12:37 a.m.

Traffic death. Shoreline job. Windward and Main.

Parker stood in the intersection. A lab man chalked the body and measured skid marks. The driver never saw the old lady. He was driving per blackout regs. The old lady stepped out of nowhere.

The driver was all boo-hoo. He said he was fucking exhausted. The fucking Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. He hadn’t slept since Sunday morning.

Parker sent him home. Sleep, brother. We’ll call you for the coroner’s inquest.

A morgue van hauled off the body. The bluesuits resumed patrol. Parker wrote the report in his car. His clipboard blurred.

He got the call outside the Deutsches Haus and drove here. He played the radio on the ride over. A newscast gave him the blues.

That man James Larkin died at Queen of Angels. He got sideswiped on his bike Sunday morning. He was leading the Santa Monica Cycleers. The kids survived, he didn’t.

Parker prayed the Rosary. His voice cracked. He vowed to pray for Larkin’s recovery and forgot to enact the vow. The Japs bombed Hawaii. It induced mass amnesia.

Parker recalled an odd detail. Larkin’s going in the ambulance. A Luger grip falls from his lap.

It was dark and cold. Hide-and-drink conditions excelled. Dudley’s boys were booking the Krauts at the Hall of Justice jail. He should be there.

Parker drove downtown. He left the blackout zone and hit lit-up L.A. A woman jaywalked at Temple and Hill. She wore a Kay Lake–style red dress.

Parker double-parked outside the Hall and took the cop lift up. The thirteenth floor was Axis-packed. The holding tank was all Jap.

The booking desk featured Dudley’s boys and the five Kraut fucks. They were shackled to a come-along chain.

Breuning said, “The skipper’s back.”

Carlisle said, “I’m hungry. Let’s head over to Kwan’s.”

Meeks said, “It’s Shotgun Bill.”

Parker checked the arrest log. The Schweinehunde were penciled in. Max Affman, Robert Noble, Max Herman Schwinn. Ellis Jones and a dentist named Dr. Fred Hiltz.

They were bruised up from the raid. Their snazzy armbands drooped.

A jail deputy hovered. Parker said, “Book them for sedition and hold them for the Federal grand jury. No habeas, no bail. Place them on the colored tier. They might learn a few things.”

A tall Schweinehund grumbled. Breuning backhanded him. The desk phone rang. The jail deputy got it.

A fat Schweinehund said, “I don’t bunk with no coons.” Breuning backhanded him. The jail deputy passed Parker the phone.

“Yes?”

“It’s Nort Layman, Bill. You should meet me at Homicide. I’ve turned up something on Nancy Watanabe.”