This Storm

35

(Los Angeles, 9:30 P.M., 1/26/42)

Joan walked home. She felt dream-smacked and wispy.

She cut west on 1st Street. She crossed Bunker Hill and bypassed Belmont High. She caught wisps of Hideo Ashida. He ran track at Belmont. Gold dust wisped by.

She floated. She drank two terp vials back at the lab. It was blackout dark and cool-evening still.

Faces popped here and there. She saw Dudley Smith and Bill Parker. Terp had that effect. It unlocked doors and let you peek in.

Joan cut north on Carondelet. Her courtyard was blackout black/shades drawn/we do our part. She got out her keys. She heard, “Hello, lass.”

She dropped her purse. He caught it and stood up. He’d camped out on her steps and popped up in the dark.

Tall. The trim-cut Army uniform. The cross-draw .45.

Joan mimicked his brogue. “ ‘Lass,’ is it? Not ‘Miss Conville’? How long have you been in America? Shouldn’t you have lost your accent by now?”

“That’s a great many questions. I’ll note that you didn’t ask, ‘What are you doing here?’ ”

Joan unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Dudley followed her in. She tracked his eyes. She saw him catch this:

Her framed diplomas. Her mounted shotguns. Her sepia prints of Big Earle. Her microscope and chemistry texts.

“Policeman’s daughter, are you? That man in the photographs is wearing a badge.”

“You’ve dimmed the brogue, Captain. And, yes, my father was the game warden of Monroe County, Wisconsin.”

Dudley singled out the diplomas. “I admire scientists. I know nothing of science, so I stand naïve and admiring before those of your stripe.”

Joan smiled. “Call me naïve, Captain. I can’t see you as a supplicant outside of church, and even then I’d have doubts.”

Dudley said, “And I’m sure you doubt the probity of this visit.”

Joan said, “I’ve narrowed it down. You were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d drop by. You’re monitoring your longtime nemesis, Bill Parker, and you’d like a hand with that task. Lastly, you’d like to screw me, which is a motive that I’ve encountered before.”

Dudley bowed. He mimed Hideo Ashida. The little Jap taught the big Irishman style.

“One drink, then. That’s my motive. Before you ask, I’ll concede that I called the lab for your address.”

Joan walked to the kitchen. She took some deep breaths and poured two double scotches. Her hands shook.

She carried the drinks back. Dudley sat on the couch. He skimmed a typed manuscript. Lee Blanchard leaked it to her. “Beethoven and Luther,” by Katherine Lake.

“Reading up on a rival, are you?”

Joan sat beside Dudley. She tossed Kay’s manuscript on the floor and handed him his drink. She caught his fine French cologne.

“Kay’s deft. She’s mad to attribute meaning, which is a trait that good scientists share.”

They lit cigarettes. They sipped scotch. Her float intensified. A thunderstorm kicked in. A window breeze tossed her hair.

“Your father looks like a bold lad. You used ‘was’ to describe him. Has he left us?”

Joan said, “He died in a fire, back in ’38. I’ve spent some time investigating it. I need to go back and reassess my notes. I’m not giving up.”

Dudley said, “I’ve heard reports of the charred box unearthed in Griffith Park. The genesis of your great interest comes into focus now.”

“Hideo Ashida reports to you. It doesn’t surprise me.”

Dudley went Tu salud. “I live to attribute meaning. By your lights, it makes me as one with scientists and unschooled essayists.”

Joan crushed her cigarette. “Should I bluntly note the genesis of that? Your dirt-poor childhood in Dublin? The gun money you funneled to then-Monsignor Cantwell? The Ulster Constabulary men you’ve killed?”