She gave him a decorous bow. “I’d like to speak with Tsunada-san, if you please. My father’s friend Kamura-san told me he might be kind enough to help me.”
The man stared at her like he was made of stone. She raised her chin and stood her ground. At last he nodded. “I bring you up.” He cocked his head at the stairs.
She followed him. With each step, her feet felt heavier.
Into the gang’s lair.
At the top of the stairs, a narrow corridor lined with handsome shoji partitions ran the length of the hotel. The man cracked one of them open and spoke in a low voice to someone within. He turned to her. “Tsunada-san will see you after he plays this round.”
She collapsed into a chair, drained. The distinctive sound of shuffling cards leaked into the corridor from several rooms. She settled in and waited.
A roar erupted in the room nearest her. A man rose to his feet, his shadow creating an enormous silhouette against the thin paper shoji. He stomped to the shoji and muscled it aside.
Miyako found herself staring up into the glowering square face of a man somewhere in his fifties. She slid to a kneeling position on the floor and riveted her eyes on the mat. “Please excuse me.”
“You.” He growled his displeasure. “What do you want?”
“Forgive me.” She deepened her bow. “I’m here to speak to Tsunada-san.”
“I’m Tsunada.” His gruff voice bristled with impatience. “What is it?” He nudged her thigh with a glossy shoe.
She sat up, but a profound unwillingness to meet his gaze kept her eyes glued to his pant leg. Fine, handstitched wool. The hem of it pooled gently against the top of that shoe. The cost of either could have paid her rent for a year. “Please forgive this humble person for troubling you. An old friend of my father’s, Kamura-san, told me you’re the man who can help me.”
He chuckled, but something dark in his tone reminded her that a mere flick of his finger could consign her to a painful end. And no one would know.
He stopped laughing. “You’ll make this worth my time, yes?”
“Arigato, Tsunada-san. I’ll do my best.”
He crooked his hand at a man in the game room. “Have them bring sake to the small tearoom.”
Monday 20 April 1942
Jiangxi Province, China
Dave had walked miles and weathered another chilly night on a pine-needle bed. At mid-morning the burning in his shoulder, the rumbling in his gut, the blisters on his feet—none of it had gotten any better.
If he ever saw Doc White, he’d buy the man a drink. A slug of his foul-tasting rye now and then went down like Olympic elixir, taking the edge off Dave’s pain and his nerves. Good thing he’d rescued two bottles from the Payback.
He pulled out the bottle he could get to, took a swig, and held it up to check the level of the liquid.
Half gone already. He groaned. He would need to slow down if he didn’t want to run dry. Besides, while Doc’s “medicine” might be taking the edge off his pain, it probably wasn’t helping his thirst. His canteen had been empty for hours. He swallowed, trying to wet his throat, but a rattlesnake probably had more spit.
He rested for a moment then hiked on, doing his best to ignore the blisters.
Find the Nationalists, they’d said. They’d told him what to do, but not how to do it. And it was clear he wasn’t going to get much farther without some kind of help.
He rounded a crook in the road and glimpsed one corner of a battered wooden structure. Until that point he’d avoided all contact, slipping into the forest at any sound of a footfall, real or imagined. Seeing fresh evidence of human occupation made him abandon the road again.
What is that building?
Are there people around?
He crossed his fingers and dared to hope for friendlies.
He edged toward the structure, taking care to stay well covered, every one of his senses tuned. A small break in the foliage revealed it as a tiny thatched hovel standing next to the road. Earth walls, sagging roof. Several chickens scrounged for food in an enclosure near the door.
People actually live in a dump like this?
Could he trust them?
Peasants. Bottom of society’s food chain. If this was occupied territory, they couldn’t have much love for Japanese.
Shrill laughter piped through the forest. Dave edged back into the foliage. Two small boys in ragged pants and wooden clogs burst into view on the bit of road he could see beside the hovel. They skipped into the tiny yard. Indignant chickens clucked and scattered.
The boys had a game going that sure looked like Army. The bigger kid pointed a finger gun. “Pow, pow!” The smaller one crumpled.
Apart from the brown skin and rags, they could be my cousins back home.
Three young men in soldiers’ uniforms—billed caps, high-collared jackets, big flap pockets—followed the kids. The sight of them jarred his nerves into high alert.
At least one of the young men was in on the little boys’ game. He took a running step or two and threatened the older boy with a finger pistol. The kid giggled, flopped to the ground.
They were a shabby bunch. Not much uniform about their uniforms. Some kind of leggings wrapped their shins, instead of the high combat boots he’d seen on the soldiers the day before. They weren’t well armed, either. Only two mismatched guns among the three of them. Apart from the guns and the uniforms, they looked like neighborhood teens. Not ferocious Japanese soldiers.
Chiang’s boys? Is this my chance?
His eyes rested on their canteens. The Sahara couldn’t be more parched than his throat. He swallowed hard, drew his pistol, and stepped out of the forest.
If things went to hell, he had seven rounds in his Colt .45.
Chapter Nine
Saturday, December 25, 1948
Osaka, Japan
Miyako found her session with Tsunada-san more than intimidating—she found it terrifying. But in the end, he agreed to supply the poison for the staggering price of ten thousand yen. Which made the possibility of restoring the Matsuura family’s honor tangible, although there was still the matter of the huge sum.
And the matter of Tsunada-san’s final warning. He’d puffed cigar smoke at her. “You have an obligation in return for my little favor, ah?”
“Of course. What?”
“Silence. You’ll reveal the source of the poison to no one, under any circumstance. Any circumstance. You understand, ah?”
She nodded.
“If we ever have reason to suspect that you did, consequences will be severe.” He spread his right hand—his sword hand—out and held it a few inches from her nose. Rotated it to give her a good look. His ring finger lacked a joint. And there was only a stump where his little finger had been. “We start with the fingers.” His eyes drilled into hers. “It doesn’t stop there.”
She put the memory aside with a shudder. At least she had Tsunada-san’s commitment. Her father had friends, like Kamura-san. And if everything else failed—absolutely everything—she had George-san.
It was time to reconnect with Kamura-san. Bring him the news and the problem.
She glanced at her watch. Eight-thirty. It was probably peak traffic at the restaurant now. Her chances of having a private conversation with Kamura-san would be better later. She needed a way to pass some time.
What about Kimi? Her friend worked the Abeno District, prime haunt of the brash independent operators everyone called pan-pan. Kimi should be out there by now, and it was on the way. It would be good to see her one more time.
She boarded the Midosuji Line, then connected to the Uemachi Line for the Abeno Station. She left the station in a light drizzle, amid a stream of blank-faced commuters. A long block, then a turn past a lot full of rubble, and she was in the Abeno.
Bar windows reflected jagged rectangles onto wet pavement. Raucous laughter from a dozen drinking parties spilled out onto the sidewalk. Girls—they seemed even younger than the last time she’d been ther
e—clustered on both sides of the street. Their umbrellas arched like rows of brown and gray mushrooms against the backdrop of smoke-blackened walls.
She picked her way over broken chunks of sidewalk. Girls she knew greeted her. A young woman peeped out from beneath her umbrella, then stood up from a crate she’d been sitting on. “Mi-chan? Haven’t seen you in ages.”
Miyako recognized the gait and the voice. “Kimi, there you are. I’m so happy to see you.”
“Where have you been?” Kimi wore the pan-pan’s uniform: bright lips, high heels, permed hair. A wool coat, strategically unbuttoned, so men could get a sense of the figure beneath. “Got a new man?”
“You remember Sergeant Sanders, yes?”
“The blond guy?”
“Hai.”
“Spending more time with him, ah? Since when?”
“Since he asked me to find us a place a couple days ago.” She tried not to sound too proud of her acquisition.
“Got a ticket off the street, ah?” It was impossible to miss the edge in Kimi’s voice. “How nice for you.” She huddled into her coat.
“How’s business here?”
“It’s picking up. A lot of men are on leave. You know it’s their big holiday.” She gestured down the street with her chin. “We’re in luck, ah? Here come some of General MacArthur’s boys now. Aren’t you glad you’re here?”
“Don’t drag me into this. I’m done with it.” And I’m out of it for good, one way or another.
“Oh, show a little courage.” Kimi cut her a sly look. “Sanders won’t know, will he? Or are you too rich to need the cash now?”
The mention of cash was a punch to the gut. Papa-san, pale in bed with his tank and tubes. Getting him checked into the hospital had taken every sen she had. But she pictured George-san, the way she’d seen him last. Drowsy and trusting, the hotel pillow crumpled under his sandy-blond head and his wallet open on the nightstand. Her heart did that little lurch. She shook her head. “No thanks, Kimi. I don’t want to.”
Several girls had already rushed the men. Kimi arched an eyebrow at her, then put on a brazen smile and elbowed her way to the front. “Hello, boys.”
But screams from the far end of the street interrupted the fun.
“Police!”
“Cops!”
In an instant, Miyako took it in. The van idling at the end of the block. Trench-coated men jumping out. Pan-pan scattering before them like leaves in a winter storm.
A policeman grabbed a girl around the waist and dragged her toward the van. She struggled, struck at him with purse and elbows. “No! Let me go!”
“A raid? Che!” Panic sent Miyako’s pulse hammering and her feet pounding. She spun away from the commotion and pelted down the street as fast as her peep-toe pumps allowed. She could not afford to let them take her. If they did, odds were good it would cost three of her precious days. They’d examine her for V.D. and keep her locked up until the test results came in. And it would be more than three days if she tested positive.
Kimi was right behind her, cursing between breaths.
Police converged from the other direction. Their path was blocked. “Quick, this way.” Miyako ducked into an alley. It was a dead end, but if luck was with them they could hide.
She heard a thud and a yelp behind her. Kimi sprawled on the wet street, one foot bare. Her shoe stuck in the crack where her heel had wedged.
Miyako hesitated. She’s lost if I don’t help her.
She started back. But the pandemonium was getting closer. There was no time.
She scrambled behind a set of trash bins and crouched. She could see the street—and Kimi—through a gap. Her friend sat up and grabbed her ankle. By that time, the police were on her. One of them pulled her up and forced her to hobble back the way they’d come.
Miyako slid her dark coat over her so it covered her completely. She wedged herself farther into the space behind the bins. It was all she could do not to retch at the fetid stench. She choked down the bile, breathed through her mouth, and listened while the screams and scuffling noises subsided.
Heavy footsteps. Adrenaline sharpened her hearing. Sounded like a pair of them, searching the alley. Somehow she made herself even smaller.
“Looks clear to me.” The squelch of shoes on the wet pavement faded. The wagon’s back door slammed shut. The motor started, and the truck rolled away. Rowdy male laughter and juke-box music resumed in the bars and restaurants along the street.
After a time, she moved the coat enough so she could see the street through one eye. No one. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Sitting here with the rest of the refuse.
Her legs were cramping. She stood by inches and shook them out. She still couldn’t quite believe her good fortune.
What a hard break for Kimi. And for Chikako, Kimi’s little sister. Maybe she’d look in on her. Make sure she had something to eat.
In the bar behind her, several thick male voices rose in song, slurring out what sounded like a sentimental theme. “Peace on earth, and mercy mild...”
Her hand moved out of habit to her purse, groped for her cigarettes. She leaned against the wall and lit up.
Footsteps rushed toward her. “You there!”
Of course there was a second truck.
Monday 20 April 1942
Jiangxi Province, China
The older boy saw Dave first. He jumped up from where he lay on the ground, yelled and pointed. A couple of the soldiers jerked in surprise. They went rigid, hands on weapons.
The little boys gripped each other. Their peepers couldn’t have gone wider if a white tiger had strolled from the bamboo.
Dave and the soldiers stared at each other for a long moment. Dave’s finger jittered above the Colt’s trigger.
The one who’d played with the kids exchanged a murmured comment with the fellow next to him. He directed some singsong syllables at Dave. Made a show of lifting his hand a few inches off his holster.
“Japan? Or China?” Dave’s words came out a hoarse yell.
“China. We from China.” A taut smile crossed the young man’s chiseled face. He bobbed his head, brought his hands up so Dave could see both palms.
Dave could make out the insignia on the fellow’s cap now. A tiny blue ball surrounded by a many-pointed star. Not the Japanese army’s infamous five-pointed gold star.
He put his sternest face on and gestured with his pistol at the other two soldiers. They echoed the gesture the first soldier had made, lifting their hands, palms forward.
He looked around at the three of them. The soldier who spoke English wore a frank and open expression. The others looked more guarded. The fellow on the left had a blunt head and heavy-lidded eyes that put him in mind of a Peter Lorre movie villain.
The soldier who knew a little English pointed at his own nose. “Chen.” He extended an open hand toward Dave, his face a question mark.
Dave took a deep breath before he lowered his pistol. “Dave.”
“Dev?”
Dave nodded.
“Dev. Where from?”
“American. Friend of Chiang Kai-Shek.”
“Ahh.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Chen still looked puzzled.
“Fighting Japan.”
“Ah,” Chen repeated, with a nod this time, followed by a torrent of discussion among the three.
Dave’s eyes drifted to Chen’s canteen.
How do you say water in this country? How do you say anything in this country?
He pantomimed raising something to his lips.
“Ah.” Chen nodded vigorously, pulled the canteen from its pouch, and held it out to him.
To take the canteen, he’d have to put down his pistol. He took a long look into Chen’s face. Chen unscrewed the canteen’s top. That did it. He slipped the Colt into its holster, reached for the canteen, and took a healthy swig. Tepid water splashed across his chin.
Mmm. Bouquet of rusty pipes. But an iced Coke wouldn’t have gon
e down better. He threw his head back for more.
Chen studied him. “You arm?”
“My shoulder.” He gestured toward it.
“Bad?”
He nodded. “Pretty bad. I can’t move it.”
“How you come here?”
Let’s see. Flew a bomber off a carrier. Dropped four bombs over Osaka. Flew another fifteen hours. Ran out of fuel and bailed. He had no language for any of that.
“Airplane.” He tried flying his good hand, but their expressions registered blank.
I’ll draw these fellows a picture. He knelt beside a patch of muck at the path’s edge. Grabbing a stick, he did his best one-handed drawing of an airplane. He added a series of specks raining from its belly with a cartoon starburst below.
Chen’s almond eyes went wide with astonishment. He pointed at the starburst shape—which the muck was already absorbing—and mimicked the sound of an explosion.
Dave couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“Where?”
“Japan. Osaka. Then we flew. Fifteen hours.” He flew his hand into the ground. “Crashed not far from here.”
Chen sucked his breath in and stood in silence. It took a second or two for crinkles to emerge at the corners of his eyes. He turned and jabbered an excited explanation at the others.
Dave sighed out his relief. Maybe a small token of friendship would be in order. “Cigarette?”
The soldiers studied him with puzzled expressions, then looked at one another. Dave produced a pack of Chesterfields from his breast pocket and shook two out.
Their features lit. They crowded him, chattering. He handed smokes around and produced the Zippo lighter a Navy fellow had given him for luck. When he flicked it and a flame sprung into being, the astonishment on the ring of faces around him was nothing short of marvelous.
More incomprehensible dialog until the three reached some decision. The fellow who looked like Peter Lorre—Dave decided he’d call him Pete—turned and double-timed off the way they’d come.
“Wait. Where’s he going?” Dave wrapped his fingers around the Colt’s grip.
The Plum Blooms in Winter Page 9
