As soon as I stepped outside, my nose and ears got numb. In about ten more seconds, the rest of my face was frozen, too. 

It was early December 2017, and Michigan was having the harshest cold snap in years, according to all of the TV weather people. Right now, at 7:10 PM in my town of Redford, the temperature was a brisk 10 degrees. Below zero, that is. 

And that didn’t count the wind chill factor. 

I rolled my wool ski cap down over my ears and tried to use my big, insulated mittens to warm my face. It didn’t work. I resigned myself to turning into an icicle during the short walk to band practice. I wondered briefly how long it would take, once I got there, to warm my hands up enough to be able to play my guitar. Twenty minutes minimum, judging by how cold they were already getting, even with the warm mittens on. 

My band, by the way, is called the People Movers. We’re named after the world’s lamest mass transit system. It’s an elevated rail in Detroit that goes in a loop around the central downtown business and sports district. It stops at the Renaissance Center, Cobo Hall, Joe Louis Arena, and a few other places, and that’s about it. It’s great if you’re a tourist and want to see the amazing sights of the Motor City (yes, sarcasm definitely intended here), but if you’re a regular Joe or Jill who needs it to actually get places, it’s pretty useless.  

Even so, my buddies and I thought it would be a good name for our band, which is kind of a fusion of rock and funk. In other words, we play music that moves people. Thus, People Movers. 

It was only three blocks from my house to our bass player’s, but it felt like twenty. There was a nasty wind blowing against me the whole way. By the time I got there I was trying to remember if face transplants were a thing yet. I hoped so. 

I knocked on the front door, and after a minute our bassist’s grandfather answered. He smiled at me and bowed a little bit, then let me in. 

Let me explain the bowing thing. Our bassist is Kenji Omura. He was born in Detroit, and his grandparents were born in California, but his great-grandparents both came here from Japan before the First World War. Kenji’s grandpa, whose name is Franklin, still had some of the Japanese traditions that his folks handed down, like bowing. I thought it was pretty cool, although it took me awhile to get used to bowing back. But now I did it without even thinking.  

Mr. Omura is a little guy, not even as tall as me and I’m only five-six. He was wearing baggy green corduroys, a red and green checked shirt, and bright rainbow suspenders a la Mork from Ork. His black hair stuck out in all directions like he’d just been wrestling with the Omura’s golden retriever, Honey. Which he probably had been. 

“Hey, Carlos!” he said, closing the front door. “Band practice night again already?” 

“Yep,” I said, stepping into the living room and taking off my coat, hat, and mittens. “Every Tuesday, Mr. Omura.” 

Kenji’s mom and dad were sitting together in the living room, watching something on the DIY channel. 

“Carlos!” said his dad. His name was Junichi but everyone called him John. “How’s everything in your neck of the woods?” 

“Great, thanks, Mr. Omura,” I said. “Hi, Mrs. Omura.” 

“Hi there, Carlos, nice to see you,” Jillian Omura replied, smiling at me. Kenji’s folks were awesome people. Very cool. 

Kenji’s grandpa said, “Hey, you guys are sounding good! What’s that one you always play, the Jimi Hendrix one...” 

“Crosstown Traffic?” I said. 

He snapped his bony fingers. “Yeah, that’s it. Sounds awesome, really groovy!” He started snapping fingers on both hands and doing a little shuck-and-jive. 

The dude cracked me up. 

“Thanks,” I said. “Our new drummer really pulled us together.” 

“Yusuf? He’s the bomb! He can really bang the skins, baby!” He played some furious air drums. 

The dude really cracked me up. 

Just then, the doorbell rang. Franklin opened it. On the porch was a pizza delivery guy, holding a steaming cardboard box. I could smell it from inside the house. 

“Pizza’s here!” yelled Franklin. To the pizza guy he said, “Come on in and warm up, man.” He opened the door and the guy stepped in. His nametag read, “Hi, I’m BRAD!” 

“Thanks,” said Brad, shivering. “Freezing out there.” 

Before Franklin could respond, a furious barking shattered the air. The Omura’s golden retriever, Honey, came charging out of the kitchen and barreled straight for Brad. She was like a yellow blur. Brad shrieked and jumped backwards. The pizza almost fell out of his hands, but Franklin grabbed it in the nick of time. 

“Honey! Down!” Franklin yelled, grabbing Honey’s leather collar with one hand while balancing the pizza with the other. It was quite a sight, and I gave the old man props for his agility. “Down! Stop it!” 

The sound of Franklin’s voice calmed the dog down, but she still eyed Brad warily. Brad returned the favor times ten. He clearly wasn’t convinced that he wasn’t going to get mauled. 

“That’s a high-strung dog you got there,” said Brad. 

“Aw, she’s okay,” said Franklin with a big grin. “She’s really mellow, actually. She only gets that way around strangers.” 

“Oh. All right.” Brad didn’t sound reassured. 

Kenji came into the living room from the kitchen. 

“Hey, Carlos,” he said. “Lemme pay for this and we can go down and jam.” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed them over to Brad. “Keep the change. Consider it compensation for having to deal with our unhinged dog.” 

“Cool, thanks,” said Brad, stuffing the cash in his front pocket without counting it and bolting out the door.

Franklin closed it behind him. A gust of frigid air swept past me. 

“You guys oughta have a cowbell on that dog or something,” I said. 

Franklin busted out laughing as he handed the pizza over to Kenji. “Yeah, cowbell! Nice! More cowbell!” 

“Yeah, all right, okay, Grandpa. Carlos and I have band practice, you know?” 

“Sure,” Franklin said. “Hey, Carlos, I want you to meet someone before you head down.” 

Kenji rolled his eyes. “Grandpa, not Mr. Tanaka,” he said with a sigh. 

“It’ll just take a sec,” Franklin replied. “Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute. 

“You weren’t ever a Boy Scout,” said Kenji. 

“So what? Come on, Carlos, I promise, just for a minute.” He grabbed me by the wrist and started pulling me with him. 

“Okay,” I said. “But just for a minute.” 

“Yeah, no problem. Come on.”  

Franklin led me through the living room to the back of the house. We went into a spare bedroom that had been converted into a little man cave for Kenji’s grandpa. There was an old, brown leather sofa and a couple of La-Z-Boy recliners, along with the prerequisite big-screen TV and beer fridge. 

Sitting on the sofa was a man who looked like he was probably about Franklin Omura’s age, mid-eighties or so. He looked like he’d be really tall if he stood up; his knees were practically touching his chest. He wore an old UCLA sweatshirt and blue jeans, and his hair, which was practically white, was combed back from his forehead like the Fonz on Happy Days. He was holding a Pabst Blue Ribbon. 

“Carlos, meet Hideki Tanaka, my old buddy!” said Franklin. 

Mr. Tanaka stood up, and I was right: the guy was at least six-foot-three. His grin widened, and he extended a long, bony hand. I shook it. 

“Hideki and I go way back,” said Franklin. “All the way back to the war. We were kids out in California together.” 

Mr. Tanaka clapped Franklin on the back. “Oh, yeah. The good old days, right, Frankie?” 

“You got that right. Carlos, I gotta tell you about what this old dog and I did back in nineteen fifty-two—“ 

“Hey, I’m really sorry, Mr. Omura, but the other guys are waiting on me, you know what I mean?” 

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Franklin said. 

“Go do your thing, Carlos,” said Mr. Tanaka. “Frankie’s told me all about the People Movers. Rock on!” Then the guy actually flashed me the forked heavy metal sign. Was this the twenty-first century or the nineteen-eighties? 

“Uh, yeah, right on. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tanaka.” I backed out and closed the door. 

In the basement, everyone was already set up. There was Kenji tuning up his Fender Jazz bass; Yusuf working out some new beats on the drum kit and wearing his trademark straw cowboy hat, which had a hole in it from an incident the previous summer involving Derek Bodley, the local knucklehead; and, of course, our lead singer, Xavier Montgomery Maplethorpe, whom everyone just called X. He was fifteen, the same age as the rest of us, but was six feet tall and thin as a rail. His head was covered by a fluffy afro the size of a beach ball that bobbed gently whenever he moved his head.  

X was the man: he had a voice like Jimi Hendrix, moves like James Brown, and a brain like Sherlock Holmes. Last summer, he’d gotten Yusuf off the hook when old Derek Bodley had tried to frame Yusuf for some skanky graffiti sprayed on the Bodley garage. It was a real close call, too. With the Make America Safe Again laws, Yusuf’s family, who were Syrian refugees, nearly got deported before X was able to prove Bodley himself had done the deed. Real class act, that Bodley. But Yusuf and his family were safe now, living in a little apartment in the neighborhood, and believe me when I tell you my man Yusuf could make those skins rock and roll like nobody I’d ever seen. 

There were high fives all around when I came in. My Fender Strat was where I’d left it after the last practice, leaning in one corner, and I started setting up. 

“Yo, Carlos!” said X into his mic, his voice booming out through his amp. “How you be, my brother?” 

“Just kickin’ it, you know,” I answered, putting my guitar on and plugging in. I struck a power G chord, relishing the solid, crunching tone. I looked at Kenji, who was still fiddling with his bass’s tuning keys. “Dude, your grandpa is something else, man.” 

Kenji rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me, Carlos. He just gets weirder every year.” 

“Aw, cut your gramps some slack!” said X. “He’s himself, that’s all. Most folks don’t have the guts to really be who they are inside. I give him big props.” 

Yusuf nodded from behind his kit. “Mr. Omura is awesome! I like him very much.”

Yusuf’s English had improved since we’d met him last summer, and he only occasionally found himself searching for the right word. He’d also taught us a little Arabic. Mostly swear words, naturally. 

“Yeah, well, try living with the guy,” said Kenji. “It’s not so awesome. Last Saturday, he was outside shoveling snow and singing some old song from the forties at the top of his lungs. And dancing, for God’s sake. Dancing with his snow shovel! People were staring.” 

“Dancin’ with his shovel?” hooted X. “Franklin Omura, the man, the legend! Right on! What was he singing?” 

“The same thing he always sings, man,” said Kenji. “That one he learned when he was a kid in the camp. The Frank Sinatra one. So lame.” 

“Oh yeah,” I said. “’New York, New York’. I like that one, actually. For a tune that the T-rexes probably grooved to back in the day, it’s not bad.” 

“Yeah, that’s the one,” said Kenji. 

“Camp?” said Yusuf. “Like, summer camp?” 

Kenji shook his head. “Nope. Not like summer camp at all. Internment camp. During World War Two.” 

“What’s internment?” said Yusuf. 

“Like a concentration camp,” X said. “Bad mojo.” He shook his head. His Afro waved in the air. “Most definitely not cool.” 

Yusuf said, “Your grandfather was in a concentration camp, Kenji? But I thought only Nazis had them.” 

“The Nazis had the really bad ones,” said Kenji. “But America had some, too. Anyone Japanese living on the West Coast got put into them until the war was over. Even if you were an American citizen, they put you in there. Didn’t matter who you were or if you ever did anything wrong. If you were Japanese or Japanese-American, you had to go.” 

Yusuf looked a little shocked. “But… in America? I’ve been in refugee camps and they were bad. It’s hard to imagine something like this in America.” 

Kenji nodded. “Yeah. But it happened. Check it out on Wikipedia. Just don’t ask my grandpa, he doesn’t like to talk about it.” He paused, like he wasn’t sure whether to say more. Then he continued. “He was only twelve or so when his family got thrown in one of the camps they had in California. Out in the desert, a total wasteland. His mom and sister died there. He told me about it when I was little, after he’d had a little too much to drink one night.” 

X whistled. “Heavy, bro.” 

“Yeah,” said Kenji. “I don’t know how they died. Grandpa didn’t want to tell me. And none of you guys should ask him about it.” 

“Of course not,” said Yusuf. “We would never show him such disrespect.” 

“He introduced me to his friend, Mr. Tanaka, when I got here,” I said. 

“Yeah, Mr. Tanaka’s a character,” Kenji said, smiling. “Funny guy. I guess he and Grandpa met in the camp, actually.” 

“Seems like a cool guy,” I said. 

“Yeah, he’s the bomb. He sold my folks a safe last month. He runs a locksmith shop. The safe is top of the line, but he gave them a huge discount on it.” 

“Why did they need a safe?” asked Yusuf. 

“Dad got Mom this sweet necklace for her birthday last month, and they needed a place to keep it. I told them they should get a safe deposit box at the bank, but Mom wanted the necklace close by so she could look at it whenever she wants. It’s got all these diamonds, and there’s a couple of bright blue stones, too...” 

“Sapphires?” I asked. 

Kenji nodded. “Yeah, sapphires. This thing must have cost a fortune, you guys. Seriously.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, you guys want to see it? I bet Mom would show it to you.” 

Yusuf and I were down with this idea. X looked impatient to start practice but went along with it. We all followed Kenji upstairs. His mom and dad were still watching TV, but Jillian Omura readily agreed to show us the necklace. I don’t think she needed much of an excuse to show it off. 

The safe was upstairs in the master bedroom. It was a solid-looking black metal cube standing on four legs that lifted it about three inches off the gray, deep-pile carpet. On the door was an electronic display window and a keypad, a chrome handle, and a logo that showed an eagle with a big key clutched in its talons with the words “Sentry Safe” written across it in silver block letters. 

“Electronic lock,” X commented. “Good choice, Mrs. O. Almost impossible to break into.” 

“Well, Hideki Tanaka really recommended it,” she replied, then knelt down and entered a code into the keypad, which emitted a series of loud electronic boops and beeps. “This thing makes a racket, doesn’t it?” she said.

Then she grasped the handle, turned it, and the safe swung open. She reached in and withdrew a small jewelry box made of lacquered black wood. She lifted the lid. 

Inside, resting in a little nest of black velvet, was the most amazing necklace I’d ever seen outside of a museum. It was just like Kenji had described it: it was a pendant set with two large sapphires and several smaller diamonds. The sapphires were a deep blue color that seemed to go on forever, and the diamonds sparked off tiny rainbows of light. The whole thing was attached to a thin gold chain. 

“Whoa,” I breathed. “Rockin’.” 

“That’s beautiful, Mrs. Omura!” exclaimed Yusuf, his eyes wide. His straw cowboy hat was teetering on his head, threatening to fall off. He didn’t seem to notice. “Amazing!” 

Mrs. Omura smiled again, wider this time. “Thank you, Carlos and Yusuf.” 

“Are you ever going to wear it, Mom?” asked Kenji. 

“I wore it that one time when your father took me out to dinner for my birthday last month,” she replied, stroking the necklace with one fingertip. “I don’t know if I have the nerve to do it again! The whole time I felt like I was wearing our life savings around my neck.” 

“How much did this thing cost, anyway?” said Kenji. 

“Your dad still won’t tell me,” she said with a laugh. “He said he’d been socking away his work bonuses for a year and didn’t spend any family money on it.” She rolled her eyes. “John is such a romantic. I guess he wants it to be a mystery.” 

“Mrs. O, this necklace really is the bomb,” said X, who had been standing near the bedroom doorway and looking restless. “But, fellas, can we get down to business? We got some jams to practice, brothers.” 

“Right on, X,” I said. “Hey, Mrs. Omura, thanks for showing this to us. It’s really cool.” 

“You’re welcome, Carlos.” She grinned and put her finger to her lips. “But don’t tell anyone. Mum’s the word!” 

We all laughed. Then Kenji spoke up. 

“What’s that, Mom?” he asked, pointing inside the safe. There was a small book sitting in there. It had an orange plastic cover. 

“Oh, that’s your grandfather’s,” said Mrs. Omura. “It’s an old scrapbook of some kind. He asked us to keep it in here for him. It’s very private, he asked us not to look at it. But it must be pretty important to him.” 

“That’s awesome, super-fine, for sure,” said X. He was getting so impatient I thought sparks might start shooting out of his big Afro. “Can we practice now?”