Asian Pulp

by Asian Pulp (retail) (epub)

  I’m not the biggest and toughest private eye you’ll ever meet. I’m sure I’m not the smartest and I’m certainly not the most experienced. One thing that I do have going for me is that I will not give up on an assignment until it is completed. Persistence. Or maybe just stubbornness.

  So I hiked myself over the parapet on the roof and dropped down to the balcony on the eighth floor. Then, with more bravado than brains, I climbed over the safety railing and started hanging down past the edge of the balcony so I could take a picture through the window of the apartment on the seventh floor.

  I could see through the open curtains of the apartment to the living room. I heard activity in the apartment and got my camera ready. I was as tight as a pulled rubber band waiting to snap. I just wanted to take my picture and get out of there. Some people eat and run; when taking a picture of a married guy and his girlfriend it’s best to click and run.

  Suddenly there was a noise from inside the apartment. I got ready to take the shot, hanging even more precariously than before. A woman walked into the living room dressed in a robe. She looked out the window and saw me hanging there. She let out a tremendous scream. It was the kind of scream that should be used to alert passengers that a ship is going down. It was the kind of scream that could literally rattle the knickknacks and photos in a room. It was the kind of scream that I was unprepared for and it startled me and my foot slipped off the balcony edge.

  Now I was hanging by one hand high in the air and yelling. I think I was yelling, and not screaming, but I can’t be sure. Interestingly enough both the lady and I were shouting the same thing: Help! I could see her doing something practical about her screaming and she picked up a phone and started dialing. I hoped it was 911. If she wasn’t calling for the cops, then I hoped it was at least for an ambulance. Actually, I would be happy to have anyone who could get me off the balcony show up.

  I did something to help myself and dropped the camera. The camera was owned by the law firm I worked for but I didn’t care. If I was alive for them to deduct the cost from my pay I’d consider it a bargain. With my hand free I reached up and grabbed for the balcony above me. It took a couple of tries, but I was eventually able to grab the edge of the balcony. Then, a little bit at a time, I was able to slowly pull myself up to the point where I could get myself to safety.

  As I did this I heard a police siren and saw a squad car pull into the parking lot, screeching to a halt. In the past, I’ve had friends call the LAPD and wait over an hour for a cop to show up. I would’ve been happy for the cops to arrive late so I could get out of there but now they arrive in just a couple of minutes. Where’s poor police service when actually you need it?

  Two officers jumped out of the car, looked up to see me, and rushed into the building. I pulled myself the rest of the way onto the balcony and then over the parapet onto the roof. I was halfway to the roof door when it opened and the two cops came rushing out. I had made the mistake of leaving the door ajar so I could make a quick exit. They must’ve been in good shape, running up eight flights of stairs. Or maybe they were lucky and caught the elevator quickly. They saw me and shouted, “Freeze!” just like in a cop movie.

  * * *

  It wasn’t long before I found myself in an interrogation room at the local precinct. Sitting across a table from me was Detective Bachman, a nemesis from past encounters. He was looking at my wallet, examining my ID. “I guess they’ll let anyone apply for a PI license,” he said. He used a tone of mock surprise, going for sarcastic comic effect. I guess in LA even the cops are frustrated actors.

  I thought of retorting that apparently in LA anyone can be a cop, too. By comparison letting anyone apply for a PI license was nothing. I thought better of it. The LAPD aren’t supposed to use rubber hoses, but that doesn’t stop some of them from using nightsticks and excessive force when they lose their cool. Look up “Rodney King” if you don’t believe that. Frankly, you don’t want the cops of any city mad at you if you’re trying to be a PI there. So I just sat stony-faced and stared at the jackass. Excuse me: Detective Jackass.

  There was a knock at the door and a uniformed officer opened the door, motioned, and Bachman stepped out into the hall. When Bachman returned he had a look of genuine sadness on his face. “The woman you peeped on won’t press charges,” he said. “You can take your stuff and go.”

  I must have set several speed records leaving that police station. When I was outside I felt a sense of relief. I guess even innocent people feel a sense of relief when the cops let them go and I was hardly innocent, although my transgression was unintended. I just drew the wrong conclusion when I saw a light go on in the seventh floor apartment. I did feel lucky, though. If the woman had pressed charges I would have been in a world of trouble.

  I decided to call the office and ask someone to give me a ride back to my car. I noticed that two voice messages had come in while the cops had my phone. The first was the private number of Enrique. Enrique liked to call himself the Latino Johnny Cochran. This was a reference that was dated and it was something almost no one else used when describing him. He was a superb lawyer, but like most superb lawyers who are also rich he had a lot of scuzzy clients. Enrique started out representing people abused by the system but he soon realized that the people doing the abusing were usually richer than the people getting abused. I won’t say Enrique abandoned all his early idealism but, like I said, some of his clients were pretty scuzzy.

  “Tanaka,” he said, “what the hell have you been up to? A friend of mine at the precinct tipped me off about your troubles. I got the phone number for the woman you were peeping at. I’ve had to use more persuasive firepower with her than I usually do with a death penalty jury. She was ticked off and I don’t blame her. What a stupid stunt! I hope you have that photo of our client’s husband and his girlfriend. After getting into so much trouble there better be a payoff.” He hung up the phone. It was nice of him to get me out of trouble, but it was plain he wasn’t thrilled by the situation, to put it mildly.

  I suppose I could lie and say the photo was in the shattered camera, but there was so much money riding on the shot that I figured Enrique would have someone retrieve the picture from the shattered camera’s memory. I decided to shelve this problem right now and listen to my second message.

  “Bruddha, this is Gary Apia. I need your help. Right now.” Then he gave the name of a police station and hung up.

  I realized I was standing in front of the station Gary mentioned. I turned around and walked back in. The officer who had just seen me leave was surprised to see me back. “Did you forget something?” he asked.

  I told him that I was there to see someone who was at the station, a sumo wrestler named Gary Apia. I told him that I was with the Velasquez law firm. If he assumed that I was a lawyer with the firm instead of just a PI, well, that was his problem. I wasn’t sure why Gary was there and what trouble he was in. If he had been arrested I wasn’t sure they would let me see him unless they thought I was his lawyer.

  Regardless, after some verbal dancing that would’ve made Enrique Velasquez proud, I was taken to an interrogation room very much like the one I had just escaped from. There, taking up a good third of the room, was Gary Apia.

  Gary took up so much space because he was 6’5” and a massive 500 pounds. As required by the Japan Sumo Association, Gary was dressed in a light kimono, a yukata. His hair was carefully shaped into a hairstyle that wouldn’t be out of place in a samurai movie, with a small ponytail pomaded and flipped upwards against his head. Gary was a rikishi, a professional sumo wrestler.

  I first met Gary in Japan. Gary was a Hawaii-born guy, like me, who became a professional sumo wrestler. His ring name was Torayama, Tiger Mountain. The mountain part was appropriate and in the sumo ring he was a tiger. All in all a great name. He had done me a favor in Japan. A big favor. That meant I owed him. Japanese culture, like some other cultures, makes a big point of remembering the favors done for you and the obligations that incu
rs. This trait has carried over into Japanese-American culture, which means it was drummed into my head from childhood. Whatever trouble he was in, this was my chance to pay him back.

  Gary looked up when I entered the room. An expression of amazement passed across his face. “Hey bruddha, how come you come so fast? When I say fast, you are fast. Amazing.”

  I didn’t want to go through the trouble of explaining to Gary that I’d been just down the hall being questioned about a peeping Tom incident, so I just said, “I was in the neighborhood. Are you arrested?”

  Gary shook his head. “No. But still, this is big trouble.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some guy is, da kine, missing.”

  “Some guy?”

  “Another rikishi, sumo wrestler, on da tour. Some of us sumo wrestlers are here in Los Angeles to give a demonstration at Pauley Pavilion at UCLA. One of da wrestlers is missing.” He looked up and kind of shrugged. “It was somebody I hated.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  I winced. Still, what’s done is done. I pushed on. “What caused the bad blood between you?”

  “His name is Ishikabe. Da Sumo Association set up a tour for us here in da United States. We started in Hawaii and we’re now doing da West Coast. We’ll end up in Chicago and New York. This is a two night exhibition tournament to get people interested in sumo and to explain something about it to them. On these expeditions we rikishi try not to do anything dat will seriously injure another wrestler. After all, it’s not a real tournament. One of da things we’re not supposed to do is a tsuppari, a slapping attack.” He took his big arms and made a motion like he was battering the head of another wrestler.

  I knew about the tournament in Los Angeles. In fact I had tickets for the second night of the tournament. I hoped to see Gary after the matches. Now I was seeing him under totally unexpected circumstances.

  I’ve seen the sumo slapping attack. It’s a silly name for a vicious assault. Sometimes wrestlers are throwing open hand punches that look like they’d stun an ox. It’s not a namby-pamby technique.

  “In a regular tournament a slapping attack is allowed,” Gary said. “But in these exhibitions you can really hurt somebody throwing those kinds of punches. So we agree not to do it. I’ve fought Ishikabe several times in Japan. Dat guy’s never beat me. He’s been around a few years, moving up and down da ranks of wrestlers. He never puts together a string of victories so he’s constantly being promoted and demoted. I’ve been doing pretty good,” Gary said modestly. “I guess because of dat Ishikabe has decided he hates me. He said some dirty things about me in da Japanese press. Real stink-eye stuff. Sumo wrestlers aren’t supposed to do dat. Still, I didn’t expect him to start a slapping attack during da first tournament in Hawaii. Dat threw me off balance and dat guy was almost able to force me out of da ring. Dat guy wanted to beat me and he was willing to cheat to do it. Dat dirty trick didn’t work and I was able to push him out of da ring. Dat made him even more mad with me. Look, you know how it is in Hawaii. We try to live and let live. But if a guy like Ishikabe is going to do dirty to me I’m sure going to pound him. I wanted to throw him right out of da ring onto da floor. So da second night in Hawaii dat’s exactly what I did. I picked him up and threw him out of da ring. Da other wrestlers told me dat’s what they’d do.”

  “So why are you here at the police station?”

  “We’re wrestling two nights here in Los Angeles, at Pauley Pavilion. Tonight was da first night. I drew Ishikabe for my first bout. Da other wrestlers said I should throw dat guy out of da ring again. They’re tired of dat guy, too.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He didn’t show up! Ishikabe liked to be by himself before a match. At Pauley Pavilion he found a small room to sit in until right before da match. He said da time allowed him to focus his power so dat he could do his best in da wrestling ring. About five minutes before his bout with me, one of da students helping with da tournament went to knock on da door to tell Ishikabe da match was coming. Ishikabe said okay. Then I entered da ring and started my usual pre-bout ritual. I kept waiting for Ishikabe to show up so I could throw da salt in da air and drink da power water and do all da other things you do before a match. Dat guy never showed up. I figured he was doing this to make me look foolish, to lose face in front of da crowd. Da referee finally declared da match a forfeit and I left da ring. I can tell you I was boiling. I went to da room where Ishikabe was but da door was locked. I pounded on da door and yelled at him to come out and face me. When he didn’t do dat, I knocked da door down. Da room was empty. Nobody knows where he’s gone.”

  I got a few more details from Gary before the cops said he could go. Unlike the way I was just dumped on the sidewalk, they offered to drive Gary back to his hotel in Century City. Since he wouldn’t fit into some of the little compact cars they use for taxis these days, this was a good move.

  It was now pretty late and I decided no one would be at the office, not even the usual eager and exploited law school interns that Enrique (and most other law firms) took advantage of. So I called a taxi and, sure enough, it was one of those little hybrids. Unlike Gary, I fit in it quite nicely and went to retrieve my car.

  * * *

  The next morning I was not anxious to go into the office and face Enrique, so I called the office and told them I was busy on a case. Of course, this didn’t involve billable hours but I didn’t mention that. Working for a lawyer teaches you the value of lies.

  I went over to UCLA to look over the scene of Ishikabe’s disappearance. Pauley Pavilion was closed, but I banged on a door until someone let me in. A short conversation and flashing my PI card got me into the arena. The arena is usually set up for basketball, but now it was converted into a sumo stadium. In the center of the stadium, surrounded by cushions that acted as floor seats next to the ring, was a raised mound of earth and clay. It was square in shape, about 15 feet on a side and about three or four feet off the ground. In the center of the square mound of earth was the circular sumo ring marked by a rope buried in the clay surface. The most spectacular thing about the ring was a roof suspended above it by cables. The roof was a representation of a Shinto shrine roof. It had the gentle arc that you find in classical Japanese architecture and it was covered in dark red tiles. The decorative ridge pole of the roof was painted dark red with gold colored plates acting as both a decoration and a brace. Hanging down from each corner were silk rope tassels of different colors- black, white, blue, and red.

  Next to the ring was some kind of electric forklift. One Japanese guy was driving it and another, standing high in the air on one of the elevated forks of the lift, was adjusting one of the rope tassels.

  Sumo seems like an easy sport. All you have to do is push your opponent out of the ring or have him fall so that something besides the soles of his feet touch the ground. That’s one reason sumo wrestlers are so big—they’re harder to push!

  If you’ve never seen a sumo match you may think it’s just a bunch of fat guys in diapers bumping into each other. It’s considerably more than that. For one thing, the action is usually lightning fast and the bout can be over in a matter of seconds. Sumo also involves a variety of strategies about how you can make an opponent either fall or get thrown from the ring: slapping attacks, push-downs, pull-downs, force-outs, and more. Sumo is also tied to traditional Japanese Shinto religion and there are a lot of colorful ceremonies associated with the sport.

  I talked to the young man who let me into the Pavilion. He told me he was helping with the sumo tournament. “So were you here last night?” I asked.

  “Sure. I’m the one who went to Ishikabe’s room and told him the match was about to start.”

  “Did you tell him in English or Japanese?”

  “I’m studying Japanese here at UCLA. That’s one reason I wanted to help out with the sumo tournament. I told Ishikabe in Japanese.”

  “And what did Ishikabe
say to you?”

  “He said hai, yes. That was it.”

  “You’re sure this was just five minutes before the match?”

  “I sure am. It’s one of my duties to tell the wrestlers five minutes before they’re due to go out into the arena.”

  “Can you show me the room Ishikabe was in?”

  The young man took me under the stands at Pauley to the section where the locker rooms are. The room, which seemed to be some kind of storage room, was pretty easy to pick out. It had a smashed door. Gary must’ve been pretty upset because the door looked like it had been hit by a bulldozer, not a man.

  I satisfied myself that there was only one way in and out of the room. I thanked the young man for the tour and went back to my car. I was really stumped as to why Ishikabe would not show up for his match. Even more puzzling was the fact that nobody saw him leave Pauley Pavilion.

  The UCLA campus is right in the middle of Westwood. Gary told me that Ishikabe was 5’10” and weighed around 420 pounds. When he disappeared he was dressed in a muwashi, which is that combination belt and underwear that sumo wrestlers wear. The cheeks of his rear end would be exposed to the world and his hair would be in the distinctive topknot of the sumo wrestler.

  Los Angeles has a lot of strange people wandering the streets. But even for Los Angeles a 420 pound sumo wrestler wearing what looks like thong underwear would be something worthy of taking notice of.

  So I figured he didn’t just wander off into the night. And because he had been informed of the upcoming bout in Japanese, he didn’t have some kind of misunderstanding about where he was supposed to be. What happened to him? Good question. One I had answered for me before I finished lunch.

  I was wolfing down a burger from Fatburger (it tastes better than the name) when my phone rang.

  “Ken-san?”

  “Gary?” The Hawaiian accent is pretty distinctive.

  “Yeah. Say, bruddha, they found Ishikabe.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s dead. Feedin’ da fishes in Los Angeles Harbor.”