South Central Noir

“Whose streets? Our streets!” echoed from the protesters.

The cops spread out in a semicircle around the crowd. Two sergeants were among them, one on either end. There were also a few people wearing light-green caps standing around. These were lawyers — legal observers. If there was an attempt to occupy the premises, the cops would have cause to move in. As it was, they still might declare this an unlawful assembly.

“Hey, Magrady,” said a man in one of the light-green caps. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans.

“Mark, how’s it going?” They shook hands.

“Same old, same old.” Mark Josephs was white, in his forties, pleasant-looking with a pockmarked jawline. He was a surfer and civil litigator who’d won a handful of significant cases against the LAPD over the years. “How come there’s a detective over there mad-dogging us?”

Magrady had noticed a silver-colored Chrysler arrive on the periphery with Tsuji behind the wheel. “He’s here to rattle me.” He explained why.

“Huh,” Josephs said. “Let me know if you need my help.”

“I will, thanks.”

Josephs joined two other legal observers talking to one of the sergeants. The protesters were now out on the sidewalk and that, too — obstructing a public right-of-way — could be used by the cops to vamp on them, Magrady reflected. He threaded his way through the gathered as more speakers came to the mic. At one point the uniforms pressed their semicircle tighter, seemingly trying to prod everyone onto the lawn. Magrady and the others tensed. The person at the mic kept talking but everyone’s eyes were on the police. At some imperceptible signal, the officers took a few steps back and everyone exhaled.

Eventually the event wound down, the collective release of energy like air escaping a balloon. Bonilla was being interviewed by a radio reporter outlining their next steps in the fight to keep the family’s home. This involved putting pressure on specific members of the Demizro board.

Hands in his pockets, standing at the curb as people left, Magrady saw that Tsuji was gone as well. It suddenly occurred to him that Banshall probably didn’t have any immediate family in town. He knew his friend had been married but he recalled the wife had died a few years ago. And as far as he knew, the jazzman didn’t have any children. He wasn’t sure how long the county morgue would hold onto his body. If unclaimed, it would eventually be cremated to save space. Since it was still an open investigation, it would probably be Tsuji who would inform the coroner to release the body.

Back at the Urban Advocacy office, Magrady used one of their real estate databases to look up information on the fourplex where Banshall had lived. He discovered that the owner didn’t live there and the other units were all occupied by tenants. The police might have put up their warning tape on Banshall’s door or maybe not. He did recall, however, that the main entry door was kept locked. He smiled, realizing he was working himself into how to get into the dead man’s apartment. He couldn’t exactly say why, but did anyone deserve to die alone? A B&E was out of the question. The front door was heavy and sturdy and the windows on the ground floor were barred. Imagine if Tsuji threw him in lockup for trying to force his way in? He’d look guilty as hell. Not that he gave a shit. He wondered if he called the owner pretending to want to rent the now-vacant apartment, how might that go? Magrady supposed that like a vampire, he was going to have to be invited inside.

The next day before sunup, Magrady sat in his car keeping watch on the fourplex. He saw a man leave the place around seven thirty that morning and a woman leave at ten past nine. The man walked along the street and turned the corner. The woman got into a car. That left the occupant of the third apartment. Maybe they worked from home. What kind of ruse could he try to gain entry? He sat and waited. Magrady had planned and had brought along a sandwich, but despite jonesing for it, no coffee. The latter an effort to not have to pee, at least not frequently. A little before eleven, an older woman exited the premises. She had on a straw sun hat and pulled one of those adjustable rolling carts old folks used to take their groceries home from the supermarket. She stood in front and soon a cab, a Prius, pulled up. The driver got out, collapsed her cart, and put it in the hatchback. She got in the rear. Off they went.

Nearly an hour and a half later the older lady returned in another cab. As the driver helped her get unloaded, Magrady came up.

“Ma’am, sorry to bother you, but does Ty Banshall live here? He’s a saxophone player.” He held up his phone. “We had an appointment today about an upcoming gig, but he’s not answering.”

“Oh my, I guess you haven’t heard.” She was a walnut-colored woman who looked to be in her seventies. She reminded him of those ladies who did the volunteer work at the church of his youth.