Chapter 1
I heard the ring through fuzzy sleep. Groaning, I opened
one eye and groped for the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hel-lo, Eve Diamond," said a cheerful voice on other
line. "Miller here."
My editor was oblivious to, or else ignoring, my sleep-
logged voice at ten in the morning, a time when most
reporters were already at their desks, rustling through
the daily paper and midway through a second cup of coffee.
I swallowed, and tasted chardonnay, now a sour reminder of
last night's excess.
"...slumped in her new Lexus, blood all over the place,
right there in the parking lot of Fabric World in San
Gabriel," Miller was saying. "Guess the bridesmaids won't
be wearing those dresses any time soon."
I cleared my throat.
"Can I have that address again, my pen stopped working."
"Why, suuure," he said. "Hold on, let me see what the
wires are saying."
I would hold forever for Matt Miller. He was my hero,
known and loved throughout the paper as a decent human
being, a trait the Los Angeles Times rarely bred anymore
in its editors. Most of the real characters had long ago
been pushed out of the profession or early-retired to
pickle themselves slowly and decorously in hillside
moderne homes. They had been replaced by gray-faced
accountants with more hidden vices. Funny thing was, Matt
didn't seem to drink too much, and he was happily married.
After a quick shower, I was out the door of my apartment.
I lived in a funky hillside community ten minutes
northwest of downtown. Silverlake's California bungalows
and Spanish-style homes harkened back to an earlier era
when the neighborhood had bustled with some of Hollywood's
original movie studios. And though the studios had long
ago given way to the same public storage facilities and
mini-malls that infested the rest of the city, a whiff of
1920s glamour still clung to our hills and attracted one
of the city's most eclectic populations — lately it had
been a wave of boho hipsters. They settled down, living
cheek by pierced jowl alongside multigenerational Latino
families, third-generation Asian-Americans, Eastern
European refugees from communism, 1930s-era Hollywood
communists, and a smattering of liberal white yuppies, all
of whom somehow managed to get along. Plus it was freeway
close.
Within moments I was chugging along the ten-lane expanse
of asphalt, looping around downtown Los Angeles and
heading east on Interstate 10. Steering with one hand, I
flipped the pages of my Thomas Guide with the other,
looking for Valley Boulevard and Del Mar. Out my window,
the bony spines of the San Gabriel Mountains were already
obscured by a thick haze. The San Gabes were a scrubby
desolate range northeast of the city, from which bears and
mountain lions emerged with regularity to attack the
inhabitants of tract houses gouged from the hills. Each
year, flash floods and icy ridges claimed a dozen or so
hikers. You wouldn't think that could happen so close to
the city, but it did. The way I saw it, nature, too,
demanded its pound of flesh. It was only we who called it
accidents.
The cars ahead of me shimmered in the heat. The forecast
was for 102 degrees in the Inland Valleys, with a Stage 1
Smog Alert. Already, perspiration pooled in the hollows of
my body, and I cursed the fact that the A/C was out again
in my nine-year-old Acura Integra.
Oh, it happened at that place, I thought, as the mammoth
shopping center loomed into view. It was an anomaly that
only the Pacific Rim fantasy aesthetic of Los Angeles
could have produced. Built in a Spanish Mission style,
with dusky earth tones, the three-story shopping center
catered exclusively to the exploding Chinese immigrant
community, although on occasion, a looky-loo gringo would
wander through, bug-eyed at the panorama of this Asian
Disneyland.
At San Gabriel Village Square, a name developers clearly
hoped would evoke a more bucolic time, you could gorge on
Islamic Chinese food, buy designer suits from Hong Kong,
pick out live lobsters for dinner and $700 bottles of
French cognac for dessert, or take out a $1 million
insurance policy on your cheating spouse.
Or, as seventeen-year-old Marina Lu had done, you could
order custom dresses for the ten bridesmaids who would
precede you down the aisle the following June, the wedding
day Marina had planned for years with the boy she had
known since junior high.
Except on this stultifying morning, fate had backed up and
pulled a U-turn, and now Marina Lu lay dead, brains
splattered all over the buttery leather seats of her
status car, the two-carat rock on her manicured engagement
finger refracting only shattered hope.
I picked my way past the yellow police tape that cordoned
off the murder scene, waving my notepad and press pass and
standing close enough to a burly cop so that my perfume-
spiked perspiration got his attention.
"Looks like an attempted carjacking that went bad," the
cop said, squinting into the sun as he recited the
facts. "Witness in the parking lot heard the shot, then
saw an Asian kid, about fifteen, take off in a late-model
Honda with two accomplices. Fifth carjacking here this
month, and the first time they flubbed it. She must have
resisted." The policeman punctuated his commentary with a
huge yawn that bared his fleshy pink palate.
"And there's why," his partner said, watching the homicide
detective retrieve a Chanel bag and pull out a matching
wallet stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. "She was gonna
pay cash for those dresses. Those immigrants don't believe
in credit."
Nudging the Acura back onto the freeway, I headed for my
office in Monrovia, a formerly white WASPy town at the
foot of the San Gabriels, where the Times had established
a bureau in the halcyon years when it was busy stretching
great inky tentacles into every Southland cul-de-sac. The
Valley was gritty and industrial, filled with the vitality
of colliding immigrant sensibilities that were slowly
squeezing out the blue- and white-collar old-timers. All
the big Rim cities were morphing into Third World
millennial capitals. But in the San Gabriel Valley, the
future was already here. I made a mental note to ask the
police reporter from the Chinese Daily News out for lunch
on the Times Mirror tab. I had seen him again today at the
mall carjacking, interviewing madly. Skinny, with bad
teeth, he looked like he could use a good meal. And I
could use some fresh story ideas.
"Metro wants twelve inches," Miller called out when I
stepped inside the fluorescent light of the office,
letting the cool air blast my hot skin.
I wrote it up, then dawdled at my desk. Until there were
some arrests, it would be just another murder in the City
of Angels, which on prickly summer days averaged more than
one each hour. Sure, there was the sob factor about the
bride mowed down as she planned her wedding, and I milked
it for all it was worth. But it was more from habit than
any vestigial hope that I would shock readers into doing
something about it. The story of the dead woman in the car
was no more gripping than that of the two-year-old toddler
killed by a stray bullet in South-Central L.A. as he
played in the living room. The elderly widow clubbed to
death in Long Beach by the transient she hired to weed her
lawn. Or the seventeen-year-old honor student in El Sereno
whose single mother had changed neighborhoods to escape
the gangs, only to have her son shot when his car broke
down on the freeway. For reporters and cops alike, a sort
of battle fatigue had set in. We had lost our ability to
be shocked. My brain flickered to the next story as I ate
cold sesame noodles from the plastic bento box I packed
each morning. Then it was back in the sweltering car to
interview a man named Mark Furukawa for an education
story.
In a small bureau, everyone wore several hats. I also
covered the schools. Frankly, the education beat didn't
thrill me. Single, without kids, I couldn't relate to the
obsession with SAT scores and dress codes. Now a teacher
had referred me to Furukawa, hinting that the youth
counselor for troubled kids at the Rainbow Coalition
Center could dish up something more spicy.
Their offices were in a decaying mini-mall in El Monte, a
small municipality twenty minutes away. A scattering of
Asians sat in the waiting room, resignation and boredom
etched across their faces. Some filled out forms, while
others stared out through the grimy venetian blinds into
the parking lot, ignoring the dust that clung to the metal
slats and balled in the corners of the room.
Soon, I was ushered into a functional cube of an office. A
framed photo of an Asian woman stood on the desk. She was
clad in a vintage forties cocktail dress, with a string of
pearls and a low-cut décolletage. Her hair was done up in
long curly waves and her eyes were big and limpid.
Behind the desk were bookshelves crammed with medical
journals and psychology texts and a guidebook to Los
Angeles County gangs. Wedged in between was a blue-and-
white can of something called "Pocari Sweat" whose cursive
lettering evoked the Coca-Cola logo.
I checked it out for a while, then glanced at my watch,
wondering when Furukawa would show, until a man appeared
in the door. He was in his early thirties, exuding an
attitude that started with his Doc Martens, traveled north
up the jeans to a jutting hip, and ended with ponytailed
hair tied back in a colorful Guatemalan scrunchy. A little
too street for his own good, I thought, and probably a
recovered drug addict or gangbanger to boot.
"Be with you in a sec," the man said, and disappeared. I
had been expecting a middle-aged guy with a paunch, not
some hipster near my own age. Well. I made my way back to
the other side of the desk and settled into a plastic
chair, feeling the fabric stick to the back of my skirt.
Now I took a closer look at the girl on his desk. She
smiled into the camera, her eyes shiny with love. It
figured he would have a stunning girlfriend. Nobody
displayed a picture like that without intending to
telegraph something.
He came back into the room and we shook hands and traded
business cards. I told him my predicament and asked
whether he was seeing any trends with kids in the San
Gabriel Valley.
"There are a million good stories out there, but the real
interesting ones, I can't talk about." Furukawa lit up a
cigarette. In the San Gabriel Valley, everybody still
smoked, and no one asked you to put it out. That would
have been going against the culture.
He bit down on a pen and thought for a moment. "I do see a
lot more straight-A kids living a double life in gangs."
"In the Asian community, hhmmm. I wouldn't have thought."
"Yeah, that's the problem with us, the model minority
myth."
"I didn't mean..."
"You're not the first. But dig, most of the kids I see are
immigrants. Mom and Dad may live here now but their brains
are hard-wired to the old country."
Furukawa leaned back in his chair and described kids
caught between traditional Asian values and permissive
American culture, and fully at home in neither. The
schools sent him all their problem cases and he jive-
talked them into listening, which was always the first
step, he said. He spoke their language. It didn't matter
that he was a Sansei and they were Overseas Chinese and
Southeast Asian.
"No offense, but I thought the Chinese didn't like the
Japanese on account of World War Two."
He appraised me anew.
"This is the New World. We all get along. They'd like
Hirohito himself if he paid attention to them."
I scribbled as he spoke, filling page after page in my
notebook. He saw I was lagging and stopped, puffing on his
cigarette and staring out the window until I caught up. In
another, more quiet corner of my mind, I wondered how
often he gave this spiel to ignorant whites and how he
felt about it.
Soon he seemed to grow impatient and ambled over to the
bookshelf to pull something down. Now he turned and lobbed
it at me.
"Catch."
I dropped my pen, extended my hands, and found myself
holding the blue-and-white can of Pocari Sweat I had been
staring at earlier.
"Nice reflexes. You'd be good in a pinch."
He walked back to his chair and sat down, and I wondered
what kind of game we were playing.
"What the hell is Pocari Sweat?" I asked. "Do you squirt
it under your arms?"
"Japanese sports drink. Think Gatorade. The name is
supposed to evoke a thirst-quenching drink for top
athletes."
"Who's going to want to drink something called 'sweat'?"
"Exactly." He looked pleased with himself. "No one in
America. But it's only marketed in Asia. Lots of stuff has
English names. Asians don't get the negative cultural
connotation of the English words, so you end up with
something that doesn't quite translate."
"I see." I wasn't sure where this digression was going.
"A lot of the immigrant kids I counsel are like Pocari
Sweat. Caught in a culture warp they don't know how to
decode. The parents are even worse off. They expect their
children to show filial piety, excel in school, and come
straight home when classes let out. Meanwhile the kids
want to date, hang out at the mall, and yak on the phone.
They want all the nice consumer things they see on
American TV. So they find ways to get them. The parents
only wise up when a police officer lands on their door."
"And they're not collecting for the police benevolent
fund."
"You got it." Furukawa stubbed out the emphysema
stick. "The kids get beaten or grounded for six months. So
they run away. To a friend's house to cool off, if they're
lucky. If not, to a motel room rented by some older pals
from school, maybe a dai lo. Where they can drink and
party with their girlfriends. And when the money runs out,
it's easy to get more. The dai los always have work."
"A dai what?"
"That's Chinese for older brother. It's a gang term. The
dai lo recruits younger kids into gangs. Shows them a good
time. Takes them out to a karaoke bar when they're
underage and buys 'em drinks. Drives them around in a fast
car. The good life. It's very seductive when you're
fifteen. And these kids feel that once they've left home
and disgraced their parents, they can never go back."
He might have been talking about the weather, or how his
car needed gas. To him, this was mundane, everyday stuff.
To me it was a glimpse into a suburban badland I hadn't
considered before.
"What do you mean, there's always work to do?"
"Muscle at the local brothels. Drug runners. Carjackings.
You name it," Furukawa shrugged. "One homie told me he
gets a thousand for each Mercedes he delivers."
"Carjackings? I was out on one of those today. But it got
messy," I spoke slowly. "Young bride who'll never see her
honeymoon night. It'll be on the news tonight."
Furukawa winced.
"Can you introduce me to some of these kids?" I tried to
keep the hope out of my voice.
"Afraid not, darling."
"Why not? Now that you've told me." I was miffed.
"They're minors. There are all sorts of privacy issues.
And these are fucked-up kids. They don't need any more
distraction in their lives."
"Yeah, well."
It was a tantalizing lead, but I needed his help to pursue
it.
"Wait a minute," I said, "I thought the Vietnamese were
the ones who joined gangs. A society brutalized by war,
years in internment camps, families torn apart and
killed..."
"Yeah, they sure do. But they ain't flying solo. You got
Cambodians, Filipinos, Samoans, Overseas Chinese. It's the
Chinese usually call the shots. Local offshoots of the
Hong Kong triads: White Crane, Dragon Claw, Black Hand.
They're equal-opportunity employers," he grinned. "And
unlike your black and Latino gangs, they don't advertise
it with baggy clothing or shaved heads. Your typical Asian
gang member dresses preppy. Neat and clean-cut. Sometimes
they're even A-students. Total double life, like I was
saying. But sooner or later something cracks."
Yeah, like today in the shopping center, I thought. I
looked out the window, where the sky was streaked with red
and purple.
"This could be a really good story," I told him. "But I
would need to meet some kids, then use their stories to
illustrate the larger trend."
His eyes swiveled from me to the manila files piled atop
his desk, then back to me. He put his hand on the top
file, then shook his head.
"I just finished telling you that these are screwed-up
kids. And I know that ultimately, Eve Diamond, you don't
give a rat's ass about the slash marks on their wrists or
the gang rape they suffered at age thirteen. You just want
the lurid details. Then after you've gotten them all
heated up reliving it, you'll toss the mess back into my
lap and expect me to fix it."
"That's why you're a totally simpatico counselor and I'm a
heartless reporter." I tossed back the can of Pocari
Sweat. With an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist, he
extended one hand and caught it.
"Of course we'd change their names. We're not intrusive
like TV. Think how a Times story would get people talking.
The Board of Supes might even cough up extra funding." I
leaned forward and locked eyes with him. "I can see you're
protective about your kids, Mark. They're lucky to have
you on their side. But for the record, we're not all
automatons."
I stood up.
He stared at me with a look I couldn't decipher.
"Drink?" he said finally. "I know a great Italian place."
"Italian?" I said in mock-horror. "The least you could do
after insulting me is offer to take me to a sushi bar you
know tucked away in one of these awful strip malls."
"Not too many of those left on this side of town," he
sighed. "They've all moved west and gone uptown. Besides,
what you got against Italian?"
"Nothing. I just have this thing for sake."
He considered this.
Suddenly nervous, I rushed in to break the silence.
"Maybe some other time. You probably have to meet your
girlfriend."
"My girlfriend?"
"I pointed to the photo on his desk. "I couldn't help
noticing. She looks just like Gong Li."
He laughed. "My mother, who is Japanese, by the way, not
Chinese, will be flattered."
"That's your mother?" I hoped my voice didn't show relief.
"Yes. Right after she got married. My father took the
photo."
"Sorry," I stuttered. "I just assumed that since it was on
your desk..."
He was staring at me again. I knew I was turning crimson.
I hadn't meant to get all personal. Now he would think I
was nosy as well as a heartless exploiter of damaged kids.
"Don't be," he said. "It's there for a reason. There's a
lot of transference in my line of work. Some of these
teenage girls, they're really searching for their lost
daddies but they'll settle for me. So I put Mom here to
keep an eye on things. I've found she wards off the
weirder stuff."
Now I was doubly intrigued. And oddly ecstatic that he
didn't have a girlfriend. At least not one whose picture
he put on his desk.
He was all business as he showed me the door.
Copyright © 2001 by Denise Hamilton