I’d thought Bento had enjoyed a big night, but Plum Ink was even busier, with a young, night-owlish clientele. The prices were lower here, though, I thought, studying the details in the framed reviews from the Washingtonian and the Washington Post that hung on the wall of the bar. The restaurant looked glamorous, yet it was fairly priced. How could it lose?
The bar area was where Andrea, David, Justin, Phong, the sommelier named Kevin, and Carlos and Alberto had decided to park themselves. Everyone except for me lit up cigarettes. I realized that my colleagues were Plum Ink regulars, because there was a lot of friendly greeting back and forth between them and the bartender, a young Chinese-American with spiky black hair and one dangling earring shaped like a cross. I was introduced to Mark, and the jokes flew about how I was the mom of the bunch because I was practically married. I acknowledged it all with a strained smile because I didn’t want to put off Mark. I’d already started thinking that I could ask him if he’d heard anything about the take-out food that had been in the trunk of the car in which Kendall had been kidnapped.
“We’ll be able to talk after they all get their drinks and get really loud,” Andrea murmured to me. “What do you want to have to drink? He makes good cosmos.”
“How about a coffee?” I said. Midnight was late for me, but I had a lot to stay awake for.
“Irish coffee in a Chinese restaurant?” Andrea laughed.
I offered to get the drinks, to ensure that mine wasn’t alcoholic, and also because I wanted to have a private conversation with Mark. After he’d taken the drinks orders, I reintroduced myself.
“Of course, Rei. You’re the famous one who’s going to be married. Let me look at your ring.” He grabbed my left hand and started stroking it.
“Oh, that’s not really why I’m known,” I said, gritting my teeth as he kept hold of my hand. It wouldn’t pay to appear uptight at the moment. “I’m more notorious because of my cousin in the news. Kendall Johnson.”
“Sounds like a wine label. Is she from California, like you?”
So he’d caught everything Andrea had said about my background. “No, she’s a D.C. girl. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her. She was the fund-raiser who was kidnapped last week during Bento’s soft opening.”
“Whoa, now I remember! The cops came by last Saturday because there was a bag from our place in the trunk of the car.”
“So you know about it?”
“Yeah. We had to go through our list of receipts for that whole day.”
“Did anything of significance turn up?”
“Don’t know. The cops were hot to find out if anyone had come in to eat, or carried out, three particular dishes. The spicy spinach, the scallops with ginger, the chicken fried rice—” He cut himself off as a fiftyish Asian man with a round belly covered by a track-suit walked up to the bar and spoke to him rapidly in what I recognized as Mandarin.
Mark began bobbing his head and grunted back a few short syllables. The man looked at the group from Bento, made a slight face, and walked out.
“Was that the restaurant owner?” I guessed.
“Yeah. Mr. Chow. He was asking which restaurant you came from, because he hadn’t seen you before.”
“Was he upset that you were talking to me?”
“Naw. He just pointed out that the kitchen was closing soon, and if you wanted food, you should be advised to order now.”
“Hmm,” I said. Mr. Chow hadn’t looked that happy to see the big group—maybe he thought we were keeping better customers out.
“Hey, are you hungry? It’s true that you should order now.”
I shook my head. “The others already gave an order to the waitress. I can’t eat this late at night.”
“But you like to do other things. Like talk.” Mark tilted his head, and looked at me in the same appraising, flirtatious way he had earlier.
I smiled and asked if any dinner check for that night had included the spinach, scallops, and fried rice.
“There were three dinner groups who ordered the spinach and scallops as part of a larger meal, but only one table asked to take the leftovers home. And they didn’t have fried rice.”
“Who were they?”
“Well, I didn’t personally serve them, but one of the waiters did, and he said they were crotchety old geezers, a man and a woman, who paid cash, so there was no record of their names. To me that sounds like the kind who might kidnap their next-door neighbor’s newspaper, but not more than that.”
I nodded. “Did the police blow the whole thing off?”
“They said they’d check into it, but they hardly looked excited.”
“What about take-out orders?” I asked. “Are those orders written up just like regular dinner checks?”
“Hey, this isn’t that kind of Chinese restaurant.”
“Sorry. It looks like a great place. Thanks for the drinks.”
“You starting a tab, or what?”
I glanced over at Andrea, who looked impatient. “I guess a tab.”
At least that would prolong paying, and maybe Andrea would split the tab with me. And while all the waiters were crowing over the three-figure tips each had made that night, I had nothing to show for it. Andrea, working as dishwasher, probably had nothing, either.
“What were you talking about for so long?” Andrea demanded. “Was he trying to get under your zebra skirt, which actually is really cute?”
“Thanks, but no, nothing was going on. I think the way he talks to women is just normal behavior, isn’t it? Restaurant behavior?”
Andrea smiled knowingly. “I know Mark from before, back when we both worked at Mandala. He’s not bad in the sack. Actually, I’d recommend him—”
“Really?” Not that I was interested. After my encounters with Marshall and Hugh that evening, I was feeling pretty anti-man.
“Sure.” Andrea shrugged. “I’m not in love with him or anything. I’m not into emotional attachments, you may have noticed.”
“So Mark worked at Mandala. Why didn’t he go over to work at Bento like you did?”
“Mark left Mandala before Marshall even thought of opening Bento. It was one of those typical restaurant-opportunity things—the guy who owns Plum Ink lured Mark away with a great starting wage.”
“I’ve been wondering about something, Andrea.” I paused, not wanting to be rude. “How are you making it, financially, now that you’re washing dishes?”
“Not too well. I’m waiting for Justin to fall down and really humiliate himself. Then I’ll get my spot back.” Andrea looked at him coldly, then back at me. “Now, tell me more about what those people said. The ones who knew my Japanese name?”
There was so much, I hardly knew where to start. I told her about how Sadako had been afraid to leave home, even to take a bus ride to the doctor. I explained that she’d been cut off from any possible friends, and that she’d clung to Japanese ideas about baby care. When Andrea pressed me for more, I mentioned that Betty had said that Sadako had wanted to sleep close to her at night to breast-feed, but Robert had thought it better for her to sleep in another room.
“Your dad seemed as if he was having trouble coping. A lot of men do.” I thought of Win and his distance from his children.
“Don’t make excuses,” Andrea said shortly. “Was there anything else that they said to you?”
“They were very sorry to learn that you wound up in foster care. They had no idea that had happened. In fact, they want to meet you to talk about that.”
“I’ll do that when I can,” Andrea said briskly. “Right now, I’m pretty busy. I’ve located another report of my mother being seen getting on a bus out of town.”
“From Arlington to Washington, you mean?”
“No. A different bus, from the Greyhound terminal, headed for Delaware. It doesn’t make sense, especially since you said she was afraid to take buses,” Andrea said. “Hey, are you ready for another coffee? I’m buying.”
My cup had grown cold while we�
��d talked, but I shook my head. I didn’t need anything more to set my head buzzing. The conversation of the other waiters and cooks became louder. The dishwasher in jail was roundly mocked for being stupid enough to get caught selling seafood on a major thoroughfare. Justin, who had a wicked ear for accents, did an imitation of Jiro having a meltdown. Then Phong did a pantomime of Andrea washing dishes, using his hands eloquently to show both her inexperience and her distaste for mess. Andrea laughed as hard as anybody.
Restaurant workers were wild, I decided as I sipped my coffee and watched them. The humor was sometimes mean, but they’d all worked so hard as a unit. Some of them, who’d started before lunch, had been working for twelve hours straight. I glanced at my watch and saw how late it was. The only problem was, I didn’t want to go out by myself.
When Justin and David said they were leaving, I decided to tag along. We stepped out and almost tripped over a man slumped outside the restaurant door, head buried in his chest. Leaning against his legs was a paper cup with a few coins in it.
I hesitated, but realized I’d need all my change for the Metro or taxi or whatever form of transport I caught.
“Disgusting,” Justin said. “Marshall doesn’t let anyone beg outside the door. If you put your foot down, they stay away.”
“I’m sure he’s hungry,” I said to Justin as we moved away.
“Yeah, right. If I gave him this”—Justin hoisted a plastic bag that I guessed was full of food from Plum Ink—“he’d throw it away.”
“I could see if that’s true,” I said. “Give me the bag.”
“Hey, it’s my food! I’m gonna—” Justin’s words were cut off as we were enveloped in a swarm of people. A concert had just ended; some seventies band, I guessed, looking at the ages of the patrons.
“You got anything on you?” David asked Justin after we’d made it out of the thicket.
Justin shook his head. “I’m in the mood to get wasted, though. Let’s swing by P Street.”
I guessed that they were talking about buying drugs. I decided at that moment I should probably do my own thing, travelwise. I’d go for Hugh’s suggestion and take a taxi.
But after I parted from Justin and David, I realized I’d made my decision too late. The concertgoers had snapped up all the taxis. I stood no chance of getting one for myself.
I walked back to H, past Bento and the vacant neighboring building Win was trying to sell. I noticed that his name was no longer on the for-sale shingle, but there was another phone number and a name. Interesting. Was the building being offered for sale by the new owner? Maybe Kendall’s kidnapping really had affected the real estate market.
I saw that Justin and David were slowly walking along just a block and a half ahead, and I quickly caught up with them as they entered the Chinatown Metro station. They were having a loud, animated conversation about marijuana varieties.
“I can’t believe you still have the energy for that,” I said, breaking my rule about staying out of things that weren’t my business. If only they weren’t speaking so loudly. Once we’d boarded the Metro train, I’d noticed that the three of us were catching some cold stares from the older generation.
“Oh, don’t be such a mother.” Justin wrinkled his nose.
“You’re not going to tell Marshall, are you?” David asked.
“No, I’m not going to tell. But honestly,” I whispered, “you both have to go back to work tomorrow. It’s not a day off. How are you going to feel in the morning?”
“Who cares? We don’t work till the afternoon. The only possible issue is getting the munchies really bad, but Mark made sure we got all this yummy Chinese.” Justin held up the plastic bag, which I noticed was leaking soy sauce out of a corner.
“You’re friendly with Mark, which surprises me,” I said. “I’d have thought there would be competition between the two restaurants.”
“Oh, the restaurant world is very tight. Mark was at Mandala and now he’s at Plum Ink. Maybe Justin will be there next week,” David said.
“Yeah, I’m getting sick of this hosting thing,” Justin said. “I expected extra tips, you know, for giving people good tables. There’s not enough to make it worthwhile. I earned more as a waiter.”
“Really. Maybe you and Andrea should bring it up with Marshall about wanting your old jobs back,” I suggested.
“Oh, he never listens to anybody.” But Justin’s expression was pensive, as if I’d put an idea into his head that he hadn’t considered before.
It was time for me to get out, at Dupont Circle, and I bid Justin and David good-bye. I exited by Q Street, where I thought I’d have a better chance at a cab than the busier circle itself. Besides, this was in the direction of Adams-Morgan, where I lived. It was after midnight, though, and the cabs were full of people leaving bars and restaurants. I was in the same predicament as when I’d been in Penn Quarter, where I’d watched so many cabs pass me by.
I checked my watch and debated whether to start walking. It was about a twenty-five-minute walk to the apartment. Connecticut Avenue going north had some quiet patches, but it was a good neighborhood. And Connecticut led to Columbia Road, where enough late-night restaurants and clubs were open that I’d feel safe.
I started my walk. I’d worn high-heeled boots because I’d wanted to look good walking into Bento, but now I was regretting them. The hardness of the concrete jarred my feet with every step. Running shoes would have been perfect, I thought morosely. I could have made the trip home in half the time, if I were running. But I hadn’t had much energy for running lately. And running might cut five minutes off my trip, but not more.
As I passed Florida Avenue, the landscape turned to hotels. I thought back on how I’d once visited someone staying at the Sofitel, now a Radisson. The Hilton was still there, as was the Marriot. Hotels meant taxis, I thought eagerly. I hastened toward the Hilton, but an empty cab sped past me. Wait. Was there one with an unlit medallion just around the corner on T Street? I turned the corner.
As I turned into the darker street, I almost tripped. It took me a few seconds to regain my balance and turn to see what kind of car was roaring up the street, beside me. By the time I’d turned, the car had stopped with a squeal of tires, and a man had jumped out of it and was rushing toward me.
In the next instant, a hand was over my mouth, a hand that was half metal. An arm wrapped around my waist and I was being dragged to the car. I kicked the legs of whoever was holding me, and he swore before dumping me in the car’s open trunk. Then the trunk lid slammed down. The engine roared again, and we were off.
18
When you pack a car trunk, there’s never enough room, no matter how many cubic feet the sales brochure insists are there. When you’re lying inside one, it’s a similar phenomenon. I was not a claustrophobic person—how could I be, and have lived successfully in Tokyo?—but in that car trunk, I was terrified. The darkness was overwhelming, and the space was so small it felt like a coffin. Late-model cars like Hugh’s Lexus had a glow-in-the-dark catch that you could pull to open a trunk if you were trapped inside, but there was nothing like that in this car. All I could find was a coil of rope.
Rope. What was its purpose? My panic mixed with overwhelming regret. I wouldn’t be lying in the trunk of a car if I hadn’t been stupid enough to walk back to Adams-Morgan after midnight. And of course, I wouldn’t have walked if I’d been more patient about catching a cab. And finally, I wouldn’t even have been out on the street at this hour if I had taken the ride home with Aunt Norie that Jiro had offered.
Kendall had been kidnapped and had lived, I reminded myself. She’d vanished, and even though nobody had seen her get snatched, she’d survived. And these might be the same people. I didn’t understand how they’d done it, though—if they’d shadowed me in their car from H Street, they couldn’t have known where I’d go, once I’d entered the subway system. No, the situation had to be simpler. The men had spotted me somewhere along my Connecticut route, and grabbed me whe
n I’d turned onto T. They’d targeted me for a reason that had nothing to do with Kendall Johnson or restaurants.
I felt myself over and touched a bulge in my skirt pocket. For a second I thought it was my new cell phone, but I remembered too soon that the gift meant to keep me safe was still in the apartment, where I’d left it to charge its battery. In my pocket was the Japanese tool I’d used to try to fix the vanity. It had a sharp end, but I couldn’t realistically think that it could do much—except, maybe, poke out an eye if someone was right on top of me. But of course, there were two of them.
I was so lucky they hadn’t taken the time to bind my hands. I undid my watch, which had a glow-in-the-dark face if you pressed the right button. Because I’d need both hands to use the kuginuki in the manner that I was planning, I balanced the watch sideways between my elbow and the hard surface of the car trunk. A tiny aqua circle of light cheered me. I could only illuminate the trunk in sections, but I no longer felt that I was in a coffin.
The car was going fast now. Very fast. The noise level rose to a roar, and I thought we were on a freeway. Bumpy. It had to be 295, the District’s freeway, not 495, which was owned and maintained by the states of Virginia and Maryland. Of course, 295 did cross over into Virginia, eventually. Perhaps that was where I was going.
Nobody was going to look for me there. Nobody was going to look for me, period. I had to get myself out of the trunk. Even as I started working, I was filled with foreboding. I might undo the latch, but I couldn’t jump out of a car going eighty miles an hour on a freeway.
I breathed. The space was so close around me.
I’m going to get out.
I broke up the words between each of my long breaths. I…am…going…to…get…out.
It was good that I was using the kuginuki while the car was going fast, because they couldn’t hear the clicks and scraping noises I was making. No matter how many ways I moved the knife, the lock held fast. I didn’t want to break the latch, just trip it so that it opened neatly. And then, when I got the trunk unlatched, I’d have to keep it held down tight, so they wouldn’t know what I’d done. Finally, the jump. And afterward? I couldn’t rule out the possibility that they’d come after me. But I would be harder to find in the dark. I could crawl somewhere and hide.
The Pearl Diver Page 17
