Bad Night Is Falling (20 page)

Kodama's mother could go on about incidents of cross-pollination during that mercurial time after the emperor's surrender. But she had to be tight to do so. And it had to be after her father had gone to bed or wasn't around. “Is that right,” she wheedled.

“Don't be such a lawyer. Set the table, will you?”

“Okay.” She got the plates out of the cupboard. Sure enough, her mother had one more quick bite of the whiskey, then poured the rest down the drain. There had been a time when she'd goad her mother for taking steps into the modern world, yet always allow herself to be shackled by hidebound tradition. But experience had taught her that sometimes the crane is stronger than the bear because the crane, to survive, can't blunder around like its animal brother. Because this gentle bird must observe, it is this creature that becomes the one who understands the vagaries of the river, and the season of the fish. Unlike the bear, it does not merely stand at the banks and dip its snout into the water, blindly hoping for a catch. The crane watches for the right time to strike.

The dining room was decorated with hanging cloth embroidered with ideograms proclaiming harmony and understanding. Intermixed among the hangings were several photographs. There was one of Jill Kodama and California Supreme Court Justice Ming Chin at a charity dinner. Another framed shot was of Mark Kodama at his thirty-year retirement dinner from MacDonnell Douglas, another one with his golfing buddies, and finally a shot of a hoop-skirted young Uhiko. She had her arms spread around the slender shoulders of her stern father and reserved mother. It was evident the elders did not know what to make of their Americanized daughter.

A car door closed, pulling Kodama out of her plunge into her teenaged mother's eyes captured in the photo. “Dad,” she said, as he entered.

“Hey, Jill.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek after first setting his clubs and bag in the closet. “Good to see you.”

“Sorry to hear about Shab, Dad.” Involuntarily, she noted his reaction.

“Yes,” he said, drawing in breath. “Just let me wash up, okay?” He walked off to the bathroom.

Downright effusive for Pop, Kodama sarcastically noted to herself. She headed back toward the kitchen, passing the
obutsodan
, the shrine to Buddha, on the wall unit. There were fresh flowers in a small vase, and Kodama hovered over the golden figurine on her way to the kitchen. The regulation of her youth always took over when she visited her mother and father. She was not quite a follower, but not quite a heretic either.

The dinner of smothered short ribs, a deep-fried stuffed eggplant called
nasu hasami-age
, the string beans, and the potato salad graced with pepper vinegar, were delicious. Her mother's forte with food had always been the casual way she blended Japanese and American cuisine. The recipe for the salad had originated with Monk's mother, Nona.

Their conversation included her mother reminding Kodama to research cases supporting her position in her upcoming appearance on a radio talk show debating Jamboni. Her father nodded appropriately at this advice as he worked on another helping of salad. Other topics revolved around Kodama's dad stating he was finally going to build the sun room addition her mother had wanted for three years now, and her mother wondering aloud what kind of activity she might get Gisele involved in.

Dessert was
manju
, sweet bean pastries rolled in sticky rice. They were fresh from Fugetsu-Do, a shop that had managed to hold on for more than ninety-four years in Little Tokyo. Kodama poured a few grams of Johnnie Walker for her mother and herself. Mark Kodama was a strict two beers on Friday night man.

“We might take our vacation to the Grand Canyon this year,” Uhiko Kodama said, relishing her tiny amount of whiskey.

“You guys haven't been there since—”

“You were twelve,” her father finished, plopping a rice ball into his mouth. “But it's not like it's changed in all that time, right?”

“Want to see if your memories match reality, Dad?”

“Going to camp out, drink sake, and write some poems,” her mother furnished.

The skin at the edges of Mark Kodama's eyes crinkled slightly as he ate another piece of manju. “I'm going for the water.”

Later, they sat around the living room, talking about the African-American and nisei neighbors they used to have when they lived on Field Avenue on the outer edges of the Crenshaw District, Saturday matinees at the Kabuki on the Boulevard, and the barbecue her dad would drive down to get in Compton at least once a month.

“Nobody could smoke chicken like Will Sunday,” her father lamented. He sat in his BarcaLounger, reclining, his slippers on.

Kodama snorted. “I remember you taking me down there when I was eight or so. Standing at the front counter with you, I would look around the corner through the open doorway. I could see Mr. Sunday, tall and gaunt with forearms like Popeye's. He was in his bloodstained apron, his gristly hand flipping a chicken onto the cutting board like he was dealing cards.”

“One clean movement.” Her father chuckled, making a flitting, almost ephemeral movement with his hand.

“The experience didn't turn you into a vegetarian,” her mother piped in. “You know his wife was Japanese,” she said with mirth in her voice. “Japanese used to go to Compton High in pretty big numbers before the war. The southern end of Watts used to be farmland; Compton had cattle herds and dairies up through the thirties.”

“She couldn't wait for the ‘special chicken,' she used to call it,” her father kidded.

It got on to twenty past eleven, gaps and lags increasing in their conversation. The silence was not due to a lack of things to say, but reflected the pattern of those attuned to each other's moods.

“Well,” her mother said, raising her slim frame off the divan. “I'm all played out for tonight.” She stood near her daughter, massaging her lower back with one hand. “Don't forget you're speaking before our homeowners' association in two weeks.”

“I shall be the upright and uptight jurist before the members Satozo.” She bowed slightly.

“Hmm,” her mother remarked doubtfully. “Good night, honey.”

Kodama also rose and kissed and hugged her mother. “I guess I better get on my way, too.”

“Will Ivan be up?”

“If I didn't know better, Mom, I'd say you were trying to slip past a double entendre.”

“Oh?” her mother feigned, patting her father on the head on her way to the bedroom.

“Modern women,” Mark Kodama mumbled, righting himself in his recliner. He got up, too, stretching and making noise.

Kodama eased into her leather jacket, purposely looking at the ancestors' shrine. Her mother had lit new incense earlier; its silky smell was comforting and honey-sweet.

She kissed her father on the cheek and squeezed his shoulder. “See you soon, Pop.”

Mark Kodama used a finger to probe the briar of his seldom lit pipe. He kept the thing in the side pocket of his chair, and he'd clamped it between his lips like a businessman's pacifier.

“I want you to know how I think the world of you, Jill.”

She just stood there, unused to her father being so emotive.

“You stand up to these bastards,” he said. He kept messing with the pipe, alternately glancing up at her then at his probing digit. “Everybody says Asians are supposed to just take it, be stoic and roll with like it was in our genes.” He glanced up again, seemingly focused on a speck in another galaxy. “But you stand on it—don't let them make another Ito out of you. You've always had your own mind, and that hasn't been so bad, has it?” He smiled, tugging on the pipe's stem.

“I love you, Pop.”

Mark Kodama put an arm around his daughter, giving her an affectionate squeeze. “I'll see you at the homeowners meeting.” He watched her get in her car and turn the engine over before walking, ponderously, back to the house.

As the Saab slowly drove off, she turned her head to see, in sharp silhouette from the light in the open doorway, her old man half-turned, his open palm up and stationary. The smoke, like levitating silver threads, filtered out and up from his pipe.

Fífteen

“T
he alignment is connected with the various eras this world has been through. As the planets in their centuries of phases have passed through our cosmos, so too has the sojourn of the black man, the travails of the black woman, been part of that panorama. There are 365 days of the year, and there have been 365 years of oppression and subjugation of our people.”

“But do not despair, my brethren, for just as the shadow must fall across the sundial's face, so too must our time to shine be upon us. But as we embark these young souls to God's hands, so too we must measure how we're living our lives in the eyes of Allah.”

“For this sickness we perpetuate on one another, this disease we infect one another with via injections of mercury-tipped bullets, must stop. And I'm not just talking about black on black, but black on brown and brown on black. Why? Why, when our real climb is a hill constructed from those who practice tricknology daily in our communities.”

“Don't you see? We must stop placing stones beneath the heads of our brothers and sisters, our
raza
and our
rukas
. No amount of blood can wash away the debt owed to the past. All about us Malcolm and Du Bois Wells-Barnett and Mandela Nkhruma, Zapata and Martí, Chavez and King, Hamer and Nasser and Mother Jones—yes, I said Mother Jones—are watching and waiting. They're asking how long will you waste your strength on recriminations and retributions. How long will you foolishly fight for chunks of sidewalks that don't belong to you, streets with no deed in your name on them? How long, my brethren? How long must this spiral of destruction go on?”

“These are horrendous days we face; time is no longer a luxury we can afford to twiddle our thumbs over. Open up your eyes, and see where this crooked road will take you. I'll tell you where it will take you; here, in this fine polished box of pine and metal. If that's what you want, the taste of ash and disappointment in your mouth, then you're welcome to it. I turn my back on you.”

“Yes, if you wish to sup from the cup of righteousness and redemption, then I shall hold such a chalice for you. We will make sure all who wish to drink get to drink. For it is filled with the tears of the mothers who've wept for the senseless slaughter of the ones like Antoine Felix and Dubro Morris in these coffins before us.”

“But the cup shall hold no bitter taste. For just as the caterpillar sheds its cocoon and becomes the butterfly, a creature of self-worth and peace, thus so can we, my brethren. So can we, my sisters. Stop putting on those … those hoochie mama outfits, your butt hanging out all over the place for men named Bergman and Moscowitz to put in videos to sell filthy music. Rap songs that talk about making a joy out of murder and how many women one supposed man can bed down. No responsibility, no self-respect. That is no way to live. Come forward, my fine African warriors, drape robes over those thong bikinis, cloth all up the crack of your butt, and reclaim your proud heritage, my good African queens.”

Minister Tariq continued his speech that was part eulogy, part admonishment, and part challenge to the gathered at the funeral. Dual semicircles of his devout, and martial arts trained, bodyguards stood at thirty-degree angles to either side of him. The men looked properly intimidating with their blue and black wool suits, close-cropped hair, and thick necks.

Mari Sicorro tapped Monk with the program. “So which one was this Junior Blue?” she whispered.

They were standing off to the side in the last rows of the assembled crowd. The sun was beaming, the Muslim leader's speechifying meandering, and Monk's Nunn Bushes felt tight. He remembered his foot falling asleep the other day, and was momentarily terrified he might have phlebitis or some other ailment that would necessitate the amputation of his feet. “How in the hell should I know,” he crabbed.

“Well,” she said, making a face and fanning herself with the program.

“You know anything about circulation and feet?”

“No wonder you don't know which one it is. You can't keep your mind on business.”

“He-yuk.”

A mourner turned to shush Monk. But other eyes had already been on him. Including the steel-piercing bore he received from Antar Absalla when he'd spotted his former employee.

“We can leave any time now, Mari.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” she said while continuing to make notes on her pad. “I've got a story going, buzzhead.”

Monk mumbled something and focused on his shoes, looking for swelling. Custom Caprices trimmed in metal flake golds, drop-ended Impalas with Cyclone rims, chopped Blazers with eight-foot speakers dug into their rear compartments, and tricked-out El D's dipped in twelve coats of lacquer choked the narrow lanes running through the Masonic Moor Memorial Park. Adding to the mix were their owners dressed in black shirts or turtlenecks, slacks, and tennis shoes. Almost none of the Scalp Hunter crowd wore a jacket. Conversely, the Ra-Falcons and Muslims were formal in attire and manner.