Chinatown. Too difficult to find a place to live here, among our own people, unless you have money or family already in San Francisco. Those of us who came after 1913 cannot own property. I was lucky—my husband was here long before. He owned a tailor shop—and married late. I was very young, a picture bride from Matsue. No children at first. Then the babies come. So where do we go? Chinatown. They send us to Chinatown, with the Chinese, thinking we’re all the same.”
Mrs. Takahashi stared at the wall, her tea still untouched. Miranda spoke gently. “It must have been very difficult. Especially after—especially a couple of years ago.”
Tears welled, her shrill voice cutting through the quiet darkness of the kitchen. “Do you know they spat on my Michi? Spat on him! He protected his sister, thank God, protected her from everything. And still, he was friends with Chinese, Filipinos, riffraff. Emi learned some of the language in school, but I won’t let her speak it here. I don’t say I agree with war, Miss Corbie—I’m an Issei , yes, but an American first. But the Chinese are mongrels. And the Filipinos are just as bad or worse.”
Miranda’s sharp intake of air shut Mrs. Takahashi off. She busied herself with the tea, bright red. The old lady in the kimono was still nodding her head and smiling for the first time.
“Of course, I don’t expect you to understand.” The tone was plaintive now, the resentful undertow still dangerous. “You’re white. And you’re not married, don’t have children. Maybe you think the Chinese have a right to their parties and their parades and the filthy lies they print in their newspapers.”
The sister-in-law got up to make more tea. Miranda tried to put the sympathy back in her voice, thinking of Eddie. And this woman who looked at her with Eddie’s eyes.
“I’m not here to discuss the political situation, Mrs. Takahashi. I’m only interested in solving the murder of your son. Maybe your daughter would know if he mentioned these men?”
The father woke from his reverie with enough energy to raise his eyebrows. He asked his sister something. She looked at Eddie’s mother. Mrs. Takahashi looked elsewhere.
“Emi is a delicate girl, Miss Corbie, and was close to her brother. She is too upset to speak with anyone right now.”
“Perhaps another time, then?”
The women ignored the question by pouring for the old man. An invitation to leave. Miranda stood up and put her gloves back on.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Mrs. Takahashi’s glasses caught the glare from the overhead lamp, and she rose, her frumpy dress wrinkled again.
“Thank you, Miss Corbie. Please do. I’m sure it’s as the police suggested. If you’re looking for Eddie’s murderer, look no farther than Chinatown.”
Miranda bowed her head and left the room. A cacophony of angry Japanese erupted from the kitchen when she shut the rooming house door.
Fog from the ocean was crawling over the Geary hill, wrapping around the few headstones remaining in the Richmond cemeteries. The dead were moving to Colma, unable to afford the rent in San Francisco. Miranda lit a Chesterfield and headed for Stockton.
Her wristwatch said eleven-thirty. An hour and a half to get to the Owl lunch counter and a meeting with Mrs. Winters, who was a paying customer and presumably expected her to be on time. The ones who paid always did.
She looked up and down the wide street. A White Front was in the distance. She could stand at the corner and arrive at the appointment early. Or she could take a stroll around Little Osaka, and try to learn more about the Takahashis. At least the younger generation. She’d had her fill of the older one.
The metal taps on the bottom of the navy pumps made a pleasant clink against the pavement. She crossed to the east side of Sutter, turning north, where a strip of businesses lined up, hands out.
First an art repair store and a dental office. Then a small, dirty storefront lined with
Mrs. Takahashi stared at the wall, her tea still untouched. Miranda spoke gently. “It must have been very difficult. Especially after—especially a couple of years ago.”
Tears welled, her shrill voice cutting through the quiet darkness of the kitchen. “Do you know they spat on my Michi? Spat on him! He protected his sister, thank God, protected her from everything. And still, he was friends with Chinese, Filipinos, riffraff. Emi learned some of the language in school, but I won’t let her speak it here. I don’t say I agree with war, Miss Corbie—I’m an Issei , yes, but an American first. But the Chinese are mongrels. And the Filipinos are just as bad or worse.”
Miranda’s sharp intake of air shut Mrs. Takahashi off. She busied herself with the tea, bright red. The old lady in the kimono was still nodding her head and smiling for the first time.
“Of course, I don’t expect you to understand.” The tone was plaintive now, the resentful undertow still dangerous. “You’re white. And you’re not married, don’t have children. Maybe you think the Chinese have a right to their parties and their parades and the filthy lies they print in their newspapers.”
The sister-in-law got up to make more tea. Miranda tried to put the sympathy back in her voice, thinking of Eddie. And this woman who looked at her with Eddie’s eyes.
“I’m not here to discuss the political situation, Mrs. Takahashi. I’m only interested in solving the murder of your son. Maybe your daughter would know if he mentioned these men?”
The father woke from his reverie with enough energy to raise his eyebrows. He asked his sister something. She looked at Eddie’s mother. Mrs. Takahashi looked elsewhere.
“Emi is a delicate girl, Miss Corbie, and was close to her brother. She is too upset to speak with anyone right now.”
“Perhaps another time, then?”
The women ignored the question by pouring for the old man. An invitation to leave. Miranda stood up and put her gloves back on.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Mrs. Takahashi’s glasses caught the glare from the overhead lamp, and she rose, her frumpy dress wrinkled again.
“Thank you, Miss Corbie. Please do. I’m sure it’s as the police suggested. If you’re looking for Eddie’s murderer, look no farther than Chinatown.”
Miranda bowed her head and left the room. A cacophony of angry Japanese erupted from the kitchen when she shut the rooming house door.
Fog from the ocean was crawling over the Geary hill, wrapping around the few headstones remaining in the Richmond cemeteries. The dead were moving to Colma, unable to afford the rent in San Francisco. Miranda lit a Chesterfield and headed for Stockton.
Her wristwatch said eleven-thirty. An hour and a half to get to the Owl lunch counter and a meeting with Mrs. Winters, who was a paying customer and presumably expected her to be on time. The ones who paid always did.
She looked up and down the wide street. A White Front was in the distance. She could stand at the corner and arrive at the appointment early. Or she could take a stroll around Little Osaka, and try to learn more about the Takahashis. At least the younger generation. She’d had her fill of the older one.
The metal taps on the bottom of the navy pumps made a pleasant clink against the pavement. She crossed to the east side of Sutter, turning north, where a strip of businesses lined up, hands out.
First an art repair store and a dental office. Then a small, dirty storefront lined with
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