LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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 he 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.

      “This area ain’t exactly hopping,” said Lanier. “But right up here, by Leimert Park, it’s nicer—this is what I wanted to show you. There’s a couple of art galleries, coffee shops, jazz clubs. And Magic’s new theaters are helping bring people to the mall. You should see this place on Sunday, when they shut Crenshaw down to traffic and the kids all come.”

      He walked over sometimes, just to watch the show. The young brothers in their souped-up cars, shiny old Pontiacs and Buicks that rattled and groaned like prehistoric beasts. The drug dealers in their Nissans and heavy gold chains. Young men with arms slung out windows,

Скачать книгу