South Central Noir

Magrady went over to the detective and told him who he was.

“Yes sir, I’m Aaron Tsuji with the LAPD.”

“This about Ty Banshall’s death?”

“Where can we talk?”

“This way.”

Magrady led him along a hallway and they went into the conference room, sitting opposite one another.

“What is it about Ty’s death that’s so odd?” Magrady asked.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re robbery-homicide and about the only thing Ty had of value was his sax.”

“You’ve been in trouble with the law before, have you, Mr. Magrady?”

“I’m sure you looked me up before coming over here.”

“You and the deceased served in Vietnam.”

“We did but weren’t in the same unit.”

Tsuji let that sink in. “Can you tell me about the other night?”

“Not a problem.” Magrady related the events matter-of-factly, then added, “He was dead by the time the paramedics arrived. Ty wasn’t beaten, shot, or stabbed. And you being here means it wasn’t just a heart attack.” He paused. “Was Ty poisoned?”

Tsuji allowed no reaction onto his face but a gleam flickered in his eyes. “Why don’t we go over to the station and see if we can clear this up.”

“Arrest me and I’ll go.”

“You don’t seem to be too upset about Mr. Banshall’s murder.”

“I’ve seen death in the jungle and on the streets, Mr. Tsuji. I’ve been near enough to it that she’s kissed me on the cheek once or twice. Me and Ty were friends but not ace boon coons, if you dig what I’m sayin’. Until I heard from him about the jam session, I didn’t even know he’d come back to town. Apparently he’d been here for a while.”

“Why is it you didn’t drink that night?”

“I’m an alcoholic and a drug fiend.”

Tsuji stared at Magrady for several beats, then stood, extracted one of his business cards, and placed it on the table. As Magrady had assumed, he worked out of the Southwest Division.

“Let me know if you think of anything.”

“I will.”

Tsuji headed toward the door. “I’ll probably be back in touch.”

Magrady resisted making a sarcastic remark as the plainclothesman left. He remained sitting. The booze had probably been poisoned, thus the question about why he hadn’t taken a drink. It wasn’t a virgin bottle of Jameson, Magrady had noticed the night before. He also figured they’d pulled his prints from the glass he’d used, and spoken with the EMTs.

“Well?” Janice Bonilla stood in the doorway.

He told her what was up.

“Why do you think he would be poisoned? Some old beef?”

“It has to be,” Magrady said. “Far as I know, Ty made some good money but he blew through it a lifetime ago. I mean, except I guess for some royalty payments now and then, he probably only had Social Security.”

“Maybe like Robert Johnson, it was a love triangle.”

“Sheet, at his age? A jealous boyfriend did him in?” Or so went the legend about the demise of the famed bluesman.

Bonilla snorted. “Who you tellin’, playboy?” She knew he had a lady friend named Angie Baine who was older than him. She was a former B movie starlet who’d been in films such as Wolfman A-Go-Go and The Atomic Eye. “About a month ago in Rosemead this great-grandmother stuck a knife in the back of her old man as he was playing Scrabble in the facility they lived in ’cause he was ending their relationship. And she was in her eighties.”

“Okay, could be,” Magrady conceded. “That cop Tsuji will sort it out or not. I’ma get to the tenants’ meeting.”

“See you later,” she said.

Several days after the planning meeting, Magrady drove past the rear of a laundromat where a few compact nylon tents and other forms of precarious shelter were arrayed. He parked near his destination, joining Bonilla and Alvaringa, along with various community members and organizers from two allied organizations. They were there doing a direct action in front of a house on Budlong near the intersection of Jefferson.

“This is not the way we solve homelessness in this city, by making more homeless.” Bonilla was talking into a portable mic attached to a speaker. “This won’t do displacing a hardworking single mother and her two children over a matter than can easily be resolved. Needs to be resolved.”

Yells of support issued from the gathered, more than seventy people standing on the lawn facing the speaker. Several police cars rolled into view and parked haphazardly in the street. The officers joined the media who were also present. The family Bonilla was referring to had been evicted from the house, a rental. Not for failure to pay but over what in a higher-income area would have been a minor infraction: an unauthorized repair. But the rental company, a national outfit called Demizro which owned various units in South LA, knew the mother was a housing activist and wanted to make an example. A lot of the housing stock they owned had been acquired during the last economic downturn.

Bonilla continued, “We have to stand up to the likes of Demizro and their mercenary methods. People have a right to shelter just as they have a right to food and water.”

“Hell yes!” went up the cry. Fists pumped the air and placards were held aloft.