12:42 a.m.
Meeks said, “You’re dressed nice, Dud. Am I keeping you from doing something you’d rather be doing?”
The paperboys’ bash was over. Grand Bette was surely long gone.
“You are, lad. I won’t pretend I’m not miffed. I’m sure your ‘urgent matter’ could have waited for the morning.”
The back room was musty. The Teletype clacked. That Chinatown truce abets mayhem.
Meeks said, “Where’s the wink and the blarney, boss? Tell true, now. I ain’t never seen you without them.”
“State your intent or make your request. Refrain from threats or suffer the consequences.”
Meeks lit a cigar. “I’m caught between you and Whiskey Bill. I’m sort of like the Ashida kid that way.”
Dudley cracked his knuckles. “State your intent or make your request. This prelude is vexing me.”
Meeks fumed up the room. “I went out on the DB call. A park ranger rang it in. Parker was talking to Ashida. They seemed chummy to me.”
“Again, for the last—”
“I saw a rubber bullet on the ground. It reminded me of that Sheriff’s-van job I’m working, which Parker put me on for some goddamn inexplicable reason. I dusted the bullet and got a ten-point print on Huey Cressmeyer, but I ‘refrained’ from telling Whiskey Bill. I can count, Dud. You had four men plus Huey on the van job, and three dead in the park. I’d say that one guy—probably a Jap—had already scrammed off. That leaves two Japs and a Jap-Chink half-breed who can’t be traced to the heist. They’re dead, and I’ll bet you got Huey stashed someplace.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “You have my attention. Finish your recounting, please.”
“Here’s what I’ve got. Huey boosted the bullets and some riot guns from Preston. I didn’t put that in my report to Parker and Ward Littell, just like I left out the print.”
“And, lad?”
“And, I saw Ashida’s trip-wire shots, because I leaned on your pervert pal up in the photo lab. And, it’s Huey again. He pulled the pharmacy job last Saturday, and for all I know, he’s got a whole shitload of dirt on the Watanabe clan.”
Dudley said, “Is there more?”
Meeks said, “Huey and his Japs clout the van. I go by the House of Lem Mortgage Company and learn that Ace Kwan paid off the loan on one of his buildings the next day. You always share your takes with Ace. Ace’s niece gets killed, and your boy Scotty kills a handy suspect. It’s getting tight as a tick, so here’s what I’m thinking. Huey’s Japs killed the Kwan girl, and you and Ace took them out.”
What a shrewd detective. The Dust Bowl Charlie Chan.
“I wish to purchase your silence on these matters, through to New Year’s. That includes your continued dissembling to Captain W. H. Parker.”
Meeks wiggled three fingers. “I got me a slew of pregnant girlfriends. Your pal Ruth Mildred sure could help me out.”
Dudley said, “Done.”
Meeks walked to the bar. He poured a shot of bourbon and dunked his cigar.
“Call-Me-Jack wants a Jap to swing for the Watanabes, and I can’t say I disagree. But I’m working the job, so I got a stake in it.”
“Make your point.”
“If it’s a frame, I’d like to see some true pervert son of a bitch who really deserves it to go down.”
As you will, you hayseed fuck.
“He’ll be morally appropriate for the gas chamber, I assure you.”
1:07 a.m.
The Shrine was the Tomb now. She was long gone. He ran anyway. He ran to his K-car. He ran lights-and-siren southbound. He cut the noise at Washington and swung west. He pulled into the lot. A sea green Rolls-Royce almost grazed him.
His headlights strafed the windshield. He recognized the driver from a Screen World spread. Boston stiff Arthur Farnsworth—grand Bette’s second hubby.
He’s teary-eyed, swerving the Rolls, wringing a hankie. Harry Cohn told all. It was a studio-dictated marriage. Hubby was a whips-and-chains queer.
Hubby fishtailed down Washington. Dudley parked by the stage door. It was a loooooong long shot. He patted on cologne and chewed a pastille.
He walked to the door. A firm shove got him in. The houselights still glowed.
The Taj Mahal West. A plush-mosque motif. Wall tapestries and a thousand empty seats.
An elevated stage. The Mosque, the Crypt. Discarded programs everywhere. The Shrine, postmidnight. A stand-still-and-catch-your-breath spot.
Laughter. Overlapping peals. Behind the curtains, stage right.
Dudley jumped onstage and tracked it. He parted the curtains and sidestepped klieg lamps in the dark. He saw light down a corridor. He heard boys’ voices. A woman laughed, contralto-pitched.
The boys squealed. Dudley stretched tall and walked over. He unbuttoned his suit coat. His shoulder rig showed.
She was down on her knees. She wore a pale blue gown. She was shooting craps with three paperboys.
They were starstruck. They hovered, they attended, they swooned. They wore their bargain-basement church suits. Everybody laughed and plain carried on.
His shadow hit them. The boys looked up. They were poor lads and wise to the world. They saw copper, straight off.
She felt their eyes leave her. Stray eyes discomfit the diva. She saw him and made him in a blink.
She saw the gun, the tweeds, the cordovan shoes. Hold my eyes for a heartbeat, please.
She did. He smiled and looked away first. He knelt beside her and dropped a C-note on the floor.
The boys looked at him, looked at her, looked at them both. She pointed to the fat boy with the dice. He passed them to her. She blew on them and rolled.
Snake eyes.
The thin boy said, “House take.”
The blond boy scooped up the C-note and some singles. His cohorts squealed. Miss Davis opened her clutch and took out her cigarettes. Dudley lit her up.
The boys gawked. Dudley doffed his hat and dropped it on the blond boy’s head. It covered his eyes and nose. Everybody laughed. State your name now. She knows you know hers.
He said, “Dudley Smith.”
She blew a smoke ring his way. He laughed and passed her his flask. She took a belt and passed it to the blond boy. He took a belt and passed it to the fat boy. He took a belt and passed it to the thin boy. He took a belt. He went Holy cow! and passed it back to Dudley.
Bette Davis blew smoke at the boys. They made mock gagging sounds and mock-thrashed on the floor.
Bette Davis said, “They have to start sometime.”
Dudley said, “I’m pleased to have shared their initiation with you.”
“Mine was somewhat less refined.”
“Would you care to set the stage?”
“A speakeasy in Harlem in 1924. That’s as far as I’ll go.”
Dudley laughed. The fat boy snatched the flask. His cohorts chortled. The blond boy passed Miss Davis the dice.
The thin boy said, “Blow, Bette.”
Miss Davis said, “I’ve heard that before.”
Dudley roared. Bette blew on the dice and rolled lucky seven. The boys tipped off the flask. A babble went up. The boys laid down bets.
Bette’s point, Bette’s point, Bette’s point.
Dudley dropped a yard on the singles. Bette rolled and crapped out. The boys whooped and grabbed the take.
The boys looked at her, the boys looked at him. They made goo-goo eyes over his gun. He undid his holster and tossed it to the thin boy. It went thud in his lap.
Laughs circulated. The gun circulated. It landed in Bette’s lap. She pulled it from the holster. She looked straight at Dudley.
“Should I?”
“I’d be quite disappointed if you didn’t.”
Bette stood up. Her gown was smudged. She flicked off the safety and aimed at the ceiling. She kicked off her shoes and got a grip on the floor.
She said, “Remember Pearl Harbor.”
The boys whistled and cheered.
She squeezed off the full clip. Seven rounds, lucky seven, big noise. Muzzle smoke and cordite stink.
Plaster chips blew down from the ceiling. Dudley stood up and brushed silt out of her hair.
Bette’s smile acknowledged his touch. The boys applauded. He took off his suit coat and laid it down. Bette took his arm and curtsied to the floor.
She said, “Mr. Smith.”
He said, “Miss Davis.”
They shook hands, mock-formal. The boys made with the oooh-la-las.
They returned to the game. Dudley emptied out his wallet, Bette emptied out her clutch. Dudley engineered their losses. The throws went boy to boy. House take, house take. The boys got nigger rich. They were up on Cloud 9.
His flask went around. Her flask replaced it. Bette brushed plaster off his trousers. Sweet intervals, then her touch.
The boys started yawning. They were boozed and too lucky to live. Dudley cited the time. The boys groaned. Bette laid down a long and sweet brush-off.
Dudley passed out toy badges. The boys hugged Miss Davis. She hugged them back and urged them to buy war bonds. She left big lipstick prints on their cheeks.
They were wobbly-kneed. They wheeled their bicycles out to the parking lot and pedaled off, whooping. Dudley helped Bette into her coat and walked her outside. His prowler was the only car in the lot.
He lit cigarettes. They stood close and looked at the sky. “Perfidia” ebbed someplace soft inside him.
Well, then.
They tossed their cigarettes. They brushed bullet dust from each other’s hair and came in tight for the kiss.