Southland by Nina Revoyr

Grandpa never left the house.”
    “Not once the looters came, no.”
    Jackie was relieved to hear this. She hadn’t thought he was involved in the murders, but it was good to know for sure. “But how did Lawson get into the store? Grandpa must have locked the door. Did anyone else have a key?”
    Lois thought for a moment. “Yes. There were three boys who worked in the store—no, four. I think they worked at different times, so I don’t know who would have been there during the riots. Except, I guess, for Curtis Martindale.”
    “Do you remember the other boys’ names?”
    “Let me see now. David. And another D name…Derek. I don’t remember their last names, unfortunately. And a Sansei boy, Akira Matsumoto, who was a little bit older than Rosie. I remember him—he’d come back and visit even after he went off to college, and he had a really foul mouth. He was one of the original members of the Yellow Brotherhood.”
    “The what?”
    “The Yellow Brotherhood—they were kind of a gang. Not like the ones today. They formed for protection, mostly, and they had a political angle. I don’t think they lasted past the sixties.”
    “Do you know what happened to the boys who worked in the store?”
    “I don’t know what happened to the two black boys. Akira moved to Japan. He went to UCLA and got his act together, and then took a job in Tokyo. We’d hear about him sometimes because Dad stayed in touch with his parents. They might still be alive—I could look them up.”
    “Right. But if you called every Matsumoto in the phone book, it’d probably take a year.” She paused. “Thanks for the help, Lois. Sorry to shock you with all this.”
    “It’s not your fault. I’ll let you know if I remember anything else.”
    Friday came, slow as Christmas or a birthday, and Jackie drove back down to Crenshaw. Lanier had given her the address for a place he called the “barbecue church,” and a little after two, she arrived there. In the corner of the parking lot was a huge, smoking grill, facing several picnic tables which were half-filled with people. Jackie parked her car and made sure all her doors were locked. Then she walked over to the tables.
    She was nervous. There were about twenty-five people there, most of them young and all of them black. There were half a dozen older men, sitting together at a table. A middle-aged couple stood behind the grill, apron-clad, he marinating the big sides of beef, she twisting sausages with a pair of tongs. As Jackie approached, she felt self-conscious and not entirely safe. The teenagers looked at her and lifted single eyebrows in calm disdain. Jackie scanned the tables again—where was Lanier? But then he turned—he’d been sitting with his back to her—and waved her over.
    “Thanks for meeting me here,” he said as she approached. “I needed to touch base with some folks at the church…” He gestured toward the building. “…and then I thought I’d get some lunch. I hope you haven’t eaten already.”
    Jackie smiled. “I haven’t, actually. Once you told me there was barbecue involved, I figured I should wait.”
    Lanier extricated himself from the picnic table, motioning for her to walk toward the grill. “It’s actually an interesting story. Twenty-five years ago, this was just an empty lot. Then the founders of the church started using it to sell barbecue ribs and hot links at lunchtime. Well, word got around and the food sold so well that the founders raised enough money to build the church.”
    Jackie nodded, feeling encouraged. Lanier still hadn’t smiled at her, but he seemed much more relaxed than the first time they met. He wouldn’t have brought her here, she thought, if he disliked her.
    They had reached the grill now, and Lanier gestured to the couple behind it. “This is Don and Mary Carter. Mary’s the daughter of the original church founders. And this,” he said to the Carters, “is Jackie Ishida, Frank Sakai’s