No movement inside, no light coming toward me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” echoed from a back room; a switch dropped and big light took over. And there was my target: a tall, skinny man bending over a chest of drawers, a penflash clamped in his teeth.
I let him start rifling, then tiptoed over. When he had both hands braced on the dresser and his legs spread, I gave him the Big Fungoo.
I hooked his left leg back; Prowler collapsed on the dresser, penflash cracking teeth as his head hit the wall. I swung him around, shot him a pistol butt blow to the gut, caught a flailing right hand, jammed the fingers into the top drawer space, slammed the drawer shut, and held it there with my knee until I heard fingers cracking. Prowler screamed; I found a pair of jockey shorts on the counter, shoved them in his mouth, and kept applying pressure with my knee. More bone crack; amputation coming up. I eased off and let the man collapse on his knees.
The shitbird was stone cold out. I kicked him in the face to keep him that way, turned on the wall light, and prowled myself.
It was just a crummy bedroom, but the interior decorating was _très outré_: Jap nationalist posters on the walls–racy shit that showed Jap Zeros buzz-bombing a girl’s dormitory, buxom white gash in peignoirs running in terror. The one table held a stack of Maggie Cordova phonograph records–Maggie scantily attired on the jackets, stretch marks, flab, and chipped nail polish on display. I examined them up close–no record company was listed. They were obvious vanity jobs–fat Maggie preserving her own sad warbles.
Shitbird was stirring; I kicked him in the noggin again and trashed the place upside down. I got:
A stash of women’s undies, no doubt Bad Bob’s B&E booty; a stash of _his_ clothes; assorted switchblades, dildoes, french ticklers, tracts explaining that a Jew-Communist conspiracy was out to destroy the world of true peace the German and Japanese brotherhood had sought to establish through peaceful means and–under the mattress–seventeen bankbooks: various banks, the accounts fat with cash, lots of juicy recent deposits.
It was time to make Shitbird sing. I gave him a waistband frisk, pulling out a .45 auto, handcuffs, and–mother dog!–an L.A. sheriff’s badge and I.D. holder. Shitbird’s real monicker was Deputy Walter T. Koenig, currently on loan to the County Alien Squad.
That got me thinking. I found the kitchen, grabbed a quart of beer from the icebox, came back and gave Deputy Bird an eyeopener–Lucky Lager on the _cabeza_. Koenig sputtered and spat out his gag; I squatted beside him and leveled my gun at his nose. “No dealsky, no tickee, no washee. Tell me about Murikami and the bankbooks or I’ll kill you.”
Koenig spat blood; his foggy eyes honed in on my roscoe. He licked beer off his lips; I could tell his foggy brain was trying to unfog an angle. I cocked my .38 for emphasis. “Talk, Shitbird.”
“Zeck–zeck–order.”
I spun the .38’s cylinder–more emphasis. “You mean the executive order on the Japs?”
Koenig spat a few loose canines and some gum flaps. “Zat’s right.”
“Keep going. A snitch jacket looks good on you.”
Shitbird held a stare on me; I threw him back some of his manhood to facilitate a speedy confession. “Look, you spill and I won’t rat you. This is just a money gig for me.”
His eyes told me he bought it. Koenig got out his first unslurred words. “I been doin’ a grift with the Japs. The government’s holdin’ their bank dough till the internment ends. I was gonna cash out for Murikami and some others, for a cut. You know, bring ’em to the bank in bracelets, carry some officiallookin’ papers. Japs are smart, I’ll give ’em that. They know they’re goin’ bye-bye, and they want more than bank interest.”
I didn’t _quite_ buy it; on reflex I gave Koenig’s jacket pockets a toss. All I got was some women’s pancake makeup–pad and bottle. The anomaly tweaked me; I pulled Koenig to his feet and cuffed him behind his back with his own bracelets. “Where’s Murikami hiding out?”