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One of the riddles of my childhood was finding ways to amuse this energy before it turned on me or my mother. Years later, my grandfather would talk about my father's powerful life force—hahvas he called it in Turkish Armenian—as if it were some mythic gift and curse. His energy was something my grandfather clearly didn't share, much less understand, and he apparently never found a way to fully harness it.
"You know Grandpa didn't have a damn head," my grandmother told me. "He should have guided that boy. He was too busy dreaming."
My grandfather had survived the Armenian genocide in 1915 not by out-braving the Turks or outlasting their death marches. Instead, he dreamed away long months hiding in an attic in Istanbul, reading Baudelaire and Maupassant. He was a young poet with the pen name of Arax—the Armenian river—when he arrived in the San Joaquin Valley in 1920. It took him four years picking crops to save enough cash to buy a small vineyard on the west side of Fresno. My father was born on that farm in the summer of 1931 as the grapes were being laid down to make raisins.
When pressed, my grandfather would tell two stories about his second son that had the sound of allegory. Both took place on the farm after Dad had dropped out of USC his first year. Why he left college is one of those questions that become freighted with hindsight when a life turns tragic. He was either homesick (Grandma's version) or worn down by family guilt for abandoning the farm (my mother's version). This much was certain: He had come home with something to prove.
One day, his tractor got stuck on a knoll and my grandfather warned him not to touch it until he could summon help. When he returned a few minutes later, he was amazed to see that my father had moved the tractor several feet by himself, and he was now caught underneath. In a panic, Dad summoned enough desperate strength to pull himself out.
Then there was the day he pruned a row of fig trees and insisted on burning the cuttings. Grandpa told him the branches were too green and the wind too unpredictable. As soon as the old man left, my father poured gasoline all over the pile and lit a match. The fire caught his clothing and he panicked and ran. He ended up with scars from the third-degree burns on his hands and forearms.
"When he got it in his mind, he had to do it," Grandpa explained. "He had to conquer. He had to be hero."
My mother, Flora, worried that his epic gestures might one day consume us. In the mid-1960s, we lost our small chain of grocery stores after Safeway discovered Fresno. Dad took our savings—$25,000—and plunked it down on a restaurant and cocktail lounge just off Highway 99. It had a strange name: The Apartments. My father merely personalized it. Ara's Apartments.
Whenever Mom tore into him, her sarcasm dripped: "Big Ara. Ara's Apartments. Name in lights. Mentor to all the creeps and whores."
Maybe to spite her, he ripped out the kitchen and turned it into the hottest rock 'n' roll club between Los Angeles and San Francisco, even hiring Chuck Berry for a couple of shows in the summer of 1971. It's enough to say that my mother's fears came true. The bar got rough, and the old clientele of lawyers, politicians and jocks disappeared. Fresno had become a western hub for narcotics smuggling. Crop dusters would finish spraying the cotton fields and make furtive runs to Mexico. The Hells Angels moved the marijuana and pills from farm to big city. Our police chief, who was married to the town's biggest madam, didn't seem to notice. The smugglers were good about spreading their wealth. Nowhere did they spend more freely than at my dad's bar.
When the phone rang that Sunday evening, I sensed some terrible news came with it. Maybe it was me, the nail-biting son forever worrying about a car accident in the fog. But I had seen signs of trouble in recent months. I had watched my father lose his temper one too many times trying to keep his employees and patrons in line.
He wasn't supposed to work that night—the day after New Year's 1972—but a phone call had summoned him. I was going to come along, but he found me in the shower and worried that my damp hair might cause a cold. "It's chilly out there. Stay inside," he said. "I'll be back in an hour." The hour passed. A female bartender was on the line. My mother screamed from the kitchen. "Your father's been shot. Your father's been shot."
I bolted out the side door and ran through the fog to a friend's house down the block. I must have been howling because his brother thought a dog had been hit by a car. Five bullets had struck my father. He bled to death 90 minutes later at St. Agnes Hospital.
I was sitting in my office—the Los Angeles Times Bureau in Fresno—on a sunny November day in 2000 when the phone rang. Sgt. Daryl Green from the Fresno Police Department introduced himself, then asked if I might meet with him and a detective named Bob Schiotis.
"He's been working on your father's murder. I know it's been a long time, but I think we've solved it."
"It's been 28 years. My God, are you sure?"
"It's quite a story. Better that we tell you in person. How about meeting us in an hour at the old Peppermill."
Before he hung up, he couldn't resist: "You should know that these guys were thieves. It looks like nothing more than a robbery gone bad."
Ever since that first night when my sister, brother and I crawled into bed with our mother, I had held on to the notion that he had been killed for a larger reason. Maybe it was nothing more than a kid's desire to turn his father into something grand—need I say heroic. But it wasn't just me. The detectives had assumed the same thing back then. They traced the murder to one of two motives: to make my father pay for an indiscretion or to silence him before he could expose something illegal. The old detectives seemed certain that the gunmen had been hired to do the job.
The bar had never been robbed before. That night, no money had been taken from the till, and no demand for money was ever heard by the young female bartender, Linda Lewis. When I tracked her down 17 years later, Lewis related the same account she had given police right after the shooting:
"You know Grandpa didn't have a damn head," my grandmother told me. "He should have guided that boy. He was too busy dreaming."
My grandfather had survived the Armenian genocide in 1915 not by out-braving the Turks or outlasting their death marches. Instead, he dreamed away long months hiding in an attic in Istanbul, reading Baudelaire and Maupassant. He was a young poet with the pen name of Arax—the Armenian river—when he arrived in the San Joaquin Valley in 1920. It took him four years picking crops to save enough cash to buy a small vineyard on the west side of Fresno. My father was born on that farm in the summer of 1931 as the grapes were being laid down to make raisins.
When pressed, my grandfather would tell two stories about his second son that had the sound of allegory. Both took place on the farm after Dad had dropped out of USC his first year. Why he left college is one of those questions that become freighted with hindsight when a life turns tragic. He was either homesick (Grandma's version) or worn down by family guilt for abandoning the farm (my mother's version). This much was certain: He had come home with something to prove.
One day, his tractor got stuck on a knoll and my grandfather warned him not to touch it until he could summon help. When he returned a few minutes later, he was amazed to see that my father had moved the tractor several feet by himself, and he was now caught underneath. In a panic, Dad summoned enough desperate strength to pull himself out.
Then there was the day he pruned a row of fig trees and insisted on burning the cuttings. Grandpa told him the branches were too green and the wind too unpredictable. As soon as the old man left, my father poured gasoline all over the pile and lit a match. The fire caught his clothing and he panicked and ran. He ended up with scars from the third-degree burns on his hands and forearms.
"When he got it in his mind, he had to do it," Grandpa explained. "He had to conquer. He had to be hero."
My mother, Flora, worried that his epic gestures might one day consume us. In the mid-1960s, we lost our small chain of grocery stores after Safeway discovered Fresno. Dad took our savings—$25,000—and plunked it down on a restaurant and cocktail lounge just off Highway 99. It had a strange name: The Apartments. My father merely personalized it. Ara's Apartments.
Whenever Mom tore into him, her sarcasm dripped: "Big Ara. Ara's Apartments. Name in lights. Mentor to all the creeps and whores."
Maybe to spite her, he ripped out the kitchen and turned it into the hottest rock 'n' roll club between Los Angeles and San Francisco, even hiring Chuck Berry for a couple of shows in the summer of 1971. It's enough to say that my mother's fears came true. The bar got rough, and the old clientele of lawyers, politicians and jocks disappeared. Fresno had become a western hub for narcotics smuggling. Crop dusters would finish spraying the cotton fields and make furtive runs to Mexico. The Hells Angels moved the marijuana and pills from farm to big city. Our police chief, who was married to the town's biggest madam, didn't seem to notice. The smugglers were good about spreading their wealth. Nowhere did they spend more freely than at my dad's bar.
When the phone rang that Sunday evening, I sensed some terrible news came with it. Maybe it was me, the nail-biting son forever worrying about a car accident in the fog. But I had seen signs of trouble in recent months. I had watched my father lose his temper one too many times trying to keep his employees and patrons in line.
He wasn't supposed to work that night—the day after New Year's 1972—but a phone call had summoned him. I was going to come along, but he found me in the shower and worried that my damp hair might cause a cold. "It's chilly out there. Stay inside," he said. "I'll be back in an hour." The hour passed. A female bartender was on the line. My mother screamed from the kitchen. "Your father's been shot. Your father's been shot."
I bolted out the side door and ran through the fog to a friend's house down the block. I must have been howling because his brother thought a dog had been hit by a car. Five bullets had struck my father. He bled to death 90 minutes later at St. Agnes Hospital.
I was sitting in my office—the Los Angeles Times Bureau in Fresno—on a sunny November day in 2000 when the phone rang. Sgt. Daryl Green from the Fresno Police Department introduced himself, then asked if I might meet with him and a detective named Bob Schiotis.
"He's been working on your father's murder. I know it's been a long time, but I think we've solved it."
"It's been 28 years. My God, are you sure?"
"It's quite a story. Better that we tell you in person. How about meeting us in an hour at the old Peppermill."
Before he hung up, he couldn't resist: "You should know that these guys were thieves. It looks like nothing more than a robbery gone bad."
Ever since that first night when my sister, brother and I crawled into bed with our mother, I had held on to the notion that he had been killed for a larger reason. Maybe it was nothing more than a kid's desire to turn his father into something grand—need I say heroic. But it wasn't just me. The detectives had assumed the same thing back then. They traced the murder to one of two motives: to make my father pay for an indiscretion or to silence him before he could expose something illegal. The old detectives seemed certain that the gunmen had been hired to do the job.
The bar had never been robbed before. That night, no money had been taken from the till, and no demand for money was ever heard by the young female bartender, Linda Lewis. When I tracked her down 17 years later, Lewis related the same account she had given police right after the shooting:
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