After the usual hellos, I said, “Did Mariko explain my financial condition to you?”
Kosaka laughed. “She said if I charge you more than two hundred fifty dollars, I’ll have to sit at the kiddies table the next time the family gets together for Thanksgiving.”
I smiled both at the threat and the fact that I could swing $250, even though it was probably what Michael got per hour. “That I can handle financially,” I confirmed, and I launched into my story about Rita Newly, Matsuda, and my gaff about the package. Kosaka sat there listening to me intently, occasionally making notes on a pad of paper with a very elegant gold fountain pen and nodding his head or making encouraging murmurings.
When I was done he sat back in his chair for a moment and thought. “Where’s this package?” he asked.
“Actually, Mariko has it where she works.”
Michael thought a little more. Then he leaned across the desk and said to me, “It’s easy to understand how anyone could get confused after several hours of questioning, especially about such a horrible crime. Is that why you misspoke about what happened to the package?” He looked at me and raised one eyebrow. Well, I don’t need a ton of bricks to hit me. I said, “Yes, I just got confused.”
He leaned back into his chair, pleased. “Of course. Very understandable. And at the first opportunity, you’re going to march in and correct your mistake.”
I checked my watch. “That could be in seventy minutes or so. That detective wanted me to go with him to a theater to identify the woman I saw at the hotel.”
Kosaka pursed his lips. “If he asks you about the package again, you’ll of course tell the truth and explain you got confused. But if he doesn’t ask you, I think tomorrow will be soon enough to correct your mistake. Let me call a friend of mine in the D.A.'s office to ask, in a general way, the best approach to correcting your mistake. That may take a day or two if my friend’s not in the office. This detective may not be the best person to go to with your correction. So just sit tight for a couple of days until I contact you.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for your call before doing anything else.”
“And Ken. .”
“Yes?”
“This is really none of my business, but you might also think about stopping this adventuring. That detective sounds like a jerk, but he is right about your meddling. This is a brutal murder case, and whoever did it may not like an amateur poking his nose in. That obviously goes for the police, as well.”
That was good advice. I wish I had heeded it.
Hansen was about ten minutes late when he picked me up at the office to go to the Paradise Vineyard. He was driving a big green American sedan. . what passes for an unmarked police car for the LAPD. The drive from the office to the Paradise Vineyard Theater took about twenty minutes in downtown traffic, so I decided to make small talk.
“Have you been in Los Angeles long?”
“Eleven years,” Hansen said. He didn’t volunteer more.
“Where are you originally from?”
“Walnut Creek.”
“Up by San Francisco?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get involved in police work.”
“My first choice didn’t work out.”
“What was that?”
“Professional football.”
“Really? What college did you play for?”
“San Jose State.”
“What position?”
“Linebacker.”
“Did you go directly from college to the Police Academy?”
“First I was in the marines.”
“So how did you get involved in police work?”
“My uncle was the police chief of Walnut Creek.”
“And he got you involved?”
“Yeah.”
It was not a stimulating conversation. I thought about working in my army record in the conversation to show I could be macho, too, and I immediately felt shame. Why was I was seeking approval from someone that I shouldn’t need approval from?
I have a Bronze Star and Purple Heart from Vietnam, but they were earned in what I think is a truly embarrassing way. Three weeks after I arrived in Vietnam my squad became engaged in a fire fight. My squad leader told me to make my way down a steep ravine to see if I could flank the enemy and engage him in enfilade fire. As I made my way down the side of the ravine I didn’t realize how steep it was, and I slipped and fell to the bottom. I hit right on my tailbone. I heard a sickening, crunching sound, and the world around me literally started turning black. The sound of gunfire up the hill from me was muted by a red fog of pain and a need to vomit.
I don’t know if I actually blacked out, but I do know that when I tried to move a few minutes later, the pain in my spine was so intense it literally took my breath away. Now comes the really stupid part. Instead of lying down and obeying my body, I continued down the ravine and to the side of the enemy. I managed to flank the enemy and I started firing. To be honest, I was in so much pain that I didn’t even aim. I just shot in the general direction and made a lot of noise.
It worked. The enemy withdrew, and several hours later they got me to a field hospital. I walked into the hospital on my own, and they immediately took X rays. I remember the look on the doctor’s face as he got on a field telephone to talk to a specialist someplace. I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but I do remember the doctor saying, “I can’t believe this guy walked in here on his own. He’s lucky he’s not paralyzed.” That scared me. A lot.
I had crushed my second lumbar vertebra, and the splintered bones could have severed my spinal cord and paralyzed me permanently. Instead the result was seven months in a body cast, a Bronze Star, and a Purple Heart. I figure I got both for literally busting my ass and not having enough sense to realize it. I had spent less than a month in Vietnam.
I seldom talk about the experience because I still find it silly and disturbing. And I never go to veteran reunions and similar events, because I feel that with my Asian face I’m looked at as the enemy, not a comrade. One positive effect of my being at these events is that the number of “slope” stories get curtailed, but this effect is not worth the discomfort.
Now I was going to talk about this experience with a stranger I didn’t much like, just because I was insecure about my own manhood. We’re funny and sometimes lamentable creatures. I quit talking, and we covered the rest of the way to the theater in silence.
13
Hansen pulled around the side of the Paradise Vineyard Theater and stopped his car in an alleyway in a no parking zone. He got out of the car and I followed him up to a metal-clad door with a faded NO ADMITTANCE stenciled on it.
Without bothering to knock, Hansen turned the door handle and entered the theater with me in tow. I’m not used to being backstage in theaters, and I was surprised at how tall the ceiling was. It went up into a seemingly endless darkness, and high in the rafters I could see catwalks, backdrops, and a spider’s skein of ropes. The air in the theater had a musty, stale odor that left a metallic taste in my mouth.
Near the door a laconic, fat stagehand was sitting on a chair and smoking a cigarette. The stagehand wore a short, blue T-shirt that didn’t hide the rolling flesh of his belly. Between the bottom of the T-shirt and the top of his blue jeans was a round tube of pale flesh that sprouted curly brown hairs. On the front of the T-shirt was the message “Stud for Hire” in white letters. I believe in the power of advertising, but I don’t believe this guy got any business from the shirt.
“Where’s the manager?” Hansen demanded.
The stagehand watched us with his small dark eyes, then he pointed to the back edges of the stage with a hand that held the half-smoked cigarette.