City of Dragons (12 page)

“Yes, Miss Corbie. The police explained who you are. We appreciate that you tried to find help for our son.”

The old lady in the kimono was following Miranda like a watchdog. Miranda looked first at Mrs. Takahashi, then the old lady, flicked a glance at the husband. He was staring ahead, at nothing. Or maybe he saw something no one else did.

“I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to help bring your son some justice.”

The old lady suddenly let loose a volume of Japanese. Mrs. Takahashi replied sharply until her husband rasped out a monosyllable. So he could hear, or at least speak. All three turned back to face Miranda.

Eddie’s mother spoke slowly. “You understand we cannot pay you. We did not ask you to search—”

“Of course. There’s no question of payment. This is
pro bono
—free—for the sake of your son.”

Mrs. Takahashi stopped clutching her hands so tightly. The old kimono lady knew what free meant but didn’t quite believe it.

“But—but why, Miss Corbie? You didn’t know him.”

“I don’t know, to be honest. It doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter to you. The point is to find out who killed Eddie. And I don’t need your money, but I do need your help.”

Another stream of Japanese. The father didn’t say anything this time. The two women seemed to be disagreeing. Eddie’s mother finally uttered one sharp syllable, and the old lady backed down.

Mrs. Takahashi offered a hesitant smile, smoothing her dress with her hands. “I’m sorry, Miss Corbie. My husband’s sister doesn’t speak English as well as she understands it. Would you like to come into the kitchen, please? It will be more comfortable for all of us to sit.”

Miranda nodded. Out of the coffin and into the mortuary.

They formed a procession, with Mrs. Takahashi bowing to Miranda, holding the kitchen door open and gesturing toward a large, dark table, again ornate. Like the hall tree, it didn’t belong at Wilmot Street.

Miranda bowed her head in return, and sat down in the middle seat, taking off her gloves. It took a few minutes for the wife to usher in Mr. Takahashi and place him at the head of the table. His shrunken shoulders looked like a child’s against the high, carved mahogany chair back.

Mrs. Takahashi rapped out a few more sharp commands to her sister-in-law, and the old lady, glaring, got up and put a kettle on the stove. There was probably tension in the family before Eddie’s death, exacerbated by the husband’s isolation. The infirmities of age walled him in his own world, increasingly limited, increasingly distant. The women battled each other for control, even if both were careful to walk three steps behind him.

Eddie’s mother gave Miranda another pained smile. “Please. You are our guest. Do you like Japanese tea? Have you tasted
matcha
?”

“Yes, Mrs. Takahashi. Thank you. I attended a tea ceremony at the Fair last year.”

The woman raised her eyebrows and looked pleased. “Good, good. I’m sorry this will not be a formal ceremony. If my Emi were here …”

The staccato word sounded like a bark. Even the old man pivoted to look at his sister, whose face was flushed and angry.

“That would be Eddie’s sister?”

Mrs. Takahashi’s glasses glinted, as she bent her head down, trying to hide her embarrassment or anger. The kimono lady threw her another withering look.

“Yes, Miss Corbie. Her Japanese name is Emi. She likes to be called Emily, just as Michi preferred Edward.” Behind the glasses, her eyes found a corner of the room. Miranda decided not to press her. Not yet.

She leaned forward. “Mrs. Takahashi, was Eddie in trouble?”

The whistle of the teapot made everyone except the old man jump. He seemed to be asleep in his chair, the mention of his son’s name not even provoking a flicker. The sister-in-law rose, grudgingly, and stumped over to make the tea.

Mrs. Takahashi’s voice trembled. “My Michi was a good boy, Miss Corbie.”

Silence, except for the sister-in-law whisking and stirring the powdered tea. Miranda pressed her hands against the table.

“But not all of his friends. Did he ever mention a Filipino Charlie? Or a Ming or Mike Chen, a Chinese herbalist?”

The liquid burned, and her arm flew backward, almost hitting the old woman who sloshed it on her arm—probably on purpose. Eddie’s mother was lost in memory, not noticing anything except the past. Miranda brushed off the tea, gripping the traditional bowl with both hands, while the sister-in-law glared at her and retook her seat. She wouldn’t give the old bitch the satisfaction of wincing.

“He was a good boy. He was confirmed at St. Francis Xavier—I am a Catholic, my husband is a Buddhist. And he almost finished high school. He liked music, liked the bands. I—I urged him to join the Japanese Marching Band, but by then … it was too late.”

She shook her head and seemed to make a decision, the fear and sadness dissipating like so much incense smoke. Anger replaced them, anger that made her hands shake the tea she wasn’t drinking.

She met Miranda’s eyes. “You know what killed my son, Miss Corbie? Chinatown.” Spittle landed in flecks on the table, on her hands around the bowl.

“Chinatown killed Michi, Chinatown and all the gangs and the crime and the boys who wander the street. He met them there, his friends, Filipinos and Chinese. No time for his heritage, no time for his parents, just swing music and nightclubs and girls and money, always money. This is what Chinatown taught him.”

Miranda sipped her tea, waiting. The old lady in the kimono, for once, was nodding her head in agreement.

“We all drift to Chinatown. Too difficult to find a place to live here, among our own people, unless you have money or family already in San Francisco. Those of us who came after 1913 cannot own property. I was lucky—my husband was here long before. He owned a tailor shop—and married late. I was very young, a picture bride from Matsue. No children at first. Then the babies come. So where do we go? Chinatown. They send us to Chinatown, with the Chinese, thinking we’re all the same.”

Mrs. Takahashi stared at the wall, her tea still untouched. Miranda spoke gently. “It must have been very difficult. Especially after—especially a couple of years ago.”

Tears welled, her shrill voice cutting through the quiet darkness of the kitchen. “Do you know they spat on my Michi? Spat on him! He protected his sister, thank God, protected her from everything. And still, he was friends with Chinese, Filipinos, riffraff. Emi learned some of the language in school, but I won’t let her speak it here. I don’t say I agree with war, Miss Corbie—I’m an
Issei
, yes, but an American first. But the Chinese are mongrels. And the Filipinos are just as bad or worse.”

Miranda’s sharp intake of air shut Mrs. Takahashi off. She busied herself with the tea, bright red. The old lady in the kimono was still nodding her head and smiling for the first time.

“Of course, I don’t expect you to understand.” The tone was plaintive now, the resentful undertow still dangerous. “You’re white. And you’re not married, don’t have children. Maybe you think the Chinese have a right to their parties and their parades and the filthy lies they print in their newspapers.”

The sister-in-law got up to make more tea. Miranda tried to put the sympathy back in her voice, thinking of Eddie. And this woman who looked at her with Eddie’s eyes.

“I’m not here to discuss the political situation, Mrs. Takahashi. I’m only interested in solving the murder of your son. Maybe your daughter would know if he mentioned these men?”

The father woke from his reverie with enough energy to raise his eyebrows. He asked his sister something. She looked at Eddie’s mother. Mrs. Takahashi looked elsewhere.

“Emi is a delicate girl, Miss Corbie, and was close to her brother. She is too upset to speak with anyone right now.”

“Perhaps another time, then?”

The women ignored the question by pouring for the old man. An invitation to leave. Miranda stood up and put her gloves back on.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Mrs. Takahashi’s glasses caught the glare from the overhead lamp, and she rose, her frumpy dress wrinkled again.

“Thank you, Miss Corbie. Please do. I’m sure it’s as the police suggested. If you’re looking for Eddie’s murderer, look no farther than Chinatown.”

Miranda bowed her head and left the room. A cacophony of angry Japanese erupted from the kitchen when she shut the rooming house door.

Fog from the ocean was crawling over the Geary hill, wrapping around the few headstones remaining in the Richmond cemeteries. The dead were moving to Colma, unable to afford the rent in San Francisco. Miranda lit a Chesterfield and headed for Stockton.

Her wristwatch said eleven-thirty. An hour and a half to get to the Owl lunch counter and a meeting with Mrs. Winters, who was a paying customer and presumably expected her to be on time. The ones who paid always did.

She looked up and down the wide street. A White Front was in the distance. She could stand at the corner and arrive at the appointment early. Or she could take a stroll around Little Osaka, and try to learn more about the Takahashis. At least the younger generation. She’d had her fill of the older one.

The metal taps on the bottom of the navy pumps made a pleasant clink against the pavement. She crossed to the east side of Sutter, turning north, where a strip of businesses lined up, hands out.

First an art repair store and a dental office. Then a small, dirty storefront lined with spools of faded thread, the closed sign handwritten in English and Japanese characters. Takahashi Tailors.

She peered through the window, pretending to check their hours. None were posted. The place was shut and dry, the low wooden counter cleaned off.

Next door was Matsumara’s shoe repair shop. She hoped Matsumara was a nosy neighbor. She crushed out the cigarette on the sidewalk, and walked in.

The wooden door jingled, and a cheery man about forty-five emerged from behind a dark curtain to smile at her. His counter was lined with shoes from baby size to Gary Cooper, all neat and shiny like children on a Sunday school picnic.

“Good morning, Miss. May I help you?”

She smiled back. “Do you sell shoes as well as repair them? I’m looking for a pair of brown pumps.”

Matsumara’s counter was as smooth as the leather on the footwear, cleaned and buffed with the long exchange of money. He angled his head to one side, his grin in place.

“What size? Seven?”

“Seven B, thank you.”

“Be right back, Miss, don’t go away.”

By this time another customer rang the bell. A girl about eighteen, long, glossy hair upswept in one of the feathered hats from last season. She smiled nervously at Miranda, holding a pair of black shoes that looked too matronly for her.

Matsumara bustled out from the back, where Miranda caught a glimpse of another wooden counter, this one scarred, and covered in tools and leather. He was holding a pair of black and tan spectators, a small sunburst of contrasting leather highlighting the toe.

“These might be a little narrow … we don’t get many sevens, mostly fives and some sixes. You can try them on, Miss, if you’d like. Oh, hello, Rose, how’s your mother?”

Miranda moved toward one end of the counter, and the girl stepped forward shyly.

“She’s fine, Mr. Matsumara. The leather on the straps is wearing out, and she’d like to see how much it will cost to fix.”

Miranda slid out of her left shoe. The shoes were too small. Mr. Matsumara tilted his head to one side again, making a
tsk-tsk
noise.

“I’ve saved your mother enough money to buy a fur coat over the years. Tell her I said so, and tell her she knows it.”

Rose held her hand to her mouth and giggled. “You’re funny, Mr. Matsumara.”

He sighed dramatically. “That’s what they call me. The Japanese Georgie Jessel.”

Miranda slid back into her navy pumps with gratitude, holding up the black and tan sunbursts. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”

“Oh, not at all, Miss, please, how do you like the shoes?”

She placed them on the counter. “Very much, but they’re a little tight. Any way you can stretch them for me?”

Matsumara picked up both pumps, looking them over carefully and feeling the leather. “I think so. You’d have to come back in a week, and I’d have to charge you a little more.”

Miranda smiled at Rose and winked. “How much is a little?”

The shoemaker threw his hands in the air. “You see, Rose, what your mother does to my reputation? A lady not from the neighborhood walks in, and she thinks I’m going to overcharge.”

Miranda laughed, shaking her head. “In my neighborhood I’m missing out. You don’t get a vaudeville routine with the shoe repair.”

“You from the city, Miss?”

“Yes. Downtown, near the theater district.”

Rose’s eyes glowed when Miranda mentioned the theater. “You must get to go to all of the new shows. I saw Benny Goodman at the Fair last year. Artie Shaw is my favorite. He’s dreamy.”

Miranda smiled. “I’m not able to go as much as I’d like. Quite a few good bands play in the city. I heard one the other night, at the Rice Bowl Party.”

She dropped it on the counter, waiting for the thud. But the only reaction from Rose was disappointment. Matsumara’s mouth turned down like a sad clown.

“I wanted to go—I was supposed to, with a friend of mine. But she couldn’t.” Rose lowered her voice. “Death in the family.”

The shoemaker shook his head. “Poor Eddie. Poor Emi. My neighbor, Miss, the tailor next door. You may’ve read about it in the papers. Their son was killed during the Party on Saturday.”

Miranda made a sympathetic noise. “I do remember reading about that—terrible tragedy. And that hit and run, too—I don’t know what the city is coming to. Have the Takahashis lived here long?”

“Oh, no. Only the last couple of years. They used to live near Chinatown, but Hiro moved his family into his brother’s house after he died. Lives there with his sister-in-law and his own family. But he’s owned the tailors shop for, let’s see—at least thirty years. He was able to buy before the law changed.”

She turned to Rose. “And you know the sister? How is she? Such a terrible blow, to lose a brother.”