5:09 a.m.
This grand manse, this grand lady.
They made love and talked. The bedroom was tucked in a parapet. Fireplace, dark beams, brushed-cement walls.
The bed was four-postered. The sheets were peach satin. Casement windows overlooked the Brentwood hills. A handsome Airedale lolled beside them.
The house was mock medieval. Stained glass and rough wood loomed throughout. Bette loved to fight. Her home portrayed her as embattled.
Her husband lived above the garage. Bette caught hubby blowing the chauffeur on their wedding night. She banished him then. He escorted her to events and attended queer masquerade balls. He fulfilled her studio morals clause. The chauffeur had a big dick.
Bette said, “Dudley Liam Smith. Are you surprised to be here?”
Dudley stroked the Airedale. “Delighted, more than surprised. I would have contrived another form of introduction if tonight hadn’t resolved so serendipitously.”
The Airedale stretched and kicked up his legs. Bette scratched his back.
“Do you miss Ireland, Dudley?”
“No, lass. I do not.”
“No family there?”
“British soldiers killed my father and brother. My mother drank herself to death. My one aunt ran off to London with a Protestant. He was quite the dashing fellow. He looked like Leslie Howard in Gone with the Wind.”
Bette laughed. “I screwed Leslie Howard. He looks like a fairy, but I assure you he’s not.”
Dudley laughed. “Who else have you screwed?”
Bette said, “Most of the men on the Photoplay eligible-bachelors list. Warner’s made me host the Hamilton High prom party. I was bored, so I screwed the president of the Lochinvars Social Club.”
The Airedale curled up between them. Dudley laid an ashtray on his back and lit cigarettes.
“I’m picking Jack Kennedy up at noon. His dad and I go quite far back.”
Bette laced up their fingers. Dudley stretched the full length of the bed.
He’d kissed off her lipstick. She was smaller than he thought she’d be. She thrashed a way he’d never seen before.
“Joe Kennedy made a pass at me once. He was running RKO then. I heard Jack’s an even bigger chaser, but he’s hung like a cashew.”
Dudley laughed. It shook the bed. The Airedale glared at him. Bette snatched the ashtray and scooted him down to the footboard. He flashed his fangs and went to sleep.
“Dear girl. How did this occur?”
“You got lucky. We shouldn’t mince words about that.”
“Should we give a nod to the war? I sense appetite in the air.” Bette kissed him. “My appetite preceded the war. Ask the boys in Lowell, Massachusetts.”
“I’m afraid they would make me quite jealous.”
“I wouldn’t want to see you jealous.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re brutal. Because you’re all enticement and threat.”
Dudley kissed her. She held his face and rubbed their noses, Eskimo-style.
“When I saw you, I thought, Oh, the big cop with the crush on me. And he dressed for the role.”
Dudley crushed their cigarettes and put the ashtray on the nightstand. Dawn beamed outside. The big backyard glowed.
“Are you always that quick-witted?”
“Yes. I live by immediate perception. It’s how I’ve survived.”
Dudley smiled. “On Broadway? In Hollywood?”
Bette smiled. “You’ve killed British soldiers, and don’t tell me you haven’t. I’ve told the Jewish mama’s boys who run my part of town, ‘No, I won’t blow you,’ and got the part anyway. Aren’t we both lucky to be that way? Aren’t you glad you’re not like the rest of the world?”
He trembled a tad. He wetted up a tad. Bette wetted up and touched his eyes.
“Dear man. Step away from your life and be sweet with me for a while.”
Dudley pulled her hands down and pinned them to the bed. Her wet eyes were up against his. She hooked a leg over him and brought them just that close. It went to a thrash and stayed in a thrash. The thrash made her shut her eyes. The thrash let him look at her.
Her arms were soft. Her breasts pulled flat with the thrash. He kissed her neck. She showed her teeth and bit her lips. The thrash built to a flush all over her body. Then the arch above the thrash, a clutch and thrash, a plummeting something.
9:46 a.m.
The Airedale slept between them. Dudley stirred and saw the dog first. He marked the moment—Bette Davis snores.
He kissed the dog’s snout and kissed Bette’s shoulder. He walked to the bathroom and shaved with a dainty razor. He dressed and rigged the curtains to light up Bette’s hair. He kissed her arms and walked downstairs.
The Airedale showed him out. He nuzzled the grand beast. He walked outside and took in the morning.
Brentwood north of Sunset. Tudor mansions, French châteaux, Spanish haciendas. Dudley Liam Smith—fate favors you.
He got his K-car. He hooked out to the Valley and east to Burbank. The airport cops let him perch on the runway. He had two hours to kill. He smelled Bette on his shirt cuffs.
He had time to scheme and strategize. He had time to craft a disingenuous report to Bill Parker.
Watanabe/multiple homicide/12-7-41. Second summary—one week in.
He popped three bennies. He padded redundant information. He layered in futile background-check dirt. He heaped on the dead-end leads and stressed the clannish Jap culture that constrained the job.
The bennies kicked in. He shoveled cop officialese and underlined his detective’s frustration.
Record checks were impossible. The war dashed all normal avenues of approach.
Can you read between the lines, Captain? Call-Me-Jack wants this job shitcanned by New Year’s. He will get what he wants—but this damnable case intrigues me.
The Boston flight taxied in. Baggage men rolled stairs to the door. Dudley got out and stood by the gate. Jack was the first down the steps.
He wore his Navy blues. He saw Dudley and beelined. They hugged hello and shoved apart. They pushed each other out to arm’s length.
Jack said, “You mick cocksucker.”
Dudley said, “The pot calls the kettle black.”
They got in the K-car. Dudley tossed Jack’s bag in the back. Jack futzed with the two-way dial and stirred up a hum. Dudley pulled off the runway.
Jack said, “Where are we going?”
“How did your father once summarize Los Angeles?”
“He said you come here to fuck movie stars and create mischief.”
“Well, then. Harry Cohn has an introduction for you.”
Jack twirled his hat on one finger. “I wouldn’t say no to Rita Hayworth or Ella Raines.”
Dudley said, “Lad, you’ll have to. Miss Hayworth is out of town, and Jewboy Harry has designs on Miss Raines himself.”
“Which makes me the low man in a Mongolian cluster fuck.”
Dudley laughed. “Ellen Drew, lad. She’s a stunning new contract player, and she’s waiting at the Los Altos Apartments.”
Jack messed with the radio. Code numbers and locations overlapped. 390, Little Tokyo. Prowl cars requested.
Jack said, “What’s going on at East 1st Street?”
“It’s Japtown, lad. The locals are being detained.”
“Can you believe it? We knew it was coming, but we didn’t think they’d hit us first.”
“It’s a new world we live in.”
“I fly to Pearl on Monday. I’ve got briefings, and then it’s a jump to some shitty little island full of cannibals.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Your dad came through. I’m free to be commissioned at New Year’s. Army Intelligence. Mexican duty, most likely.”
Jack said, “Dad’s still got some pull. That ‘Jittery Joe’ talk didn’t do him any good, though. Come on, Dud. You’d bail on the Blitz. A little drive up to the Emerald Isle and some sweet Irish cooze.”
Dudley skirted the Hollywood Bowl. “Ireland’s a place you don’t leave. I’m surprised Joe came back at all.”
“His money and his kids are here. Given that, you’d come back yourself.”
Christmas was coming. The faux trees were up. Salvation Army kettles cluttered Sunset.
Dudley flicked his cigarette. “Does your dad still have that yen for dirty movies? He hasn’t lost it at his advanced age?”
Jack laughed. “Ask him yourself. He’ll be at Ben Siegel’s party on Sunday. That said, he’s always called the smut business ‘high pulchritude with low overhead.’ ”
Dudley laughed. Jack tipped his hat over his eyes. Dudley took Highland to Wilshire. The Los Altos flanked a gas station and a South Seas–motif lounge.
It was a wayward starlets’ haven. Contract players turned tricks in rent-by-the-night flops. Dot Rothstein ran the dyke dens. Eleanor Roosevelt munched muff in 419.
Dudley parked in front. Jack dug in his bag and spritzed on Lucky Tiger. The lad was comely but frail. He looked vaguely inbred.
“Ellen Drew, right?”
“Yes, lad. She’s in 332. Mention The Château in Montparnasse. She played the French maid.”
Jack said, “This won’t take long.”
“I know, lad. Your reputation precedes you.”
Jack yocked and scrammed. Dudley cogitated. The Watanabe house. Mental walk-through no. 9,000.
He walked the floors and checked the closets. He looked under the sink. He peered behind the icebox. He retrieved two memories.
He recalled mouse shit by a drainpipe. He recalled spilled detergent near the washing machine.
Jack hopped in the car. A hickey bloomed on his neck.
Dudley said, “You weren’t long.”
Jack winked. “Nice kid. Tell Harry to be good to her.”
“Where to, lad?”
“The Delfern place. Dad’s got an envelope for Gloria.”
Dudley drove northwest. Jack shut his eyes and forestalled chitchat. Gloria Swanson lived in Holmby Hills. Joe K. was her way-back-when lover.
Joe looted her bank accounts. Gloria hatched their love child in ’27. Joe pooh-poohed his patrimony and provided covert support.
The house was small-hotel size. Dudley brodied into the porte cochère and roused Jack. The lad looked startled. He grabbed his hat and rolled out of the car.
The backyard gate was open. Jack strolled over. Dudley cogitated.
He studied his report. He beefed up his canvassing notes. He ran mental walk-through 9,001. He recalled more mouse turds and spoiled lettuce in the icebox.
Jack walked back. His zipper was down. He tumbled into the car and tipped his hat. Dudley pulled out to the street.
Jack said, “I hate him.”
Dudley said, “Yes, I know.”
“Joe Junior fucks her, I fuck her. Bobby’s too pious to fuck her, and Teddy’s too young.”
“Yes, lad. I know.”
“It doesn’t do any good. I still hate him. She made me fuck her out by the pool, and now my ass is sunburned.”
Dudley laughed and turned onto Sunset. Holmby Hills Christmas trees loomed skyscraper high.
Jack said, “He rapes the world and shits all over decent people, then runs when the chickenshit Krauts drop a few bombs. I’m a chickenshit for feeding on his money, and you’re a chickenshit for driving me around.”
Dudley smiled. “Immaculate Heart, then?”
Jack smiled. “Immaculate Heart, you mick cocksucker.”
They tootled down Sunset. Jack stared out the window and scratched his balls. Dudley turned north on Western. The convent and school were built up a hillside.
The Archbishop’s limo was parked across the street. J. J. Cantwell liked to perch and peep schoolgirls.
Dudley pulled up behind him. Jack got out and walked over to the playground. It was recess. Laura sat by herself. She looked like a Kennedy, one genetic beat removed.
She saw Jack and ran up to him. J. J. Cantwell stepped out of the limo. He wore linen golf slacks and a pink sweater.
Dudley joined him. Cantwell stared at Laura and Jack.
“He’s too thin, Dud. Isn’t Joe feeding him?”
“He takes his sustenance from love, Your Eminence.”
Cantwell giggled. “I won’t live to see a Catholic president. Joe has designs for his sons, I’ve been told.”
“He does, Your Eminence.”
“A Catholic police chief. That’s more within my grasp.”
Jack and Laura chucked a baseball. J. J. Cantwell stared.
“How long does Chief Horrall plan to stick around, Dud?”
“Until the war concludes, Your Eminence.”
“And his preferred successor would be the capable, but dismayingly Protestant Thad Brown?”
“It would be, Your Eminence.”
“Can Horrall avoid scandal for the remainder of his term?” Dudley did the wavy hand. “A toss-up, Your Eminence. The FBI will be conducting a wiretap probe next February, and the Chief could be besmirched. He’s taking payoffs from a Vice sergeant named Elmer Jackson, who is quite embroiled with an enterprising madam named Brenda Allen. I would not like to see it become public news.”
Cantwell said, “Bill Parker is afraid of you.”
Dudley said, “I know that, Your Eminence.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No, Your Eminence. I am not.”
“Do you have something on him?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Does he have something on you?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
Cantwell stared at Laura and Jack. They tossed the baseball. His Eminence caught every move.
“I am pleased by this balance of power between two fine Catholic laymen, and I am equally fond of you and Bill Parker. I would like to see a Catholic Chief in my lifetime, and would hate to see this balance dashed unnecessarily.”