Claire said, “We’ll discuss the matter tomorrow.” She looked away from me and scanned the room. She blinked as she saw Saul Lesnick holding a medical bag.
Claire looked back to me. She said, “I’m committed to the film. I hope the lovely Dr. Ashida will participate.”
We stood up to say good-bye for now. I stepped into Claire’s shadow and let her be altogether more woman than I. She whispered, “Red becomes you, Comrade,” and touched my waist.
She vanished then. She dipped between two men and reappeared on the staircase with Saul Lesnick. Her good-bye trumped me and left me breathless. I sat down and shut my eyes.
The room spun. Beverly Hills became Pearl Harbor eight days ago. I’d stopped at the Beverly Canon before the party. I caught the newsreel sandwiched between the two features. I saw footage of the Arizona aflame and Japanese planes strafing Wheeler Field. They mowed down a little boy who could have been Japanese.
A Marine was hawking war bonds in the lobby; he told me he was shipping out for Pearl the next week. He saluted a Navy ensign sharing a bag of popcorn with a woman. I recognized them from the L.A. Times society page and the backwash of my own life. The ensign was Jittery Joe Kennedy’s playboy son; the woman was Ellen Drew. She costarred in Paramount turkeys and part-time whored for Brenda Allen. Ellen looked at me. She whispered, “That little boy,” and started crying. It embarrassed Ensign Jack.
The room spun; I kept my eyes shut; I had a sense of Hideo Ashida adrift, a few feet away.
“I spoke to Mr. Rachmaninoff. He isn’t very nice.”
It was Andrea Lesnick speaking. I opened my eyes and motioned her to sit down. She kicked off her shoes and sat with her legs tucked under her. She wore nose-pinching glasses. I sensed her sensing us as jilted girls at loose ends.
I said, “He’s the maestro. He doesn’t have to be nice.”
“All I did was ask him to play a favorite piece of mine.”
“If it was the C-sharp Prelude, you probably touched a nerve.”
“I might have confused him with another composer.”
“That couldn’t have helped.”
Andrea laughed and lit a cigarette. Her movements precisely mimicked her father’s. It was astonishing to observe.
My purse sat between us. I reached in and tapped the switch on the recorder. Andrea failed to notice it.
I said, “I’m in analysis with your father. I don’t know if I should be talking with you. It might comprise an ethical breach.”
Andrea said, “Don’t be naïve. Papa’s driving me to Malibu after the party. All I’ll have to do is say, ‘Your analysand, Miss Lake. Give me the goods, pretty please.’ I’ll know more about you than you know about yourself by the time we get to the beach.”
“Well, now I know who to go to for gossip.”
Andrea said, “It isn’t me. I’ve been to the penitentiary, so I hate snitches. The Feds tried to get me to snitch Claire and her people, but I refused. Papa snitched to get me out, but he doesn’t know that I know. I’m impolitic, you see—but I’m not an informant. It’s not betrayal if you supply the information voluntarily, and without malice. I’ve been to the Lincoln Heights jail and Tehachapi, so I understand these things. Papa thinks I’m naïve, but I’m not. He blames himself for me going to jail, but I settled my own hash on that one. He’s just a self-absorbed little Communist, and he thinks everything evolves from him. I’m horrible, aren’t I? I play on my papa’s guilt and get everything I want out of him.”
She talked with her hands and waved her cigarette in time. Her dress was dusted with old ash burns.
“Does Claire know that your father informed on her? Do any of her people know?”
“Of course not. It’s not betrayal if you hold your mud and don’t say anything. Hold your mud is a penitentiary term. I got it from the lezzies at Tehachapi. They all looked liked Dust Bowl refugees, except that they’re fat. They liked to watch the regular girls take showers, so now I only take baths when Papa tells me to. The worst lezzie was this Sheriff’s matron named Dot Rothstein. She tried to get the regular girls to do things with a bar of soap shaped like a prick.”
I shut my eyes. Please stop talking. Please don’t think I’m like you.
Andrea said, “You think you’re unique, but you’re not. Everybody shuts their eyes when I talk about lezzies and the penitentiary. Everybody thinks I’m crazy, so don’t think you’re unique. It doesn’t make me bad that I did it with girls. You think I’m crazy, but I’m just impolitic. I only did it with girls a few times, and I’m not a snitch.”
I opened my eyes. Andrea’s dress was covered with ash; I started to brush it off, then pulled my hand back. A waiter walked by with a drink tray. Andrea stood up and grabbed two whiskies. She said, “Don’t think you’re unique,” and walked away.
I shut my eyes. I pretended that I was out on the town with Ellen Drew and Jack Kennedy. We went to the Trocadero; Dudley Smith and Bette Davis twirled by us on the dance floor. Ellen, Jack and I—quite the cutups. We had a late supper at Dave’s Blue Room and rice cakes in Little Tokyo. There were no Jap roundups. There was no Andrea Lesnick, no Bill Parker, no Claire De Haven. I was very far away from this goddamn room.
The party noise subsided. I opened my eyes and saw the two Lesnicks walk out, draped around a comradely Sergei Rachmaninoff. He kissed the tops of their heads and made way for Hideo Ashida to walk out in front of them. I’d wanted to kiss Hideo good night, with an audience present. It didn’t matter now—because I was a snitch.
Claire was gone. There was no one I wanted to bid good night or felt compelled to entrap. I gathered up my purse and coat and walked outside with a group of alleged Fifth Column strangers. The strangers dispersed in front of the house; I walked across the street to my car.
William H. Parker stepped out of the car parked behind mine. William H. Parker, in his slack uniform. William H. Parker, unsteady on his feet. William H. Parker, with no place to go at 2:00 a.m. William H. Parker, with nothing to do—except entrap me.
I walked up to him. William H. Parker, with his bourbon breath. William H. Parker, unshaven. William H. Parker, with his skivvies exposed and his shirt on inside out. William H. Parker, with his drooping gun belt.
I said, “How fucking dare you.” I said, “I’m more Red than Claire De Haven, so indict me.” I said, “If you saw me kiss Hideo Ashida, I meant it.”
I called him a voyeur and a malicious martinet. I cursed his malevolent God and his sexless marriage. I was this close to him. I smelled the stale urine on his trousers. I asked him how often he passed out and pissed himself. I damned him for knowing how lonely I was and for exploiting my grotesque need for adventure. I was this close to him. I saw the spit bubbles on his lips and the caked grime at his collar. I saw the chain for the cross around his neck. I saw a film of tears over his eyes.
I must have shouted. House lights went on behind us. Parker did not move, Parker did not speak, Parker did not flinch or offer rebuttal.
More house lights went on. I willed Claire’s lights to flare and expose us—and failed. I called Parker a parasite and a vampire. I brought up fresh invective and felt my voice crack. Parker was this close to me. I knew that he would never flinch or lower his eyes. I had no voice to extend the indictment.
I snapped first. I wheeled and got into my car as Parker stood mute. I smoked and watched the house lights dim over X number of minutes or hours. I checked my rearview mirror and saw that he’d gone. I cursed him for leaving me.
Two upstairs lights flared within Claire’s house. I stared at the window brackets and willed movement. I succeeded this time.
Reynolds Loftis and Chaz Minear kissed. Claire pranced in a kimono. She had dyed her hair jet black.
They walked out of the light and left me alone. I became frightened. I conjured Bucky, Lee, Scotty, Hideo, Brenda and Elmer to keep me company. William H. Parker pushed his way in with them. I cursed him and banished him. He refused to go away.
I thought of A
ndrea Lesnick. I played the recording of her crazy remarks and indictment of me. It was worse than being scared and alone. I’d forgotten to turn off the device; the recording included a long pause and my tantrum spewed at Bill Parker. I sounded picayune and entirely ununique.
My voice faded into hoarse whispers and silence. I turned off the device and laid my head on the steering wheel. I didn’t want to go home. I tried to sleep and grasped for consciousness every time I got close.
X number of hours brought dawn. Milk trucks made their rounds; children skipped off to school. Music drifted over from Claire’s house. A small ensemble played “Perfidia.”
8:17 a.m.
Women.
Joan Woodard Conville and Kay Lake—persistent distractions. Bette Davis—hard to ignore.
Parker stood on the parade lawn. The Academy was hosting a biiiiig war-bond rally. Miss Davis was the surprise emcee.
Flags galore. A big lawn crowd. A dais packed with local hotshots. There’s Miss Davis—sprinkling ruby dust.
Call-Me-Jack sucked in his gut. Two-Gun Davis leered. Bill McPherson stayed awake. Thad Brown and Archbishop Cantwell tittered. A biiiiiig question loomed. Why is Dudley Smith here?
Miss Davis strolled the dais. She moved man to man. She touched arms and left lifelong crushes. She curtsied for His Eminence. She moved on to Dudley. He stroked her leg under the table.
It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. How COULD it be?
Folding chairs covered the lawn. The crowd was half cops, half paying stiffs. Parker took his seat. He was dead-to-rights, far-gone shot to shit.
The sun burned his eyes. His head throbbed. His uniform chafed. Miss Conville and Miss Lake crawled around inside him.
He crawled away from Miss Lake and drove to Saint Vibiana’s. The night watchman unlocked the sanctuary. He prayed for three hours straight.
He invoked the Holy Trinity and revoked The Thirst. He recited abstinence prayers. He emptied his backup jug outside the church.
He drove to the Bureau and cleaned up. He was emaciated. He’d worn his uniform shirt inside out.
He put on a fresh uniform. He brushed his teeth bloody. The duty sergeant brought him an envelope.
He opened it. His hands shook and tore the flap. The Northwestern cops delivered. There’s Joan Woodard Conville.
There was one snapshot. It was backside-annotated. “Bowler, Wisconsin. 5/23/39.”
She sat on a split-rail fence. She wore a plaid shirt, high boots and jodhpurs. Her hair was cinched and center-parted. She radiated a severe and breathtakingly implacable beauty.
He peeled the envelope at dawn. He’d frayed the picture already.
Bette Davis walked to the microphone. Cheers went up. She glanced at Dudley. Did the Dudster just blush?
Miss Davis spoke. The loudspeakers futzed and distorted her words. The men at the dais swooned.
“… and three wonderful new members of the Los Angeles Auxiliary Police—the Hearst Rifle Team! They will now perform a daring trick with my very own unrelated namesake, James Edgar—”
The loudspeakers refutzed. Jim Davis hopped to the lawn and fired two .45’s in the air. The crowd locomotive-cheered. A Negro man in jockey silks walked up a palomino. Parker recognized him. He played slaves in plantation films.
He helped Two-Gun Davis up on the horse. Davis kicked his spurs and charged the nag down to the edge of the lawn. He dismounted and stuck a cigarette between his lips. The crowd went nuts.
Parker scanned the dais. Call-Me-Jack wooed Miss Davis. Miss Davis smiled and rebuffed his binoculars. A balloon drifted by her. She stabbed her cigarette and popped it. The dais bigwigs cheered.
There’s the riflemen. They were crouched out of sight, hambone eager. They’re wearing ceremonial robes. They’re packing .30-06’s. They radiate Klan.
The crowd went all-the-way nuts. Parker got a jolt of the pre-shakes. Dudley stepped off the dais and vanished. Miss Davis waited ten seconds and scrammed off his cue. The Klan shits formed a line and aimed at Crazy Jim’s cigarette.
Ready, aim, fire.
Three shots went off. Tobacco exploded forty yards out. The fucking cheers hurt.
Dudley walked toward the rose garden. Miss Davis hovered a discreet distance back. The garden was gussied up with DON’T TREAD ON ME flags. MPs flanked a table stacked with war bonds.
The Klan shits went to port arms. Parker quick-walked down to the parking lot and puked in a hedge. He heard rifle shots and covered his ears.
He saw Jim Davis drill a Mexican, back in ’33. The shot missed the cigarette and took off his nose. He bled to death on the eighth hole at Wilshire Country Club.
He heard more shots and more cheers. He heard horses’ hooves on the lawn. He heard “God Bless America,” loudspeaker-canned.
He dropped his hands. He sucked in air and caught a wave of the bends. The lawn crowd dispersed and formed a bond-purchase line. He slow-walked around to the lawn.
Thad Brown was up on the dais. Call-Me-Jack and the Negro jockey traded quips. The Negro did a soft-shoe and promoted a buck off the Chief. Thad signaled Parker: See El Jefe now.
The Negro took off with his swag. Thad trailed him. Parker bolted the steps. Call-Me-Jack slid him a chair.
“You’re off the Watanabe job. Your stunt with Ace Kwan queered it. You’re lucky Ashida had a leash on you. Dud reports directly to me now. I advise you not to protest.”
Parker said, “Yes, sir.”
Jack scratched his balls. “You stay on the blackouts, the roundups, and all our war-planning work. Chinatown’s still iffy, so I’m sending Jim Davis in to lay some voodoo on the Chinks. You and Jim go back, so I want you to watchdog him.”
Parker gripped the chair slats. “I want to enlist. You’d like to get rid of me. This is your chance.”
Jack grinned. “Comedian. The fucking Marx brothers combined. First, you fuck us on those phone taps and save your pal Ashida’s job. Now, you want to blow town while the Feds crawl up our ass.”
Parker shut his eyes. Call-Me-Jack belched scotch and bitters. It reinstilled The Thirst.
“You screwed us and did us a shitload of good, Bill. We’ve got a leg up on the Feds because of you. Sid Hudgens will do a feature on the Watanabe mess when Dud clears it, which’ll notch us some publicity to offset this Fed snafu. All in all, I’m ahead on you. Don’t queer it with me like your queered it with Ace.”
Parker said, “Yes, sir.”
Sid H. waltzed the Webb kid by. Call-Me-Jack winked at them.
“Go home, Bill. You’ve got one, remember? Reacquaint yourself with the lovely Helen Schultz Parker. Remember her? I danced with her at your wedding.”
Parker stepped off the stage. Wet grass put him into a slide. He caught himself on the railing and walked to the parking lot.
Simple sunlight hurt. His uniform felt like a bug swarm. He got out the picture and caught new details.
Her teeth were slightly crooked. Her hands were as big as most men’s.
Thad Brown walked up. Parker said, “Horrall canned me.”
Thad shrugged. “Dud’ll get us a clean solve or hang it on some fiend who should have burned for deals ten times as bad. One of us will be Chief after the war, Bill. We’ll thank our lucky stars we’ve got guys like the Dudster shoveling the shit for us.”
“It rankles, Thad. Don’t tell me it wouldn’t rankle you.”
Thad shrugged. “Dud’s got four dead Japs in Highland Park. I’ve got a dead Jap in a phone booth. Dud’s got no leads because there’s a war on, and the Japs won’t talk to white cops. The same shit applies to me. A solve’s a solve, and the same thing goes for no-hopers. A dead Jap’s a dead Jap, and white cops didn’t start this war.”
Sunlight hit the photo. Most redheads had freckles. Miss Conville did not.
Thad said, “Who is she?”
Parker got out his notebook and pen. His hand trembled. Thad noticed it. Parker jotted her particulars.
“Find her for me. Will you do that?”
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Thad nodded. “Go home, Bill. Dead Japs are dead Japs. Pretend that you’re like the rest of us for a while.”
9:50 a.m.
Call-Me-Jack said, “You and Bette Davis. Jesus.”
Dudley said, “Yes, sir. Our Savior indeed.”
“How did you finagle it?”
“Gaelic charm, sir.”
“She’s the charmer. Jesus, the line’s backed up all the way to Chavez Ravine. Gene B. thinks she’ll sell fifty G’s.”
“I took her for a spin through the ravine, sir. Mexican peasants swarmed the car. It was as if the Virgin of Guadalupe had appeared.” Call-Me-Jack belched. “Sid Hudgens is writing it up. ‘Diva Davis Wows Boys in Blue. Grown Men Fall at Her Feet.’ Jesus, and you’re screwing her.”
The Chief had an on-the-grounds hideout. It featured reclining seats scrounged off a train wreck. Ben Siegel donated the bar supplies.
A window overlooked the parade lawn. A wall peek scoped the officers’ lounge. Dudley walked over and peeped the slot.
Mike, Dick and Scotty were there. Ditto the porcine Buzz. Three other men stood around. They were plainly vexed.
Jack lit a cigar. “What gives, Dud?”
Dudley leaned on the wall. “We’re nine days in on the Watanabe case, sir.”
“I read your second summary. The gist is ‘Fuck those Japs, it’s going nowhere.’ ”
Dudley said, “That’s correct, sir.”
Jack pinched a neck cyst. He was double-wide fat. Brenda Allen fucked him most Tuesdays. She said he was hung like a flea.
“I get the picture. It’s a baffler, which fucking stews you. You’d like to close it out kosher, just to say you did it. Boo hoo, boo hoo. The war upstaged you, and now I’ve got you on a clock.”
Dudley smiled. “Yes, sir. New Year’s is sixteen days off.”
Call-Me-Jack waved his cigar. “I canned Bill Parker.”
“A wise move, sir.”
“He fucked with Ace Kwan. We can’t have that. Ace is the number-one Chinaman in this white man’s town.”
Dudley said, “He is, sir.”