Signs of Pain, page 7
“We can’t tell Zinnia,” Cherry said. “It could jeopardize her job if she got involved.”
“What can I do? Go undercover? Tail the sleazy vet?”
“Let me do some more checking on the Shutter Street property through public records. Think your realtor cousin would have info?”
“Marlo? I’ll call her as soon as we hang up.”
“You’re a champ,” Cherry said. “Thanks, Jill.”
Don’t recall seeing any scrub-wearing Errant Sheep Tabernacle goons. Borrowing Esther’s Spy-Chirp binoculars once more, she parked north on Satchel Road, where she had a view of the church. Eventually two burly men walked in from the back of the alley. One had on a white coat, the other a blue hospital-style uniform.
Spectacled Cherry detailed her observations of the male workers in her Peppermint Patty notebook. “Matches Dimanche Quinn’s story,” she wrote.
Tossing the book to the floor, pen stored inside the wire spiral, Cherry headed to City Hall.
“The County Tax Assessor has property records,” the tired city clerk recited.
In the Assessor’s office in Downtown Los Angeles, she jotted parcel numbers, but no owner names.
“Can you tell me who owns these buildings?” Cherry asked a clerk, pointing out the church at 14 Shutter Street and the vet property at 16 Shutter on a map.
The assessor clerk determined the entire complex, church and vet building, was under the name Robstone Trust.
That shithead! Cherry slapped her palm on the counter, which picqued the clerk’s interest.
“I recommend visiting the main office of the Registrar-Recorder in Norwalk,” she said to Cherry, furnishing her with a directory. “The county houses its main real estate records there, going back to 1850.”
Next morning, Cherry drove southbound over the 5 Freeway, passing a couple of casinos along the way, Peppermint Patty watching her from the passenger seat.
At the county’s bustling main office, she darted past legal types and modest wedding parties to find the Real Estate Records viewing office on a lower level.
She found a 1932 deed for the Shutter properties predating the existing freeway paralleling the alley, owners listed as Leopoldo and Hortencia Robstone.
Prior to 1932, a man named Horace Devinish owned the parcel and had built the existing structures in phases beginning in 1906, ending in 1924. A 1900 map showed the Devinish name appeared on each of the two parcels, as well as a whole region encompassed as Devinish Plat, the shape of which Cherry recognized as Raptor Flats.
Several fascinating older maps showed the area with less development. A Detail Irrigation map from 1888, (Beautifully illustrated, like a tapestry!) by the California State Engineering Department showed an array of “zanjas” working in conjunction with the Los Angeles River and surrounding river flats, one called Raptor.
Cherry addressed the attending clerk, a freckly ginger young man. “Excuse me, what is a zanja?”
“Spanish for ditch,” the clerk said, pointing to the legend on the map. “‘Canals and Ditches.’”
“Oh, right. I should have better Spanish comprehension,” Cherry said, then wishfully called out, “I could use some research guidance.”
The archive clerk disappeared, then reappeared shuffling business cards, handing one to Cherry.
“Perhaps local historians could give you precise information,” he said. “We need the maps back pretty soon. Do you want to buy copies?” He pointed at a wall clock ticking toward closing time.
“No thank you.” Cherry studied the card. “Raptor Flats Historical Society?! Cripes! It’s off Sapo Avenue! In the business district.”
“Good night and good luck,” the clerk said.
Although she didn’t get any clear answer on the official owner of the church, Cherry was glad to be pointed to the right track. Bounding to her car, she found solace in the cold remnants of a coffee nestled in her cup holder, which helped with the drive home from Norwalk after dark.
31
“Don’t get me wrong. My cousin Marlo will love to see you,” Jill said as she rode with Cherry to Heritage Realty in Raptor Flats. “But why don’t you just tell the cops?”
“Because I’d have to admit to trespassing, and pushing Mrs. Cantu into secretly filming a church service. Neither revealed why Paula became pregnant. Don’t mention any of this to Marlo.”
Cherry pulled into the small lot of a futuristic office building topped by an asymmetrical roof. Inside, chic-suited silver vixen Marlo Tovar warmly embraced Cherry and Jill, but made clear she was in a hurry.
“I’ve got to meet a client at a property in 25 minutes.” Marlo logged onto her computer. “We’ll quickly check MLS, and related links. So, Cherry, looking to buy?”
“Nope. Lately I’ve been interested in the history of our area.”
“Okay, the Property Archive History of Raptor Flats says it was once known as Devinish Plat. Under the Genealogy menu there are some maps.”
Marlo opened an archived map file, its resolution clear but drawn naively, showing Native American villages along the river.
“Can you go back to Genealogy? I’m curious about the people who came afterwards, who stole the land.”
Marlo shifted her feet and clicked back to a list of names, pressing PRINT. Abruptly she stood to grab and give the single page to Cherry. “That’s all the time I have. Cherry, please keep me informed about your research. You know I’m the top agent in Raptor Flats.”
“Will do,” said Cherry as she and Jill escorted themselves out.
In the car, Cherry perused the list. “Hmm. Robstone’s not here. Hey, thank you for getting Marlo to do that.”
“You bet, sorry it was rushed.”
Cherry chauffeured Jill home, then set out for her next resource.
The Raptor Flats Historical Society Home and Museum was off Sapo Avenue, from which she turned and parked next to Comida Ceramics, across from a garment factory called K&M. The museum sat at the end of Charmany Way, a short, narrow, dead-end stretch of road.
I’ve gone by this alley thousands of times, puttering around Raptor Flats, thinking it’s a driveway for these businesses. On the front locked gate, Cherry admired a folksy wood sign painted with birds of prey listing the operating hours, THURSDAY – SATURDAY, 1-5 p.m. It was noon according to her phone. She paced while waiting, finding a very old cast iron marker set into the brick wall, which read KRASNER and sounded familiar. Cherry ducked into her car, grabbing the Raptor Flats genealogy printout from Marlo. Voila! It was one of the family names listed.
Pausing at the timeworn gate, she noticed inside label tags on the trees and plants, like a miniature version of Mission gardens. Cherry felt her brow relax. She heard running water too.
“What’s that Wizard of Oz line? ‘If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again,’” Cherry said.
“‘I won’t look any further than my own backyard,’” said a lilting voice behind her.
Cherry turned to find a set of bug-eyed sunglasses staring at her, outlined by a spray of curly black hair.
Caught off guard, Cherry slowly pointed at the museum sign. “I’m waiting for it to open.”
“I love new visitors!” said the woman, as she fished a skeleton key out of a pocket of her crisp cotton dress bespeckled with snails.
Balancing a macramé handbag on one shoulder, other hand holding a bag of stacked takeout boxes, she unlocked the gate.
“Would you please replace the prop?” The olive-skinned lady pointed toward a foot-high black stone statue of a bird just inside the courtyard.
“Is this the Maltese Falcon?” Cherry handily relocated the sculpture to hold the door open, beak facing out to the street.
“Thank you,” said the woman, “and it is a replica. A falcon is a raptor.” She tossed her curls toward the interior Dutch door, her keys jingling. “I’m Aviva Krasner.”
“I saw your name embedded in the brick.”
The click of the Dutch door echoed nicely in the yard.
“Yep, I am also a Martinez,” Aviva said, “My family owns K&M, also the ceramics business. Come on in...what’s your name?”
“Cherry Orozco.”
Aviva set down everything including the specs and shook her hand. “Glad to meet you.”
There was something familiar about the museum custodian. Cherry studied her face. “Were you on the swim team at Lady Liberty High?”
“Why, yes. I thought I knew you, but not from swimming.”
“Water polo.”
“Right! I don’t miss those chilly morning practices. Well, Cherry, what brings you to this hole-in-the-wall landmark?”
Cherry remembered the business card from the County Records clerk and presented it.
“Got this from the county office when I was researching our neighborhood, specifically this mixed industrial zone, plus some properties on Shutter.” She paused. “I’ve lived in Raptor Flats all my life. I’m astounded that I had no idea the museum, this lovely building, existed here.”
Aviva shrugged amicably. “I hope you like your new discovery,” she said. “Welcome to my home. This is my life’s work.”
Aviva gestured around a living space at least a century old, converted to showcase furniture of departed eras, with paintings, maps, and old photographs that Cherry recognized as development phases of Raptor Flats.
“I tell you what,” Aviva said. “I am famished. How about you have lunch with me and tell me what information you’re looking for? I always get more than I need, saving the leftovers for later—or in this case, having a surprise visitor from high school!”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
Holding the bag of food, Aviva waved Cherry into an interior kitchen with a breakfast nook.
“Have a seat. I don’t usually open this area to the public, although there is a period formal dining room for public viewing.” Aviva extracted the meal boxes from the bag. “Soba noodle salad?”
Cherry nodded and accepted the plastic cutlery Aviva handed to her. “This is such a treat.”
Aviva glanced down at her noodles, working a couple onto her spork. “What’s the mystery you need to solve?”
Cherry selectively condensed her interest in the far-reaching history of the Shutter properties. Aviva listened eagerly about Cherry’s findings thus far, her eyes lighting up about the Native American maps Marlo’s MLS access had shown.
“Well, the Tongva Native People were in Raptor Flats first.” Aviva stood, taking their empty lunch cartons to the trash.
“We need to wash our hands before we look at the documents,” Aviva said at the sink. She stepped aside, and Cherry washed up.
They moved into a dim-lit study, a compact version of the county hall of records: file cabinets of varying dimensions and a center work table with two desk lamps and a box of white cotton gloves.
“Welcome to The Lab,” Aviva said, pulling on gloves. She held out the box to Cherry, who confidently tugged on a pair.
“You do that as if you work in the medical field.” Aviva smiled.
“I have an Animal Science degree.”
Aviva nodded approvingly while opening the top drawer of the stout cabinet, gingerly transferring a rectangle of aged-looking paper encased in clear plastic to the table. She switched on both lamps. A tag on the plastic read Circa 1771-1800
“Even with the archival bags protecting this rag paper map, I use gloves,” Aviva said. “It’s Raptor Flats history, not Notre Dame. Our original sources are scarce.”
Cherry peered at the historical document, immersing in its details. Even in the bag, it had a pirate map essence. The crude, hand-drawn image indicated trees, a pond with turtles, thatched-hut villages clustered along a river and its tributaries with fish. Cats and coyotes were on hills with various birds of prey overhead. The only writing was a signature, Fra. Nicolas, and “llano la ave de rapina.”
Aviva said, “This is Raptor Flats, representing what cartographer Father Nicolas saw on this land in a nebulous northeastern corner of El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles. After the displacement of the Tongva, control of the area fluctuated between a couple of ranchos. There is speculation our present home could have been the general location of a Native village called Geverongana. If you want more on that, come back and see me.”
She returned the relic, transferring another treasure to the table.
“A reproduction of an 1875 map. This copy is still old, sixty years old to be exact, so I keep it protected. It shows the Ranchos. When an entity or family applied for a rancho land grant, the petition had to include a sketched map of the tract, also called a diseno—sort of like the old one created by Father Nicolas I just showed you and no more sophisticated. In fact, the trove of online archives show some of the disenos were mapped well before 1852, the year they were officially recorded. Basically, men were snooping around for years for land to steal. The only requirement for a grant was a description of the land. Both the map and description were often vague, perhaps using a copse of trees as a lindero or boundary marker, for instance. Then the original trees would be cleared and the vague border would magically expand to the next wooded area.”
Aviva took a breath. “No diseno exists precisely for Raptor Flats. Our neighborhood was the shared outskirts of El Pueblo and Ranchos San Rafael and Rosa Castilla. Not necessarily unwanted but overlooked enough to allow messier, dirtier businesses to eventually crop up here. The northeastern area was more of a potrero for grazing, now occupied by cemeteries.”
Aviva pointed to a map detail. “Check out the ditches or zanjas.”
Cherry grew excited. “Yes! I saw those on one of the County maps.”
Aviva’s eyes shined with mutual enthusiasm.
“And the railroad tracks,” Aviva pointed out lines with such identifications as LOS ANGELES TERMINAL R.R., SOUTHERN PACIFIC R.R., and A.T. & S.F. R.R., “intersecting, make their own edges, which had a hand in the piecemeal development of Raptor Flats.” She drew an invisible circle over the map area. “Isolating nearly all the acreage inside the ‘wrong side of the tracks.’ This railroad line is parallel to the freeway, on the other side.”
Aviva swept up her arm, pointing through the Historical Society walls toward the busy freeway down the street.
“Those train tracks are considered one of the borders that designates the Historic Preservation Overlay Zone of Raptor Flats, as it is culturally significant.”
“No shit!” Cherry blurted, quickly cupping her hand over her mouth. She shrugged it off, but said. “Pardon my gusto.”
Aviva laughed, pulling out another map. “Jumping forward, in late 1800s, the involved ranchos shifted, sold off parts, etc. And parts were ignored. Horace Devinish, another dubious speculator, nabbed pieces via shady deals and put it together like a puzzle, named it Devinish Plat.
“For a while Devinish leased some of the northern flats for grazing, but he had plans for development. He gradually sold parcels. My great-grandfather Abraham Krasner was among the first wave of purchasers. Abraham bought the land where we stand now, and built businesses. Factories and a couple of stables dotted the landscape, along with vacant lots of grass and dirt.”
Aviva retrieved plastic sleeves from a wall cabinet. These had old photos showing the advent of industrial Raptor Flats.
“Looks like old movie sets. I almost expect Spanky and Alfalfa to appear,” Cherry said.
The historian lined up prints. “Brass works, saloon where Patooties strip club now stands. In this photo, beyond the Devinish tract you can make out vineyards to the southeast.” Aviva spoke softly, then cleared her throat to remain on track. “When the parcels were slow to sell, Abraham picked up a lot of them. All on the northeast of the business district.”
Aviva traced an invisible rectangle around a chunk of parcels on a 1900 map.
“Devinish held onto the area south of Shutter. At the turn of the century a theatre was built for Vaudeville acts. It’s now the Errant Sheep Tabernacle, and the vet building, around the same time, was a known brothel. My grandfather Hirsh Krasner swore they ran a speakeasy in the Roaring 20s.”
“A speakeasy? With hidden passages?”
“It’s possible, but I haven’t been allowed to explore the properties. Sorin isn’t community minded. Anyway, Devinish married Jacinda Vega. Their daughter Hortencia married Leopoldo Robstone, a known cheat and scalawag. He and Hortencia inherited everything, and it’s now in the Robstone Trust.”
On a modern map version of the business district, Aviva’s white glove outlined Robstone Trust properties, starting with the Shutter addresses, then expanding south of the freeway.
“The Robstones received compensation when their land was sliced by the freeway. Leopoldo Jr., who married socialite Jennifer Billings of Pasadena, the daughter of aerospace magnate Stuart Billings, had dozens of storage facilities constructed on their properties south of the freeway, just in time for World War II. Have you ever noticed this air raid siren?”
Aviva showed Cherry a circa-1944 publicity photo of the siren.
Cherry scratched her head. “Maybe.”
“It’s just on the other side of the freeway, a landmark popular with siren enthusiasts. It’s a I-Rotating type, with a steel basket for human access. It’s in the logo for The Raptor Flats Siren.” Alongside the photo, she provided a current issue of the local paper. Sure enough, an illustration of the symbol served as the letter I in the word siren.
“That is ... pretty cool,” Cherry said. “I had no idea about the significance.”
“Well, our siren has extra special preservation status. Thank goodness the present-day Robstone made no stink about the Raptor Flats protected designation. It’s free legal protection, after all. Oh, his real name is Horace. He calls himself Sorin, for nightclubbing.”
Aviva made a whoop-di-do twirl with her still-gloved index finger.
Cherry peeled off her gloves. “Thank you for your time, Aviva.” She was at a loss to explain how helpful the intriguing museum operator had been.
