Lenny Beal and Alma Belasco had met thirty years earlier. When they saw each other again in Lark House, they gave each other a long hug in the middle of the reception hall, and when they finally stepped back, both of them had tears in their eyes. Irina had never seen such a show of emotion from Alma, and if she had not been so convinced about the Japanese lover, she would have thought Lenny was the reason for all those clandestine meetings. She called Seth at once to tell him the news.
“You say he’s a friend of my grandmother’s? I’ve never heard of him. I’ll check him out.”
“How?”
“That’s why I employ investigators.”
Seth’s investigators were two former criminals, one white and the other black, both of them fearsome looking, who spent their time gathering information on cases before they were presented at court. Seth explained the most recent case to Irina. This involved a seaman who was suing a shipping company for a work accident that he claimed had left him paralyzed, but Seth did not believe him. His toughs invited the invalid to a shady nightclub, where they got him drunk and then videoed him dancing with a hostess. Armed with this proof, Seth was able to silence the other man’s lawyer; they made a settlement and were spared the trouble of a court case. Seth confessed to Irina that this had been one of the more honorable tasks that his investigators performed; others had been far more questionable.
Two days later, Seth called Irina for them to meet in the usual pizzeria, but she had bathed five dogs that weekend and was feeling generous. She proposed that this once they go to a decent restaurant: Alma had put the obsession for white tablecloths into her head.
“This time I’m paying,” she told him.
Seth picked her up on his motorcycle and zigzagged with her through the traffic well beyond the speed limit until they reached the Italian district. They arrived with their hair plastered down from their helmets and their noses dripping. Irina realized she was not properly dressed for the restaurant—she never was—and the waiter’s disdainful look only served to confirm it. When she saw the prices on the menu she almost fainted.
“Don’t worry, my firm will pay,” Seth reassured her.
“This is going to cost more than a wheelchair!”
“Why do you want a wheelchair?”
“It’s just a comparison, Seth. There are a couple of old ladies in Lark House who can’t afford the wheelchairs they need.”
“That’s very sad, Irina. I can recommend the scallops with truffles. And a good white wine, of course.”
“Coca-Cola for me.”
“To go with scallops it has to be Chablis. They don’t serve Coca--Cola here.”
“Then I’ll have mineral water with a twist of lemon.”
“Are you an alcoholic in rehab, Irina? You can tell me, there’s no reason to be ashamed. It’s an illness, like diabetes.”
“No, I’m not an alcoholic, but wine gives me a headache,” replied Irina, who had no intention of sharing her worst memories with him.
Before the first course they were served, courtesy of the chef, a spoonful of a blackish foam that seemed to her like it had been vomited by a dragon. Irina tasted it suspiciously, while Seth was explaining that Lenny was a bachelor, had no children, and had specialized in root canal treatment at a dental clinic in Santa Barbara. There was nothing noteworthy about his life, except that he was a great sportsman who had done the Ironman challenge several times—a crazy combination of swimming, cycling, and running that frankly did not sound very appealing. Seth had mentioned Lenny to his father, who had the impression he had been a friend of Alma and Nathaniel, although he couldn’t be sure. He vaguely recalled having seen him at Sea Cliff during Nathaniel’s final illness. Many loyal friends passed through to keep his father company in those days, and Lenny might have been one of them. For the moment, Seth had no more information about him, but he had discovered something about Ichimei.
“The Fukuda family spent three and a half years in a concentration camp during the Second World War,” he told Irina.
“Where?”