by John J. Lamb
“Good morning and excuse me, please.” The older man bowed slightly and spoke in Japanese-accented English. “We are visiting your wonderful country and have become lost. Please can you tell us how to get to the Massanutten Museum of History?”
“My pleasure. All you have to do is make a right turn from the parking lot and go down the road until you come to the stop sign. That’s Wheale Road.” Sergei pointed in the proper direction with his left hand while nonchalantly putting the right under the counter.
“Wheale Road.” The older man nodded and looked at his bodyguard to make certain he understood.
“Turn left there and go about two miles through the farmland. You’ll see the sign for the museum on your left. It’s in a farmhouse.”
“Thank you.” The older man took another approving sniff. “And it is unfortunate that our schedule doesn’t allow us to have lunch here. The food smells very good.”
“Thank you. Perhaps some other time.”
“Perhaps. Thank you, again.”
The pair left the restaurant, the bodyguard walking backwards to keep an eye on us.
Once the door shut, I said, “Can I borrow a pen?”
Sergei tossed me a ballpoint pen that looked as if it had been stolen from the post office. Pulling a napkin from the metal dispenser, I wrote down the license number. Then I joined Sergei and Richert at the window. We watched as the Hummer backed up and then turned westbound onto Coggins Spring Road.
“Well there’s something you don’t see everyday in Remmelkemp Mill,” I said.
“What’s that?” asked Richert.
“Three Yakuza—Japanese gangsters. I wonder what they want at the museum.”
Five
“Yakuza? You’re sure?” asked Sergei.
“Certain enough to be worried about what the tough guy had in his jacket pocket,” I said.
“How could you tell who they were?”
“The first tip-off was that the bodyguard was missing the first joint from his left pinky finger.”
Sergei rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Why is that important?” Richert asked.
I said, “It’s a common injury among Yakuza foot soldiers.”
“Why?” Richert asked.
“Because in the Yakuza, giving someone the finger isn’t just an expression. If a gangster screws up or embarrasses his organization, he chops off a finger joint and delivers it to his boss as a form of atonement. It’s called yubizume.”
“I’d call it insane.” Richert looked a little dazed. “How do you know so much about this?”
“About nine years ago, I worked a murder that was connected with gun-runners who were selling weapons to a Japanese organized crime group. U.S. Customs loaned us one of their experts on the Yakuza and he allowed me to read a bunch of their intel files. They’re bad hombres.”
Richert noticed Sergei nodding in agreement and asked, “But how do you know about them?”
“Oh, I don’t really know anything more about them than what I’ve seen in the movies,” Sergei blandly replied while shooting me a brief knowing look. “If you get the chance, you should rent the DVD of Black Rain.”
Richert turned to me. “What else made you think they were Yakuza?”
“It’s hotter than a freaking sauna outside and the two that came in and the guy outside were all wearing sports jackets. That was probably to conceal their clan badge tattoos—most Yakuza are covered with them.”
“What about the matching lapel pins?” Sergei asked.
“Good obs. They’re extremely significant,” I said walking back to the table and sitting down. “If memory serves, that diamond-shaped pin is the emblem for the Yamaguchi-gumi, one of the biggest crime cartels in Japan…or at least they were back in the nineties.”
“Wait a minute, are you saying that these crooks actually advertise who they are?” Richert’s jaw hung half-open in amazement.
“Yeah, they’re proud of it. The Yakuza party line is that they are the lineal descendents of the samurai—a bunch of big-hearted Robin Hoods who look out for the little guy, which is complete BS. They aren’t called the Japanese Mafia for nothing.”
“How so?”
“They’re major players in the Asian narcotics trade, world-class extortionists, and also operate prostitution rings that keep the girls in virtual slavery. What would Maid Marian say? However, unlike the Mafia, they are extremely visible in Japanese society.”
“So, what are those guys doing here in America?” asked Richert.
“It looks like the oyabun—the boss—is on vacation. Although why you’d travel halfway around the globe to visit Remmelkemp Mill is beyond me.”
“Actually, I was more interested in how they got in. Isn’t Customs supposed to stop criminals from entering the country?”
“They are. But if the boss and his entourage don’t have criminal records and he’s also buds with some high-rollers in the Japanese government, which is probably the case, our Customs people don’t really have a choice about letting him in.”
“So, what are you going to do with the license number?” Sergei went back behind the counter.
“I’ll give the info to Tina after the teddy bear guild meeting. As hard as she works, there’s no point in disturbing her. Those guys are suspicious-looking, but they weren’t committing a crime.”
“And the museum director would have a coronary if he found out you’d prevented three paying customers from visiting,” said Sergei.
“Yeah, I imagine it gets a little lonely there, which is a shame, because it’s a neat little museum.”
Richert grabbed his hat and sunglasses from the table. “Well, thanks for the excitement. But I’ve got a Summer Bible Camp session to teach, so I guess I’d better be going.”
“Before you do, I’ve got to tell you I’m a little worried about you bringing up those stories about Ash in your sermon. I appreciate your intentions, but it could be that you’re just going to give those vicious lies a second life.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too concerned about that.” Richert slipped the sunglasses on and gave me a toothy and strangely chilly smile. “You see, up until now these folks have been preached to by Reverend Doctor Jeckyll. Tomorrow morning, they’re going to meet Pastor Hyde. Please tell Ashleigh I said hello.”
I pushed myself to my feet to shake hands with him. “Thanks, Terry.”
“Happy to be of service.” Richert put his hat on and went out the door.
After Richert left, I went over to the counter and said, “I like him.”
Sergei pulled a fat head of cabbage from the refrigerator and shut the door with his foot. “Me too. So, that’s what the solemn conversation was about?”
“Yeah. That damn story Poole made up about Ash having the hots for him. Apparently it’s still in circulation at the church.”
“Really? Nobody had better repeat it in my presence.” Sergei slid a small carving knife into the bottom of the cabbage. His wrist flicked and a large chunk of vegetable stalk went flying.
“Anyway, Terry said he’s going to bury the story once and for all, tomorrow at church during his sermon.”
“Isn’t he the optimistic fellow.”
“I suspect there’s a full supply of old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone behind that affable persona.”
“I hope so, for your sake.” Sergei discarded the knife, picked up the cleaver, and split the cabbage with a single deft blow. He looked up at me. “But as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one thing to be done with people who refuse to keep their mouths shut. It’s what we used to do back in Russia.”
“What’s that?”
“Send them to the Gulag.”
I chatted with Sergei for about another hour. The topics shifted from West Coast jazz to handguns and finally to high-speed driving techniques, which led to Sergei telling a funny story about how, back in 1981, he’d driven the 250 miles from a hotel in the center of Paris to Geneva, Switzerland, in less than three hour
s. I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t mention why he’d covered that distance at such an insane speed, but I figured it had something to do with the fact he was working as a Soviet spy at the time.
“God, I loved that Mercedes. What an autobahn burner,” Sergei said dreamily at the end of the tale. Then his expression became sad. “I was a young daredevil then, and now…What business does an old man like me have in even considering courting a woman of Tina’s age? Bradley, please tell me the truth. Am I being a fool?”
“Not at all. And what’s this crap about being an old man? You look younger than me.”
“That’s no comfort. Lenin’s corpse in Red Square looked younger than you.”
“That’s true, but look who I get to go to bed with every night.”
He grunted. “Point taken.”
“Look, we’re more vain than women about our age, we just keep it a secret. It took me a long time to realize that Ash truly doesn’t care how old I look and I can’t imagine Tina being worried about that in a man either. My guess is she’s looking for someone who first and foremost can be trusted.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“So, remember you’re still the same man who frightened French drivers. Ask her out to dinner. What’s the worst she can say?”
“No.”
“Or ask whether she’ll have to drive or if you’ll both ride the assisted living facility’s shuttle bus.”
“Bradley, you are an unalloyed bastard, but thank you.”
The lunch crowd began coming in shortly before 11:30 and the restaurant began to get busy. I said good-bye, grabbed the books, and went out to the Xterra. Sitting behind the wheel, I wondered how I was going to waste the next thirty minutes, because the guild meetings lasted until noon. Then curiosity got the better of me. I started the SUV and a few seconds later was driving southbound on Wheale Road, on my way to the Massanutten Museum of History. All I planned to do was drive by the place and see if the Hummer was still in the parking lot, because I didn’t want to waste Tina’s time sending her on a wild goose chase on her day off.
Really.
Not buying it, huh? Okay, the truth is, if the Hummer was still there, I planned to go Code Five on it—that is, place it under surveillance—and call Tina on my cell phone to tell her about our intriguing visitors. As a general rule, when Yakuza mobsters come to the United States, they visit places such as Hawaii, California, Las Vegas, New York, and Atlantic City. They gravitate toward casinos, nightclubs, and posh hotels, not insignificant museums in the middle of nowhere in the Shenandoah Valley. The fact is I was dying to know what the three gangsters were doing here.
I was soon driving through lush pastureland. On one side of the road, the field was dotted with grazing black and white Holstein cattle and on the other a tractor chugged along, cutting hay. Off to the southwest and far away, white cumulus clouds were blossoming over the Allegheny Mountains, which meant that before the day was done we might have thunderstorms. The road took me up a gentle hill and through a dense copse of maple, oak, white pine, and scrubby cedar. On the other side of woods, there was a green sign with white lettering by the side of the road. It read, MASSANUTTEN COUNTY MUSEUM OF HISTORY, and there was a white arrow pointing leftward. I turned onto the macadamized driveway and started up the lane toward an old brick mansion, which was about a quarter of a mile away.
I knew from my one previous visit to the museum that the house and its outbuildings were the last vestiges of the sprawling Bromhead Plantation. During the Civil War, the estate had produced wheat, tobacco, and three sons who’d given their lives for the Confederacy. The fortunes of the Bromhead family slowly declined after the war and the farm began to shrink as it was sold parcel by parcel until all that remained was the mansion. After the last Bromhead died in the late 1940s the dilapidated old house sat vacant until 1976, when Massanutten County bought it and began the long task of renovating it and converting it into a museum.
The house was magnificent. Surrounded by majestic oak trees, the large two-storied mansion was constructed in the Federal-style from red brick that had grown darker with the passage of some two hundred years. The front of the building was adorned with four white Doric columns, which supported a protruding gable with an oval window. A large and sun-faded Confederate stars-and-bars flag hung lengthwise from the second-floor porch railing, flapping languidly in the warm breeze above the white double front door. On opposites sides of the house were two brick outbuildings: the stables and the slaves’ quarters.
There was no sign of the Hummer. The only car in the gravel parking lot was a salmon-colored Toyota Camry and it was parked in a spot marked with a RESERVED sign, which meant it must belong to the museum director. Unfortunately, I wasn’t surprised the lot was empty. From what I’d heard, attendance had been sparse for years and the facility was becoming such a money pit, due to the cost of insurance, employee wages, and maintenance expenses, that a few months earlier the county board of supervisors had been forced to take drastic measures. They’d slashed employee work hours and wages, and reduced the days of operation to just Saturday and Sunday.
I pulled into the handicapped space near the steps leading up to the front door and turned off the engine. The museum was so small that the oyabun and his two bodyguards had probably already finished their tour and gotten back on the road. If so, there was a slight chance they might have asked the museum director how to get to their next destination. I decided to go inside and find out.
Grabbing my cane, I climbed from the truck. The air was so hot and muggy and fragrant with newly mown hay it felt as if I were breathing warm vegetable broth. I heard the prit-tee, prit-tee, prit-tee call of a cardinal from one of the nearby oak trees and then the sound was drowned out by the grinding whine of the air conditioning unit starting up. Walking up the sidewalk toward the house, I paused to look at the unkempt flowerbeds. There were hollyhocks, coneflowers, and stargazer lilies and all looked wilted and water-stressed, probably because the sprinklers were only turned on once or twice a week. I noticed a fresh white cigarette butt lying on the ground near a parched dianthus plant. Probably one of the Yakuza had discarded it, as it wasn’t likely there’d been any other visitors today.
I slowly mounted the steps and went inside the mansion. Despite the air conditioner, it wasn’t much cooler indoors. The museum director probably had orders to set the thermostat at 80 degrees to save on the electrical bill. Once inside, I took my sunglasses off and gave my eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light. I stood at one end of the main hall, which stretched straight through to the opposite side of the building. The building was equipped with an audio system on which I could hear Stephen Foster’s, “Old Dog Tray,” being picked mournfully on a banjo.
The door to my right led into a room that housed the admission desk and gift shop. I went inside the gift shop, my footfalls echoing hollowly on the hardwood floor. There was no one inside, yet I paused before pushing further into the house. The souvenirs themselves belonged in a museum rather than as merchandise in a gift shop. There were commemorative ashtrays, Bromhead Plantation whisky shot glasses, coonskin caps, little Confederate uniforms for the kids, complete with the Rebel battle flag on the gray cap, wood and metal toy muskets that looked like real guns, and age-yellowed plastic packages of color photographic slides of the mansion and grounds. It was like stepping back in time about sixty years.
Going back out into the hallway, I called, “Hello! Is there anybody here? Hello?”
There was no response, so I decided to wander through the museum until I found the director. I crossed the corridor and went into a room I knew contained an eclectic collection of household artifacts. There were old quilts hanging from the walls; ceramic clay jugs and kitchenware produced by local artisans in the early nineteenth century; rag dolls; a collection of antique tools on a hand-hewn wooden table; an old Edison gramophone; and my favorite pieces, the two antique teddy bears sitting on the elegant marble mantle above the fireplac
e. Both were valuable collector’s items.
On the left side of the mantle was a slightly frayed and obviously much-loved bear that had been produced by the Bruin Manufacturing Company of New York in about 1907. Bruin bears are very rare, because the company went out of business almost immediately. The bear had distinctively wide shoulders, was made from shaggy golden mohair, had black shoe-button eyes, and a smile embroidered in black thread. I also knew that there was an imported German “growler” inside the stuffed animal, which made a growling sound when the bear was tipped over. Hey, I’m not much at catching felons anymore, but I do know my antique teddy bears. I still haven’t decided whether that should make me laugh or cry.
The bear on the opposite side of the mantle was even more amazing and precious. It was an original Michtom, made sometime around 1904. Unless you’re an arctophile, which is just a fancy way of saying a teddy bear devotee, the name likely doesn’t mean much, but it means a lot to collectors.
Back in 1901, Clifford K. Berryman, an editorial cartoonist for the Washington Post, drew a cartoon featuring President Theodore Roosevelt refusing to shoot a captured bear cub. The following year, Rose and Morris Michtom of New York City produced a toy bear inspired by the cartoon. This stuffed animal was known as “Teddy’s Bear,” which later became simply the Teddy Bear. Michtom bears from the early years are rare and extremely valuable.
The museum’s bear was about eleven-inches tall, made from beige mohair plush, with widely spaced ears and the classic triangular face of an initial Michtom effort. It had a frayed nose made from embroidered black thread, a sweet little embroidered smile, elongated and slightly curved arms, and felt paw pads. Unlike many expensive historical teddy bears, this one had a cute face. I’d have liked it even if I didn’t know that it was worth thousands and thousands of dollars.
