plus bennies induced all this weird wispy shit.

He went eeek his own self. He upchucked on some Chinaman’s shoes and made for the door. He bumped into Veronica Lake. She said, “Whoa, sailor.”

The rain felt good. It cleared his skull somewhat. All those colored raindrops went neutral again.

He lost his billy club. He still had his hat, badge, and roscoe. His watch said 4:35. It was still dark. It was still Chinatown and still Ord Street.

He recalled Tommy’s address book. He recalled that number for Eddie Leng’s Kowloon.

Kantonese Kuisine. Ord & Hill. Your gracious host, Eddie Leng.

It’s a block up. Why not? Maybe Veronica’s there. Maybe she’ll smile at you. Maybe she’ll sleep with you. You won’t know till you try.

He walked over. The rain felt good. There’s Eddie’s place. It looks dark. That plays wrong. It’s a 24-hour dive.

Elmer pressed up to the window. He left nose prints on the glass. Okay — the kitchen doorway’s lit up.

He shook the doorknob. The door was ajar. He walked in and shut the door behind him. His eyeballs adjusted. He popped through the dining room. He smelled something all scorched up.

He knew from scorched. He’d flamethrowered Nicaraguan insurgents. It dispersed crowds good. Those humps got their tail feathers singed.

Elmer weaved toward the kitchen. He bumped tables and chairs. He made the doorway and saw all the stoves and deep-dip fryers. Well, shit — it’s fried flesh, not scorched.

Eddie Leng was rope-cinched to a four-burner stove. He was barefoot. Charred anklebones extended from two fryer thingamajigs. Residual grease and blood bubbled. Eddie’s feet got deep-fried.

Elmer reeled and caught himself. He double-scanned the stiff. Eddie wore reet-pleat pants and a Hawaiian shirt. Some fuck folded his hands on his chest.

Note the tattoo. It’s there on the right forefinger-thumb web. It’s an “SQ” circled by snakes. Remember Tommy Glennon’s tattoo stencil? It’s flat out just like that.

Opium.

His private room at Kwan’s. The tar, the match, the pipe. It’s a tainted locale now. He was knifed in this selfsame spot.

Dudley smoked opium. It stamped his travel visa and whooshed him off to wispy locales. Stopover, Baja. Seaside Ensenada appears.

There’s shoreline coves. There’s Jap subs stashed out of sight. Nitroglycerin explodes. There’s Carlos Madrano — now particulate waste.

There’s Tommy Glennon. He’s wearing a sombrero and bullfighter chaps. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle mewl. They’ve been transmogrified to dos perros. There’s no dead prey for their master. There’s Elmer Jackson, bad shot and bumptious trash.

Dudley smoked opium. He succumbed to pictures and colors. His mind still logically tracked.

Stopover, Beverly Hills. Claire De Haven’s Colonial manse. The Red Queen spars with the Cop Arriviste.

They express inimical views. They walk upstairs. There’s the too-bright bedroom sun. He counts the freckles on Claire’s back.

Stopover, Dublin.

His trek to the New World. Joe Kennedy and Father Coughlin wave. Uncle Joe donates gun money. J. J. Cantwell funnels it to Republican causes. It’s 1921. Dudley Liam Smith’s a schoolboy killer. Uncle Joe says he’ll sponsor American citizenship.