Джеймс Эллрой - This Storm

There’s a Grafton Street skirmish. Schoolboy Smith shoots three Black-and-Tans. Their faces explode.

Dudley trembled. He dropped the pipe, the pallet shook, the colors and pictures dispersed. He saw Tommy Glennon as he looks today.

Another wayward Irish lad. A Coughlinite, a rape-o, a snitch.

Tommy at that costume party. Brentwood, winter ’39. The Jewish Maestro’s home, sublet. Nazi antics reenacted. Orgiastic overtones. Sturmbannführer D. L. Smith injudiciously attends.

Dudley fought back jitters. He reached for his pipe. He saw an envelope on the floor.

Popped through a door crack. A colored envelope. A Western Union telegram.

Dudley slit the envelope and read it. The tone was brusque. The gist was this:

It’s an active-duty summons. We’re calling you in, early. Report to the Special Intelligence Service command post in Ensenada, NOW.

Thumps. Muted squeals. Dream fade — you’re half in, half out.

Murmurs now. Singsong voices. You’re more out than in.

They’re foreign voices. They’re all female and all Jap. It’s a movie encore. It’s that film they show Navy recruits.

Know Your Foe. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Jap Women Report to Jap Men.

Joan woke up. She assessed it all, quicksville.

Booze blackout. You’re driving up the coast road. Then something happens. Now you’re HERE.

A jail cell. A hard bunk. Her scuffed palms. Her rumpled uniform.

She heard real voices. She distinguished them and counted five altogether. There were five Jap matrons, crammed in a cell down the tier.

Joan stood up and stretched. The Jap ladies stared at her. Joan stared right back.

They looked down and went I’m so humble. Joan looked past them. She saw dawn out a window and more goddamn rain.

No purse, no cigarettes. This goddamn cell. Odd aches and pains.

Joan tucked her blouse in. She flexed her hands and smoothed out her coat and skirt. She stood by the front bars and willed panache.

A door clanged. A uniformed cop walked up. He was midsized and slight. Joan loomed over him.

Captain’s bars and three hashmarks. Wire-rim glasses. They magnified his dark brown eyes. He’d never be handsome. He’d always be unnerving.

So, it’s you. Northwestern — spring 1940.

He said, “Lieutenant Conville.”

A prairie drawl. The Dakotas, maybe.

Joan said, “We haven’t met, but I’ve seen you before.”

“My name’s Parker. I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department. I command the Traffic Division.”

“Acknowledge me, will you? ‘I’ve seen you before.’ ”

Parker gripped the bars. “You might well have. I checked your enlistment file. We attended Northwestern concurrently.”

Joan gripped the bars. Their hands were close. Joan moved hers away.

“Can you be more emphatic? You seemed to be surveilling me then.”

Parker got out his cigarettes and offered the pack. Joan took one. Parker lit it.

Joan tossed her head and exhaled. It telegraphed vamp move. She felt stupid and out of her league.

“What happened? Why am I here?”

Parker lit a cigarette. “You’ve been arrested for four counts of vehicular manslaughter. Four men are dead because you drove inebriated in a heavy rainstorm. If you’re lucky, you’ll do five years at Tehachapi.”

Joan stepped back. She grazed the bunk ledge and almost tripped. She caught herself and stepped back up to the bars.

“I need a lawyer. I’ll be charged and arraigned, and there’ll be a trial.”

Parker said, “I’ve had some experience with this sort of matter. Most inebriate killers evince regret or remorse and ask questions about the people they killed. You went to your own survival immediately. I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.”

Joan gripped the bars. Her hands brushed Parker’s. She kept them there.

“Tell me about the people I killed. I’ll react, and you can decide whether to be impressed or appalled then.”

Parker said, “They were Mexican illegals. They were transporting marijuana, and had extensive criminal records. Their offenses included strongarm robbery, aggravated assault, kidnapping, white slavery, and first-degree extortion.”

Joan dropped her cigarette and crushed it. “I’m evincing regret now. I can’t quite embrace remorse.”

Parker grinned a tad. “You’re a cum laude forensic biologist. A prison sentence would scotch whatever degree of success you might ultimately achieve.”

“You’re leading me, Captain. There’s something going on here.”

“Oh, really ? And what would that be?”

Joan winked. “ Really, sir? It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Lieutenant, now you’re lead—”

“I was shooting skeet off the Evanston Bridge. You were watching me. I thought, That man should go home and be nice to his wife, because his attention has surely strayed.”

Parker blushed. It was almost but not quite endearing.

“You rid the world of four vicious thugs. I’ll extend muted bravos, and add that all opportunities carry a price. If you resign your Navy commission, I’ll see to a dismissal of all charges against you. I’ll secure you a position with the PD’s Central Crime Lab and personally vouch your wartime employment.”

Booze blackouts, skeet guns, cop voyeurs—

“Is this your métier, Captain? Have you made a career out of entrapping young women?”

Parker said, “I’ve only done it once before.”

“And when was that?”

Parker said, “Last month.”

Joan laughed. “I’ve read monographs by your Dr. Ashida. I greatly admire them.”

“Would you like to meet Dr. Ashida?”

Joan said, “When?”

Parker said, “Now.”

The bash felt stale now. ’41 was old news. ’42 was au courant.

Nobody danced. Count Basie’s boys dozed in their chairs. A few cops and dates schmoozed. A buffet dispensed Bloody Marys and stale bagels.

Lee Blanchard was out cold. He topped out his bodyguard shift. The dead kids got to him. He hit the party and drank himself insensate.

The day-shift man was due. Elmer J. always ran late. Blanchard said he had late work with the Dudster.

Thad Brown circulated. He ran the Homicide Squad. Kay Lake circulated. She was the PD’s favored seductress. Brenda Allen table-hopped. She ran call girls with Elmer. Jack Horrall and Fletch Bowron dozed on a couch. The Count dozed with them. His head brushed the mayor’s shoulder.

The dead kids.

Ashida teethed on it. He teethed each and every split second. He sipped coffee and stayed alert.

Bill Parker issued a gag order. No reporters, no public exposure. Four male wetbacks, muerto. It stands at THAT. The Navy woman must not know.

Parker called Catholic Charities. He had oomph there. A private hearse hauled the kids off.

Parker admonished Blanchard and Ashida. I demand silence. Do not talk about this.

Ashida trawled the room. The Count was up and bleary-eyed. He chatted with Kay. La Grande Katherine looked up-all-night fetching.

Brenda Allen blew a kiss. Ashida waved back. Colored sax men fish-eyed him. Yeah — we ain’t white, but you’re a JAP.

Elmer walked over. He straddled a chair and drained Blanchard’s highball.

“Sorry I’m late. Dud had us hopping.”

Ashida sipped coffee. “You tend to be overextended.”

Elmer said, “It’ll get worse, starting tomorrow. The roundups’ll kick in again, and your few remaining countrymen on the loose’ll be headed for the pokey.”