The Seventh Samurai Page 6

  "You have a good spirit, Kyoko, but don't think for a minute that we started the war with America. We expanded in Asia in order to bring order out of chaos. Roosevelt and the Americans forced us to go to war. Unfortunately, we fell into the Pearl Harbor trap."

  "It can't be helped, Akira-kun, using the Japanese idiom shikattaganai. As for your marrying, or not marrying, that's up to you. I am a suitable whore now."

  "No, not a whore. I will never marry, but I will need female companionship. I would like you to continue with me, to work with me, to let my goals be your goals through life. I have many plans and I need someone with me, but not a wife."

  "You will go into your grandfather's business and you need someone to cook and scrub for you. Someone who can bring you sexual pleasure?" Kyoko's temper flared. She went to the cupboard and got two cups for tea and placed them on the table. "Why not just find a wife? That's what you're talking about."

  Yoshimoto insisted that he was not interested in a wife. "Of course we both need to eat and sleep. And sex is a natural part of life. But by necessity, my plans must be secret. I need someone to share them with, someone to help me. I will not follow my grandfather into business. I intend to go into government."

  "The government?" Kyoko repeated in surprise. "You mean be a clerk in city hall, or work for the immigration service, or become a postman?"

  "Of course not," Yoshimoto snapped. "That's why I must plan so carefully. Grandfather has powerful friends. I believe he can help me get into Tokyo University. With that background and his influence I believe I will be ticketed for high government office."

  "You are ambitious, Akira-kun." Kyoko's anger was fading and a note of admiration had crept into her voice.

  "I am ambitious for Japan. Not for myself. Someday, if things work out, I will tell you a story about what happened in a cave on Okinawa. But for now, I would like your agreement to continue on this road with me. I need your pledge."

  To Kyoko, Yoshimoto's offer sounded very much like marriage, without some of the more obnoxious trappings. A Japanese marriage carried with it the obligation for the wife to always be at home and to always fulfill all household duties. Her work generally started before dawn and didn't end until well after dark when she prepared and stirred the bath water. Of course the husband always bathed first. There were many idle moments during the day to chat with neighbors, plus frequent trips to the market, that became her social life.

  The husband on the other hand, was free to do as he pleased. And what he pleased to do often included drinking bouts with friends and consorting with youthful prostitutes.

  If she was reading him right this would be far better than marriage. In fact she believed it would be a form of marriage, more akin to an equal partnership, although she would carefully avoid mention of that.

  Kyoko decided to seek a concession. "You know, I don't know what your plan is, Akira-kun. But I feel you will work hard and try to find a place of honor in the central government. And I would think that we would both have to move to Tokyo."

  "That is essential, Kyoko. I want you with me even through my college days so I will not be distracted by common social activities."

  This sounded even better. She had contemplated being stuck penuriously in rural Hirakatashi while Yoshimoto lived it up at Tokyo University. "What you say is appealing to me. My affection toward you has grown over the weeks. But I will not stand by as a faithful, uh (she almost said wife) friend if you visit prostitutes, or have flirtations with other women."

  "My proposal includes mutual fidelity. It is part of my plan."

  She wanted to smile, but she didn't want to break the solemn mood Yoshimoto was in. "Then I agree."

  "Thank you, Kyoko-chan." He grasped her hand warmly, then sat down for his tea. "I'm sorry about the botched abortion. But, as you say, there are advantages."

  She shot him a quick, angry glance, then continued pouring the tea. "It can't be helped. The women in the hospital were kind. No mention of an abortion."

  "That's good," Yoshimoto said.

  Both of them had been apprehensive because it was the spring of 1946 and abortion in Japan was a criminal offense until the Protection Law was passed in 1948. Only women were punished as criminals for abortion prior to 1948. After 1948 factors such as insanity, the mother's safety, poverty - in fact any reason a doctor wanted - could be used. A woman who had had several abortions might be refused, but there were always other doctors. In Japan, with the need for large rural families diminished, abortion became a common form of birth control.

  So the two cousins, little more than children, reached a private agreement that would pattern their lives.

  CHAPTER 9: No Complaints

  Detective Watanabe's boss, Superintendent Supervisor Yasunobo Shibata was troubled by the requested trip to El Centro. "First of all, you don't seem to have any kind of a case, Watanabe-san. There is no logical reason to assume a crime has been committed. Secondly, you seem to have ruffled some feathers in Immigration and somewhere higher up in the central government."

  "You've had a complaint?" Watanabe asked.

  "That's just the problem. There hasn't been a complaint," the leathery-skinned old battler growled. "What I've had is a couple of discreet calls from a couple of very high-level messenger boys. They're simply asking what's going on. But the questions were phrased in such a way that I took them as a warning. Be careful. Drop this investigation."

  "You want me to drop it?" Shibata wasn't easily intimidated by superiors or subordinates. In fact his nickname was "Tough Guy." Watanabe would have been surprised to learn that two phone calls could call him off the scent. But he did have a point; there wasn't much of a case.

  "I didn't say drop it. If you had simply presented me with the facts you have, I might have said drop it. But the very fact that there have been two calls. That's suspicious. I mean, why bother? But there must be a reason that we don't know about."

  "Then there was the first-class ticket," Watanabe reminded.

  "That's true," Shibata agreed. "But money in Japan this day and age, you never know how it's going to be spent. If you've been reading the paper you know that Osaka city officials have spent millions of yen on entertainment. Eating and drinking, nightclubs, they've been treating one another. Fantastic!"

  "But the mayor apologized," Watanabe smiled.

  "Yes, the mayor apologized," Shibata said with a grim smile. "And that makes it alL right. Well, back to your request. My answer is, I don't have an answer. I can't justify sending you to California on the evidence you have. But I also don't want to fold under pressure, no matter how discreet that pressure might be. So don't close the file. Do what you can from Osaka, but don't let it interfere too much with other matters. And stay out of fights with other government agencies. If there must be a confrontation, I'll handle it." He banged a knotty fist on his desk for emphasis.

  "Very good, Sir." Watanabe rose to go, then hesitated. "I have a friend, a foreign woman," he began.

  Shibata interrupted. "It is well known that you are living with a gaijin, Watanabe-san."

  "Yes." He was not surprised that it was known. He had made no attempt to hide it, but neither had he broadcast the arrangement. "Well, when you live with someone you discuss things. Within reason of course. One's daily life." Shibata nodded impatiently. The old man hoped he wasn't about to learn of some sticky personal problem. "She was taken by the thought that I might travel to California. She is an American. Now I didn't tell her I was going. The contrary is true?"

  "Yes, yes, I know all about the girl. She is the one I met, is she not? Liberman-san. The inspector had trouble pronouncing the "L" and the "R" in Nana's last name.

  "She is. And she suggested she has a vacation beginning at Christmas and if I could extend my New Year's time off, the two of us could holiday in the States and stop by and see this Ben Hardy in El Centro."

  "Interesting, Watanabe-san. You would take your vacation time and while holiday-making would conduct an unauthorize
d inquiry."

  "Unauthorized?"

  "We seem to be in a delicate gray area. I can authorize time off and I am pleased to do so. You deserve it. What you do in California is your own business." Again, Shibata stumbled over a pronunciation, this time California.

  "Then you will not discourage me?"

  "Why should I discourage a good police officer from enjoying a well-earned vacation?"

  ***

  The day before Watanabe and Nana left for California they headed for a downtown Osaka pub called the Hawk & Thistle.

  The owner was Japanese, but he had collected the trappings and ambiance of a British pub. It was a hangout for a portion of the expatriate community.

  The time was just past six, but the Hawk & Thistle was already crowded. A variety of expats - Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, Americans and a few northern Europeans - sat on the upholstered benches around the sides of the room, stood at tall pedestal tables, or hung over the bar. Nana and Watanabe found stools at a table occupied by three familiar faces: Bill Marty, a U.S. consulate worker, L.P. Crow, another American, and Charles Kirk, a Scot. Watanabe immediately headed for the bar and a couple of pints of beer.

  Watanabe got the beer and returned to the table. His mind raced ahead. He had no particular plan for tomorrow. Fly into L.A., get a car, drive to El Centro. He dreaded driving. Switching from left to the right side of the road was always traumatic. It wasn't so bad in the city where there was lots of traffic. It was in the country where there were no other cars where one found oneself back on the left side and around the curve comes a semi. Then there was his wife, Harriet. For the first time in a long time he would find himself in the same country with her, but a continent would divide them. Harriet had an apartment in Boston.

  Nana took a deep drink from her pint glass. "You seem preoccupied, Taro."

  "Thinkin' about the trip."

  "You going away?" Crow asked.

  "Yes, we fly to L.A. tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to getting behind the wheel."

  "I can imagine," Crow said. "I was in New York in February and made the mistake of renting a car. Two days before I had been driving in Osaka and honked at a man who was walking in the road carrying a shopping bag. He actually looked around at me, bowed and moved over to allow me to pass. So, in New York, I tapped the horn lightly at a man jaywalking in mid-block." Crow's face broke into a huge grin. "The son-of-a-bitch actually kicked my fender then offered to drag me out of the car and beat the shit out of me."

  Everyone laughed. "Some contrast," Watanabe said. "I was merely thinking about changing from left to right. Maybe I'd better watch my manners, too."

  The evening passed pleasantly enough, and Watanabe's transient thought of his wife evaporated. Her parents were Japanese, but she was born and reared in America. They had had a good life in Boston, then Watanabe's parents asked him to return and care for them in their declining years.

  Dutifully, he came, bringing Harriet with him. Japan was new and wonderful for Harriet at first. Then it gradually wore her down, the burden of being a Japanese housewife, being subservient to her mother-in-law, not knowing customs bred into every Japanese woman, being unable to read and write Japanese properly, a hundred little slights that burgeoned. One day she was gone, back to Boston. They corresponded infrequently.

  CHAPTER 10: An American Vacation

  In a row of three seats, Nana sat by the window and Watanabe sat in the middle, buffering her from whatever forces held sway over a jumbo jet. Watanabe didn't mind, he couldn't sleep anyway and tried to read, first in Japanese, then in English. Nana had two small bottles of wine, one red, one white, then zonked off, her head on a pillow, her nose resting against the plastic window. He knew that she would be as lively as a cricket when they touched down and he would be among the ambulatory dead.

  A Japanese teenager sat on the aisle next to him. She was excited about the trip, frequently up and down, visiting with her friends toward the rear of the plane. Disneyland would be an important stop for her. She told Watanabe that she had been to Disneyland in Tokyo, but there were long lines, and even after paying at the gate one must pay for each ride inside. And she talked about food. Her father had scoffed at western food, but her mother had assured her that everything would be all right. She had heard that there were McDonald's in California and that the food was exactly the same as the McDonald's in Japan. Could that be true?

  Watanabe was red eyed and haggard when the plane lost altitude as it approached L.A. Then it was flaps down followed by touch down and spoilers and everyone standing in the aisles wondering if the doors would ever open. The Japanese teenagers were shouting to one another in high excitement, Nana was beaming. The good cheer was almost too much for the bleary focused detective. He was having second doubts about the trip.

  Then it was immigration and finally customs, claim the slim bags and finally the lobby and freedom. Getting off was at least easier than getting on. The 9/11 wake-up call had placed the globe on alert. Nana had lost a nail file at security in Osaka, and Watanabe had given up his Swiss Army knife with its cherished corkscrew feature. Now what? Grab a cab and go somewhere to sleep, or rent a car and press ahead?

  Nana was eager for the desert, so they opted for the car, with her driving and Watanabe scrunched up in the back seat finally asleep. He woke once the car was parked and Nana was emerging from a seedy looking pawn shop with a small package. She slid the package under the front seat and started the engine.

  "What have you been up to?" Watanabe asked.

  "Shopping?"

  "For what?"

  "Protection."

  "From what?"

  "Whatever."

  "What is it? An alarm system?"

  Nana laughed. "Yeah, I'm going to wire you up."

  "Come on now."

  "OK. You may not like it. A thirty-eight police special."

  "You bought a revolver!"

  "Yeah, what of it?"

  Watanabe had long been aware of Nana's fascination with guns, but this, this wasn't the Wild West, not even a Chicago gangland scene. It was the peaceful desert. "How could they sell it to you? Isn't there a waiting period?"

  "I was charming."

  "You had sex with the man?"

  "No, silly. I know you aren't serious or you'd be my first victim. By the way, I need more ammunition. It's loaded, but that's it."

  "Why did they let you buy it?"

  "I paid a little extra. Don't worry, we can peddle it before we start the home trip."

  "God almighty," Watanabe sighed, then returned to sleep.

  They spent the night in an El Centro motel. Over breakfast, Nana explained to Watanabe that many American women carry a handgun in their purse.

  "I too am an American citizen," he replied, "and I too know the mores of this savage land. I don't believe the percentages you speak of are very high."

  "In Texas."

  "We are not in Texas. We are in the California desert. The quirky Texans have only one state out of the fifty. Try Rhode Island."

  "Rhode Island sucks," Nana responded, then dug into her ham and eggs and asked for a coffee refill.

  After breakfast they sought out the police chief, Jerry Dillard, who gave them general directions to Ben Hardy's digs. It was getting on toward noon of their second day in the States when they arrived at his dusty retreat.

  The entire ramshackle structure was set against the wall of a large arroyo, an aging green trailer home with an additional roof over it to guard against the scorching sun. It had been extended with a wood-frame building sided with four-by-eight reverse board-and-batten panels. The roof of the extension was plywood nailed over with tarpaper that was torn here and there. Not a pretty sight. Nana wondered if there were ever flash floods in the area. If so, good-bye tacky cabin.

  At the sound of their car, Hardy emerged, blinking in the dazzling desert sunshine.

  "Long time, no see," Watanabe said, climbing from the car.

  "Well I'm a son-of-a-bitch," Hardy said la
ughing, "you tracked me out to this hell hole."

  "You hidin' out?" Nana asked.

  "No. I like it here." He looked up at the sky around him, held out his arms and said, "Freedom. Can't beat it. But the two of you, here in the desert. Did they kick you out of Japan too?"

  "We're on vacation," Watanabe said, "but we never did get to talk to you much about the drownings. Do you have a few minutes?"

  "To me time is not money. I got plenty of it and spend it freely. But I did enter into an agreement not to talk about the situation, or at least I think I did. The fact is I don't know much more than I already told you."

  "Who did you cut this deal with?" Watanabe asked.

  "Damned if I know. But whoever it is, they know what they're doing and they've got plenty of cash backing them up."

  "You're talking about something that happened in Japan?"

  "For sure. At least it started there. But they've got long arms." Ben Hardy looked around at the empty desert as if he were being watched. There was nothing but the sun and the baked earth, rocks and a few embattled plants fighting for survival. "Really, I shouldn't even be talking to you now. But you're here and I'll let you come inside and talk if you promise to keep me out of it and get the hell on out of here and not come back."

  Watanabe shrugged. "Why not." It was the best deal he was going to get. He had no authority here and there was no reason to ask the U.S. lawmen to bring Hardy in for questioning.

  The three of them went inside the dark cave of a dwelling and found seats on threadbare furniture that looked as if it had come from some scrap heap.

  "I've recycled this stuff," Hardy said, gesturing toward the general d?cor. He brought a two-quart bottle from the refrigerator and poured them each a glass of water. The furnace-like heat of the desert was already beginning to parch their lips and suck liquid from their bodies. "Small things become important out here. A glass of cold water is like a precious gem. I think that's why I like it. Back to basics."

  For all Hardy's earthy demeanor and desert rat appearance, Watanabe realized he was dealing with an intelligent human being. All the oddball contract teachers crawling over countries in Asia and other parts of the globe were fairly well educated and had gathered additional knowledge from their students.