2:42 a.m.
La Guardia said, “These Japs are fat and sassy. I see no mistreatment here.”
They toured the Fort MacArthur stockade. It was all politics. Mayor Fiorello, Mayor Fletch, dipshit Ed Satterlee. A 1:00 a.m. call roused Parker.
The gang was up at Brenda A.’s trick spot. They’d worn out the girls. They still felt jazzed.
Fletch insisted. “I know it’s late, Bill—but nobody sleeps these days. And it can’t do your career any harm. This guy’s got Roosevelt’s ear.”
Hence the tour. Hence the Pedro jaunt. Hence the bored MPs and gloomy Japs.
They were two tiers in. Most of the Japs slept through it. La Guardia jived with the insomniacs. He called them “papa-san.” He said he looooved Mr. Moto. He’d seen all those movies.
Parker walked with El Jefe. Bowron and Satterlee hung back with the MPs. Parker detailed his blackout work. La Guardia gassed on him. Bowron and Satterlee bristled.
La Guardia said, “That Jap lady who killed herself had a Jap war bond on her. It sounds Fifth Column to me.”
Parker said, “It was an unnecessary death, sir. I’m sure she was despondent, but that doesn’t justify the act.”
La Guardia said, “Live by the sword, die by the sword. The Navy just sank three more Jap destroyers. Those cocksuckers will rue the day they dropped those eggs on Pearl Harbor.”
They hit the last tier. Parker felt sandbagged. Griffith Park, the morgue and Chinatown. No sleep and this bullshit.
Bowron said, “All the commandeered Jap real estate will leave the city fat and sassy. So you tell me. Where do we house the Japs?” Satterlee said, “The Army’s got scouting teams combing the Southwest. You’ve got abandoned Army installations that can house six thousand Japs at a pop.”
Bowron said, “I ran into Preston Exley in Beverly Hills yesterday. We see the same doctor for migraines. You know Preston, right? He was on the PD, and now he’s a land developer.”
Satterlee said, “Right. The retired inspector who made good in real estate. I’ve jawed with him a few times.”
Bowron said, “Right. And if you’ve jawed with him recently, you know that he presents a persuasive case for interning some high-line Japs within the L.A. city limits, because a mass incarceration of that magnitude will promote a civilian job boom and keep the Japs close at hand for interrogations.”
Satterlee said, “Preston’s got the Midas touch. He knows what to buy and where to buy, and he knows how to squeeze a buck.”
Bowron said, “His people may go back to the Mayflower, but I think he’s got some kike blood.”
Satterlee said, “He thinks there’s money in Jap property. The question is, Who oversees the property while the Japs are in stir?” Parker yawned and kept pace with El Jefe. Bowron and Satterlee yawned and lagged back. “Hey there, papa-san!”
“How’s the world treating you?”
“That Mr. Moto—ain’t he a sketch?”
They killed off the cell block and hit the fresh air. They lit cigarettes and got revitalized. El Jefe pressed to see a gun placement. Mayor Fletch and Agent Ed suppressed groans.
They piled into their jeep. Shoreline blackout—the driver drove by roadway Braille. They got up flush to a cliffside. They hit a sandbagged bunker perched there.
Six men with binoculars. Two tripod-mounted machine guns. Radar gizmos. Deck chairs prearranged.
The gang piled out of the jeep and into the bunker. La Guardia backslapped the soldiers. Bowron and Satterlee crashed into chairs. Parker lugged a file box Call-Me-Jack gave him.
He grabbed a chair. El Jefe lubed the soldiers with raw jokes. Fletch and Agent Ed dozed. Parker cracked the file box. He brought a small-beam flashlight.
Oh, shit. Call-Me-Jack’s new brainchild. The “Wartime Auxiliary Police.”
Application forms. Applicant dossiers.
Parker scanned the pages. Call-Me-Jack plays Uncle Sam. He wants YOU! He wants air-raid wardens, airplane spotters, parking-ticket drones.
The applicants were low-tide. Pensioners, cop buffs, draft dodger types. Boris “Frankenstein” Karloff. Bantamweight Manny Mendez. Nightclub buffoon Lou Costello and the “Hearst Rifle Team.”
Eight sharpshooters. Regulars at tycoon Hearst’s San Simeon shack. Sheriff Biscailuz endorsed the team. They assisted his mounted posse and corralled jail runaways. All eight men were in the San Berdoo Klan.
Misanthropes, movie monsters, misfits. The wartime Keystone Kops. Call-Me-Jack drooled for publicity. He’d sign up every one.
Parker shut his eyes. He tried to doze. It was hopeless. El Jefe had some live ones. He wouldn’t let go.
Joan Woodard Conville, white female American, age 26.
She wouldn’t let go. She kept sideswiping him. He called the Motor Vehicle Office and tried to trace her address. No go—she had no driver’s license. He called four nurses’ directories. No go—she wasn’t listed.
It felt foolish. He felt foolish. He called the Northwestern cops back. He told them to send an ID pic of Miss Conville. It was police-sanctioned peeping.
His graph work stood in arrears. He was behind on Watanabe Case/Details-Chronology. He’d been disrupted. Tangential cases stacked up. The Griffith Park triple. The Larkin hit-and-run.
It was fucked-up. He was fucked-up. The Watanabe case got to him. He cared more than he should.
A guard hut adjoined the bunker. Parker walked over. The guard boss was out. Parker grabbed the desk phone and dialed the morgue.
Nort picked up. “Morgue, Dr. Layman.”
“It’s Bill Parker, Nort.”
“You can’t let it go, can you? It’s only been four hours.”
Parker laughed. “Let’s just say I can’t sleep.”
“You’re not alone there. We’re at war, or haven’t you noticed?”
Parker said, “You’re still thawing the cadavers, right? I thought you might have more information.”
Layman said, “Roger that. You read my initial report, right? Shrimp oil on the victims’ feet?”
“Right, I remember.”
“All right, then catch this curveball. The freezing and thawing isolated particles in the subcutaneous tissue, under the soles of their feet. I found ground glass covered with shrimp oil on eight feet out of eight. Their feet were heavily callused, which isn’t surprising, because Japs tend to walk around barefoot. What did surprise me was the even distribution of the particles. It was as if they were walking on the glass deliberately.”
Curveball. Sinker. Wild pitch.
“Will you issue a statewide coroner’s bulletin on that? Hospitals, infirmaries, doctors’ offices. It’s a long-shot parlay, but put my name and office number on it for callbacks.”
Layman said, “You’re way out in center field on this one, but I’ll do it.”
Parker said, “Thanks, Nort. You’ll be rewarded, in this life and the next.”
“I’ve already been rewarded, Bill.”
“How so?”
“It’s a hell of a treat to see you obsessed.”