3:16 p.m.

Four Japs on morgue slabs. Caustic fumes. A big stink in a small room.

Dudley stood with Lee Blanchard and Nort Layman. They smoked to stifle the stink. The morgue adjoined Chinatown. The Chinks kicked up a ruckus outside.

They banged drums. They tossed firecrackers. They celebrated the attack. The Chinks hated the Japs, and vice versa. Chinatown would swing and sway tonight.

Blanchard said, “Fucking Japs.”

Layman said, “Fucking Chinks. I’ve got a headache from those fucking drums.”

Dudley yawned. He was tired. He’d been up since yesterday morning. He killed a man. He smoked opium and took Benzedrine. He wrote Beth Short a fatherly letter. He honed his plan to meet Bette Davis. He caught this fucking Jap job. The fucking Japs bombed America into a Jew-devised war.

Blanchard blew smoke on Ryoshi Watanabe. “Hey, pops. Fuck your emperor and fuck you.”

Dudley laughed. Layman slapped his knees. Firecrackers popped outside.

Blanchard blew smoke on Nancy Watanabe. “Give me some pussy, baby.”

Layman said, “You’re a troubled man, Leland.”

Blanchard said, “I like it when they don’t move.”

A cherry bomb exploded. The window glass shook. Dudley reached for his gun.

“Sadly, this comic sojourn must conclude. Norton, please report your findings.”

Layman said, “Pending toxicology and whatever advanced tests I can dream up, I’d call it homicide or homicide-suicide, and I think the former’s more likely. All the blood was intermingled, so individual typings were difficult. I got random chunks of A negative, and the kids would have inherited either mama or papa’s blood type, so that muddles things. The wound flaps were shredded, which indicates blade wiggle and a natural hesitation and/​or coercion at the moment of the piercings. The paraffin checks on their hands came out negative, so we can’t attribute that bullet hole on the second-floor landing to them, at least not in the past forty-eight hours. So far, I’d say this. I’ve handled four Jap sword suicides, and this doesn’t fit my empirical bill. And here’s the strangest goddamn thing. I found an oily residue on their feet and tested it. It was shrimp oil.”

Blanchard tossed his cigarette. It hit a blood spill and fizzled.

“If it’s murder, we lost time on the house-to-house, and now everybody’s got a bug up their ass about the bombings, so they won’t recall if they saw anything right before the snuffs occurred.”

Layman said, “You’re right on that. Big events induce a collective loss of memory. More important, who cares? I want to work this job for the pure science of it, but does anybody give a shit about four dead Japs on the day we went to war with Japan?”

The suicide note. The “looming apocalypse.” It was grandly evocative. Was it portentous?

Dudley kicked it around. Blanchard was right. A house-to-house would prove futile. Jack Webb was out with the locals. His silly radio chats were their “house-to-house.” That angle was pure futile.

The wall phone rang. A blue light blinked—police call.

Dudley grabbed the receiver. “Sergeant Smith.”

“It’s Jack Horrall, Dud.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“What a day, huh?”

“Surely one to remember, sir.”

“I hope you don’t have plans to enlist.”

Dudley said, “I do, sir. I see a grand career for myself in Army intelligence, and I have an influential friend who could secure me a commission.”

“Joe Kennedy?”

“Yes, sir.”

Call-Me-Jack whistled. It squelched the connection.

“For now, no dice. That’s final, until this war heats up or settles down, and we figure out where the Los Angeles Police Department stands in all of this.”

“Yes, sir. And on that note?”

“On that note, what’s Nort’s take on the Watanabe job so far?”

Cherry bombs blew up outside. Dudley cupped his free ear.

“He leans toward homicide, sir.”

“Well, then we’ll try to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, to show how impartial we are. I’ve talked to Mayor Bowron. He’s afraid of a backlash if our boys start taking grief for rounding up all these so-called loyal Japs. Are you reading me, muchacho?”

“I am, sir. The implications are quite clear.”

“Good. It’s a 100% Jap world we’re living in now, and I want to make hay out of it while the sun shines.”

“The rising sun, sir?”

Call-Me-Jack yukked. “That’s rich, Dud. I’ve got some boys here in my office. I’ll pass it along.”

Flies buzz-bombed the stiffs. Nort aerosol-sprayed them. They dropped dead on Aya Watanabe.

“Please do, sir.”

Call-Me-Jack said, “Don’t get your dander up, but I’ve assigned Bill Parker to supervise the investigation. He’s a savvy political beast, and I want him to ride a gentle herd on you and your boys.”

Dudley lit a cigarette. “Whiskey Bill is bereft of gentleness, sir. He’s an administrative drone, he’s not a detective, his sole aim is to oust you and become Chief, and his considerable savvy is entirely in the service of personal advancement.”

Call-Me-Jack belched. “Parker stays. And don’t worry—he won’t crowd you. I’ve got him working the blackouts, the roundups and a liaison job to the Army. He’ll be too goddamn tired to crowd you.”

Dudley said, “Yes, sir. I’m sure that Captain Parker and I will form a nonaggression pact.”

Call-Me-Jack said, “Hear, hear.”

“May I suggest a fourth man, to supplant Dick Carlisle and Mike Breuning? My choice would be Lee Blanchard. He’s been with me since I caught the squawk.”

Jack said, “Nix. He’s a patrol boy, and I’m forming an Alien Squad to help the Feds out with the rousts. That job’s got Blanchard’s name written all over it.”

Festive music reverberated. Chinks shouted gobbledygook. Dudley looked out the window. Paper dragons whooshed by.

“Yes, sir. I still request—”

“I’ll give you Buzz Meeks. He’s good muscle when push comes to shove.”

Background noise fuzzed the line. The connection sputtered and died.

Blanchard said, “How come the Chinks have this beef with the Japs? They all look alike to me.”

3:36 p.m.

The natives were restless.

Dudley blew out of the morgue. He was Chinatown’s sole white man. He strolled and enjoyed the show.

Fireworks, dragons, heathen babble. Tong boys with kettledrums. The Hop Sing lads wore red kerchiefs. The Four Families boys wore blue. They beat time like that grasshopper Gene Krupa.

Tojo dummies dangled from streetlights. Tong punks swung hatchets at them. Pillow stuffing swirled.

Dudley walked into the Pagoda. A radio blared WAR! Busboys laid down Jap flags as floor mats. City councilmen cheered.

Thad Brown slurped wonton soup. He saw Dudley and waved. Dudley winked and walked down to the basement.

Uncle Ace had redecorated his office. New pix had been framed and hung. FDR adjoined that white actor who played Charlie Chan.

“It is a great day, Dudster. The Chinese man and the U.S. Caucasian will align to slay the Jap beast.”

Dudley bowed. “Yes, but we must not lose perspective on our German Kameraden. They remain our first line of defense against the Reds and the Jews.”

Ace bowed. “My Irish brother seems weary. Might I suggest an invigorating tea?”

Dudley smiled and pulled a chair up. Ace laid out a kettle, powders and cups. Aaaaaah, so—Benzedrine and Ma Huang.

The scent invigorated. Ace poured two cups. Dudley sipped and cut through some cobwebs.

Ace said, “I have been thinking.”

“Yes, my yellow brother?”

“The folly of the attack on Pearl Harbor presents us with opportunities to exploit the Jap beast. We can hide fugitive Fifth Columnists here in Chinatown and charge them exorbitant rates. We can exploit the white man’s native bias toward the yellow man and profit from his inability to discern the differentiating aspects of Oriental physiognomy. White men cannot tell us apart. I see money in that shortcoming.”

Dudley sipped tea. “You are quite astute and farsighted on this fateful day. And I would venture that you have a favor to ask.”

Ace sipped tea. “That Four Families boy was rude to my niece again. I would hope that my reprisal would not engender a war.”

The cobwebs dissolved. His circuitry reconnected.

“I’ll kill the boy. We’ll broker a truce then. Jim Davis will translate for me.”

Ace pointed to a mismatched wall panel. It looked freshly varnished. A Chink flag hung askew.

“I want to show you something. I have new ideas to go along with some work I had done. Please, follow me.”

Dudley stood up. Ace opened the panel. A dark hole dropped way underground.

A stairway, wall rails, overhead lights. Ace bowed and went After you.

The drop went thirty feet. The stairway featured red carpet. The steps hit a loooooong corridor. Hanging bulbs swayed and lit a path.

A generator hummed. The labyrinth was heated and air-cooled. Rooms lined both sides of the corridor. They were prelit. They had that grand model-home look.

Rooms with easy chairs and couches. Rooms with full kitchens attached. Rooms with card tables and wet bars. Rooms furnished with beds and whorehouse peeks.

Secret wall compartments. Hidden camera stations. Movie cameras pointed at two-way mirrors.

Thirty rooms. Wartime chic. The slant-eyed Statler Hilton. A gambling mecca and smut-film set. Chop suey always piping hot. A handy opium den.

Ace bowed to Dudley. Dudley bowed to Ace. The tea hit the back of his head.

Ace said, “I just completed the construction. I had originally planned it as a stag resort. Now, I see it as a luxurious hideout for Jap beasts in flight from prison. I had a fan-tan game here last night. It was profitable. We are at war now, which means that rich folks will need entertainment. Do you see socialites and movie stars coming here to mingle with Jap beasts and other riffraff?”

Dudley laughed. “Yes, my yellow brother, I do.”

“Your friend Harry Cohn dropped nineteen G’s here. If he lost that much to me, how much do you think he has lost to your friend Mr. Siegel?”

Dudley winked. “Indeed. What exploitable losses?”

Ace started babbling. High-test tea always sent him cross-eyed. He lapsed into pidgin English. He sputtered like Donald Duck.

Aaaaaaaah, yes—the Japs.

Jap roundups, Japs in chains, Japs consigned to luxury cells. Dead Japs at the morgue. Hideo Ashida—that stunningly bright Jap.