I obeyed, but once outside, walked the opposite way to get to the front of the club and note its name, Club Marimba. I’d be back.
New Boys Look opened to the street. Richard was right up front, preening not in the jacket he had talked about, but a shiny leather vest and jeans.
“I’m thinking of taking these instead of the jacket. What do you think?” Richard’s eyes remained locked on himself in the mirror. I knew from experience this could last an hour.
“Special price,” one of the clerks said in English.
“Gee, I don’t know, honey,” I teased. “You look fabulous, but will it play in Nova Scotia?”
That did it—Richard hated any mention of the place where he’d spent his tormented teen years. He handed the clerk his Mastercard.
“Gift wrap, please.” To me, he said, “They told me about a dance club with an amazing eighties theme night. Depeche Mode, Eurythmics, all our favorites. But ladies aren’t allowed.”
“That’s right.” The salesclerk winked at him, and Richard gave him a sly smile. I’d had enough.
“Come back later to do your flirting,” I said. When he started whining, I tapped my watch the way Kiki had done it.
As we crowded on the subway to work, Richard remained sulky. “I don’t know why you’re complaining about my behavior. You’re the rude one. You were fifteen minutes late!”
“What would you say if I told you I was hanging out at a hostess bar?”
“I’d say you were full of it.”
“Sssh, you’re teaching the wrong kind of English,” I cautioned, aware of the curious teen-agers across the aisle.
“I thought female customers weren’t allowed into hostess bars.”
“I think it’s okay if you’re escorted. I met Mariko at JaBank and then she took me to where she works.”
“Your little bank teller is a lady of the evening?” Richard’s jaw dropped.
“Richard, all hostesses do is talk to men, light their cigarettes, et cetera. In sexy clothes. While we talked she was changing into a dress you wouldn’t believe.”
“Something delish? Tell me.”
“It’s not your scene, Richard,” I said, opening up the Weekender to cut him off for a while. The party page was as tranquil as ever. The Japanese College Women’s Association had sponsored a sale of contemporary Japanese prints at the Tokyo American Club. Everyone who was anyone had gone. From amongst the gaijin and Asian elite smiling in black and white, a face tugged at me. I pulled the paper closer.
“Hey, share with me!”
“I know this man,” I said, examining the florid face I’d seen less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Joseph Roncolotta, marketing guru and director of Far East Ventures? Rei, the bonnie prince was far cuter.”
“This is the man I saw talking to Masuhiro Sendai at Setsuko’s farewell party. Oh, wow. He’s rich and American and old! Do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Well, we both could use a sugar daddy, I suppose.” Richard lounged against the phone booth as I called information to get the number for Far East Ventures. Luckily, it was a small enough company that I was transferred right to the boss’s voice mail. I spoke in English, leaving my number and describing myself as an American wanting to consult with him. Posthaste.
15
It was raining so brutally when I came home from work that my homeless neighbors had moved their gathering into the abandoned sandal factory across the street. I could see a light flickering on the ground floor and hoped they had a heater. At times like these, my cramped apartment felt like a palace. I switched on my own heater and ran to the ringing telephone.
Mrs. Chapman was on the line, wanting company for dinner. The last thing I wanted was to go out again, but there was such pathos in her voice I found myself agreeing.
After hanging up, I noticed the message light blinking. Joe Roncolotta had telephoned and said he’d be working late. I called him back, and was pleased that he answered his phone himself, speaking accented but serviceable Japanese.
“Hi, it’s Rei Shimura.”
“Hell of a day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah, I look like a drowned rat.”
“Hard to believe from the sound of you,” Joe said smoothly. “Tell me you’re one of the Shimura steel heiresses and I’ll believe I died and went to heaven.”
I gulped. “Sorry. I work for Nichiyu.”
“Nichiyu! Excellent rice cookers, and you have a new coffee-maker in development, don’t you?” He didn’t sound displeased, and I envisioned a new set of wheels turning.
“Mr. Roncolotta, I need to talk to you about something sensitive. It would be better face-to-face.”
“Please call me Joe, and I stand ready to serve. How about dinner tonight? I’ll make myself free.”
I stalled, remembering my date with Mrs. Chapman. The chance to talk to him this soon, before he had any time to investigate exactly how powerless I was at Nichiyu, was too good to pass up.
“I’d love it,” I said firmly. “The only problem is, I already made plans with a friend. Could she join us?”
“Sure, do you ladies know Trader Vic’s in the New Otani?”
“Near Akasaka-Mitsuke Station, right?” I cringed at his expensive choice.
“Yep, but you’d be better off to take a taxi on a night like this.”
“Okay,” I agreed, intending nothing of the sort. I’d taken a Tokyo taxi just once in the last two years, and what I paid had made me nearly hysterical.
Mrs. Chapman hadn’t taken the subway yet, and found it entertaining. As we rode into central Tokyo, I filled her in about how we would ask him about Setsuko Nakamura. But Mrs. Chapman seemed more interested in his Weekender photograph and a short item about his business acumen.
We made it to Trader Vic’s at five after nine, perfect timing. Most of the businessmen sitting in the cozy faux Polynesian bar looked up when we came in, reinforcing my feeling I may not have looked like a Nichiyu executive, but had done right to wear high heels and Karen’s suit. Either that or Mrs. Chapman’s rejuvenated hairstyle was the attraction.
Joe wasn’t there yet; perhaps keeping me waiting was a power technique. Mrs. Chapman had an old-fashioned and I ordered whiskey on the rocks. While my friend chatted on about Tokyo Disneyland, I paged idly through a copy of The Arts of Asia I’d brought with me. I was nervous about the whole thing.
“Very industrious,” boomed a foreign voice in my ear when I was midway through an article on little-known landscape prints by the wood-block artist Keisai Yeisen. “Make me a Suffering Bastard, will you, Mori-san? Put it on the dinner check, along with these ladies’ drinks.”
Despite his forty or so spare pounds, Joe Roncolotta had an aura of energy that I found intriguing. His thick silver hair was brushed into a shiny gloss, and his clear blue eyes seemed, implausibly, to be flirting with both Mrs. Chapman and me.
“How nice to meet a gentleman. Marcelle Chapman of Destin, Florida.” Mrs. Chapman sparkled, holding out her hand.
“How did you recognize us? I didn’t tell you my friend would be American,” I asked when we had been seated in the center of the small, darkly romantic dining room that adjoined the bar.
“You wore the same suit at Seiji Nakamura’s house.”
I winced. My subtle plan for interrogation was dissolving faster than the ice cubes in my drink.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Chapman sounded peeved, and I remembered I hadn’t told her about the tsuya. No time now.
“So tell me how Nichiyu connects to Sendai? And why a girl with a Japanese name is reading about wood-block prints in English?” Joe’s laugh rolled across the dining room, causing a few people to look up.
“I really came to talk about you. How you got your start and became so successful, and, of course, to introduce Mrs. Chapman. She’s looking for unusual things to do in the city.”
“Sightseeing I can tell you,” he said, smiling at Mrs. Chapman. “But I’m sure neither of you gals want to hear about the
old days, it’ll put you to sleep.”
“But you’re a self-made man, I’m fascinated by that!” Mrs. Chapman flirted, helping me out.
“The Navy brought me to Japan.” Joe leaned back in his chair. “I was a young seaman based in Yokosuka, where the Americans had taken over the old Imperial Navy shipyard. People were struggling even ten years after the war. The only business booming was the black market.”
Yokosuka. Something flared in my memory but before I could speak, the waiter had arrived to take our order. Joe recommended the filet mignon. Mrs. Chapman went along with his suggestion, but I chose a Southeast-Asian style prawn dish.
“You were telling us about the black market. How did it work?” I asked when the waiter departed.
“The merchandise came mostly from the military commissaries: cigarettes, nylon stockings, Milky Way bars, Scotch like you’re drinking tonight. I got into the game like any sailor, carrying the stuff through the gate and handing it off to a guy I didn’t know. Then I started thinking I would earn more if I could organize sailors to work for me.”
“You saw a business opportunity!” It was pretty distasteful to me, but I tried to hide my feelings.
“That’s right. By the time my tour was over, I was making far more through the black market than I could hope to earn back in the States.”
“You could have gone to school on the GI bill, like my husband,” Mrs. Chapman suggested.
“I’m probably not as smart as your husband,” Joe said with a chuckle.
“He’s deceased.” Mrs. Chapman batted her eyes.
“Far East Ventures isn’t still in the black market?” I strove to return to business.
Joe shook his head. “By the early sixties, the American efforts to help rebuild the economy were finally getting somewhere. People had solid employment and enough money saved to afford things like washing machines and television sets. The American manufacturers wanted to reach them, but hadn’t the foggiest notion of how marketing and distribution worked here. I got involved.”
“What do you do now that nobody buys American televisions anymore?” I asked.
“I go the other way, advising Japanese companies on marketing strategies for the States. And I still market the foreign goods that can’t be duplicated here—designer jeans, status handbags, that kind of thing.” His smile oozed prosperity.
“Weren’t the, ah, Japanese Mafia”—it was rash to utter the word yakuza in a room full of wealthy Japanese people—“involved in the black market?”
“Sure. My partner paid the protection money so we could stay in business. When we became involved with big corporate clients, organized crime was less of a worry. Now we find ourselves dealing in board-rooms rather than run-down hostess bars.”
“Hostess bars! Were you married at this time? What did your wife think?” Mrs. Chapman harrumphed a bit.
“She was a Japanese girl, so she knew the game.”
“Was? What is she now?” Mrs. Chapman asked.
“Dead,” he said, without changing expression.
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was sounding more and more like he could have been involved with Setsuko’s mother, but I didn’t know how I’d get there, if Mrs. Chapman continued her romantic attack.
“So, tell me how I can help you.” Joe leaned back in his chair and looked at us both.
“My business relates to a woman I thought you might know. Her name was Harumi Ozawa.”
“That doesn’t ring a bell, but honey, there are a few hundred names in my Rolodex, it’s hard to keep them all straight.”
“She was Setsuko Nakamura’s mother,” I said, watching his face.
“I must have missed her last night.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to meet everyone you need to.”
“Harumi is no longer living. But when she was a young woman, she worked in the slummy area near the Navy base in Yokosuka. She became involved with a sailor who was here in the early fifties,” I said.
“Why are we talking about this?”
“I thought you might be Setsuko’s father.”
Something flashed in Joe’s sharp blue eyes and when he spoke the good-old-boy accent was almost all gone. “My wife’s name was Seiho Yamazaki. If you go back to the papers from 1959, you can read plenty about her.”
“In the society column? Rei says you’re the toast of the town,” Mrs. Chapman gushed.
“No, the regular news. I killed her.”
Mrs. Chapman squealed, and I tried to keep from gasping.
“It happened during one of those blinding storms in typhoon season. We were driving home. I didn’t see the streetcar coming and it hit Seiho’s side. She was pregnant. I killed the baby, too.”
The waiter descended with the entrees. I was glad for the interruption, a chance to think up an appropriate response. All I came up with in the end was, “I think you’re being extremely hard on yourself.”
“This was never about marketing rice cookers, was it? What can I really do for you, Rei?”
I paused. “Like I said before, I’m looking for information about Setsuko’s parents. Maybe you know Harumi’s sailor.”
“Listen, if you’re trying to identify a sailor who fathered a bar girl’s baby, there must have been tens of thousands, and they weren’t all bad. Many guys could afford to set their girl up in a small house and feed not only her but her parents and brothers and sisters. If a girl was smart, when her sailor shipped out, she found another.” Joe sliced into his steak, and I watched a river of blood run across his plate.
“Mr. Roncolotta, I’m sorry Rei’s putting you through this.” Mrs. Chapman glared at me.
“Harumi was a shoe-shine girl, not a prostitute,” I insisted. “The only reason she was in tough circumstances was because her Japanese husband died and her in-laws cast her out.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Joe rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me how snobbish those ex-samurai families are. That’s why I married a working-class girl.”
“Why you were at the tsuya?” I asked.
“Business.” Joe popped a chunk of steak into his mouth and chewed.
“What kind of business?”
“With Masuhiro Sendai. I’ve been trying to get an introduction for the last two years, without success. I knew he’d be there. Do you think that’s tacky?”
I shook my head, thinking of my own reasons for being there. “Do you even know Mr. Nakamura?”
“Yes, but I don’t like him. He’s a double-crosser.” Joe paused. “Chilies got to you, huh? You look like you could use a glass of water. Waiter!”
“I’m fine,” I said, but took the refilled glass gratefully.
“That Nakamura is an extremely unfriendly man,” Mrs. Chapman added. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed his wife.”
“Do you know his history, that he left Sansonic for Sendai?” Joe asked. I remained quiet, because I wanted to see if his version of the story differed from Hugh’s. “The gossip is that he took some key files with him. When Sansonic found out, half the people in his section lost their jobs, and the posts Nakamura had promised them at Sendai never materialized. What’s really strange is that Nakamura never presented the Sansonic files to Sendai, but they kept him. Japanese manners.”
“What would you have done if you were at Sendai?” I challenged.
“I would have told him to take the proverbial long walk off the short pier! Why’s a gal like you mixed up with him, anyway? I thought he only played inside the company.”
“I’m not mixed up with him. My interest, like I told you before, relates to Setsuko.”
“She’s interested in a young man, really,” Mrs. Chapman cut in with a patronizing smile.
“Both of you—all these questions—I just don’t understand it!” Joe Roncolotta threw up his hands.
“We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is, we were at the inn when Setsuko died,” Mrs. Chapman volunteered.
“I was close to the situation.” I paused, not wanting
to go into the horror of my discovery of Setsuro’s body. “I said something which led to a person getting slammed with her murder.”
“The Scottish lawyer?” Joe perked up. “As far as his innocence goes, I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion. Hell of a squash player, though his ankles are a little creaky. A lot of power in those arms.”
“Where were you on New Year’s Eve?” I asked. There were still too many coincidences for me to be comfortable.
“Getting sloshed with a few friends at TAC—the Tokyo American Club. You can ask the doorman about it.” Joe ordered coffee for all of us. I shook my head at dessert. Looking regretful, Joe also declined. Mrs. Chapman picked at a piece of chocolate cake.
“Tell you what,” he said after he’d flooded his beverage with cream and sugar. “If you’re serious about this search, take the train down to Yokosuka. A master chief, Jimmy O’Donnell, hangs out at the veterans’ club. This fella had his nose in everyone’s business from the late forties through the sixties. If anyone would remember your sailor, it would be Jimmy.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks.” I was slightly cheered.
“You’re welcome. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more surprising dinner meeting. It makes me wonder who you are, really.”
“Not party page material,” I said, my defenses going up.
“Tell me and I’ll judge for myself.”
“Rei’s an antiques expert who’s pitifully under-employed. What do they call those kids who can’t find good jobs, slickers?” Mrs. Chapman mused.
“Slackers,” I told her, by now really annoyed I’d invited her along. In a monotone, I gave Joe my five-minute résumé: the Berkeley master’s degree that didn’t pay off, the disastrous job interviews, my choice of bar hostessing or teaching at Nichiyu.
“It’s hard to be here, unconnected,” Joe said when I was finished. “I tell you, my business would never have gotten off the ground without my Japanese partners. I know a fellow on the board at the Tokyo National Museum, if you want me to put in a word for you.”
“I don’t believe in favors.” It sounded obnoxiously pious, but people who chose to employ only their friends’ friends had kept me from finding a decent job in Tokyo. The last thing I wanted was to become someone like them.
The Salaryman's Wife Page 15
