The newspaper had the ads for nude bars neatly organized by the section of the city, and it only took me a few minutes to locate two clubs close to the hotel, along with a theater called the Paradise Vineyard that promised “Old Time Burlesque” in its ad. I marked their locations on my map of downtown.
Since they were all close, I decided to drive by them to see what there was to see, but first, on impulse, I picked up the phone and called Mary Maloney.
When she found out who it was, Mary’s voice warmed up. “Ken! How’s the mystery coming? We’re all looking forward to participating in it.”
“It’s coming along fine, but I have something more serious to ask you.”
“Oh, what is it?” Mary was a large woman, who enjoyed mothering people. Maybe that’s why she has contacts everywhere who were willing to help her whenever she wanted. Mary was still something of a puzzle to me. For all her openness and friendly demeanor, she really didn’t talk much about herself. She didn’t seem to work, and although she seemed to have a modest lifestyle, she also had a penchant for taking off to Europe or Asia for weeks at a time, seemingly on a whim. That implied some source of income, but she never talked about it. She also had a mania for knitted dresses, sweaters, and pants suits. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing her in anything that wasn’t knitted. I don’t know if she made these clothes herself or bought them, but Mariko once remarked that Mary’s clothes were custom-made, and not off the rack.
“I’m afraid I’m involved with that murder at the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel, and I need to get some legal advice about how to gracefully get out of a situation I’ve put myself in. Mariko has suggested that I talk to her cousin Michael, but frankly I don’t know if he’s any good. As you know I’m unemployed, so maybe he’ll give me a discount, but I don’t want a price break if it’s going to land me in jail with bad advice.”
“What’s his full name.”
“Michael Kosaka.”
“And he practices here in L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“Give me some time. I’ll call you back with some information.”
“I was just about to leave the office.”
“It will only take me a minute. Just wait.”
I gave Mary the office number and rang off. I had time to put my notes on the club mystery back in order when the phone rang. It was Mary.
“Michael Kosaka is an excellent attorney,” Mary reported. “My sources say you should get good advice from him.”
“Thanks, Mary, I appreciate it.”
“So you’re not going to explain what’s going on?”
“Not right now. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
“Rats!”
“See you soon.” Mary was an information junky, but things were happening so fast I didn’t know what information to give her right now. One thing I wasn’t going to give her was the fact that I was going to spend my morning checking out strip joints. Look, I’m not lily pure and pristine. I’m not even prudish. But I was embarrassed.
I drove to the first club and, of course, it was closed. In front of the club was a couple of display cases with pictures of the girls, and I stopped to look. They all seemed to have names like Ginger and Kiki and Brandy. I didn’t recognize any of them. As I stood in front of the club looking at the pictures, I had the thought that someone like Mrs. Kawashiri would probably drive by and see me, and it made me uncomfortable. Still, this was business of sorts, and I pressed on to the second club.
It had the same setup, with pictures in front, along with its own collection of Brandys (this time spelled Brandee) and Gingers, but I didn’t see the woman I was looking for, so I went to the theater.
The Paradise Vineyard is an old converted movie theater on the western edge of downtown Los Angeles. The facade of the theater is weathered, and the once-bright gold, red, and yellow designs on the theater’s front are now muted and worn.
The marquee on the front of the theater promises “Girls! Girls! Gi ls!” The missing “R” looked as though it had been gone for a long time. Underneath the triple proclamation of what could be found within was a yellow and black banner with the words “Old Time Burlesque!”
I parked my car and walked to the front of the theater, where I was disappointed to see that there were no pictures of the dancers, just a poster informing me that “Cutie Valentine” and “Yolanda LaHuge” were the featured acts. At least they were plumb out of Gingers and Brandies, even though I had a good idea about what it was about Yolanda that was so huge. Still, without photos, it was impossible to tell if the woman I met was dancing there.
“You know someone here?”
I knew that voice, and it was the worst person I could think of to catch me in front of the theater.
“Hello, Officer Hansen. I don’t know anyone here.”
“That’s Detective Hansen,” he said. His eyes were already narrowed in suspicion. “If you don’t know anyone here, why are you standing in front of the theater?”
“I was hoping to find some picture in front so I could see if the woman I met in Matsuda’s room was a dancer here.”
“How did you know to come here?”
“I got a list of strip clubs in downtown L.A. and marked the ones near the hotel on a map. Do you want me to show it to you?”
“Yes.”
We walked to my car with my face burning red. “I imagine you’re doing something similar,” I said, as I showed him my Thomas Brothers map with the clubs marked on them.
“I’m interested in why you’re doing this,” Hansen said.
“I thought it would be helpful if I found the woman. She could back up my story.”
“Or deny it.”
I bit my tongue and forced myself to smile at the bastard. “It costs nothing to be polite” was one of my father’s favorite sayings. He was wrong, of course. Sometimes it costs a great deal of self-control. “That’s always a possibility,” I answered, “but if she tells the truth, her story should corroborate mine.”
“Mr. Tanaka, I’m going to ask you once to stop getting involved in police affairs,” Hansen said. “If we need your help, we will ask for it. You don’t have to do things on your own that involve this murder.”
“All right,” I said as I walked around to get into my car. I was going to tell him that he didn’t have to bother checking out the two clubs I had already stopped at, but I decided to let him carry out his own investigation. Yes, I know it’s petulant and petty, but I think he would have gone to the other clubs anyway.
I drove back to Little Tokyo and went to the Kawashiri Boutique to talk to Mariko.
“I saw that police detective this afternoon. He caught me standing in front of a strip joint looking for that woman, and I’m sure I’m his number one suspect by now. I want to talk to your cousin Michael as soon as possible.”
“Oh, great. My boyfriend the criminal. Did you read the story in the Times?” Mariko asked.
“Yeah. It was really interesting. Especially the part about Matsuda originally being a U.S. citizen. The Times seemed to know about Matsuda awfully fast. I wonder what else they know? I’d love to get more information.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Mariko said. “Mrs. Kawashiri has a customer, a Mrs. Okada, who’s always talking about her grandson who’s a reporter for the L.A. Times. He wasn’t the person who wrote today’s story, but maybe he can give you more information.”
“How would I meet him?”
“By asking Mrs. Kawashiri, of course. You know how this works with Japanese, with all the reciprocal favors. All that ongiri stuff. Mrs. Okada owes Mrs. Kawashiri. For some reason Mrs. Kawashiri sees more in you than I do, and I’m sure she’d be glad to help you.”
Ongiri is how Japanese keep things in social balance. On is a debt of gratitude. Giri is a sense of duty. You do me a favor or give me a gift, and I’m now obligated to eventually do you a favor or give a gift of equal value. In fact, if I do too big a favor or buy too big a gift in return, it’s a kind of a put-down. The exchange of gifts and favors don’t balance themselves out.