Death in Little Tokyo

22

The next morning I called Evan Okada at the Times. I was almost surprised to get him personally instead of a voice mail system. Such is the pervasiveness of technology. He seemed less wary of me this time; almost friendly.

“Can you tell me some more about the Yakuza and show business?” I asked.

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

“Do you think the Yakuza would get involved in something like a burlesque theater?”

“Here, or in Japan?”

“Here.”

“I doubt it. There just isn’t that much money involved in something like that. The American branch of the Yakuza is involved in a few bars in Gardena and Orange County that cater to Japanese businessmen living in the area, but that’s all I know of. The Yakuza involvement in show business is mostly localized to Japan.”

“So they wouldn’t be involved with someone like a stripper here in L.A.?”

“That would be unlikely. What do you have in mind?”

“I met a woman in Matsuda’s room on the night of his murder who said she was a stripper at a local burlesque theater. I was wondering what the Yakuza’s involvement might be with her.”

Evan paused. “I suppose it’s possible, but I still think it’s unlikely. There are a lot of Yakuza in Hawaii, but they aren’t that active here in California yet. I can’t imagine they would get involved in penny-ante stuff like a burlesque theater. They all seem to have bigger fish to fry.”

I sighed. “Okay. So much for that idea.”

“What idea?”

Evan’s reporter’s instincts were aroused.

“I just had a notion about Matsuda’s murder. Both the Yakuza and the Americans arrested the other day denied they killed Matsuda, and I had an idea about the killing.”

“Which was?”

A leading question. Evan was in full reporter mode now. “Which was something that probably won’t pan out. It was more in the nature of a hunch instead of a real idea. I’ll tell you what, if something comes of it I’ll make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“If I come up with anything, I’ll call you. It may or may not be something interesting to you, but you can decide for yourself.”

“Now you’ve got my curiosity piqued,” Evan said.

“Don’t be too curious. It probably won’t pan out. If it does pan out, I’ll contact you.”

I hung up and got dressed. I went down to the office and started working again on the L.A. Mystery Club plot. I wrote my newly acquired samurai sword into the mystery’s plotline, but I had a hard time concentrating. My concocted mystery seemed contrived and too neatly packaged. It didn’t have the puzzling ambiguities that characterize real life. If it did, I’d get (and deserve) a torrent of complaints about all the loose ends from the people trying to solve the mystery. People don’t want to spend all day chasing around Los Angeles only to be told there isn’t an answer to some pieces of the puzzle.

In the afternoon I called Lieutenant Johnson to see if he had uncovered any evidence that the Yakuza or Rita were guilty of Matsuda’s death. He seemed surprised that I called him and told me in a professionally brisk manner that the LAPD didn’t discuss ongoing investigations.

“Look, maybe there is something you can tell me.”

“I just told you I can’t give out information on an ongoing investigation, Mr. Tanaka. We appreciate your help on this matter, but you really should leave this to the professionals.”

“It’s not really about the investigation,” I said hastily. “It’s actually about something that happened fifty years ago. You’ve got records of Matsuda’s past, don’t you?”

“Yes.” A very cautious tone, but it wasn’t exasperated yet. I hurried forward with my request.

“The Times article said he left the United States right after the war and renounced his citizenship.”

“That’s right.”

“Can you tell me if Matsuda was in a relocation camp during the war, and if so, which one?”

A slight pause, then Johnson said, “I suppose so, if that’s all you want to know. Wait a minute while I look at my file on Matsuda.” There was a several-minute pause while my excitement started growing. Finally, Johnson came back on the line and said, “Matsuda was in the Heart Mountain relocation camp for the duration of the war. Does that mean anything to you?”

I sighed. “No, it doesn’t. I just had a hunch that didn’t pan out. Thanks for your help.” I was sure that Matsuda would have been in Manzanar. Heart Mountain threw me for a loop. More frustration.

That left the woman I saw in Matsuda’s room as the only key I had left to unraveling his murder. I could think of one contact that might be able to help me find her, but I wasn’t sure if her boyfriend really knew where she was anyway. Besides, one encounter with him was enough. I thought of another contact that might be able to help, but didn’t want to pursue that either. Then I finally thought of a third.

Mariko had another AA meeting that night, this time a discussion group on the twelve steps, not one where she would talk. She called me at the office as the boutique was closing to see how I was feeling (still sore) and to remind me she had a meeting. “What are you going to do tonight?” she asked.

“I’m going to see a stripper.”

A long pause. “And …”

“And, indeed. I don’t know. I want to talk to her. I intend to see her after she’s done her act, so I’ll be out late. I’ll see you tomorrow and fill you in on the details.”

I killed a few hours after dinner at my apartment watching TV, but I was anxious to get going and left my house way too early. I drove to the Paradise Vineyard and pulled into the alley behind it. I parked about two hundred feet from the stage door. A weak light illuminated the alley by the door. I waited.

I hoped my second stakeout would be more successful than my first, but despite my excitement I still found it incredibly boring work. It was sort of like fishing, however, in that any little nibble freshened your interest until you realized it wasn’t the fish you were waiting for.

I saw several men walk in through the stage door. Most of them left with women. But I didn’t see the particular person I was looking for. Finally, at around midnight, I saw her come out. She was with a surprisingly well-dressed older man. She was hanging onto his arm and laughing.

I got out of the car and walked over to the couple. At the sight of a stranger approaching them in the alley, they slowed down and watched me warily. At past midnight in a back alley in downtown Los Angeles, it isn’t a good practice to go along blindly when you see a stranger.

“Ms. Martinez?” I called out.

The redheaded Latina recognized me and said something to her companion. He hung back reluctantly, almost as if he didn’t want me to see his face.

Rosie Martinez walked forward to meet me. “What the hell do you want?” she said.

“Well, hello to you, too.”

She looked over her shoulder at her companion. “Look, my gentleman friend is crapping in his pants. He’s afraid we’ll get busted, because I told him you were a cop.”

“I’m not a cop. I told you that before.”

“Well, what do ya want?” she asked.

“I want to talk to Angela Sanchez.”

“Shit, I told you I don’t know where she is. Talk to Fred about that.”

“I talked to Fred and he said he didn’t know where she is. I think he’s lying. I’m not trying to be offensive, Ms. Martinez, but I think you’re lying, too.”

“What the hell…”

“Please don’t get mad at me. Believe it or not, I really want to help Angela. She can help me and I can help her. She doesn’t have to hide. The police caught the two guys that Matsuda was working for.”

“Who’s Matsuda?”

“The guy who was killed at the hotel. The guy Angela was with that night. She doesn’t have to be afraid of them and she doesn’t have to be afraid of me. Believe me, you’ll be helping her by telling me where she is. I really do want to help her, and I think I can.”

Martinez looked at me in the half-light of the alley. “You look like shit,” she said.

“I got beat up,” I said, shrugging. “The two guys who did it were the two guys who were arrested. The same guys Matsuda was working for.”

“They’re in the can?”

“That’s right.”

“I still don’t know nothin’ about Angela.”

“Okay, I’ll come clean with you. I’m trying to collect a reward put up by a Japanese business association. If I can prove my involvement in the case, they’ll pay me the money, but now they’re questioning if I met Matsuda before he was murdered and they’re trying to wriggle out of giving me the cash. Angela can back up my story. I didn’t want to tell you about it because I didn’t want to share it with her. I’m sorry about that, but I guess I’m willing to split it with her if she’ll back me up about meeting Matsuda.”

My lie didn’t even make real sense to me, but the part about money and businessmen trying to wriggle out of payment seemed to make sense to Martinez.

“How much money?” she asked.

This put me in a little dilemma. If I said an amount too large, she would catch on to my lie, but if I said something too small, she might not be interested in spilling what she knew. I picked a figure. “Ten thousand dollars. If Angela backs me up, I’ll give her a thousand.”

“Two thousand, and I get something, too.” She had the heart of an agent.

“Fifteen hundred, and anything you get is between Angela and you.” Maybe I should have just said okay, but my instincts told me she’d expect me to bargain.

She made a quick decision, the kind of decision people make when they’re street smart and used to living by their wits. “Okay. She’s at the Blue Surf Motel in Long Beach. Room 212. She had me bring some stuff down to her. I’m going to tell her about the fifteen hundred, so don’t try to stiff her.”

“All right, Ms. Martinez. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

She nodded slowly and turned back to go with her companion, reassuring him that everything was going to be okay, that he wasn’t going to be busted, compromised, or blackmailed.