“Even I figured that out, Ezekiel. By the way, what did you mean about the tattoos and the Yakuza?”
“Yakuza also have a custom of tattooing themselves. Often they stop on the forearm, the neck and the calves of the legs, so that when they’re in normal street clothes you can’t see the tattoo. The rest of their body might be completely tattooed. It can cost thousands of dollars, and often they insist on having the tattooing done the traditional way, with ink and a bamboo needle. It can be quite painful.”
“Sounds like these guys are into pain.”
“I don’t know if they’re masochists,” Ezekiel said. “They want to show discipline and how tough they are. If they’re into pain at all, it’s probably more likely they’re into giving pain than receiving it.”
“That’s a jolly thought. You mean, they intend to be the giver, with me as the givee, if there’s any pain involved?”
“Sounds like they had Rita Newly more in mind. Make sure it doesn’t become you.”
Ezekiel had no more words of real wisdom for me, so I left the DWP building and drove out to South Pasadena where Mary Maloney lives. I had never been to her house before, and the address she gave me was for a modest bungalow not too far from the Pasadena Freeway. It looked like one of those California Craftsman bungalows, with big wooden beams and beautifully manicured landscaping.
Mary greeted me at the door. She was a big woman, with a broad, ruddy face and brown hair. She’s in her early forties, but she has one of those faces that probably looked the same at twenty. It isn’t a beautiful face, but it has character and warmth, and it’s the kind of face people trust immediately.
Mary was bundled up in a green knit dress and matching sweater when I got there, even though the air inside her bungalow was stagnant. I always thought that knit was not the most flattering choice for a woman of her size and, well, roundness. But she was happy with her wardrobe, so it was really none of my business.
The air in the bungalow was hot and stuffy. When I asked if the bungalow had air-conditioning, Mary seemed surprised that I wasn’t comfortable. She walked to a wall and flicked on the air-conditioning, and a welcome coolness started cutting through the heat. On the wall next to the air-conditioning switch was a large canvas covered with paint squiggles. The whole living room was cluttered with paintings of all sizes, along with bronzes and small statuary. Incongruously, the room also had souvenir knickknacks. Things like little porcelain bells, decorative spoons, and little plates. Almost all of them had the names of cities all over the world painted or written on them (Tokyo, Rio, Milan, Toronto, Bombay, and, once again incongruously, Dayton, Ohio).
“That’s an interesting painting,” I remarked, pointing to the canvas next to the air-conditioning thermostat.
“Yes,” Mary answered. “My father was interested in art. I can take it or leave it, myself.”
“It sort of looks like a Jackson Pollock.”
“It is.”
“An original?”
“Yes. If you like art you might like to look at the pictures by the fireplace. There are a couple of Picassos, a Rembrandt sketch, and a Monet there.”
“Originals?” I love art and my eyes were almost bulging out as I realized that art treasures were mixed in with all the cheap tourist souvenirs.
“Oh, yes. My father bought them years ago when they weren’t that expensive.”
“What does your father do?”
“He was a businessman,” she said vaguely, “but he’s dead now.”
“Do you have an alarm system in this bungalow?”
“Yes, I do, but it’s mostly for my protection. Thank you for being worried, but no thief will come in to steal artwork in this part of Pasadena. Thieves around here go for TVs and stereos, not Picassos and Rembrandts. That would require a professional art thief, and any real professional could defeat the typical home alarm system.”
I wanted to talk art some more, but I could tell that I was making Mary uncomfortable. She had invited me into her home to help me with my problem, and I didn’t want to repay her kindness by snooping. More important than art to me was the fact that Mary had a lively intelligence and was often the one who solved the Mystery Club’s weekend mysteries. I hoped she could shed some light on mine.
We sat drinking tea in the small, musty living room while I told my story. When I was done she took the sample warranty claims from me and examined them carefully.
“What did Ezekiel say about these?” she asked.
“He admitted he was stumped, just like me. Do you have any idea what they’re about?”
“No, but I know how to find out. You haven’t tried the most obvious thing yet.”
“Which is?”
“Call Mihara Electric and ask.”
Mary picked up the phone and called, using the phone number printed on the invoices. Their U.S. headquarters is in Carson, California, a suburb of L.A. When the receptionist found out that she was calling about information on a warranty claim, she gave her another number and informed her that all warranty claims from dealers were paid through a central warranty office.
From the area code of the phone number given to her, Mary and I concluded that the warranty processing center was in the San Fernando Valley. Los Angeles is such a large conglomeration of people that it has multiple area codes.
“Get on the kitchen extension,” Mary said as she dialed the warranty number. “You might find this interesting.”
“Is that legal for me to eavesdrop?” I asked.
“Who’s going to tell?” Mary said grinning. I figured she was right so I went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. The kitchen was modest and neat and like her living room it was also filled with souvenir knickknacks. It also had an exquisite Degas painting of a ballerina hanging over the breakfast nook, an ancient looking Chinese scroll painting of an orchid, and a Remington bronze being used as a paperweight to hold down recipes torn from various magazines. I realized with a numbing impact that this little bungalow in South Pasadena must be filled with literally millions of dollars in art.
When Mary got through, she asked for some help on a Mihara Electric warranty claim, and she was connected to a claims processing supervisor.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. My boss is out of town,” Mary said in an amazingly girlish voice. “He’s asked me to process a bunch of warranty claims for Mihara Electric products and I need some instructions on how to submit them to get payment.”
“What’s your dealer number?”
Mary read her the dealer number written on the claim form.
“Oh, that’s a subcontracting dealer number. That means you’re not one of our regular dealers.”
“Is that common?”
“Sure. A lot of our warranty work is being done by subcontractors these days. Dealers are mostly sales agents, and a lot of them don’t have comprehensive repair departments.”
“Could you give me some information on what I’m supposed to do with these claims?”
“Well, are the claims stickered?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there a small, white bar code sticker on the face of the claim?”
“Yes, all the claims have those kinds of stickers on them.”
“Good. That means they’ve been reviewed and preapproved by the warranty department. All you have to do is mail them in, and we’ll send you a check. Make sure that your business name and address is clearly noted on each invoice. We won’t have your name and address in our warranty file, and if we don’t have the address clearly indicated on the claim there might be some problem on getting your payment to you.”
“The claims I have are for quite a lot,” Mary said. “Do you think that will cause any problems?”
“How much are you talking about?”