Zoot-Suit Murders (3 page)

T
he voice was breathless, its soft tones carrying to the ceiling, caressing the gloss of green paint, undulating over long fingers of fluorescent lights spotted with fly specks. The cool flickering light played through the woman’s shining red hair; fire-engine red lipstick gave the provocative pout of her mouth an unearthly appearance against the ghost white face. Her mouth seemed to have a life of its own. The woman’s tortured breath snaked like smoke from a cave, her hesitating tongue glistened brightly while she struggled to bring her story clearly into the room, so even those in the distant rear could hear her wonders.

From his seat in the back pew of the room, Younger cocked an ear to Kathleen La Rue’s ethereal words, straining his right shoulder forward like a catcher waiting to take a tricky pitch.
He had heard her speak before, during the five-day preliminary hearing of the Zoot-suiters, but he had never really
listened
to her until this moment, never noticed the absolute blue of her eyes, like the dazzling crust of an ice pond reflecting its sheer blue vision of a winter sky. The fifty people crowded into the room seemed suspended on the slippery surface of La Rue’s blue gaze, out on the dangerous middle of the ice pond, waiting for the net of her words to save them.

“Swiftly, and without effort, the two men climbed to the top of a mountain towering above the clouds.” La Rue’s words stopped, her thin chest heaving, as if she herself had just scaled the great heights of the pinnacle. Then her eyes widened in absolute wonder. “There, upon a vast plain far below the men, appeared an awesome sight. Behind a great impregnable wall lay a beautiful city of gracious homes, spacious gardens, schools, churches, shops, factories, stores, everything for happy and contented living. A large luminous sign floated celestially above this marvelous apparition:
THE CITY OF ETERNAL BROTHERHOOD
. Before the wall was a group of International Vigilantes making ready to swing back the great gates of the fabulous city to all humanity’s bewildered and suffering masses.” La Rue hesitated until the broken breath of her words could catch up with her wondrous vision. Suddenly, without warning, the brightness in her eyes faded, her gaze going to the back of the room, falling upon Younger, filling with terror as she continued. “Advancing at fearful speed upon the city appeared an awful figure, an awesome Green Monster with blood-drenched hands, large glittering teeth, and terrible eyes breathing withering death and destruction, War. The Monster of War, accompanied by his followers Greed, Fear, Lust, Love of Money, Famine, Pestilence, was driving relentlessly on to keep the people from entering the City of Brotherhood.”

Kathleen shifted her gaze from Younger and looked directly at the old Mexican woman sitting alone in the front pew, her thin voice asking the old woman in horror, “Do you think those people can get the great gates of the city open?”

The old woman shook her head in a hard
no
.

“Who are those people at the great gates, banging desperately on the impregnable wall?” Kathleen’s question went to every person in the room. She answered the blank looks. “They are Mr. and Mrs. Average Citizen. They are Mr. and Mrs. General Public, and they cannot open the gates to the City of Brotherhood. But”… she allowed the bright red of her lips to smile in recognition, “the people inside the city recognized those at the great gates as something beyond just being Mr. and Mrs. John and Jane Q. Public, for all those at the great gates were International Vigilantes, who wore proudly a badge upon their breast, a beautiful shining emblem that shielded them. It was deep blue with the globe of the world etched in gold; the earthly sphere was upheld by clasped hands of Brotherhood and Sisterhood. In dazzling letters around the gold globe were the words
MANKIND INCORPORATED
. The great gates to the City of Eternal Brotherhood swung open!”

Kathleen’s shoulders slumped, the breath from her lungs spent from the intricate weaving of her tale. Exposed in the V of her high-topped dress undone at the neck, her pulse raced wildly, blood pounding like a small fist in the slender cavity beneath her throat.

“
¿Y Jesu?
”

Kathleen looked blankly at the old Mexican woman in the front pew, but she did not answer her, the blue of her eyes rolling over pew after pew to the back of the room like sheer blue waves calming after a storm.

“
¿Y Jesu?
” the old woman demanded.

Kathleen still did not answer. A man in the pew behind the old woman stood up, rubbing his sweaty palms across the felt crown of the fedora he had absentmindedly crushed between his shaking hands as Kathleen told her awesome story.

“
Señorita
.” The man spoke quietly, glancing away from Kathleen, intimidated by the intense blue in her eyes. “
Señorita
, what this woman wants to know, she who understands your English but cannot speak it, is what about Jesus Christ?” The
man sat down, then nervously asked the question he had been afraid to direct to Kathleen while still standing. “Is He in your beautiful city?”

“What about Jesus Christ Our Savior?” Kathleen repeated the question with delight, her chest heaving with anticipation. “On December twenty-fifth, in the year 1885, a tiny group of generous and deeply sincere men and women, only sixty strong, met for the purpose of dedicating their lives and personal fortunes to the establishment of a worldwide commercial organization that would, by its works as well as its words, fittingly commemorate the birth of mankind’s greatly beloved exemplar and Way-Shower,
Jesus Christ Himself
. These sixty men and women were the Sponsors of mankind’s last hope for salvation.”

The old Mexican woman in the front pew twisted noisily around to ask the man behind her what a Way-Shower was.

Kathleen waited until the old woman turned with a smile on her lips back to the front of the room, delighted that Jesus was living in the Eternal City of Brotherhood with the rest of history’s sainted Way-Showers.

“Are you the Voice of the Right Idea?” a man challenged from the center of the room.

“No.” Kathleen blew her answer out from pursed lips, the word floating fragile as a bubble, hovering over the man’s head before bursting. “Absolutely not. I am not the Voice of the Right Idea. I am simply captain of the Pacific Coast Latin Service Bureau. There is only one true Voice of the Right Idea, although he has many doubles and can travel to a multitude of places at the same time, speaking in a multitude of tongues. He is the guiding spirit. He is many and all things: division superintendent of our worldwide bureaus, prophet-scientist of our International Institute of Universal Salvation and Administration. He is Mr. Department A, originator of the International Vigilantes, interpreter of the original Sponsor’s plan for mankind’s last hope. Above all else, he is founder, father, fountainhead of Mankind Incorporated.”

Y
ounger picked his way cautiously through noisy people crowding the one short block of Olivera Street, wedged into the cement high rises of downtown Los Angeles like a phony movie set. Between outdoor Mexican restaurants studded with plastic palm trees loud vendors waved tourists into narrow market stalls jammed with cheap Mexican curios. Hundreds of garish peasant puppets dangled from strings beneath shelves overloaded with giant sombreros and big-horned fuzzy pink bullfight toros. Sailors and soldiers on overnight leaves, weekend furloughs, and one-day passes nuzzled their teenage girlfriends. They strolled awkwardly, sides of their thighs pressed together, arms around each other, the men laughing, flushed faces of the self-conscious girls half hidden behind enormous puffed balls of cotton candy,
their tongues darting tentatively at sticky pink clouds of spun sugar. Younger crossed the edge of palm-fringed Olivera Park at the end of the short street, the sharp sound of mariachi guitars pursuing him as he ran across four lanes of honking cars on South Grand Street and up red-tiled steps into the old Spanish church. He shut out the midday sun behind him with towering oak doors, his eyes taking a moment to adjust in the long cool cavities of darkness fingering off into small altars. Far before him, at the end of adobe walls, the ornate main altar appeared on fire from steep banks of penance candles flickering wildly in wine-red glass holders. Younger knelt in the center of the main aisle and made the Sign of the Cross while his eyes carefully searched out others in the church. He approached the altar quietly, keeping his back to several praying people scattered about in hundreds of pews beneath dark hanging candle chandeliers. He waited by the life-size statue of the Guadalupe Virgin, pushing the sleeve of his coat above his wristwatch. It was exactly two o’clock. He knelt before the Virgin. Behind her the sacristy door swung open; the nylon swish of a priest’s black cassock rushed through the hazy air around Younger. The priest approached the altar, knelt, and continued toward Younger, carefully placing a silver vase filled with the heady odor of fresh-cut lilies at the feet of the Virgin.

The benign brown of the priest’s eyes peered questioningly at Younger. “You are in need of confession, my son?”

“Yes,
padre
.”

The priest nudged the edge of his cassock above his wrinkled wrist, contemplating the stiff gray hairs standing off around the gold of his watch. He looked solemnly into Younger’s eyes. “It is time.”

Younger rapidly made the Sign of the Cross before the Virgin, then rose, hurriedly walking along the outside aisle to the back of the church and slipping quietly into the dark confessional. He fumbled in the dark for the kneeler, touched its padded leather top, and knelt down. Behind the opaque screen before him was the indistinct shape of a head. A small light clicked
on over the head, its soft illumination barely outlining the blunt features of Senator Kinney’s face.

“Have you seen the Voice of the Right Idea?”

“No, just La Rue.”

“What do you think?”

“She’s crazy.”

“Can you get to her?”

“I’ve been to two weeks of those crackpot meetings. She knows I’m there.”

“Can you get to La Rue or not, Younger?”

“Yes, but I don’t know what this has to do with gathering intelligence on the Sinarquistas. I play around at those silly Mankind Incorporated meetings much longer and I won’t have any credibility left.”

“Don’t worry about that, it’s not your concern now.”

“Don’t worry about that! There I am, alone out in the Barrio, and all you say is don’t
worry
.”

Kinney slid the screen back, showing Younger a smug smile of confidence. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered.”

“Swell, just like you had those two FBI agents covered.”

“That was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate doesn’t make them any less dead. The thing is I’m not even like those two guys. I’m out there alone and unarmed. You’re the only one who knows who I really am.”

“We’ll take care of you, I promise.”

“Promises won’t protect me from the Sinarquistas. These guys play for keeps. In case you haven’t noticed, the Fascists won the war in Spain.”

“Then you’ll receive a weapon. Now tell me, what do you know about this so-called International Legion of Vigilantes?”

“For the last time, Senator, investigating Mankind Incorporated is a waste of precious time. There are real enemies out there, killers, Fascists. When I hired on after Pearl Harbor to do this job of investigating un-American activities in the Barrio, it was because you said I’d be doing a service for my country. You said I’d help the war effort more by going underground in
east Los Angeles than by fighting Japs and Jerries overseas. If you don’t let me dig to the bottom of Sinarquista activities, and keep me sniffing around the Barrio after a bunch of religious wackos, then I’m trotting to the nearest Marine recruiting center and upping for the rest of this stinking war.”

“You’re too old. The Marines want young bucks; they would never take you. Now forget all that nonsense and listen to me.” Kinney slid the screen closed, flicking off the bulb over his head. Younger was blinded in the sudden darkness. He could no longer see Kinney’s face, but he could hear his words. “Whoever the Voice is, he’s dangerous, he might become another demagogue. What this country doesn’t need is another Huey Long. People like that always start their recruiting with the poor.”

“They have four hundred churches, only half are in this country. What’s that compared with the Catholic Church?”

“Too damn many. That’s why the Voice is being investigated not only by the FBI here in California, where he started, but also by the Wartime Seditious Acts people. Now get out there like a good soldier and do your job. Don’t forget, the life of your young kid brother, and thousands of others like him overseas, depends on all our loyalties here on the home front. We are the first line of defense, Younger, the
first
line.”

Younger set the letter down next to a plate of uneaten eggs on the three-legged card table he used as a dining table, pushed up against the wall below the window for balance. The one-legged hula palm girls wiggled their green frond skirts in the soft breeze outside. The way the early light touched the long tapering trunks of the palms, they appeared almost bone white, slender and smooth, sensual. Younger felt himself straightening beneath his robe, the heat of his stiffening flesh brushing his thigh. He popped a stick of Juicy Fruit in his mouth, figuring the sudden rush of sugar would get his mind off the crazy idea that the palm trunks had become sexy slender legs, female calves turned shining to the morning sun. He spit the gum out the open window and laughed. It wasn’t the palms making him hard, it was the night before. He could see it clear as day, La Rue walking up the cement steps of the church, against her back the thin cotton of her dress briefly outlining her body. He glimpsed the hem of the dress rise up from the middle of her calves, brushing the tender flesh behind her knees, then she was in the church. He unwrapped another stick of gum. Why should he feel this way about La Rue? She didn’t have the kind of Betty Grable body he liked, no strong gams with lots of meat defining the calves, not the kind of breasts that swelled out of a sweater like two perfect scoops of vanilla ice cream. Matter of fact, La Rue didn’t even wear sweaters, and her legs were skinny. If she didn’t have such thin ankles, it would look like
she didn’t have any calves at all. She wasn’t his type. Younger peeled off the paper plug from the mouth of a quart bottle of milk on the table, scooped the cream off the top, and gulped the cold milk straight down, washing away the sweetness of the gum until he felt an icy prick of pain shoot from both his eyes into his brain. He didn’t want to think about La Rue’s skinny legs on a Sunday morning. He thumbed through the Los Angeles
Daily News
. The sports section headlined the Stars losing a doubleheader to the Oakland Oaks. Angel had been knocked off the mound in the first game, came back in the second game to relieve and gave up four hits in one inning. Younger didn’t want to read about it, it was too depressing. He kept thumbing until he came to the religious section, parading five pages of ads for Catholics, Christian Scientists, Episcopalians, Mormons, Jews, Muslims, Holy Rollers, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Lemurians, Rosicrucians, Technocrats, Anglo-Israelites, I AM, New Thought, Unity, Theosophy, Yoga, Hermetics, Mental-physics, Pyramidology, Spiritualism, Oahspe Bible, and every manner of faith healer, doomsday sayer, layer on of the hands, water dunker, and speaker of tongues who had the price of a two-dollar advertisement. People will believe in anything, grasp at any straw, especially when there is a war going on; in California, even when there isn’t a war going on. On the third page of the religious section, outlined with a black border in the upper left-hand corner, was a simple statement:

Younger popped another stick of Juicy Fruit in his mouth and chewed nervously. He picked up the phone and dialed the letters. The line was busy.