The Little Tokyo Informant

by Andrew Rosenheim

  The big guy glared at Nessheim, but moved back a step or two. The woman quickly got between them. ‘Forgive my friend,’ she said in accented English.

  ‘That’s okay. Maybe he thinks I’m a counter-revolutionary too.’ He studied the woman for a moment. She had a handsome rather than pretty face; her dark, curled hair was parted on one side and caught back in a silver slide. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You knocked on my door at the studio.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, you were looking for Waverley.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I remember.’ She smiled and was about to say something else when the Russian began to speak and they both turned to face the stage.

  Mikhail Mukasei was smartly dressed in a double-breasted suit and a wide-striped vermilion tie, a far cry from the commissars he had come to represent. His hair was slicked back, which emphasised his high forehead and aquiline nose. His English was strongly accented and Nessheim found it hard to understand him as Mukasei embarked on an account of what he called ‘the situation’. Which was dire, though the audience didn’t need this man to tell them that. The Nazis were moving across the grain fields of the Ukraine like scything machines. Mukasei was unsparing in his depiction of the desperation of his country’s plight, and Nessheim couldn’t help wondering if the man really thought things could be turned around. Mukasei’s voice grew imploring: ‘We need money not because it’s money, but because it will allow us to defend our country. It will buy our soldiers the ammunition and guns needed to repel the Nazi foes. It will provide tanks and cannon and airplanes – all to be used in the name of liberty and equality.’

  He went on in this semi-incantatory vein and Nessheim found his thoughts straying. He looked over, but couldn’t see Lolly. He hoped she didn’t think he’d deserted her. Finally the Russian finished and the audience clapped, though without much enthusiasm in case it triggered an encore.

  ‘Jesus,’ Nessheim said, half to himself, ‘he did go on.’

  The woman at his side looked at him questioningly. Nessheim shrugged. ‘Sorry. But it’s not as if we’re allies yet.’

  ‘Maybe he’s trying to speed things up.’ There was a defensive note in her tone.

  ‘Do you know this guy?’

  ‘A little bit,’ she said with a knowing smile. Her voice was low and husky, as if she’d been born with a smoker’s cough. ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘Oh.’ He resisted the temptation to apologise and raised his eyes towards the big ugly man on her other side. ‘At least you’re not married to Bruiser here.’

  She smiled again, like a tolerant parent, then her expression grew serious. ‘You are not an admirer of the Soviet Union, I take it.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Politics. As always these days.’

  She smiled and held out her hand. ‘I am Elizaveta Mukasei.’

  ‘Nessheim,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘You’re Russian then?’

  ‘Not my fault,’ she said, and it was his turn to smile. ‘But what is it you don’t like about my government?’

  ‘Where do I start? I guess it began with the way they acted in Spain.’

  ‘You objected to their helping the Republicans?’ She sounded mildly alarmed that a Francoist had snuck into the ballroom.

  ‘Not at all. It was the kind of help they gave I didn’t like the sound of. They seemed more intent on elimin-ating Trotskyites than defending the Republic.’

  She shrugged, which annoyed him.

  He said, ‘And then there were the show trials. I’m not saying I have all the facts, but it didn’t seem like justice to me. Don’t misunderstand – I hate the Nazis. But I find it hard to defend the Soviets either.’

  ‘You seem to know facts enough,’ she said to his surprise. She was looking across the room. ‘It would be interesting to talk with you some more. But I have to be polite to our hosts tonight.’ She nodded in the direction of her husband, who was talking to Waverley and the other organisers. ‘I hope we’ll meet some other time. Excuse me now,’ she said, and shook his hand again, before going to join the other Mukasei.

  The band was playing again, only this time dance music, and when he rejoined the Ink Well bunch Lolly grabbed him by the hand and took him onto the dance floor. It had been a long time since he’d been dancing and he felt rusty, but Lolly was a terrific partner and soon he had his rhythm back. They danced the Big Apple in a circle with others and then the Lindy Hop. The brass section of the band was good and he found the grimness of the evening’s start erased by the easy music washing over them.

  Eventually breathless, they went and had a few more drinks, talking with Teitz and the Stuckeys. Stuckey said he’d only come because his wife had insisted – ‘She’s a bit pink, aren’t you darling?’ She nodded happily in agreement. ‘And I’ve got two left feet – well, she’d say they were right feet,’ he added.

  So Nessheim danced with Mrs Stuckey, while Lolly did a jitterbug with Teitz that had people gathering round to watch. Then Mrs Stuckey ran out of gas as well and Nessheim took her back to her husband and went to find Lolly, who was done dancing now. She stood laughing with Teitz and Grenebaum and a couple of unknown admirers, a drink in her hand, which someone else had supplied. He could see she was enjoying herself.

  ‘Hiya Nessheim,’ said Teitz. His bow tie had loosened and turned down at a slant like an airplane making its descent. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘You mean another drink. No thanks. I was thinking of heading home.’ He looked at Lolly. ‘Don’t feel you’ve got to leave. I’m sure one of these reprobates will give you a ride.’

  She shook her head heavily and he realised she’d had one too many. ‘No, I want to go with you, Jim.’

  ‘Nobody calls him Jim,’ Teitz protested. ‘He’s Nessheim, the one and only Agent Nessheim.’

  ‘He’s Jim to me,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go then, Lolly.’

  They said goodbye and moved across the dance floor, which was now filling up. In the distance he saw Waverley talking with the Russian woman Mukasei, and their eyes met. Nessheim waved cheerfully and Waverley half-heartedly raised a hand in return.

  Outside it was much cooler now and Lolly shivered. ‘You had a coat, didn’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I left it in your car,’ she said, which pleased him, since it suggested she’d planned all along to leave with him. They walked along Sunset Boulevard, then turned down the quiet side street. Lolly put an arm through his, tottering a little in her heels.

  As they got to his car she withdrew her arm and he started to reach for his keys. Suddenly she put a hand on his shoulder and leant towards him and kissed him firmly on the mouth. It was a good kiss and took him by surprise. Breaking away, she said, ‘Thanks for taking me.’

  ‘Would you like to see where I live?’ he asked. He suddenly wanted her very much.

  She smiled and he could just make out her crooked teeth in the dark. ‘Tell me something, Jim. How well do you know the Count?’

  It wasn’t the response he’d hoped for. ‘Well enough, I guess. Why?’

  ‘He’s looking to fill a part – one of the girls in the office told me. It’s not a big part, but it’s got a few lines. It would be a start.’

  ‘I don’t know if you want to be cast by the Count, Lolly. You know his reputation.’ He didn’t add that even if a girl put out for the Count there was no guarantee of a role in one of his movies. Teitz had said that the Count’s secretary at Warners spent many an afternoon with her legs wrapped around the director’s, yet she was still just his secretary.

  ‘I can look after myself,’ she said defiantly. This made her seem so young that Nessheim had to keep from laughing. ‘What I want to know is if you’ll put a word in for me.’

  He hadn’t expected this. It was the last thing he should do – he wasn’t at AMP for this, and the Count was the last person he wanted to feel beholden to. His doubts must have shown, for Lolly said, ‘Forget it. It
doesn’t matter.’

  He didn’t say anything, but unlocked her door, then went round and opened his. He got in and started the car, then looked at Lolly. She smiled at him and he felt relieved – she wasn’t sulking. ‘The thing is –’ he started to explain.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Jim.’

  ‘I’m not sure it would do you any good.’

  ‘It’s okay. Honest. Listen, would you mind taking me home? I’d love to see your place, but maybe another time, okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said neutrally, masking his disappointment.

  Lolly’s house was only a mile away and Nessheim did his best not to sulk as he drove her there. Perhaps sensing this, she kept up a line of chatter about the party while he drove in silence. ‘Waverley looked like he enjoys giving a speech,’ she said.

  ‘I guess he’s used to it.’

  ‘Since you showed up he can’t say you’re on the other side any more, now can he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nessheim asked, suddenly alert.

  ‘You know, you being German and all. Waverley claimed you’re bound to sympathise with them.’

  ‘What?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t think you’re a Nazi, Jim, don’t get me wrong. He just reckons you’re like Lindbergh. He says you even went to hear him speak.’

  He had, earlier in the summer in the Hollywood Bowl. But he went out of curiosity not belief, and had been appalled by Lindbergh’s patent sympathy with the Third Reich. The press played down the flier’s sympathies, Nessheim felt. You only had to pay attention to his speeches to realise that Lindbergh was less anti-war than pro-Nazi.

  ‘I’m as American as Waverley,’ he said now angrily, but Lolly didn’t reply.

  He parked outside her house, where lights were still on in the living room. ‘I’d ask you in but –’ Lolly began.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘The Count?’

  ‘No, something else. I’ll be in by lunchtime.’

  ‘I guess I’ll say goodnight then.’ She hesitated, then turned towards Nessheim. When he leaned towards her, she placed a hand behind his neck and brought him closer, then repeated the intimate kiss of a few minutes before. He felt everything start to stir, but she broke away and opened her door. Hopping out, she said, ‘That was fun, Jim. Thanks for taking me.’ And she gave a big wave and scooted along the pavement for home, just as the front door opened and the barefoot roommate stood there, still in her terry-cloth robe, looking surprised at Lolly’s return.

  As he drove slowly up the east side of Laurel Canyon, Nessheim left the lights of the city behind him, and was glad for the strength of the full-beam lights on his car. It was late enough that few people were still awake in the houses that lined Laurel Canyon Drive, even fewer when he reached Mount Olympus Drive. A single light glowed in the distance as he steered along its ribbon-like curves, and as he neared his own house he thought it must come from Mrs Delaware’s house. Surprising, since she usually went early to bed.

  There was a final bend in the road just short of his house and here the yellow glow disappeared, then grew visible again as the road straightened – it was closer than he expected and he realised the glow was coming from his own house. Had he left a light on?

  It was possible, but it seemed oddly placed – not in the living room in front or in his bedroom. It didn’t make sense, a light coming from a part of his own house he didn’t recognise. And then he understood: it was the spare room, the third bedroom he never used. He couldn’t have left a light on in a room he hadn’t set foot in for months.

  Suddenly alert, he drove past his house and parked on the edge of the road just past Mrs Delaware’s, then extinguished his lights and turned off the engine. Getting out, he closed the door quietly, letting the lock click faintly. This high up a light breeze with a faint aroma of wild sage wafted in from the nearby Santa Monica Mountains. He stood motionless for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness and his ears adapt to the sound of the wind. Something slithered in the brush across the street – a snake maybe or a chipmunk. There were deer around too, hiding in the remaining chaparral which had once covered the entire mountainside.

  He drew the Smith & Wesson .38 from its holster and held it by his side as he crossed the front lawn of the Delaware house, walking at an angle that took him to the edge of his own backyard. He had used the weapon in his line of work once before, but he had not expected the need to arise ever again. What had Guttman said of his sedentary duties? A desk job can still be interesting. Mine is.

  Mrs Delaware had planted a low hedge of rock plants to demarcate the border of their properties, and they sat slightly higher up the hill. He jumped them and landed softly on his lawn, then slowly swept the yard with his gun. A trio of pepper trees in one corner would provide cover for anyone waiting to pick him off.

  To hell with it: he cut across the grass and came to the back door. Pausing there, he kept the gun in one hand and fished his keys out of his pocket. But when he started to put the key into the lock he found the door was unlocked. Someone had got into the house. Were they still there?

  He pushed the door and let it swing open, his gun up. Kicking off his shoes, he stepped silently onto the linoleum floor of his kitchen. The door straight ahead was open – it led to the living room, which was completely dark. To his right another door opened onto the corridor stretching the length of the house, with three doors on its far side, one for each bedroom. He could see secondary light in the hall, coming from the unused room, which was closest to the kitchen.

  He didn’t go there first. In his stocking feet he crossed the kitchen and entered the living room. It was a wide room with a picture window facing the street and a dining nook at the far end. As he reached for the light switch on the wall with his free hand, he felt a tension he didn’t want to release – in case he got shot as a result. As the light came on his gun was ready. There was no one there.

  He walked over to the hall, then checked each of the first two bedrooms, flicking the light on and searching them carefully, even looking under the bed in his own room. On to the bathroom, where he stood for a moment, then pushed the shower curtain back across the tub in one motion. Nothing.

  At last he came to the unused spare room at the end of the hallway. The door he always kept shut was half-open and light came out in a tapered shaft from the overhead bulb in the middle of the room. He kicked the door from an angle and it swung wide open: no one was standing behind it, and as he went in he saw only two boxes of books he hadn’t unpacked, and a spare desk his landlady had never removed. He came to the last possible hiding place and opened the closet door with his gun ready. It held only the winter overcoat he’d put away when he’d first arrived in LA and never looked at since.

  Then he saw the piece of paper, pinned to the surface of the desk with a hunting knife he had never seen before. It had a dark bone handle, freckled by amber-coloured spots, and it had been stuck through the paper and deep into the cheap pine top.

  He looked down at it and read:

  Billy Osaka

  RIP

  On the bottom of the page someone had placed the key from the persimmon tree.

  14

  IF YOU’RE A banker, thought Nessheim as he watched Mr Satake lift his long grocer’s apron over his head, then I’m Felix Frankfurter. But when the Japanese man put on a pinstriped suit jacket that matched his trousers and did up his tie, the transformation from grocer to man of finance was miraculously effected.

  Mr Satake led Nessheim the length of the store, through the grocery department, then past a long counter to one side which had three Japanese women standing behind it. At the very back he opened a door into a small office. Here he motioned Nessheim in and walked behind a desk, where he sat down and swept back his straight grey hair with both hands. As Nessheim took the chair facing him, Mr Satake beamed in welcome. Under his chin a canary-coloured tie bulged like a gorged snake.

 
It had taken Nessheim twenty minutes to find this ‘bank’. Its location in Little Tokyo was obscure – it sat on Woodward Court, directly behind First Street where Nessheim initially went, and where he found half a dozen stores and, confusingly, two other banks. A friendly guy in the Seiko Watch Company, English-speaking, had explained that the bank Nessheim was looking for was part grocery store and part bank. This was confirmed when he went around the corner and found a sign, in Japanese and English, which said ‘Satake Groceries’.

  When Nessheim had entered the premises he’d found bushel baskets full of produce in the middle of the room – eggplants, green and red peppers, zucchinis with their flowers attached, heaps of green beans and some odder-looking vegetables he’d never seen before. The place was full of customers, all Japanese women, but otherwise the setting could have been his father’s old general store in Wisconsin.

  A shop girl in a smock had come towards him hesitantly, as if he must be lost. When he’d asked for Mr Satake, she had led him to an older man in an apron, who was spooning cane sugar out of a metal canister for a customer.

  Nessheim now looked around at the office, which seemed to double as a storeroom: ranged against one wall was a row of burlap sacks – one was open, revealing a measuring cup tilted on a mountain of polished rice. Higher up the wall two shelves held lines of dark bottles, three deep, labelled in brightly coloured Japanese characters. Soy sauce, Nessheim decided.

  He stifled a yawn, inevitable after his sleepless night. He’d jammed a kitchen chair under the brass knob of the back door and slept with his .38 next to his pillow. He hadn’t expected his intruder to come back, but wasn’t going to take any chances. A locksmith was due out that evening, though he doubted if his intruders would have had time the night before to make a copy of the key from the persimmon tree. It must have been a close-run thing: they would have gone into his house after it was dark, since otherwise the risk of being spotted by Mrs Delaware would have been too great. But how did they know Nessheim would be gone all evening?