Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1)

by Dale Furutani

  We like to think we’re honest, and old Frank Capra movies celebrate the innate honesty of Americans. We’re decent and frank and open and we often confuse all these traits with real honesty. Maybe Americans were more honest when Capra made movies in the 1930s, but now honesty is not as celebrated as shrewdness. Top government officials circumvent the law when it suits them, and Savings and Loan executives, lawyers, and car salesmen have the reputation for being so crooked that these professions have become a shorthand for what Capra would have called “sharp dealing.” It’s sad, but there you have it.

  Having said all this, I must admit I was shredded by remorse about not telling Hansen the truth about the package. Dickens once said, “The law is an ass.” I thought Hansen was a supercilious ass, but he was still the law.

  Mariko curled into the curve of my arm. We were both sitting on my dilapidated couch with our feet up on my equally dilapidated coffee table. “I’ve got to tell him about the package tomorrow,” I said.

  Mariko looked thoughtful. “I think you’ve got to talk to my cousin Michael, first.”

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yes. Get his advice first, then tell Hansen about the package.”

  “You really think that’s necessary? Consulting a lawyer, I mean?”

  “You’re the one who was hauled downtown to talk about the murder. You let them look over your car and you sat for hours talking to them. You probably should have had a lawyer then and you shouldn’t have given up your rights, because you told me you certainly knew them. You said that Hansen rubbed you the wrong way. He’s just looking for a suspect in the murder and you might be it, Ken. I think you better get Michael’s advice before you just march down to the police and say you actually have the package.”

  “Correction: You’ve got the package.”

  “Well, it’s at the boutique.”

  “Is it in a safe place?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it in a hatbox in the stockroom. It’s safe, unless we get hit by a hat burglar, as opposed to a cat burglar.”

  “Very funny.” I paused. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” I told Mariko.

  “Well, I am involved in it, at least because I have an investment in you that I don’t want to see wasted. After all the work I’ve been putting into you, I don’t want some gorilla named Bubba to reap the rewards of what I’ve done just because he ends up as your cell mate.”

  “Meaning?”

  Mariko reached up and patted my cheek. “Meaning those nights in prison can get awfully long and lonely, and you might start looking awfully good to some of those guys in there.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  She smiled, “Well, it’s something to think about. I might not be the only one that finds your sweet buns attractive.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “By the way, that Hansen guy sounds like a creep,” Mariko continued.

  “I guess he’s just doing his job.”

  “Do you think he was so snotty because you’re Japanese?”

  That was an angle I hadn’t resolved. Racism doesn’t spring to mind whenever I have an unpleasant encounter with someone, but the insidious problem with racism is that once you’ve been stung by it you always have it lingering as a possibility.

  When my marriage fell apart, I had a job programming at the Calcommon Corporation. With my personal life in shambles, I decided to concentrate on my career. I think now that I was embarrassed and hurt by the divorce more than I realized and simply wanted to divert my energies into something I viewed as an activity of the intellect instead of an activity of the heart.

  Over time I noticed that I was not advancing in my career. Although my performance reviews were excellent, I was not made a supervisor or manager. I started taking business courses at UCLA in an effort to get into management, but that didn’t seem to advance my career, either.

  I used to think that the world is color-blind. Maybe that’s my Hawaiian upbringing. Lately I’ve come to the frightening conclusion that race is becoming the defining factor of our lives. Maybe this is because I live in Los Angeles, which has degenerated into a collection of ethnic tribes instead of a community. Here all the racial groups are in deadly competition. Literally. This has consequences for all of us, no matter what our race is.

  One consequence for me was the nagging doubt that maybe I wasn’t being promoted at Calcommon because I was an Asian. It would have been a relief if some third party I trusted would just tell me I wasn’t good enough to be made a manager, but that wasn’t the case. The difficult assignments I got showed I was performing my job, and I had no problems working in teams. My performance reviews were always outstanding.

  One day, out of curiosity, I took out a Calcommon organization chart and marked down the races and gender of the corporation’s top management. There was one Latino (who was in charge of buying office supplies), one black (given the title of manager, but just in charge of the mail room), and only one woman (also given the title manager, but really in charge of employee activities like the annual picnic). The rest of Calcommon’s management structure was lily white and male.

  If you’re a white male, this kind of research may bring a wince to your face. Some white males have been treated very unfairly in ham-fisted efforts to correct past racial and gender wrongs by perpetrating new wrongs. But traditional barriers to nonwhite and nonmale employees far exceed the new barriers to white males. That doesn’t make any barrier right, but it does mean that if you’re not a white male, you’re probably more likely to come into contact with prejudice.

  In my own country I’ve been called a gook, a chink, a Jap, and a slope. I think “gook” was first applied to Koreans, “chink” to Chinese, “slopes” to Vietnamese, and “Jap” is both obnoxious and obvious. Asians in the U.S. get to learn the full range of ethnic slurs, no matter what their real ethnicity is. I’ve also been told to go back to my own country, even though America has been home to my family since 1896.

  Like many people, I’m tired of some people excusing their personal conduct because of past injustices to their race, religion, sexual preference, or gender. Despite that, racial prejudice was a possibility when faced with the situation I was in.

  I talked to my immediate supervisor about promotion and Calcommon’s racial policies, and he was very uncomfortable. He said he would talk to our department manager about my concerns, and eventually I was granted an interview with Calcommon’s white, male vice-president of human resources. Mr. VP gave me the usual song and dance and said that if my performance warranted it, I would certainly be considered for a supervisory or management position.

  And then a strange thing happened. A few months later I got my first mediocre performance review at Calcommon.

  I was angry and upset, and I remember my immediate supervisor wouldn’t look me in the eye when he gave me the review. I was transferred from software development to software maintenance. In the world of software, development is where the fun and challenge is. Maintenance is usually where you stick beginners and less-qualified programmers, who spend their days making minor changes to the work of others.

  As I considered my options, the nagging voice of my mother reached out from the grave. Like a good second generation Japanese mother, she valued security above all else. When she was alive she’d counsel, “Don’t make waves” or “Play along” or “Don’t cause trouble,” and to my undying shame, as soon as the anger passed, that’s what I did.

  About a year later Calcommon went through what the MBA types euphemistically call “downsizing,” and I was cut. So much for playing safe and not making waves. Calcommon did give me a generous severance package, but I regarded that as a payoff for being a “model minority.”

  I was tired of being a model minority, but I didn’t relish the thought of having to confess to Hansen that I had misled him about the package. I decided to take Mariko’s advice and talk to her lawyer cousin Michael before I did anything more.

  “You said the pic
tures of the body were pretty awful,” Mariko said.

  “They were. I bet the television crews were mad as hell they couldn’t get into the room to film it.”

  “You’re getting cynical in your old age.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it. I was always cynical. As I get older I’m just getting braver about showing it. You know blood and gore make for big ratings. The only thing missing is sex, and maybe the prostitute in Matsuda’s room or Rita Newly will supply that.” I paused. “It really was awful to see those pictures, Mariko. But the way Matsuda died is in itself a clue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the cops said that he was hacked up with something like a sword. People don’t go running around with swords these days. It’s hard to understand why you’d chose that weapon. Plus somebody had a real grudge against Matsuda or else they wouldn’t have taken the time and effort to slice him up the way they did.”

  “It must have been a mess,” Mariko said.

  “It was. They didn’t show me all the pictures, but I’m sure the entire room must have been splattered in blood. Whoever did it must have been covered in it. In fact, it’s amazing that they were able to get out of the hotel without someone seeing them covered with blood.”

  Mariko touched my cheek. “You’re shaking.” We kissed. Her lips were cool and moist. I sank into their softness and, after a time, I stopped shaking. I’ll spare you the active details of our sex life. Just think of pounding surf, rearing stallions, heavy rain, and any other sexual cliché you like from old movies.

  When we were done with our lovemaking, during that period when women like to cuddle and men just want to drift into unconsciousness, Mariko said, “Did you forget about tomorrow night?”

  That snapped me awake. Women and men sometimes have trouble communicating, but even the dullest man learns when a woman is broadcasting a signal. This was not a question; it was a test. Men hate these tests, but women keep giving them because we men seem to keep failing them. “Of course not. It’s your first time speaking at an AA meeting, and I will be there for you,” I said with aplomb.

  She snuggled closer to me. The test was not only passed, it was aced.

  10

  The phone rang. I picked it up and recognized Mariko’s voice. It was unusual for her to call me early in the morning.

  “There’s a big write-up about your murder in the L.A. Times,” she said.

  “My murder? If it’s about my murder, then like Mark Twain said, my death has been greatly exaggerated!”

  “Gee, the wonders of a sixth-grade education.”

  “Never mind the sarcasm. What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a big write-up in the Times about Matsuda’s murder,” Mariko said. “It talks about Matsuda and then discusses how other Japanese businessmen have been victimized by crime in Little Tokyo. You know, muggings and things like that.”

  “Why don’t you read it to me?”

  “Read it to you? It’s about half a page long. It wouldn’t kill you to go out and get a paper.”

  “Ever helpful.”

  “Well, I’m trying to be,” Mariko answered. “I thought you might be interested in it. Besides, you’re mentioned in the article.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure, I’ll read you that part, at least. ‘The police say they are following up on various clues and checking out the stories of suspects.’ I figure that’s you,” Mariko announced.

  “You’re not going to think it’s so funny if it turns out to be true, and you end up bringing me gift baskets at some maximum security prison. Remember ‘Bubba’?”

  Mariko’s voice was much less animated. “Do you think that will actually happen?”

  “Well, I hope not. But it has happened in the past, and I certainly don’t want to put it to the test in this case. You know the cops can start feeling the heat just like anybody else. And if there’s a lot of pressure being put on Hansen to make an arrest, there’s no telling what he might do.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “I hope you’re kidding, too. I just want you to know you shouldn’t go around joking about me being a suspect because it’s probably true.”

  “Now you’ve got me worried sick,” Mariko said.

  “About me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought you were worried that I might say that you were the mastermind behind the whole thing.”

  “Don’t tease about this, Ken.”

  “I’m like you. I sort of vacillate between macabre humor and outright hysteria. I’ll go down and read what the Times has to say about the case, then I’ll call you back later this afternoon. Will you call your lawyer cousin and set up a time for me to see him? I want to get rid of the package as soon as possible.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, Mariko?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you.”

  “Finally some sense comes out of your mouth.” She hung up.

  I went down to the corner doughnut shop and got a Times. Back in my apartment I read the story about the murder. It had a short interview with Nachiko Izumi, the maid who found the body, but the actual details of the murder were pretty sketchy. I did learn that the police confirmed the weapon was probably a sword, based on the wounds inflicted on the body. And I was fascinated to read a little bit about Matsuda’s background.

  Matsuda had been raised in the United States, but he went to Japan right after World War II and renounced his U.S. citizenship. Since that time, he had been in the United States frequently, acting as a sales agent for a variety of companies.

  The article went on to talk about other crimes in Little Tokyo, with visiting Japanese businessmen as their victims. The crime rate in the United States is much higher than in Japan, and despite a lot of publicity in Japan about it, many of the visitors simply weren’t trained to cope with the Los Angeles urban jungle.

  A favorite technique seemed to be going from room to room in hotels that catered to the Japanese businesspeople, knocking on doors and mugging or robbing the residents when they opened the door to see who was there. Welcome to America.

  After reading the paper and having some breakfast (this time, cornflakes, not sushi), I decided to call Ezekiel Stein, the president of the L.A. Mystery Club. Ezekiel was a manager in the Water Quality Division of the L.A. Department of Water and Power (DWP). He was a thin man in his fifties, with a small beard and thick, black-rimmed glasses.

  Ezekiel actually got me involved in the L.A. Mystery Club, and I met him in kind of a funny way. The Los Angeles DWP has this mania for covering open reservoirs. They like to take restful blue water and spread a plastic cover over it in the name of water improvement. In fact, the way to improve water is to filter it, not just cover it, but covering is cheap and the City of L.A. likes cheap.

  Residents and environmentalists opposed the covering of the reservoirs, arguing that if the DWP really wanted to improve water quality they should take steps that will achieve that aim, instead of taking a halfway measure that destroyed the open reservoirs without making any substantive improvement in water quality. The Silver Lake district of L.A. got its name from the open reservoirs that form its geographic and emotional center. Like most people in Silver Lake, I joined the effort to stop the covering.

  I met Ezekiel at a community meeting to discuss ways to keep the reservoirs uncovered. I noticed that Ezekiel had placed some flyers on a table when he entered the meeting, and I strolled over to see what they were. They advertised an upcoming L.A. Mystery Club weekend event, and I talked briefly with Ezekiel about the event and what was involved. I was surprised when later I saw Ezekiel sitting as part of a panel representing the DWP. When you view people as part of the opposition on an issue, you don’t often view them as having aspects to their lives that you might share an interest in.

  I decided to give the mystery weekends a try and found them fun. As I got more involved with the club, I got to know Ezekiel better. I still thought his views
about covering the reservoirs were a sacrilege, but I also learned that it shouldn’t prevent me from working with him on things of interest to both of us.

  Ezekiel was an engineer, which explained some, but not all, of his eccentricities.

  For instance, for fun he would calculate the center of gravity for all sorts of things, such as automobiles or oranges. As near as I could tell, knowing the center of gravity is only useful for things like airplanes or sailboats, but Ezekiel calculated it for just about anything that struck his fancy: chairs, tables, phone booths, and myriad other objects. He once proudly showed me a database he kept on a laptop computer that had all his center of gravity computations, along with a scanned photo or sketch of the object. He had literally thousands of entries, and he told me he had been doing this since college.

  Ezekiel would also get involved in long tiffs with bureaucracies (and L.A. has many, what with all the city, county, and state agencies, not to mention agencies with adjacent cities). If some bureaucratic rule seemed illogical to him, he would sometimes spend months trying to get it changed, even when the change he wanted seemed to have no practical effect. Working for the world’s largest municipally owned utility, he should have known the difficulties in getting any bureaucracy to change, but he always had a half dozen little skirmishes going on.

  His trait of most interest to me was his voracious reading about crime.

  His phone rang and I heard the familiar voice answer, “Hello.”

  “Ezekiel. Ken Tanaka here. What do you know about recruiting American women to entertain in Japan?” With Ezekiel it was unnecessary to go through the normal social amenities. In fact, it was often counterproductive to do something like ask him how he felt. Ezekiel would tell you, in excruciating detail, including (I once learned to my sorrow) a report on his latest schedule of bowel movements and stool condition.