Grave on Grand Avenue (17 page)

The weather has been beautiful, so even after I get home, I keep riding up Figueroa to York and then east through South Pasadena. South Pasadena reminds me of a real-life Stars Hollow from the TV show
Gilmore Girls
. There are trees everywhere, old ones with leaves the size of outstretched hands. It’s a place where at Halloween people put pumpkins and scarecrows out on their front porches, where they have Fourth of July parades with old cars, and a weekly farmers’ market near the library. No wonder Mom wants me to live here.

When I reach Old Pasadena, I slow down. There are a lot more pedestrians here. All ages, but mostly soccer moms wearing outfits taken from their daughters’ closets, or young people about my age. Old Pasadena is so cool, with its preserved and rehabbed old vintage buildings. There are intricate, unique moldings near the roofs of structures—better than a mall from the seventies. Unfortunately, most of the businesses are still the same ones you’ll find in any mall.
So much for uniqueness. At least you can shop while feeling the warmth of direct sunshine instead of interior fluorescent lights.

I lock my bike on a rack next to a two-story building. Adjacent to it is a nine-level structure that most passersby wouldn’t think twice about. But some real estate people are banking that this corner of Old Pasadena will become the heart of Silicon Eastside. One of my PPW classmates, Supachai Sperber, has a corner office on the top floor. Supachai is already a millionaire—actually, a billionaire. Supachai was raised in Bangkok, with a Thai mother and Jewish American father. He went to a boarding school in San Marino (I hadn’t even known until then that we had boarding schools in LA!) before enrolling in PPW when he was sixteen years old. He graduated in three years, same time as me, but even younger; he was only nineteen. He didn’t waste any time before launching his own company, SupaSper, Inc., which specializes in computer facial recognition. He got his billion (mostly in stock options, but still) from selling it to some social media site.

Supachai, ironically, is now all about Internet privacy and preventing companies from following our Internet surfing. He feels guilty about contributing to mass surveillance, and now spends most of his time trying to help regular people, especially millennials like us, hide our digital footprints. So those ill-advised photographs with plastic red cups—gone. Racy videos with your ex—gone. Information about your shoe purchases—gone. Supachai tells me if I don’t want to be trailed by businesses, I should turn off my smartphone when I’m not using it. I forget to, but then, I don’t have a ton of apps anyway.

He calls his new company “SupaSpies” and even has “Supachai Sperber, Head Secret Agent,” on his glass door. (I guess if you have a billion dollars, you can call yourself anything you want.) I know Supachai is a night owl, so I’d banked on still finding him at his office after six o’clock at night. The workday has probably just begun for this head secret agent.

“Ellie Rush, it’s been ages!” The door opens automatically when I arrive, thanks to Supachai’s robot secretary. Supachai already knows it’s me from the security camera mounted at the top of his doorway. “What’s it been, five months? Not since my New Year’s Eve party?”

Supachai is famous for his rooftop party on December 31. The biggest challenge is getting to it, since the streets are closed to vehicles and clogged with Rose Parade campers. Nay convinced me to go with her this year. I’d planned to hole up at home and feel sorry for myself—I’d just split with Benjamin.

Supachai’s office is an incubator of creative ideas (and perhaps bacteria, the latter from the half-empty cups and take-out containers on the edges of tables). He’s hung a bunch of found objects—a single tennis shoe, a rusty hamster cage, a child’s drawing—from his ceiling. In one corner are wads of chewed gum à la Cal Poly San Luis Obispo’s Bubblegum Alley, where students created 3-D gum graffiti on the walls of a narrow walkway. He’s also taped about a hundred fortune cookie messages together lengthwise to serve as a decorative garland.

“You seem busy,” I say.

He shrugs. “What do you need?”

“Can’t I just be making a social call?”

“You’re not that type of girl, Ellie.”

“What, I’m not social?”

“You’re not the type to visit someone without a reason.”

That makes me sound like an opportunist. I frown.

“No, I like that about you,” Supachai insists. “You’re a purpose-driven person. And we need a lot more of you types out in the world.”

Whatever. I hate it when Supachai gets philosophical. It makes him sound like a total jerk.

“I need to find out what someone has been doing for the past several decades,” I tell him. “And where he might be now.”

“You know I don’t do that stuff anymore.” I stay quiet and Supachai sighs. “Okay, who?”

I give him the name. I spell out the first name for him. “P-A-S-C-O-A-L. He’s also known as Puddy. And it’s Fernandes with an ‘S.’”

“Pascoal Fernandes,” he says as he types on my laptop. “Only about fifteen thousand hits on Google. Pretty common name in Portugal and all over the U.S.”

“Well, he’s in his seventies. And from San Diego.”

“That’s a start.”

“He has a record. Was arrested for bank robbery in North Hollywood in 1964.”

“Now you’re talking.” Supachai is typing all this in. “You got a photo?”

“I don’t. But I might be able to get one.”

“No worries. This may be enough.”

“I need to find out what’s he’s been doing for the past fifty years. I mean, he claims that he’s been on a boat.”

“Military?”

“Container shipping.”

“Ooh. That’s a tough one. Those guys are like hobos, you know, the ones who used to ride on railroad cars. That’ll be a challenge, but I might be able to dig out some kind of employment records. Any other aliases? A cell phone number? E-mail address?”

“Nope. I guess he’s been off the grid for a while.”

“I’ll try,” he says.

“Thank you, Supachai. And you know—”

“This will all be on the QT.” He nods. “Anything else?”

I swallow. Supachai has me pretty figured out.

“Any idea on how I can find Nay?”

“What’s going on? You two are usually like the Little Twin Stars,” he says, referring to the Sanrio cartoon angels.

“The angels have split up.” Or, should I say, are taking a break from each other. “I really can’t get into it now. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

Supachai tells me that research will take a bit longer. I reconsider what I’m asking. “You know what? Forget about the Nay thing, okay? I owe you one.”

“Drinks at Eastside Luv,” Supachai says. He loves exploring East LA but doesn’t like to do it on his own.

I get up to leave and the robot secretary instantly opens the door for me.

“Hey,” Supachai calls out, “do you still see Benjamin?” He knows we broke up, but he’s in the dark about the details. Supachai is close to all his exes—there were quite a few at his New Year’s party.

“Yeah, we still keep in touch.” I don’t mention anything about his mom’s cancer and surgery.

“Tell him hi for me, okay?”

I nod. As it happens, I’ll be seeing Benjamin tonight, but we probably won’t be talking about Supachai Sperber.

*   *   *

St. Vincent’s Hospital is east of Little Tokyo, on Alvarado and Third streets, and walking distance from the Original Tommy’s, the meanest, tastiest chili burgers on the West Coast. I’ve never been to this hospital before, but it’s not large, so I’m easily able to find the waiting room on the floor for ICU patients.

“Ellie!” Benjamin’s four-year-old niece, Camila, comes running toward me. I didn’t think that they let kids that young in a hospital, but I’m so happy to see her. I give her a quick hug and ruffle her brown hair. I have missed her.

She has the smoothest skin, and adorable tadpole eyes, which she obviously gets from her mother’s side. Camila’s dad is white, like mine. We
hapas
have to stick together.

“Benjamin’s Ellie is here,” Sally, Benjamin’s sister, calls out to other members of the Choi family sitting together on padded chairs. Mr. Choi nods hello to me as he eats. I see Korean sushi, marinated bean sprouts and spinach, sliced apples—they seemed well provided for, but I offer the Subway sandwiches that I purchased to the mix.

Benjamin immediately gets up and takes the plastic bags from me.

“How is she?” I ask.

“Good. They’re moving her from ICU to a regular room.”

“That’s great news.” I’m so relieved. “I got you jalapeño potato chips, too,” I say. Benjamin is addicted to them.

He hands the bags off to his sister, then leads me to an old
woman with beautiful skin and snowy hair sitting in one of the larger chairs. “Ellie, I want you to meet my grandmother.”

“Oh,” I say, a little flustered. His grandmother is direct from Korea. I don’t know whether I should bow or offer my hand, so I do neither. “Hello.”

There’s an exchange of Korean back-and-forth. I wonder what they’re saying.

“Konnichiwa,”
she finally says to me.

“Sorry, she doesn’t get that you’re a hundred percent American,” Benjamin murmurs in my ear.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m hoping for the best for your daughter,” I say to his grandmother, and Benjamin translates.

Her eyes get watery and she grabs for my hands. She holds them tight and I squeeze hard, too. Sometimes it’s better not to use words.

Finally, I let go and let her get back to her eating as she murmurs something in Korean back to me.

Benjamin has already started to unroll a sandwich. “Thanks for these,” he says.

“Sorry it’s not fancier.”

“No, it’s perfect. And you got me the jalapeño potato chips. I love these.”

I smile, but not too widely. We’re not back together again.

“So what did the surgeon say?” I know the drill.

“They were able to get the cancer out.”

All of it?
I’m wondering.

“There was some in her lymph nodes. But it seemed isolated. They removed those spots, too.”

Anything in the lymph nodes is not a good sign. It means that the cancer could have spread to other parts of the body.
But you can’t think about that, or it will make you crazy. Odds are Mrs. Choi will have to have chemo or radiation.

“Once she’s all moved in, Dad and a few of us will be able to see her.”

“I’m so glad that she’s doing okay,” I say. “You all must be exhausted.”

Benjamin pushes hair away from his face. “How’s everything? Work?”

For Benjamin to be asking me about work means that he’s trying hard to be a good friend. He hates that I’m a cop; in fact, that’s a big reason behind why we aren’t together anymore.

“You know, same ole, same ole.” No need to get into details. “By the way, you haven’t heard from Nay, have you?”

“She sent me a text last week. Claimed that I was being jerk for not responding to her text. I just didn’t want to deal with all that. Why? Is there something going on?”

I don’t want to burden Benjamin with our drama, so I downplay it. “She’s just been busy with school.”

A slight frown line forms in between Ben’s eyebrows. A part of him doesn’t believe me. He knows me too well.

“Anyway, I’ll be thinking about your mom,” I tell him. I don’t say anything about praying for her because I know Benjamin doesn’t believe in it. We hug just for a second, and when we let go, I see a bunch of Benjamin’s relatives, including Camila and Sally, smile at us as if they are in on a secret.

I leave the hospital glad that I could be there for Benjamin. A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have been in the same place.

When I get into the Green Mile, the phone rings and I pick up without looking who’s calling.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Ellie? It’s me,” says Cortez. “I’m just getting off and figured that you’d still be awake. Want to get some coffee?”

*   *   *

I first met Detective Cortez Williams at a crime scene in Chinatown, but in spite of the sad circumstances, I did feel a spark of chemistry. He’s got, as Nay would say, a “yummy” body, at least as much as I can tell from his dress shirts and tailored pants. He’s barely thirty and already a homicide detective. Despite being seven years older, he likes listening to me. I’m not used to older people asking for my opinions.

We never really date-dated. I guess we went out a couple of times—enough for a couple of kisses. Then everything fell apart even before it began.

I have no idea why Cortez wants to see me tonight. Instead of going out for coffee, though, I tell him to stop by my house. I know what message I’m sending, but I’m wiped out. Plus, truthfully, I wouldn’t mind a little action. It’s been a while since any man has touched these lips.

I rush home and quickly take care of the dirty dishes in the sink and the clothes strewn on the couch. I haven’t gotten around to sweeping the floor when there’s a knock at the door. I usher Shippo into the bedroom and close the door. Cortez adores dogs, but I don’t want anything to distract him from, well, me.

I check the peephole, then open the door. Cortez has loosened his tie. I can see the curve of his white T-shirt underneath his tangerine-colored dress shirt. Don’t ask me why I find that sexy, but I do.

“When did you get your car back?” He gestures to the driveway where the Green Mile is leaking oil again.

“Oh, that,” I say. “Forgot to tell you. It’s a long story.”

“I have time.” Cortez wanders about my living room, checking out my Mexican-painted mirror on the wall, the framed posters, the Japanese doll. I’ve put new things up since I’ve moved. “Your new place is bigger. Better neighborhood, too.”

“Tell my mother that, okay? She’s still freaked-out that I’m living here and not in South Pas or Pasadena.”

“How is your mother, by the way?”

Cortez has met my mom a couple of times. She was pretty suspicious of him at first, but she didn’t know that Benjamin and I had broken up. The last time they met was at Aunt Cheryl’s award ceremony, and by then Mom had gone completely Team Cortez.

“She’s okay. We’ve had some family drama recently.”

“Family
is
drama,” he replies and smiles. I feel better already.