10:37 p.m.

The gang’s all here.

I knew some of the men at the bar personally, and some by their pictures in the papers. They were drinking and casually speaking; they ignored the people seated in booths a few feet away. I was waiting for Scotty and had secured a room at the Rosslyn Hotel. He was ninety minutes late, but I didn’t care. I was observing a blithe collusion.

Mayor Fletch Bowron, Jack Horrall, Sheriff Gene Biscailuz. FBI men Dick Hood and Ed Satterlee. Scorn for the Jap Whipping Boy. Brenda Allen’s regulars as war profiteers.

They discussed the seizure of Japanese holdings; they cracked jokes about the Jap woman who committed suicide in the Lincoln Heights jail. Satterlee hatched a plan to issue armbands to all local Japanese. Chat turned to the Watanabe case. Jack said DA McPherson had been “keestered.” Biscailuz laughed and said, “Dudley Smith?” Jack poked his middle finger through the circle of a forefinger and thumb. Mayor Fletch said, “Ouch.”

I nursed a Manhattan and eavesdropped. Fiorello La Guardia entered the grill and joined the Kameraden. He praised the blackoutmonitor work of Captain Bill Parker. Jack and the FBI men held their noses. I thought of Claire De Haven’s tract and saw Parker done up in jackboots.

The group broke up. Dudley Smith entered the PD’s back room a few minutes later. He carried a tweed suit in a cellophane wrapper. He’d lost weight—he reminded me of Captain Parker that way. His appearance didn’t surprise me. L.A. had been running on insomnia, cigarettes and liquor since last Sunday. People appeared at whim and vanished; I hadn’t seen Lee since our fight here Tuesday night. People comported with a new sense of allegiance. Everything was new. Many people embodied surprise; a few embodied revelation.

Scotty left my bed and returned to duty. The a.m. Mirror brought him right back. Sid Hudgens wrote the piece. Officer Robert S. Bennett, the Los Angeles Police Department’s first emergency wartime hire, proved his mettle during a murder dragnet in Chinatown last night. The niece of noted restaurateur Grover Cleveland “Uncle Ace” Kwan had been brutally murdered; “anonymous tips” led to a search for Four Families tong fiend Chiang “the Chinaman” Ling. Sergeant Dudley L. Smith and Officer Bennett cornered Ling. The Chinaman broke free and made an attempt on Sergeant Smith’s life. The inexperienced—but bold—Officer Bennett shot and killed Ling before he could “snuff” Sergeant Smith with “heathen aplomb.” A photograph of Scotty in football garb ran with the piece.

The article reeked of collusion. I juxtaposed it to Claire’s account of her journey with Whiskey Bill and teethed on my own wartime allegiance. I ran for my car and drove to Beverly Hills then. Claire’s Packard was parked in her driveway. I parked across the street and waited.

She walked out a half hour later. A scarf covered her Joan of Arc hair. I followed her to a Catholic church in Brentwood. She attended Mass there.

Comrade Claire, Supplicant Claire. I studied her from a dozen pews back, the same way she once studied the worshipful Bill Parker. Such adroit symbiosis. How perfect to merge with her perfect adversary on his own mystical plane. How perfectly unconscious for Parker to pick Claire as his target. His inner life perfectly mirrored the chaos that Claire so proudly displayed to the world.

I ducked out of the church before she saw me. Claire left the service and returned to her car ten minutes later. She took Bundy to Wilshire and drove all the way downtown. I stuck behind her, and ran a series of yellow lights keeping up.

Claire turned north on Main Street. I sensed her destination as Little Tokyo, and pulled up directly behind her. She turned east on 2nd Street and slowed down to observe. I watched her point a camera out her window and snap photographs.

I tracked her eye and camera lens. She snapped a sad-eyed man outside a fish market. She snapped the children with American flags on sticks and Cal Denton beating a man’s teeth in. And now she’s stopped her car. And now she sees Whiskey Bill Parker, standing at the corner of 2nd and San Pedro.

He jotted notes on his clipboard; Claire pulled up on his blind side and photographed him. She rested her arms on the window ledge and anchored the camera quite securely. She framed portraits of the man. She caught his superhuman focus and lunatic rectitude. I wondered if she noticed his slack uniform and the pathos in his eyes. How perfect. Her photographs indicted the man who sent me out to entrap her.

Wartime allegiance. Collusion.

Claire reloaded her camera three times. Parker reeled from exhaustion. He fell into his black-and-white and reached for his bottle. Something astonishing happened then.

Claire lowered her camera. She allowed the moment to go unrecorded. She felt pity or decided not to risk documenting it. I drove away then. I felt them both in the core of my bones.

Scotty was an hour and fifteen minutes late. Thad Brown and Jim Davis walked in and stretched out at the bar. They ignored the diners a few feet away. I lit a cigarette and listened to them talk.

Collusion.

Jim Davis ran security at Douglas Aircraft. They discussed the prospects of Fifth Column sabotage there. Thad changed the subject. Three Chinks were slaughtered in Griffith Park earlier tonight. Two Japs and one Chink-Jap, really. The breed was Four Families. Chinatown was running a fever. “That Scotty Kid” blew up that Four Families punk and stirred up a shitload of shit. We’ve got to avoid a full-scale tong war. We’ve got to whitewash the snuffs in the name of a Chinatown peace.

Bill Parker entered the grill. He saw me but did not acknowledge it. I waved and blew him a kiss. I regretted it instantly.

Parker joined Brown and Davis. I eavesdropped. The PD was mobilizing in Chinatown at midnight. The Dudster’s display of force had the Chinks all hopped-up. Davis spoke in singsong Chinese and stretched his eyelids for added effect. Thad told the tale of Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker. The bartender poured a double bourbon and slid it over to Parker. Whiskey Bill downed it and white-knuckled the bar rail.

Thad tapped his watch; the three men dropped dollar bills on the bar and walked out. Scotty was late. Now I knew why. Scotty was needed in Chinatown.

I was all-of-a-sudden bored. There were no more provocative men to distract me. Tableside war chat resounded that much more predictably. The eastern front, the Japs. My son’s draft deferment. I heard Hitler’s gassing Jews. Well, someone has to! Eleanor Roosevelt’s a lez—the shoe-shine boy at the Jonathan Club told me.

Hideo Ashida walked in. I knew he was looking for me.

I stood up; he pretended not to see me. It would acknowledge that he came here to see me and would put him at a perceived disadvantage. I waved and forced his hand. He made a disingenuous show of noticing me, walked over and sat down.

The ruse was unlike him. He wore subterfuge unconvincingly. He carried a whiff of formaldehyde. He’d been to the morgue.

He said, “Hello.”

I said, “Who were you looking for?”

“I thought Jack Webb might be here. I know he comes by when he has the chance.”

The waiter walked over. He saw the Jap with the white girl and about-faced. I slid my drink across the table; Dr. Ashida took a more than healthy belt. It was a wartime play. Normally abstentious Japanese had a newfound yen for the sauce.

“Go find Jack. You’ll have a better chance of being served with him.”

“That’s all right.”

“I’m happy to sit with you, but I think you’d be more comfortable with Jack.”

Dr. Ashida slid my drink back. “You’re trying to make me uncomfortable. You’re trying to get me to say something I don’t want to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’m happy to see you, and I’m pleased that you came here looking for me.”

“All right.”

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable. We could go someplace else if you’d like.”

“All right.”

“ ‘Go someplace’ has connotations. I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than you already are.”

He said, “I’ll go wherever you suggest. I’ll be uncomfortable wherever it is, but since you enjoy my discomfort, it shouldn’t concern you.”

Touché.

I said, “Room 314 at the Rosslyn. I’ll go over first.”

He just sat there. I walked outside before he could say, “All right.” I dodged traffic across 8th Street, went in a side entrance and rode a back elevator up. The room smelled of freshly laundered sheets. The pillowcases were clean, but faded lipstick stains could be seen. There was just the bed, a sofa and a bathroom. It was a purposeful hotel room.

I smoked and paced. Other women had preceded me. Their heels had dug holes in the carpet.

My mind went blank. I couldn’t think it through past a no-show or knock on the door. I fought the urge to run someplace safe. A string quartet played itself out in my head.

The door buzzer startled me. I blotted my lipstick on a tissue and smoothed out my hair. The buzzer blared again. I walked to the door.

Hideo Ashida was mussed up. His cheek was scratched. He smelled like my left-behind cocktail. He stepped inside. Our shoulders brushed. My legs fluttered; I leaned on the door so he wouldn’t see.

“What happened to you?”

“I knew Mrs. Hamano. She would escort my brother and me to church.”

“Yes?”

“She hanged herself at the Lincoln Heights jail.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Some frat boys at the bar were telling jokes. I told them to stop it. There was some shoving, and Mike Breuning saw it and stepped in.”

I touched his cheek. He flinched. I ran my thumb over his eyebrow. He trembled. I put my whole hand on his face.

He said, “Why are you doing this?”

I said, “Because we’re alone in a hotel room, and because I want to.”

He didn’t pull away from me. So, I brushed his hair back. He didn’t pull away from me. So, I said this:

“Say my name, Hideo. Say ‘Katherine’ or ‘Kay.’ ”

He said, “All right. Katherine, then.”

My hand trembled. He didn’t pull away from me. So, I kissed him.

Our lips barely touched. He raised his hands to hold me back; his arms brushed my breasts.

We stayed that way. Our foreheads touched. It was a fit of sorts. His shirt was partially unbuttoned. I felt his pulse through it. I slid my hand under the fabric and placed it on his heart.

He shuddered. I moved in under his arms and found a closer fit.

He said, “Katherine, please.”

I said, “Please, what?”

He said, “No, Katherine, please.”

I pulled away from him. He went loose. I was the only thing holding him up.

He leaned against the wall and slid down it; he sat on the floor and drew his knees to his chest. I stood over him. He touched my legs and steadied himself. I moved closer. He pulled his hands back.

So, I sat on the floor beside him. So, I put an arm around him. So, we listened to a band concert on the radio next door.

I didn’t want to lose the fit. I didn’t want to say anything or do anything that would scare him away. The music was part of the fit; the raucous numbers and ballads merged. It ended, slow-tempoed. Hideo asked me to tell him a story.

All I had was a recounting of pratfall and eros. It started in a 1920 snowstorm and stopped when a police captain knocked on my door. I smelled the prairie on him. I would end my story there.

The radio was kind to us. Our next-door neighbor put on a night-owl serenade. The music was perfect for storytelling. We sat on the floor, in our fit.

My heroine was a dubious huntress; she was far too self-serving to ever be Joan of Arc. I described my early stay in L.A. and my time with Bobby De Witt. I euphemized Lee and the Boulevard-Citizens robbery. I spilled everything that Bobby had done to me. Hideo asked to see the scars on my legs. I pulled up my skirt, rolled down my stockings and showed him. He ran his fingers over the ridges and pulled his hand away. I wanted more of him there but said nothing.

His hand left me warm, so I told him about Bucky. I described my desire to capture a man and render him mine by seeing him. Hideo touched my leg then. He told me about a camera he’d devised to photograph people covertly. Bucky Bleichert hovered. Hideo’s eyes went somewhere. It was Bucky’s betrayal writ horribly deep.

So, he told me about Bucky. It was Belmont High, green-and-black forever, the Mighty Sentinels. The Kraut boy from Glassell Park, the Little Tokyo Jap. Half-Jewish Jack Webb—there with the jokes and along for the ride.

Track meets, pep rallies, the All-City cage finals. His crazy fascist mother, Bucky’s Bundist dad. The boys packed tight in a deuce coupe. That long ride to a big game in Fresno.

The story receded into secret-camera snapshots. What Bucky wore on prom nights, how Bucky rescued Jack from pachucos. How Bucky chewed raw steaks and swallowed the blood before his fights. That time he drove the drunk Bucky home and tucked him into bed. Bucky’s Sportsman of the Year award, bestowed at the L.A. Press Club. The rented tuxedo, the legs too short, the terribly clashing corsage.

I heard all of it. Hideo kept his head on my shoulder and a hand on my leg. I believed all of it and none of it. I felt heartsick in a way I never had before.

Silly girl. Idiot seductress. Now you know what he is. Don’t cry while he tells you his story.