City of Dragons (49 page)

Men’s voices. Shouting in German. Men’s voices. Shouting in Japanese. Men’s voices. Dying next to the women. Women left alone, women stranded, women homeless, women with no place to go.

She fell asleep in the chair, the radio on. Woke to a low hum early in the morning, gray and pink light making the apartment glow like a dimly lit circus tent.

Time for the last act.

Roy was downstairs, Adam’s apple bobbing, nervously grinning. Hailed a taxi for her to the Hotel Bo-Chow. Eddie’s old apartment in South Park.

The district straddled the Southern Pacific depot and the piers, offering short-term and sometimes long-term homes to Japanese and Filipinos, the old Japantown of the prewar, pre-Earthquake days. The driver was a taciturn man, but traffic was light. No time to talk, even if they both felt like it.

Hotel Bo-Chow stood taller than its neighbors, four stories and on a corner, brightly colored signs in Japanese and English. A restaurant and general store waited on the bottom floor, a souvenir shop and Biwako Baths the nearest neighbors. Twenty years ago, it had been a good place to stay for travelers. Now it was just a place to stay.

Miranda rang the bell. A man came out of the general store holding a broom.

“You want something?”

“Young man lived here. Eddie Takahashi. He was killed.”

His forehead creased. He said slowly: “You police?”

“No. Private detective.”

He looked her up and down, looked up at the windows of the hotel. “Lady, that room is rented.”

She was holding a fifty-cent piece. “You sure?”

He looked at the money in her hand, looked at her.

“Rented.”

Turned around and went back inside the store.

Miranda stared up at the facade, the arched windows on the second story, the nods to an Italian villa in the detail.

Eddie had lived here, struck out on his own, feeling his independence. Away from the family, the shop, the mausoleum on Wilmot Street. Slept here, ate here, brought girls here, filled with the noise and the excitement of eighteen, independent, the world his and anything in it. No failure, no worry, no self-doubt in eighteen. No death.

She lit a cigarette, walked farther down South Park, imagining him running the numbers for Charlie, taking crisp dollar bills back home, giving some to his sister. Then more money, less numbers, and drugs. Cocaine, opium, heroin. And maybe Eddie’s innocence began to crack open, the ugliness of the world spilling out. Putrid, decaying. And then Martini, and women, women like the ones he’d grown up with in Chinatown, women his sister’s age and younger, some almost his mother’s age, women he could speak to a little, women his sister could speak to. The filthy animals of his mother’s imagination.

And something snapped in Eddie. Snapped decisively, like a soldier at war, faced with the choice, kill or be killed. But he didn’t think about it. Still eighteen. Still innocent. Innocent enough.

She stood outside the souvenir shop, looking in the windows. Most of the shops weren’t open yet.

Somewhere in the world, his sister was hiding. Alone, mourning, terrified. Cut off. Half alive. Somewhere where Matsumara had discovered her, and decided to keep her secret. Somewhere that wasn’t Burlingame.

Miranda inhaled the cigarette, sending a stream toward the souvenir shop window. Her eyes fell to a framed, hand-tinted postcard.

A curved bridge reflected in a still pool filled with goldfish and water lilies. Surrounding it, cherry, plum, and quince trees. Large stones, covered in moss. Bonsai plants. In the distance, a brightly colored, two-story gate.

The bottom of the postcard read, WISHING POOL. JAPANESE TEA GARDEN, GOLDEN GATE PARK.

She was at the gate when they opened at ten. Wandered the paths for a bit, gripping the bamboo rails, marveling at the camellias and Japanese maples. Clean air, fragrant. Peaceful.

Miranda found the bridge in the photo, leaned over it. Watched the large goldfish dart through the water, their black freckles as big as her palm. Some of the cherry trees were in blossom already. One thousand trees, so the pamphlet claimed. All planted by the Hagiwaras, the family who founded and still tended the garden.

The thatched teahouse blended with the trees at the eastern gate. Wisteria clung to a lattice-work arbor on one side, the fragrance still potent in the gray, foggy morning, the smell of green tea mixing with the wisteria and jasmine.

Miranda studied the layout, the tea service. Only three other customers.

She sat near the front. The tables were all made from tree trunks. She felt the wood with both palms, rubbing the surface. Smoothed with time, effort of hands.

Girls in kimonos, neatly sashed, hair sleek and pulled back in buns, approached with trays.

The girl nearest her was tall, graceful for her age, a little younger than the rest. About sixteen or seventeen. She brought a tray to Miranda, setting a small china pot of green tea in front of her, along with a dish of delicate rice cakes. She smiled at Miranda, then faltered.

Miranda said: “It’s time to go home, Emily.”

The lanterns were lit by five o’clock. Now, in the dark, the narrow streets hummed, throbbed, the full moon yellow and large, wearing a knowing grin on its face. Not competing with Chinatown, not tonight.

Girls of marriageable age giggled in groups. Children read the riddles tacked to the lanterns, brows wrinkled, asking their mothers to help them solve the puzzle. Families headed for dinner out, part of the streets tonight, part of the world.

A party for Chinatown, not in the Hearst papers, not in the Chamber of Commerce. Ancient celebration, tradition, mixed with the ubiquitous jazz music from the juke joints and phonographs, the smell of rice balls and hamburgers mixing in the chilled, moist air of the city.

The Lantern Festival. The night for lovers.

Miranda walked to the door in Salty Fish Alley. The acupuncture shop across the street was closed, the little boy probably forgetting his comic book in the excitement of the festival.

36 Wentworth. She knocked on the door. Nodded to the girl in the cloak and hat beside her.

The door opened after the second time. Frank Lee, his hair pomaded and gelled, dressed for an evening on the saxophone at Forbidden City. He looked at her, about to speak, then saw the girl next to her. He took a step backward, fist to his mouth. Eyes suddenly wet.

Miranda held Emily by the arm. And walked in the door.

She let the reunion play out. Watched them, watched Frank hold her, her young body melting into his. Not the love of friends, lifelong companions, not the lust of blood and youth. This was the shop-worn cliché of love, the catch of the breath, the not having to speak, the constant pleasure of looking, of seeing, of hearing. Of being.

Miranda lit a cigarette. Waited until the tears were wiped, the bodies embraced. And asked: “Where’s your father, Frank?”

He looked down at Emily, looked back up at her. “Why—why do you want my father?”

Her eyes were steady. “I think you know why.”

Thud on the staircase. Upstairs. Footsteps. Slow, heavy. He’d been listening.

They waited in silence, Chinese boy holding Japanese girl. Miranda inhaled the Chesterfield. Blew a smoke ring toward the staircase.

Feet visible first, traditional shoes, traditional trousers, traditional smock. Old man’s face, twisted with traditional hate.

A stream of Mandarin poured out of him. Frank withstood it at first, Emily shrinking into him, both of them diminishing under the onslaught. Finally, he stared at the floor. Then the old man turned to Miranda.

“You there—what are you doing in my home?”

She dropped some ash on the floor. “That depends.”

Red-face, full of fury, eyes swallowed in folds of anger. Down the rest of the stairs, flinging himself at her.

“What do you mean, coming in my house—”

“I mean to find out which of you killed Eddie Takahashi.”

Silence. Red and white on the old man’s face. Red and white. Like Martini.

He stumbled backward. Blind.

Frank squeezed Emily’s arms, pushed her away. Turned to Miranda.

“I shot him.”

“Why?”

“He was—no good. He was smuggling drugs. Women. I wanted to protect Emily.”

Miranda stared at Frank until he dropped his eyes.

“It won’t do you any good to protect him. Emily already told me the truth. We had a long talk out in front of that giant red-and-black Buddha in the tea garden. Your father shot Eddie. I just wanted to see how much of a bastard he really is.”

She turned toward the old man. “I saw you screaming at Ming’s father in the herb shop. I figure you were trying to keep him quiet. I don’t need your son to testify against you.”

He took another step backward, making contact with the banister. Backed up again, not looking at her, and sat down slowly on the second step.

Miranda dropped the cigarette, rubbed it out with her toe, and faced Frank. “Eddie gave his sister the money, went into hiding. Charlie’s men found him, beat him, trying to find out where it was. He made it down from the playground to Ming’s shop, badly hurt. Ming was part of the smuggling game. Eddie asked him to call you up, figuring his sister was right where she was—with you. You both ran down to the herbalist.”

The old man held his head in his hands, starting to whimper. Frank looked over at him, turned back to Miranda.

“Yeah. I did. And I brought a gun and shot Eddie with it.”

She shook her head. “No. Your father followed you both. Dishonor, he called it. First your music, your band, and now a Japanese girl. The Rising Sun conquering his own family. He found all three of you, you and Emily making plans to run away with the money. To elope … as Eddie intended.”

Frank’s eyes filled with tears again, his voice hoarse. “No … I—I shot him.”

“Goddamn it, Frank. It won’t do him any good, not now. Look at him.”

His father was clutching himself, wrapped tight. Trying not to let it in. Inhuman noises escaped from his lips.

“He cursed all of you, like he always did. And like you always did, you tried to reason, to accommodate, to be the good son. And then he raised the revolver. And fired at you. His own child.”

The girl was clutching Frank now, sobs racking her body. He held her, stroking her hair.

“Eddie stepped in front of you. Saved your life, Frank. Japanese for Chinese, in the face of your father’s hatred. In the middle of the Rice Bowl Party.”

A wail rose from the figure on the steps, a cry for help, for deliverance, escaping to the ceiling, fighting its way out. Nowhere to go. Miranda walked toward him, staring down at the old man.

“Chinese and Japanese. Nanking and Nippon. War, war, always war. Pathetic old bastards. Pathetic old world.”

She turned to Frank and the girl. “Emily told me it was your idea to hide her in plain sight with the Hagiwaras, but she didn’t tell me what you did with the money. That was ten thousand dollars Eddie gave you. For a wedding present.”

The couple looked at each other. Frank said, in a low voice: “It was stupid of me. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t use the money. That night, I—I threw it in the Rice Bowl flag. All of it, a thousand at a time.”

Miranda smiled wryly, lit another cigarette. “What about the gun?”

Emily spoke. “One of the ponds, Miss Corbie. At the garden.”

Miranda nodded. “Let’s hope it rusts.”

The old man was sobbing now. She opened her purse, took out her billfold. Peeled out two hundred dollars. Held it out to Emily.

“Here. Take this, and get the hell out of San Francisco.”

“But … that’s your own money—”

“Not exactly. Extra funds, by way of your brother. Take it, go away. Get married. I’ll make sure word gets around that the ten thousand found its way home. Not that they’ll believe me. Go on.”

He looked over at his father. “What about—are you going to the police? I can’t—”

“The police think a gangster killed Eddie. Given a choice between getting justice for his murder and exonerating his reputation—or making sure his sister has a happy life—I think you know which choice Eddie would make. I won’t go against it.”

They looked at her, the specter of the old man fading away from them, the red lantern light outside playing on their faces. Exquisite ache.

The kind of love buried and born from separation, hurting. Rising again like a Phoenix. Time apart wasn’t time, didn’t count, didn’t matter, impotent to stop them. As impotent as death.

Miranda watched them hold each other, his hand stroking Emi’s hair. She thought of Madame Pengo, the strange harsh voice reciting the evil of fathers and sons. But maybe the old lady was right. Maybe there would be some salvation after all.

Emily held out her hand, taking Miranda’s. “Miss Corbie—I don’t know why you’ve done what you’ve done—but I think we can be at peace now. All of us. Thank you.”

She patted the girl’s shoulder, and opened the door, walking out into the moonlight.

Why did she do it, he asked, and she thought about it, walking home through the lanterns on every door, yellow moon light and red lantern light warming the frigid Bay air, laughter in the streets of Chinatown.

Because of Eddie Takahashi. All the Eddie Takahashis.

She looked up at the moon, hanging in the cloudless, midnight sky. Reflecting the sun, nearly as bright. As bright as red Spanish earth on a summer afternoon.

She did what she did because she could. And that was enough.

Three months later, Miranda got a telegram from Portland, announcing the wedding of Frank Lee and Emily Takahashi. She sent a congratulatory note from Treasure Island. By then she was back on the Gayway, rousing the dips and the hustlers, the grifters who drifted in with the seaweed and foam, working the Magic City on San Francisco Bay.

May of 1940.

Spring before the storm.

Author’s Note