2:24 a.m.

Ashida wrote on flash paper. Invisible ink, flammable page stock. His own secret language.

It was his secret document. It would scald in common sunlight. Kanji script, English, shorthand. Five layers of obfuscated text.

Mariko’s kitchen table did desk duty. Mariko geisha-girled in the living room. Elmer Jackson was stinko. Ward Littell ballyhooed Bill Parker. Captain Bill secured his berth on the Sheriff’s-van job and shitcanned his roundup work.

The roundups disgusted Ward. He insistently critiqued the FBI’s “racial agenda.”

The roundups disgusted Elmer. He called them a “plain old raw deal.”

Mariko disgusted Ashida. She blabbermouthed to the Japanese papers. Both his T.I. trips proved fruitless.

Kanji, English, shorthand. Impromptu hieroglyphics.

He drew the knife scar on the man at Goleta. He drew the knife found in Griffith Park. He drew the faded knife scar on Ryoshi Watanabe.

He drew the severed foot at Goleta. He drew wavy lines off the sole. The lines signified the smell of fish oil.

He smelled fish on the man at the farm. He caught a fish-oil scent on broken glass in the Watanabes’ kitchen. Nort Layman noted shrimp oil on the Watanabes’ feet.

Ashida drew shrimp. His pen wandered. He drew Kay Lake at the Rosslyn Hotel. He drew Bucky and Kay as phantoms, intertwined. He drew Jim Larkin’s koi. He wrote ? He translated: “What did I miss at the Watanabe house?”

Mariko toasted Nao Hamano. Good American, good mother. Dead at the Lincoln Heights jail.

Elmer said, “Hear, hear.”

Ward said, “The Navy’s calling me. Maybe sub duty. I could hibernate and fight the war.”

Mariko tee-heed. “Ward ladies’ man. Girl in every port.”

Explosions on 2nd Street. Ploosh, blam and screams.

Elmer said, “Rock-salt rounds.”

Ward said, “They’re lacing it with bird shot now. It knocks anything human flat.”

Mariko tee-heed. “No girls on submarines. I send Ward dirty books.”

Ward and Elmer haw-hawed. Ashida looked out the window. He saw two boys with shredded jackets, knocked flat in the street.

Two cops dragged the boys to a K-car. Bucky Bleichert weaved across the street.

Ashida walked downstairs. Bucky was blotto on the front steps. He beat Bucky up on Wednesday. He still bore contusions.

Ashida said, “Hello, champ.”

Bucky said, “You’re the champ, and I’ve got the lumps to prove it.”

Ashida sat beside him. Their knees brushed. Ashida slid back.

“You’ve been to the Shotokan Baths. The Harada brothers had a bottle. You’ve been talking boxing for hours.”

Bucky said, “I retired undefeated. I’m either a chickenshit or the world’s luckiest white man.”

Ashida smiled. “You’re a little of both.”

Bucky smiled. “The brothers think I could take Lee Blanchard. I told them they’re nuts.”

Ashida said, “It’s a toss-up. He’s stronger, you’re faster.”

Bucky smiled. “Beat me up again, will you? I said I’m sorry, but it sure as shit wasn’t enough.”

Ashida smiled. “You’ll pummel yourself from here on in.”

Bucky drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees. It was such a lovely thing.

“I’ll graduate the Academy in July. We’ll be working together then.”

Ashida said, “I’ll be in prison. Unless the right white man owes me.”