“It’s me, Cap, Stevens. Everything’s in place for the installation.”

  “Good. Keep me abreast.”

  “Oh yes.”

  The pipe smoker cradled the handset and continued reading. Classical music played softly on his radio.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Anita Claire stepped out of her house and paused on the walkway. She adjusted an earring and continued on to her car, humming along the way. Inside the house Ingram was also up but wasn’t pressed for time like his girlfriend was. She had to be at the office early to help prepare for a town hall.

  Taking his time, he checked himself out in his boxers and athletic T. He was pleased by the improving profile reflected in the mirror. While his stomach wasn’t exactly that of a slim man—say like his TV workout buddy Jack LaLanne—it was not as pronounced as it had been two years ago. Once dressed, Ingram straightened up his area of the garage, turning on the police scanner. He also did several of LaLanne’s resistance exercises, like modified push-ups. He leaned against his desk, arms extended, going down, then up, to a count of twenty-five. His office workout also included some jumping jacks and regular push-ups. The melodic voice of the female dispatcher filled the room as he exercised.

  “. . . Caucasian American, male, six feet two inches, last seen . . .”

  “. . . negro American, male with kitchen knife and small dog on a bicycle . . .”

  “. . . Unit 12-A, see the woman at 1425 West Olympic Boulevard, suspected bunco . . .”

  While Ingram was tempted to grab a camera and dash out on more than one call, he’d decided he would keep on his primary task today. Well, he admitted, if it were a four-alarm fire or hostage situation, he might have responded. Done, Ingram turned off the scanner and, after washing a light coating of sweat off his face, drove off to the University of Southern California campus.

  Twelve minutes later a Starbrite Carpeting and Services Dodge panel van pulled to a stop at the house. Two workers in gray striped overalls got out of the vehicle, both of them carrying metal toolboxes. One went around to the backyard while the other waited on the porch, continuing to smoke the cigarette he’d already been puffing on. The front door was opened by the one who’d gone around back. The two exchanged a few words and the smoking one took a last drag on his cigarette before dropping it onto the porch and grounding it out with his foot. The man picked up the dead stub and flicked it into the flower bed. He went into the house and quietly closed the door on the two of them.

  AT THE Doheny Library on the USC campus, Ingram was directed to a recently acquired microfilm viewing machine. He was impressed—he was used to the microfiche-type viewers and had only seen one of these modern wonders in a magazine ad. To show him how to use it, the librarian loaded one of the compact film spools onto one side and threaded it through the center, which contained the magnifying glass and lights. She then connected the film strip to a matching empty spool on the other side. There were several gray-colored archive cardboard boxes of these film spools.

  “Thank you,” he said. She was somewhere in her sixties but was erect and svelte in a matching skirt and jacket. Her hair was pulled back, auburn colored streaked with white highlights.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Ingram.”

  He looked at her questioningly.

  “I recognize you from your picture in the newspaper.”

  He was still incredulous, as his picture had only been in the Black press.

  She seemed to read the thought on his face, because she continued, “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know about the political bent of this campus, but there is more going on here than what’s let on. During the riots quite a few students came in here and more than one lively discussion took place. A lot of what was said reflected their upbringings, but there were a good deal of other opinions too. There are some students here who volunteer teach in the area, so they view the community differently.” A reassuring smile creased her features. “You let me know if I can help you with anything else. Just ask for Claudia.”

  “I will.”

  “Be well.”

  She was about to leave and he said, “You’ve been here a while, haven’t you? At the university I mean.”

  “I have.”

  “Does an alumnus named Gavin Rickler ring a bell? He has a card club over in Gardena. He was something of a big man on campus not too many years ago.”

  Claudia looked off for a moment then back at him, patting his arm. “Try the second box down from the top.”

  Ingram did as she suggested. He slowly scanned through the issues of the USC Trojan Family Magazine. Claudia had told Ingram the microfilm viewer, along with staff time to convert the back issues of the magazine, had been covered by a generous donation. From what he understood, the microfilmed monthly issues covered 1950 to now. Early copies going back decades lived on as hard copies and on microfiche.

  In the February 1963 issue there was, as Claudia hinted, a brief bordered article on Rickler. USC had won the Rose Bowl that New Year’s Day and the piece talked about Rickler hosting a pre-game party two nights before, not at his club but at a venue on this side of town. The Emerald Room was mentioned as well. Rickler, a standout athlete in his college years it was stated, had interests in other enterprises in the downtown adjacent area to the campus. Ingram laughed quietly. “Downtown adjacent” was the university’s way of saying South Central where the institutions were located—albeit established when the land around here was untouched and on which horses pulling carts grazed. Concerned parents in the heartland paying for those hefty tuitions had to be reassured, after all. He wondered if letters had already gone out to prospective families assuring them the university had been safely guarded during the recent unpleasantness.

  A snapshot accompanying the article depicted several people along with a beaming Rickler sitting at a rectangular table laid out with food and drink. His hair was light colored and he showed big teeth. The angle was such that the photographer must have been standing on a chair, Ingram estimated. Betty Payton was among those pictured. She had a big smile on her face and even given she was captured in harsh lighting from the flash, Ingram gauged she must have already had two or three servings of wine.

  Time to see if he could get her to show all her hole cards.

  Passing by her desk, Ingram spotted Claudia talking to two female students.

  “Thanks again, Claudia.”

  “Looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “Same here.” Outside he asked one of the colored gardeners who seemed to be perpetually trimming the campus’s acres of greenery where he could find a pay phone. The photograph in the magazine on his mind, he made a call.

  Betty Payton told him over the phone she’d be in town today to attend a lunch of one of her organizations at the Bullock’s Wilshire Tea Room. At the upstairs entrance, the maître d’ at the podium raised an eyebrow at him when he came up, but otherwise the older white woman’s face remained pleasant.

  “How can I help you?” she said.

  He told her who he was here to see.

  “Yes, Betty said you’d be dropping by. This way, please.” As she moved, swishing sounds issued from her chiffon dress.

  She escorted him past tables of other white women, some in fancy hats, dressed well for their high teas. A few quickly looked up at him and then murmured to their lunch companions, and others averted their gaze. A bemused Ingram was led to table where Payton sipped from a water glass.

  “Mr. Ingram,” the maître d’ announced unnecessarily.

  “Thank you, Greta.”

  The older woman nodded slightly. “Anything for you, sir?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  She went away and Ingram sat opposite.

  “What’s your progress, Harry?”

  “I don’t know how else to ask this, Betty, so tell me—are you part of a theft ring it seems your boy Mose and Rickler were up to?”

  As she stared at him, a waiter arrived with a cart and made a production of pouring tea for Payton. He put the cup and saucer on the table. After he rolled his offerings away, she spoke. “I assumed the two were up to something like that, but I can assure you, I had no direct knowledge of what that was specifically.”

  “Was it Rickler who bailed out the business a few years ago?”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “All about what you paid me to do.”

  “Partly because of what people like Dorothy and Solly were going through, hounded by the FBI and all that and frankly his own drinking a result of the pressure he was under, Restoration by the mid-fifties was in bad shape. Mose owed money all over town. I offered to help him and I did.”

  “But that wasn’t enough?”

  “No. He not only needed someone to consolidate his debt but a signal to his less than legitimate creditors to get in line. A bank loan was out of the question.”

  “So how did he get to Rickler?”

  “Through Albert Domergue.”

  “Related to Arlene?”

  “Her older brother and something of a sharpie. I’m not sure about this, but my understanding was he was a silent partner in the Emerald Room. Apparently Domergue knew about Mose through one of the shady creditors. Mose told me that.”

  “And out of the goodness of his heart, he helped Mose out.”

  “Domergue and Gavin got a piece of the business. Like concrete, there’s always need for building supplies.” She sipped again. “And as you say, Mose and Gavin are up to, well, whatever it is they’re up to.”

  Moving stolen goods around town via an already established trucks line made sense to Ingram. “What happened to Albert?”

  “Died suddenly of a heart attack. After,” she emphasized, “installing his sister to oversee his investment.”

  “And you’re no stranger to the Emerald Room.”

  “True. It wasn’t like some of us close to Mose didn’t know about the arrangement. He’d invite us out there to the card club.”

  “Did Dorothy know?”

  “Not the details, no.”

  “Yet you don’t think Rickler brought harm to Mose?”

  “Wouldn’t that bring unwanted attention from the authorities?”

  “You would think so. So far my impression is the cops don’t seem to be asking around about him.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  “Yeah,” he drawled, weighing her words.

  They talked for a few minutes more and he thanked her for her time. On the way out a woman wearing a cocked hat with a veil regarded him. He winked at her and was gone. Betty Payton had come across as straight-forward in her answers. That she was in the dark about what may have sent Tolbert away or worse. He didn’t think she was bird-dogging for Rickler. No, she was about her own interests, Ingram was sure.

  LESS THAN two hours later, Ingram kept another appointment. He had been asked to take pictures of the body of Faraday Zinum being claimed by the independent medical examiner. The family’s lawyer Clyde Kennedy was also present. He would accompany the body to where it was to be autopsied. As the dead man hadn’t yet been embalmed to better preserve any type of evidence, the body had been kept in the Eternal Sands’ refrigeration unit to retard decomposition. Ingram took shots of Zinum as he was wheeled out of cooling and during the process of shrouding his body. The young man was carefully wrapped in three layers of cloth. There was a solemnity to how Faraday was being handled and Ingram sought to preserve that dignity in his pictures. Faraday was then loaded into the cargo area of a station wagon.

  “Okay, I’m off,” Kennedy said to Ingram and Nakano. At the lawyer’s suggestion, Nakano had filed a police report about the attempted arson of his business.

  “Really?” Ingram had joked, “like the fox is gonna find out who’s been eating those chickens. Fricasseeing them and whatnot.”

  Kennedy had replied, smiling, “Gotta have it on the record, is all.” The three didn’t believe the police would do any investigating of the incident.

  Now, Nakano and Ingram gave a quick wave as the lawyer drove off in his Avanti, the convertible top down, trailing behind the station wagon.

  “It’s not sundown yet, but I could use a drink,” Nakano said.

  “You buying?” Ingram said.

  “Sure as hell am.”

  They walked past several toadstool-shaped bonsai trees bordering part of the exterior. Back in his office, the funeral director opened a black lacquer cabinet with ornate images and Japanese lettering carved into its surface. He extracted a bottle of Crown Royal and two glasses and sat next to Ingram on the customer side, removing the whiskey from its distinctive purple with yellow piping drawstring cloth sack. He poured twin draughts a shade more than neat for both of them.

  “Kenpai,” Ingram said as they clinked glasses.

  “Kenpai,” Nakano said, returning the toast. He took a drink and leaned back, tension flowing from him visibly.

  Ingram also enjoyed a taste. “How’s Chris?” There were several framed photos in here of his eleven-year-old son, who lived in Hawaii with the boy’s mother. He gestured the glass toward the son’s beaming face in the shot taken on the beach two years ago.

  “Talked to him last Sunday.” Nakano swirled the contents of his glass about. “My plan is to get over there this winter. Apparently he’s taken up surfing and is getting to be quite good at it. A regular Duke Kahanamoku. Helen even sent me a film of him.” He adjusted the glasses bridging his nose. “I know I’m biased, but he looked impressive. ’Course I don’t know squat about the sport.”

  Ingram only knew who Kahanamoku was because Nakano had previously told him about the Hawaiian surfing champ. “You worried he’s gonna become big time on the waves and won’t be following in the family business?”

  Nakano was in the middle of a sip and choked a little, clearing his throat. “If I believed in the hereafter, I’d pray the boy runs far away from this,” he held up his index finger, circling it in the air, “as fast as he could.” He studied his friend. “The way things are going, you and Anita are probably going to have a youngin’ or two running around. You want your son doing what you do?”

  “I dig what you’re saying.” Ingram had more of his whiskey.

  “You know what gaman means in Japanese culture?”

  “Hmm,” Ingram mused, “to endure the unbearable with patience and dignity.”

  “Yep,” Nakano twanged. He set his glass on his desk. “The Buddhist says you can’t do anything about a shitty situation, so let it go, don’t let it eat you up. The wheel will turn eventually.”

  “You figure sometimes you need to put your hand on the wheel to turn it a little faster, Josh?”

  “Goddamn right you do.” Arms spread out from his body, he continued. “Look at this. How the hell I get here, huh?”

  “It had to be done,” Ingram pointed out. He knew why Nakano came to assume his current position. “You got responsibilities the rest of us ain’t got, man.”

  “Didn’t plan it that way. And I’m not so sure Strummer doesn’t have a kid or two hidden away.”

  Ingram allowed this might be the case.

  Nakano picked up his glass. “Duty and all that.” They each sipped their whiskey in silence. “Are we courting the ghosts of death? Didn’t we see enough of that in the goddamn wars?” The former Army radioman got quiet.

  “It’s occurred to me a time or two.” Despite knowing better, Ingram leaned over and poured another amount, less than before but enough to keep his buzz buzzing. He shook the bottle at Nakano, who held his glass out for another round. “But normally I don’t have to deal with the grieving. You do.”

  “I put on a good show,” Nakano said.

  “If anything, I’ve tried to make peace with myself, getting a grip on the idea that death is a part of life.”

  “One giving way to the next,” Nakano said, his voice barely audible, as if heard through the other side of a wall. He eyed his whiskey, which he held before him as if the liquid was truly an elixir from which knowledge could be obtained.

  Ingram said, “Talk about what is, is, it’s not like any of us is going to duck our turn when our time is up.”

  He glanced at a glass shelf to the left side of Nakano’s desk. On this rested five differently designed urns for human ashes. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have considered being cremated. A holdover from his childhood of infrequently attending church with his mother. Those old sisters stomping and turning and twisting about in the aisles. They’d be in the thrall of the Holy Ghost, speaking in tongues as if their brains were invisibly wired to Martian language records by Berlitz. He supposed he’d been keeping his options open to be among the risen dead when the Rapture happened. But as Josh said, how did you cling to the paradise of the Great Beyond once you’ve seen what men could do to each other not in the heat of battle, but cold and calculating, like booby trapping a dead soldier’s body so that when you went to get his dog tags, you were blown up?

  What about his commie girlfriend? Ingram wondered, having more of his drink. Her an atheist who just knew dead was dead, no afterlife and no coming back as a cricket to be the best cricket you could be. What a comfort to be so certain.

  “BROTHER REVEREND, you out of step,” a slender man in his twenties shouted at Martin Luther King from the audience.

  A woman in a fringed vest said, “Yeah, baby, this is about getting what’s ours, not waiting for your pal Lyndon Baines to throw us another bone.”

  Anita Claire took this in from her position in the Mount Olive Redeemer church’s all-purpose hall in the 10th District, which was Councilman Bradley’s. King was among several sitting behind a portable table set up in front of the seated. He wiped a hand over his tired and worn face. This was not the first time since he’d returned to town to address the aftermath of the tumult in Watts that he’d been scolded by the residents in the press or one of these townhalls.

  “My dear friends,” King responded, “please give me the courtesy of hearing what I have to say. Just as I extend it to you. The Civil Rights Act is hardly a symbolic gesture of emptiness.