With the smaller man holding the gun, I calculated the odds of getting out of the office were almost nil even if I was able to get past the stocky man in the doorway. I was actually surprised at how coolly rational my brain was working even as my body was making me feel sick with fear.
The small man shrugged. “I can see things are going to be difficult,” he said with a sigh of what seemed like genuine regret. “I suppose you feel like the thing to do would be not to cooperate. I really don’t think that’s very smart, but some people have to learn the hard way.”
He said something in Japanese to the stockier man, who strode forward, put his hand on my chest, and shoved me backward until I finally flopped into the chair behind the desk. The smaller man raised the gun to cover me as he said, “I wouldn’t suggest you try anything.”
The bigger man loosened my belt and slipped it out of the belt loops, then he used it to tie my hands behind my back, around the back of the chair. He pulled it tight, and the edges of the belt cut into the flesh of my wrists. When I was securely tied to the chair, the smaller man lowered his pistol.
“I wish you’d cooperate,” the smaller man said reasonably. “I’ve been involved with several of these, and sooner or later people tell you what you want to know.”
When the stocky man started the beating, he showed no pleasure in inflicting pain. In fact, he showed no emotion at all. It seemed like it was a rather boring job to him as his large callused fist came smashing down on my face. The force of the first blow was so sudden and jarring that I was more stunned than in pain. I wondered if my nose was broken, but I decided since the first blow had landed to the side of my face instead of straight on, that it was more likely that my cheekbone would be broken instead. Small comfort.
By the time the second blow was delivered, the anesthetic of fear and concussion had worn off and the pain started.
By the fourth blow, I started losing count. It looked as if the stocky man could continue pummeling me all evening with no apparent sign of fatigue. I remembered glancing over to the smaller man, to see him sitting at the edge of the desk looking very detached and patient. These men were professionals, I thought. They don’t give a damn if I live or die, or if they beat me to death to get what they want to know. Another blow. But they probably won’t beat me to death and they probably won’t let me die. At least not yet. They’ll just keep escalating to higher levels of pain until I finally tell them what they want to know.
Another blow. This one was so hard that I saw black spots in front of my eyes. There was a buzzing in my head. Through a red haze of pain I heard the smaller man talking in Japanese. I moved my head and pain shot through the left side of my face, causing me to groan. In my mouth I could taste blood.
I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness. I told myself I should give them Rita’s address and stop all this. It was easy enough. The address was on a little slip of paper in my pocket and I’d just have to tell them about it. I actually wanted to speak up, but I couldn’t because I was passing out. As I started slumping in the chair, I could hear Mrs. Kawashiri’s voice from our earlier phone conversation ringing in my head. “It’s not right, it’s just not right. . .”
My face was being slapped, not brutally, but my cheeks were so bruised that it felt like I was being hit with a red-hot piece of iron. I was being revived from unconsciousness so the beating could start again.
When I was fully revived, the big Yakuza started hitting me again. I groaned from pain.
“Wait a minute,” the small man said. He hopped off the desk and started looking through my pockets. I was almost grateful when he came across the note with Rita’s address and phone number.
“Things are often simple,” the small man said philosophically. “We were able to find the warranty forms in your desk, but I really should have searched you first. We might have been able to save ourselves a considerable amount of time and you a considerable amount of pain and grief. I just hope you’ve been getting some from Rita because I can’t figure out why else you wouldn’t tell us what we wanted to know.”
He exchanged some words in Japanese to the stocky man. Then he said in English, “This is an old building without too many tenants, and it’s nighttime. What I think we’ll do is just leave you here with the doors closed, and I’m sure by tomorrow someone will find you. I don’t think there will be anybody in the building to find you tonight.”
He said a few more words to the stocky man, and they both walked out of the office, closing the door behind them.
I sagged in the chair. It took me several minutes to realize that I was crying. The hot tears ran down my face and dripped to my shirt front, which was splattered with my blood. I couldn’t figure out if I was crying from the pain or from relief that they were gone and that I was still alive.
It seemed a long time before I heard pounding at the office front door. I heard a muffled, “Ken, are you in there?”
“Mariko,” I croaked. My voice sounded oddly muffled, and the effort to shout her name left a strange ringing in my left ear. “Mariko,” I tried again.
I could hear the outer office door rattling. They must have locked it behind them. I hoped that Mariko would be persistent enough to find a locksmith to get the door open.
There was some fumbling with the front door, and a few seconds later the door burst open. Mariko stood there, looking at me in shock and horror. “Oh, Ken,” she said.
“Let me loose,” I said. The words came out mumbled.
Mariko didn’t understand exactly what I said, but she did understand what I wanted. She rushed across the room, and I could feel her fingers tugging at the knots in the belt that bound my hands. After a few seconds she stood up, opened the desk drawer, and rummaged through the desk until she found a pair of scissors. She used the scissors to gnaw at the belt until she finally cut through it and released my hands.
“I got worried when you didn’t show up,” she said. “I’ll get an ambulance.” She reached for the phone.
“No, not yet,” I said. This time she was able to understand me. She looked confused and indecisive, unsure if she should follow my instructions or go ahead with her instincts.
I tried to think, trying my best to remember the phone number Rita had given me. “Got to call Rita Newly,” I mumbled. “Those guys are going there next.”
I put the phone up to my ear and winced as the receiver made contact with my bruised skin. I dialed, trying to think of alternative combinations just in case I didn’t have the number right. I was lucky.
Rita Newly answered the phone on the first ring. “Hello?”
“They’re coming to get you,” I mumbled. “The two guys from the Yakuza.”
“Who is this?”
“Tanaka.”
“You sound funny.”
“I got beat up.”
There was a pause. “Are they going to the address that I gave you earlier today?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Get out,” I said.
“That’s not my real address,” she said. “It’s just an address I made up this morning. I didn’t want you to know where I live. The phone number I gave you is for a cellular phone.”
“Damn it. If I had known that, I could have given them that damn address and saved myself a beating.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tanaka. But I still want my property,” she added.
“You’re relentless, aren’t you?”
“It is my property, Mr. Tanaka.”
“Okay. I’ll give you your damn package tomorrow at four o’clock.” I said the first place that popped into my head. “The sculpture garden at UCLA. Meet me there at four o’clock, by the statue of a kneeling woman.”
I wanted to slam the phone down onto the cradle, but I was too weak. Instead I just handed it over to Mariko who hung it up.
“Come on,” she said. “Now I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“No,” I said.
“Are you crazy? If you saw how you looke
d you wouldn’t be trying to play Mr. Tough Guy with me.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to go see a doctor. Why don’t you drive me down to the emergency room? I just don’t want an ambulance. Then I want you to hunt down your cousin Michael’s home phone number for me. I want to talk to him and get some things settled tonight. By the way, how did you get in?” Although it hurt, my mouth seemed to be working better now.
“I used a credit card to slip the lock on the door. I saw it in a TV movie once.”
I really do have to get a better lock for the front door, I thought.
19
The Franklin Murphy sculpture garden at UCLA is an oasis in the bustling hub of Westwood, a suburb of Los Angeles. It has winding paths, cool trees, and a surprising collection of modern and traditional sculpture, including a Rodin torso, a Matisse collection of bronze plaques, and some pieces that are decidedly more modern, including a sculpture that is a puzzling collection of painted blue tubes welded together.
On Sunday mornings Mariko and I would sometimes go to the sculpture garden to have a picnic. Nestled in the curves of the winding paths of the garden are concrete seating areas that look very much like military bunkers. They’re round circles of cement approximately twenty feet across and four feet high. The center of the circle is empty and a wooden bench hugs the inside curve of the concrete so people can sit and rest. In many of these little enclaves, smaller pieces of sculpture reside, poised on a pedestal in the center of the circle. Entrance into the center of the circle is through a narrow cut in the concrete only a few feet across, and once into the center of the circle, peace and a kind of solitude can be found.
Down a path in the garden, heading toward one of these concrete bunkers, walked Rita Newly and her companion. She wore a pale, lavender summer dress with Porsche sunglasses propped up on her forehead. Under her arm she carried a lavender leather purse to match the color of her dress. The man was tall and muscular. He was wearing gray slacks and a short-sleeve white knit shirt that showed his muscular arms to good advantage. Rita and the man made a smashing couple.
On the grass by Bunche Hall is a bronze statue of a nude woman crouching down and looking over her shoulder. The flesh of the woman is done in sweeping curves, and the expression on her broad, almost Asian face is enigmatic. Rita and her companion cut across the lawn to stand by the statue. She checked her tiny silver and diamond wristwatch. “It’s four o’clock,” she said.
“I wish you’d never gotten involved with that damn Jap,” her companion said.
“Which one?” she asked. “Matsuda or Tanaka?”
“Both. This is turning into a royal pain in the ass.”
She looked over at her companion and examined him as if she was looking at a new and particularly puzzling type of insect life. He was certainly handsome enough, with light brown curly hair, brown eyes, and the kind of tan that can only be obtained by people who are serious about sitting around in the sun until their skin baked to a crispness that is perceived as being healthy, even though it is more often a precursor of skin cancer.
“You’re the one who was scared to pick up the package,” she said. “You were afraid they might have found out that the guns we sent were junk.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” he said defensively. “I just thought it would be a better idea if we got someone else to pick up the package, just in case.”
“You weren’t willing to go and pick up the package from Matsuda, so I had to make arrangements to have it picked up. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go up there by myself. I don’t need any second-guessing from you about what I did or how I did it, especially when you tried to pull some strong-arm stuff in that boutique instead of waiting like I told you.”
Rita saw a flash of anger in her companion’s eyes, and for a minute she thought she had revealed too much of her thoughts. “I’m not trying to blame you, honey,” she said hastily. “I just want you to know it isn’t my fault, either. I’m upset that we have to wait so long to get our money, too.” Rita saw the anger subside in his eyes at the sweet reasonableness of her apology.
She reached over and patted him on the cheek. “We’re so close to getting the money that we really shouldn’t be fighting.”
“Damn it, where the hell is that Jap,” the man said.
“We don’t like being called Japs,” I said as I stepped out of the concrete seating area adjacent to the statue. “This is hardly a social occasion, but you can try saying Japanese until we’re at least done with our business.”
I was dressed in a sports shirt and blue jeans. My face was puffy with large black and red spots, and I had a gauze bandage taped to my cheek.
Rita saw the condition of my face and opened her mouth like she was about to comment, but she closed it again. Instead, she said, “Do you have the package?”
“Yes, I do. But I thought it might be better for us if we conduct our business inside this seating area where we can have some privacy.”
She nodded and walked toward the concrete circle with her companion trailing behind. When she got inside the circle, I pointed to a section of bench with a mock gesture of gallantry. “Please sit down,” I said. “There’s no reason we have to be uncomfortable.”
Rita sat next to me. She angled her legs so her knee was touching mine. Her companion sat down next to her, poised on the edge of the seat, acting fidgety and nervous.
“I suppose this is George Martin?”
“His real name is George. I don’t think we have to go into last names,” she said.
“And is your name Rita Newly?”
She smiled. “Well, the Rita part is right, and I don’t think we have to go into real last names for me, either.”
I nodded. She leaned her leg into mine. I could feel the soft warmth of her thigh and the gentle, almost caressing, pressure. Despite her beauty, I no longer found it affecting me. Instead, I could observe her little techniques and tricks with sort of a cool, clinical detachment. “I believe you owe me three hundred and fifty dollars for the damage your friend George did to the Kawashiri boutique.”
“Are they sure they don’t want the full five hundred?” Rita said.
“Three hundred and fifty is all she wants.”
“All right,” she said. She opened her purse and took a small stack of bills out. I extended my hand as she counted out the three hundred and fifty.
“All right,” I said. “Now I think we’re even. Your friend George should know that Mrs. Kawashiri still intends to press criminal charges if the chance comes up. Here’s your package.” I reached under the bench and pulled out the package.
Rita took it out of my hands immediately. “It’s been opened,” she said.
“That’s right,” I answered. “And two of the warranty claims are missing.”
“What the hell’s going on?” George started.
“Take it easy,” I said. “That’s how I got this.” I pointed to my face. “I lost two warranty claims to your friends in the Yakuza. They told me what this is all about and explained to me that they were not exactly happy that the load of guns you shipped them are defective. In fact, if they catch up with you, I think they’ll do considerably more to you than they’ve done to me. Believe me, what they did to me was more than enough.”
“That’s a very accurate observation, Mr. Tanaka.” The small Yakuza walked into the circle of concrete followed by his hulking companion. Rita’s friend, George, looked around wildly for an avenue of escape.
The concrete bunker formed a cul-de-sac that neatly trapped us with the two Yakuza standing at the only entrance. George started to stand up to climb over the surrounding concrete to get away. The small man produced his gun. “Don’t do that. It would be very messy if I have to scatter your guts over this fine public institution.” He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Although, being from USC I guess I really shouldn’t care how messy I get the UCLA campus.” UCLA and USC are crosstown college rivals in Los Angeles.
“Look,” George
said. “I really don’t know what this is all about. I’m just Rita’s boyfriend. I just came along because she asked me to.”
“Oh, shut up, George.” Rita’s voice carried the sting of a whip to it, and George flinched as if he had actually been struck by that whip.
“How are you, Toshi,” she said with much more sugar in her voice.
The small man smiled. “Hello, Rita. You really shouldn’t have tried to play these kinds of games with us.”
“You two know each other?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” the small man said. “Rita used to work for us in Japan. She was one of our best singers, dancers, and all-around entertainers.” He gave her a huge grin. “And when she was done with her contract, she told us that she could do business with us to help us get guns into Japan. We paid her a large sum of money, but they turned out to be junk. Where did you get so many junk guns, Rita?”
“We bought them from local police departments,” Rita said. “George has a federal gun license. It only takes a few hundred dollars to get one. He can use that license to buy surplus guns from police departments.”
“You bought the junk guns from police departments?” Toshi seemed amused.
“L.A. doesn’t sell the guns it seizes, but smaller police departments all over the state do.”
“Interesting, but they’re all junk. They’re no good to us.”
“But smuggling them in with the ball bearings did work,” Rita pointed out. “George still works for the ball bearing company. He could arrange another shipment. He could use his gun license to buy good guns this time.”
“That’s a very interesting offer,” the small Yakuza said, “but I’m afraid it’s a Japanese trait to have a very long and very persistent memory. If I was a western businessman, I suppose I might overlook what we could term some irregularities with this current shipment and we could make some arrangement for conducting business together in the future.” Another big smile. “With, of course, some preliminary quality control inspections before the shipment is sent off to Japan. But, you see, my father is not a western businessman and in some respects neither am I. I don’t think we care to do business with you in the future. In fact, we don’t want to do business with you ever.”
Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1) Page 15
