In my dream I could hear the music and see the dancers rhythmically circling the bonfire, doing a dance where they dipped low and then put their arms up toward the sky. As they circled I could see one dancer who looked peculiar to me. It took a second, but I realized that the dancer was missing an arm.
As the circle of dancers made their way around the fire I could gradually see that the dancer with the missing arm was Matsuda. His face wasn’t horribly sliced like it was in the pictures I had seen. In fact, it was quite intact and passive and held no emotions. The dancing light from the bonfire played across it, illuminating everything but the eyes, which remained shrouded in a velvet blackness. The dancers around the ghostly figure of Matsuda were laughing and enjoying themselves, but the one-armed apparition showed no human feelings as it went through the mechanical motions of the dance.
The circle of dancers continued to move around the bonfire, and eventually Matsuda’s figure was on the opposite side of the circle, where it was obscured by the leaping flames of the bonfire. Matsuda’s dancing figure looked like a lost soul, caught in the flames of hell.
Suddenly in my dream someone was standing next to me, and I was relieved to turn and see it was Mrs. Kawashiri. Her usually sunny face looked quite serious, and she waved a finger at me like she was lecturing a child. “It’s not right, it’s just not right,” she said.
21
The next morning I woke to an empty bed. On Mariko’s pillow was a note that I picked up and read:
Ken-san,
Had to go to work. You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I made you breakfast. (How domestic! Fair warning-I have my sights set on you, and you know how persistent Japanese girls can be!)
Your breakfast is in the oven staying warm. I’ll talk to you after work-Pick me up! — We’ll celebrate you cracking the case. (We’ll go someplace-my treat!).
Love, M
I got up and found a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and sausage waiting for me in the oven of my tiny stove. Sitting at my table, spreading strawberry jam on my toast, I reflected that I was unemployed, over forty, and beaten up, but that I could be doing a lot worse in life.
I went over to the doughnut shop and bought a copy of the Times. There, buried in the Metro section, was a small story about the police arrests of Rita Newly and the two Yakuza. The article referred to the Yakuza and Rita as suspects in the murder of a Japanese businessman in Little Tokyo, as well as other crimes. The reference to the murder of Matsuda left a nagging thought in my mind that I turned over and over.
I’m not a good cook, but I do have a couple of dishes I like to make. On occasion I’ve made a dish and found that my meager kitchen was missing a spice or herb called for in the recipe. I’ve gone ahead and made the dish, but it didn’t taste quite right. Matsuda’s murder didn’t taste quite right.
The Yakuza were the prime candidates for the murderers. Evan Okada told me they liked to use swords, and Ezekiel told me the Yakuza could be very nasty characters. More importantly, I wouldn’t believe anything the Yakuza said so their denial about their involvement in Matsuda’s murder was worthless to me. Still, Matsuda was their man, and although he could have done something that would make them want to eliminate him, it still didn’t taste right.
Rita’s boyfriend George had a temper and Rita was as cold as they come, but although I could see either of them plugging someone with Rita’s little chrome pistol, I couldn’t see them hacking away at someone when pulling a trigger would do. That didn’t taste right, either.
Angela Sanchez was an enigma. I still didn’t know for sure if she was the woman I saw in Matsuda’s room. Her boyfriend (or whatever he was) was a nasty character in his own right, but I found it hard to believe the police could mistake wounds caused by a large knife with wounds caused by a sword. That didn’t taste quite right, either.
Feeling restless, I put on some shoes and decided to take a walk around Silver Lake. Silver Lake is one of the oldest reservoirs in Los Angeles and one of the few that remain open despite efforts by the Department of Water and Power to cover it. It covers seventy acres and there’s another small open reservoir called Ivanhoe directly adjacent to it that’s another ten acres. Los Angeles has about a tenth the open space that urban planners says is desirable, and in a city with so little open space, finding such a large expanse of open blue water right in the center of the city is both a treat and a solace. That’s the reason local residents and environmentalists fought hard to prevent the DWP from covering it.
If you live in Oregon or Canada or someplace like that, the things that city dwellers try to save must seem pathetic. When faced with the grandeur of the Columbia River Gorge, for instance, Silver Lake seems pretty puny. Despite its name, it’s not even a real lake. It’s a man-made reservoir with concrete sides. Yet most people have a need to cling to some kind of nature, and if carelessness and the march of civilization has wiped out the grand examples of nature around you, then you fight to preserve what is left. I grew up in Hawaii, where I was never too far from the ocean. Around me was lush tropic vegetation with flowering ginger, hibiscus, and spreading banyan trees. In Los Angeles the closest thing I can come to that is a hibiscus bush that grows in front of my apartment. You take what you can get.
My apartment is about a ten-minute walk from the water. Although the reservoirs are bounded by curving city streets, on a weekday morning the traffic is minimal, and it is good to walk around, looking at the blue water, the trees that surround the water’s edge, and the colorful houses perched on the hillsides that surround the reservoir. A fence surrounds the reservoir, but at places the road is within a few feet of the water. It’s always peaceful to make the walk around the lake.
Usually walking around the reservoir relaxes me, but today I was keyed up and agitated. The sun reflected in the rippling water of the reservoir was beautiful, making tiny silver-colored peaks. But my mind wasn’t on my surroundings. Perversely, I suppose being involved with violent death should make you more in tune with nature, but I was too preoccupied to enjoy myself.
After my walk I felt a little better. For all I knew, the police were removing a bloody sword from the apartment of one of the Yakuza while I was fretting over the taste of dishes. I decided to adopt some of the AA philosophy I’ve heard from Mariko and take things one day at a time, leaving things in the hands of a higher power. So I spent the rest of the day reading and resting, and tried to banish murders and mysteries and bad dreams from my mind.
When I swung by the Kawashiri Boutique to pick up Mariko that evening I was in a good mood and I had almost forgotten about Matsuda’s murder or my nightmares. Mariko took me to one of the small cafes in Little Tokyo, where we enjoyed a sukiyaki dinner.
Little Tokyo has changed a lot since I’ve lived in Los Angeles. It used to be a quaint haven for little shops and restaurants catering to local residents. Since the effects of urban renewal it’s a lot slicker, a lot more commercial, and a lot less fun.
Little Tokyo is close enough to the nest of large public buildings in downtown L.A. to be caught in urban renewal. The Otani Hotel, Japanese Village, the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel, and Weller Court Plaza are all tangible symbols of this renewal, but change is not obtained without a price.
When the Weller Court Plaza and the new Otani Hotel were constructed in the late 1970s, several buildings, including a building known as the Sun Building, were torn down. The Sun Building had housed many old first generation Japanese, the Issei, and it also served as a cultural center of sorts. It was a place where ikebana flower-arranging lessons, Japanese folk dance clubs, and Japanese Go game clubs could congregate to preserve the culture and to retain some scrap of community in a rapidly changing world.