Bad Night Is Falling (19 page)

Of those Chichimecas, barbarians, the last of the seven were the wandering mercenaries, the Aztecs. As the other tribes had each usurped the previous one's rule, the Aztecs came to Anáhuac. There they staked out territory on two islands in the middle of Lake Texcoco. In 1325, the warriors built the city of Tenochtitlán. They had been guided to the area by their deity, Huitzilopochtli, who had told them to settle where they should find an eagle standing on a nopal, a prickly pear cactus, gorging on a serpent. But this god was not their supreme being, Ometeuctli, the creator of some sixteen hundred other, lesser gods.

Monk's interest was centered on Tlaloc, the lord of fire. The Aztecs believed that the present-day sun was the fifth sun. Tlaloc, the legend goes, periodically brings about the eruption of massive volcanoes, which cause billions of cinders to fall from the sky, consuming the world in smoldering ash—a kind of no-options recycling plan. Now, ol' Tlaloc could be appeased if his suns were shown the proper respect.

The Aztecs believed that blood, the most important element of life, coupled with faith, is what sustains the fifth sun. Captives of war were routinely sacrificed so their blood and hearts could be offered up to Nanahuatl, the sun, so that he would rise each morning.

Running his fingers over a photograph of a stone carving in the book, Monk was sure he'd seen the likeness emblazoned on Maladrone's iron lung. He was positive it had been Tlaloc. Maybe Maladrone had the image painted there as a sign of strength, or maybe the Jaguar wanted to rain down some heat on a few select people. And maybe stop a few hearts from beating in the process.

He read for a while, then went downstairs to Cafe 77 on the first floor for lunch about half past twelve. Inside were a couple of studio types—the Sony/Columbia facility wasn't too far away on Washington—and several bluecollar workers. Mr. Gorzynski, a waitress who was a student at West L.A. College, and the cook were on duty. The wife didn't seem to be about.

Monk took up residence at the counter. Mr. Gorzynski—Gorzy—behind it, glared at him over the glasses shoved low on his nose. He ambled over, an assortment of breakfast receipts in his hand. “Lunch, huh?”

“Ah, yes,” Monk said, waiting for the pinch.

Gorzy shuffled the receipts like a gambler in search of a full house. Head down, he whispered, “How's your time?”

Monk was fantasizing about the catfish and fried rice he was going to have. “What?”

“Your time,” he repeated clearly.

“You think—” He paused as the waitress, Gina, walked past. “You think the old lady's tipping out on you, Gorzy?”

“No, she's not drinking on the job.”

Monk sighed. “I mean, do you think she's seeing someone else?”

Gorzy rubbed a cheek with the middle knuckles of a half-closed fist. “Were that it was merely love on the side.” Abruptly, he canted his head toward the cook, “Catfish and beef fried rice, double on the rice for Ivan.” He turned back, smiling. “I hope you don't mind me presupposing.”

“Not at all,” Monk allowed.

“I want to show you something in my office,” Gorzy said too loudly.

“Sure.”

The two went into the cramped office. No papers were carelessly thrown about nor was anything out of order. What made it crowded were the twin ancient schoolhouse desks, two Ivar chairs covered in red velour—one before each desk—and a large, free-standing lamp with a Tiffany shade. Gorzynski stood in what little open space his office afforded, the receipts bunching and unbunching in his long, malleable fingers.

Monk put his hands in his pockets, playing with some pennies and quarters in one of them. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gorzynski?” he asked quietly.

“It's not another man, I know.” He blurted out with finality.

“Then what's the problem,” Monk prodded.

“This.” He shoved the receipts toward Monk.

“Her addition?”

Gorzynski didn't say anything, but shook the slips of paper.

“You mean money?”

“Yes, worse than if she had a lover.” He lowered the receipts; his slim build slumped. “I think Mrs. Gorzynski is cooking the books, I think you detectives say.”

“You have evidence of this.” Monk was anxious to get this over with, worried that his food would soon be growing cold on the counter. “The wife does the accounting, right?”

“Correct. Food is my area, and the organization of things is her worry.” Gorzynski studied the receipts once more. “But I know something's been up for at least three months now. Short on the produce bill, short on payroll at least twice.”

“Maybe it's just business, Mr. Gorzynski. Sometimes it's up, sometimes it's down, you know?” Monk could taste the Louisiana hot sauce peppering his corn meal-breaded cat. The older fella must be imagining this situation. “That's not much in the way of proof, Mr. Gorzynski.”

He tapped his forehead with his index finger repeatedly. “I may be the food partner, but I keep enough in there to know when we have good weeks and when there are not-so-good ones. I know what I'm saying.”

Monk was already edging toward the door, the catfish calling him. “Let me have lunch, and then why don't you see if you can get me a look at the ledger later.”

Gorzynski huffed, “I can add. I can tell the money at the bottom isn't figuring out to the money I need to pay the bills.” He jammed three fingers of one hand into the bundle of receipts in the other. “There's a difference, small but the same over the days, see what I'm saying? I want you to find out what the hell she's doing with the money.”

Maybe the missus was getting even for what she rationalized was hers for years of unrecognized service. Maybe she was using the money to stuff the crotch of G-strings at some male strip joint. Whatever, it sounded like something he wanted no part of whatsoever. “We better get back out front.”

“A man can get another woman; he can't always get more money,” the other man theorized.

“I'll see about it, alright?” Monk was eager to succumb to the siren of food.

Mrs. Gorzynski had returned, and was busying herself with her own tasks. The newly arrived plate of fish and rice steamed on the plate as desire overtook him. The food's aroma made him light-headed.

The mister appeared momentarily, carrying a small crate of tomatoes. He took them into the kitchen, nodding at his wife as he walked past her.

Monk ate his tasty meal, chasing it with two glasses of tart, fresh lemonade. Sated like a bear after ravishing a stocked pond, he ascended the stairs back to his office. The book on the Aztecs could only hold his interest for another hour, and he felt restless. He'd called Wilkenson after returning from his meeting with Maladrone, but had got no answer. Trying him again this morning, he'd been on his way out. The old agitator had promised to call Monk later.

Until Wilkenson called back, it was just downtime. The judge was going to her folks' house tonight, so intellectual or physical stimulation would be nil. He glanced longingly at the inviting couch, considering a short nap to restore his investigative juices. But he would remain disciplined. And yet not all physical activity would be denied.

He'd make a run to the Tiger's Den in South Central. The emporium was a combination gym, sauna, and training ground to once and future Evander Holyfields and Oscar De La Hoyas. The Den was run by former welterweight and Korean War corporal Tiger Flowers. The place offered Monk not only a way to stay reasonably in shape, but a venue in which to partake of the uncanny insights of the raspy-voiced Aesop of West 48th Street.

And maybe, if he didn't anger the Tiger, the older man would tell him one more time a story or two about his adventures in the Army with Monk's late dad, Sergeant Josiah Monk. After that, swing over to Simply Wholesome on Slauson and chow down on a vegetarian burger or two. If he wasn't going to have the old lady home tonight, well, by God, no sense getting the Cro-Magnon part of his brain hopped up on red meat.

Cradling the library book, Monk went downstairs, hoping he'd be invisible to the suspicious Mr. Gorzynski.

Kodama kissed her mother on her slightly rouged cheek. After forty-some years, Uhiko Be Kodama still wore Arpaige like a high school girl ready for her junior prom. She applied only a tentative amount of the perfume, allowing only a suggestion rather than the fact of the fragrance's existence to be apparent.

“How are you, dear?” Her mother pulled back, her lined face looking up at her daughter's.

“Better,” Kodama said honestly.

“Good,” her mother said, tugging lightly on Kodama's elbow. “Come on in the kitchen with me while I finish the potato salad.”

“Where's Pop?”

“Golfing.”

“He changed his days,” the judge remarked, following her mother through the tidy, comfortable frame house on Dublin Avenue in Gardena. In the living room, off in the left corner was the Rosewood hand-carved etagere which had been in one corner or another, one abode or another, since before Kodama was born. It was a large, towering thing that was nearly as tall as her mother. Kodama had imagined as a child the stand held some cosmic secrets in its various nooks. Maybe it did. Even as an adult, she continued to have flashes in her dreams of one particular ornately painted wood box her mother or father would take from it and open to remove an unidentified object for some purpose yet to be revealed to her.

That box was still there, on the second shelf from the top. Inside it these days were a couple of hand-painted fans made of rice paper, and some wood blocks with Japanese characters carved into their soft wood.

Over the stand was a painting she'd given her folks on their thirtieth anniversary. It was a rendering of an Asian couple in a room imbued with late afternoon sunlight. The woman, dressed in a red polka dot '50s-era dress and darker red pumps, was standing. The man, clad in work pants and boots and an athletic shirt that contoured his lean muscles, sat on the edge of an unmade bed, fingering a set of pearls. Before them on a round heavy table was a model of a wooden guard tower.

Her mother began to slice the boiled eggs. “Yes,” she said with a sigh, “they changed their golf day because Shab Ozumo got sick last month.”

“Oh no,” Kodama replied, “I didn't know.” The Ozumos and the Kodamas had been interned together at Poston in Arizona during World War II. Shab and her father, Mark, had been track stars at L.A. High when they were teenagers. Their goal of college and expanding Shab's father's printing business was bitterly curtailed by the politics of race and opportunism. The distinctions between nisei and native born were no more a concern to the authorities than the intricacies of a Duke Ellington composition to the tone deaf.

At Poston, the Japanese and Japanese-Americans were composed of ultranationalists—some of whom had relatives in the expansionist
Genyosha
, the Dark Ocean Society in Japan—the pro-Americans, the civil libertarians, and the ambivalent. There were terse discussions in the bunkhouses at night, and even people getting jumped or an occasional knifing.

There were also efforts at maintaining aspects of the outside world too. They started a camp newspaper, the
Poston Chronicle
. Kodama's mother wrote articles on proper etiquette for the publication.

“Yes,” her mother went on, adding the chopped red onion bits to the firm, parboiled yellow-white chunks of potatoes and mayonnaise. “He had another stroke.”

Kodama asked, “Is he mobile at all?”

“Not much,” her mother said. She deftly poured two equal amounts of Johnnie Walker Black for them and continued talking as she handed her daughter a glass. “He can barely move his left arm and leg. His mind, thankfully, is still with him and he and Gisele talk—when he's not at his physical therapy sessions.”

Her mother began combining the potato salad. “Take the
ingen
out of the icebox, honey.”

Kodama got the bowl of string beans out of the refrigerator, nibbling on one. The pungent taste of the sesame paste and miso filled her mouth and nose. “But Dad and his partners changed the day,” Kodama repeated. Her father's consistency was something to set the Union of Atomic Scientists' doomsday clock by.

“He said it just happened that way, changing their golf day. But I think they did it to honor Shab.” She reached over, placing a piece of egg on her daughter's tongue.

“Leaving Wednesdays open for his return,” Kodama said appreciatively.

“And they say only the married ones are wise,” her mother teased. She halted her work and tried her scotch. “How's Ivan?”

Kodama clucked her tongue. “Knee-deep in black Muslims, Aztec gods, and gambling dens.”

“You know what I mean,” her mother retorted. She opened the oven door and removed the top of the roast pan to check on the meat. “You are our only child, Jill.” She fetched a long-handled wooden spoon and basted the beef as she spoke.

“It wasn't too long ago you two weren't exactly lighting candles to the ancestors about me going out with Señor Monk. Now you want little dark babies.”

“You ain't the first one to cross the street, honey.” Her mother straightened. “I can tell you some tales of proper nisei girls who came out of the camps to discover the forbidden taste in Bronzeville.” She cackled, half-turning and dipping her body back the way she did when she amused herself. Bronzeville was the name given to Little Tokyo during the war due to the forced excision of the Japanese and the continuing influx of Southern blacks into an area with available, inexpensive housing.

“Bars all along First Street were filled with returning black soldiers feeling like they'd won something for themselves. My folks pooled their ration books with others so our temple could buy food at the Chinese market. Looking for work, but none for the slant-eyes except domestic and gardening.” Her mother went back to preparing the salad.