It was nearly two in the morning when Poppy reached his apartment on Jefferson. He found his old friend David “Tak” Takiyama on the sofa. Poppy could smell the bourbon on Tak’s breath before he crossed the room. The war had not been kind to Tak and his people. For all their flag-waving patriotism, pledging allegiance, and Boy Scout merit badges, they were still considered the enemy. Two years after the war Tak still couldn’t catch on with any paper. No detective agency would hire him either. He and his camera, which had been so productive before the war, had both been stilled. Tak’s reentry into society was heartbreaking for Poppy — all the sun had gone out of his pal. It was a daily tragedy to witness. Tak was once the best cameraman in Oakland, but none of that mattered back in ’42 when he and his parents and sisters were rounded up like convicts and shipped to Topaz, Utah, to spend the war years in shame and isolation, away from everything and everybody they had known.
Tak had been the first man to offer Poppy a hand in friendship when he landed in Oakland right before Pearl Harbor. And Poppy didn’t forget it. He welcomed Tak into his little place, happy his friend had been strong enough to survive such humiliation, but the experience had killed something fine in him. He didn’t read anymore. He wasn’t up for club-hopping down 7th Street. No more lusting after the white salesgirls at Owl Drugs on San Pablo. Betrayal had washed him clean of vices, all except one — hatred.
“You’re in the same spot I left you in this afternoon,” Poppy said as he entered the apartment.
Tak didn’t reply.
“You wear a hole in that couch, you’re paying for it. I’ll rat you out to the landlord.”
Tak shifted his body, but said nothing.
Poppy took off his coat and threw it into the bedroom where it landed heavy on the chair. He smiled, remembering the money from the fight. He turned and stepped back toward the couch.
“Man, you shoulda come with me tonight! That light-heavy Selden was bragging about was all bluster. Turns out he had a glass jaw! Went down in the sixth round, hard as a redwood. Bam! Bloody nose, big swollen jaw, one eye closed shut!”
Poppy grew excited as he recalled the details, bobbing and weaving to bring the story to life. The fights used to be one of Tak’s favorite pastimes, prewar. He had a taken an enviable collection of fight photos to prove his devotion to “the sweet science,” which Poppy had saved for him, but Tak showed no interest in doing anything with them now.
Poppy went to the kitchenette and scrambled an egg, made some toast, and drank cold coffee that he or Tak — he couldn’t remember who — had made the previous morning.
Poppy wanted to be loyal, but he couldn’t bear too much more of Tak’s inertia. You gotta move, man! Poppy was always telling him. You still got air in your lungs, use it! Today he thought he’d try a new approach.
“Hey, Tak, let me use your camera.” He said it casually, as if he routinely asked for his pal’s most precious possession.
Tak turned, propped himself up on his elbows. “Have you gone insane?”
Poppy shook his head. “Nah.”
“If you’re asking to use my camera, you have. Are you drunk?”
“No,” Poppy said, amused at this accusation coming from a drunk man.
“No is right! You touch my camera, I’ll break your wrists.”
Poppy, a whole head taller than Tak, waved his hands in mock-fright. “Oh no, not my wrists!”
“Yeah. Your wrists. See how many stories you write then. See how many, mister!”
Poppy wanted to laugh but decided not to be cruel. “I’m serious. I need your camera, man. I won’t damage it. I swear.”
“You don’t know nothing about cameras,” Tak said.
“What I need to know you can teach me.”
“I could, but not using my camera. No way, no how.”
Poppy finished his food and placed the plate in the sink. He stretched his long body, raising his hands high above his head, and yawned loudly. “All right, my friend, I’ll use somebody else’s camera. No problem.”
Poppy pulled his shirttails out of his pants and headed toward the bedroom. He scratched his head and his balls, said good night, then went into his room, closing the door behind him. He was pulling a shirt over his head when he heard Tak through the door.
“Take pictures of what exactly?”
From there it was easy. Poppy opened the door. “I got a tip from a guy who works the elevator at the Athens Athletic Club.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“So, this guy says that there’s some shady characters coming into the club through the back service entrance, who’ve been wheelin’ and dealin’ with the guys running the place.”
“Dealing what exactly?”
“He doesn’t know, but it seemed to be something important.”
Tak waved his arm and headed back to the couch. “That could be anything.”
“True enough. But most people don’t go to the Athens Club with muscle. In this case, some thick-necked Irish goon. With something heavy in his pocket.” Poppy raised his eyebrows for emphasis and detected a flash of interest on Tak’s face.
“So, who’s this guy you know?”
“Just some guy.” Poppy headed toward the bed, suddenly fatigued from a long day that had already ended. The lure had been set in the water. Tak would be up and dressed early. “See you tomorrow.”
The lobby of the Athens Athletic Club may have been serene, but the back rooms buzzed with activity. Negro waiters and busboys bustling through swinging doors, dishwashers orchestrating the flow of dirty dishes into the huge sinks, maids wheeling overloaded linen carts. Negroes ran the back end of this club, although they could never lounge in its plush lobby chairs. Every folded linen napkin bore a Negro’s fingerprints.
Poppy and Tak entered through the service entrance, past a gang of smoking waiters blocking the door.
“Say, where’s Willie?” Poppy asked a maid.
He was directed deeper into the bowels of the grand building. Poppy and Tak waited for the elevator to touch down in the basement, and Willie stepped out.
They exchanged greetings and Willie sized up Tak. “What’s with the camera? You can’t bring that in here.”
“Sure he can,” Poppy said, gently moving Willie back into the elevator and pressing a button at random. “Haven’t you ever heard of freedom of the press?”
The elevator started to move.
“Man! What you do?” Willie blocked the panel of buttons with his body.
A call rang in from the sixth floor, so Willie hurried the two men out at the lobby floor, then ascended up to six. They paced anxiously, waiting for Willie to return. Marveling at the detailed painting in the coffered ceiling, Poppy wandered down a hallway.
“Get back here, man!” Tak seethed through his teeth. “C’mon, let’s take the stairs.”
Poppy was distracted by all the grand architecture, the enveloping chairs and couches, the insouciant privilege that made places like this club so foreign to people like him. No one was on the hustle here. No one was doubled, tripled, quadrupled up in their living quarters. This place was all summertime, where the living is easy.
When Poppy turned to rejoin Tak, he found his friend nose-to-nose with a much larger white man. Poppy paused, peeking into the lobby, assessing the situation. Certainly there’d be guards. They wouldn’t look like guards; they’d be in suits, tight across their chests. Poppy knew Tak couldn’t take this guy. He shook off the apprehension and hustled back to his friend. Tak had just enough hate in him not to back down from a fight, even one he couldn’t win.