11:47 p.m.

Dudley Smith.

I couldn’t think of anything else. I took a taxi home from the hospital and thought of Dudley Smith; I’m bearing wounds inflicted by Dudley Smith’s henchwoman, Dot Rothstein. Dudley Smith, Bette Davis’ wartime-fling lover; Dudley Smith and his frame of the vilely pathetic Werewolf. Dudley Smith and his confluence of criminal cases, his collusive relationship with Ace Kwan, his land grabs and war-profiteering schemes, up to and including the distribution of “Anti-Axis” pornography, in league with his notorious namesake, Gerald L. K. Smith. Dudley Smith, the urbane. Dudley Smith, so given to casually expeditious murder. Dudley Smith and his corruption of young men. Dudley Smith and his stunningly democratic cultivation of family.

His “boys.” His Catholic Archbishop, his lesbian doctor chum and her vicious paramour. More than anything else, his sincerely deep regard for Hideo Ashida.

I sat on my separate bedroom terrace and nursed a highball. Lee was off somewhere; I had the house to myself and was grateful for the spell of silent ponder. Dudley Liam Smith had severely underestimated the mental powers of Robert Sinclair Bennett, just as I had. I now knew everything that he had written on that astoundingly comprehensive and heedlessly conceived wall graph.

It was all police work and criminal business. Dudley Smith did not scheme or kill from petty rancor or from anything other than expeditiousness viewed as his sole option. He operated at an astoundingly complex level of deception. He adhered to family loyalty and did not name his minion who robbed Whalen’s Drugstore and the Sheriff’s van full of hijacked Japanese money. Scotty surmised that Dudley and Ace Kwan killed the three men in Griffith Park—but Dudley’s partner in those killings was designated as “UA,” for “unidentified accomplice.” Those killings derived from his fatherly ethos and desire to avenge a ravaged young woman. Scotty ran through the graph three full times. He told me that Dudley had created this document so that he might be able to recall everything that he had done since the Whalen’s robbery, the Watanabe homicides and the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was conceived as a study sheet and memory tool. It now burned within me, as a quintessentially bad and gifted man’s confession. I had been teething on it for hours. I’ve come away thinking that Dudley has omitted something—perhaps horrifying, perhaps mundane, and surely revelatory—and that it derives from his relationship with Bette Davis.

And, I’m astonished that I don’t hate this astonishingly bad man. And that I am as beholden to him as I am beholden to Bill Parker. Their exchange of vows secured me my freedom. And Claire’s freedom, and the freedom of all the others. Sergeant Smith and Captain Parker will honor their vows before God—I have no doubt of that. This shared vow feels grand to me. The vow—however expedient, corrupt and self-interested—acknowledges the power of the infinite to mediate worldly order. That such brutal men would accede to that power belittles my own recent machinations and renders me tiny in my soul.

Graph details keep unfurling. I’m stuck on Pierce Patchett and his plan to surgically re-create women as film stars. My nose is broken and splinted; I’ve achieved a partial re-creation myself. My fight with Dot Rothstein mirrors Dot’s molesting of Claire. I learned of that act through a tract that Claire wrote. She wrote it for G. L. K. Smith—Dudley’s graph said so.

The telephone rang. I walked inside and picked up the call.

“Hello?”

Hideo Ashida said, “Kay? I hope it’s not too late to be calling.” Dudley’s lackey oozed deference.

“I’m always surprised to hear from you. And I’m always happy to talk, so the time doesn’t really matter.”

He said, “I overheard two phone calls. Mayor Bowron made them, but I can’t tell you how I know.”

Because you don’t know what I know about you? Because you think I’ll believe whatever you say?

I said, “Please tell me, anyway.”

“I overheard Mayor Bowron and Chief Horrall talking. They’re planning to create a ‘derogatory profile’ on Captain Parker, to prevent him from becoming Chief. There’s that, and that Mayor Bowron ordered a girl from your friend Brenda, for Monday night.”

So you called me. Because Captain Parker knows who you’ve thrown in with. So you called me. Because Captain Parker would refute this call. So you called me. Because you might need Captain Parker one day and this clumsy warning might somehow serve you.

I hung up. I thought about Pierce Patchett; I got an idea and picked the phone up again.

I called Brenda. She was still awake at midnight. She started to quiz me on my hospital stay. I cut her off, told her to round up Elmer and meet me at Dave’s Blue Room, immediately.

Brenda blurted good-byes. I hung up, grabbed my coat and headed down to the Strip. The Blue Room was quiet; I found a booth in the back. The waiter gave my nose splint a double take. I ordered a highball and said, “You should see the other girl.” He grinned and left me alone. I listened to a wall-radio newscast.

Japanese subs had been spotted near Monterey. Subs had fired on freighters above San Francisco. The reports brought me back to the graph and the Goleta Inlet attack.

My drink came. I pulled out my compact and examined myself in the mirror. I was badly bruised below my eyes; the cuts on my nose had congealed into scabs. I took a belt of my drink and pulled off my nose splint. It hurt—but there was no blood.

Brenda and Elmer walked over. Elmer said, “I liked you better in the gauze. It gave you panache beyond your years.” Brenda said, “This better be worth it, Citizen.”

I made room for them in the booth. I reported, with a rigorous degree of omission.

Jack Horrall and Fletch Bowron were colluding against Bill Parker. I’d come across valid information that might drastically undercut their biz. A police-protected businessman planned to run a string of girls cut to look like movie stars. Brenda whooped at that. Elmer fumbled his cigar.

Jack and Fletch were building a “derogatory profile” against Parker. Jack would surely sanction the businessman’s operation. Parker would be a damn good ally for them. Parker might well become Chief. Fletch had ordered a Monday-night girl from them. Think shakedown. Think threat of misconduct exposed. Think “Put the skids to the cut-girl racket before it gets off the ground.” Your options are do everything or do nothing.

Elmer said, “There’s no guarantee that Parker makes Chief, which means we got no protection then.”

I said, “That’s a risk you take. In the meantime, you’ll quash this racket, and we’ve made sure that Fletch doesn’t tell Jack he’s been squeezed. This is a future-safety gambit. If you squeeze Fletch now, he’ll be able to lay the groundwork to say, ‘Jack, I’m not so sure about this.’ ”

Brenda said, “Shake down the mayor of Los Angeles, now. Stall this rival now, and punt if your pal Bill don’t get the job and worse comes to worse.”

I said, “Yes. And this deal is going forward, and with all the right people to make it happen.”

Elmer said, “If Parker’s in it from the git, with a convincing handshake, I’d be inclined to say okay.”

Brenda lit a cigarette. “I can’t risk one of our girls for the bait. Miss Katherine Lake, fresh off the KO victory over the Dotstress, is feeling her oats—but she won’t name names on this deal. I’m skeptical, Citizens.”

I said, “There’s names you’ll recognize and names you’ll respect. You’ll want someone like Parker on your side. You’ll want him because you don’t trust him now, but you’ll trust him if he gives you his word.”

Elmer relit his cigar. “I’m inclined to say yes, then. Since this racket sounds like a big-name sure thing, we’d be stupid not to try something.”

I lit a cigarette. “I’ll be the bait. A little Helena Rubenstein no. 9, and Fletch won’t know this girl’s been in a tiff.”