Grave on Grand Avenue (13 page)

“Don’t say that. You’re mostly Japanese.”

“No, Mom, I’m only half.”

“But in terms of your values, your upbringing.”

“I think that we got some fine values from Dad and Lita.”

“Hmpf.”

“Anyway, isn’t that who you are really mad at—Lita?” I try to keep my voice level so not to attract attention from the other train passengers.

“She shouldn’t have kept all those secrets from your father. For fifty years!”

“So now you’re going to punish me and Noah for what Lita’s done? That’s not fair. And Grandma Toma, what about her?”

“We were thinking about taking her with us.”

“Mom, that’s not cool. Lita’s going to be really hurt.” Not to mention, it means Noah and I will have to entertain her by ourselves on Sunday. “I know that it’s none of my business, but I think Dad should meet Fernandes. Just to get it over with.”

“I’m surprised that you would say that. Lita already confessed to Dad that he was the one who took your car. You’re a police officer. He’s a common criminal, a hood.”

A
hood
? I haven’t heard that word used since my high school staged
West Side Story
. “So what, Mom? So we’re not a perfect, upstanding family? Is that so bad?”

Mom doesn’t answer and then hangs up the phone.

Even though there’s no sound coming in through my earbuds anymore, I don’t bother listening to music. I need the silence, the space, to process what is happening to my family
and me. Dad is like Lita (and her mom, I guess) in that he always tries to see the positive side in everything and everyone. Whenever my mother wanted to discipline me, he’d always advocate for talking it out instead. Every drawing, every disastrous craft project, was a masterpiece. When I failed to get two serves over the net in our high school championship volleyball game, Dad claimed that we lost the game due to bad refereeing.

Up to now, he’d only ever described his mom, Lita, in the most loving terms: Numero Uno Mama, Best Mother Alive, Ms. Fierce. She has three mugs that say “World’s Best Mom,” because Dad keeps forgetting that he’s already given her one before. Lita says that she’ll never tire of receiving mugs with that message. (Grandma Toma, on the other hand, would complain, “We already have enough mugs in this house. What am I going to do with this one?”)

Now these two positive forces in my life can’t be in the same room. I admit that I’ve always taken both Dad and Lita for granted. For them to be at odds with each other makes me feel as if a crack has started to expand in my family life. I hope it can be fixed, but wonder if there will always be a mark where the break was.

*   *   *

Today, Johnny and I are assigned to patrol Grand Park. Grand Park used to be just a place near the courthouses and parking lots that my family just drove past during the weekends to get to Grand Central or Little Tokyo. A few fountains, some dying grass, nothing to write home about. Then, a few years ago, a transformation began to happen. The lawns became lush; walkways rolled out; neon pink chairs moved in. A narrow
fenced-in dog park was even created for all the beautified dogs of downtown LA. Exercise classes are held on the main lawn, and now that a two-bit reality show star has started attending the yoga class, for some reason a higher-up thinks it will be good to have some nominal LAPD presence nearby. (I’m not even familiar with the cable channel that airs the show. The series is called something like the
Real Divorcées of Bunker Hill
or something like that.) Well, two bicycle cops are as nominal as you can get.

Everyone and everything around here still seems hungover from the Cinco de Mayo celebration on Olvera Street last week. Instead of couples or groups of people, there are just a few solitary people wearing shades out walking their dogs. Aside from the yoga class, the liveliest presence here are the park’s trademark pink chairs.

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind this assignment. In fact, he spends an inordinate amount of time watching the Real Divorcée. Dressed in a halter top and the tightest pair of yoga pants I’ve ever seen, she makes sure that her butt sticks out as far as it can as she assumes the positions of downward dog, then cat and cow. Her every action is being recorded by two video cameramen and a super bored-looking woman in her forties who’s probably the producer. If she’s this bored with the subject matter, I gotta think that certainly doesn’t seem promising for the future of the show.

My phone vibrates and I sneak a look. It’s Nay. I tell Johnny that I’m going to check out the other side of the park and, entranced by Real Divorcée’s Booty, he barely acknowledges having heard me.

Once I’m far enough away, I call Nay back, but only get her voice mail.

I text:
Hey, you called?

No response.

I wait a few minutes and then text again.
You okay?

Finally I get a reply:
SORRY BUTT-CALLED BY ACCIDENT. SUPER BUSY. ON DEADLINE.

On deadline? Since when is Nay worried about deadlines?

I know being on the
Squeeze
staff is a big deal for Nay. She has dreams to be the next Lisa Ling. But she’s never put friendship on the back burner. I know I have, though, especially when I was at the academy. Maybe now I’m getting the karma that I deserve.

I’m not going to get any updates on the Xus from Nay, so I consider my other alternative. The embodiment of hotness, Cortez Williams. I don’t want to call him, but it feels like my only option. I clear my throat. “Hi,” I say when he answers. “It’s Ellie.”

“Hey, Ellie.” Cortez sounds like himself, like back when we first were getting to know each other. “Thanks again for the heads-up on that charter flight. We were able to pick up Mr. Xu. He was heading for a hotel that was just around the corner. We’ve investigated and determined that the Fuentes incident was an accident. So it’s all over.”

“Does the Fuentes family know?”

“We let them know this afternoon.”

“How did they take it?”

“Well, you know. They are pretty upset. But, according to all accounts, Fuentes was attempting to steal the cello. Mr. Xu pushed back and unfortunately . . .”

“But why would he even try something like that? There was no getaway car. He’d just be running down Grand Avenue carrying this huge multimillion-dollar instrument? He was a
pretty old man; he wouldn’t be able to get too far. It doesn’t make sense.”
And what about Bikel’s statement?
I don’t mention that out loud, though, since I’m not supposed to know about it.

“Criminals often do things that don’t make sense.”

But he wasn’t a criminal,
I think to myself. No record. That much I had checked on my own. “Okay, but if the cello is that big a deal, then why did Mr. Xu—and, for that matter, Xu himself—just abandon it at the airport? Mr. Xu said it was worth five million dollars, but he leaves it to the baggage handlers? I’d have that cello checked out, if I were you. And not just by the place that Kendra Prescott recommended.”

Cortez doesn’t saying anything. He probably knows it’s a good idea, but doesn’t want to admit he didn’t think of it first himself.

“Where is the cello, anyway?”

“We’re waiting for Xu, the musician, to claim it. Fang Xu wanted to take it with him, but legally it belongs to his son.”

“Anyway, I’m really calling about my friend Nay Pram. Did you interview her that night?”

“Yeah, just some basic stuff. Garibaldi handled it. It was obvious that she didn’t know much. Didn’t she tell you about it?”

“Well, we kinda had a falling-out. I haven’t seen her since Thursday. She’s been putting me off. Guess she’s been busy researching and writing her articles.”

“Those things happen, Ellie. Hard to be friends with civilians. Sometimes they don’t understand and you don’t understand them.”

There’s a click on the line and Cortez has another call
coming in. After we end the conversation, I feel like everybody has something important to do. Everybody except me.

Johnny rides toward me and brakes a few feet away. “I got her number,” he reports.

“Whose number?”

“The reality show girl. Chale Robertson.”

“The Bunker Hill divorcée? Johnny, isn’t she a little old for you?” I’m all for men dating older women, but Johnny usually prefers his dates a few years out of high school.

“She still looks young. And she’s into biking. Like seriously into it.”

“Just watch out that you don’t end up on her reality show. Captain Randle won’t like it.”

Johnny’s not listening to me. He’s already texting something sweet and charming to the divorcée. While he does get tongue-tied at times, there’s nothing wrong with his thumbs.

A little while later, Johnny gets called to join a group gathered around the Los Angeles Central Library. It’s some kind of protest about funding cuts. I, on the other hand, am supposed to go back to the station to complete some paperwork.

Before I leave, my phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. It’s Google Alerts, notifying me of a post on an East Los Angeles mortuary. It’s a listing of Eduardo Fuentes’s funeral at his church, Templo Arbol de Vida. I quickly read the notice, which is all in Spanish. It’s tonight at seven o’clock.

I make a quick call to the Catholic church in Highland Park. Father Kwame’s there and available. Despite my reservations, I guess I’m going to a funeral tonight.

Once I return to the station, I park my bike on the wall
with the others and check the air pressure in my tires. I accidentally rub some dirt and dead leaves from my wheel onto the side of my shorts. It’s all going into the wash, anyway.

As I’m leaving, I run into the patrol officers Boyd and Azusa. “Hey, Rush, want to get some drinks with us? We’re going to Grand Star.”

I haven’t been to the Chinatown hangout in months. “No, thanks. I can’t tonight.”

“Hot date, huh?” Boyd says.

“Yeah, something like that.” I don’t tell them the date is for a funeral, which I’ll be attending with a Catholic priest. Just permanently stamp “Loser” on my forehead, okay?

*   *   *

Father Kwame is waiting for me outside of the Templo Arbol de Vida church, which actually is a former bungalow in East Los Angeles, on a residential street just off of Whittier Boulevard. I’m a little late—I went to my place after work to change into a simple black dress—but judging from the other people gathered outside, the funeral hasn’t started yet.

As we walk in, I accidentally brush against the knee of an Asian man in an ill-fitting suit, sitting in the last row.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I immediately say.

He glares at me.

Wow, Mr. Cranky, I said I was sorry. And why is your knee sticking out into the aisle, as if you’re ready to bolt at any minute?

Father Kwame and I sit in the second row from the back in front of the mad-dogging man. From our seats, I can’t see the family, though I spot a couple of blond heads in the fourth row. Everyone else here seems to be Latino. Not just
Latino, but all Spanish-speaking. Luckily, that’s not an issue for us, since Father Kwame, who can speak several languages, and I both speak Spanish.

The walls that probably once divided rooms in the house have been torn down to accommodate an open sanctuary that can probably fit one hundred and fifty people, tops. There’s a row of windows toward the front, all now covered with a thick velvet curtain. Three acoustic musicians sing in Spanish beside a gigantic cross made from what looks like driftwood. The song’s about what you’d expect in a Christian church: God, Jesus, blood.

I brace myself for talk of burning bushes, or anything paranormal, but it’s pretty much like other Protestant services I’ve been to. Unlike Catholic mass, there are no robes, incense, or wafers—which is fine with me.

The minister is about my dad’s age, with a mustache and thinning hair. He’s taken off his jacket and wears a striped tie with his shirt. Even though he’s not close enough for me to know, I feel sure he’d smell musky clean, no flowery cologne, but something straightforward. And safe.

The religious stuff doesn’t interest me as much as what the minister says about Eduardo Fuentes’s personal history. He was from a small town in the middle of Mexico and came here when he was thirty, then became a naturalized citizen in the 1990s. That was when he was able to call over his nephew Raul Jesus, his sister’s son, to the United States. Eduardo and his late wife, Cristina, had only one child, their daughter, Marta, and three grandsons. When Marta’s name is mentioned, a sob breaks out from the front row. No doubt from Marta herself.

Eduardo was one of the founding members of this church,
the minister says. An elder. I figure that’s why people keep pressing into the church, filling every space in the pews and even the folding chairs that have been placed in the back. Father Kwame and I are sandwiched between women who bring out fans to cool themselves. They obviously knew there’s no air-conditioning in the small building. I wish I’d known, too.

The guitarists then get up onstage again, and a line is formed to view the body in the open casket. I gulp. I am less than thrilled.

The last row goes first, and the cranky old Asian man pulls on his suit jacket, as if that will make him more presentable as he stands in line. He’s short, only about five two if even that. He ducks his head toward the body, and when he turns around, his eyes look kind of moist. His face is weathered and dark. He looks like a man who has spent time in the sun, like Fuentes. Maybe they were in the same line of work.

The row of family members—I recognize RJ and Marta from the hospital—rise and give the old man hugs. He seems a little taken aback.

We’re up next and I take a deep breath. I take a few steps forward and look down in the casket. It’s lined with white, puffy material, which makes Mr. Fuentes seem like he’s lying on a cloud. He’s wearing a suit and his face looks stiff and waxy, not wrinkly and smiley like he was when we talked about the Gracias sage, the purplish flower that he’d been in the middle of planting at the concert hall garden. I expected to feel sad, but I actually feel nothing. This is not the man whose hand I held on to while he tried to mouth his last word.