Ashida braced a new tread set. It was a grass-gravel imprint. He adjusted the arc light. He laid down his calipers and tape.
He squatted low. He got naked-eye bingo: Something’s different here.
It was diamond tread. The Watanabes’ Dodge had sawtooth tread. This was separate-car tread. He was naked-eye sure.
Something’s familiar. He’d seen it before. He knew that tread.
Ashida ran out to his car. He dug in the glove box and skimmed his bulletin stack. He knew it was recent. The diamond-tread Goodyear—
December 11, 10, 9, 8—
There:
Sunday, December 7, 5:45 a.m. A Sheriff’s car-on-bicycle job. 4600 Valley Boulevard. Four-person hit-and-run.
It’s dark out. They’re clipped from behind. Three teenaged boys survive. The group’s leader expires.
Jim Larkin. Dead at Queen of Angels. The bulletin photo matches the driveway tracks. The same tread. The same wear pattern. The same impression depth.
December 7. Pearl Harbor morning. 5:45 a.m. The morning after the Watanabe snuffs.
That car, in this driveway. The driveway was roped off from Sunday a.m. on. That car, those tires, this driveway—sometime before that.
Ashida read the whole bulletin. His hands shook and jumbled the words. An eyeball witness said this:
The suspect’s car hit-and-ran. It almost looked deliberate. The car was black. That’s it for vehicle ID.
But:
A white man’s arm dangled out the window. The man wore a purple sweater. End of description—that’s all of it.
2:16 a.m.
Scotty fumbled with me.
He showed up an hour ago. His hands were bruised; his suit was wrinkled; he wore a shoulder-holstered gun. My wartime lover. The “first emergency hire” of the Los Angeles PD.
He had surveilled me late Wednesday night; he had observed my date with Hideo Ashida. I should have been furious—but something made me step back from it.
My rough boy was distraught. He bolted three quick scotches, carried me upstairs and went at my body. He’d start to kiss me, stop and burrow into me. He’d get up and adjust the curtains to further contain us.
The bedroom is dark. We can’t read each other. It’s as if we’re back in the blackout.
I put my hand on Scotty’s chest and felt him pulsing. I said, “Tell me.”
He said, “I was waiting outside here, way late Wednesday night. I’d just got sworn in. I wanted to tell you before someone else did. You came home, but you went out again, and I wanted to get things straight in my mind before I told you. Then you drove to Linny’s and met Ashida. He was at the ceremony, so I knew you knew.”
I smoothed his hair and undid his holster. He relaxed a bit. I placed his holster on a bedside chair.
“I was angry at you for following me. But I understand it now.”
Scotty said, “I like Ashida okay, but he’s a Jap. I wanted to tell you, but when you saw me outside Linny’s, I knew he’d tell you and take it away from me.”
I said, “I’m sorry. And you know I couldn’t have known.”
“I know. But there’s a war on, and he’s a Jap. It’s like I said the other night. You spread yourself pretty thin.”
I touched Scotty’s face. His eyes were wet. I brushed away tears.
Scotty trembled. He said, “I killed a man. I thought I’d join the Marines and shoot Japs on some island. I killed a Chinaman instead.”
His tremors moved to my body.
“What happened? How did it happen?”
He said, “Ace Kwan’s niece was killed. The guy who did it went after Dudley, so I shot him.”
“And?”
“There’s no ‘and,’ Kay. That’s all I’m supposed to say. You can read about it in the Mirror. Dud gave Sid Hudgens the exclusive.”
I rolled away from him. There was Dudley Smith and Lee; Dudley Smith, Lee, and Abe Reles. “The canary can sing, but he can’t fly.” Coney Island and a drop out that window. A dead Chinaman now.
Scotty rolled into me. His breath subsided. He’d said it.
The bed was disarrayed. I pulled the covers over us and felt the hitch that signified Scotty’s drifting to sleep. A five-day love affair and this body’s knowledge already. The hitch felt safe.
Scotty slept. I turned on the bedside lamp and moved the beam away from him. I got out the tract I stole from Claire De Haven’s.
The title was Fascist Harvest. An L.A. policeman’s badge was pictured below it.
The prose style was luminous by propaganda-tract standards. The introduction rehashed beefs pertaining to Chief Jim Davis. It was stale stuff—but then the author riveted me.
Davis was abetted in his repressive enforcement schemes. The brains and “oppressive mind-set” behind them belonged to his administrative aide. The aide was a ruthlessly ambitious and incandescently brilliant lieutenant named William H. Parker.
Lieutenant Parker was an exceedingly gifted attorney-at-law. Lieutenant Parker utilized his legal prowess to enhance his personal power within the Los Angeles Police Department and to increase political autonomy for the Los Angeles Police. These measures were couched within a disingenuous and entirely self-serving populist stance. They restricted political influence as it regarded day-to-day police work. They dashed all notions of civilian oversight on the Los Angeles Police. They set the stage for greater political-police collusion, once compliant politicians with “quasi-reformer” credentials were lured into the PD’s fold. The tract predicted the current reign of Mayor Fletch Bowron and Chief “Call-Me-Jack” Horrall, and laid the blame on the then Lieutenant William H. Parker.
Lieutenant Parker was a sterling long-term thinker. His legal mind was attuned solely to his own goals. He despised the Davises, Bowrons and Horralls of the world and facilitated their power solely to pave the way for his own ascent. He created the police regimes that he purported to despise and intended to reform at that far-ahead moment when power came to him. The author praised Parker here. He employed Marxist methods with magisterial aplomb. His city charters greatly increased the civil-service protection granted to Los Angeles police chiefs and gave them a free rein to ignore civilian interference and rule for life. Lieutenant William H. Parker was no less than the creator and sustaining force behind Police State Los Angeles and the theocrat’s utopia that he planned to build from scratch. The author of the tract knew it: “As a victim, as a citizen engaged in revolt, as an affluent woman rendered a casualty in Whiskey Bill Parker’s war.”
So, it’s personal. So, it’s all about the two of you.
The text went to memoir. Claire De Haven described an antipolice rally in Pershing Square. The date was October 11, 1935. Claire was twenty-five and organizing for the Socialist Workers Party. L.A. cops beat a Negro prisoner to death at the Lincoln Heights jail. Protests ensued.
Police influence quashed a rising hue and cry. Lieutenant Bill Parker extorted newspapermen citywide. He pledged favors if they suppressed their coverage. They did. The incident faded from public consciousness. The SWP called for a rally on October 11.
Claire was there. The rally was peacefully run. Mounted cops attacked the protesters. Lieutenant Parker commanded them. Claire saw him in jackboots and Great War tin hat. She was beaten, kicked to the ground and tossed in a paddy wagon. She was locked up on the women’s tier at the Central Station jail. I was in the jail Monday night. I was locked up with a score of Japanese women. They were commandeered in a moment of racial hysteria.
Sheriff’s matrons tended to the female prisoners. They were stripped and sprayed for lice. A very large matron with a Jewish surname took her time with Claire. She fondled Claire’s breasts, shaved her hair close, dressed her in a scratchy smock and threw her in a cell. Claire saw herself in a mirror. She had been beaten and molested. Her mirror image brought to mind Renée Falconetti in The Passion of Joan of Arc.
Claire’s lawyer father bailed her out. She fixated on the man in jackboots and glasses. She talked to a
Police Department plant. The man said, “That’s Whiskey Bill. Let me tell you about him.”
Joan of Arc. William H. Parker.
Claire kept her hair short. She viewed The Passion of Joan of Arc repeatedly. The Protestant-reared atheist converted to Catholicism. She attended Mass at Saint Vibiana’s. Lieutenant Parker worshiped there. She observed him every Sunday morning. She watched Lieutenant Parker comport with an Irish-born policeman named Dudley Smith. She saw Lieutenant Parker and Sergeant Smith laugh and joke with Archbishop Cantwell. Monsignor Joseph Hayes became her confessor. He was also Lieutenant Parker’s confessor.
The rest of the tract was pure indictment.
William H. Parker’s intent was to place Los Angeles under martial law. His reforming zeal was the fascist ethos of subordinate and control. His Catholicism was the male vituperation of the Borgias. Her Catholicism was the ecstatic revelation of Joan of Arc.
I put down the tract. Officer R. S. Bennett slept beside me. I turned off the lamp. My bedroom went war-blackout dark.
The tract was never publicly issued—I sensed that very strongly. None of the information was documented in Claire’s file. The relationship was impersonal on Parker’s side—I sensed that even more strongly. He never saw the tract or saw Claire in church. It didn’t matter. She saw Parker, just as he saw me.
Claire’s middle name was Katherine, my full first name. I had lived a version of her life. The lover beside me killed a man this very night. His presence consoled more than disturbed me.
I have lain still for hours. I am aswirl in madness and magic. I don’t know what to do next.
7:20 a.m.
Parker annotated his graphs. He felt refreshed. He fell asleep drunk and woke up sober. He reinstated The Pledge.
Blackouts/Traffic Statistics. Jot graph notes.
Status quo here. He called the Bureau an hour ago. A secretary checked his Teletypes. There was a Jap sub attack Wednesday. Goleta, north of Santa Barbara.
A “hidden” fishing village was torpedo-bombed. Dead Orientals were found. They appeared to be Chinese. The local Sheriff’s Office and Camp Roberts provost were on it.
Alien Squad/Subversive Roundups. Jot graph notes.
Status quo, again. One cross-reference.
Ward Littell was the FBI’s rogue conscience on the roundups. Ward called them a “catastrophic injustice.” He got Ward assigned to the Sheriff’s van-heist job. He called Dick Hood and wangled the assignment. He did not say the names Huey Cressmeyer and Dudley Smith. Dick called the heist “a no-leads baffler.”
Watanabe Case/Details-Chronology. Jot graph notes.
Status quo again. Four dead Japs. No news is good news. Who gives a fucking shit?
Dudley left his house last night. He stayed home and got blotto with the Archbishop. A tong kid killed Ace Kwan’s niece. Dudley lit up Chinatown. Scotty Bennett killed the niece killer. Dud gave Sid Hudgens the exclusive. It derailed his plan to co-opt Sid for Watanabe-case ink.
He packed off the Archbishop and met Sid at Lyman’s. He pitched him the notion. Sid was wowed. Sid consulted his editor and called him back this morning.
“Sorry, Bill. Ace Kwan’s Chinese and tight with Fletch Bowron. Scotty Bennett’s a good-looking kid. The Watanabes were Japs in hate-the-Japs L.A. We’ve got space for one piece of slant-eyed ink—and Ace and Scotty are it.”
Buzz Meeks was on the van heist and the Watanabe job. Buzz Meeks was uncowed by Dudley Smith. The alleged house and farm purchases troubled Meeks.
Who gives a shit? It was Dudley’s case. Dudley was Call-Me-Jack’s boy.
Lake/De Haven. Jot graph notes.
He couldn’t. It was all invisible. The Fifth Column worked invisibly. His challenge was to render their treason coherent. Kay Lake was his vehicle. She will show how words and thoughts poison the human spirit with systematically criminal intent. Kay Lake will say This is the Evil of the Mind. This is how mass murder evolves from sordid dramaturgy. This is God reviled in the name of social critique.
This redeems him for the squalor he himself perpetrated. This redeems him for his actions under Jim Davis. This is how he will cleanse this great city.
The phone rang. Parker unhooked the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Fred Kalmbach in Evanston, Bill. I hope you’ve got a pen handy.”
Parker said, “Go ahead, please.”
“She’s Joan Woodard Conville. That’s C, O, N, V, I, L, L, E. She’s twenty-six, with a date-of-birth of 4/17/15. She graduated from the West Suburban Hospital Nursing School in ’37. She got her B.S. in biology at Northwestern, while you were here in ’40. She’s from Tomah, Wisconsin. The most recent lead I’ve got is that she moved to Los Angeles, which seems like it might make you happy. That’s all I’ve got for current whereabouts.”
Parker scrawled it on Lake/De Haven. The doorbell rang. He jerked and dropped his pen. The phone connection died.
The bell persisted. Some fool leaned on it. Parker walked out and opened the door.
It’s Hideo Ashida. He’s the sole Jap on the city tit. He’s holding two photo bulletins up.
Ashida looked at Parker. He held the bulletins side by side. He went Look, Captain, look.
Parker looked. He saw two bulletins. They showed two tire tracks. Identical tread patterns, wear patterns, declivities.
An L.A. Police photo: the Watanabes’ driveway, an un-ID’d car. A Sheriff’s photo: “Larkin, James/4600 Valley Boulevard.”
Parker studied the photos. Parker linked the dots.
The Larkin job, the older man, the kid cyclists. He was there. He couldn’t sleep. He went just to look.
Ashida tapped the bulletins. “The car that hit Mr. Larkin was parked in the Watanabes’ driveway. Note the soil erosion. I’d say the tracks were made the week before they were killed.”
Parker leaned on the door. He felt weightless. The door held him up.
“I was there that morning. I heard the squawk and drove over. An object fell out of Larkin’s pocket as they put him in the ambulance. It was a Luger grip embossed with a swastika.”
Ashida tapped the Larkin photo. “There’s an eyeball-witness description of the man driving the car. He was white and wearing a purple sweater.”
Parker crossed himself. “Why did you bring this to me?”
“Because you outrank Sergeant Smith. Because I thought you’d find it more compelling than he would.”
“Finish the thought, Doctor.”
“Because the notion of a white suspect intrigues me.”
Parker said, “It’s vehicular manslaughter. The Sheriff’s should have a full package.”
Ashida said, “It’s threadbare. They’ve got no suspects and no more information. It’s like it is with our Department. They’re swamped by the blackouts and roundups. They can’t give this job a fair shake.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that war regulations will constrain us. Larkin was a British Intelligence man, but the British embassy and Scotland Yard won’t release information without a month of back-and-forth and writs. They’ll say, ‘There’s a war on.’ They’ll say, ‘We’re being bombed, and you aren’t.’ ”
Parker said, “Tell me what else you’re thinking.”
Ashida pointed to his car. “I’m thinking that I have Mr. Larkin’s address. He lived in Santa Monica Canyon, and I doubt if the Sheriff’s have searched his house.”
Parker grabbed his house keys and shut the door. He walked straight to Ashida’s car and got in.
Ashida got in. They took Silver Lake Boulevard to Sunset. Hollywood, the Strip, Beverly Hills. Shut-the-fucking-world-out-so-you-won’t-back-down. Parker glued his eyes shut.
Sunset Boulevard went twisty. Westwood and Brentwood twisted by. The Pacific Palisades twisted by. Parker smelled the ocean.
Ashida swung south to SaMo Canyon. Those fucking monkeys. Hear-no-evil/see-no-evil. Shut-the-fucking-world-out.
Ashida stopped t
he car. Ashida said, “We’re here.”
Parker opened his eyes. Here was this:
A Japanese-style house. Low roof, cement façade, louvered windows. A sliding front door. Bonsai shrubs on the walkway.
High shrubs enclosed it. Shut-the-fucking-neighbors-out-and-get-inside-now.
They walked up to the door. Parker rang the bell and got reverberation. They waited ten seconds. Ashida jimmied the lock with some lab tool. The door slid open.
They stepped inside and slid it shut. Ashida flicked a wall switch. Here, look at this:
A small living room. A bisecting koi stream. A flat cement floor and walls lined with teak bookshelves. Japanese art and architecture. Japanese history. Sitting mats, paper lanterns.
Ashida took the lead. Parker followed him. The house was small. The connecting hall was flat cement. The one bedroom was twelve by twelve.
The bed was a floor mat. A glass wall framed an outside garden and a koi pond. Jim Larkin lived in stark beauty. Jim Larkin shut-the-fucking-world-out.
Ashida opened a closet door. Bam—just like that:
Four suits on hangers. A fuckload of German Lugers, hooked to a wallboard.
They dangled by their trigger guards. Parker counted seventeen. Ivory grips embossed with black swastikas. Red rubies inlaid.
A dresser below the guns. Two drawers only. Ashida opened the top drawer. Bam!—just like that:
A money stack. U.S. dollars, British pounds, yen and reichsmarks. Allied/Axis gelt—a fortune.
Ashida tapped the bottom drawer. Bam—just like that:
A loose-leaf binder—and nothing else.
Ashida opened it. The contents: two sheets of paper covered with Japanese script.
Jim Larkin was a white man. Jim Larkin knew Japanese.
Ashida studied the pages. Parker studied him. He’s translating now. His lips don’t move. His eyes barely do. It’s word stew to thoughts sustained. He respects the house. He’ll speak softly.
Ashida said, “I think it goes back to what Buzz Meeks brought up at the briefing. It pertains to buyouts or potential buyouts of Japanese-owned houses and farms. I’m extrapolating here, but I trust it. There’s no Japanese names listed, just initials—but the initials by and large conform to the initials of Japanese men whose names I’ve seen on the subversive lists. The addresses listed are all in Glassell Park and South Pasadena—with one exception—and that’s ‘R.W.,’ for Ryoshi Watanabe, with his address in Highland Park. Based on the tenses of the verbs, I’d say that some houses and farms were actually purchased, while, in other cases, the approaches were made, but the house and farm owners refused to sell. The amounts paid or offered are well below market value, and I have a theory about that.”