12:39 p.m.

Nothing before this moment exists. The war is coming. I’m going to enlist.

I wrote those words in this same spot, seventeen days ago. I knew the war to be inevitable, and believed that I could control the onslaught with self-directed actions and statements of intent. Callow girl. Look at your face in the mirror and convincingly state that you believe it now.

Scotty Bennett has enlisted. I doubt that Pacific duty can match his two weeks as a wartime-hire policeman. I received a letter from Scotty a few hours ago; he wrote it en route to the Marine Corps recruit depot. There was no mention of Dudley Smith, the Watanabe murder case, the alleged killer he shot in Chinatown, his daring raid on The Werewolf’s den or any other heinous errands he might have undertaken while under the Dudster’s spell. He did not mention the graph summary that he sent to Hideo Ashida at great risk, or reveal that his flight to the war was a horrified repudiation of evil and his own compliance with it. He stated that he will seek to serve his country as a combat chaplain’s assistant and thanked me for the love I gave him the month America entered the war and he became a policeman.

I wept then. I retrieved the Saint Christopher medal that I received at Trinity Lutheran Church in 1929. I know that I will never see Scotty Bennett again. I will wear the medal until I learn that he has returned safely or that he has died.

I did not know Scotty seventeen days ago. I did not know William H. Parker, Hideo Ashida or Claire De Haven. I had not enlisted in a political pogrom and had not maneuvered at a dozen levels of allegiance and betrayal. I had not perpetrated a shakedown on a noted public official, nor had I fought for my life with a jailhouse shiv. The war gave me this. It came to me in the form of a man who misread the war with his own self-directed actions and statements of intent. I am in no way comforted by the knowledge that Captain William H. Parker was every bit as reckless and foolish as I.

I’ve called Hideo’s apartment repeatedly and gotten no answer. He betrayed me, he betrayed Claire, he betrayed a film venture that would have exposed the brutal blood libel of his people. I called him because we’re at war and I’ve been imbued with a heightened understanding of instant allegiance and sudden betrayal. I’ve called Claire repeatedly and gotten no answer. I betrayed her. I betrayed my best ideals. I betrayed Claire’s courage to confront injustice and her ability to surmount sophistry and acute dissipation.

I’ve called Saul Lesnick’s office. I’ve left messages with his secretary, and gotten no calls back. I called Reynolds Loftis and talked to him. He told me that Claire came to believe that I was a police informant. Reynolds said, “Claire thought you possessed stunning artistry, but no character or conviction.” He asked me if I was a police informant. I said, “Yes.” He said, “You silly thing,” and hung up.

I cannot cite the war to rebuff Claire’s indictment. It’s an accurate brief of my life to date.

The war. This storm. This storm that now indicts me.

Dudley Smith and his graph. Land grabs and the dead Watanabes. Lee Blanchard kills a gangland witness. Fletch Bowron’s drunken goose step. A rumor Brenda shared with me. Dudley smokes opium in Ace Kwan’s basement.

I miss Scotty. I miss Hideo. I miss Claire. The Passion of Joan of Arc is playing at the Filmarte Theatre. I’m going to see it and think of her.

I think of Dudley. He shadows me. I keep seeing him trading looks with Bette Davis. Lovers’ glances across a dance floor.

The war. My own Japanese invasion. Hideo. The Goleta Inlet. Submarines, from Monterey to Mexico. The jail suicides. Goro Shigeta in the phone booth. I don’t know where Lee is. I would guess that he’s out with the posse. The men are wearing shrunken heads. Lee bought one for a car ornament.

I don’t know where Hideo is. We share a love for a perfidious boxer with big buck teeth.

The war. Rash acts and injustice. I possess stunning artistry, but no character or conviction. I miss the people I’ve betrayed and who’ve betrayed me. I know only two things. America will win the war, and I’m alone with William H. Parker.