1:04 p.m.
The Werewolf read Hideo’s letter. He was terp-primed. He moved his lips and read slow.
Dudley sat with Ellis Loew and a new steno. The hallway was packed. The wall speakers supplied crisp sound.
Call-Me-Jack hosted some Army pals. Said pals brought their children. The lads and lassies wore rubber werewolf masks. Shudo was quite the kiddie show.
Dudley said, “Do you recall that letter, sir?”
Shudo said, “Yeah. Sure. I guess so.”
“With that in mind, sir, let us return to Saturday, December 6th.”
“Okay, boss.”
“You were in a state of both agitation and premeditation. You were, quite frankly, looped on terpin hydrate. By your own admission, sir, things were quite hazy for you.”
Shudo said, “Terp, boss. It’s like Wheaties. ‘Breakfast of Champions.’ ”
Dudley said, “You had the deadly sharp knives on your cart. You had the Japanese ritual swords that you purchased in Little Tokyo, but you don’t recall where, and you misplaced the four scabbards in your inebriated state. You had purchased four sachets of a rare Oriental poison from a chemist that you knew from your fraternal-club days, but you cannot recall his name—and, again, your consumption of terpin hydrate had rendered that patch of time hazy.”
Shudo scratched his neck. “I think I remember that chemist guy. He was friends with The Beast way back when. I sold my cart to a coon outside the Rosslyn Hotel. I do remember that.”
Dudley said, “We discussed it, sir. That stated, I should remind you. You sold the cart on Sunday, December 7th. It’s still Saturday, December 6th, that we’re discussing here.”
Shudo said, “Right, boss. Saturday. This little girl says I look like The Wolfman, and her daddy takes a picture of me.”
Dudley said, “That is correct, sir. And by our combined calculations, it was right before you knocked on Ryoshi Watanabe’s door.” Shudo yawned. “Ryoshi was a wrong-o, boss. We went back to the clubs. I read that letter. We had this grudge going. I was full of no-good for him. It was bad, ichiban.”
“He was surprised to see you, wasn’t he, sir?”
“Yeah, he was surprised. ‘Hello there, Ryoshi. We go back, baby boy.’ ”
“You were shocked to see Nancy, weren’t you, sir? She was the carrier of your wolf-cub litter, but she slaughtered the whelps in her womb.”
“Yeah, Nancy. She was a wrong-o. The Beast hated her. She did me dirt.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. The Wolf snatched the pack and lit up. Loew nudged Dudley. It meant Close Him Now.
Dudley said, “Aya and Johnny were there. You’d stashed your cart on the porch, out of sight from the street. The reunion with your hated foe and his family was uncomfortable at first, but you suggested a nice cup of tea, all around. The tea contained a slow-acting poison that induced euphoria before it induced death. The dope-addled Watanabes vomited on their clothing, but didn’t seem to mind, because of their euphoric states. That display of sloth offended you and disrupted the fantasy that had been building ever so vividly within your mind. You made the four people change clothes. You spied on Nancy and Johnny and became aroused at their states of undress. You didn’t want to be seen outside with their vomit-soaked clothing, so you dumped it in the washing machine. Your fantasy went into improvisation. It now entailed a period of waiting, postmortem. You would have to wait for the clothes to wash and hang them out on the line.”
Shudo said, “Yeah, the fuckers puked. It made me real mad. What’s that word? It ‘disrupted’ me.”
Loew went Wheeeeeeeew. Dudley smiled.
“Ryoshi had been bragging. He told you that a Japanese attack on the Pacific Fleet was imminent, and his certainty infuriated you. You felt impotent, because your hated foe remained a vital and well-informed Fifth Columnist, while you moldered in an asylum on charges of bamboo-shoot rape. You improvised again. You capitalized on the euphoric states of your intended victims and had Ryoshi write a suicide note pertaining to the attack on his bedroom wall. The stage had been set, sir. Your victims had been lulled into a state of docile and euphoric compliance. ‘Fuji, the Knife Man.’ They had long underestimated you. You suggested a friendly game of charades and made them lie supine, four across, on the living room floor.”
Shudo raised his hands. Shudo rattled his cuff chain. Shudo said, “Yeah, boss.”
“And then you pulled a sharp knife from your waistband and gutted them in the manner of seppuku. Is that correct, sir?”
Shudo went Heil Hitler! Shudo said, “Yeah, boss.”
“And then you removed the clothes from the washing machine and hung them on the clothesline. Is that correct, sir?”
Shudo went Heil Hitler! Shudo said, “Yeah, boss.”
“And then you waited until nightfall, calmly gathered up your knife-sharpening cart and cautiously surveyed the outside world. You then wheeled your cart down to Figueroa Street and walked southbound, to your hotel. You were wonderfully elated, and consumed yet more terpin hydrate in celebration. You went up to your room and slept through to the following day. It is now Sunday, December 7th, sir. You went out in the world and learned that your misguided countrymen had, indeed, attacked the Pacific Fleet. You ventured southbound and sold your knife-sharpening cart to a Negro man outside the Rosslyn Hotel. You dropped the knife you used to kill the Watanabe family down a sewer grate. Is that correct, sir?”
Shudo said, “Yeah, ichiban. I did it all. Ryoshi got under my skin. Nancy killed my cubs, and Johnny said no to The Beast. Aya was mean to me, so she had to go. Pearl Harbor, boss. This caper ain’t no gas-chamber bounce when my people win the war.”
Ellis Loew sighed.
The steno sighed.
Dudley stood and bowed to the mirror. The door blew open wide.
The gallery ran in. They blitzkrieged Dudley and banzai’d The Wolf. Call-Me-Jack, Thad B., Fletch Bowron. Stray Feds, Army brass, little kids.
They pounded Dudley’s back. Thad uncuffed The Wolf. The kids stormed him and hugged him. The Wolf mugged and ruffled their hair.
The kids wore Mummy masks and Werewolf masks. The Wolf hopped around. The kids poked him and squealed.
Dudley ducked out. More work loomed. Oceanside—eighty miles south.
He popped two bennies and hit the back stairs. Scotty was parked in his pastor dad’s Dodge. Dudley loaded it this a.m.
One Navy seabag. Two .45’s tucked in. Silencer-rigged. Loaded with Ace Kwan’s dumdums. Eugenics. One slug killed whole dynasties.
Dudley jumped in the car. Scotty pulled out. Dudley dipped the seat and shut his eyes. Don’t talk to me.
He’d talked to Ace. The tile game was Chink-only and high stakes. He called Harry Cohn and said stay away. He called Jack Webb and gave him a gig.
Watch the game for me. Chart the winners and losers. Call me, pay phone to pay phone. I fear a robbery.
The Smith-Kwan cartel needed money. Terry Lux was in with them now. Terry’s business acumen juiced up their plans. Terry thought they could buy in with Exley and Patchett. It required big seed cash.
Scotty drove. Dudley rode a bennie surge and schemed the Mexican foray.
It was risky. It meant fucking Carlos Madrano. Carlos was Exley’s and Patchett’s tight pal. It meant a Mexican dope and cash raid. It meant planned obfuscation and convincing suspects killed in advance.
Scotty drove. Dudley opened his eyes. He saw the coast road. A sign read OCEANSIDE, 10 MILES.
Salt air. Late-afternoon mist. A rocky beach stretch.
Scotty passed him a note slip. “It’s a phone message for you. Dick Carlisle gave it to me.”
Dudley pocketed the slip. The topography grabbed him.
Scrub mounds on the land side. Roadhouses by the beach. Narrow parking strips. No cars tucked in. Storm clouds right at dusk.
“Two young Marines have grievously harmed a young woman who is quite dear to me. I’ve been told that they cast their lines at the same spot every Saturday. They’re intrepid lads, undeterred by wind and cold air. We’ll take them as they get into their car.”
Scotty blinked. Dudley touched his wrist. Scotty’s pulse skipped.
He saw their fishing spot. He saw their ’40 Ford coupe. He pointed over. Long poles swooped toward the sunset.
Scotty pulled up by the Ford. He kicked off the ignition and set the brake.
Dudley reached back and unzipped the seabag. The silencers were screwed on tight.
Scotty said, “She’s a good girl, right? It was bad what they did.”
Dudley passed him his piece. “Am I a frivolous man, lad? Have you not sensed conscience and a fond regard for women beneath my raw streak?”
Scotty smiled—So be it.
Two men walked over the rocks. They wore Marine fatigue jackets. They carried surf poles and wicker baskets. Fish tails drooped out the top.
They walked to the Ford. One tall man, one stout man. The stout man checked out the Dodge.
The tall man popped the trunk. He loaded the baskets. The stout man dropped the poles in the backseat.
They got in the front. The stout man kicked the engine. The tall man lit a cigarette.
Cops, huh?
They knew it. They were cop-wise. They were too nonchalant.
Dudley stepped out. Scotty stepped out. They went in, flanking.
The rape-o’s caught it. Intent, gun-barrel glint—something.
The tall man dropped his cigarette. The stout man fumbled at the wheel.
Dudley said, “For my beloved child, Beth Short.”
He fired. Scotty fired. They aimed at their wide-open mouths. They blew up their faces and took all the windows out.
Ricochets took out the engine wall. The crankcase threw hot oil. The radiator threw steam.
The Ford rocked on its struts. Dudley and Scotty got back in the Dodge and pulled out.
The sun went down. The Ford sat on the blacktop. Dudley lit a cigarette and pulled out that note slip.
“Call Claire De Haven. CR-4424.”