The Bear: War

By John Kerr

An elusive woman with a hidden past holds the secret that can bring down a hot Hollywood producer along with the owner of a major aircraft plant. A former tong courtesan who fled Los Angeles for China, loses her thriving business and faces death as the Japanese attack Nanjing. A Central Ave. piano player is tasked by Federal Agents to find a woman who may hold the secret to a fifteen year old incident known as the “Point Magu Massacre.” Nothing is what it appears to be in the City of Angeles, a place where deals are made and a best friend could be deadlier than any enemy.

“A riveting saga that skillfully exposes, with an insider’s knowledge, the corruption and irresistible power of the California Dream” - Dennis M. Clausen, author of Prairie Son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663221063

John Kerr

John Kerr trained as screenwriter with the National Film and Television School. Theatre includes: Creditors, Mechanical Piano and The Jury. Film and television includes: The Riveter, Flying Colours, Capital City, The Volunteer, Night Shift. Radio includes: Stranger in the Bed. Books include: The Red Hog of Colima and Tic and Toc.

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Copyright © 2021 John Kerr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-2105-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2104-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-2106-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021907665

iUniverse rev. date: 04/19/2021

Contents

Chapter 1 The Calm before the Storm

Chapter 2 Play Ball

Chapter 3 Roll Away the Stone

Chapter 4 A Favor

Chapter 5 The Fall

Chapter 6 The Homecoming

Chapter 7 The Premiere

Chapter 8 Chu San

Chapter 9 Off the Record

Chapter 10 Rose’s Stand

Chapter 11 The Producer

Chapter 12 The March

Chapter 13 The Adobe

Chapter 14 The Woman

Chapter 15 The Rape of Nanjing

Chapter 16 Sunday

Chapter 17 A State of Mind

Chapter 18 Bronzeville

Chapter 19 The Game Plan

Chapter 20 The Abduction

Chapter 21 String of Pearls

Chapter 22 Emerald City

Chapter 23 Pecan Grove

Chapter 24 The Island

Chapter 25 Brunch with Irving

Chapter 26 Saturday Is All Right for Fighting

Chapter 27 Breakfast with the Boss

Chapter 28 The Confession

Chapter 29 Back in the USA

Chapter 30 Low-Down Dirty Shame

Chapter 31 Point Mugu, 1927

Chapter 32 Operation Lotus Blossom

Chapter 33 The Grass Is Always Greener

Chapter 34 The Big Mistake

Chapter 35 See You at the Movies

Chapter 36 You Earned It

Chapter 37 The Ball Game

Chapter 38 One Year Later

Chapter 39 Operation Meetinghouse

Chapter 40 Springtime in Berlin

Chapter 41 A Gay Time in the Hot Town Tonight

Chapter 42 July 4, 1946

Chapter 43 Three Weeks Later

For Jack, who had

the skills to land a Grumman TBF Avenger

on a carrier deck at night in the middle of a pitch-black Pacific

1

The Calm before the Storm

We’re out of the booze business boys, said Michael McGuire to his two partners, Jimmy Grazzi and William McGrath, who were seated in his office at the El Capitan.

The El Capitan restaurant was the hot place to be and was booked weeks in advance. The establishment sat across the street from a pristine beach in Santa Monica. The restaurant had a private casino and nightclub on the second floor. It was frequented by the mayor, the sheriff, Hollywood royalty, and racketeers. Dozens lined up nightly for the chance they might score a canceled reservation. They hoped for the opportunity to rub shoulders with the powerful, the glamorous, and the notorious. The El Capitan was the devil’s playground in paradise.

Michael ran the place like General Motors with the assistance of Jimmy Grazzi, his buddy from the trenches of France, and William McGrath, a hard man he’d inherited from his grandfather. The three men had their rackets down to a science. The El Capitan was a one-stop shop. There was a wire service in the nightclub. The casino’s bank made loans. Customers could bet on the horses; play blackjack, roulette, or poker; dine and dance; and then get a loan to pay for it all, as long as they didn’t mind the 8 percent vig compounded weekly.

The trick was to keep the customers happy and gambling. Michael was a messiah of greasing palms. He made sure the mayor, the sheriff, and the high rollers had their meals and drinks comped. He made sure no city officials lost their shirts at the tables. Michael knew if the customers were well fed and had bonded liquor to drink, they would stay. Michael had a French chef in the kitchen who could make haute cuisine out of a bag of bologna. The liquor was straight from Canada and Mexico. The games were all straight. Occasionally, some lucky stiff would beat the house and rack up a sizeable win. Michael wasn’t fazed. He knew the house always won in the end. He booked high rollers rooms at the Aurora, a stately Victorian hotel that sat a few miles south of the El Capitan. They kept coming back.

Jimmy Grazzi oversaw the casino operations. William McGrath managed the warehouse and liquor pickups made on a Ventura beach. Both men handled the collections. They had the Twelve Apostles, a dozen dedicated men whose silence and obedience were unquestioned. These men drove the trucks and worked in the warehouse.

Michael also kept close tabs on Joseph Royal, the owner of Royal Studio. Royal provided the nightclub’s entertainment from his stable of film stars. Michael knew the studios were powerful. Some of the city’s oligarchy coddled the studio heads, though they wouldn’t allow the Jews to play on their golf courses. The movie studios were the biggest media machine ever known to mankind and could make dreams come true, many believed. Everybody wanted to be a star. Michael was interested in Royal Studio—not as an owner but as a player.

Los Angeles was an open town. There was no singular gang that ran the city. Unlike in New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland, and Chicago, the Italians didn’t have complete control. Michael ran the city’s west-side rackets. He had a steady stream of bonded liquor coming in from Canada. Mexico supplied liquor, cocaine and heroin. He sold his drugs directly to the black gang leaders and to the Jewish gangs on the east side. It didn’t matter to Michael. He shared his connections with Joseph Ardizzone, the head of the Los Angeles Mafia, and enjoyed his friendship and all it brought. Jimmy Grazzi thought Michael was too friendly and giving at times. Michael reassured him that it was better to make friends than enemies. The three men made plenty of money, more than they had ever dreamed. Michael was smart. He knew cards eventually went cold, and gold mines tapped out.

I’m getting out of the rackets, fellas, Michael told his partners. He had recently returned from Europe, where he’d left his niece, Emily, in the care of their family friend Hadley Morrison, who’d promised to turn the teenager into a proper lady.

McGrath remained silent.

You selling this place? Jimmy gestured to the walls.

Already have.

Who’s the buyer? asked Jimmy.

An actress at Metro. She’s going to turn the casino into a private dinner club.

That’s crazy. The casino is the moneymaker, said Jimmy.

Michael threw up his arms in mock surrender.

Jimmy looked directly at Michael. What’s really going on here?

Michael sat back in his chair. We’ve been damn lucky so far. It’s time for a change. You both will get a third of the business. That should be more than enough to set you up.

Jimmy gave Michael a quizzical look. What happened in Europe?

Michael sat up in his chair and gave his partners a serious look. There’ll be another war eventually. Prohibition isn’t going to last. If the next president is a Democrat, he’ll repeal it. Better to get out now while we’re at the top of our game. Start over new.

New? Like what? Jimmy asked.

Michael smiled. I’m going to become a movie producer. Talkies are coming, and the studios don’t know whether to shit or get off the pot. He held up a copy of Variety sitting on his desk. The headline read, Founder of Royal Studio Has Stroke. Joseph Royal is very accommodating. The studio is in disarray. I’m moving in and setting up an office.

Jimmy and McGrath gave Michael questioning looks.

What do you know about making movies? asked Jimmy.

What did we know about running a club? Michael replied coolly.

Jimmy shook his head and chuckled. If we’re getting out of rum-running, I want something more than producing a movie.

Fine. What interests you? You’ll have plenty of dough.

Planes. Lindy’s landing in France sure made that popular. Always wanted to fly myself. You know, if we’re cutting ties with our associates, we’ll have to tread lightly. Jimmy stared at his reflection in the window and rubbed his jaw. A whole new start—now, that would be something.

Michael nodded. We’re handing over our contacts to Joey A. gratis. He gets the warehouse and the trucks for a reasonable price. The man won’t argue. He turned to William McGrath, who had remained silent. What about you, Mr. McGrath? You’ve been your usual talkative self. What do you think of my proposal?

McGrath smoothed the crease on his pants and looked up. No disrespect to Jimmy, but I would like to have a word alone with you.

Michael looked at Jimmy.

Yeah, sure, no problem. I’ll be right outside. Jimmy stood up and exited the room.

A waiter passed by in the hallway and gave Jimmy a nod. Grazzi took out a cigarette and lit it with a gold lighter. He paced the floor for a few moments and then sat down in a chair in the lobby area. There were two butts in the ashtray when the door finally opened, and McGrath emerged. He didn’t say a word as he walked past Jimmy and marched down the hallway. Jimmy slowly approached Michael’s office. McGuire was seated behind his desk, weeping.

*   *   *

These are wrong, said Chu San as she sat at her desk and studied the designs for Mrs. Fulton’s dress. Mrs. Fulton was the wife of a wealthy British entrepreneur who came to Nanjing to purchase wares for his department stores in London and Manchester. The other women working in the cutting room at the House of Chen remained silent and continued working. Chu San made changes on the drawing, lowering the waistline and altering the neckline to a V. Satisfied, she scribbled her initials on the designer’s sketch.

Chu San once had been a courtesan for the tong in California. She had also been Sean McGuire’s confidante for many years. Sean, Michael McGuire’s grandfather, had been the man who established the McGuire fortune in Los Angeles with the Oso Negro cattle ranch. He had purchased Chu San’s contract from the tong. When Sean had died, he’d left Chu San enough money to start over. She’d had no desire to remain in Gum Saan. Chu San had returned to China and reinvented herself as Madame Chen, a widow who ran a dress shop that catered to wealthy Americans and British in Nanjing. No one had questioned her past when she opened the House of Chen and produced dazzling dresses and gowns for the wealthy Westerners. Madame Chen spoke impeccable English and knew what her customers preferred. The House of Chen quickly had become a notable couture establishment in Nanjing. Chu San had made all her own outfits while a courtesan in California. She knew she had the skills to impress Westerners. She had done so for years in Chinatown. Madame Chen was just another face Chu San assumed to engage with the wealthy foreigners.

Lily Wong quietly entered the room. She was twenty-six. Her skin was like silk, and her eyes were dark. Her hair was bobbed, and she wore a white silk blouse with a smart-looking black skirt. Excuse me, Madame, but Lady Campbell is here for her fitting.

Madame Chen looked up. Yes, thank you. I’ll be right there.

Lily turned to leave.

Wait. Madame Chen held out the drawing on which she had made the design revisions. Please give this to Agnes. She will know what to do. It’s the gown for Mrs. Fulton. She will be in for a fitting later today.

Lily took the drawing and left the room.

Lady Campbell was tall and overweight and had a shock of wild red hair. She stood on the platform as the seamstresses adjusted the gown. Lady Campbell gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She raised her arm to adjust her hair and was stuck with a pin. Ouch!

I’m sorry, said Lucy Wu as she pinned the bottom hem. Please do not move, my lady.

Not move? Lady Campbell asked, incredulous. I’m being fitted for a dress, not posing for an artist.

Madame Chen entered the room.

Lady Campbell looked at the designer. Thank God you’ve arrived, Madame Chen. Your servant stuck me with a pin and then told me to stand still. The nerve.

Lucy gave her employer a helpless look.

That will be fine, Lucy. Go see Agnes. I can handle Lady Campbell.

The seamstress stood and hurried out of the room before Madame Chen could change her mind.

Madame Chen adjusted the dropped bias waist. Now, doesn’t this look more flattering?

Lady Campbell placed her hands on her wide hips and stared at her reflection. You don’t think it makes me look matronly?

Quite the contrary, Madame Chen replied. You look the cutting edge of fashion.

Lady Campbell turned and gave the reflection a second look. Hmm, you know, I think you’re right, my dear.

Lily Wong stood silently off to the side with her notebook. Madame Chen gave her an amused look and said, Please note the changes, Lily.

The assistant nodded and wrote the changes made to the garment in her notebook.

My goodness, there certainly are a lot of Japanese in Nanjing lately! Lady Campbell exclaimed. One would think the city belonged to them instead of to you little people.

Madame Chen kept a straight face as she helped Lady Campbell out of the gown. Nanjing has many people—Germans, Dutch, Americans, British. She gestured to Lady Campbell.

My husband was British. I am Scottish.

Yes. I am sorry, my lady. I was merely making a point that there are many people who call Nanjing home.

Lady Campbell put her dress on. Well, there are way too many of those little yellow people running around. All of them act like they own the place.

Yes, my lady.

Lady Campbell looked at Madame Chen. You will have the gown ready for the ambassador’s ball next week?

Certainly, my lady.

Fine. I will see you next Monday then.

Madame Chen nodded. Lily will make your appointment.

Lily Wong escorted Lady Campbell out of the fitting room.

Madame Chen walked over to the showcase. She grabbed a pen and wrote a quick note.

Dear Captain,

Reliable sources have reported an increase of Japanese entering the city.

C.

Madame Chen folded the paper and placed it inside an envelope.

Lily Wong returned to the room.

Did you get Lady Campbell situated? Madame Chen asked.

Yes, Madame.

Fine. She handed Lily the envelope. Please take this to Captain Howard of the American fleet. See that he gets it personally.

Lily took the envelope. Yes, Madame. She quickly exited the room.

Madame Chen glanced about the room. Never in her wildest dreams had Chu San ever believed she would be called Madame and have two dozen employees to do her bidding.

2

Play Ball

It was a hot and dusty July day. The bleachers were filled with white folks. Mexicans, many of them workers at the surrounding farms, sat on the rise just beyond right field. There was no shade, but they brought bright-colored umbrellas. Others didn’t bother. They spread blankets and sat and watched the baseball game in the sun. The men wore straw hats with wide brims, and the women wore scarves. The Depression was now in its eighth year, with no real recovery in sight. People took their entertainment where they could get it, and there was nothing like a ballgame to put a person’s troubles on the back burner for an afternoon.

The pitcher wound up and hurled the ball. There was the crack of the bat. Pete Bixby made for first base. The ball sailed high. The center fielder signaled and raced back for the fence. Bixby tagged first and went for second. The center fielder stood with his glove ready. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew across the field. It stopped the ball’s ascent and drove it straight down. The ball hit the ground and rolled three feet in front of the center fielder. Bixby tagged second and went for third. The center fielder raced, snatched up the ball, and threw it to the third baseman, Pine Wilson.

The coach shouted, Move your ass, Bixby!

Pete came into third cleats first. He hit Pine in the shines. A cloud of dust blew high around third base. The ball hit the ground.

Safe! yelled the umpire.

Pete Bixby got up and dusted himself off. Blood had already stained Pine Wilson’s uniform. He’d wear Bixby’s cleat marks on his right shin until he died. Pete turned and grinned at the fans in the bleachers. Whoever said baseball wasn’t a contact sport got it wrong.

Bixby played shortstop for the Bostonia Bisons. They were a class-A team strictly from hunger. They played as far north as Portland, Oregon, and as far east as Albuquerque. Pete was paid thirty-five dollars a week, plus five dollars per diem. Out of that, he had to pay for his personal expenses, which included meals and cleats. Kid Ruddy was the team manager. Ruddy had played with the White Sox back in the days of Shoeless Joe Jackson and George Buck Weaver. He had been traded to the Athletics the year before the Black Sox scandal. The Bisons often slept on the bus. When they did bed down, it was generally a third-rate motel, sleeping four to a room. Pete Bixby didn’t care. He was twenty-two, playing ball, and getting paid to do it. Factory workers, clerks, and most working stiffs hadn’t seen a paycheck in years. Breadlines and Hooverville encampments were common in 1937.

The Bisons beat the Bakersfield Bulldogs three to one that day. The team climbed onto the rickety bus and drove to Stockton, where they would have a doubleheader the following day against the Wolverines.

The next day, in the top of the seventh inning, the Wolverines’ catcher, Fred Turner, hit a line drive between second and third that bounced. Pete jumped for the ball but missed. He came down hard on his right side. Bixby finished the game, but he was clearly in pain. He was unable to play the second game. The Bisons didn’t have a relief shortstop and were forced to use Roy Penniman, a left fielder, to sub for Bixby. By the end of the second game Pete could barely bend over to tie his own shoelaces. Kid Ruddy gave Pete Bixby the name of a doctor in Fresno. He bought Pete a bus ticket and gave him twenty dollars.

You’re in no shape to play, said Kid Ruddy, not mincing words. Go see Doc Merrill. He’s a friend of mine. Tell him I sent you.

Pete knew the coach was right. He couldn’t play, and the team couldn’t afford to keep him. It was that simple. Pete thanked Kid Ruddy and got on the bus.

Doc Merrill’s office was in an old cinder-block building located in the south section of town. It was a primarily poor area, but in 1937, most of America was poor. Doc Merrill was middle-aged, balding, and soft-spoken and had fondness for drink. After a thorough examination, the doctor informed Bixby he had kidney stones, which had to be removed.

How long will that take? Bixby asked.

I can do it tomorrow, the doctor replied. If you’re wondering how long your recovery will take, that’s a different topic.

Pete buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his pants. I guess that’s what I’m asking. How long will I be laid up?

Depends. Two or three weeks.

Three weeks?

The doctor nodded. Son, I’ve got to cut you open and, hopefully, remove the stone. If I can’t, I need to remove the kidney. You will need time to recover from that type of procedure.

I don’t have a place. I’m a ballplayer. The road is my home.

You can remain here. There is a small room in back with a bed.

Doc, I’m not sure I even have enough to pay you for the operation.

Doc Merrill waved Bixby off. Hubert sent you. Don’t worry.

Hubert?

Yes, you gave me his card. Hubert Rudman. We went to high school together.

Bixby chuckled, realizing Kid Ruddy was actually Hubert Rudman. I appreciate that, Doc. I really do.

Good. In fact, you can stay here this evening. I don’t want you eating anything before I have to operate. It’s getting late, so I’ll leave you to it. You’ll find a towel and washcloth in the cupboard under the sink.

Doc Merrill popped a cigar into his mouth, grabbed his coat, and exited the office.

3

Roll Away the Stone

The operation was rough. The stone was five and a half centimeters. Doc Merrill had to remove the kidney. For the next two weeks, Pete Bixby pissed blood and could barely keep solid food down. He had a temperature of 103 degrees. The ballplayer lay in bed, hallucinating, sweating for hours, and then shivering as if it were forty below. Doc Merrill did the best he could, but he had other patients and had to sleep at some point.

Rose Alvarez volunteered at Doc Merrill’s clinic. Rose longed to go to college and become a nurse. She had graduated at the top of her class and been the first in her family to complete high school. Rose wiped Pete Bixby’s brow with a cool, damp cloth and kept him bundled when he was shivering with the chills. She brought him warm menudo on Saturdays.

Slowly, Pete’s health improved. Three weeks after the operation, he was able to take short walks. He and Rose would walk in the neighborhood. She told Pete of her dream to be a nurse. Pete listened. He continued to piss copper.

After four weeks, the pain was