sons, they built a thriving business raising and selling berries. That all went away in the aftermath of the attack on Pearl Harbor. While Takumi, Suki, their daughters-in-law and grandchildren waited out the war in Minidoka, their two adult sons served in the U.S. Army’s legendary 442nd Regimental Combat Team.
When the war was over, only one son, Henry, came back home. Henry was the mastermind behind the creation of a start-up real-estate operation that more than seventy years later remained in business, having morphed into a still-family-owned enterprise called Highline Development. According to the Web site, the company’s current CEO was listed as Suzanne Nishikawa, none other than Takumi and Suki’s great-granddaughter. Another great-grandson, a guy named John Nishikawa, was listed as Highline’s primary builder, so they were keeping the construction part of the business in the family as well. I came away from the Web site feeling as though I had just encountered a piece of Seattle history, one of which I’m sure Arthur Denny would have approved.
As I shut down the computer, I couldn’t help but marvel at how much of Seattle’s twentieth-century history was wrapped up in the stories of those two very different families—the Mayfields and the Nishikawas. Their separate experiences of World War II had been from two very different perspectives, but now, more than seventy years later, they were doing business together. And tomorrow, dressed in what I hoped would be somewhat more respectable attire, I planned on paying a call on Suzanne Nishikawa.
I’d heard what Hilda Tanner had to say about Lenora’s real-estate transactions. Now I wanted to hear the story from Suzanne’s point of view. I was hoping that somehow she’d be able to put me on the trail of Naomi Dale and Petey Mayfield. Barring that, at least she’d be able to point me in the direction of Lenora No Last Name.
It was almost nine by then and about time for Lucy’s last walk of the evening. The Belltown area has become a lot more wild and wooly than it was when I first moved into the neighborhood. Late at night there’s an unwelcome element out there making the streets less than safe, and I’m not just talking about the guy who targeted Mel and Lucy either. As a consequence I try to make our last walk of the evening early enough so all the tough guys are still ensconced on their designated stools in disreputable bars rather than out roaming the streets beating up innocent passersby.
Before I collected Lucy and her leash, though, I went to the kitchen and made up another Pecos Pit brisket sandwich, which I wrapped in plastic and stuck in the pocket of my dog-walking jacket along with kibble and a Milk Bone for Billy Bob.
Once outside and across Clay, Lucy and I had the dog-walking area to ourselves. I let her relieve herself, and then we went looking for Sam in the fire-escape alcove leading up from the church basement that is his private domain. The alcove is relatively sheltered from the elements by a generous overhang, When I saw Sam’s cart parked at the top of the stairs, I knew he was there. I worried about waking him, but chilly as it was—mid-forties—I figured both Sam and the dog would sleep better on full stomachs than on empty ones.
“Knock, knock,” I called down the stairs. “Anybody home? Sorry to wake you. It’s J.P. and Lucy.”
An unwieldy lump of something stirred at the bottom of the stairs. When you’re sleeping outside in weather like that, it takes a whole mountain of blankets to hold in the heat.
“Hey, Beau,” Sam said, emerging from his bundle. “What’s up?”
Lucy and I were a known element. Rather than barking or growling at us, Billy Bob darted up the stairs for a dog-to-dog tail-wagging greeting.
“I know it’s late, but I brought Billy Bob some treats and a sandwich for you.”
Gradually Sam finished divesting himself of blankets and stood up, looking more like a hulking bear than a man.
“A sandwich?” he repeated, making his way up the stairs. “What kind of sandwich?”
“Pecos Pit Bar-B-Que beef brisket,” I told him.
“Pecos Pit? No shit! That’s mighty white of you.”
And then we both laughed. We were friends. We didn’t know each other during the Vietnam War, but we’d both been there and we knew what it meant. As a consequence we understand what’s important and what’s not important, and the current climate of poisonous political correctness strikes us both as stupid. In this case