Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1)

by Dale Furutani

  She laughed. “Of course! Do you think I’d hand over three hundred bucks just because I have nothing better to keep me amused? Besides, you seem a little too interested in this woman. You have a thing for blondes.”

  My ex-wife was a blonde. We were moving into uncomfortable territory. I did what most men try to do in similar circumstances: I changed the subject. “So what do you think I should do about the package?” I said.

  Mariko gave me an appraising look. I don’t think she was fooled by such an obvious ploy, but she took pity on me and played along. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she’s paying me five hundred dollars to pick it up, so I think I should go over and do it. Although I’m still living off my severance pay, the bottom line is that I’m unemployed and I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  She got serious on me. “Ken, this isn’t a gift horse. It’s some kind of job. It’s nuts for you to go ahead and do it.”

  “What’s so nuts about it?”

  “You’re not a private eye. Repeat after me: ‘I am not a private eye.’ You shouldn’t go ahead and run her errand. What kind of person would pay that much for an errand, anyway?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t set the whole thing up?”

  She sighed. “Number one, I don’t have hundreds of dollars I can use just to play a joke on you. Number two, her story stinks. Number three, her story really, really stinks! I’d be much more clever than that. Do you think she’s serious about this picture business?”

  “Do you think it’s someone in the L.A. Mystery Club setting things up to play a joke on us? You know, sort of a mystery within a mystery.”

  Mariko shrugged. “You know the other members better than me. But three hundred dollars is a lot to put up. How do they know you won’t just spend it and not play along with the gag?”

  “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?”

  “Why don’t you try calling her and see if she has any more to say,” Mariko suggested.

  I looked at Mariko sheepishly. “Well actually I didn’t get a phone number or address from her.”

  “Very astute,” Mariko said dryly. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I think I’ll go and pick up the package.”

  “What if it’s drugs or something?”

  “I’ll worry about that when I see the package. If it’s something like that, I’ll just turn it over to the police. It’s possible that Rita is telling the truth, and I don’t mind picking up five hundred dollars just for being a messenger boy.”

  “Ken, nobody pays five hundred dollars and goes to a P.I. if they just need a messenger. Messengers cost a lot less than that. Haven’t you been listening to me? There’s got to be something involved here that we don’t understand. I can’t believe this. Even though you’ve got the office and the fancy raincoat, you are not a private investigator. You don’t have a P.I.'s license and you haven’t been trained. I enjoy participating in the L.A. Mystery Club weekends with you, but those weekends are fantasy, and you shouldn’t confuse fantasy with reality. You might get hurt.”

  “Relax,” I said with bravado. “I’m not going to get hurt. I’m just going to act as a messenger boy and collect five hundred bucks for my troubles. Some people in this town have more money than brains. Five hundred bucks to them is like five dollars to you or me.” My pride was stung by Mariko’s tone and warning. I’m a Vietnam veteran with a bronze star and a purple heart. I was confident of my abilities.

  Mariko reached over the table and placed her hand on my arm. It felt small but warm through the sleeve of my shirt. “I’m just worried about you. Please don’t be so silly. Let’s call the police about this.”

  “I don’t know what I’d be calling them about. Besides, remember, she wants to keep things quiet because she’s getting married to some rich guy soon. I think she made a mistake and took me for a real P.I., but for five hundred dollars I’m going to shut up and do what she tells me.”

  Mariko put her hands to her head in mock frustration. At least I think it was mock. She rolled her eyes to the heavens and said, “Arrrgh!”

  “This is not the smoothest time to bring this up,” I continued, “but are you going to stop by my place tonight?”

  “I’d stop by, but tonight is Thursday. I’ve got rehearsals.”

  Mariko was involved with the East West Players theater group in Hollywood. Thursday nights she went to classes and rehearsals. Before class the group met to clean up the theater, build sets, and do other maintenance.

  “Can’t you skip it tonight?”

  “You know I’d like to, but you also know that I’m up for a part and I’m not going to get it without pulling my weight around the theater. That’s how little theater works, Ken.”

  “Okay. But your theatrical ambitions are sure putting a dent in my love life.”

  “I know it’s tough,” she said. “But between theater and AA, a good chunk of my life isn’t my own. If you really need me to, I could stop by after rehearsal.”

  I bit my lip and said, “No. Better not. I might be able to arrange to pick up that package tonight. Rita said she wanted me to have it by tomorrow.”

  Before Mariko could launch into another protest over my picking up the package, Mrs. Kawashiri came into the back room. She was a short, plump woman who still looked stylish. She was a good advertisement for the clothes normally carried in the shop. Her husband was totally incapacitated by a stroke and she needed the shop as much for human contact as for financial support. She sort of adopted the helpers that worked for her in the shop, and she was always very kind to Mariko. Somehow by extension she had adopted me, too. When she saw me, a smile came across her broad face.

  “Ken-san,” she said. “Seeing Mariko again?”

  “He’s just here bothering me, Mrs. Kawashiri. I was about to kick him out so I could come help you in the shop,” Mariko said.

  “Nonsense. You never take your breaks, so you should spend a little time when your boyfriend visits.”

  “You tell her, Mrs. Kawashiri,” I encouraged. “She always ignores me.”

  “You shouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Kawashiri said. “Look at him. He looks like he’s been losing weight. Have you been eating right, Ken?”

  “He didn’t eat much of a breakfast today,” Mariko said. “He said he bought sushi for breakfast!”

  I laughed, but Mrs. Kawashiri took all talk about eating seriously. She rushed to a shelf and grabbed a plastic bag. It had a couple of pastries bought from the bakery a few doors down. “Here, you have these for breakfast.”

  “I can’t take this, Mrs. Kawashiri. Mariko was just teasing.”

  “You take this anyway,” she said, thrusting the bag into my hand. “You have to eat right. You bachelors don’t take care of yourself. What you need is a good wife to take care of you,” Mrs. Kawashiri added, not too subtly. She fancied herself a matchmaker.

  “You’re right,” I answered. “But don’t you think Mr. Kawashiri is going to object when I steal you away from him for myself?”

  Mrs. Kawashiri laughed and slapped my arm. “Be careful with this one,” she said to Mariko. “He’s such a devil that if you do marry him, you’re going to have to watch him every second.”

  “That I agree with. The question is, is it worth putting up with watching him every second?” Mariko asked.

  “Don’t kid yourself. He’s such a cutie-pie that it will probably be worth all the trouble he’ll give you.”

  Blushing furiously, I asked, “Can I use your phone?”

  “Of course, Ken-san! I don’t know why you even bother asking. Please use it.”

  I beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the telephone hanging on the wall. I got the number of the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel from information and dialed it as Mrs. Kawashiri returned to the customers in the shop. I heard the phone ring like some distant bee at the other end of the line.

  “Hello, Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel.” The voice had the professional cheerfulness of a wel
l-trained operator.

  “Can you tell me if you have a guest named Susumu Matsuda staying at the hotel?”

  “Just one minute, please.”

  After a slight pause, the operator came back on the line. “Yes, we do. Would you like me to ring the room?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The phone rang several times with no answer. I hung up. “No one home,” I told Mariko. “I’ll have to try later this evening.”

  4

  I worked at the office until early evening, setting up the clues that would be used for the upcoming mystery weekend. I dashed out to the Ginza Gardens Coffee Shop for a bowl of noodles for dinner and returned to the office to work some more.

  Each of the clue givers in a mystery weekend has an instruction sheet written up for him or her. The sheet gives biographical information about their character, what their attitude is about the crime, and what key pieces of information they’re supposed to give to the people trying to solve the mystery. Except for the “murderer,” the clue givers normally don’t know the total picture, so they can’t give away too much inadvertently. Sometimes the player has to ask the right question, or to mention the right person or event to get the information. This means you have to juggle a lot of different elements when writing up the individual “rap sheets” for the clue givers.

  Frankly, my mind wasn’t really on the fictitious case I was creating. Instead, it kept drifting to the very real events of the day and the commission I received from Rita Newly. I turned her story over and over in my mind, and came to the conclusion that either Rita’s story was genuine, or I was being set up to act as a courier in a drug buy or some similar illegal activity. Either possibility gave me a jolt of excitement tinged with fear. Against my better judgment, I welcomed both.

  Going through with the package pickup for Rita Newly had the possibility of real danger. Some people might think that living in L.A. is dangerous enough, but for a lot of reasons I needed something more in my life, and this need clouded my judgment. Except for my relationship with Mariko, I was drifting. It was not a comfortable position to be in.

  Like the generation before me, I had expected to reap the rewards of my education and experience in my forties. Instead, I was facing an uncertain future and the potential for increasingly difficult employment opportunities as I aged. It sometimes made me frustrated and angry. Frustrated and angry people sometimes do foolish things, like welcome a whiff of danger.

  I told myself I’d be cautious, and seek out the police if it looked like I was involved in anything shady, but the truth is I found the aroma of real adventure an intoxicating perfume that dulled my senses. Maybe I should have taken up bungee jumping.

  When I finished working on the clues I walked over to the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel and entered the lobby a little after eight. It was close to the office so I didn’t call ahead. The compact lobby was elegant and reminded me of a ship, with dark green carpet, dark wood panels, and fittings of polished brass.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The Japanese behind the desk was impeccably dressed in a gray and green uniform. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and perpetually upturned eyebrows gave his face a quizzical expression.

  “Do you have a house phone? I’d like to call one of your guests.”

  “Certainly, sir. Right over there.”

  I walked to the house phone and picked it up.

  “May I help you?” the operator’s voice cut into the dial-tone.

  “Would you ring Mr. Susumu Matsuda’s room, please?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The phone rang three times before it was picked up. “Yes?” The voice was remarkably free of accent. Since Rita said Matsuda came from Japan, I expected him to have more of a Japanese accent. Instead his English was flawless.

  “Mr. Matsuda?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My name is Ken Tanaka. I’ve been asked to pick up a package from you by Rita Newly.”

  “You say your name is Tanaka?”

  “That’s right. Ms. Newly asked me to pick up the package you have for her.”

  “When do you want to pick it up?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Matsuda, I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If it’s not inconvenient, I’d like to come up right now and pick it up.”

  There was a long pause. I almost thought that I had been disconnected. Finally Matsuda said, “Okay. Come on up to room five-one-seven.”

  I hung up, looked around the lobby to get my bearings, and walked over to the elevator. After a few seconds one of the three elevators opened. I got in and punched the fifth floor button. On the fifth floor the hall had a gray and green carpet, green wall paper, and dark wooden doors. It was supposed to be elegant but I actually found it kind of dark and depressing.

  I came to 517 and knocked. I could hear the murmur of voices behind the door—a man’s and a woman’s. I waited a minute and knocked a second time.

  “Just a second.” The man’s voice.

  They seemed to be arguing about something, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally, after several minutes delay, the door was opened.

  Standing before me was a Japanese man in his late sixties or early seventies. I was surprised at his age because I expected someone much younger. His gaunt face had the look of a wolf to it. He wore the stereotypical Japanese businessman’s dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His hair was thinning and shot with gray. His expression was stern and suspicious. On his left cheek was a large, brown discoloration or birthmark.

  “Mr. Matsuda?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Ken Tanaka.”

  “Okay. I have the package,” he said. “Come in for a moment.”

  I stepped into the room. Against the wall was a queen-sized bed with a dark green comforter on top. Two pictures of the “shopping-center-parking-lot-art-sale” school of art adorned the wall. A lamp, a television, a clock-radio, a small round table, and two chairs formed the rest of the furniture in the room. Standard hotel issue.

  “Rita sent you?” Matsuda said suspiciously.

  “Yes, she did.”

  “All right,” Matsuda said. “I want some kind of receipt.”

  “That’s no problem.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out one of the Kendo Agency business cards. On the back of the card I scrawled, “Received one package from Mr. Matsuda—K. Tanaka.” I put the date on it.

  While I was writing the receipt, Matsuda put a large wheeled suitcase on the bed. He unlocked the suitcase, opened it, and reached into it and pulled out a brown envelope. The envelope was sealed and tied with string—the pale, white, cellophane-like string that I’ve seen on packages from Japan.

  I handed over the business card and accepted the package from Matsuda. He studied what I had written and seemed satisfied.

  Just as I turned to leave, the door to the bathroom burst open. A short Latina came bustling out. Her hair was dyed a flaming orange and she wore a tight purple dress that clashed with the hair color.

  “I’m tired of waiting in there,” she announced as she strutted out of the bathroom. “I don’t see why I have to be locked up in the john just so you can handle a little business.”

  She was wearing several rings on her hands, as many as three to a finger. She even wore a couple of rings on each of her thumbs. The scoop neck on her dress revealed two large breasts, and the tight fit across her hips picked up the curving theme of the bosom.

  “Say, you’re kind of cute, honey,” the woman said, looking me over.

  I was flustered by the unexpected outburst and looked at Matsuda for guidance.

  Matsuda’s face was tight with anger, not embarrassment. He said to the woman, “I thought I told you to wait in the bathroom until I was done with my business.”

  “Listen, honey, I got tired of waiting in there. I told you I didn’t wanna go in there in the first place. We ain’t got nothing to hide. Besides, I could give you guys a special deal on a little three-way party.”


  The woman gave me a toothy grin. I noticed the cracked lipstick around the edges of her mouth. She might have been in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell with all the makeup she had on. She could easily be older or younger. I was both surprised and amused by her sudden appearance. I hoped that I’d be as sexually active as Matsuda appeared to be when I reached my sixties or seventies.

  “Well, how about it? Care to join a little fun? We can party until ten-thirty or so, then I got ta get dressed and leave ‘cause I got to be on stage waving my G-string by eleven.” She stopped and gave a short pirouette. She wore black patent leather shoes with tall spike heels. Her dancer’s twirl was surprisingly graceful and polished.

  “He’s not here to join us,” Matsuda said in a tight voice. “In fact, he’s just leaving.”

  “That’s too bad, honey” the woman said. “I think you’d have made quite an addition to our party.”

  I smiled from reflex and, clutching the envelope tightly to me, I slid past her toward the door. “It’s nice of you to say so, but Mr. Matsuda’s right. I really should be going. I believe we’ve accomplished our business. Thank you, Mr. Matsuda. I hope this contains everything that Ms. Newly expects it to contain.”

  “Sure it does,” Matsuda said dryly. “If it doesn’t, I’ll be in Los Angeles for at least three more days and she can contact me.”

  “I’m sure she will if everything she’s expecting is not here. Well, good night.” I nodded to both Matsuda and the woman, and let myself out.

  Outside of the room I had to control myself so I didn’t start laughing. The look on Matsuda’s face when the woman burst out of the bathroom was priceless. Even though Matsuda looked old, I guess he was still frisky. Maybe it’s all the green tea they drink in Japan. I had a good story to tell Mariko the next time I saw her.

  My car was parked about five blocks away from the hotel. There was a cab line with two cabs in it in front of the hotel and I thought briefly of taking one to my car. During the day you’re panhandled in downtown L.A., but at night some parts of the city are transformed into homeless tent cities that block the sidewalk. On darkened curbs drug deals also go down. Neither activity seemed like something I wanted to wander into, but I decided to walk. During the American Civil War an officer observed a man running from the front lines of battle and challenged him by asking why he was running. “Because I don’t have wings to fly!” the man shouted as he ran past. That’s exactly how I felt making my way through the darkened streets of downtown L.A. to my car.