2:11 a.m.

Lee said, “It wasn’t much of a Christmas.”

I said, “No. But it’s been a hell of a month.”

We sat on my bedroom terrace and drank cask-aged scotch. It was a gift from Uncle Ace Kwan. All the posse men got a jug, a shrunken head and a free-meal chit for Kwan’s Chinese Pagoda.

Lee said, “We should fill each other in on it one of these days. Scotty’s gone off to the war, we both took some licks, and you got your face rearranged more than I did. I’ve been hiding out from you, but I know that there’s some kind of story here.”

Our chairs faced south. The clubs on the Strip had doused their lights a few minutes earlier. It was cool and clear; the late-traffic hum mesmerized me.

“Give me your version first. It’s your college term paper, and the title is ‘A Hell of a Month.’ ”

Lee said, “You’re the college girl. You’re the one who writes things down.”

I smiled and sipped Ace Kwan’s scotch. Uncle Ace and his best friend, the Dudster. All roads lead to Dudley Smith. All my thoughts circled back to him.

I said, “You’re dodging me. I know when you’ve been holding back something you’ve been teething on. There’s a perception here. We’re going to sit here and enjoy Ace Kwan’s largesse until you tell me.”

Lee swirled his drink. “Call-Me-Jack got Count Basie for the Bureau New Year’s bash. The Count clipped a black-and-white outside the Club Alabam, and the blues found reefers on him. It was our gig or six months in the clink.”

I poked his arm. “You’re dodging me. Give me the perception and we’ll go back to small talk.”

Lee put down his glass and prepared to make newspaper headlines. It was Leland C. Blanchard code—the way he ridiculed the big moments of his life before he buried them.

“Bivins Takes Blanchard in Tuff Tiff at Olympic!” “Hero Cop Rescues Gang Girl from Heist Mastermind!” “Southland’s ‘Great White Hope’ Joins L.A. Police!”

I laughed. Those were some of his best.

Lee went bam-bam-bam and said, “Epic Raw Deal for Local Japs! Ex–Heavyweight Contender Spills Beans! ‘Most of These Fuckers Didn’t Do Shit,’ Officer L. C. Blanchard Says. ‘It’s All War Fever and Hopped-up woo-woo!’ ”

I applauded the sentiment and the performance. Lee bowed and went back to his drink. He said, “This war’s leaving me behind. Dud’s going into the Army as a goddamn captain, while I herd Japs who didn’t do shit into cattle cars and pop winos on skid row. You’ll be entertaining the troops in the sack, and you’ll probably write a book about it.”

He stopped and made more headlines. “Home-front Courtesan Tells All in Racy Memoir! Southland Holds Its Breath as She Names Names.”

I exploited the opening Lee gave me. I said, “Let’s start with the name Dudley Smith.”

Lee crashed. He simply gave out. He said, “Oh shit, babe.”

I said, “You can do better than that.”

He said, “Come on, Kay.”

I made newspaper headlines—bam-bam-bam in the air.

“Irish Cop Beats Man to Death at Newton Station!” “Irish Cop Frames Werewolf! Gas-Chamber Bounce Looms!” “Irish Cop Suborns Young Cops into Rogue Cop Coven!” “Kid Cop Flees to Perilous War Duty! Fears Sergeant D. L. Smith More than Japs!”

Lee said, “Come on, Kay. Dudley’s Dudley, and the world needs guys like him.”

He was tired. He was beaten. The war, the roundups, his fight with Scotty. His trip to New York City, mid-November. He killed a man with the Dudster. He could have fought him or said no. There were options, but he was beaten, and he had me to come home to. And I possessed stunning artistry, but no character or conviction. And I was too possessed by his world of vile intrigue to exercise my own option to leave him.

Lee rolled his eyes. I was boring him. I was besieging him with schoolgirl idealism. He rolled his eyes; he checked his watch; he gave me this look. Come on, Kay. Come on, Kay. Come on, Kay.

I made headlines—bam-bam-bam.

“Ex-Boxer Cop Slays Gangland Witness! Canary Can Sing, But He Can’t Fly!” “Slaying Facilitates Mobster’s Jail Release!” “Ex-Boxer Cop Whimpers to Irish Cop: I’m Just a Boy Who Can’t Say No.”

Lee threw his glass over the terrace; it shattered down on the driveway. He kicked over his chair and looked at me. He wasn’t outraged or hurt. He was just beaten. I knew what he’d say before he said it. He said, “Goddamn you, Kay.”

It was all he had. He left me alone with it. He walked into the house and out of the house and slammed doors as he went. He got into his car and slammed the door and burned rubber down to the Strip.

He left me alone with Dudley Smith.