Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1)

by Dale Furutani

  “How much did you say you wanted for that sword?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “Will you take a check?”

  16

  I play an ancient Japanese board game called Go. It uses round black and white stones to capture territory on a wooden board. Like chess, it requires a lot of study to get really good, and part of this study involves solving problems, usually printed in little books. Like chess problems, Go problems have a huge advantage over a real game. With a Go problem you always know there’s a solution. They present the problem to you just so you can figure out the solution. In a regular game, however, you’re presented with situations and you don’t know if there’s a solution for them or not. The problems presented by the L.A. Mystery Club were like chess or Go problems. You knew there was a solution and that all the pieces you needed to discover the solution were available to you. What I was facing now didn’t have a guaranteed solution.

  I felt frustrated. I was stuck. Well and truly stuck. Even asking myself the critical question (“What would Sam Spade do now?”) didn’t bring about a brainstorm.

  Of course, the sensible thing would be to step back and let the cops do their thing, but by now you know I’m not all that sensible. My own resources had sputtered out, so I decided to ask the help of people who might apply more resources and intellectual firepower to the problem. I thought of Ezekiel Stein and Mary Maloney. I figured that the L.A. Mystery Club had sort of gotten me involved in this mess and maybe they had some ideas that could get me out.

  I went to the office to check to make sure it wasn’t ransacked again. Then I made a couple of phone calls to set up meetings with Ezekiel and Mary.

  Ezekiel worked at the downtown DWP building. It was within walking distance of the office, but I knew that Ezekiel would validate my parking at the DWP parking lot, so like a typical Angeleno I drove.

  The DWP building is a hulking monolith surrounded, appropriately enough, by a watery moat. The story of Los Angeles is really the story of water. Local supplies of water will only support 300,000 to 400,000 people, so for Los Angeles to exist it must import water from hundreds of miles away. William Mulholland built the L.A. Aqueduct around the turn of the century, and despite the fact that the city is built essentially on a coastal desert, L.A.'s growth has been fueled by cheap and plentiful water. Remember the movie Chinatown? That was a fictionalized account of what cheap water did for L.A.

  In the last part of this century environmental and other interests have put a squeeze on L.A.'s profligate ways with water, but the city government and its water department still hasn’t faced the reality of what that means yet. To me, the moat of water around the building is an apt symbol of the isolation from reality the city suffers from.

  The Water Quality Division literally occupies the bowels of the building, stuck in the basement where there are no windows to let in the sunshine and light. I know I’m prone to finding symbols in things around me, but to me this was also apt. The people charged with preserving natural freshness and purity in the water were literally buried under the monolithic bureaucracy that reaches fourteen stories above them.

  Ezekiel’s office was tucked into a corner of the Water Quality Division. It was one of those semicubicles, with flimsy walls made of painted panels and glass. It was stuffed with papers, books, and blueprints. He waved me into the office and, without a word of greeting, waited for me to explain the situation.

  It took me a while to explain everything that had happened. For most of my explanation he sat silently, playing with a pencil. When I got to the part about Rita Newly and the two Asians in front of the office, however, he got animated.

  “What did they look like?”

  “Both Asians. One smaller than me, dressed in an expensive suit. The other one was twice my size, and dressed in a cheap suit. The big guy looked like a gorilla.”

  “Did they have all their fingers?” Ezekiel asked.

  “That’s a strange question.” I thought for a moment. “You know, the big guy was missing the tip of a little finger on one of his hands. How did you know?”

  “Yakuza,” Ezekiel said. “Genuine Japanese Mafia, down to the missing the tip of his little finger. I bet if you peeled the shirts off them you’d find that one or both were tattooed.”

  “I don’t think I want to know either one that intimately. You didn’t let me finish, but I talked to someone from the L.A. Times, and he told me that Matsuda was associated somehow with Yakuza front companies.”

  “That’s not a good sign. The Yakuza can be very, very dangerous.”

  “Don’t they operate more or less openly in Japanese society?” I asked. “I mean, I was told they’re involved in legitimate as well as illegal businesses.”

  “They do operate more or less openly. Some even have business cards identifying their gang and lapel pins with little logos. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be dangerous. That’s how your friend, the big guy, lost his finger. When a Yakuza does something to offend his boss, his oyabun, he must make amends for it. Perhaps he botched a deal or failed on an assignment. But the way to traditionally make amends is to amputate a finger. It’s called yubitsume.”

  “You know more Japanese than me,” I said.

  “Only crime words. I couldn’t order a meal or ask where the bathroom is. But crime stuff I know.”

  “I suppose they call a particularly inept Yakuza stubby.”

  Ezekiel gave a half-smile, but then shook his head. “It’s really not funny if you think about the discipline involved. They have to amputate their own finger. To show their sincerity to their boss, they’ll stick their own finger on a chopping block and take a cleaver to it.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Ugh, exactly,” Ezekiel answered. “If they’ll do that to themselves, you can imagine what they will do to others. These are not people you want to mess around with.”

  “What are they doing in Los Angeles?”

  “They’re all over the Pacific. They’re in Taiwan, Korea, Southeast Asia, and the Philippines. They’re very active in Hawaii and they’ve started showing up here on the West Coast.”

  “What do they deal in?”

  “Amphetamines, guns, prostitution . . . virtually anything they can make a buck at. Maybe it’s amphetamines. That’s the drug of choice in Japan and fairly easy to obtain in the U.S.”

  “The package I got for Rita Newly doesn’t contain amphetamines. It contains this.” I handed the sample warranty claims I had kept over to Ezekiel.

  He studied them carefully and finally returned them to me shaking his head. “I’m a walking encyclopedia on crime, but the meaning of these claims has me stumped. It could be some kind of Yakuza scam, and it also could be that Rita is a victim of the Yakuza. Regardless, these invoices prove that story she told you about the pictures isn’t true.”

  “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 befo
re, 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?”

  “Over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

  “That is a lot, but not too unusual. Usually that amount represents several month’s worth of work.”

  “That’s right,” Mary said. “From the two claims I have in front of me, the dates cover two different months, so that appears to be the situation.”

  “I wish your boss submitted them as they were done, instead of accumulating so many at one time. But it really doesn’t make much difference. We pay over two million dollars worth of claims per month. Just go ahead and send the claims in, and we’ll get them processed. Don’t forget to put your name and address on them. Like I said, as long as they’ve got their sticker on them, they’re as good as gold.”

  “Okay,” Mary said. “Thank you.”

  When I walked back into her living room, she waved the claim forms at me like a triumphant flag. “They’re as valuable as cashier checks. Just about anybody can type a name and address onto the claim forms and collect a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, just like clockwork.”

  “A hundred and twenty-three thousand and something,” I said.

  “Don’t be pedantic,” Mary said. “Why do you think it’s an odd number like that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she charges sales tax.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. So maybe she doesn’t charg
e sales tax. Maybe it’s an odd number so it doesn’t stick out on any reports,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean odd numbers sort of blend in on any audit reports. If it came out to be an even number, like a hundred and twenty thousand or a hundred and twenty-five thousand, it would probably seem like an unusual coincidence to anybody looking over audit reports or computer listings of all the claims being paid during a particular month. Still, that seems like a large amount.”

  “Evidently not. You heard them say they pay over two million dollars in claims each month. Besides, all the claims have a dealer number that’s evidently used by all subcontractors. It would be hard to trace that some new person has been receiving that amount of money.”

  “Why would someone want to do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get paid this way. Why not just give her cash?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can think of a couple of reasons. One is that by doing it this way, Mihara Electric Company is actually footing the bill, either knowingly or unknowingly. Those little white stickers on the claim forms are approvals by the warranty department. Those could easily be stolen, or maybe Mihara is tied up with the Yakuza in some way.

  “The second reason for receiving payment this way is that you’d be able to show some legal source for the money if you wanted to declare it on your income taxes. In fact, it also makes it a tax deduction for Mihara Electric, so Uncle Sam helps to partially foot the bill with this scheme.”

  “You mean someone who’s going to get involved in something shady would be scrupulous on taxes?” I asked.

  “You never know,” Mary answered. “Remember, that’s how they got Al Capone.”

  Mary gave me a lot to think about, both with the art stuffed in her bungalow and with the information about the warranty claims. I drove back to the office and opened the door to a persistently ringing phone. I thought it might be Michael Kosaka, because I gave him both my home and office numbers, and I dived for the phone.

  I picked it up and recognized Mariko’s voice.