Death in Little Tokyo (14 page)

“This is a nice sword,” I said. Another nod from the old woman. “Could you tell me where you got it?”

“My husband was in the army during World War Two,” she said. “He picked it up right after the war when he was stationed in Japan. I think it’s quite old, but now that my husband’s gone I don’t want to keep it around anymore.” Her English had no accent, and I realized with a jolt that I’ve come to expect an accent from Latinos. It’s the kind of racial stereotype I hate when people have similar expectations about Asians, and I was embarrassed and troubled by my own prejudice.

“How much are you asking for it?” I asked.

She looked at me shrewdly, sizing me up. “A hundred and fifty dollars,” she answered.

I put the sword down. An unemployed person doesn’t need an expensive samurai sword, even though I thought it would make a terrific prop for the L.A. Mystery Club mystery.

“I could go as low as a hundred,” she added when I put the sword down.

“It’s too expensive for me.”

“I can’t go any lower,” she said with a note of finality.

“I’m sure that’s a good price; it’s just more than I can swing right now.”

She looked disappointed, but didn’t seem inclined to reduce the price any more.

I moved over to a pile of books at the end of the table. They were mostly children’s books in both English and Spanish, including a couple of the Nancy Drew mystery books. I reached over to pick one up when I was suddenly shoved from behind.

The push propelled me into the table, jarring it from its position and spilling items to the ground. I spun around, and there was the man from Angela’s apartment.

“How come you still here?” he said belligerently. He held up a large clasp knife and waved it at me.

In Luis Valdez’s play
Zoot Suit,
the play starts with the narrator, dressed like a 1940’s Chicano zoot-suiter, cutting his way onto the stage with a four-foot switchblade knife. It always gets a laugh because it plays off of an old stereotype about Latinos. The knife before me wasn’t a switchblade, and it wasn’t four feet long. But I can assure you it sure looked that big. And the guy holding it had evidently not been enlightened about the need to fight stereotypes. And I wasn’t laughing.

Before I could say anything the old woman jumped up and started yelling in Spanish. The young girl ran for the house. My Spanish is almost nonexistent, but I got the impression that after she told the girl to run into the house she started berating the man with the knife.

He looked at her, then back at me. She must have been giving him a withering tongue-lashing, because he seemed to shrink back from the onslaught of her words. She was brave, defending a stranger from a knife-wielding drunk. When he looked at her again I reached on the table and picked up the samurai sword. I withdrew it from its scabbard, and when the man returned his attention to me, his eyes widened at the sight of me standing there with a real four-foot blade. He took a step back, which was a very good sign.

Emboldened by his retreat, the woman came around the table, still berating the man and shaking a finger at him. His ridiculous sense of machismo wouldn’t let him make a retreat without having the last word, and he said something in Spanish to the woman, then said to me, “Don’t come back.”

Then he backed into the street, keeping a wary eye on the sword in my hand. He backed up almost all the way to his apartment, then turned around and retreated inside, slamming the door.

The woman and I looked at each other, and we started laughing. It wasn’t laughter caused by amusement, at least on my part. It was laughter caused by relief.

“What’s that guy’s problem?” I asked.

“He’s just bad. He drinks too much, and I think his girlfriend left him. Do you want my granddaughter to call the police?”

I considered that a moment, then I said, “No. Thanks to you and this,” I lifted up the sword, “no harm was done. I’m glad that guy carries a knife instead of a gun. Are you going to be all right? I mean, he won’t bother you because of this, will he?”

The woman snorted. It was a sound that eloquently expressed her contempt for the knife-waving neighbor.

I put the sword back into the scabbard, and I noted with interest that my hands weren’t shaking. If asked, I’d have predicted an incident like this would have left me shaking like a leaf. Instead I seemed unusually lucid and alive.

I helped the woman put the dropped merchandise back on the table, keeping a wary eye on the apartment door. When I was done I decided that my first stakeout had certainly been eventful but not successful. But I did confirm that Angela wasn’t at her apartment, which made me think she might be the woman I saw in Matsuda’s room. Now the question was why she wasn’t in her apartment. Was she scared or involved with Matsuda’s murder or was it coincidental because she just wanted to dump her repulsive boyfriend/pimp/lover? I could add those questions to all the others I had. In fact, I even thought of another. I wondered if the police could be wrong about the murder weapon and if a large knife, like the one just waved under my nose, could have caused the wounds to Matsuda’s body, instead of a sword.

While on the subject of swords, I looked at the samurai sword that had so recently come to my rescue.

“How much did you say you wanted for that sword?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“Will you take a check?”

16

I
play an ancient Japanese board game called
Go.
It uses round black and white stones to capture territory on a wooden board. Like chess, it requires a lot of study to get really good, and part of this study involves solving problems, usually printed in little books. Like chess problems, Go problems have a huge advantage over a real game. With a Go problem you always know there’s a solution. They present the problem to you just so you can figure out the solution. In a regular game, however, you’re presented with situations and you don’t know if there’s a solution for them or not. The problems presented by the L.A. Mystery Club were like chess or Go problems. You knew there was a solution and that all the pieces you needed to discover the solution were available to you. What I was facing now didn’t have a guaranteed solution.

I felt frustrated. I was stuck. Well and truly stuck. Even asking myself the critical question (“What would Sam Spade do now?”) didn’t bring about a brainstorm.

Of course, the sensible thing would be to step back and let the cops do their thing, but by now you know I’m not all that sensible. My own resources had sputtered out, so I decided to ask the help of people who might apply more resources and intellectual firepower to the problem. I thought of Ezekiel Stein and Mary Maloney. I figured that the L.A. Mystery Club had sort of gotten me involved in this mess and maybe they had some ideas that could get me out.

I went to the office to check to make sure it wasn’t ransacked again. Then I made a couple of phone calls to set up meetings with Ezekiel and Mary.

Ezekiel worked at the downtown DWP building. It was within walking distance of the office, but I knew that Ezekiel would validate my parking at the DWP parking lot, so like a typical Angeleno I drove.

The DWP building is a hulking monolith surrounded, appropriately enough, by a watery moat. The story of Los Angeles is really the story of water. Local supplies of water will only support 300,000 to 400,000 people, so for Los Angeles to exist it must import water from hundreds of miles away. William Mulholland built the L.A. Aqueduct around the turn of the century, and despite the fact that the city is built essentially on a coastal desert, L.A.'s growth has been fueled by cheap and plentiful water. Remember the movie
Chinatown?
That was a fictionalized account of what cheap water did for L.A.

In the last part of this century environmental and other interests have put a squeeze on L.A.'s profligate ways with water, but the city government and its water department still hasn’t faced the reality of what that means yet. To me, the moat of water around the building is an apt symbol of the isolation from reality the city suffers from.

The Water Quality Division literally occupies the bowels of the building, stuck in the basement where there are no windows to let in the sunshine and light. I know I’m prone to finding symbols in things around me, but to me this was also apt. The people charged with preserving natural freshness and purity in the water were literally buried under the monolithic bureaucracy that reaches fourteen stories above them.

Ezekiel’s office was tucked into a corner of the Water Quality Division. It was one of those semicubicles, with flimsy walls made of painted panels and glass. It was stuffed with papers, books, and blueprints. He waved me into the office and, without a word of greeting, waited for me to explain the situation.

It took me a while to explain everything that had happened. For most of my explanation he sat silently, playing with a pencil. When I got to the part about Rita Newly and the two Asians in front of the office, however, he got animated.

“What did they look like?”

“Both Asians. One smaller than me, dressed in an expensive suit. The other one was twice my size, and dressed in a cheap suit. The big guy looked like a gorilla.”

“Did they have all their fingers?” Ezekiel asked.

“That’s a strange question.” I thought for a moment. “You know, the big guy was missing the tip of a little finger on one of his hands. How did you know?”

“Yakuza,” Ezekiel said. “Genuine Japanese Mafia, down to the missing the tip of his little finger. I bet if you peeled the shirts off them you’d find that one or both were tattooed.”

“I don’t think I want to know either one that intimately. You didn’t let me finish, but I talked to someone from the
L.A. Times,
and he told me that Matsuda was associated somehow with Yakuza front companies.”

“That’s not a good sign. The Yakuza can be very, very dangerous.”

“Don’t they operate more or less openly in Japanese society?” I asked. “I mean, I was told they’re involved in legitimate as well as illegal businesses.”

“They do operate more or less openly. Some even have business cards identifying their gang and lapel pins with little logos. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be dangerous. That’s how your friend, the big guy, lost his finger. When a Yakuza does something to offend his boss, his
oyabun,
he must make amends for it. Perhaps he botched a deal or failed on an assignment. But the way to traditionally make amends is to amputate a finger. It’s called
yubitsume.”

“You know more Japanese than me,” I said.

“Only crime words. I couldn’t order a meal or ask where the bathroom is. But crime stuff I know.”

“I suppose they call a particularly inept Yakuza stubby.”

Ezekiel gave a half-smile, but then shook his head. “It’s really not funny if you think about the discipline involved. They have to amputate their own finger. To show their sincerity to their boss, they’ll stick their own finger on a chopping block and take a cleaver to it.”

“Ugh.”

“Ugh, exactly,” Ezekiel answered. “If they’ll do that to themselves, you can imagine what they will do to others. These are not people you want to mess around with.”

“What are they doing in Los Angeles?”

“They’re all over the Pacific. They’re in Taiwan, Korea, Southeast Asia, and the Philippines. They’re very active in Hawaii and they’ve started showing up here on the West Coast.”

“What do they deal in?”

“Amphetamines, guns, prostitution . . . virtually anything they can make a buck at. Maybe it’s amphetamines. That’s the drug of choice in Japan and fairly easy to obtain in the U.S.”

“The package I got for Rita Newly doesn’t contain amphetamines. It contains this.” I handed the sample warranty claims I had kept over to Ezekiel.

He studied them carefully and finally returned them to me shaking his head. “I’m a walking encyclopedia on crime, but the meaning of these claims has me stumped. It could be some kind of Yakuza scam, and it also could be that Rita is a victim of the Yakuza. Regardless, these invoices prove that story she told you about the pictures isn’t true.”

“Even I figured that out, Ezekiel. By the way, what did you mean about the tattoos and the Yakuza?”

“Yakuza also have a custom of tattooing themselves. Often they stop on the forearm, the neck and the calves of the legs, so that when they’re in normal street clothes you can’t see the tattoo. The rest of their body might be completely tattooed. It can cost thousands of dollars, and often they insist on having the tattooing done the traditional way, with ink and a bamboo needle. It can be quite painful.”

“Sounds like these guys are into pain.”

“I don’t know if they’re masochists,” Ezekiel said. “They want to show discipline and how tough they are. If they’re into pain at all, it’s probably more likely they’re into giving pain than receiving it.”

“That’s a jolly thought. You mean, they intend to be the giver, with me as the givee, if there’s any pain involved?”

“Sounds like they had Rita Newly more in mind. Make sure it doesn’t become you.”

Ezekiel had no more words of real wisdom for me, so I left the DWP building and drove out to South Pasadena where Mary Maloney lives. I had never been to her house before, and the address she gave me was for a modest bungalow not too far from the Pasadena Freeway. It looked like one of those California Craftsman bungalows, with big wooden beams and beautifully manicured landscaping.

Mary greeted me at the door. She was a big woman, with a broad, ruddy face and brown hair. She’s in her early forties, but she has one of those faces that probably looked the same at twenty. It isn’t a beautiful face, but it has character and warmth, and it’s the kind of face people trust immediately.

Mary was bundled up in a green knit dress and matching sweater when I got there, even though the air inside her bungalow was stagnant. I always thought that knit was not the most flattering choice for a woman of her size and, well, roundness. But she was happy with her wardrobe, so it was really none of my business.

The air in the bungalow was hot and stuffy. When I asked if the bungalow had air-conditioning, Mary seemed surprised that I wasn’t comfortable. She walked to a wall and flicked on the air-conditioning, and a welcome coolness started cutting through the heat. On the wall next to the air-conditioning switch was a large canvas covered with paint squiggles. The whole living room was cluttered with paintings of all sizes, along with bronzes and small statuary. Incongruously, the room also had souvenir knickknacks. Things like little porcelain bells, decorative spoons, and little plates. Almost all of them had the names of cities all over the world painted or written on them (Tokyo, Rio, Milan, Toronto, Bombay, and, once again incongruously, Dayton, Ohio).

“That’s an interesting painting,” I remarked, pointing to the canvas next to the air-conditioning thermostat.

“Yes,” Mary answered. “My father was interested in art. I can take it or leave it, myself.”

“It sort of looks like a Jackson Pollock.”

“It is.”

“An original?”

“Yes. If you like art you might like to look at the pictures by the fireplace. There are a couple of Picassos, a Rembrandt sketch, and a Monet there.”

“Originals?” I love art and my eyes were almost bulging out as I realized that art treasures were mixed in with all the cheap tourist souvenirs.

“Oh, yes. My father bought them years ago when they weren’t that expensive.”

“What does your father do?”

“He was a businessman,” she said vaguely, “but he’s dead now.”

“Do you have an alarm system in this bungalow?”

“Yes, I do, but it’s mostly for my protection. Thank you for being worried, but no thief will come in to steal artwork in this part of Pasadena. Thieves around here go for TVs and stereos, not Picassos and Rembrandts. That would require a professional art thief, and any real professional could defeat the typical home alarm system.”

I wanted to talk art some more, but I could tell that I was making Mary uncomfortable. She had invited me into her home to help me with my problem, and I didn’t want to repay her kindness by snooping. More important than art to me was the fact that Mary had a lively intelligence and was often the one who solved the Mystery Club’s weekend mysteries. I hoped she could shed some light on mine.

We sat drinking tea in the small, musty living room while I told my story. When I was done she took the sample warranty claims from me and examined them carefully.

“What did Ezekiel say about these?” she asked.

“He admitted he was stumped, just like me. Do you have any idea what they’re about?”

“No, but I know how to find out. You haven’t tried the most obvious thing yet.”

“Which is?”

“Call Mihara Electric and ask.”

Mary picked up the phone and called, using the phone number printed on the invoices. Their U.S. headquarters is in Carson, California, a suburb of L.A. When the receptionist found out that she was calling about information on a warranty claim, she gave her another number and informed her that all warranty claims from dealers were paid through a central warranty office.

From the area code of the phone number given to her, Mary and I concluded that the warranty processing center was in the San Fernando Valley. Los Angeles is such a large conglomeration of people that it has multiple area codes.

“Get on the kitchen extension,” Mary said as she dialed the warranty number. “You might find this interesting.”

“Is that legal for me to eavesdrop?” I asked.

“Who’s going to tell?” Mary said grinning. I figured she was right so I went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. The kitchen was modest and neat and like her living room it was also filled with souvenir knickknacks. It also had an exquisite Degas painting of a ballerina hanging over the breakfast nook, an ancient looking Chinese scroll painting of an orchid, and a Remington bronze being used as a paperweight to hold down recipes torn from various magazines. I realized with a numbing impact that this little bungalow in South Pasadena must be filled with literally millions of dollars in art.

When Mary got through, she asked for some help on a Mihara Electric warranty claim, and she was connected to a claims processing supervisor.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. My boss is out of town,” Mary said in an amazingly girlish voice. “He’s asked me to process a bunch of warranty claims for Mihara Electric products and I need some instructions on how to submit them to get payment.”

“What’s your dealer number?”