Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  It wasn’t that funny, but both women laughed. Sheila’s sounded lonely, like it would fill an empty apartment. Jasia’s chortle made a curling hook that caught in my throat. I wanted to open my book and return to the land of mob killing.

  Sheila walked away, conceding the battle. “Holler if you need anything,” she said over her shoulder.

  “She’s cute,” Jasia said.

  “I’m married.” The word flopped on the table like a wet rag.

  “I think she likes you.”

  “Maybe I’ll write her number down before I go.” Every word I tried reminded me of Jasia sitting two feet away. The smell of her perfume and the heat from her body pulled on my thoughts.

  “I’ve been thinking about us,” she said.

  My gaze found hers. How she could change the depth of her eyes I had never been able to figure. No other girl I knew had that kind of power. Inside of those deep brown peepers I saw the two of us naked on a deserted island. I shifted my stare to the waitress working behind the counter. “She is cute.”

  “Don’t you wonder about us?” A little of her pain found its way into the question.

  “Sometimes.”

  “We never parted like a couple should part.”

  “When my guard is down, and I’m thinking about how badly I handled leaving. Then I wonder.”

  “I had everything before you left.”

  “My disappearance refutes that claim.”

  Jasia grabbed my hand.

  Its warmth and tightness scared me. I pressed my forearm into the table, forcing myself to hang on. My fear wasn’t worth embarrassing her.

  “If we can’t be together, we can at least end it right,” she said.

  My gut turned over. If my heart didn’t believe her, my loins did. She might be right. I’d betrayed her by taking off. I had promised to marry her. We had all but set the date. And I just left. I owed her. “Maybe,” I said.

  Her grip tightened. It squeezed the last reserve of moral guidance out of my system. In that instant I knew I’d stepped too close to the edge. I would fall in. There was no doubt.

  Jasia released me and stood. “I’ll call.”

  She was out the door, leaving a wake of chilled air, before I could even start to say I never wanted to see her again.

  But I wouldn’t have, anyway. I had lost this fight before it started.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Secret Asian Man

  Striding up the walkway to Akira’s house, I noticed a shadow flitting about through the window.

  The front blinds had been pulled back, and I stepped onto his frozen lawn to peek inside.

  Akira threw a punch with such force and determination the air buckled at its termination. He spun on his toe and blocked an imaginary opponent with his forearm before snapping a toe upward with enough power to slice the recipient in two. Step, step, block, turn, step, punch. He moved with fluid certainty. Each blow terminated as forcefully as if he’d actually struck something physical. Or someone.

  Sweat accumulated under my arms. Akira’s graceful karate movements revealed lethal power. I shivered and walked to the front door. Needles of pain sparked in my knuckles when I knocked.

  His tiny porch had been neatly arranged with two plastic deck chairs and a small, weathered wrought iron table. Each item, as well as the wood floor, was showroom clean.

  The door opened.

  “Connor!” Akira said. “Come in, come in!”

  I stepped past his neatly bent frame into a cozy alcove.

  A single coat hung on the coatrack, and a precisely aligned pair of work boots sat underneath a pine bench much like the one in my mother’s house.

  “Thanks,” I said, letting Akira peel off my coat.

  “No problem. It’s good to have visitors.”

  He led the way into the front room. The house smelled crisp. A light odor of frying oil hung in the air behind the freshness. All of the furniture had been pressed against the three walls.

  “No dojo. This has to suffice,” he said, sliding first the coffee table and then the couch into more sociable positions.

  I grabbed a comfortable looking club chair and dragged it forward. “Is this okay?”

  “Fine. Have a seat.”

  I obliged, noticing for the first time the religious nature of his decorating style.

  Each wall held a Christian artifact. Over the nineteen inch television set, opposite my chair, hung a large pencil drawing of Jesus with his head tilted back and mouth open in wild laughter. The couch sat at an acute angle to the television, and a two-foot decorative cross made of Popsicle sticks adorned the wall behind it, next to an outside window. Twisting around to see into the corner behind me, I noted a sixteen-by-twenty calligraphic print of the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Small, but comfortable,” Akira said.

  “Cozy. Perfect for a single person.”

  “You assume.”

  I gave him a look of surprise.

  His eyes sparkled and he grinned. “You are correct. I am single.”

  “Cute.“ I smirked, but the joke had relaxed my face. “A lot of religious stuff here.”

  “Christ saved my life,” Akira said, getting up from the sofa. “I’ll get us a drink. Soda okay?”

  “Only if its not soda water.” I grinned after him.

  This wasn’t the expected home of a Yakuza mobster. What kind of criminal wants Jesus looking over his shoulder every minute? One smart enough to throw off suspicions, my mind retorted.

  He returned and handed me an ice-filled tumbler. I swirled the bubbling mixture.

  “Your father was very good to me,” Akira said.

  “Have you been here, in Miles, a long time?”

  “I came in 1988. Just a drifter, seeing the country on my way back to Idaho.” He sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, American style, with his elbows on his thighs.

  The unexpected situation reminded me of a Christmas party at my sensei’s dojo in Okinawa. How easily that old man had curled into a lotus position while the gaijin Americans contorted smiles displayed agonized attempts to sink onto the hard wooden floor.

  “You stayed.”

  “My parents were gone. I met Dixon at the bar.” He smiled when he noticed the slight movement of my eyes toward Jesus’ portrait. “Bars are a good place to get information about a town.”

  “Ah. You make a point.”

  He waved it off. “Dixon noticed my Asian appearance and asked me if I worked on cars.”

  “That sounds like my dad. Just bust in on people’s lives.” I smiled at this comfortable memory. I’d always admired that trait.

  “I told him I was certified by Honda and Toyota. He asked if I wanted a job.”

  “Serendipity.”

  “God Almighty.” Akira gestured to the picture over the television. “He knew where I needed to be.”

  I looked at his face, so genuine, so American in expression, and tried to find Yakuza identifiers. As if I knew what to look for. He didn’t remind me of any Okinawan I knew. “You believe God stopped you here?” I asked in the most neutral tone I could muster.

  “You don’t?”

  I smiled at his deft handling of criticism. “I guess God puts us where we are.” I pushed myself out of the chair. “Restroom?”

  “Past the kitchen on the end. To the right.” He said pointing with his glass still in his hand. Another Americanism.

  I walked slowly, attempting to absorb every item. A quick glance into what appeared to be his bedroom revealed a simple tatami mat. It surprised me. Every room I had a view of was sparsely furnished, and contained a crucifix of some sort.

  The bathroom had a cross on the wall, as well. It hung above a plaque with Psalm 23 etched into brass. I strained my memory of Nansi’s parents’ house. Was it filled with Christian handiwork? Nothing came to me. I’d only been there a couple of times. Once with Quentin as an infant. Not much time for surveys on that trip. Plus, I hadn’t been looking for a killer.

  I did
my business and returned to the living room.

  Akira had a map of Okinawa laid out on the coffee table. He pointed to a northern spot on the island.

  “This little town is where my parents were from. Kunigami-cho.”

  I peered at it. “I’m not familiar with northern Okinawa. We’ve driven up to Okuma a couple of times.”

  His squint held questions.

  “The Air Base has a recreation area up north. You can rent cottages, jet skis, stuff like that.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “My kids love it. My kids love Okinawa.”

  We remained silent for a good minute.

  I mentally traced many of the roads I’d driven on that small island in the East China Sea. They seemed as inaccessible as this map right now.

  “He really wanted to meet them.”

  “What’s that?” The statement confused me. Lines on the map distracted me, catching me between the foreign ground that felt familiar and this strange land I’d returned to.

  “Your children.”

  Ah. Reconnection. My children. My father. My dead father.

  “Dixon talked about them. He was very troubled when Quentin broke his arm and he couldn’t call.”

  “He knew about that?”

  Akira nodded intensely. “He wished he could meet them.”

  A weight fell over me like wet cement in the summertime. “He wanted to meet them? After—?” In all the time since they’d been born, I’d never once considered how Dad might feel about their existence. His lack of expressed concern for me led to emotional defensiveness. Tears filled the back of my eyes. I straightened and searched for anything to focus on.

  “I think he felt responsible for your broken relationship,” Akira said.

  My gaze fell to the picture of Jesus laughing. Was he mocking me? Because I had failed to honor my father. And my mother. “I’d better be going,” I said to the portrait. “I’ve got to call my family.” These little white lies were getting easier.

  Akira stood. “We haven’t eaten.”

  “That’s all right. Maybe I’ll get a chance to stop by again.” I turned to him, and offered my hand.

  “I’m glad you stopped. I should have had a dish ready for you.”

  I turned my palm up and shook my head.

  “I am sorry. But work kept me. Zach is still missing.”

  “It’s okay, Akira.” I shifted my palm to grip his and pushed my hand a little closer.

  He took it in both of his. “My prayers are with you, Connor. It’s a hard thing when someone dies. Harder if you’ve lost touch with them before it happens.”

  My throat knotted up. All I could do was nod.

  I went out the front door without turning back. I heard Akira push it closed behind me. In my effort to find some distraction to prevent an emotional outburst, I scanned the houses around me.

  White hair and a pale, angry face peeked at me through a window next door.

  I decided finding out what she knew about her friendly, Christian neighbor might be a suitable diversion.

  I was halfway through my second knock when the door opened.

  A bright green floral print rode a wave of menthol into my senses like a bullet train. Adequately protected behind this sensory overload, an elderly woman, wiry gray hair clinging to her scalp in bunches, scowled.

  “What do you want?” A smoldering cigarette hung from the hand bracing the doorjamb.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” I mentally stumbled over my list of questions.

  “It’s late and I don’t need no magazines or salvation. I got my fill of church people before my husband died.”

  I stared into eyes as cold and blue as my mother’s.“I was wondering—”

  “Not a one of them folks from First Baptist has been by since the funeral.” She took a drag from her cigarette without moving her hand. “Does that sound Christian to you?”

  “No ma’am. I am sorry they’ve treated you badly.”

  “They’ll all be in hell with them Pharisees, you ask me.”

  “That’s possible,” I said, smiling agreement. “Could you tell me, Miss...?”

  “Caruthers. Bernie Caruthers was my husband for forty-eight years.”

  “Miss Caruthers—“

  “Missus.”

  “Missus, sorry ma’am, Caruthers can you tell me anything about your neighbor, Mr. Watanabe.” I pointed.

  She did not look. “I don’t pay no attention to people’s business unless they ask me. I don’t believe in spying on folks.” She pulled another drag from the cigarette. “Even though my husband lost his right thumb at Pearl Harbor.”

  A billow of noxious smoke surrounded me. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, Miss, uh, Missus Caruthers. I was just wondering if you’d seen your neighbor—”

  “I got to get some chores done before Hill Street Blues starts. Nice talking to you, son.” She pushed the door shut as quickly as she’d opened it.

  I stood in the frenzied rainbow of light clawing to escape through a side window, gawking at the peeling varnish for thirty seconds. Deciding against another failure right at that moment, I descended the steps and headed past Akira’s toward my mother’s house.

  I had walked to Akira’s earlier, despite the chill. Now, in the dark of winter’s premature nighttime, my conviction at legwork faltered.

  Icy concrete crunched beneath my step, and the frosty air gave my face a penetrating bite. My nostrils burned with each inhale. Tingling on my earlobes foreshadowed their future of fiery-red pain.

  The sidewalk stretched through patches of intermittent street lighting into meaningless black.

  “Damn,” I complained to the night.

  “Connor!” the night replied.

  My heart stopped and I dropped into a crouch. Adrenaline restarted my ticker with such power it sent me leaping into the air. I instinctively turned in mid leap to face my attacker, lost my balance and crashed into a snow-covered hedge. Scrambling for footing, I caught sight of Akira.

  He stood next to the sidewalk with his mouth draped open, palms toward me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” My heart threatened explosion. Vaporous clouds of embarrassment crowded the space between us.

  “I needed to tell you....” He took another step, bringing his body within arms length.

  I sucked a lungful of frigid air and squared off.

  “I wanted to explain.”

  “Explain?” My heart rate was coming down. My breath slowed.

  “I said I didn’t know Okuma.”

  “Yeah? It’s not that big of a loss.” When I grinned, the cracking lines broke tiny canyons into my face.

  “More than that. Okuma is very close to my home. I was surprised you hadn’t heard of Kunigami. They occupy much of the same ground.”

  “Americans are notorious for not paying attention. Especially in foreign lands.”

  His smile came and went in a flash. “But I knew of Okuma because we did business with some soldiers there.”

  “Business? On Okinawa?”

  Akira dropped his chin. “I have shame in my life.” It was the most Asian manner of speaking I’d heard from him since our first meeting. His stance was awkward and openly vulnerable.

  I relaxed. “So what? We all have shame, Akira.” Some of mine threatened to spill over right then.

  “I spent time in the Yakuza. Japanese mafia.” He gripped the remaining fingers of his right hand with his left.

  My lungs expanded with elation. I was right! A coup against Tony’s unbelief! Holding back the verbal exclamation of delight focused my sketchy honor. I exhaled a cloud of self-depreciation. Here a man stood, laying his shame at my feet, and I was reveling in my deductive skills.

  Akira’s face remained downturned. “When I went there to visit my homeland, that’s how I thought of it back then, I was impetuous. And extremely bitter. Americans had locked me, and my parents, up like animals. Just because we were Asian.”


  “I’m sure that was hard. Not really fair.” I shrugged my shoulders against a cold breath of wind.

  “I became a wild teenager. Stealing cars. Doing drugs. My plan to pay back the injustice. I did some time in juvenile detention.” He lifted his head. “While I was in there another Asian kid told me about the Japanese mob.” His gaze showed determination. “I decided joining would be the perfect retribution for the crimes against my family.”

  “So you went to Okinawa and found some mobsters to hook up with?” I smiled. “That’s bold.”

  Akira grimaced. “It wasn’t all that smart.” He held his mutilated hand up for my inspection. “Yakuza loyalty is paramount.”

  “Ouch.” I could taste metal on my tongue. “How did you get out?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus came and rescued you?” My unbidden grin came very close to an outright laugh.

  “Some Christians we made fun of, they got my attention. I was supposed to be harassing them. Keeping them under surveillance. Making it obvious. When they called the police, I would disappear. Only,” he shook his head, “they never called the police.” “It took about a month before my curiosity became unbearable.”

  My head recoiled with amazement. “You were watching these people to get under their skin, and they got under yours?”

  Now he chuckled. “Yeah. Ironic, huh?”

  “So what happened? I don’t imagine your gangster friends wanted to go to church with you.”

  “I listened to the Christians for a couple of days, liking their calm demeanor. Nothing like Christians I’d seen going to church in Idaho or California. I started sneaking off with them. Gathering more information on this Jesus character they followed. My parents were Shinto. Eventually, I realized I had to quit the mob.”

  “So you asked them, Hey guys, I’m going to quit and become a Christian?”

  “You are a funny man, Connor Pierce. Your father would like that.”

  The night breeze cut through me and I shivered.

  Akira went on. “Those Christians, they helped me escape the island. They risked their lives so I could leave and get away from the Yakuza mob.”

  “That’s convicting,” I said.

  We stood quietly, letting the light gusts of wind swim around us.