Zoot-Suit Murders Read Online Free Page A

been blacked out by the censor:
    Hi Guy!
    How goes it, guy? As you know I can’t say where we are, but it’s not downtown Tokyo. No action yet, guy. Just maneuvers every day. I still have those nightmares. You know? That the carrier takes a hot one off the port quarter from a Jap Zero and there’s fire on the water and we have to jump for it. Terrible. Say, guy, can you send me one of those sexy Esquire Petty girl pictures? Rumor on the tub has it the old man’s going to ban all pinups pretty soon. Sure would be a sight for sore eyes to have one of them Petty girls, all that black lace and white skin. I could use a real Betty Grable right now, though. I’d know what to do with her. Everything on this tub is rumor. Like the one Henry Fonda is going to visit the tub. Sure, a big movie star, some luck! Another rumor is there’s a Shitter on the tub. It would be just my luck if that rumor turned out to be true. Write to me, guy, I get lonely.
    Your brother, Marvin
    P.S. Have you started your Victory garden yet? Ha ha!
    The long flat streets of the city were filthy. The streets were never really clean, but since Pearl Harbor there were always piles of trash blocking sidewalks, trash for the war effort: black bald automobile tires, mountains of old newspapers, boxes of metal bottle caps, old keys, locks, nylon stockings, everything imaginable that could be reincarnated as a uniform or a weapon. It took Younger twenty minutes to walk the seventeen blocks downtown from his apartment, past empty padlocked storefronts in what was once Little Tokyo, with NO JAPS WANTED! NIP LOVER! NISEI TRAITORS ! painted across boarded windows. The sidewalks were so cluttered by the chaos of collectibles to aid the war it was necessary to walk in the street and risk being hit by honking cars, drivers hurrying from the San Fernando Valley neighborhoods to work in war industry factories crowding the eastern flatlands of the city. On the wall of Paco’s Supermercado two Civil Defense workers were scraping off words slashed in red paint the night before: ¡ SINARQUISTAS POR LA RAZA !!! At the corner of Orange and Flores streets a black billboard on top of Ortega’s White Owl Drugstore spelled out in bold white relief: DIALGOD. Younger turned the corner at Flores. Morning light threw singular shadows of shaky, drunken men standing idly for block after block in the debris of sidewalks. The forms of men leaning against storefronts gave the illusion that buildings along the entire street were supported by nothing more substantial than wobbling shadows.
    “¡
Compadre
!”
    Younger shielded his eyes from the sun, trying to pick out which of the long line of drunks had called his name. He kept walking.
    “
Compadre, ¿qué pasa
?”
    A short, dark man stumbled out from among the leaning shadows of a building, his worn boot heels catching the edge of the street gutter, pitching him face down on the pavement. No one moved to pick him up. Younger ran into the street, holding a hand up to stop a car speeding around the blind corner. He pulled the man out of the gutter and supported him against thewindow of Ixatlan Cantina. A young waitress inside the restaurant ignored the two men as she propped a black slate against the inside of the window advertising the special lunch menudo.
    “A case of Gallo! You owe me a case of Gallo Tokay,
compadre
.”
    Younger brushed off the old man’s torn jean jacket. “You’re right,
amigo
. I owe you.”
    The old man’s wrinkled hands were shaking; the brown eyes in the weary face seemed to be worn down to their final shine. “
Señor
Younger, you owe. Angel was burnt out.”
    “Damn you, Wino Boy.” Younger shook his head and grinned sarcastically. “You knew his brother had been killed, that’s why you laid that heavy bet on me.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded five-dollar bill, tucking it into the frayed pocket of Wino Boy’s jacket. “I just hope you’re sober enough to handle this. You