I took a plate out of the sack and looked at it. Staring up at me was an assortment of sushi. The small mounds of rice were covered with raw fish, encircled by pieces of flavored seaweed. A tiny clump of pink ginger and a dab of green wasabi (horseradish) completed the plate.
I glanced at my watch and noted that it was only 10:15 in the morning. Somehow knowing that it was that early made me slightly queasy about the sushi.
The idea seemed a bit bizarre, but it had some sense to it. In order to attract some early morning clientele, the Oshima Sushi bar ran a special. If you came in before 10 A.M., you got a full sushi plate for just four dollars. A sushi brunch seemed like an ideal combination of delight and economy. But staring at the limp, red slices of raw tuna, I decided I’d just as soon have a ham omelet.
Maybe it was just the idea of sushi for breakfast that gave me a problem. If I actually started eating, I might enjoy myself. So I opened a plastic pouch of soy sauce, poured it into a small plastic cup, and took a dab of wasabi off the plate and put it into the sauce, mixing it in. Bracing myself, I picked up a piece of sushi with my hashi (chopsticks) and dipped it into the small container of sauce.
I had the sushi halfway to my mouth when I noticed a visitor had opened the office door and was standing tentatively at the threshold.
She was dressed simply in a white suit that showed her tan to good advantage. Under her arm she had a black purse. I’m not an expert at such things but I figure it costs a lot of money to dress so plainly but look so good, and the dress, purse, and shoes all looked expensive. Very expensive.
She was about five foot ten and her blonde hair was carefully coifed in the windblown style that looks so terrible when it really gets windblown. Her eyes were a very clear gray that stared at me with quizzical appraisal. I put down the piece of sushi.
She walked up to the desk and said, “Mr. Tanaka?” Her voice was well modulated and soft. It was hard to tell her age. I’d say late twenties, but someone so well groomed and made up could easily be ten or fifteen years older. Maybe even older with a good facelift.
“Yes.”
“Kendo Detective Agency?”
My brain started racing. The classic start for a mystery story: pretty woman walks into detective’s office looking for help. I immediately thought this has to be a setup. Some other member of the mystery club hired this blonde to show up at the office to get a mystery within a mystery going before I could get my own stumper launched. I had told them that my mystery was loosely based on The Maltese Falcon, and now someone was playing out the opening.
Not many members of the club knew about the office yet, and only Mariko knew the address. Mariko. Maybe Mariko had gotten an actress friend to come down to start her own mystery going as a challenge? Looking at the woman, I thought she was certainly pretty enough to be an actress. I decided to play along.
“That’s right. Can I help you?”
“Perhaps you can. I do need some help. Can we talk now? I wouldn’t want to disturb your meal.” The tone of her voice, however, clearly indicated that it wouldn’t bother her to do just that.
“It’s no disturbance,” I said, putting down the hashi. “I was done anyway. It would take another couple of hours before I’d really find this appetizing. Please sit down,” I said, indicating one of the chairs in the office. She settled into a chair with a dancer’s grace, like a falling apple blossom. “Could you tell me your name?”
“My name is Rita Newly.”
I half expected Wonderly, Mary Astor’s name in the Maltese Falcon, but since this was a new mystery I guess New-ly was also appropriate.
“How did you find out about me, Ms. Newly?”
“Actually, I saw your name on the window as I drove by. I stopped on an impulse because I need some help.” She seemed composed, but her hands nervously grasped at her purse. Mariko had once told me some auditions were hard because the hardest performance to give is in front of just one person. I tried to look sympathetic to put her at ease.
“I’ve never dealt with a private detective before,” she said, “so perhaps you can answer some questions for me before I get into details.”
I gave her my warmest smile. Part of the smile was because I was starting to get into the situation, wondering what Mariko had come up with. Part of the smile was because, looking at her, it just wasn’t hard to do. “Sure, I’ll answer any questions I can.”
“First, is our discussion confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’ll maintain that confidentiality?”
“As long as I’m not asked to do anything illegal,” I said, in the most professional manner I could muster.
“Good,” she said. “Then maybe you can help me.”
“What is it you’d like me to do?”
“I want you to pick up a package.”
I was surprised. “Is that all?”
“That’s right. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars to do it.”
I could almost feel my eyes brighten at the mention of the fee. No one would pay $500 for a simple errand, so the plot was bound to thicken soon.
“Just what kind of package do you want me to pick up?”
“It’s rather personal.”
Finally things would start to get complicated. I leaned forward in my seat. I was well and truly hooked, already into the fun and wanting to play along. “Look, I’ll do it for you,” I said. “But I want to assure myself that I’m not getting involved with something that’s illegal. To do that, I really have to know what I’m picking up.”
“Well,” Rita started. She hesitated and looked down, then she looked up at me. Her eyes had a wetness hinting of tears. A few moments before she had seemed so confident and in control of her self. I was surprised by the sudden transformation. There’s nothing as appealing to most men as a pretty woman who needs help. Although I knew that intellectually, I still felt a small part of my heart melt. This woman was good.
“Please tell me, Ms. Newly,” I said gently. “Maybe I can help.” Despite the apparent breakdown in her composure, I found one trait of Rita’s very disquieting. Her eyes didn’t seem to blink much. Despite the dramatic pause, the looking down, and the hint of tears, when her eyes moved back up to look into mine, they were as wide and clear as when she first walked into the office. They were the eyes of a cobra fixed on a mouse.
“The package contains some pictures. They’re pictures of me.” Her voice was very quiet, and I had to strain to hear the last sentence.
“What kind of pictures?”
“Well, it’s very embarrassing,” she said. “And kind of a long story.”
I shrugged. “Why don’t you tell it to me? I’m not trying to embarrass you, but you have to understand I need to know what I’m getting involved in.”
“I’m a singer and a dancer,” Rita started. That didn’t surprise me. “About six months ago, I saw an advertisement looking for singers and dancers to go to Japan. The salary was very good, and it involved free travel in the Orient. The only hitch was you had to agree to a one-year contract. At the time I was single and I didn’t have a steady boyfriend, so I decided to audition. I got the job. They sent me to Japan, but when I got there I discovered they had a quite different type of entertainment in mind. It turned out they were recruiting singers and dancers, but they also wanted us to be . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I figured what was coming, but I coaxed anyway. “Yes?”
“They wanted us to be part-time prostitutes.”
“I’ve heard about that sort of thing.” So had Mariko, I thought.
“Well, it’s true,” Rita said. “I refused go along with it. I made it plain that I was hired as a singer and a dancer, not as a whore.” She spat out the word. “They made it very hard for me to keep saying no to them. They never used force or anything, but there was constant pressure to entertain guests after the show and to do the things they wanted me to. Anyway, I got tired of it, but I was stuck in a foreign country and didn’t hav
e enough money to get back home.”
I nodded sympathetically, encouraging her to go on.
“Since I wouldn’t go along with them on the prostitution, they said they would tear up the contract and give me enough money to get home if I did some nude modeling for them. I’ve done lingerie modeling, and I figured it wasn’t that much different. Besides, it would get me home. So I said okay.”
“And . . .”
“And I posed for them. They wanted me to get in some strange poses, but at the time I didn’t think much about it. They kept their word about paying me enough to get back to the States and they even tore up my contract.”
“So what does this have to do with the package you want me to pick up?”
“Well, about three months ago, right after I got back to the States, I met a nice older gentleman. I won’t tell you it was a whirlwind romance, but after my experience in Japan, some stability and financial security looked good. Maybe safety was what I was really looking for. Anyway, we’ve decided to get married. About a week ago I got some photographs in the mail.”
“The photographs you posed for?”
“Yes, but they were different. Somehow they managed to alter the photographs so it looked like I was doing things quite different from just posing nude.”
“Such as?”
“They managed to add men and even a dog to the photographs. It was disgusting. If my fiancée saw them, I’m sure it would ruin my chances of getting married.”
“Even if you explained what happened and that the pictures are altered?”
“He’s very conservative,” she said. “He doesn’t even know I posed for lingerie advertising. He knows I wasn’t a virgin when he met me, but he’s very possessive. I’m sure he’d call off the marriage if he ever saw those pictures.”
“And with the pictures I suppose you got a request for money.”
“That’s right.”
“How much?”
“That doesn’t really matter. I’ve already paid it.”
I frowned. I expected a complication where I would get involved in fake ransom drop-offs and a bevy of blackmailers. I was a little disappointed. “That’s too bad. My advice is don’t pay. Blackmail has the habit of stretching out and never ending. You should call their bluff.”
“If they try it again after we’re married, I might do that,” she said. “But right now I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize my marriage.”
“And the package you want me to pick up?” I prompted her.
“Those are the photographs I paid for.”
“Are you getting the negatives, too?”
“That’s right.”
“And when I pick up the package, you want me to make sure you’ve gotten both the photographs and the negatives.”
“No, I don’t,” she said hastily. “I don’t want anyone seeing those photographs. They kept their word about giving me enough money to go home and tearing up my contract. I’m sure they’ll keep their word on this, too.”
“But they double-crossed you over what they did with the pictures.”
“We didn’t have an agreement on that. I just wasn’t bright enough to think of all the possibilities or the kinds of trouble it might cause me later. I just want you to pick up the package.”
“And who has this package?”
“A man named Susumu Matsuda. He’s staying at the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel. He’s here from Japan. Anyway, I’ve already arranged for him to hand over the package. But I don’t want to go over and meet him to pick it up. Frankly, I’m a little scared.”
I nodded sympathetically. “And after I pick up the package?”
“I want you to hold the package until I call for it. If you can arrange to pick it up today, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“All right,” I said. “Mr. Susumu Matsuda at the Golden Cherry Blossom.” I made a quick note on a piece of paper.
Rita opened her purse, took out a Gucci wallet, and pulled out some bills. “Here’s a deposit. I’ll give you the balance after you’ve picked up the photographs. Is that satisfactory?”
“Most satisfactory.” I stuffed the bills into my pocket without looking at them.
“Can I have one of your cards, so I’ll know what phone number to call?” I was now sure this was a game set up by Mariko. Only Mariko knew I had a phone installed in the office and fake business cards printed up.
“Certainly,” I fumbled in the top drawer of the desk and pulled out one of the fake cards.
Rita looked at the business card. “Okay, Mr. Tanaka. I’ll be counting on you.”
“I’ll do my best, Ms. Newly.”
I escorted her to the door of the office and watched her as she walked down the hall toward the creaky elevator. Before she turned the corner to the elevator she looked back at me, as if she expected me to be there. I smiled and tried to wave reassuringly. She smiled back and turned the corner.
When I returned to the office I closed the door and started laughing. I was convinced that Mariko was the mastermind behind the little charade I had just gone through. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small wad of bills. The laughter died. I was expecting stage money, but there in the palm of my hand were three crisp one hundred dollar bills.
3
Mariko was the proverbial struggling actress. For her to put up three hundred dollars for a joke was, in itself, a joke. I decided to talk to her.
Mariko disdained the standard actor’s job as a waitress and she worked at a dress boutique in Little Tokyo. It was only a few blocks from the rented detective office, so I committed what passes for a peccadillo in Los Angeles and walked. The Kawashiri Boutique is part of a tourist complex on First Street known as Japanese Village. It was designed by a Korean, so it looks like a Korean’s version of what a Japanese Village in Los Angeles should look like. That’s America.
The entrance to Japanese Village is marked by a three-story yagura, or fire tower. A yagura was used in ancient Japan as a watchtower to look for the incipient signs of smoke in crowded cities. The yagura in L.A. is made from bolted together telephone poles, so it would hardly qualify as a museum piece, but I suppose it could be used to spot a tourist bus and the incipient signs of cash.
A cluster of new buildings radiate out from the tower: numerous restaurants, gift shops, bakeries, toy stores, souvenir shops, and a couple of dress shops, including the Kawashiri Boutique. As I walked in, Mariko was helping a couple of customers.
Mariko had on a simple navy dress with a colorful red and gold scarf draped over her shoulder. She’s only five feet three inches tall, but that isn’t a particular handicap in a shop that caters to older Japanese women. It is a handicap in her acting.
Her face is round with a small pointed chin. She has a cute button nose and wide brown eyes. Japanese faces have a wide variety of types (at least to other Japanese). Mrs. Kawashiri, who owned the boutique, has a broad flat face that wouldn’t look out of place on a Korean, Mongol or Eskimo. Mariko has the same kind of features as me, which look more Southeast Asian.
Mariko’s black hair is shoulder length, and she usually wears it with a sweeping lock across her forehead. Her smile has a special magic for me. Her even white teeth give mute testament to the wisdom of her parent’s investment in braces when she was a kid. (She told me once how she hated the braces. Selfishly I thought only of the results instead of the process.)
Her figure is trim, but with a nice swell to her hips and beautifully straight legs, not the daikon legs that so many Japanese women complain about. Daikon is a large, long, and lumpy white radish used in Japanese cooking, and the comparison of legs to radishes is not a flattering one.
I’m forty-two. Mariko is in her mid-thirties, and like me she’s had a failed marriage. Also like me, her first marriage was to a Caucasian. That’s a topic we’ve talked about many times with no good resolution.
At the time of her divorce, Mariko was both an alcoholic and working as a loan officer in a bank. I don’t know if
the two were related. When she hit thirty she decided life was too short to continue working for the green eyeshade crowd. She also decided that her drinking was controlling her, not vice versa. She started alternately attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and taking acting lessons. When she worked up the courage, she quit her job and started acting full-time. She also got a divorce from her husband.
She told me she was pretty miserable when she first split up with her husband, but not miserable enough to get back with him. She said he’s an alcoholic, too, although he hasn’t recognized it yet. When they were first married it was fun to party and be drunks together, but as the drinking became more serious it ceased being fun. Since the divorce both her sobriety and acting career have had their ups and downs. She slipped once on her drinking during her first year in AA, but she’s been sober for almost four years. She’s appeared in several plays and one TV commercial, but she isn’t able to make a living just acting so she works at the dress shop.
The owner of the dress shop, Mrs. Kawashiri, is really good about letting Mariko leave for auditions, and it’s a comfortable relationship. Besides, Mariko gets her clothes at a discount, although most of her clothes are special orders because Mrs. Kawashiri, who is in her sixties herself, caters to a much older clientele.
When she was able to take a break, Mariko and I went into the boutique’s back room and I gave her a quick rundown on my encounter with Rita Newly. “I thought you set up the whole thing as a joke,” I said as I finished, “But when she laid these on me,” I flashed the three one-hundred-dollar bills, “I thought that something was very wrong.”
Looking at the money, Mariko said, “I did set up the whole thing, and I’ll thank you to hand over my money.” She solemnly extended her hand.
Surprised, and a little hesitant, I almost handed over the cash. I peered at her and said, “Are you teasing me?”
Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
