Mack and Olive were silent for a while, uncertain of what to say. They saw before them a tired middle-aged man who had already lived through thirty-eight years of guilt for annihilating thousands of innocent men, women, and children; a man who secretly felt that he was solely responsible for turning nuclear theory into nuclear practice. Until he had said go, the idea of dropping an atomic bomb over a populated city had been no more than that: an idea. In the Chugoku Sanchi, alone, under a summer sky more than a third of a century ago, he had singlehandedly initiated the age of nuclear confrontation, an age which Mack and Olive took for granted because they had never known anything else, but which Jerry regarded as a Dark Age of his own making.
Now he was faced with an equally bitter choice over just one life: that of his only son, the only child he and Rhoda had conceived together. If Jerry himself were to die, David would never know from Jerry about all those times when his mother was young. He would never hear the explanations behind the photographs in Jerry’s albums–this is the moment when your mother saw a goose chasing a woman across a barnyard in Massachusetts, that time just before you were born when we decided to take one last second honeymoon; this is the time a young black man offered to take our picture overlooking Niagara Falls, and took the best damned picture of two ordinary people in love that there ever was.
Mack said, “You really think Crowley’s going to get you a machine gun?”
“He said he’d try. An M-60 and a couple of Ingrams.” Mack slowly shook his head. “This whole business is crazy.”
At that moment, Maurice Needs appeared in the bedroom doorway, naked to the waist, scratching his head and yawning. “Boy, did I sleep good,” he said, flexing muscle after muscle in turn. “Is there anything for breakfast? Eggs, maybe?”
“Eggs, he says,” remarked Olive sarcastically. She climbed off the sofa, and stalked bare-bottomed to the kitchenette, watched with a mixture of pride and jealous annoyance by Mack. Jerry glanced after her, too, and then turned back to Mack and smiled.
“She’s some woman, isn’t she?” asked Maurice. “Dynamite. Doesn’t care a two-bit shit for anybody.”
“She loves her husband,” Mack corrected him. Maurice shrugged, with a big bunching of muscles. “Well, that’s good. I always did believe in fidelity.”
Jerry stood up and picked up his coat from the floor. The sleeves of his wrinkled gray shirt were rolled up, and the brown leather belt around his pants was cracked and worn. There was something defeated about him, which made Maurice look quickly over to Mack and frown, as if he were asking a question: Something’s wrong here, what’s happening?
Jerry said, “You know that if you don’t help me I’ll try to do this myself.’’
Mack said, “You’re putting me in a position, aren’t you? You know, deliberately, you’re putting me in a position.”
“What position? What? What are you talking about?” asked Maurice.
Mack briefly, with expletives, explained about the Tengus, Gerard Crowley; and how David had been kidnapped. He also told about Gerard’s offer of an M-60E1 and two or three Ingrams.
Maurice made a face. “An M-60? Jesus, that’s a brute. My older brother used one in ‘Nam. Six hundred rounds a minute. You could cut a guy in half with one of those.’’
“He’s offered one,” said Jerry. “He’s agreed to call me at eleven o’clock this morning to talk about delivery.”
“/’//come with you,” said Maurice. “Jesus, what the hell. It’s better than bending iron bars in a goddamned circus.”
Olive came into the room, holding a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon strips. “Do I pamper you or do I pamper you?” she asked Maurice, setting the plate down on the table. Jerry couldn’t help noticing the plump black lips of her vulva, shaved smooth and glossy as a King’s Country plum. He thought: I’m in another age, another morality, another existence. He felt as if the atom bomb had obliterated for ever the world of zoot suits and Plymouth Road Kings and “Mairzy Doats,” and beached him like the hero of some 1940’s radio comedy on an unknown planet. He thought, my God, that’s what Hiroshima did to me. It suspended me in 1945, a man in amber, and I don’t think I’ve grown a day older since.
He said to Maurice, “Do you know something, there used to be a show called Duffy’s Tavern, and every program started with this guy on the phone saying, ‘Duffy’s Tavern... Archie the manager speaking. Duffy ain’t here. Oh, hello Duffy.’ “
Maurice stared at him, and nodded. “When was that?” he asked, just to be polite. “I don’t think I ever saw it.”
“Radio,” said Jerry. “Sometime before you were born.”
“Oh,” said Maurice.
The telephone rang. Mack said, “Answer it, will you, Olive?” but Olive was in the bedroom now, dressing. Mack picked the receiver up and said, “Duffy’s Tavern... Archie the manager speaking.”
There was a pause. Then Mack held the receiver out to Jerry, his face serious. “Did you give my number to Crowley?” he asked.
Jerry said, “I’m sorry. You know how urgent it is. I left a message on his recorder.
“Well, feel free,” said Mack. “I just hope the guy isn’t a psychopathic killer, like the rest of his friends.”
Jerry took the phone and said, “Mr. Crowley?”
“That’s right. I’m at the office right now. Did you hear the news?”
“Yes,” said Jerry. “I’m not sure what it means.”
“It means that this whole thing’s falling apart, that’s what. If there’s something big in hand, they’re going to try to do it quick, or else they’re not going to try to do it at all. They’re going to be pullingout of Pacoima within the week, believe me, and that means you’ve got to get your boy out of there just as soon as you can.”
Jerry asked, “Have you told them you’ve been in touch with me?”
“I told them we’ve arranged a meet for later on today. I’ve told them you’re willing to do any kind of a deal to get your son back, and that I should be able to cajole you back to the ranch.”
“You’ve got the guns?”
“I’ve got the M-60 and six belts of ammunition, as well as two spare barrels, although you probably won’t need them. I couldn’t get any Ingrams, but I’ve got you a Canadian SMG and a couple of Browning high-power automatics.”
“Sounds like enough for World War Three,’’ said Jerry. Across the room, Mack raised his eyebrows and lit up a handrolled cigarette. Maurice was already mopping up the last of his egg. “Just listen,” said Gerard. “All the guns are in the trunk of a white Grand Prix, parked at the Chateau Mar-mont, on Sunset. All you have to do is go to the desk and ask for Mr. Wisby’s keys.
You got that? Mr. Wisby’s keys. They’ll give you the keys and you can go straight down to the parking lot and drive the car away. Then I’ll meet up with you at the intersection of Van Nuys Boulevard and San Fernando Road, by the Whiteman Air Park, at three o’clock on the button.
You with me? I’ll be driving a Riviera, but I’ll see you before you see me.”
Jerry was silent. Then he said, “How do I really know that I can trust you?”
“You don’t know,” Gerard retorted. “But if someone gives you a heavy-duty machine gun and a heap of ammunition, and offers to help you get your son back, free of charge and with no strings attached except a good reference, well, that could be a sign that he isn’t entirely antagonistic, wouldn’t you say?”
Jerry said, “Okay. I’ll meet you at three.”
He handed the phone back to Mack, who hung it up and stared at him, with smoke blowing evenly out of his nostrils. “Well?” Mack asked him. “That sounded like all systems go.’’
“He’s got the machine gun,” said Jerry. “We’re going out to Pacoima at three o’clock this afternoon.”
Olive came in, wearing lemon-yellow jeans and a loose crocheted top. “Don’t ask Mack to go with you,’’ she said. “Please, I’m scared.”
Maurice said, “I’ll go. No problem. Jus
t so long as I get to use the M-60. Can you imagine my brother’s face when I tell him about it?”
“You probably won’t live to tell him about it,” said Olive.
“Aw, come on. Olive,” grinned Maurice. “Where’s your good old American sense of humor?”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” put in Mack. “Haven’t you learned that it’s fun to kill people, especially when they’re of different racial origin? These are Japanese. We killed J
V/ millions of them in World War Two. What’s half a dozen more?”
Olive looked at him warily. “Don’t tell me you’re going, too?”
Mack puffed at his cigarette and nodded. “You think I’m going to let Maurice use an M-60, and I’m not even there?”
“But you said just a minute ago that...”
Mack stood up, and reached for his wornout cotton-twill jacket. “Forget what I said a minute ago. These guys killed Sherry, right? The least I can do is help to wipe them out.”
“Oh, John Wayne,” said Olive sarcastically. “When I started going out with you, I thought I was getting into a free-and-easy laid-back Hollywood hanger-on situation, bed and avocado-burgers and a little late-night music. I didn’t realize I was joining the Green Berets.”
“It’s pronounced berays, not barettes,” said Mack, kissing her on the forehead. “And, believe me, I’ll stay way out of trouble.”
“Do you have to go now?” Olive wanted to know. “It’s only eleven-thirty.”
Jerry said, “I think it would be a good idea if we all went around to my place and picked up some maps. I’d like to go get my own gun, too, in case of problems.”
Olive lowered her eyes. “All right. If that’s the way you want it. But I can’t guarantee that I’m going to be here when you get back, //you get back.”
“Sweetheart,” Mack appealed.
“Sweetheart my fanny,” retorted Olive.
“You see what being married to a sailor does to a girl?” asked Mack.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Outside, in the sunshine, Detective Arthur was standing beside Jerry’s car, his notebook tucked under his arm, inhaling violently from a Dristan nasal spray.
“Good morning, officer,” said Jerry. “How’s the allergy?”
“Worse,” said Arthur. “Some other damned plant has started pollinating now. It’s killing me.
And yesterday they gave me a case near a eucalyptus grove.”
“What can I do for you today?” asked Jerry.
“Sergeant Skrolnik wanted you to know that Lieutenant Edward Smith is assuming overall direction of the Sherry Cantor case, after that thing out at Rancho Encino last night. Sergeant Skrolnik was out there himself, twisted his ankle or something. Now he’s hobbling around like an alligator with a jalapeño pepper up its ass. Having to report to Lieutenant Smith isn’t helping his temper much, either.”
Jerry asked, “Is there anything else? I was just about to go home.”
“Well,” said Detective Arthur, wiping his nose again and then opening up his notebook,
“Sergeant Skrolnik did want to ask you if knew anything about some sort of Japanese ritual where you have two blue-and-white porcelain bowls... that’s what he’s written down here in my notebook... and two crossed samurai swords. The bowls are supposed to contain some sort of stuff like ash or incense.”
Jerry frowned. “It isn’t like anything that I’ve ever heard of. But I’m not an expert on Japan. I was just there during the war and the occupation.”
“He wanted you to think about it, that’s all. He also asked me to advise you not to leave town, not for a day or two.”
“So Sergeant Skrolnik thinks there’s some kind of connection between Sherry Cantor’s murder and Admiral Thorson’s murder?” asked Jerry. “Some kind of Japanese connection?”
Detective Arthur put away his notebook, and spent a long time trying to push the clip of his ballpen into the torn lining of his inside pocket. “The guys who tried to knock off Admiral Thorson were all Japanese except one, who was an unidentified Caucasian. Three of them were killed: one by security guards at the hospital, one by police, and one by this unknown Caucasian.”
Jerry asked, ‘ The killer who was supposed to have come to life again and killed Admiral Thorson last night–he was Japanese, too?”
“That’s what I said. They were all Japanese except one unidentified Caucasian.”
“It doesn’t say in the Times that he was Japanese.”
Arthur sniffed, and shook his head. “If you want to know the truth, Skrolnik’s playing the whole thing so tight to the chest that nobody knows what’s going on. I can tell you something, though, a few heads are going to roll for what happened out at Rancho Encino last night. A killer was supposed to be dead and he wasn’t? He actually got out of the morgue and attacked his victim for the second time? I’m glad / wasn’t in charge, believe me. Poor old Harry Calsbeek’s been put on suspension–he was the officer responsible. They’ll probably bust him without a pension; and Skrolnik’s not much safer, either. They’d probably suspend him, too, if they had the manpower.”
“What’s Skrolnik doing now?” asked Mack.
“Putting the shit up the whole Japanese ethnic community, that’s what,” said Detective Arthur.
“He’s got foot patrols going around to every sitshi bar, every teriyaki joint, every tempura restaurant, you name it. There isn’t a tatami mat in town that’s going to go unturned. He’s already had complaints from the Japanese community-relations people. They still remember what we did to the Issei and the Nisei during the war. But the guy’s desperate. Two spectacular buchery cases and nothing to show for it. He’s even been around to the Japanese Culture Department at UCLA, asking about those porcelain bowls and those swords. If it’s got anything to do with Japan, Skrolnik’s going to shake it down. Karate clubs, flower-arranging classes–he’s hitting them all.”
Jerry turned back to Mack and raised his eyebrows. Mack shrugged noncommittally. They’d just have to hope that Skrolnik didn’t locate the ranch out at Pacoima before this afternoon.
Jerry said to Detective Arthur, “I’ll keep in touch, okay? Right now I’m going home. If I can think what those bowls and swords were all about, I’ll call you.”
Detective Arthur went back to his car. Maurice said to Jerry, “Do you actually know what those bowls and swords could have been?”
“I don’t have any idea,” said Jerry. “But Nancy Shiranuka may know. Perhaps if you guys could go pick up the car with the guns on it, and drive it back to my house, you could drop me off at Alia Loma Road on the way, so that I can talk to her.’’
They climbed into Jerry’s Dodge, with Maurice taking up most of the rear seat. Jerry heard the suspension groan as El Krusho made himself comfortable.
Jerry drove to Alta Loma Road and parked outside Nancy Shiranuka’s apartment house. “If I’m not back out again in two or three minutes, just drive off and get the Grand Prix,” he told Mack.
“And for Christ’s sake, be careful. I don’t want Olive’s worst fears to come true.”
“Me neither,” said Mack, sliding across behind the wheel.
Jerry went up to Nancy’s apartment and pressed the bell. After a little while, he heard the slap of her slippers on the polished wood floor, and she opened the door herself. “Jerry,’’ she said, with mild surprise. “Why don’t you come in? I’m on the telephone.
Jerry took off his shoes and followed her into her serene living room. He sat down on a zabuton and waited while Nancy spoke in Japanese to someone who was obviously a girlfriend of hers. “Well,” she said when she had finished. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“I saw Gerard Crowley yesterday.”
“He told me. He also told me what he plans to do.”
“What do you think about it?” asked Jerry.
“About attacking the Tengus? I think it is very dangerous. But there are ways of protecting yourself.”
“You think it’s better n
ot to call the police?”
Nancy nodded. “The Out at the ranch would kill your son and everyone else if they even so much as glimpsed a police car or a uniform.”
“You say there are ways of protecting ourselves?”
“Of course. The world is populated by good kami as well as black kami. It is possible to invoke their help against any of the demons, including Tengu.”
“How?” asked Jerry.
Nancy said, “The greatest protection of all is the bond between two people who have been physically and mentally unified. The apotropaic spirit of that bond can be contained in any token or artifact that belongs to the person with whom you have joined. Do you have a lover?”
Jerry blew out a little tight breath of anxiety. “No,” he said. “Not exactly. There was only Rhoda, my wife, and as you know she’s–well, you know what happened.”
Nancy looked at Jerry with those dark, liquid eyes and said nothing. Jerry tugged at his leg, in an attempt to tuck it under himself Japanese-style, but his knee was too stiff. He said, “Out of practice. Out of practice in lots of things, I guess.”
Nancy said, “The bond must necessarily be with a living person. Once the person is dead, his kami has left for another plane of life altogether, beyond the gates of heaven.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to do without it. I haven’t been with anyone since Rhoda.”
Nancy thought for a moment or two, and then stood up. “Come,” she said, and held out her hand for him. He stared at her, uncertain of what it was that she expected of him. But then he took her hand, climbed up off the zabuton, and followed her along the corridor to a plain, wood-floored anteroom. Its walls were hung with a collection of five erotic woodblocks in the style of Kiyomitsu, beautifully dressed Japanese women in flowing silk robes
^ their clothes only slightly lifted or parted to vreveal the huge gnarled penises that were penetrating their vaginas.
Without a word, Nancy loosened Jerry’s necktie, and began deftly to unbutton his shirt. Jerry stayed still, his hands by his sides, watching her with a feeling of unreality but also, for the first time since he had heard that David had been kidnapped, a feeling of peace. As he had noticed the last time he had visited her, Nancy had an extraordinary quality of inner tranquility, a calm that reminded him of the still lake around the Gold Pavilion in Nara, of walking along the little alley called the Path of Philosophy by the Old Canal in Nanzenji, when the rows of cherry trees silently blizzarded their blossoms into the water.
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