Death in Little Tokyo

19

The Franklin Murphy sculpture garden at UCLA is an oasis in the bustling hub of Westwood, a suburb of Los Angeles. It has winding paths, cool trees, and a surprising collection of modern and traditional sculpture, including a Rodin torso, a Matisse collection of bronze plaques, and some pieces that are decidedly more modern, including a sculpture that is a puzzling collection of painted blue tubes welded together.

On Sunday mornings Mariko and I would sometimes go to the sculpture garden to have a picnic. Nestled in the curves of the winding paths of the garden are concrete seating areas that look very much like military bunkers. They’re round circles of cement approximately twenty feet across and four feet high. The center of the circle is empty and a wooden bench hugs the inside curve of the concrete so people can sit and rest. In many of these little enclaves, smaller pieces of sculpture reside, poised on a pedestal in the center of the circle. Entrance into the center of the circle is through a narrow cut in the concrete only a few feet across, and once into the center of the circle, peace and a kind of solitude can be found.

Down a path in the garden, heading toward one of these concrete bunkers, walked Rita Newly and her companion. She wore a pale, lavender summer dress with Porsche sunglasses propped up on her forehead. Under her arm she carried a lavender leather purse to match the color of her dress. The man was tall and muscular. He was wearing gray slacks and a short-sleeve white knit shirt that showed his muscular arms to good advantage. Rita and the man made a smashing couple.

On the grass by Bunche Hall is a bronze statue of a nude woman crouching down and looking over her shoulder. The flesh of the woman is done in sweeping curves, and the expression on her broad, almost Asian face is enigmatic. Rita and her companion cut across the lawn to stand by the statue. She checked her tiny silver and diamond wristwatch. “It’s four o’clock,” she said.

“I wish you’d never gotten involved with that damn Jap,” her companion said.

“Which one?” she asked. “Matsuda or Tanaka?”

“Both. This is turning into a royal pain in the ass.”

She looked over at her companion and examined him as if she was looking at a new and particularly puzzling type of insect life. He was certainly handsome enough, with light brown curly hair, brown eyes, and the kind of tan that can only be obtained by people who are serious about sitting around in the sun until their skin baked to a crispness that is perceived as being healthy, even though it is more often a precursor of skin cancer.

“You’re the one who was scared to pick up the package,” she said. “You were afraid they might have found out that the guns we sent were junk.”

“I wasn’t afraid,” he said defensively. “I just thought it would be a better idea if we got someone else to pick up the package, just in case.”

“You weren’t willing to go and pick up the package from Matsuda, so I had to make arrangements to have it picked up. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go up there by myself. I don’t need any second-guessing from you about what I did or how I did it, especially when you tried to pull some strong-arm stuff in that boutique instead of waiting like I told you.”

Rita saw a flash of anger in her companion’s eyes, and for a minute she thought she had revealed too much of her thoughts. “I’m not trying to blame you, honey,” she said hastily. “I just want you to know it isn’t my fault, either. I’m upset that we have to wait so long to get our money, too.” Rita saw the anger subside in his eyes at the sweet reasonableness of her apology.

She reached over and patted him on the cheek. “We’re so close to getting the money that we really shouldn’t be fighting.”

“Damn it, where the hell is that Jap,” the man said.

“We don’t like being called Japs,” I said as I stepped out of the concrete seating area adjacent to the statue. “This is hardly a social occasion, but you can try saying Japanese until we’re at least done with our business.”

I was dressed in a sports shirt and blue jeans. My face was puffy with large black and red spots, and I had a gauze bandage taped to my cheek.

Rita saw the condition of my face and opened her mouth like she was about to comment, but she closed it again. Instead, she said, “Do you have the package?”

“Yes, I do. But I thought it might be better for us if we conduct our business inside this seating area where we can have some privacy.”

She nodded and walked toward the concrete circle with her companion trailing behind. When she got inside the circle, I pointed to a section of bench with a mock gesture of gallantry. “Please sit down,” I said. “There’s no reason we have to be uncomfortable.”

Rita sat next to me. She angled her legs so her knee was touching mine. Her companion sat down next to her, poised on the edge of the seat, acting fidgety and nervous.

“I suppose this is George Martin?”

“His real name is George. I don’t think we have to go into last names,” she said.

“And is your name Rita Newly?”

She smiled. “Well, the Rita part is right, and I don’t think we have to go into real last names for me, either.”

I nodded. She leaned her leg into mine. I could feel the soft warmth of her thigh and the gentle, almost caressing, pressure. Despite her beauty, I no longer found it affecting me. Instead, I could observe her little techniques and tricks with sort of a cool, clinical detachment. “I believe you owe me three hundred and fifty dollars for the damage your friend George did to the Kawashiri boutique.”

“Are they sure they don’t want the full five hundred?” Rita said.

“Three hundred and fifty is all she wants.”

“All right,” she said. She opened her purse and took a small stack of bills out. I extended my hand as she counted out the three hundred and fifty.

“All right,” I said. “Now I think we’re even. Your friend George should know that Mrs. Kawashiri still intends to press criminal charges if the chance comes up. Here’s your package.” I reached under the bench and pulled out the package.

Rita took it out of my hands immediately. “It’s been opened,” she said.

“That’s right,” I answered. “And two of the warranty claims are missing.”

“What the hell’s going on?” George started.

“Take it easy,” I said. “That’s how I got this.” I pointed to my face. “I lost two warranty claims to your friends in the Yakuza. They told me what this is all about and explained to me that they were not exactly happy that the load of guns you shipped them are defective. In fact, if they catch up with you, I think they’ll do considerably more to you than they’ve done to me. Believe me, what they did to me was more than enough.”

“That’s a very accurate observation, Mr. Tanaka.” The small Yakuza walked into the circle of concrete followed by his hulking companion. Rita’s friend, George, looked around wildly for an avenue of escape.

The concrete bunker formed a cul-de-sac that neatly trapped us with the two Yakuza standing at the only entrance. George started to stand up to climb over the surrounding concrete to get away. The small man produced his gun. “Don’t do that. It would be very messy if I have to scatter your guts over this fine public institution.” He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Although, being from USC I guess I really shouldn’t care how messy I get the UCLA campus.” UCLA and USC are crosstown college rivals in Los Angeles.

“Look,” George said. “I really don’t know what this is all about. I’m just Rita’s boyfriend. I just came along because she asked me to.”

“Oh, shut up, George.” Rita’s voice carried the sting of a whip to it, and George flinched as if he had actually been struck by that whip.

“How are you, Toshi,” she said with much more sugar in her voice.

The small man smiled. “Hello, Rita. You really shouldn’t have tried to play these kinds of games with us.”

“You two know each other?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” the small man said. “Rita used to work for us in Japan. She was one of our best singers, dancers, and all-around entertainers.” He gave her a huge grin. “And when she was done with her contract, she told us that she could do business with us to help us get guns into Japan. We paid her a large sum of money, but they turned out to be junk. Where did you get so many junk guns, Rita?”

“We bought them from local police departments,” Rita said. “George has a federal gun license. It only takes a few hundred dollars to get one. He can use that license to buy surplus guns from police departments.”

“You bought the junk guns from police departments?” Toshi seemed amused.

“L.A. doesn’t sell the guns it seizes, but smaller police departments all over the state do.”

“Interesting, but they’re all junk. They’re no good to us.”

“But smuggling them in with the ball bearings did work,” Rita pointed out. “George still works for the ball bearing company. He could arrange another shipment. He could use his gun license to buy good guns this time.”

“That’s a very interesting offer,” the small Yakuza said, “but I’m afraid it’s a Japanese trait to have a very long and very persistent memory. If I was a western businessman, I suppose I might overlook what we could term some irregularities with this current shipment and we could make some arrangement for conducting business together in the future.” Another big smile. “With, of course, some preliminary quality control inspections before the shipment is sent off to Japan. But, you see, my father is not a western businessman and in some respects neither am I. I don’t think we care to do business with you in the future. In fact, we don’t want to do business with you ever.”

“The claim forms are here,” Rita said, showing him the package. “There’s really no harm done. You could take them back, and maybe you can let me go.”

“Well, that’s certainly something worth considering. Especially for you, Rita. But my father would get very unpleasant even to his own son if he found out that I was playing games, too. Besides, what about poor old Matsuda-san? I didn’t like him very much, but he was extremely useful to my father and the various family enterprises we have.”

“We had nothing to do with Matsuda,” George said hastily.

“That’s right,” Rita confirmed. “In fact, we didn’t even go over there to pick up our payment. This is the guy who went over to pick up the payment.”

I noted with amusement that Rita’s thigh was no longer touching mine. I half expected her to leap up pointing an accusing finger at me.

“Good try,” the small man said. “But Matsuda phoned us after he delivered the package, so we know this guy wasn’t involved with his murder. We thought you might have killed him after this guy picked up the package.”

“So you guys didn’t kill Matsuda?” Rita asked.

“Of course not. Why would we want to do that? Like I said, he was valuable to us. I’ve been sort of working on the theory that you did it, although I have to admit that I can’t imagine you using those delicate white hands to hack up his body with a sword.”

“We didn’t do it. You have to believe us,” George said.

“Oh, I believe you,” the small man said. “What my father is angry about is the load of defective guns you sent to us. It made him lose a great deal of face, especially since it was done by a woman. You know how much face is worth in the Orient.”

The late afternoon sun caught the gold on his teeth as he smiled again. “It might even be a life and death matter,” he said. “Now, come on. We want to drive you out to some place so we can talk about this with a little bit more privacy. Maybe you can convince me that you didn’t kill Matsuda. Hell, maybe you can even convince me that we should still do business on guns together. Too bad for you if you can’t.” He smiled and motioned with his gun. “Come on. We have a car waiting in the parking lot, and we’re all going to walk there nicely without any heroics or any attempts to escape.

George and Rita reluctantly got to their feet.

“You, too,” the Yakuza said to me. I stood up slowly. “Now, you three walk in front of us, and my companion and I will be right behind you. Like I said, don’t try anything funny.”

Rita, George, and I moved as a group across the entrapping circle of the seating area. At the entrance, we brushed past the two Yakuza and walked out onto the grass. The two Yakuza were right behind us.

As the two gangsters cleared the concrete of the seating area, a voice shouted, “Freeze! Police!”

I turned around in time to see a look of surprise cross the face of the small Yakuza.

“Put your hands in the air.”

The small Yakuza shrugged and said, “Shigata ga nai,” Japanese for “what the hell,” or “it can’t be helped.” He took his hand out of his pocket and slowly raised both hands in the air, saying something in Japanese to his companion, who also raised his hands.

Three uniformed LAPD officers, a lieutenant, and Detective Hansen stood from where they had been crouching near the entrance to the concrete seating area. One of the LAPD officers was a woman.

“Thank you, officers,” Rita Newly began.

“That means you, ma’am. Put your hands up, too.”

Looking indignant, Rita Newly raised her hands. In one hand she clutched her purse. In the other was the envelope with the phony warranty claims. George started putting his hands in the air, but suddenly bolted past me in a stupid effort to escape. Before the police officers could react, I stuck out my foot and tripped him. He took a beautiful skidding dive right onto the concrete walkway. I gave it about an 8.7, with extra points for landing chin-first on the concrete. In a second the officer had pounced on him and had him handcuffed.

I know it wasn’t much but it actually felt good to give a little physical punishment back after suffering it myself.

“He’s got a gun in his pocket,” I said, pointing to the Yakuza. The officers immediately handcuffed and started patting down the Yakuza and the still-prone George. Rita got handcuffed and the policewoman patted her down, too, to a storm of invective. Rita had a small, rather dainty chrome automatic with a pearl handle in her purse. An eye for fashion, even in killing instruments.

After Rita, George, and the Yakuza were removed, I unbuttoned my shirt and one of the officers started gingerly removing the tape holding the transmitting device and microphone to my chest.

“Did you get everything? Including what they said before they came into the seating area?” I asked Lieutenant Jarvis Johnson.

“Every golden word,” Johnson answered. “Although I wish somebody would have confessed to Matsuda’s murder, instead of all of them standing around denying it.”

I snorted in disgust. “There should still be a tasty assortment of charges that you can nail them with.”

“Yeah, but I think most of them are federal raps,” Lieutenant Johnson said.

“I’ll try to remember that the next time I play human microphone. You know, make sure they only cover state and local offenses.”

“All right,” Johnson said. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It just would have been nice to wrap up Matsuda’s murder along with everything else. They could all be lying, of course, but it would have just been nice.”

I nodded as I handed over the transmitting device and microphone. That I could agree with.

Michael Kosaka had arranged for me to meet with Lieutenant Johnson that morning to explain the situation and turn over the package. Michael had said that it might be better dealing with Lieutenant Johnson, who happens to be African-American. Michael said cryptically that Detective Hansen had some past problems dealing with minorities, but he wouldn’t elaborate. I looked over at Hansen, who had stood like a mute during the entire bust. He was looking at me with a look of pure hate. I realized I had made an enemy, one I might be sorry about if I kept poking around in police matters.