8:17 a.m.
Women.
Joan Woodard Conville and Kay Lake—persistent distractions. Bette Davis—hard to ignore.
Parker stood on the parade lawn. The Academy was hosting a biiiiig war-bond rally. Miss Davis was the surprise emcee.
Flags galore. A big lawn crowd. A dais packed with local hotshots. There’s Miss Davis—sprinkling ruby dust.
Call-Me-Jack sucked in his gut. Two-Gun Davis leered. Bill McPherson stayed awake. Thad Brown and Archbishop Cantwell tittered. A biiiiiig question loomed. Why is Dudley Smith here?
Miss Davis strolled the dais. She moved man to man. She touched arms and left lifelong crushes. She curtsied for His Eminence. She moved on to Dudley. He stroked her leg under the table.
It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. How COULD it be?
Folding chairs covered the lawn. The crowd was half cops, half paying stiffs. Parker took his seat. He was dead-to-rights, far-gone shot to shit.
The sun burned his eyes. His head throbbed. His uniform chafed. Miss Conville and Miss Lake crawled around inside him.
He crawled away from Miss Lake and drove to Saint Vibiana’s. The night watchman unlocked the sanctuary. He prayed for three hours straight.
He invoked the Holy Trinity and revoked The Thirst. He recited abstinence prayers. He emptied his backup jug outside the church.
He drove to the Bureau and cleaned up. He was emaciated. He’d worn his uniform shirt inside out.
He put on a fresh uniform. He brushed his teeth bloody. The duty sergeant brought him an envelope.
He opened it. His hands shook and tore the flap. The Northwestern cops delivered. There’s Joan Woodard Conville.
There was one snapshot. It was backside-annotated. “Bowler, Wisconsin. 5/23/39.”
She sat on a split-rail fence. She wore a plaid shirt, high boots and jodhpurs. Her hair was cinched and center-parted. She radiated a severe and breathtakingly implacable beauty.
He peeled the envelope at dawn. He’d frayed the picture already.
Bette Davis walked to the microphone. Cheers went up. She glanced at Dudley. Did the Dudster just blush?
Miss Davis spoke. The loudspeakers futzed and distorted her words. The men at the dais swooned.
“… and three wonderful new members of the Los Angeles Auxiliary Police—the Hearst Rifle Team! They will now perform a daring trick with my very own unrelated namesake, James Edgar—”
The loudspeakers refutzed. Jim Davis hopped to the lawn and fired two .45’s in the air. The crowd locomotive-cheered. A Negro man in jockey silks walked up a palomino. Parker recognized him. He played slaves in plantation films.
He helped Two-Gun Davis up on the horse. Davis kicked his spurs and charged the nag down to the edge of the lawn. He dismounted and stuck a cigarette between his lips. The crowd went nuts.
Parker scanned the dais. Call-Me-Jack wooed Miss Davis. Miss Davis smiled and rebuffed his binoculars. A balloon drifted by her. She stabbed her cigarette and popped it. The dais bigwigs cheered.
There’s the riflemen. They were crouched out of sight, hambone eager. They’re wearing ceremonial robes. They’re packing .30-06’s. They radiate Klan.
The crowd went all-the-way nuts. Parker got a jolt of the pre-shakes. Dudley stepped off the dais and vanished. Miss Davis waited ten seconds and scrammed off his cue. The Klan shits formed a line and aimed at Crazy Jim’s cigarette.
Ready, aim, fire.
Three shots went off. Tobacco exploded forty yards out. The fucking cheers hurt.
Dudley walked toward the rose garden. Miss Davis hovered a discreet distance back. The garden was gussied up with DON’T TREAD ON ME flags. MPs flanked a table stacked with war bonds.
The Klan shits went to port arms. Parker quick-walked down to the parking lot and puked in a hedge. He heard rifle shots and covered his ears.
He saw Jim Davis drill a Mexican, back in ’33. The shot missed the cigarette and took off his nose. He bled to death on the eighth hole at Wilshire Country Club.
He heard more shots and more cheers. He heard horses’ hooves on the lawn. He heard “God Bless America,” loudspeaker-canned.
He dropped his hands. He sucked in air and caught a wave of the bends. The lawn crowd dispersed and formed a bond-purchase line. He slow-walked around to the lawn.
Thad Brown was up on the dais. Call-Me-Jack and the Negro jockey traded quips. The Negro did a soft-shoe and promoted a buck off the Chief. Thad signaled Parker: See El Jefe now.
The Negro took off with his swag. Thad trailed him. Parker bolted the steps. Call-Me-Jack slid him a chair.
“You’re off the Watanabe job. Your stunt with Ace Kwan queered it. You’re lucky Ashida had a leash on you. Dud reports directly to me now. I advise you not to protest.”
Parker said, “Yes, sir.”
Jack scratched his balls. “You stay on the blackouts, the roundups, and all our war-planning work. Chinatown’s still iffy, so I’m sending Jim Davis in to lay some voodoo on the Chinks. You and Jim go back, so I want you to watchdog him.”
Parker gripped the chair slats. “I want to enlist. You’d like to get rid of me. This is your chance.”
Jack grinned. “Comedian. The fucking Marx brothers combined. First, you fuck us on those phone taps and save your pal Ashida’s job. Now, you want to blow town while the Feds crawl up our ass.”
Parker shut his eyes. Call-Me-Jack belched scotch and bitters. It reinstilled The Thirst.
“You screwed us and did us a shitload of good, Bill. We’ve got a leg up on the Feds because of you. Sid Hudgens will do a feature on the Watanabe mess when Dud clears it, which’ll notch us some publicity to offset this Fed snafu. All in all, I’m ahead on you. Don’t queer it with me like your queered it with Ace.”
Parker said, “Yes, sir.”
Sid H. waltzed the Webb kid by. Call-Me-Jack winked at them.
“Go home, Bill. You’ve got one, remember? Reacquaint yourself with the lovely Helen Schultz Parker. Remember her? I danced with her at your wedding.”
Parker stepped off the stage. Wet grass put him into a slide. He caught himself on the railing and walked to the parking lot.
Simple sunlight hurt. His uniform felt like a bug swarm. He got out the picture and caught new details.
Her teeth were slightly crooked. Her hands were as big as most men’s.
Thad Brown walked up. Parker said, “Horrall canned me.”
Thad shrugged. “Dud’ll get us a clean solve or hang it on some fiend who should have burned for deals ten times as bad. One of us will be Chief after the war, Bill. We’ll thank our lucky stars we’ve got guys like the Dudster shoveling the shit for us.”
“It rankles, Thad. Don’t tell me it wouldn’t rankle you.”
Thad shrugged. “Dud’s got four dead Japs in Highland Park. I’ve got a dead Jap in a phone booth. Dud’s got no leads because there’s a war on, and the Japs won’t talk to white cops. The same shit applies to me. A solve’s a solve, and the same thing goes for no-hopers. A dead Jap’s a dead Jap, and white cops didn’t start this war.”
Sunlight hit the photo. Most redheads had freckles. Miss Conville did not.
Thad said, “Who is she?”
Parker got out his notebook and pen. His hand trembled. Thad noticed it. Parker jotted her particulars.
“Find her for me. Will you do that?”
Thad nodded. “Go home, Bill. Dead Japs are dead Japs. Pretend that you’re like the rest of us for a while.”