1:14 p.m.
A warehouse block. Innocuous. 4600 Valley—hit-and-run homicide scene.
The impact point had eroded. Monday’s rain drenched the tread marks.
Ashida walked outside the rope line. He held the Jim Larkin DB file. Ray Pinker shagged it for him.
A black-and-white skidded up and grazed Ashida’s car. Bill Parker got out. He wore a too-loose uniform. He had that frayed I-can’t-sleep look.
He walked up. His glasses fit cockeyed. He probably passed out on them.
“It’s a premeditated vehicular homicide. The man possessed dexterity and nerve. He smashed Larkin hard enough to kill him and barely touched the boys. It all feels professional.”
Ashida said, “And he was wearing a purple sweater, just like the white man outside the Watanabe house.”
Parker said, “Mauve sweater. Those were mauve fibers you found on the victims’ posteriors. Mauve and purple. It’s ambiguous.”
Ashida nodded. “The Sheriff’s checked all the car-repair and paint shops, and got nothing. He had to have damaged his car, but he’s kept it garaged.”
Parker lit a cigarette. His gun belt flopped down his hips.
Ashida said, “It was an obvious cause of death, so there was no autopsy. I found one interesting note in the file, though. The impact sheared off a chunk of flesh from Larkin’s rear thigh. The examining surgeon noted a ‘circumscribed, uniformly configured series of stab wounds embedded in a muscle group,’ but there’s no photograph.”
Cars whizzed by. The black-and-white spooked them. They braked and crawled.
Parker said, “The fucking knife. We’ve got the faded wound on Ryoshi Watanabe, and now we’ve got this.”
Cars crawled close. Parker stood too close to them. Ashida stepped back.
“Yes. The whole thing keeps growing.”
Parker’s two-way squawked. Garbled speech issued. Parker walked over and snatched the receiver. The squawk leveled off.
Ashida studied the impact point. He noted loose molding. He saw a single sawtooth tread.
Parker walked back. “That was the Bureau dispatcher. I had Nort Layman put out a statewide bulletin on the glass particles and shrimp oil on the Watanabes’ feet, and we just got a kickback from Lancaster. A hospital treated a ‘Japanese derelict’ for cut feet and released him an hour ago. We’ve got no name on the man, but there’s half a connection. The deputies up there had fielded complaints from five local groceries. Customers found glass particles in cans of Japanese-caught and -manufactured shrimp. It’s Sheriff’s jurisdiction, and Gene Biscailuz saw the bulletin. He thinks it’s Fifth Column sabotage, so he’s going up.”
Ashida gripped the rope line. Car whizzed by, too close.
Parker said, “Dispatch gave me the scoop on the canning distributor. His name’s Wallace Hodaka, and he’s in the Fort MacArthur stockade.”
Ashida said, “We have to.”
Parker nodded yes. They looked at each other. They eschewed more preamble. They walked to their cars and peeled out.
They convoyed, southbound. Ashida took the pole slot. Parker bird-dogged him.
They hit Main Street. They caught Lincoln Heights. Ashida checked his rearview mirror. Parker rode his back bumper and sucked on a flask.
They laid tracks to Pedro. Parker bumper-locked him and nipped on his flask. Downtown, darktown, Gardena. Salt air and Army trucks—San Pedro up ahead.
They hit Fort MacArthur. They hit the stockade. Ashida saw Parker stash his flask and gargle mouthwash. The gate guard fish-eyed Ashida—Hey, you’re a Jap.
Ashida flashed his ID card. The guard clocked the black-and-white and waved them in. They found slots by the door. They got out and stretched. Parker teetered and held.
MPs flanked the door. They saluted Parker and fish-eyed the Jap. Parker pointed Ashida ahead. The sally port was a full-barred enclosure. The desk guard squint-eyed Ashida—Hey, who’s this Jap?
Parker braced him. “We’re here to interview an inmate named Wallace Hodaka.”
The guard checked his desk book. “We just logged some L.A. boys in and out. A Sergeant Smith called down and said he had Chief Horrall’s okay. We logged in Sergeants M. Breuning, R. Carlisle, and Officer R. S. Bennett. They examined our inmate list and left a few minutes ago.”
Ashida gulped. Parker gripped his gun belt and cinched his loose pants. The guard unhooked a wall phone and gabbed officialese. He hit a button. Two bar doors slid wide.
“Interview room no. 3. He’s a tubby little Tojo guy, and he don’t speak English.”
Parker walked ahead. His gait was off. His feet looked wrong on the floor. Ashida walked behind him.
He ignored the cell rows. Inmates saw him and hissed. It escalated cell to cell. They spat at him. He stuck to the middle of the catwalk. The spit globs fell short.
Number 3 was an eight-by-eight sweat room. The door was open. Wallace Hodaka wore jail khakis and straddled a chair.
Ashida shut the door. Hodaka stood and bowed. They shook hands. Hodaka rebowed. Parker popped a tin and swallowed six aspirin.
“Interview him, Doctor. You know what we need. Promise him habeas if he cooperates.”
Ashida straddled a chair. He stacked up mother-tongue phrases and cut loose. Hodaka cut loose in reply.
He talked fast. He wanted to talk. It was a listen-now/translate-as-you-go deal. Ashida nodded—Please, go ahead.
Wallace Hodaka was perceptive. He spoke in direct sentences and did not digress. Ashida listened and mentally translated at his speedy clip.
Parker leaned on the door. His eyes were bloodshot. He was half in the bag.
Hodaka ran out of breath. He bowed to Ashida and Parker. Ashida bowed back and laid out the gist.
“Mr. Hodaka knows nothing about the particles of glass found in the canned shrimp that he produces, and he seems credible to me. He was detained here because he manufactured Emperor Hirohito souvenir dolls up until three years ago, when the Emperor’s warlike agenda became evident. The shrimp canning is done at a San Fernando Valley truck farm owned by Hodaka family cousins. A rotating workforce of Japanese transients does the canning work. If glass got into his shrimp, it was inadvertently, and due to the sloppy efforts of his workers—or from errors that derived from the fishing-boat source of the shrimp. San Pedro–moored boats sell him their shrimp catches. Mr. Hodaka was very clear on this one point—and, again, I find him credible. He’s always paid cash for the shrimp, and he’s never kept records of the transactions. He can’t honestly give you any names for his shrimp providers.”
Parker said, “Keep going.”
Ashida said, “Mr. Hodaka does know about the white men attempting to purchase Japanese-owned houses and farms, but he doesn’t know their names. Their ‘front man’ was allegedly a man named Hikaru Tachibana, who was rumored to have been murdered—but Mr. Hodaka has no more details on that. A cousin visited Mr. Hodaka here a few days ago, and told him that a man named Jimmy Namura was seen in Little Tokyo and the Valley early last week, asking about the men attempting to purchase the houses and farms. Namura was seen again on Thursday, also in the Valley and Little Tokyo, asking the same questions. This time, Namura was facially lacerated and wore bandages that seemed to indicate a recent surgery. Mr. Hodaka knows nothing more about Jimmy Namura, has never met any member of the Watanabe family, and knows nothing about them. Again, Captain, I find Mr. Hodaka entirely credible.”
Parker rubbed his eyes. “Tachibana and Namura were Watanabe family KAs. They were in the ‘A’ subversive index.”
Ashida said, “I know. And Dudley Smith got Namura released from T.I.”
“I’d bet that Dudley is hiding him. If it’s anywhere, it’s Chinatown. And if anyone knows, it’s Ace Kwan.”
Hodaka fidgeted. He fretted his jail wristband. He’d chewed his cuticles raw.
Ashida smiled. “You’ll get Mr. Hodaka habeas.”
Parker said, “Not today. He’s more useful here.”
More hissing. More spit globs. More synchronized this time.
Traitor, traitor, traitor.
They reversed their way back down the catwalk. Parker took the lead. He ignored the taunts and spittle. His feet still looked wrong on the floor.
They walked through the sally port and out to their cars. Parker peeled off first. He fishtailed and kicked up grit.
Two-car convoy.
Parker took the lead. Ashida trailed him. He had a choice rear-window view.
Parker sucked on his flask. Parker weeeeaved his black-and-white. Ashida bumper-lock tailed him. They kept their windows down. Parker played his civilian radio. It was soaring Bruckner, too loud.
Northbound. Pedro, Gardena, mainland L.A. Over to Broadway. Chinatown, straight ahead.
Parker U-turned and swerved up to Kwan’s. Ashida braked and got out of his way. Parker bumped the curb and stalled dead by the entrance. Ashida parked across the street.
The Pagoda was gussied up. The doorway dragons wore Christmas wreaths. A Santa sled was perched on the roof. A sled banner read REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR!
Parker stashed his flask and gargled up some mouthwash. He spit it out the window and spritzed a passing Ford. A passenger lady evil-eyed him. Parker flashed his middle finger and lurched from the car.
Ashida watched. Parker got a grip on the street and pushed off. He stumble-walked. He entered the Pagoda. Ashida ran up behind him.
The dining room was cryptsville. Busboys lounged near the kitchen. Uncle Ace sat at his favored table and read a comic book.
Parker used chair backs as handholds. He stitched a course and made it over. Ashida walked a step back.
Uncle Ace looked up. Parker slid into a chair. Ashida sat down beside him.
Uncle Ace said, “Yes?”
Parker said, “We have several questions.”
He slurred it. His breath reeked. Uncle Ace hitched his chair back.
“Yes? I hope I have the answers for you.”
Parker pulled out his cigarettes. Three match swipes got one lit.
“A man named James Namura. His moniker is ‘Jimmy the Jap.’ We need to know his whereabouts.”
Uncle Ace slid his ashtray over. “I do not know Mr. Namura, or know of him.”
“I think you do.”
“I assure you that I do not.”
“I think you do.”
“It insults me that you repeat yourself. Describe Mr. Namura, so that I may better understand why you so persist.”
Ashida watched. The busboys watched. They cleaned their fingernails with switchblades.
Parker said, “Here’s your description. He was seen a few days ago, and was noted as being ‘recently facially scarred.’ A plastic surgeon named Lin Chung is a ranking member of your tong, I know that you’re friends with a plastic surgeon named Terry Lux, and that you supply the opiates that Dr. Lux employs at his clinic in Malibu. Chief Horrall is indebted to you, but at this moment, I don’t care.”
Uncle Ace shook his head. “You are out of your depth, Whiskey Bill. I advise you to go home and sleep it off.”
Parker flushed. Uncle Ace pulled out a stiletto and scratched his neck with the blade. Parker pointed to Ashida.
“This man is Japanese.”
“Yes, and he is locally celebrated and honored for his forensic expertise.”
Ashida blushed and sat on his hands. It always quashed swoons.
Uncle Ace said: 
Ashida quick-translated. “I am happy to meet you, Doctor. I understand your embarrassment in this moment.” It was perfect Japanese.
He stood and bowed. Uncle Ace stood and bowed. Parker went cardiac red.
He poked Ashida. It hurt. Ashida’s arm went numb.
“You hate the fucking Chinese. Don’t tell me you don’t. Run this interrogation and get the information we need.”
Ashida said: 
Ashida brain-translated back. “I bear Mr. Kwan only goodwill.”
Parker said, “You dirty yellow savages. How fucking dare you?”
Uncle Ace winked at Ashida. Uncle Ace resumed his knife manicure.
Parker said, “Hit him.”
Ashida said, “No.”
Uncle Ace smiled.
The busboys watched. Ashida watched them. They held their knives against their legs.
Parker said, “Hit him.”
Ashida said, “No.”
Uncle Ace smiled.
The busboys stepped forward.
Parker said, “Hit him. You’re a fucking Jap coward if you don’t.”
Ashida said, “No.”
Uncle Ace laughed and winked. Parker stood up.
His knees bumped the table. The ashtray jumped. Cigarette butts flew. Parker jumped and went for Uncle Ace. Parker fell on the table, face-first.
Uncle Ace slid his chair back. Parker’s weight dumped the table. The legs snapped. The table hit the floor. Parker rode it down, face-first.
Uncle Ace smiled at Ashida and walked to the kitchen. The busboys followed him in.
Parker flailed and tried to stand up. His glasses had shattered. Ashida knelt and held him down. The table creaked under their weight.
He’s disordered and ruled by puerile emotion. He’s not Dudley Smith.