South Phoenix Rules by Jon Talton

scholar to know this data was from World War II. The numbers “43-45” indicated the years of immunization shots. The soldier’s blood type was O. He was a Protestant. The name and address were whom to notify in case of emergency. They went to Poston, Arizona. And the soldier’s name was Johnny Kurita. It was as far from the Sinaloa cartel, or a Hispanic academic from New York, as you could get.
    â€œNisei,” I said.
    â€œThe second generation,” Robin said. “The children of Japanese immigrants to America.”
    I nodded, pleasantly surprised. Outside of her art knowledge, Robin had always seemed street smart rather than book smart, certainly not well versed in my dying discipline. I said, “The Poston address makes sense, too. Lots of Nisei were forcibly interned in World War II. Poston was a camp.” I hated to use the words, but they were accurate. “An American concentration camp.”
    â€œAnd yet this Johnny Kurita was in the service?”
    â€œThe Nisei soldiers were famous for their bravery.”
    â€œWhy would they fight for a country that had done that to them?”
    I let that sit. “What was Johnny Kurita to Jax?”
    â€œHe never said. But he always wore the chain and dog tags. I’d ask him about it, but he’d just say it was a memento. Something passed on to him. But it was really like an amulet to him. He’d touch it almost obsessively. When he took it off and let me hold it, I knew I was getting somewhere.”
    â€œHe didn’t explain it? No story behind it?”
    â€œHe said, ‘when I get to know you better.’ But that didn’t happen.” Her voice choked.
    â€œAnd yet he said if anything happened to him, to give it to me…”
    â€œYes, that was about a week ago.”
    â€œWhen, exactly.”
    â€œDon’t be such a bastard, David. That’s not really you.” She screwed up her brow. “It was last Thursday night. We’d made love. I was touching his chest and playing with the dog tags. He put his hand on mine and said it. When I asked him about it, he just smiled and said, ‘it’s no big deal. Just a thought.’ I didn’t know what he meant.”
    â€œWas he worried? Had anyone made threats against him?”
    She shook her head. “There were never any threats. He was kind of a loner, which I appreciate. So I never met his friends here, if he had any. And he was new to town. He did seem distracted that night. Not quite himself.”
    â€œMaybe he had somebody to kill.”
    â€œHe wasn’t a hit man!”
    I asked her about where they went on dates. It was nothing out of the ordinary, although from the names of some of the restaurants they patronized it was clear he had money. Did he run into any old acquaintances? Anybody who might have seen her with him, and somehow chose her to send this horrific message? No. Did she ever feel as if they were being followed when they drove back here? No.
    â€œDid he have drugs?”
    â€œOf course not. I hate drugs.”
    â€œNot even a little pot between friends? C’mon.” Even my first wife, Patty, had a fondness for the occasional toke—and the marijuana she procured was much more potent than the stuff I tried in college. It was another life; I shelved the thought away.
    Robin glared at me. Of course that information meant nothing. The high-end people in the cartels usually don’t use their products. They don’t want to get careless.
    I stopped talking, stood, and fetched a clear plastic bag from the drawer, then dropped the dog tags inside. She gave them to me, as he had asked. I knew what they meant in a historical sense. But that did nothing to solve the murder, or answer why the man’s head was delivered to my sister-in-law. That act spoke for itself: just as Peralta had said, the killers had connected her to Jax, and not in a casual way, and they knew where she lived.
    In