Driving east on Sunset Boulevard, Iwata decided to treat himself. He stopped at his favourite walk-up spot, Tacos Delta, and went for a plate of steak picado, rice, beans and an iced Jamaica. He sat near the open kitchen door, enjoying the sound of the laughter and the Spanish over the hiss of the cooking. Iwata liked the smell of the warm spices mixing in with the smoky tang of the parking lot.
The cooks doubled as waiters, wearing hairnets and neat moustaches, addressing customers in English or Spanish, depending on their skin colour. They would manage to fire off several wisecracks as they wheeled out of the kitchen, dropped off dishes and scrambled back in.
Iwata’s food arrived and he slathered it in the spiciest salsa they had. He ate under the coloured bulbs, amid grinning families and day-labourers swatting away moths.
3375 Descanso Drive was a small ten-unit condo complex with butterscotch-stucco exterior walls veiled in bougainvillea. To the south, there was a sudden and beautiful vista of Downtown LA. This neighbourhood had once belonged to the poor, the sex workers, the junkies. Later came the artists, the hipsters, the hopeful actors. Now, like many once-diverse slices of the city, it made developers hot under the collar, ripe for reinvention in luxury, highly vendible to wealthy white folk looking to buy in ‘edgy’ areas.
Iwata opened his front door and smelled the usual mix of laundry and dashi stock. He silently greeted the sweet bay plant in the corner that was starting to make its case as a small tree. He’d been meaning to organize the place ever since he’d moved in, but that had been three years ago. He owned little beyond books and records anyhow.
Iwata picked out two letters from his mailbox, one from his internet provider, the other a clipping from the Torrance Tribune regarding a Japanese singles night on Sawtelle Boulevard next week. A Post-It note in his mother’s awkward little handwriting was attached: Go. x
Sighing, Iwata took an alcohol-free beer from the fridge, sat at the coffee table and fished out his advanced-Spanish CDs. He took a swig and pressed Play on his CD.
‘Hello, again! ¡Hola amigos!’
Iwata raised his beer.
‘¿Cómo están todos? Today we’ll be looking at the preterite versus the imperfect. So let’s get started! ¡Empezamos! ¿Estás listo? Then let’s try: Ramón spoke for two hours. I’ll repeat. Ramón spoke for two hours.’
Iwata cleared his voice. ‘Ramón habló dos horas. Preterite.’
‘… did you say “preterite”? ¡Bien hecho! Well done! Okay, let’s try another one: The girls were speaking in English. The girls were speaking in English.’
‘Las chicas hablaban en inglés. Imperfect.’
‘… did you say “imperfect”? I bet you did! Aplausos, amigo.’
Iwata went through the exercises on autopilot. He’d never really thought too much about learning Spanish but when he had found himself colliding with it on an almost daily basis in his work, he had decided to take classes. Now he was more or less confident in his conversation and his vocabulary was solid. He enjoyed being able to use interesting sentence structures, arriving at a destination along differing routes. It gave him pleasure to think how far he’d come.
When the CD was over Iwata went into the spare room, took off his shirt and sized up his heavy bag. Iwata threw fast, snapping punches, his feet always moving between shots, his hands never dropping. He’d joined the boxing class on a whim, drawn in by the stupid neon bicep outside; it was something to fill empty hours. Pleased with the lack of chat and posturing, he’d stayed with it.
As he worked out, he thought about apologizing to his mother. He knew he should. But then, it was always so easy to do in theory.
Hearing a noise, Iwata embraced the punchbag. The phone was ringing. He wiped his brow and picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘Kosuke … it’s me.’
‘Kate? Is everything all right?’
‘How can I help?’
‘God, I don’t know how to say this.’ She took a shaky breath. ‘It’s my husband. Kosuke, I need you to follow him … I’m going crazy. I need to know.’
Iwata had known Kate Floccari for over a year, having met her at a convention. When he had told her what he did for a living she had given him her card – as a prosecutor, she was in need of someone in his line of work. Since then, they had worked together on dozens of occasions. Iwata helped her prep for cross-examination, spending long hours going over weaknesses in witnesses, or an opponent’s background and how they might react under pressure. He had located assets for her, everything from stolen artwork to offshore accounts – even industrial designs. And, their bread and butter – he had located people: reluctant witnesses, secret mistresses, employees with knowledge of corporate misconduct; on and on it went … But it had never been personal. Until now.
‘Meet me at my office at 9 a.m. We’ll talk then.’
Anthony Floccari was miles away from campus. Even if anyone saw him, it could surely be written off as coincidence. Professors bumped into their students all the time. He sat on a bench reading Malina by Ingeborg Bachmann and told himself that he was doing nothing wrong. Then, biting his nails, he contradicted himself. Maybe, sooner or later, forbidden acts are just inevitable.
Distant drilling reverberated through the afternoon. Soft currents rattled the cherry blossoms into pink wedding send-offs. The brunch crowd grinned over iced coffee and eggs.
Anthony had wanted Anya since the first time she walked into his class. That was not particularly surprising; he frequently found himself fantasizing about his students. He’d just never done anything more than fantasize.
It would have been nice for him, as a sort of moral black box, to be able to point to a startling aptitude with sentence structure, or even just a splash of originality in her work. But the truth was Anthony just liked the way she looked.
‘Hey, Prof.’
He turned, feigning surprise. The straps of her tank top and bra were misaligned. She had three freckles beneath her collarbone, as if indicating her rank in an army of women he wanted to fuck.
‘Anya,’ he purred. ‘Sit down.’
‘Thanks.’ She sat and rolled her tongue across her teeth. ‘So I checked, and the line in there is, like, crazy long.’
She’s cancelling. Anthony felt both disappointed and relieved.
‘Well, it’s no big –’
‘But, uh, I live close by,’ she blurted. ‘We could just have coffee at my place?’
He glanced at her mouth. Her lipstick was almost black. She tossed her hair, apricot shampoo drifting under his nostrils. They hadn’t even agreed on a pretext for meeting.
Just have coffee at my place, he repeated in his head. Just. Just. Just. How many shipwrecks had come from just a few grey clouds.
‘Or not!’ Anya laughed. ‘It’s okay. I get it if it’s, like, you know, weird.’
Anthony stood and grinned. He knew it was a formidable grin.
‘No. It’s not weird at all.’
When Anthony got home he felt both exhilarated and terrified. For some reason he thought he was going to burst out laughing as he opened the front door. Then he heard his wife’s voice. Kate was muffled, speaking over the sound of running water.
‘What did you say?’ he called out, trying to sound the way he always did.
‘Ants. They’re back.’
‘Ants?’
‘You know: tiny, six legs, unwelcome.’
‘They’re back?’
‘Yes. They’re back … As are you’ – she glanced up at the clock – ‘at a quarter to ten.’
Kate was drowning the ants with torrents of hot water, like some small offended god.
‘I lost track of time at the gym.’
‘For three hours? I called the college; they said you’d left early.’
‘You called?’ He used his smile, hoping it looked unthreatened. ‘Since when do we call?’
She was still holding his gaze.
‘Kate, what is this? I left early to beat traffic, which obviously I didn’t do, then there’s parking, there’s changing, there’s showering, there’s getting gas, then there’s more traffic. Come on, it’s LA – you know this.’
It sounded solid, but he reminded himself to fill the tank first thing tomorrow.
‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I just – I don’t know …’
Anthony turned off the tap and hugged her. ‘It’s okay. The pregnancy is just playing hell with you, that’s all. I love you, Kate.’
‘I love you,’ she murmured into his chest.
He stroked her hair, knowing there was no way he could smell of anything but soap. They took two alcohol-free beers out to the balcony, him on the right, her on the left. That’s how they slept, how they fucked these days, and how they usually posed in photographs.
Kate reached out and pinched his bicep. ‘That gym is paying off.’
The far-off whoosh of the freeway was soothing, the lukewarm night ruffling their hair paternally. Anthony’s return smile was wan. ‘Gotta keep tight for my girl.’
She stroked the rim of her bottle with her bottom lip and looked at the ocean beyond the freeway. He knew he was the only one to see these childlike gestures. As one of the most feared prosecutors in the city, every daytime gesture, every word, would convey purpose. But these throwaway mannerisms that only came out at night were the real her – like gentle, reclusive nocturnal creatures. He used to love these gestures. Now, he just knew them.
‘Hey,’ Anthony spoke brightly, despite his thoughts. ‘You okay?’
‘Mm.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Kate.’
‘I just had this dumb feeling earlier.’ She whispered it. ‘Like maybe the idea of the baby had freaked you out and you were going AWOL on us.’
Anthony met her eyes. Sometimes she looked like a kid. He felt disgusted with himself.
‘I know,’ she laughed. ‘I know. It’s dumb.’
‘It is dumb.’ He regained himself in that winning grin and curled a hand around the nape of her neck. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Kiki.’
They held hands in silence.
She’s going to be the mother of my child. I’m happy with my life.
But as the traffic lights far below changed he asked himself the obvious: Then why Anya?
Anthony Floccari was respected for his writing, in his work. Money had ceased to be a real concern some time ago. He had a beautiful wife. But none of it was enough. It never was.
Once, as a small child, he had met his great-grandmother in Bologna. His Italian was sparse but he had understood her judgement of him. He’s a looker but careful with him, that boy has a hole in his basket. For a few years Kate seemed to have filled him in, like concrete. But she lived her life by a certain code, which, after such a long time, he had grown weary of. With her rules and expectations, she felt like a beautiful little prison.
Anya, however, had no rules. She was absolutely his. She would do anything he wanted and would knit her brow in concentration to get it done well. She would laugh at his jokes, gag on his cock and learn from his anecdotes. In the afternoon sun, naked in her bed, she had shrieked with laughter at his impressions of her classmates. Closing his eyes, he could still see her tits jiggling, still hear the lilt of her giggles as she begged him to stop. To his alarm, Anthony realized he was getting an erection. He folded his legs.
‘I need a shower,’ Kate said.
They kissed. When she was gone, Anthony went downstairs and grilled some asparagus. As he ate, he watched a documentary about Mayan culture. At 10.30 p.m. he deleted the text message that read: I’m still sore. I love the feeling. x
One week later Anthony took Anya away for the weekend to San Diego. He kept his cap on during the day, feeling more relaxed after sunset. At the hotel, he liked that she would take hours perfecting her make-up and evening dress – as though her entire life had been leading up to this long weekend. They ate prawns grilled by barefoot men in white jackets, wooden torches illuminating the private beach. In that light, he thought Anya could pass for a tanned Jane Russell.
On their last day they went for a stroll through Balboa Park. At the outdoor theatre her delighted squeal when he revealed tickets for King Lear scared the birds from the trees. During the performance Anya whispered along with Cordelia and Anthony tried to hide his irritation.
The sunset was perfect against the flowering jacaranda trees, the girl next to him was beautiful, his life was inarguably a good one. Yet he could almost taste his dissatisfaction. Everything was annoying to him now. He regretted coming to San Diego. The risk of running into an acquaintance was foolish and, on reflection, four days with the girl had been way too long. Once he had come her repertoire of charms greatly diminished, while his list of irritations had grown to a point where none of it made sense anymore.
As Edmund plotted to depose his brother, Anthony decided he had to get rid of her. Soon as I’m back, I’ll talk to her. She’ll understand. How could she not understand? I’ll cut her loose and then it’ll be as if nothing ever happened. Kate won’t know a thing and I’ll work hard to make her happy. Happiest she’s been. This was all just a freak-out before fatherhood.
Anthony looked up and a deafening rumble grew closer.
On stage, the actors froze.
Amiable laughter rippled through the amphitheatre as the passenger jet passed overhead, making its final descent to nearby Lindbergh Field. When the sound had passed, the actors sprang back into life as if un-Paused.
‘ “The art of our necessities is strange.” ’ The king shook his head gently. ‘ “That can make vile things precious.” ’
Anthony distantly registered a flash somewhere behind him. He turned to search the audience but recognized no one. Even so, he pulled the brim of his cap lower.
‘You okay?’ Anya whispered, her smile glittering in the dusky shadow.
‘Sure. Why?’
‘You just seem, like, kinda far away.’
He slipped his hand around the nape of her neck and grinned. ‘I’m right here.’
‘Good.’ She rested her head on his outstretched arm and kissed it.
A dozen rows behind, up in the balcony, Kosuke Iwata unscrewed his telescopic lens. He put the camera back in its case, as if placing the murder weapon in an evidence bag. Packing up the rest of his equipment, he put on his tea-shade sunglasses and quietly left the theatre.
In the end, it had taken Iwata just a few days to catch his mark. The Floccari house was in Pacific Palisades, on a pretty cul-de-sac with a handsome ocean view. Hopping out of the Bronco, Iwata drank in the beauty of Coperto Drive – single-storey houses, cached in ceanothus lilac, bougainvillea and flowering palms. Clients came in all shapes and sizes but just as often than not they led enviable lives, full of wealth and pleasure. Yet these were lives they risked throwing away, seemingly as extreme sport. Iwata didn’t judge; there were always reasons and he had been there himself.
Iwata let himself in using the spare keys Kate had given him. First, he checked the browsing history on Floccari’s computer then combed his study for the better part of an hour, but he found nothing relevant. He searched the house for a hidden phone: no dice. He riffled through clothes, shoes and gym gear. The laundry told him nothing either. Outside, he upended the garbage and there, in amongst the scraps, Iwata found a piece of paper ripped into six pieces. They formed a jigsaw of hasty blue letters:
S DIEGO HOTEL. CHECK IN AFTER 12.
PROMO CODE: THURS25.
Iwata googled ‘THURS25 San Diego hotel’ and struck gold. Taking out his phone, he dialled.
‘Hotel del Coronado, how may I help you?’
‘Hi there, my name is Anthony Floccari and I checked in a few days ago. I just wanted to see if there were any messages left for me? F-L-O-C-C-A-R-I.’
‘Absolutely, sir. Let me just check that real quick … No, doesn’t seem to be anything for you Mr Floccari. Is there anything else I can help you with –’
The drive from Pacific Palisades to San Diego had taken just over three hours. With his brightest smile, Iwata approached the hotel reception and asked after his dear colleague, Tony Floccari. The receptionist, clearly new to the job, cheerily confirmed the reservation.
‘Is he in now? I’d love to surprise him.’
‘He left a little while ago with his partner.’
‘Shoot.’ Iwata snapped his fingers ruefully. ‘Any idea where they went?’
‘Matter of fact, I do, sir,’ she beamed. ‘King Lear. Sold him the tickets myself.’
*
In the consultation room of Iwata’s rented unit, Iwata Investigations LLC, Kate Floccari held a glossy photograph with quivering hands. The lighting in the image was unintentionally gorgeous, the golden hour catching the girl’s beauty with devastating clarity. She was closing her eyes in pleasure as Floccari held the nape of her neck. They looked stock-photo happy.
Iwata supposed Kate recognized the gesture. In his experience people were capable of inhabiting various sexual personas, depending on what they were hiding, or what they were trying to be. But when it came to intimacy, people only ever knew one way of loving, a solitary assemblage of gestures and murmurings.
‘I’m very sorry, Kate.’
No speeches were needed. The wounded were barely listening anyhow. They were living in a new reality.
‘You were fast.’ She spoke without looking up. ‘Thank you for being fast.’
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘She’s young. A student?’
‘Yes. I have her name. If you wanted to know. Other details …’
Kate shook her head. ‘They look good together.’
‘Do you want some water? Or maybe …’
She broke down. Iwata stayed in his seat. It wasn’t that he felt nothing and it wasn’t that he had no wish to comfort her. He just knew that sitting in silence was the best response. The only response. All else was useless.
As Kate sobbed, she held her stomach. She was already showing.
Iwata looked out of the window. Wilshire Boulevard was clogged with afternoon traffic. Roadworks had dragged on for weeks and the heat shimmered between stationary cars. A homeless man in flip-flops pushed his cart of blackened teddy bears and knick-knacks slowly along the sidewalk, stopping to address injustice wherever he saw it. Iwata saw him most days. He would rail against the system or, if he was in a good mood, he would revert to his catchphrase. The best of luck. The BEST of luck! A grubby American flag fluttered in his cart.
Kate stood up and placed the photograph face down on the desk. She never needed to see it again. Her eyes were red and her lips trembling but her expression was resolute.
‘Thank you, Kosuke. I mean it. I’m in your debt.’
‘Not at all.’
‘You’ll have payment by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Please, none necessary.’
‘You’ll have payment by tomorrow afternoon.’
She left the room and Iwata waited a few minutes before filing away the photograph. Anthony Floccari disappeared into the folders of the unfaithful, the missing, the liars. They were the unwitting clientele in Iwata’s trade, one half of an equation of human doubt and vulnerability.
Iwata looked at the framed cityscapes of Downtown LA on the wall. They had been left by the unit’s previous occupants, an accounting venture run by Armenian brothers. The print on the wall behind him showed Angels Flight in black and white, full of passengers, in all its glory. Beneath it, the words of Norman Mailer ran in Didot font:
LOS ANGELES IS A CONSTELLATION OF PLASTIC
Iwata closed the blinds and left the consultation room. In the elevator he tapped his foot along with a bossa nova version of ‘Hotel California’. Though he usually had no feelings about the cases he took on, he was glad this one was closed.
Iwata did not particularly enjoy his job, but he did like solving puzzles, even rudimentary ones. His was the business of lives changing, the cataclysm of the truth for money. But it was never personal. Kosuke Iwata didn’t do personal.
Back on Descanso Drive, Iwata picked up the sweet bay plant and went outside. He sat with his back to the front door, gently inspecting the leaves. They gave off a fragrance only when touched. It was the closest he was ever going to get to having a pet.
Iwata felt serene, more or less. He scanned the black-orange tinsel of the cityscape and wondered what it meant to him. LA wasn’t home, but it was something. Japan was behind him and there was little that he missed.
In its place, Iwata had gotten used to the palm trees and the blue skies. He’d gotten used to the February summers and the June gloom. To the swarm of helicopters that criss-crossed the skyline at any one time. The toy-sized subway system and one-minute waits at pedestrian crossings. Mothers walking children to school under parasols and dark Mexican men in high-vis fixing what needed fixing.
He’d gotten used to crammed freeways named after dead police officers and a half-empty Downtown in the evenings. The lines for sushi in Little Tokyo nearby, its businesses largely operated by Koreans now. The loquacious Hollywood touts that pounced on tourists gazing down at the sidewalk stars. The smell of baking wafting through Little Armenia and the distant barbecue aroma of wildfires devouring cypress, mesquite and pine trees.
He had gotten used to the officer-involved shootings in Vermont Vista, in Crenshaw. The police car chases every other night. The addiction treatment centres flecked along the Pacific Coast Highway. The near-dead trickle of the Los Angeles River. Little speakeasies in Silver Lake where wannabes tried to flog screenplays to executives only interested in lines young and curved, or white and straight.
He’d gotten used to the smiling Scientologists south of Los Feliz wearing waistcoats and slacks like an army of flight attendants with nowhere to fly to. The infinite homeless camps over intersections, under bridges, in doorways. The convertibles revving along Rodeo Drive.
He’d gotten used to the countless glowing yard shrines to the Virgin of Guadalupe in East LA. The hopeful singers in Mariachi Plaza and the downhearted drunks that looked on. The million aspiring actresses lining up for work, paid or unpaid. And the men who would make promises to them. The brief celebrity sighting under the hotel portico and the blood drying in the alleyway behind it. The little clouds of jasmine perfume that turned dark street corners into wedding arbours. And the Santa Ana winds, blown in from the Great Basin by the devil himself, leaving fire in their wake.
Kosuke Iwata had gotten used to the staggered pockets of city that made up Los Angeles.
He showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed. He figured tomorrow would be just another day, another case.