2:09 p.m.
She was late.
One hour and nine minutes.
She fucking stood him up.
The back room was all his. The back room was the PD’s private playpen. Mike Lyman’s Grill was open twenty-four hours. Ditto the back room.
Mike Lyman loved cops. Here’s why. Buzz Meeks iced a cholo who flashed his schvantz at Mike’s wife. Grateful Mike anointed the back room.
Spicy wall prints, a full bar, a police Teletype. A private phone line and a foldout bed for woo-woo. Brenda Allen’s girls had carte blanche. The back room was open-all-nite. It serviced a rankingcop clientele.
Parker nursed his fourth double bourbon. He’d been holed up since 8:00 a.m. Mass. The goddamn phone kept ringing. He kept ignoring it. The Lake girl knew he was here. Nobody else did.
Mass was problematic. Archbishop Cantwell had a hangover and suggested a hair of the dog. He acceded. One drink became four. Cantwell harped on Dudley Smith. The fucking Irish stuck together. Dudley missed Mass. Cantwell was fucking stood up.
Dud’s got four dead Japs, Your Eminence. It’s probably hara-kiri. Well, William—they’ll sure as shit rot in hell.
He boozed with His Eminence and went to confession. He found a box and waited. He recognized Monsignor Hayes’ voice.
His confession ran erratic. He confessed his scurrilous acts on the PD. He confessed his crush on Joan from Northwestern.
Te absolvo ergo sum. Monsignor Hayes was brusque. He was an isolationist mick, like Dudley and Cantwell. Father Coughlin’s Sunday broadcast loomed.
Parker nursed his drink. He was half in the bag. The Lake girl was one hour and twelve minutes late. The fucking phone kept ringing.
Again and again. Here it comes again. Eight rings, ten, twelve—
Parker grabbed the receiver. Fuzz hit the line. Call-Me-Jack came on.
“Are you there, Bill? I didn’t know where else to call.”
“I’m here, Chief.”
“Good. Now get over here.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what, Chief?”
“The goddamn Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”
He dropped the phone and ran. He felt the booze evaporate. He ran out the door. He ran up 8th to Broadway and cut north. He caught it all at a sprint.
The radios blaring from storefronts. The people huddled outside a hat shop with their ears cupped.
Squelch, fuzz, static, crackle, hiss.
Hawaii, sneak attack, Pacific Fleet sunk.
Thousands dead, Pearl Harbor, Pearl Harbor.
Vile, atrocious, cowardly. Fifth Column–instigated.
Japs, Japs, Japs, Japs, Japs.
Parker ran up Broadway. His suit coat flapped. He held his hat firm on his head. Herald trucks passed him. Newsboys folded quickie editions in the back. He hit 6th, 5th, 4th, 3rd, 2nd. He looked east. There’s Little Tokyo. There’s Sheriff’s bulls in riot gear, swarming the sidewalk.
Up to 1st Street. A lawn hubbub at City Hall. Cops and MPs with riot guns. Black-and-whites and jeeps, parked snout-to-snout. Strafe lights aimed at the sky.
Parker held his badge up. He stumbled on a light cord and ran toward the doors. An MP saluted and stepped aside.
The foyer was all cops and war-jazzed reporters. He walked to a freight lift and pushed 6. The doors closed. He got some breath. The sweat purge sobered him up.
The lift hit the sixth floor. He straightened his necktie and buttoned his coat. He hit the Chief’s office, squared-up.
A secretary juggled phones. Her switchboard was full-lit and full-plugged. Parker went through a side door and caught a full house.
Jack Horrall, Sheriff Biscailuz, Mayor Fletch Bowron. DA Bill McPherson—passed out, narcoleptic-style.
Call-Me-Jack was at his desk. Parker pulled a chair up. A Teletype clattered. Jack reached back and pulled out a sheet.
“This is from the Army’s Fourth Interceptor Command. There’s a fifteen-mile coastline blackout, from San Pedro, Terminal Island and Fort MacArthur north to the southwest edge of city police jurisdiction. Jap fighters could hit us at any minute, and we can’t give them lit-up coastal targets to bomb. That’s a full-nighttime blackout, in effect until further notice. The only L.A. Police Department divisions affected will be San Pedro and Venice, because they’re on the water. We’ll have two formal citywide test blackouts tomorrow, 5:00 to 7:00 a.m. and 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. All L.A. residents are required to draw their shades at home and drive with their parking lights only. The Fort MacArthur and Terminal Island gun placements are now operational, and the whole coastline down there is covered by aircraft spotters.”
Fletch B. went Whew! McPherson stirred and snored. Biscailuz tossed a chair cushion at him.
The room spun. Parker popped a cough drop. Call-Me-Jack said, “We’ve got the Feds due in a minute. There’s some Jap subversives we’ve got to round up.”
Biscailuz said, “I dispatched some boys to Little Tokyo. They’re standing ready. We all knew the war was coming, but I didn’t see an attack on us.”
Bowron said, “Cocksuckers. They’ll rue the fucking day, believe me.”
Biscailuz said, “Yellow bastards. I was hoping for a white man’s war. Us versus the Krauts, on foreign soil. This is turning into a shit deal at the start.”
Bowron said, “Gene’s right. The Krauts are off the deep end with the Jews, but it’s not like—”
Jack cut in. “Not like you can blame them?”
Biscailuz laughed. Bowron roared. Parker sucked his cough drop. WAR—the Krauts, the Japs.
The Teletype spit paper. Jack’s phone rang. Jack hit the squelch knob and pointed to Parker.
“I’m starting up an Alien Squad. I want my Department in on this shit with the Japs from the ground floor. I’ll put together some hard boys to work with Gene’s deputies and the Feds. Bill Parker will serve as liaison, and the Department’s monitor for any and all blackout-related operations. We’re going to be running you ragged, Bill—but I know you can take it.”
Parker said, “I’m in, Chief. It’s an honor, and I’ll carve out the time for the work.”
Bowron laughed. “It’s ink on your résumé, Bill. It’ll look good when you go for Jack’s job.”
Jack laughed. “Don’t talk about me when I’m still in the room.”
Biscailuz laughed. “Bill won’t mind the work. It means more time to hide out from his wife.”
Jack said, “Let’s wrap this up. My Moose Lodge has a block of tickets for the Rose Bowl, so we’ve got to put the quietus to the Japs by New Year’s.”
Bowron and Biscailuz yocked. Parker sucked another cough drop. Three men walked in. Parker recognized them.
Feds. The L.A. boss, Dick Hood. Special Agent Ed Satterlee. Ward J. Littell, the bleeding-heart Fed.
Introductions circulated. Handshakes and backslaps, ditto. Jack laid out folding chairs. The Feds straddled them. Jack opened a humidor and lobbed cigars.
Bowron arranged standing ashtrays. The gang lit up. The room smoked up, quick.
Hood said, “Let’s discuss the roundups. Outside of Tokyo, this is the Jap capital of the known world.”
Littell said, “Let’s clear the legalities first, Mr. Hood. The three agents in this room are lawyers, as is Captain Parker.”
Hood brushed ash off his vest. “Make your point, Ward.”
“It’s the criteria for identifying enemy aliens, beyond their racial distinction. Roosevelt’s going to declare war on Japan tomorrow, and Germany and Italy sometime next week. The Japanese are easily identifiable, Germans and Italians much less so. We don’t want to needlessly harass innocent Japanese, and we need to recognize the fact that German- and Italian-born and -derived aliens are potentially more dangerous, due to their enhanced level of anonymity.”
Parker smiled. Ward’s sidebar was legally and morally astute. The room froze up.
Jack said, “I can’t tell the Japs from the Chinks, which invalidates Mr. Littell’s concerns.”
Biscailuz said, “I can’t, either.”
Bowron said, “Ask Uncle Ace Kwan. He’ll set you straight on that.”
Jack said, “Ace is sending dinner over at 5:00. We’ll run these sensitive racial matters by the delivery boy.”
Satterlee shook his head. “You astound me, Ward. How did someone with your sensibilities get on the FBI?”
Littell blew smoke at Satterlee. Bowron and Biscailuz chortled. Hood said, “The only criteria for the detention of alien Fifth Columnists is the established fact that the fucking Japs bombed a U.S. territory early this morning and killed at least two thousand Americans, and the fucking Germans and Italians did not. And, as I stated a moment ago, L.A. is chock-fucking-full of fucking Japs, so let’s cut the fucking shit and discuss the best means to kibosh potential sabotage.”
Call-Me-Jack said, “Hear, hear.”
Bowron said, “Crudely put, but pithy.”
Biscailuz said, “Special Agent in Charge Dick Hood does not mince words.”
Satterlee popped his briefcase and removed a pile of folders. Hood grabbed them and passed them around.
“Sixteen pages of Jap names, gentlemen. When it became apparent that we might go to war with Japan, we compiled a list of known and suspected Fifth Columnists for possible detention. These Japs are known fascists, members of suspect fraternal organizations and general Emperor-worshiping bad apples. You’ll see that the list is divided into A’s, B’s and C’s. The A’s are the Japs considered the most dangerous, and they’ve been earmarked for immediate detention.”
The room was one big smoke cloud. Call-Me-Jack cracked a window. Street noise drifted up. Parker heard Japs, Japs, Japs.
He skimmed the file. The A list ran eight pages. There, on page four: “Watanabe, Ryoshi and family/produce farmer/Highland Park.”
Hood crushed out his cigar. “Secretary of War Stimson has issued a top-priority bulletin. It mandates the seizure of property belonging to the A-list subversives. The commander at Fort MacArthur has allotted cell blocks at the Terminal Island pen for detention housing. You’ve got shitloads of Jap fishing boats moored down in Pedro, and the Army’s gearing up to tow them in for inspection.”
Littell and Satterlee swapped glares. The Teletype kicked out a typed page and wanted-poster set. Call-Me-Jack scanned them.
“Here’s one for you, Bill. Apparently, the Federal Building is swamped with men trying to enlist. The state AG sees it as a godsend to fugitive felons looking to flee the country, so he sent some priority wanted listings along. Go over and check faces, will you? I’ll have some bluesuits meet you downstairs. If you see any of the poster guys, send the blues in for the rough stuff.”
Parker nodded and held up his A list. He pointed to the name Ryoshi Watanabe. He eye-drilled Call-Me-Jack.
“Last night, Chief. The dead Japs in Highland Park. I caught a broadcast. It’s Dudley Smith’s job, and it’s homicide or suicide.”
Call-Me-Jack shrugged. “It looks like suicide. I got that straight from the Dudster. Nort Layman’s performing the autopsies right now. We’ll know more fairly soon.”
Parker said, “A Jap homicide case wouldn’t hurt us. Mr. Littell might have something. Say we take some guff for the roundups. We’re at war, but we still give these dead Japs a full play.”
Call-Me-Jack shut his eyes. Parker read his brain waves.
He’s weighing pros and cons. He’s overbooked. I want his job. Dudley and I tend to clash. He probably wants a leash on Dud. He’s more afraid of him than of me.
Call-Me-Jack opened his eyes. “You oversee the job, Bill. I know you’re busy and you’re not really a case man, but—”
Parker said, “I’ll do it.”
The City Hall clock hit 3:00. Bowron said, “Two hours to dinner.” Hood said, “I wouldn’t mind a drink. And it wouldn’t surprise me if Chief Horrall had a bottle.”
Call-Me-Jack smiled. “I do, if you call me Jack.”
Biscailuz said, “Jesus, the fucking Japs.”
The freight lift took him down. Eight blues met him in the foyer. They wore tin hats and packed tear-gas bombs. They were geared for Jap insurrection.
Parker felt stupid. He wore his church suit and a snubnose .38. They cut across the south lawn. Jeeps and half-tracks chewed up the grass.
Fool’s errand. Ten faces on ten posters. Felony punks—rape, ADW, mayhem. One pachuco and nine white-trash sons of bitches. Fools’ odds—these fucks would never try to enlist.
They turned north on Spring Street. The Fed Building was straight up. Parker blinked. A roar hit him.
The enlistment line went down the steps and the sidewalk to the corner. It ran two thousand men. They were singing. “God Bless America” rang.
Parker ran toward it. He dropped the posters. His eyes welled. His glasses slid down his face. The blues ran behind him. Their riot gear slowed them down. They couldn’t keep up.
Parker ran. The voices drew him in. They echoed louder and louder. He got up to the steps. He forgot what he was here for. The riot cops caught up and just stood there.
Discordant voices hit him. Parker looked around and saw a commotion. A big white kid beat on three white kids pounding a little Jap. A white woman kicked a white kid sprawled on the steps.
The Jap ran off. The big white kid threw fists and elbows. Parker stood and stared. The two-thousand-voice hymn went dissonant. The white woman turned his way.
It was Kay Lake.
She saw him.
She struck a pose, with chaos all around her.
Parker ran up the steps.
Kay Lake waved and disappeared.