Southland Page 8

  When they were out of earshot, Jimmy shook his head. “That man nuttier than a peanut field harvest morning,” he offered, remembering something his mother had once said about a relative. He expected Curtis and Cory to laugh, but instead, Curtis turned and leaned over him, blocking out the sky, face blazing like a too-hot sun.

  “Don’t you talk ’bout him that way.” His voice was low, his cheek muscles working, and Jimmy was so shocked by the anger in his cousin’s face that he just stood there, afraid to move. In the ten months since he’d started spending time with his cousins, Curtis had never so much as raised his voice at him. Curtis stood, rocked back, rocked toward him again. “Don’t you ever let me catch you talkin ’bout Mr. Hirano that way.”

  Jimmy didn’t know what he’d done wrong, or why it had been OK to laugh at the silly people at church but not at this crazy man who couldn’t see the houses in front of him.

  Alma and Mr. Conway, hearing this exchange, stopped and turned around. “He’s a nice man, Jimmy,” Alma said.

  “That’s right,” Curtis agreed. “He’s just got his own ways, is all.”

  Jimmy felt so low now that his eyes began to fill, although he couldn’t tell whether he was upset because of guilt or Curtis’s anger. At least his cousin’s anger, though, unlike his long-gone father’s, had a reason, a set of rules for things to avoid, and didn’t just explode without warning. The boys walked along in silence for several blocks, the grown-ups talking in front of them. Jimmy sniffled and sank deeper into his suit, his chin pressed down into the collar. He wished he could disappear. But just when he thought he was going to cry for real, Curtis took his hand. His heart lifted. He knew, because Curtis still stared ahead and didn’t look at him, that he wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. But he also knew that he would be forgiven.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1994

  THERE WERE so many questions, which she took out in private, unfolded and examined like secret love letters. For one thing, why had no one in her family ever told her about the freezer? That no one talked about history, the internment, seemed a community decision; the entire Nisei generation might have taken a vow of silence. But this thing, the death of the boys, was much more personal, unique—and so her family’s silence on the matter was more troubling. She had known right away that she’d have to talk to Lois, who was always the best source of family information. Lois, like Rose, didn’t tend to offer things on her own, but at least she’d give them up when she was asked.

  Jackie called her aunt on Tuesday night, as soon as she got home. They talked about the houses that Lois had looked at, and then discussed the will—the official one—which had been read that afternoon. Frank had left his computer and his savings— about a thousand dollars—to Lois, and to Rose he’d left some old books. Jackie, to her mild and bewildered disappointment, had been willed his box of documents and a bowling ball. As they both expected, there’d been no mention of the store.

  After telling Lois that she was in no hurry to pick up her inheritance, Jackie took a deep breath. “Listen. I did some poking around about the kid in the will, Curtis Martindale.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “He worked in the store for a while.”

  “Oh, right. Of course. That’s why the name sounded familiar.”

  “Yeah. Well, he’s not going to be wanting that money any time soon. He’s dead.”

  “Oh,” Lois said, deflated.

  Why did she sound disappointed? Did she really have no clue? “He died in the Watts riots.”

  Silence. Something rustled on the other end of the line.

  “…in Grandpa’s store,” Jackie concluded.

  Lois still didn’t speak. Jackie could hear her aunt breathing. Finally Lois said, “What are you talking about?”

  Jackie stood and started walking, the phone cord twisting around her hips. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

  “Knew about what?”

  Jackie’s mouth fell open. She repeated what Lanier had told her—about the store, about the freezer, about the suspicions concerning the policeman, Nick Lawson.

  When she was finished, Lois was silent for a moment. Then she said, very slowly, “I had no idea. Mom made Rose and me leave the first day it was safe. The three of us stayed with Mom’s parents down in Gardena until Dad sold the house and the store.”

  “Well, now you know why.”

  “Jesus.” Lois remembered the frenzy of the days before the looting reached Crenshaw—how she and Rose weren’t allowed to wander the neighborhood, or even see their friends. The quick, messy packing of suitcases, the drive down to Gardena, where her mother’s parents lived. Lois crying about being plucked out of her house, her school, her life. Her father wild as she’d ever seen him, wide-eyed, in a frenzy. His whipped hair and bloodshot eyes when he came home from the store. How he slept in the garage and avoided the rest of the family, while her mother circled the rooms of the house, tight-lipped and victorious. I told you so, she kept saying to him. I told you this neighborhood was no good for our girls. “That cop sounds familiar, though,” Lois continued. “There was this awful cop in the area who used to harass Dad a lot. He’d come in and knock stuff off the shelves and take cigarettes and soda. He followed Rosie and me home a couple of times, really scared us bad. Anyway, as you can imagine, he was no big fan of black kids, either. I wonder what ever happened to him.”

  “If it’s the same guy, he was shot in retaliation. He didn’t die, though, and he was never brought to trial or anything. Anyway, this Lanier wants to bring a case against him. We’re meeting again on Friday.”

  “And you’re helping, like the good lawyer you are.”

  Jackie noticed that she didn’t say “granddaughter.” “Well, it would be nice if they got him.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Lois replied. She remembered the ice-chill of fear as the cop walked behind her, humming low, lightly hitting his baton against his thigh.

  Jackie put her fist on her hip and looked up at the ceiling, annoyed. “Well, you don’t exactly sound enthusiastic, Lois. Do you think I should forget the whole thing?”

  “No, I’m just saying you should be careful.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No. But it was an ugly time, Jackie. And if everyone knows that a certain person did this thing, but he was still never punished, then think about what you must be up against.”

  “Right. But it’s almost thirty years later now. You’d think that someone would be brave enough to talk. I wonder if there’s anyone who actually saw Lawson in the store.”

  “Well, unfortunately, it wouldn’t have been any of us. As soon as the looting started in Crenshaw, Dad locked up the store and came home. We all stayed there until it was over.” She remembered the four of them in front of the television, staying awake for days. Frank shaking his head and mumbling. Lois crying sometimes. Mary saying as soon as this is over, we’re leaving, Frank. Whether or not you come with us, the girls and I have to go.

  “So Grandpa never left the house.”

  “Not once the looters came, no.”

  Jackie was relieved to hear this. She hadn’t thought he was involved in the murders, but it was good to know for sure. “But how did Lawson get into the store? Grandpa must have locked the door. Did anyone else have a key?”

  Lois thought for a moment. “Yes. There were three boys who worked in the store—no, four. I think they worked at different times, so I don’t know who would have been there during the riots. Except, I guess, for Curtis Martindale.”

  “Do you remember the other boys’ names?”

  “Let me see now. David. And another D name…Derek. I don’t remember their last names, unfortunately. And a Sansei boy, Akira Matsumoto, who was a little bit older than Rosie. I remember him—he’d come back and visit even after he went off to college, and he had a really foul mouth. He was one of the original members of the Yellow Brotherhood.”

  “The what?”

>   “The Yellow Brotherhood—they were kind of a gang. Not like the ones today. They formed for protection, mostly, and they had a political angle. I don’t think they lasted past the sixties.”

  “Do you know what happened to the boys who worked in the store?”

  “I don’t know what happened to the two black boys. Akira moved to Japan. He went to UCLA and got his act together, and then took a job in Tokyo. We’d hear about him sometimes because Dad stayed in touch with his parents. They might still be alive—I could look them up.”

  “Right. But if you called every Matsumoto in the phone book, it’d probably take a year.” She paused. “Thanks for the help, Lois. Sorry to shock you with all this.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’ll let you know if I remember anything else.”

  Friday came, slow as Christmas or a birthday, and Jackie drove back down to Crenshaw. Lanier had given her the address for a place he called the “barbecue church,” and a little after two, she arrived there. In the corner of the parking lot was a huge, smoking grill, facing several picnic tables which were half-filled with people. Jackie parked her car and made sure all her doors were locked. Then she walked over to the tables.

  She was nervous. There were about twenty-five people there, most of them young and all of them black. There were half a dozen older men, sitting together at a table. A middle-aged couple stood behind the grill, apron-clad, he marinating the big sides of beef, she twisting sausages with a pair of tongs. As Jackie approached, she felt self-conscious and not entirely safe. The teenagers looked at her and lifted single eyebrows in calm disdain. Jackie scanned the tables again—where was Lanier? But then he turned—he’d been sitting with his back to her—and waved her over.

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” he said as she approached. “I needed to touch base with some folks at the church…” He gestured toward the building. “…and then I thought I’d get some lunch. I hope you haven’t eaten already.”

  Jackie smiled. “I haven’t, actually. Once you told me there was barbecue involved, I figured I should wait.”

  Lanier extricated himself from the picnic table, motioning for her to walk toward the grill. “It’s actually an interesting story. Twenty-five years ago, this was just an empty lot. Then the founders of the church started using it to sell barbecue ribs and hot links at lunchtime. Well, word got around and the food sold so well that the founders raised enough money to build the church.”

  Jackie nodded, feeling encouraged. Lanier still hadn’t smiled at her, but he seemed much more relaxed than the first time they met. He wouldn’t have brought her here, she thought, if he disliked her.

  They had reached the grill now, and Lanier gestured to the couple behind it. “This is Don and Mary Carter. Mary’s the daughter of the original church founders. And this,” he said to the Carters, “is Jackie Ishida, Frank Sakai’s granddaughter.”

  At her grandfather’s name, both the Carters became animated. Mrs. Carter removed her hot-pad glove and held her hand out over the grill, her arm bisecting the waves of rising smoke. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she offered, shaking Jackie’s hand. “Frank Sakai’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. He was a good man, your grandfather. Remember him well.” She paused. “I heard he passed on. I’m very sorry.”

  Jackie thanked her, and they stood there awkwardly. Again, she had the sense that she didn’t deserve such sympathy. The luscious, meaty smells from the grill were making it hard to focus.

  “Well, listen, honey, why don’t I fix you up a plate? I’d make one up for James there,” Mrs. Carter said, looking teasingly at Lanier, “but he’s already eaten ’bout a whole week’s supply.”

  “Aw, come on, Mary. That was just one hot link to get me through my meeting. I’ll take a real lunch now.” He was smiling and his whole face changed. It was no longer a stern mask of angles and stark, immobile lines. He looked boyish and warm, more approachable.

  Jackie could feel the eyes of the customers. The Carters’ reaction to her, instead of making the other people more comfortable with her, had somehow had the opposite effect. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so scrutinized, exposed, and yet, there was a dismissive quality to the teenagers’ looks; she wasn’t important enough, even, to glare at. Mary Carter handed her a red and white cardboard box full of ribs, black-eyed peas, and corn bread. She waved off the ten Jackie offered and gave Lanier an identical serving. They each grabbed Cokes from the cooler. Then Lanier directed Jackie to the picnic table closest to the fence, away from the milling teens. He insisted that Jackie try her food, which she did—inhaling tangy mouthfuls of the tender pork ribs that tasted even better than they smelled. He started on his own ribs before wiping his mouth with a napkin and asking, “Did you find out anything interesting?”

  “Maybe,” Jackie answered. She recounted what Lois had told her. How she and Rose hadn’t known of the murders. How Frank had reacted, shutting himself away, then moving the family down to Gardena. How three other boys besides Curtis might have had a key to the store.

  Lanier stirred his Styrofoam cup full of black-eyed peas. “Any idea who they were?”

  Jackie nodded. “Some. They were all teenagers, employees. Anyway, one of them was Akira Matsumoto, a Japanese-American, obviously, who ended up moving to Japan. The other two I only have first names for—Derek and David.”

  Lanier tapped his fingers on the table. “David Scott. He was one of the other four boys in the freezer.”

  “Oh. God. I don’t think my aunt knew that.”

  “David and Curtis had just graduated from Dorsey. The other two, David’s little brother Tony and his best friend Gerald, would have been freshmen that fall.”

  Jackie felt dizzy and grabbed the table. “Jesus.”

  “Derek’s last name was Broadnax. I think he might have been there when the boys were found.” He paused. “His little sister Angela was Curtis’s girlfriend. I don’t remember what happened to them, but we could ask around a bit. Some of the old folks around here got memories like books. You think you could track down the Japanese guy?”

  “Maybe,” Jackie said. “I’ll try.” She took a sip of her Coke and then, when she felt steady again, she tried the rich, moist corn bread. “Any luck on your end?”

  Lanier sighed, waved to a man at another table, then looked back to Jackie again. “Some. I have a buddy who’s a detective at the Southwest Station. He grew up around here and he knew your grandpa, and he’s been doing some sniffing around.” He paused. Allen had not been willing at first. What James was asking was dangerous, too risky. The department was a sleeping monster that it was better not to disturb, and who knew what kind of creatures you’d find if you went digging in its belly. What secrets, half-digested, the twisted guts would offer up. Only after a few days had Allen changed his mind. He had loyalties deeper, he said, than the department. “Most of the cops from Lawson’s time have retired, you know, and the few who are still on the force have all moved up and out to desk jobs at other stations. It’s hard—no one’s gonna speak out against another cop.”

  Jackie nodded, waiting.

  “But Allen heard about this one guy, Robert Thomas. He and his partner worked at Southwest with Lawson, and they were the only two black cops there. Anyway, the partner’s gone, but Thomas is still around, up at the Hollywood Station.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  Lanier took a bite of his ribs. A dollop of sauce got smeared on his cheek, and Jackie pointed at the same spot on her own face. Lanier wiped the sauce off with a napkin. “Tried to,” he said. “He thought I was a reporter. I called him at the station, and when I started to explain what I wanted, he interrupted and said he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then he hung up on me. I called back yesterday and tried to tell him I was calling at the suggestion of a cop—but he still seemed to think I was messing with him. But this time he remembered ‘the incident.’ That’s what he called it, ‘the incident.’ Said it was a terrible tragedy and h
e didn’t want to discuss it, why did the press insist on stirring up all those painful things from the past.”

  Jackie took a gulp of her Coke. “What do you think’s going on with him?”

  Lanier shrugged. “I don’t know. He probably does think I’m a reporter. And my guess is, he’s gonna retire in the next couple of years and he doesn’t want any kind of hassle. The last thing he’s going to want to do is dig up a scandal from thirty years ago.” Lanier paused, remembering the conversation. Thomas had been curt, self-protective, an old-school Negro. Lanier almost felt sorry for him—what twists, what back-flips he must have had to perform in order to succeed at his job. Thomas was his father’s age, and Lanier understood his suspicion, his fear. So many of the old folks had been crushed down and down.

  “So what do we do now?” Jackie asked.

  “I’ve got some ideas on that,” Lanier said, “but I’ll tell you about them later. Let’s get out of here before the traffic gets bad.”

  They threw their trash away and waved goodbye to the Carters. They got into Lanier’s green Ford Taurus station wagon, strapped themselves in, and Lanier took a left onto Crenshaw.

  “Where we going?” Jackie asked.

  “We’re taking a drive.” They passed Crenshaw Motors, an old building with rounded corners that had clearly been there for decades. There was a string of small offices and stores on the right, and Jackie wondered how all these places remained in business—there didn’t seem to be enough foot traffic to support them. When she looked closely, she saw that many of the stores were empty. She thought of the ghost town she’d once seen, driving back from Arizona; she thought of the broken-windowed, barricaded buildings of Northridge, which she and Laura had toured the week after the earthquake. At the first big intersection, several blocks down, Lanier made a U-turn and they headed back north. Looking up, Jackie saw the Hollywood Hills in the distance, the tiny Hollywood sign, which was lovely, but incongruous, like someone had rolled in the wrong backdrop for a movie set.