The Seventh Samurai Page 7

  Hardy took a sip of water and smacked his lips. "Well, what do you want to know?"

  "First, why did you leave Osaka in such a hurry?"

  "It must have been the Japanese government. They never did identify themselves. Two well-dressed guys came to my door and pushed their way in. They told me to get out of the country."

  "And you did? No questions asked?"

  "No!" Hardy was emphatic. "I got damned mad. There wasn't much of an argument. Both of them were bigger than me. One picked up my table television and smashed it on the floor. He said I wouldn't want to take it on the plane."

  "They spoke English?"

  "One of them spoke it pretty good. The other, no. There was a police box down the street from where I lived and I said I was going to get a cop. They just laughed, and one said go ahead. If you bring a cop back here we'll have you arrested. It'll just mean you'll spend a few months in jail before we ship you back to the States."

  "How could they have had you arrested?" Nana asked.

  "I asked the same question. They told me drugs. They would take me to jail and they would find drugs in my apartment."

  "And you believed them?" Watanabe asked.

  "Damn right I did. And still do. They were two sharp cowboys and had everything under control. After I settled down, they talked money. They would fly me home first class and they would give me the equivalent of a year's pay."

  "What does that amount to?" Watanabe asked.

  "I asked for $40,000. It varies a lot, but that's about what it amounts to if you work halfway hard." Watanabe glanced at Nana and she nodded in agreement.

  "And they paid you that amount in yen?"

  "We had a little problem over that. I was happy to get the offer. Naturally, I was in Japan to make money and to save money. As you know, living's cheap here except for stupid tourists. The fact is I hadn't meant to stay more than one more year. The culture was getting to me. No offense to you, Watanabe, but things can get pretty creepy over there. "

  "You got that right," Nana tossed in.

  "But I didn't want to get yen and have to convert to dollars and I didn't want to carry that much cash back to the States. If you have more than ten thousand dollars in currency, travelers' checks or so forth you're supposed to fill out a form. It's OK to bring the money in, but if you don't fill out the form they can really zap you. If you do fill out the form they raise questions about why you're carrying so much money. Anyway, I just didn't want to carry that much back."

  "You could have had a bank transfer it to your account back in the States," Nana said.

  "I know that. But a transaction that large, the bank has to report it to the IRS, and you know what they do. They're paid to take money away from you."

  "So what did you do?" Watanabe asked.

  "It was no problem. They gave me half a million yen to show good faith. The remainder was handed over to me in cash when I got to the States. These guys were sharp operators. That's why I shouldn't be talking to you now. But I felt I owed you some explanation."

  "Let me get this straight," Watanabe said. "Someone met the plane and handed you thousands of U.S. dollars?"

  Hardy poured himself some more water and passed the jug to Nana. It seemed to be growing hotter in the small room and the heat was intensely dry. "It was almost like that. They had reserved a room for me at a nearby motel, a place called the Seven Palms. A man showed up the next day with the money in a package. All wrapped up in brown paper and tied with a string."

  "Was it one of those two men?" Nana asked.

  "No." Hardy shook his head. "He was Japanese, but a middle aged man. Potbelly, balding. Good English. I just had the idea he worked at the Japanese Consulate in L.A., but that was just a hunch. He was pleasant. He gave me the package and left. I didn't even see the car he was driving."

  "If that's how the Japanese deport people, I'd like to know where to get an application," Nana said.

  "You got the idea this was a government operation then?" Watanabe asked.

  "Government operation. Government cover up. What do you think?"

  Watanabe poured himself more water. Why anyone wanted to live on this desert in a ramshackle hut was beyond his ken. "Why do you say 'cover-up?'"

  "Well, you're a cop. You've been investigating. But nobody's let you in on the secret, have they?"

  Watanabe shook his head. "I'm as baffled as you are, maybe more so. And my boss is as much in the dark as I am. And he carries some clout in police circles. What's that noise?" Watanabe had thought it was an airplane at first, a low hum, growing louder, but it had lasted too long for a passing plane.

  "Cycles," Hardy said. "Bikers. Lot of bikers on the desert. A few of my friends ride those big hogs. I'm not partial to them myself." The noise continued to mount. It became apparent that there were several motorcycles and that they were approaching Hardy's jerry-built home. Hardy left his chair and went out front to meet the bikers.

  Watanabe and Nana heard the sound die as the bikers pulled to a halt, heard someone shout, "Are you Ben Hardy?" The next thing they heard were two shots. They rushed to the door to see Hardy sprawled on the baked desert floor, dead or dying.

  A big man with a black mustache and huge belly was standing in front of the nearest motorcycle reloading a pistol. One of the other bikers shouted, "There's two other motherfuckers in the cabin and one of them's a girl." The big man raised his pistol and snapped off a shot that whistled between Watanabe and Nana.

  The two frantically fell back into the cabin, and Watanabe pushed the door shut as shots two and three slammed into the heavy door.

  One of the bikers shouted, "Girl, you might as well start pulling your pants off now." Nana scrambled for her purse, found the gun and ran to the window and squeezed off two shots at the big man. Both missed, but it caused the crowd to fall back and seek cover.

  "Nana, for Christ's sake!" Watanabe shouted. "Stop shooting."

  "I'll fix their asses good," she shouted back. "If they want my pants they'll have to fight me for them!"

  "Calm down," Watanabe said in a hoarse whisper. "We can't shoot all of them. There aren't enough bullets. Did you hit anybody?"

  "No, but I scared the shit out of them. You should have seen them run."

  "It gives us a little time, but the fact is we're trapped in here. How much ammunition do you have?"

  "Four bullets. I had six. I meant to buy a box, but I forgot. Damn."

  "How many guys do you suppose are out there?"

  "Twelve, maybe fifteen. There's a truck, too."

  "I didn't see a truck," Watanabe said. "Is it a van?"

  "No. An old pickup truck. It's not unusual for a motorcycle gang. They camp out. They need stuff. Blankets, food, firewood. Then they steal things."

  "And they might want to carry off Ben Hardy's body. This looks like a contract killing. They asked him his name. He either nodded, or said yes. I couldn't hear. Then they shot him. There'll be no mercy for us. I'm just sorry I got you into this, Nana."

  "No sweat. My eyes were open. What better way to die than as a young lover. Well, relatively young. Maybe Hardy had a gun."

  "I'll look around. You watch the window." Watanabe had little fear of gunfire from the gang. At least not at this time. As far as he had seen they only had one revolver that wouldn't be accurate at any distance. The big-bellied man had clear shots at them and missed each time.

  The heat was stifling in the cabin. There was no electricity so no air conditioning, not even a fan. The refrigerator operated on kerosene. And there was no phone. Watanabe hoped for a battery-operated radio or a cell phone, but found nothing. And no gun. He did find a mean looking butcher knife with a 10-inch blade. He gave it to Nana.

  There was a noise as if someone was on the roof. Nana squeezed off two shots through the plywood and tarpaper. They both crouched and waited with an eye on the window and another on the ceiling. There was no additional sound. "Someone must have snuck up and tossed something on the roof," Watanabe said.<
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  "Yeah," Nana agreed. "Two more rounds gone. Two left. I'll save them. Maybe somebody will come by."

  Watanabe thought, yes, maybe the U.S. cavalry. They were up a dry wash miles from any thoroughfare in a sparsely populated area. He knew they could squat on this barren place for a year with little hope of anyone dropping by.

  A shout came from outside. "Come out or we'll burn your fuckin' cabin. We'll give you five minutes."

  "Can they do that?" Nana asked.

  "Easily," Watanabe replied. "This building is backed up against a mud cliff. All they have to do is get on top of that cliff and drop something on us. Some sort of gasoline bomb would do the trick."

  "Why didn't they just go ahead and do it?"

  "That's a good point. The smoke might attract attention. There might be someone in the area - maybe a plane or a chopper. They also don't want to get shot trying to take us. Maybe we can negotiate."

  "Negotiate? You mean trade them something? What have we got?"

  "I don't know. It depends on what they want. But it's worth a shot." Watanabe moved to the window and shouted, "Let's make a deal."

  "What kind of deal?" the big-bellied man shouted back.

  "You go away and we promise not to chase you."

  He could hear the laughter, then a shout back, "Send the bitch out and we'll go away." More laughter and some conversation he couldn't understand.

  Watanabe looked around at the walls of the shack and felt the heavy dry heat. It would burn like a torch and the two of them would have no option but to run coughing into the open, directly into the arms of the gang. He guessed they would kill him quickly, although he couldn't be sure. They might keep Nana alive for days. His eyes fell on a heavy hiking stick. It appeared to be hardwood, probably oak. He crawled across the room and grasped the stick in his two hands. "I'll fight the fat man," he shouted through the window.

  "Watanabe, are you crazy," Nana chided. "That man would make two of you."

  "I've got a plan," he said quietly. He could hear more laughter from outside.

  "You want bare hands, or knives," the fat man shouted. Nana held up the long bladed knife Watanabe had given her, but he shook his head, no.

  "Sticks," he shouted back.

  "Sticks," came a questioning shout. "Sticks and stones?"

  "No. I have a long stick in here. It's like a hiking staff. If you get a stick, I'll fight you. Right in front of this cabin."

  "Listen shithead, I don't have any little Boy Scout sticks out here. I got a knife though, and my two fists. And it's getting' fuckin' hot out here in this sun. Get your ass out here, or I'll burn your asses out."

  "He sounds mean," Nana said.

  "Don't try to cheer me up. There must be another stick around here."

  "What is this stick business?" Nana snapped. The heat of the desert was getting to both of them. Whether it was hotter inside or out would be hard to say.

  "It's Kendo," Watanabe said. "Japanese sword fighting. All through school I did Kendo. It's done with wooden staves. I'm sure I can beat him."

  "That makes sense. Maybe you could even go against his knife with your stick."

  "Maybe. Is there any more water?"

  Nana found more water and poured them each a drink, then a refill. "This should give us some edge. I don't think they have much water out there."

  "Get your skinny ass out here," came a bellow from outside the cabin. "One of my boys found me a stick and it's a big mother."

  Watanabe went to the window. The fat man was standing near the cabin hefting a large piece of wood in his two hands. It looked like a two-by-four and it must have been five or six feet long. "OK," Watanabe shouted. "If I win we go free?"

  "Shit, yes, man. If you knock my brains out with your stick, you walk."

  "And the girl?"

  "Shit, yes, man. Her too. Get your ass out here and let's go at it." Fats seemed in a jovial mood, playing a role for his gang. He had the shoulders of a weight lifter.

  Watanabe moved cautiously from the cabin, blinking in the glare of the sizzling sun.

  "It's some kind of chink," one of the bikers shouted.

  "Are you Chinese, man?" fats asked, holding the board like a ball bat, eyeing Watanabe's head.

  "Japanese," Watanabe replied softly. He knew he would have to duck and dodge. His small stave, as tough as it might be, could hardly deflect a well-swung blow from the heavy timber.

  "He's a little Jap," the fat man shouted.

  "Throw the fucker a raw fish," one of the bikers taunted.

  Watanabe darted in with a swift, low swing of his stave. It caught the fat man on the left ankle, almost toppling him to the ground. The big man hopped and danced with amazing agility, limping out of range.

  "You yellow bastard," the fat man raged, then rushed like a mad bull in spite of his badly bruised ankle. Watanabe stepped nimbly aside and brought his stave down full force on his tormentor's back, triggering another roar of anger. The fat man had lost his good humor. His eyes were those of a snake about to strike. But where? Which way? He feinted, then fell back. His injured ankle seemed to bother him more.

  The fat man staggered to one side and his entire left leg seemed on the verge of collapse. Watanabe knew he must finish the man if he even hoped to walk away alive. He raised the stave above his head and rushed to the attack. Too late, he saw that he had been tricked. A flicker of smile crossed the fat man's mouth as he spun the two-by-four in the air and cracked Watanabe's stave into two pieces, then whacked Watanabe in the right shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Watanabe lay on his back, his sight dimmed, his head dazed. He was aware of the fat man standing over him with the two-by-four, slowly raising it for what would probably be the deathblow. It would come crashing down on his lower forehead cracking his head like a ripe melon. He stared blankly, the heat of the day at its height, sun burning into his glazed eyes. In that long second, it was as if paralysis and fate had taken over.

  Watanabe heard the crack of the pistol, saw the fat man straighten, the timber falling from his hand, then slump to his knees. Nana was out of the cabin, smoking gun in hand, she walked within three feet of the fat man. On his knees he stared at her in a look of shocked surprise. She raised the gun, took careful aim and shot him in the face. He toppled over backwards, dead.

  "If that wasn't one hell of a show, I'll kiss your ass," one of the bikers whooped. "Did you see that look on old John's face? "I'm a son-of-a-bitch, I wish I'd just had a camera. Lady, you can ride with us anytime."

  Watanabe struggled to his feet and Nana pushed the gun into her waistband. Both were temporarily speechless.

  "Let's see if John was holdin' out on us," a biker with a sleeveless blue jean jacket and a skull tattooed across his forehead said. They clustered around the body, rolling it over and getting to his wallet.

  After a quick count, a short man with dark, hairy arms announced, "He sure as shit was. There's better'n four thousand dollars here. I believe we should give the lady at least a hundred."

  Nana looked sick, but she was pleased to be elevated from a bitch to a lady with just two rounds of ammunition and a dead man on the ground. Was she slated for a star in her crown? A biker moved from the crowd and walked to where Nana and Watanabe were standing. "I'm Clark Gable. Between the two of you, you just killed John Wayne." He stood their smiling.

  Nana looked blank.

  "We're the actors. Name of our group. There's Steve McQueen over there and Tom Cruise." He pointed to two bikers. "That little curly headed guy over there, he wanted to be Humphrey Bogart, but we call him Shirley Temple."

  "Everyone laughed except the short man who shouted, "You assholes. Now that John's dead, I think I should be John Wayne."

  "John killed the man on the ground over there for money," Clark Gable said. "Some of us don't like to do those things." He took a long look at the assembled bikers. "Others don't give a shit, but John was a real mean guy and he didn't win any popularity contest to become bos
s. He told us that he got three thousand for the killing - that's fifteen hundred for him and fifteen hundred for the rest of us. The fucker lied. He was down to his last cent before this job. You did us a favor." Watanabe guessed that Clark Gable was assuming the mantle of gang boss.

  Clark turned to Nana. "Lady, you shot John down just like he shot that man yonder down. So I don't guess you'll run to the law. And we don't need two more bodies to bury. It'll be hard enough finding a hole big enough for John. So you go your way and we'll go ours." He turned to the bikers. "Let's get these dead ones in the truck, boys." There was a little muttering, but Clark had assumed command.

  Watanabe and Nana walked to their car and headed for civilization.

  Neither of them spoke until they neared El Centro. The air conditioner was pushed to high, but they were both sweating profusely. "I guess we'll have to go to the police chief, or the sheriff," Watanabe finally said.

  "You do and you'll never smile again. We're both damned lucky to be alive. This sort of thing isn't too uncommon on the desert. We would have just disappeared. The car would have been chopped up and sold for parts."

  "But we've witnessed, been part of, a serious crime."

  "I shot a man, Taro. A prosecutor could make a jury believe I did it in cold blood. The Actors could say that you and I were in no danger, that I was trigger-happy. Should I have let them kill you?"

  "Subjectively, no. And objectively, no. Absolutely no at all levels. How about instead of running to the cops, how about we get about two gallons of cold beer and a couple of frosty liters of icy Chablis and rent the biggest and most expensive room we can find at poolside?"

  "If we're still alive tomorrow, let's head north toward San Francisco. This is a vacation."

  Watanabe grinned. "A jug of wine and thou.

  "Poor Ben Hardy," Nana mused. "When they learned in Osaka that you were ticketed for L.A., that was his death warrant." Watanabe nodded in agreement.

  CHAPTER 11: To Kill Watanabe?

  Akira Yoshimoto sipped warm sake from a small, delicate cup and nibbled jyako, tiny dried whole fish with a sharp salty tang. Outside, the lights of Tokyo lay like a bright web twenty-two stories below. Across the low table on the tatami floor sat Kyoko Suzuki. Their paths seldom crossed during the day. Yoshimoto generally dined with government officials, or alone, but the cousins tried to spend time together every evening in the condo they shared.