9:16 a.m.

I was bored. I “possessed stunning artistry, but no character or conviction.” I was tired of looking at my new face. My leftist friends refused to talk to me. Hideo Ashida wasn’t answering his telephone. There were no men I could sleep with out of early-wartime ennui. Elmer and Brenda were out in the vapors of police work and prostitution. Lee was back from “Blood Alley” and was working the overflow of Japanese prisoners at the Lincoln Heights jail. The first showing of The Passion of Joan of Arc was scheduled for 11:00 a.m. I kept hearing Claire’s words and kept thinking of Dudley Smith. I kept hearing my own words: do everything or do nothing. I smoked and paced the house. I was coming out of my skin.

The house itself drove me crazy. Its perfection affirmed my shallow concerns. I thought of Scotty and reread his letter. I read the paper, three times. Wake Island fell to the Japs. The escaped Japs were mowed down in San Diego County. A Filipino man heard a song called “Johnny the Jap Killer” on the radio and took it as a sign from God. He promptly left his house, found a Japanese man and stabbed him to death. The man was really Chinese.

I was bored. Boredom is a common state for shallow folks like me. We become vexed and capitulate to antic notions. I looked up “Bleichert, Dwight W.” in the central directory and called the number just to hear Bucky’s voice. His “Hello?” was slightly harried and mid-range baritone. I hung up the phone, giggling. I felt ridiculous.

Christmas Eve was tonight. I had no plans and had received no invitations. There was no Christmas tree surrounded by wrapped gifts at the Blanchard-Lake home. My only plan was to spin the late Beethoven quartets and conjure the winter-locked prairie.

I went driving. I looked out at everything and engaged the act of memorization. I glimpsed odd people. Yes, I will remember him. Yes, I’ll remember her. You don’t know me and don’t know that I have anointed you. I will feel less alone as I recall your face twenty years from now.

I drove east to Belmont High; I envisioned Bucky and Hideo on the playing field and Jack Webb scrounging votes for class president. A wino weaved by me on the sidewalk. I got out of the car and handed him five dollars. He did a gleeful dance step and embarrassed me. I got back in the car and drove to Hollywood.

The theater was just opening up; I bought my ticket and settled into a balcony seat. I saw a few people sitting below me: vagabond artistes with no place to go the day before Christmas.

The movie began. I slouched into my seat and slipped off my shoes. The film stock was grainy and flecked; the music ran out of line with the images. I watched Renée Falconetti as Joan of Arc and saw her concurrently as Claire Katherine De Haven. Claire as Joan spoke to me and castigated me for my inaction. I felt her fury. Devout Joan, plaintive Joan, Joan roused to quixotic rage. My options were do everything or do nothing. My stunning artistry trumped my weak character and lack of conviction.

I ran out of the theater. I dashed through the lobby, half-blind with tears. A tall man in a tweed suit brushed by me. I got a momentary sense that it was Dudley Smith, but discarded that delirious notion. It was raining. The weather gave me the option to run somewhere and hide in plain sight. I got my car and drove to Little Tokyo. It was just the right distance away. There was time to concentrate on the wet streets and compose myself.

The Friendly Moon Teahouse provided a destination. It was a venerable J-town spot, and had become a cop’s hangout during the first two weeks of the roundups. That was arbitrary and grossly unfair—but the owner and all of his people had been spared incarceration. Why? The rice cakes were legendary, and the owner let the cops bring in jugs.

Little Tokyo was preholiday still; Lee told me that the Feds were on hiatus until the big roundup commenced after New Year’s. The PD’s Alien Squad had been yanked and put on hold for 1/2/42 sweeps.

February ’42 loomed as brutal. The “mass evacuation” and transport to the camps, the FBI’s phone-tap probe on the PD. This storm. All the people I knew would be tossed through it.

I parked at the curb and ducked rain into the café; I hung my coat on the rack by the door and heard someone say “Miss Lake.” I turned and saw Ward Littell, sitting at a window table. He had a pot of tea and a plate of rice cakes in front of him; he motioned toward an empty chair.

I walked over and sat down. Littell said, “I’m taking a break from Mariko Ashida.”

I said, “I know she’s difficult. Hideo’s told me stories.”

Littell poured me tea. “I’m an orphanage boy. I take family where I can get it.”

“I’ve forgotten what my own family looks like.”

“They probably look like you, before that new nose of yours.”

I laughed and lit a cigarette. “You were very considerate to Claire and me at the booking. This is a good opportunity for me to thank you, so I will.”

Littell said, “You and Dot Rothstein are the talk of the L.A. Office, along with Dudley Smith, Bill Parker and whatever sort of devil’s deal they cut to get you and the others released.”

He was fishing for gossip. I sidestepped him with a query.

“You’ll be out of your cushy assignment soon. The Ashidas will be detained, and I’m wondering how that will sit with you.”

“Not so soon for the Ashidas, I’m happy to say. Dudley Smith pulled strings and got them yanked from the arrest-and-detain list. They’ll be escorted to a private train compartment at the last second.”

I smiled. “Hideo’s valuable. Powerful men are indebted to him.” Littell smiled. A decorous silence passed. I thought of Dudley Smith, ubiquitous. I pictured papal conclaves, 1514. It’s the time of the Augsburg Confession. Luther is poised at Wittenberg and must be dealt with. The Dudster is dispatched on horseback. Agreements are sealed and heads secretly roll.

“What do you know about Dudley Smith, Mr. Littell?”

“Everything and nothing. He rigs evidence routinely, or only as a desperate last measure. He does favors for people. He kills people or doesn’t kill people. The Watanabe case is either fishy or kosher, depending on who you talk to. It doesn’t matter either way, because the grand jury just handed down a true bill.”

I crushed my cigarette. “And that’s all you know?”

Littell smiled and twirled his teacup. “There’s the rumor that he’s sleeping with Bette Davis. Which I choose not to believe, because I’ve always enjoyed Miss Davis’ work.”

I laughed. A woman at the counter called out. “Your office, Mr. Littell.”

Littell got up and took the call; I sipped tea and ate the two remaining rice cakes. Littell came back, holding his raincoat and hat.

He said, “I should be going. I’m due in court.”

I stood up and offered my hand. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Littell. And thank you. You were gracious beyond the occasion.”

“Take care of yourself, Miss Lake. And try to be careful.”

I smiled. Littell put on his coat and hat and walked into the rain. I sat at the table and watched the clouds break. I thought of Scotty and Christmas dinner at boot camp. I squeezed my Saint Chris medal.

The sun appeared. I walked outside and dawdled in front of the store next door. It was more than a curio shop and less than a gallery. Beautiful tapestries were displayed in the window, along with a shelf of painted Kabuki masks.

The faces were artfully rendered, paint on sculpted wood. The features were indistinguishable—except one.

I caught the resemblance immediately. It was a martyr’s mask. It commemorated a ravaged lost soul. The mask derived from theatrical tradition. It purportedly summoned just vengeance and eased the ravaged-soul bearer to rest.

The painted features depicted Goro Shigeta. He was shot and killed in a phone booth, about ten days ago. I’d seen his picture in the papers. The case remained unsolved.

I walked in and bought the mask. It cost thirty-two dollars. The cash-register girl disapproved of the purchase. It was quite plain to me.