On the eastern fringes of Skid Row, Iwata parked in front of Meredith’s apartment block. The Wanderlust was a shabby four-storey flophouse with dirty white stucco walls and mint-green trim. On one side there was an abandoned factory; on the other a preschool for low-income parents to get free daycare, a place for the children of those who broke concrete, tended lonely parking lots and cleaned toilets.
Iwata got out of the Bronco and took off his sunglasses. It had been cloudy recently, an oppressive heat that sat jealously over the city, but this afternoon the sky was a clear, scorching blue.
He entered the building. The corridor was gloomy and hot, leading to a metal security door. He pressed the buzzer.
‘Yeah?’ The man on the intercom had a foreign accent but it dripped with the mistrust of a born-and-bred Angeleno.
‘LAPD business,’ Iwata replied tersely.
‘Business?’
‘I need you to open the door, sir.’
It buzzed open. Iwata knew America was a country where immigrants tended to relent in face of a certain autocratic tone of voice. He had seen it many times, not least in his own mother. Often Gerry had reminded her: ‘You’re American now, Nozomi. Don’t let anybody give you shit.’
The sorry little lobby smelled of vomit and sandalwood incense. There was a repining female voice on the radio, accompanied by the beat of a dhol. The man behind the counter was short with a neatly trimmed moustache. He twirled a small banana leaf cigar between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Business?’
Iwata held up his investigator’s licence. ‘Are you the owner?’
He shook his head.
Iwata took out the photograph of Meredith Nichol. ‘Recognize her?’
He shook his head again.
‘Show me your guest register, please.’
The man took a long drag and watched Iwata through the thick smoke. Then he placed the register on the counter and Iwata flipped back to 23 February, the day before Meredith Nichol’s body had been found.
‘Here she is. Room 12. Was her rent paid?’
The man checked a booklet in his breast pocket. ‘Until end of month.’
‘The rent here, is it monthly?’
‘Most pay week to week. Most late.’
‘I’m going up to look.’
He shrugged, and Iwata stepped into a dim, tilted stairway. The vomit stench had a more acrid quality here. The stairs had been painted red and the walls were the same mint green as the exterior. Up on the second floor a TV documentary about the universe was blaring through a thin wall. There were occasional high-pitched chirps of a lovebird somewhere nearby.
At the end of the corridor, next to the fire escape, Meredith’s room was small, the wingspan of three children. The cheap, peeling wallpaper was a faded green. Two plywood cabinets took up one corner, one on top of the other, above which an old family photograph was framed. Iwata was shocked to see a young Cleo looking back at him.
He composed himself and put it in his pocket.
The broken sink was surrounded by mangy make-up products and knock-off celebrity-endorsed perfume. A microwave sat on top of a mini fridge, both of them plugged into a fizzing wall socket. The single bed was made. In a box in the corner there were clothes, a counterfeit Louis Vuitton handbag containing a Washington driver’s licence, Big Red chewing gum and two clean syringes.
Iwata spent an hour in the room but found nothing beyond tokens of a simple, squalid existence. What he learned was that Meredith was not one for schedules or personal items beyond the sole family photograph.
Iwata left the room and knocked on the door opposite. A short Bolivian woman answered. Iwata handed her a twenty and she told him she hardly knew Meredith except for the fact that she was a working girl too. The woman didn’t know of any boyfriends or regulars and she rarely heard Meredith come or go. Iwata gave her his business card and she promised she would call if anyone came looking for Meredith.
He left by the fire escape and hopped down into the alleyway, wall to wall with garbage. An old piano had been shunted into the corner, its sostenuto pedal broken off, the fallboard left open. On a whim, Iwata ran his finger down the keys. The sound was discordant, something missing in the sour notes.
A mile south-west of the Wanderlust, Iwata turned off Maple and parked behind a slaughterhouse. The main road was mobbed, the whole neighbourhood turned into one teeming flea market, a circus without the roof. The Spanish language, in all its variegation, could be heard – haggling, joking, promising. These exchanges competed with car horns, electronic toy dogs yapping and a blind man playing De Colores on his keyboard.
Santee Alley catered to any low-cost whim: novelty contact lenses, plastic aquariums containing hatchling turtles, baby onesies with madcap slogans:
MY MOM IS TAKEN BUT MY AUNTIE IS HOT AND SINGLE
Iwata made his way through the bustle, soapy bubbles swirling through the air around him. Men with flags coaxed cars into overpriced valet lots. On every other street corner hucksters carrying more balloons than seemed possible resembled giant multicoloured raspberries. Ground-floor living rooms had been turned into makeshift taquerias with cubbyhole toilets that charged seventy-five cents to shit. A fast-food truck doled out huaraches, quesadillas and tlacoyos, dishes that pre-dated Christopher Columbus. On the other hand, portable grills sizzled with avocado hot dogs.
In the shop windows, dresses for all occasions were on display, gaudy little numbers encrusted with fugazi frills and gems, flamboyant head-turners for proms, weddings or quinceañeras. Another food truck, specializing in honeyed camotes, advertised for staff in Spanish on a piece of card. There was a single requisite:
MUST BE VERY EAGER TO WORK
Iwata turned into a gloomy rialto, ignoring the emoji T-shirts and fake eyelashes made of ‘100% human hair’. He passed rabbits in cages, far older, he presumed, than the ages listed on their cards. Beneath the age was a name, short and punchy for the males, princess-like for the females. Every cage was sitting in bin bags, spread out by the pet-pedlars to facilitate quick getaways.
At the back of the building, obscured by arcade machines that hadn’t worked for decades, Iwata stopped at a stall. It held bongs, spices, cellphone charms and legal highs. Behind the stall stood a man about Iwata’s age, a Mexican Elvis in Jailhouse Rock denim and a striped shirt. It was too warm for the outfit, but Mingo Palacio was too cool for caring. His hair was blue-black and greased tall. On the back of his hand there was a small tattoo of an oak and two wolves, the symbol of the Mexican state of Durango. Around his neck hung a battered old guitar.
‘Mingo!’ Iwata called. ‘Need to talk.’
He hoisted his lip on one side and answered in a Mississippi drawl, ‘Ain’t nobody talkin’ to The King, meng’. The King be talkin’ to you.’
Iwata handed over a fifty. ‘Then let me hear you sing.’
He gave a sonorous strum of his guitar and beckoned him into the alleyway. They sat on some crates and Mingo hid the money in his leather shoes. His socks were stained black with polish but he wiggled his toes as if in the comfort of his own living room. Iwata watched him build a roll-up and thought how stupid it was to have soft spots for hard people.
‘So, then.’ Mingo had a clement, unhurried voice that many had misread for friendly. ‘How’s my second favourite dick in the world?’
‘Surviving,’ Iwata answered in Spanish. ‘How’s business?’
‘My stall is full, my pockets are empty.’
‘But not your shoes.’
Mingo Palacio grinned like the born operator he was – a handsome shyster that, one way or another, had fucked more people than all the Nigerian princes of the world combined.
‘So tell me. What kind of song does Yojimbo want to hear?’
Iwata took out the photograph of Meredith.
‘A love song, huh?’ Mingo gazed it. ‘As my old man used to say: “There’s always a girl.” ’
‘This one’s personal to me.’ Iwata switched to English. ‘Police just assumed she worked Santa Monica and Lexington. But I’m betting you know more.’
‘Cops don’t see different types of trees. They just see forest, man.’
An old lady was standing at the stall, but he poked his head around to tell her he’d just closed up for the day. Iwata, like most around here, knew the wares on Mingo Palacio’s stall were nothing more than a charade, a pretext to arrive at his only true commodity. And that was contained beneath his neat, inky pompadour.
Returning to the alleyway, Mingo apologized and looked at the photograph once again. He mulled Meredith over for a few moments, then nodded.
‘Okay, yeah. I seen her a couple of times. Pretty sure she used to be a dancer up at Club Noir. That would have been months ago, though. Maybe longer. Then a second time, not so long ago, around Skid Row. She wasn’t in good shape. Doubt there would have been much work for her in the clubs like that. But that’s not information, that’s just logic, man.’
He lit his roll-up and took a languid drag.
‘But if she was such a junkie, why was her rent paid up a month in advance?’
Mingo shrugged. ‘I guess that’d be Talky.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘If you want to call it that. Guy’s a gorilla. Mute, but lets his hands do the talking.’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘You wanna find a lion, you go look where the wildebeest drink.’
‘A bar.’
‘Of the titty variety – the Happy Gopher. But I ain’t seen Talky for a while.’
‘I know the place. Let’s go back to Meredith. What else have you got for me?’
Mingo squinted one eye, as though it hurt to go back through a memory the size of his. ‘Maybe she was tight with a girl called Jen? Or Jenny? That mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Geneviève, that was it. Pretty little black girl. Panamanian, I think. Worked at Club Noir too. You should swing by. Bouncer there has got a tongue on him.’
Mingo tried to return the photograph.
‘Keep it. I want you to show it around your sleazy friends. Anybody knew her, anybody paid her, anybody that ever bought her a drink.’ Iwata handed over another fifty.
‘All my friends are angels.’ Mingo took the money. ‘Now you get going, Yojimbo. The shrimp that sleeps is taken by the tide.’
‘Mingo of Santee, you’re too good for this town.’
‘Yeah, who ain’t?’ Mingo stuffed the money in his shoe once again, put his sunglasses on and strummed his old guitar. ‘Thank yuh, thank yuh very much.’
Downtown LA was heart-shaped. And like any real broken heart, it was mostly empty, one of the least populated city centres in the world. Gentrification had eventually descended, but it wasn’t in a hurry, the streets still brimming with rubbish and broken glass. The wrong side of town in many a movie had been filmed here, Downtown’s stark concrete drags good for car chases, its doorways fitting for voyeurism, its dark alleyways perfect for double-crosses.
The Jewelry District verged on Hill Street, which ran through Downtown’s core. Its grand old buildings once housed grand old functions, but no one could remember what those were anymore. Seedy little boutiques and long-distance-call shops had sprouted up in their place. Neon signs above cinemas that had died long ago were still present on the skyline, like extravagant headstones. Pawn-shop windows displayed gold chains and diamond-encrusted dollar-sign medallions hocked by failed rappers.
Iwata turned right on 8th Street and California’s tallest building rose up out of the blue distance, the US Bank Tower. He took a left on Grand Avenue and stopped outside the Happy Gopher. The neon sign was off; the door had been left open for deliveries. Inside, the bar was dim and hot. There were dancing poles, private booths, well-stocked shelves. Though the bar had been recently cleaned, the smell of sweat and money grease wasn’t going anywhere.
‘We don’t open till eight.’ A large man came out of the office door. He was wearing a red sateen shirt. The amount of gold rings told Iwata a fifty-dollar bribe wouldn’t go far here.
‘Afternoon, sir.’ Iwata held up his ID. ‘I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Not a lot of people use their real names around here, pal.’
‘That works out, actually. The person I’m looking for goes by Talky. You know him?’
The man bristled. ‘You police?’
‘Private investigator.’
At this, he seemed to soften. ‘Talky used to work the door for me.’
‘Any idea where he is?’
‘He’s not any place.’ The man smiled wryly. ‘He was found dead, needle hanging out of his arm. His real name was Lyle Babich, by the way. Personally, I didn’t mind the guy. Never spoke too much. That’s the advantage of working with mutes.’
Iwata thanked the man and left.
As Iwata drove he snatched glimpses at the sun setting behind pylons and palm trees. Los Angeles was a city of new starts, of mixture, of diverse blood. He understood why Meredith Nichol would come here. But this was also a city of despair, a city that never tired of rejecting those within it, a city of unclaimed dead.
The coroner’s office was on Mission Road, just a few miles from the train tracks where Meredith had been murdered. It was a handsome red-brick building, death’s own lost-property office, the only medical examiner’s in the world with a gift shop. Iwata had been here many times; in cases of missing persons, it was his first port of call – to search the unclaimed, the unidentified.
Lily Trimble was sitting outside the Jack in the Box across the road, nursing a vanilla shake and her vape pen. She was tall, her skin the same colour as her shake. Her red hair was up in a topknot today, her pale eyes on the distance. Beneath her white coat she wore a black T-shirt adorned with a cartoon chalk outline that read:
OUR BODIES OF WORK SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES
‘Lily.’
She smiled up at Iwata, not for his company but for what he represented – a pay day. Lily Trimble was forensic tech support at the medical examiner’s office. In a factory of death, she was quality control. But she was also a student with fees to pay.
‘Evening, Inspector.’ Her voice was small, as though heard across a body of water.
‘How’s the milkshake?’
‘These tastebuds died a long time ago.’
‘Fine.’ Trimble was like Iwata had been once – she dealt only in death. Speaking with people was peripheral to her day. She liked her small talk microscopic. ‘You waiting for a friend?’
Iwata nodded. ‘He’s a little late. Maybe you’ve seen him pass through?’
‘How late?’
‘Just a few days. Lyle Babich was the name. Big guy, I think. And mute.’
‘Give me a while.’
She stood, crossed the road and disappeared inside the coroner’s office. Twenty minutes later she reappeared and placed a Polaroid of the dead man on the table. As billed, Talky was big. Even in death he looked hard-nosed, a big Ikea cabinet pissed off that it had been assembled wonkily.
‘What are you thinking, Lily?’
‘Put simply? Your friend died of massive heroin overdose. Signs of long-term usage.’
Iwata mulled this over. If Meredith’s pimp had died within a few days of her murder, it was no surprise that the police weren’t exactly kicking down any doors. Dead pimps made good culprits.
He passed her a napkin with a hundred-dollar bill folded inside and stood. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Hold on, there’s something else. Now what I said was true: he died of an overdose.’
‘I’m sensing a but.’
‘But his body also displays some pretty textbook defensive wounds.’
‘You’re saying somebody could have done it to him?’ Iwata felt an old, long-buried sensation – the genuine buzz of a potential lead – unearthed like a white truffle.
‘I’m saying maybe someone did it to him. Or maybe it was occupational. I guess that’s where you come in, Inspector.’ She took a final toke on her vape pen and stood. ‘Better get back to my clients.’
‘Don’t keep them waiting on my account.’
With a pale hand, Lily Trimble gave a dispassionate wave.