Mio once told me an interesting anecdote that occurred in Japan during the Tokugawa Shogunate. The official class structure of Japan was Confucian, which placed merchants at the bottom of the social scale. The merchants, however, did what merchants tend to do. They got rich. And they displayed their wealth the way the wealthy do: ostentatiously. Naturally enough, they used their clothing as a symbol of their elite status. They decorated themselves in sumptuous fabrics as an advertisement of their true social standing and a direct challenge to the Shogunate’s professed Confucian values. They were supposed to be at the bottom, but their growing wealth had gradually inverted the Confucian totem pole.
So what did the government do? They outlawed flamboyant clothes. Whenever in public view, merchants were required to dress in very plain garments. What did the merchants do? They complied, of course. They had money, but the Shogun had swords. However, being the clever men they were, they complied only with the letter of the law. They turned their garments inside out, so the sumptuous fabrics became the inner linings. Whenever they needed to display their privileged status, they could simply open their garments and strut like peacocks.
Levko’s voice brought me back from Japan. “Why are you interested in cop’s murder?” he asked.
I could have fed him a line, making up something plausible. Or I could have told him it wasn’t any of his concern. But there was something genuinely affable about this big Ukrainian. I found myself taking a simpler tack. “I didn’t know the guy or his niece. Never met them. My interest is through Arnaud’s wife.”
“We’re you having affair?”
“Nothing that banal. My relationship with Francine Arnaud was brief and somewhat adventitious to all of this.”
“Adventitious?”
“Coincidental.”
“So why all the trouble?”
“Considering our agreement, Levko, it’s probably better if we don’t go into that.”
“OK,“ he said, shrugging. “But seems like big hassle.”
“Is this a big hassle for you?” I asked.
“Not so much. I like driving. But my girlfriend is suspicious. She is jealous type. She wants to know everywhere I go.”
“I take it you made something up?”
“I told her I was going to pick up stuff I bought on eBay,” he said, smiling, obviously pleased by the cleverness of his subterfuge.
“She didn’t want to come?”
“No. I told her it was Teddy Roosevelt stuff.”
“Teddy Roosevelt?”
“Yes. Teddy is my favorite president. I am collector. But girlfriend thinks it is stupid waste of money.”
There were probably stranger hobbies for a Ukrainian immigrant, but nothing came immediately to mind. “Roosevelt isn’t your girlfriend’s favorite president?” I asked.
He looked at me like it was a perfectly reasonable question. “Girlfriend is American,” he said, as if that were a sufficient explanation.
“I see,” I said. “She’s not interested in history.”
“She is smart woman. But Ukrainian farmer has better education.”
We took the Sly Park exit off 50, crossed the highway and went north, winding along Canyon Edge Road, then turned on Boyce Canyon Road. A mile or so further, approaching a sharp bend, Levko pulled off the pavement and stopped.
“You can see Pines Guy’s house from here.”
He opened his door and got out. I followed him across the road to a vantage point. From where we stood, the land fell off abruptly about two hundred feet down to the bottom of a ravine. I could hear water gurgling in a small creek at the bottom. Beyond the creek, the bank rose steeply for thirty feet or so, then angled to a gentler slope as it climbed the far side of the ravine.
“He lives there,” Levko said, pointing to some lights about a quarter mile away, visible through the trees.
There was enough moonlight to make out the shadowed contours of a large, two story house. It looked like there were also two detached structures. One was probably a garage. The other, some kind of shed, was larger and farther away from the house.
“The lights are all outside,” I said. “The house looks dark.”
“House is always dark when I come. But I think Pines Guy is home. You can’t see house from where driveway meets road. You have to go up driveway. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want Pines Guy to see me and tell Yavorsky.”
I had no problem with that. There was no reason for me to get Levko in trouble with his boss. “When you brought the girls here,” I asked, “did you see anyone else around the house?”
“Never. Only Pines Guy.”
“Did you go inside?”
“No. Pines Guy came out to my car and took girls. One time I asked him if I could use bathroom. He said bears shit in woods.”
It would have been nice to get a closer look at the house, but I’d made a deal with Levko. “Let’s drive a little further. I want to see where his driveway meets the road.”
We walked back to the car. About a half mile further, Levko pointed out an unmarked, narrow, dirt drive, partially overgrown with weeds. It would be easy to miss if you didn’t know where it was.
The drive back to Sacramento was uneventful. I learned a little more than I really wanted to know about Teddy Roosevelt. I also learned something interesting about Richardson. According to Levko, Yavorsky and Richardson had known each other for a long time. Not friends, exactly, but their business connections went back several years. Richardson was going to be disappointed to hear that his December payment would be doubled.
Chapter 20
The following Wednesday evening I went to the university library. I’ve always liked libraries. In the age of the Internet, their solid inefficiency has a distinctive charm. I like to stroll casually through the library stacks, slide an interesting title off the shelf and thumb leisurely through its pages. That’s what I was doing Wednesday evening. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just pausing at whatever caught my eye. I found a fascinating photo collection of wildly
