by Arne Bue
"Yes. Not only because he's been a regular every trip out to the Chain, but because he approached me. He came to me when I imagine I appeared vulnerable, and I probably was. I was thinking about Joyce, and I wasn't feeling too well about things, and he probably somehow picked up on that. And he spoke to me right away about some personal things. All of that makes me suspicious."
"What did he say?" Elaine asked.
"You and I, after this trip is over, should have a long talk," John said.
Gary Quinsen took the watch at noon.
Elaine said, "Mr. Nakano was on the bridge just before we pulled out of King Cove."
"What the hell. You invite him up?" Quinsen asked.
"Hey, Gary. Simmer down. Captain Sewell brought him up so he could take a few pictures before we departed."
"He say anything? I mean, about Deck Officers, or me or anyone? I mean in English that anyone can understand?"
"Gary, he speaks perfect English. Can you believe it? Here I've been trying to talk to him for so long. Same as Anna and Billy. But he'd always pretend he didn't understand."
"I don't like him coming to the bridge. What's his complaint?" Quinsen asked.
"Hey, Gary. Mellow, OK?" Elaine said. "He didn't say anything about you. He and Sewell are getting to know each other. Sewell's keeping an eye on him, like Juneau Headquarters wants. Like the Troopers and DEA want."
***
Later, Mr. Nakano wrote the final letter to Misako. In the letter, he listed certain details.
And on the way in to Sand Point, he visited Anna Knight at the purser's counter.
Mr. Nakano said, "May I ask you for something?"
"Sure," Anna said.
"I need a cardboard box."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
An indignant wind persisted and unforgiving rains swept the sea, but as usual the stabilizers enabled the Tustumena to sail almost as though on fair waters. Starboard, Mr. Nakano gazed at Unga Island and the waters of Unga Strait and much later, he recognized Popov Island coming up in the gray distance, the ship arriving Sand Point.
Mr. Nakano thought of Kiichi Sugimoto. Perhaps, he waits. But I am ready. Just as I was ready that time so long ago, when so young, hiding in the tunnel in Tokyo. I must try to keep Sugimoto from prevailing.
At 2:10 p.m., Sunday, October 2, the docks of the community slipped into view. The Tustumena passed the moored AJ, a black, steel-hulled boat with winches, cranes, stern lifts, red lettering, the hull blazoned with red stripes. On the forward cab a red blaze pattern careened across the superstructure. A magnificent subject for a sketch, Mr. Nakano thought. As he moved his charcoal across the paper, he studied at the dock, and he watched approaching vehicles and the people milling about.
The long arm of a breakwater protected the fishing fleet. A blue-hulled work boat piled with lumber loomed above fishing vessels. The low hillside behind the community stood out in straw brown smeared with the failing green of October. A causeway extended from land and veered like an eel to the wharf.
The ship docked.
A few local young men grouped in the solarium with the elders from Kodiak. A passenger in a knit cap and windbreaker took photos. One passenger in a down-filled jacket sat alone in the solarium. None of these people appeared as threats. On the dock, a half dozen trucks and cars waited, a Ford pickup among them. The Purser, a dock worker, a seaman, and a Husky below on the dock stood by the ramp leading from the car lift. A Dodge truck approached.
If he were to sketch, Mr. Nakano would consider the fifty gallon drums, together in a particular arrangement. He'd include the one phone booth, the empty crates and the two tires sitting on a pallet, next to another grouping of fifty gallon drums.
A yellow fork lift with an overhead to keep the rain off drove from a warehouse bay, the tines empty. The City of Sand Point Garbage truck drove aboard and took the Tustumena's garbage. Passengers disembarked.
Watchful, Mr. Nakano visited the boarding area. He stood next to a Deck Officer. Second Mate Harry Lingenberry leaned, the man experiencing a discomfort of some sort, Mr. Nakano guessed.
"You have a problem with your stomach. My father did, too," Mr. Nakano said. He spoke with Second Mate Lingenberry because Mr. Nakano believed he may well die in Sand Point. There may be no way to stop Kiichi Sugimoto, so he thought to spend his last moments living in kindness, and expressing his concern for others. After all, he thought, is that not who I really am?
"Not my stomach," Lingenberry said. "I think I've picked up a dose from my girlfriend in Dutch Harbor." Mr. Nakano had heard the word "dose" in Language Club in Tokyo. It referred to venereal disease, he was quite sure of that.
"How long have you had this illness?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"Noticed something wrong about the time we pulled out of Homer, but didn't think much of it. Quinsen says it's the clap, for sure. Guess he's had it lots of times. At least that's what he said.
"Does not Anna Knight have medications?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"Maybe I should ask her, but this is supposed to be kept quiet," Lingenberry said.
"Of course. I will say nothing." Mr. Nakano looked down on the Sand Point dock and puzzled over why a full Second Mate would confide such a personal matter with a virtual stranger. Perhaps, he thought, he figures I am secretive, and therefore safe. Maybe he is bothered by his pain and believes talking of this to a stranger will give him some sort of comfort.
Such strange people, Americans.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Redbeard arrived early. He waited in the dark by the building that housed the swimming pool. He'd meet the replacement, the man Kenso Nakano had said was a soldier. Jeffrey Johnson's special meeting place, the place where his friend Jeffrey once made his money. Jeffrey had, just this last year, taken the wife and kids on one of those Caribbean cruises. The dumpster looked like a good place to wait. He took the .30-.30 from the case, stuck a shell in the chamber and made sure the safety was off.
A small amount of light found the corner of the building. His friends at the dock on one of the draggers had set this up, what they believed would be a buy. No problem with them because they knew Redbeard. He heard washrock gnaw at someone's boot, a quiet footfall. Redbeard leveled the .30-30.
A slender man stepped around the corner of the building. From the black outline, the man wasn't very tall, even shorter than Kenso. Redbeard could see the man had a crew-cut. His ears stuck out. He stood motionless, as though listening, maybe wanting to hear Redbeard breathe.
But Redbeard was not breathing. He always held his breath when he sighted and squeezed off a round. He put the slug right between the man's eyes. The blast bounced off the wall of the building and the dumpster and buzzed Redbeard's ears. Someone turned on a light in one of the houses down the street.
Redbeard placed the .30-.30 in the case, and ducked around the low-slung building. He walked, standing straight and tall, to the back entrance of the motel.
Mr. Nakano would be pleased.
Redbeard would charge him two thousand for the job.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Once more Captain Sewell stood off to the side, far forward of Mr. Nakano and Second Mate Harry Lingenberry. The Captain apparently looked off at nothing. It was, Mr. Nakano mused, as though the gods fated another meeting with the Captain. But before entering into a conversation, Mr. Nakano considered the Second Mate, with whom he was talking as to an old friend. Mr. Nakano could surely learn more of the Captain from the talkative, loose-tongued Second Mate before approaching the Captain a second time.
"Why is Captain Sewell so sad?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"His wife was killed in a drive-by shooting at Northway Mall in Anchorage. He almost got it, too. He thinks he should have gotten it, not her," Lingenberry said confidentially, but low so his voice would not carry along the deck to the ears of the Captain.
"How long ago?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"About two years," Lingenberry said.
"Why does he not take another wife?"
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"I don t know," Lingenberry said. "If you ask me, he ought to take Prozac or something," Lingenberry said.
Mr. Nakano's thoughts became gliding clouds sliding in and out of the heavens. He'd failed in his own life. He should have right ideas of things, ideas based on careful observation. Of late he'd stubbornly fought despondency, and tried to hold in his heart the belief that his life would not be a total failure. He understood causes and effects and their significance correctly. At least he was quite sure he did, even though he had sacrificed his honor for worldly possessions. The cause of his suffering had grown from his desires and attachments, so he concluded he had failed often, since desire and attachment are related to mistaken observations by his ego-self, and neglecting the significance of the law of cause and effect, and since it was from these wrong observations, there could be peace only if his mind could be rid of his worldly passions.
He believed one day, if he lived, he could rid himself of mistaken worldly passions by careful and patient mind-control. That way he could avoid desires arising from the stimulation of the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, skin and the subsequent mental processes and, by so doing, cut off the very root of all his worldly passions.
He'd learned even as a child to see and avoid danger, did he not? Wise men kept away from wild horses and mad dogs, so one should not make friends with evil men, nor should he go to places that wise men avoid. Perhaps he had failed here, but in his heart, he was not friends with them, with Nishimoto and the others. He never had considered them friends.
Who were his friends?
His wife Misako, his son Kano. Other than that, he had no friends.
Much of his thinking stemmed from father Etsuo, who often visited the Buddhist temple. Though Mr. Nakano was drawn to the Shinto shrine and beliefs as a good yakuza, he considered also at length through his life the teachings of Buddha, and this had been a conflict with his oyabun, Nishimoto.
"Shinto is the core of our belief," Nishimoto had said to him. "We are trying to pursue the road of chivalry and patriotism. That's our sense of giri and ninjo. We try to take care of all society if possible, even if it takes one million yen to help a single person. In the winter we give the sunny half of the street to the common people because we survive on their work. In the summer we walk on the sunny side, to give them the cool, shaded half. If you look at our actions, you can see our strong commitment to giri-ninjo."
Ah, Mr. Nakano said within himself, looking at the saddened Captain Sewell. Giri-ninjo, obligation and compassion.
The soldier Sugimoto had not appeared, but he could be around, unseen and waiting. Mr. Nakano could be a target at this very moment. So it was important that Mr. Nakano should speak to Captain Sewell, and take another significant step. This was the correct way to think, the clean way to proceed. If Sugimoto kills me, I will die doing the correct thing, trying to implement a correct plan.
Captain Sewell had finished conversing with a passenger, a man of forty wearing an insulated, light-brown coat. The man showed no interest in Mr. Nakano.
"Captain, I must speak to you," Mr. Nakano said.
Captain Sewell looked right at Mr. Nakano.
"This is concerning your Chief Mate, Elaine Miller," Mr. Nakano said.
"What about her?" the Captain asked.
"You should not allow your loss to forever harm your life. Elaine Miller is quite concerned about you."
"Concerned?"
"Perhaps more than concerned, Captain," Mr. Nakano said.
"I don't have time for that." Captain Sewell walked off, and climbed the stairs to the boat deck.
Mr. Nakano looked across to the causeway. A familiar figure of a man approached along the causeway, carrying a beat-up gun case under his arm. The rain made his red beard dark and stringy. Mr. Nakano considered Redbeard's appearance in Sand Point an error that could be compounded should the Deck Officers observe Redbeard and him speaking together.
Mr. Nakano descended the gangway to the dock. He paused by a group of oil drums, trying not to be too obvious to the people standing nearby. Redbeard stepped on the dock itself, coming closer. Mr. Nakano walked across and into the bay. He looked around the warehouse. He stood near a stack of pallets. A worker passed, probably heading out to the dock, but stopping and looking at Mr. Nakano.
"Need something?" the man called.
"No, just looking," Mr. Nakano said. His eyes adjusted to the change in light. All the details of the warehouse sketched themselves in as on a sketchpad. More pallets, several crates, drums, boxes, rope. Redbeard was standing several feet outside the bay, looking hesitant about entering. The warehouseman headed to the dock. Redbeard stepped into the warehouse. Out of view of dock workers, he raised his rifle case and pumped his arm. Mr. Nakano saw small droplets of rain water drip from the tip of the man s beard. Redbeard lips raised to show gray teeth.
"What have you done?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"Your soldier friend isn't going to bother anyone anymore. I killed him. With this," Redbeard said. His eyes bulged like blue marbles.
The ship readied to leave. Mr. Nakano reached into his pocket and opened the blade, and with an exploding forward thrust plunged its gleaming sharp tip and whole length through Redbeard's soft, down-filled coat, between the proper ribs. Mr. Nakano twisted up and around, and the blade tore into the heart of the big man. Mr. Nakano recognized the success of the impalement from the way Redbeard's mouth opened and the way his eyes rolled. He extracted the blade, and wiped the blood deftly on Redbeard's sleeve. Redbeard seemed to have lost his alertness. Mr. Nakano pushed the big man. Redbeard stumbled between the wall and a stack of lumber. He folded to the floor as though an empty sack. Redbeard's feet beat upon the cement of the small warehouse, but eventually, much to Mr. Nakano's relief, the drumming sound stopped, and Mr. Nakano heard only Redbeard's gasps echo about the small warehouse. After what seemed to Mr. Nakano an interminable period of wait, Mr. Nakano heard Redbeard issue a liquid, rattling sigh. The man fell silent as the stack of lumber behind which he lay.
Mr. Nakano turned his coat inside out to hide any hint of stain, and exited the warehouse. He limped toward the gangway. A man in a truck looked at him, but Mr. Nakano only nodded politely and moved on. His knee throbbed as he ascended the gangway and climbed the interior stairs.
Stretched out in the confines of cabin 208, he said in Japanese, a voice soft and as though speaking to pond lilies, "Kiichi Sugimoto is dead. Redbeard did the job with the rifle. The police will find him, and affix the murder to Redbeard's torn heart." He ran these words through his mind again and again, making them an affirmation, an actual belief structure.
He thought to stay hidden in 208. He considered remaining until the next stop, Chignik. And would it not be wise to cocoon in 208 all the way to Kodiak, not even come out for meals? The stateroom has such a safe texture. There are no hard eyes in here. But no, that would be the error of a frightened child. I must settle my heart and chest, take the Advils, and walk about the outside decks with my camera and my sketchpads. After all, this is Sand Point, and the crew will be wondering after my presence.
He could still feel Redbeard's legs kicking, and hear his rattle. Shame visited him like a horde of mites that would eat his spirit. There was a remedy for this. He'd used this medicine for peace years ago, after the first killing in the tunnel. To regain peace, he must give a part of himself. Long ago, yakuza would give part of a finger to prove they'd learned not to betray. An ancient custom from the days of the samurai, though of late falling from favor. A finger removed means a weaker sword hand. The weakened one would be dependent upon the gang leader all the more. But Mr. Nakano had no intention of weakening himself. He simply wanted a remedy for his nightmarish state. The procedure was to give away the secret of achieving peace. The very act of giving away, somehow brought with it a return of peace.
But to whom will I give?
***
"If you wouldn't mind, may I join you?" Mr. Nakano asked.
Louie looked up
from his cribbage hand. Donna scooted over to make room for Mr. Nakano in the side lounge booth.
"Whoa, if it ain't our neighbor," Louie said.
"Shut up, Louie," Donna said.
"I told you not to say that," Louie said.
"Well, you sound like a dork, Louie. I mean, listen to how you sound. Here goes. `Whoa, if it ain't our neighbor.' See what I mean? You sound just like a dork."
"I do not. I'm trying to be polite, here," Louie said. "The man wants to join us and watch me beat the hell out of you at cribbage. Right Mr. Nakano?"
"I appreciate you allowing me to sit here awhile," Mr. Nakano said.
"So, what we're playing here is cribbage," Donna says. "You know, fifteen-two, fifteen-four, a double run of eight's a dozen. Like I just done here to the dork." Donna counted off 12 peg holes.
"You follow that?" Louie asked. Mr. Nakano shook his head. He was holding a bright orange book. There was a picture of a setting sun on the cover, and a narrow cloud sliced through the lower third of the orb. And below that was a cloud bank. All orange and yellow. The title of the book was "The Teaching of Buddha." He did not open the book, but looked at the cribbage board.
"Well, I got two pair, for four," Louie said. "And you froze me out in the crib."
"See what I mean, Mr. Nakano? Louie's not only a dork, but he's a stupid one. He throws the wrong cards, keeps the bad ones. I could beat him with him dealing me only two cards." Mr. Nakano looked at Donna's eyes. They were brown. Under her eyes the tiny tracks of a crow grew. Her left eye was puffy. But the young woman seemed quite pleased with life.
"What you looking at," she said, smiling.
"Do you meditate?" Mr. Nakano asked.
"Oh, hey," Louie said. "Me and Donna say grace and the Lord's Prayer all the damn time. Just like our folks taught us."
