11:44 a.m.
They won’t report the break-in. They won’t reveal the thefts. They sell illegal weaponry. They peddle fascist filth.
The lab was a.m. busy. Chemists logged fiber samples and worked microscopes. Ashida rode his desk. He was keyed up and woozy. He got no sleep.
Ray Pinker walked up. “I’ve got bad news, kid. It was on the radio. Fletch Bowron’s fired all the Japanese on the city payroll. I hate to say it, but that means—”
Ashida opened his top drawer and grabbed a leather pouch. Pinker said something reassuring. Ashida ran out of the lab. He took the stairs three at a clip. He made the front door and sprinted.
He cut across 1st Street. Cars swerved around him. City Hall was two blocks down. He ran there in his lab smock.
He went in the Spring Street door. He took the front stairs four at a clip. The Bureau buzzed. Robbery and Bunco—stuffed with desk-squatting cops. Vice—just Elmer Jackson.
Elmer grinned. “Hey, I know you. You used to work here.”
“Captain Parker? I heard he has an office now.”
Elmer waved his cigar. “Try 614. If the door’s closed, he’s sleeping it off.”
Ashida walked. It was pushing noon. Homicide emptied out. Bunco and Robbery, likewise. A cop swarm swarmed to the lunchroom.
They all saw him. They all knew him. None of them greeted him. They hit the elevators and pushed DOWN.
Homicide was wide open. Twelve cubicles and one office. The main phone line and twelve extensions.
He shut himself in. He wedged a chair back under the doorknob. He opened the pouch and examined his tools.
Burglar’s tools. Confiscated evidence. Three small lock picks and a blunt-edged pry.
The main phone sat by the Teletype. He eyeball-tracked the cord to a wall-mounted fuse box. Beside the box—a smaller box, smeared with wall paint.
A narrow cord connected the boxes. The phone was Dictograph-tapped.
Ashida placed his tools on the Teletype. He picked up the phone receiver and heard a dial tone. He took a skinny-head pick and pried off the talk and hear disks. He saw perforated diodes and glued-in microphones.
He screwed the disks back on. He eyeball-scanned the east squadroom wall. Four cubicles, four phones, four legitimate fuse boxes and piggyback boxes adjacent. Small boxes, painted over. Innocuous. Brazen. Two fuse boxes—who cares?
Ashida replaced his tools and unhooked the chair. He stepped into the hall. Sid Hudgens idled outside the cot room. The Sidster saw him and hooked a finger. Ashida walked over and looked in.
Sssshhh—men asleep.
Twelve cots, five sleepers. Alien Squad boys. Tin hats and gun belts dumped on the floor. Shotguns propped against the wall.
Hudgens closed the door. “Bund, Silver Shirts, Thunderbolt Legion. Care to comment, Dr. Ashida?”
Ashida said, “No comment.”
Hudgens poked his ears with a paper clip. “Call me jaded, but I think the whole deal is fishy. The Feds are freezing assets and closing banks, habeas has been suspended, and now Fletch the B. has pulled all you folks off the city tit. Tojo and his boys took Manila, but that don’t mean you should lose your job.”
Ashida said, “No comment.”
Hudgens chortled. “Did you read my piece in yesterday’s Mirror? If you didn’t, the postscript is a scorcheroo.”
Ashida said, “I’m listening.”
“It’s about your old pal Bucky the B. The Buckster wants to mothball his mitts and come on this white man’s police force. I suggested that he might have to fink out some Fifth Column fucks in order to secure the gig.”
Ashida flushed. “And?”
“And, Bucky snitched you and your family. And, he starts the Academy next May.”
The hallway shook—avalanche, earthquake, flash flood.
Hudgens ghoul-grinned. Ashida about-faced. Room 614 was two doors down. He walked over and straight in.
Parker stood near a wall map. Hammer-and-sickle pins covered Russia. Swastika pins covered Deutschland. A bottle and shot glass were out in plain view.
Ashida cleared his throat. Parker turned around. His gun belt slid down his hips.
“Yes?”
“I was hoping I could talk to you, sir.”
“I’ll venture a guess. You think I can help you retain your city employment.”
“I know you can.”
Parker tapped his wristwatch. “One minute, Doctor. Brevity affords you your best chance to convince me. Don’t repeat yourself. I find repetition taxing.”
Ashida said, “I overheard two detectives talking. They said that you had a woman transcribing the Dictograph taps here at the Bureau. They found it amusing, because you were on the recordings yourself, which implies that you made self-incriminating statements. The two detectives went on to say that Chief Horrall had been informed of your actions, but that he was too cocky and lazy to intercede. The implication was that the taps were an open secret, which does not negate the verifiable evidence of your easily identified voice on the recordings.”
Parker poured a shot and downed it. He’s the Man Who Would Be Chief. He’s belting hard liquor at 12:16 p.m.
“Who were the detectives?”
Ashida said, “Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle. Since they know, it’s safe to assume that Dudley Smith knows the gist of your statements.”
Parker tapped his watch. “Tell me what you want. Do not employ flattery or threats.”
“I want to thank you for stationing Agent Littell at my mother’s apartment. I want to prove myself essential to this police department. I want to keep my job and remain on the Watanabe case.”
Parker took another pop. “What can you do for me?”
“I can pull the taps, trace the wires to the listening posts and erase the recordings.”
Parker dug through his desk and pulled out a folder. Circuit diagrams, certainly.
“Do it now, Doctor. Do it openly. I’m too valuable for Jack Horrall to fuck with. I’ll try to impart that same value to you.”
Ashida bowed.
Parker threw the folder at him.
Parker said, “You heathen cocksucker.”