White Tiger

by Stephen Knight

  CHAPTER 10

  Tokyo, Japan

  “Moshi-Moshi.”

  Again, Ryoko’s voice was like smoke and bourbon in still air, revealing nothing, promising everything.

  “It’s Jerry. Free tonight?”

  A brief pause. “I have a calendar shoot tomorrow. They want to start early.”

  “Ah.” Manning shifted the phone to his right ear, driving with his left as he drove with the sporadic traffic down Amashita-dori. “What time do you have to get up by?”

  “At least seven-thirty. If I can.”

  “I see. Well...I have to get up early tomorrow, too. So I’m not asking for a late night or anything. I was thinking dinner.”

  Another pause. “I see. What did you have in mind?”

  “Bourbon Street?”

  “Mmm...” Ryoko took a moment and thought it over. “Too spicy. I would prefer Cicada.”

  “Then Cicada it is. What time shall I get you?”

  “Seven o’clock, please.”

  “I’ll see you at seven.”

  ###

  He was a little late making it to Ryoko’s due to traffic, but she didn’t seem to mind, especially when he came around and opened the passenger door for her. She touched his cheek as she slid into the Legend; Japan was a place where women didn’t often experience people opening doors for them of their own volition.

  Cicada was a trendy Mediterranean restaurant situated on Gaien-Nishi streets in the Manimi-Azabu district. It was run by a Westerner who had been trained in the culinary arts of Spain, and the establishment had a rather unique focus on sherry. As the server led them to their table, Manning could see the eyes of most of the men following Ryoko as she strolled with a quiet confidence through the restaurant. She was dressed in an understated but elegant black skirt and matching silk blouse, but the clothes clung to the curves of her body in a way that was guaranteed to attract attention. When the Japanese patrons saw that she was with a tall, middle-aged gaijin, they immediately dropped their eyes. Manning could figure out their thoughts of the arrangement easily enough.

  After they were seated, Manning declined the wine list, settling for water instead. They ordered appetizers—roasted calamari stuffed with prosciutto for him and lobster gazpacho cocktail for her—which were delivered to them with a rapid grace that Manning admired. And Ryoko was approached twice by young men, seeking her autograph. Manning found that to be surreal, to be seated in a fine dining establishment as a well-dressed man in his 30s gushed to Ryoko, telling her she was his favorite AV star. Ryoko thanked both of them graciously, signed autographs, and posed for pictures which were taken on the admirers’ cell phones.

  “I’m sorry,” Ryoko apologized after each interruption.

  “Gosh, maybe I should get an autograph too. I could probably sell it for millions of yen online.”

  “I don’t think so. Even my underwear doesn’t go for that much.”

  Manning coughed and sputtered. Ryoko laughed gently and squeezed his hand.

  “So how long will you be working tomorrow?” Manning asked after he had recovered his composure.

  “Mmm. This is good,” Ryoko commented as she tasted the shrimp. “I’m afraid I’m not sure. For most of the day, at least. It’s a week-long shoot, here in Tokyo, then some shots in the south. It’ll be brutally hot down there this time of year, but it could be worse.”

  Manning cocked a brow. “Well, seeing as you won’t have much on anyway....”

  Ryoko laughed. “You are a dirty old man!”

  “As always, darling, as always.” Manning tried to keep the tone light, despite the fact that he would be leaving Japan for God knew how long. Usually, he relished the idea of leaving, even if it was for a short time; as a stranger in a decidedly strange land, there were times when leaving was a practical necessity, if just to preserve what might be left of his sanity. But with all that had happened, and all that might happen now that Chen Gui was back, Manning was uneasy. Add to that the mystery surrounding his latest assignment. During their professional relationship, Chen Gui had never been one to “loan out” Manning’s services, which likely meant there was more to the assignment than what the Shanghainese had told him. Much, much more.

  Dinner was served. Manning chose the lamb tagine, while Ryoko surprisingly took the grilled sirloin with cresson. He sometimes wondered just how much she ate when they weren’t together, because when they did dine out, she didn’t seem fazed by such things as counting calories.

  The wonders of the 23-year-old metabolism, he thought.

  He must’ve been staring at her for a little too long, because she suddenly began staring back. Manning withstood it for a few moments. “What is it?”

  “I was going to ask the same thing.”

  Manning leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Sorry, was just someplace else, I guess.”

  “Are you all right?” Ryoko asked.

  “Sure.”

  After a moment, she reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. “I think maybe that’s not so?”

  Manning sighed. “I’ll be going away for a while, Ryo-chan.”

  “Oh?” Ryoko looked down at her plate suddenly. After a brief pause, she cut off another piece of steak. “Can you tell me where?” She knew better than to ask what he would be doing.

  “San Francisco. Home, actually.”

  “Ah.” She smiled and looked back up at him. “So it’s not so bad, then.”

  “I will be working, unfortunately.”

  “I see. Well. You’ll be all right?”

  Manning put down his silverware and clasped his hands before him. “That’s actually what I wanted to ask you. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. And there may be times when I won’t be able to contact you, or vice versa. It could be a few days, or a few weeks. Maybe even a few months.”

  “That long,” she said. Her tone was unconcerned, but she wasn’t meeting his eyes right now, and that bothered Manning more than he might have normally cared to admit.

  “Yes, maybe that long. And I need to know you’ll be okay during that time.”

  Ryoko met his eyes after a time. “When did you find this out?”

  “Just this morning.”

  “And you’ll be leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yes. My flight leaves at about six tomorrow evening. So...how about it? Will you be able to get along...?”

  Ryoko smiled again. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  She leaned back in her chair and faced him directly. “I’ll be fine, Jerry. You don’t have to feel like you always need to take care of me.”

  Oh but I do, young one, I do. “I don’t mean it that way, of course. But...well, things haven’t been that great in the past. For either of us. And I will be coming back to Japan after all, but I just want to make sure. That you’ll be able to get along.”

  “Certainly!”

  Manning smiled tightly and returned to his dinner. It didn’t taste quite as good as it had before, but he kept at it. They finished their meals in silence, and declined both dessert and coffee. Manning drove her home, and she was at her apartment by nine.

  As Manning put the car in park and started to open his door to get out, Ryoko put her hand on his left wrist.

  “Please wait.”

  Manning settled back in the Legend’s leather seat, and looked over at her. She kept her gaze focused on the car parked in the space ahead of them. For the longest of moments, she did not speak. She didn’t even move, and it was only the rise and fall of her bosom that convinced him she was still alive.

  “I thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” she said finally, her voice soft and far away. “I don’t lie to myself about what was happening to me. I was dying, and I was pathetic, and I did become a burden to you. I’ve tried hard to repay that,” she continued hurriedly, not giving him the time to speak, “but I know it’s nothing I ever really could repay. Sometimes I feel so old
, but I know that when it comes to things like this, I’m still too young to know what I should really do. So I ask for your forgiveness that I’ve not done a good job. I am trying my best.”

  Manning took her hand in his own. It was so small and delicate, even for a hand that belonged to a young Japanese woman.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, really,” he said. “I did what I did of my own free will, and never looked for any kind of payback. You’ve always had the ability to just walk away again, like you did before. You owe me nothing, Ryo-chan.”

  She smiled sadly in the wan illumination of the streetlights. “You know Japanese very well, but sometimes not well enough. I was brought up properly, Jerry. I know what I should and should not do, because both of my parents, especially my father, worked to make sure I’d never—never get lost like I did. Have you ever noticed what it’s like to try and give a gift to a Japanese? Even if they want it, we have to act like we don’t, that it’s too much of an imposition on the giver, and if we accept we have to give something back. You gave me a great gift, Jerry, and I have no idea what to give you in return.”

  “That’s easy. I’m not Japanese, so you don’t have to give anything.”

  “Unfortunately, I am Japanese, and I know what’s right.” She raised his hand to her face and kissed his knuckles. “It wasn’t until tonight that I think I finally figured it out. Maybe I can repay you, after all.”

  “There’s no—”

  “Please.” Her voice was still soft and almost serene, but there was emotion in it, held back by the dam of self-control and discipline. “Please, let me do what’s right.”

  Manning considered it. He looked away from her for a moment, watching the people walking past the car on the sidewalk.

  “What is it, then?”

  Ryoko squeezed his hand. “I don’t want you to think of me. I don’t want you to call me, or email me, or message me in any way. I want you to go about your life, and do whatever it is you need to do in America. I’ll be fine while you’re gone. I’m much better now, and I know what my limits are. But I think the time has come for both of us to try and get on with our lives in some way.” She turned her head and looked at him.

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to see you ever again. I’d be lying if I said that. But really, I’ve been using you to hide behind, even now, and that’s not fair to either of us. I know what you do. I think I know what you were, and what you are now. I respect you because no matter what you think of yourself, you are very, very decent.” Ryoko reached out and touched his face. “And decent men tend to worry about little girls like me too much, and that’s got to come to an end. At least whenever you’re not in Japan. We can start that way, can’t we?”

  Manning sighed. Leaving her was one of the harder things about his new assignment, not because he was in love with her—he did love her, of course, but as a kindred spirit that gravitated toward one of its own kind, not as a soul mate—but because he did feel a responsibility to her. He wasn’t sure he could just turn that off, no matter how much either of them might have wished it.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said, and he was surprised to find his throat was tight. “I’ll try and do whatever it is you need, so you can get on in life. You have my promise.”

  “Domo arigato gozaimasu,” she said, bowing her head. “I hope you have a good flight tomorrow, Jerry. And I hope that San Francisco isn’t dangerous or stressful. Be safe. Be well.”

  With that, Ryoko Mitake kissed his cheek, and let herself out of the car. Before Manning could do anything more, she entered her apartment building, and the gate locked behind her.

  CHAPTER 11

  San Francisco, California

  Ryker hadn’t made it to his apartment in the city’s South of Market section until after 4:00am, so getting up for another day on the job was an arduous journey. He showered and shaved, and managed not to slit his own throat even though his eyes couldn’t focus. He examined his face in the mirror, and wondered how someone on the high side of 40 could look closer to 50; he decided the bloodshot eyes didn’t help matters, so he found some Visine in the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink and popped three drops in each eye. It didn’t help much, but then again, not much did these days.

  He found a suit that wasn’t quite as rumpled as the one he’d worn the day before—the others were waiting for him at a local dry cleaner, and he hadn’t had the time to fetch them—so he was left with no choice but to slip it on, even though it was a static gray affair that likely dated back to 1998. He slipped on his pair of Rockports and decided they needed a shine...something he would attend to later. He also selected yesterday’s tie, as it wasn’t in such bad shape.

  His apartment was a rather bland affair, reflecting his current station in life. At $1,800 a month, it wasn’t as much a bank-buster as many other places in the city, but he was getting what he paid for: white walls, gray carpets, a bedroom that was only slightly larger than a closet, and a miniature living room that was essentially the Siamese twin of the galley kitchen, sans appliances. There was no balcony, and certainly no view, not that SoMa had any to begin with. A battered cloth sofa and equally battered mahogany coffee table were the only furnishing in the living room, with the former directly oriented upon the forty inch flat screen television. But at least he had the parking space in the garage for free, something the building manager had arranged since he was cop.

  Ryker marched down to his car, a white 2003 Chevy Impala, a vehicle he didn’t particularly adore but it was cheap and fit in most the parking spaces he was likely to encounter in the city, not to mention it wasn’t terribly tough on gas. When—if—he made it to Lieutenant, he would get a department ride fulltime, which meant that he wouldn’t have to pay to tank up, he could do that at the station free of charge.

  Though that’s not going to happen until I pass the test, he thought, unlocking the car door and sliding inside. Just another thing to add to the list of missed accomplishments.

  He made it to Central Station in a little less than twenty minutes, having the misfortune to get caught behind one of the Muni buses as it lumbered through the city, and the stream of traffic was thick enough that he couldn’t get past it for at least five minutes. The constant stop-and-start was aggravating, but at last he made it. He pulled up to the gated parking lot and waved his security card before the reader. The gate opened, and Ryker pulled in and parked.

  The detective room was as bland and plain as anyone could have possibly made it, with twenty steel desks arranged in pods of five. At each pod, four detectives sat in two-by-two formations, one pair of detectives facing the other, while the fifth desk at the head of the pod was for the sergeant running the squad. Ryker walked to his own pod, and found only Chee Wei sitting at his desk. Chee Wei’s usual partner, Garofolo, was out on medical leave after falling down a flight of steps while drunk. He had broken a leg, and wouldn’t be back for weeks. Of the other pair of detectives, there was no sign. Nor was the Lieutenant in; his glass-walled office was empty.

  “Hey, nice threads,” Chee Wei commented when Ryker approached. “Nice job with the razor, too.”

  “Huh?” Ryker stalked toward his desk, situated directly across from Chee Wei’s. Chee Wei touched a spot on his chin as Ryker pulled out his chair and fairly collapsed into it.

  “Nice cut right here,” he said.

  Ryker ran his hand over his chin, and felt a small scab underneath his chin. It stung lightly when he played with it.

  “Fuck,” he said simply. Well, this one’s off to a galloping start.

  “Not your day, huh?” Chee Wei said, smiling.

  Ryker sighed and removed his pistol from its holster. He dropped the Glock 17 into a desk drawer and locked it with a key on his key ring, then slipped the keys into his pocket.

  “Not so far. Where’s Spider?” Ryker nodded toward the vacant lieutenant’s office.

  “Dunno, haven’t seen him. You want to get some coffee, though. Your day’s probably not go
ing to get any better.”

  Ryker looked over the computer monitor on his desk at the Chinese detective.

  “How so?” he asked, suspicious.

  Chee Wei waved toward the hallway.

  “Grab some coffee. We’ll talk,” he said.

  Ryker rubbed his eyes wearily and did what the younger man suggested. He stopped by the men’s room first and washed the blood off his chin, then made his way to the break room. There, he filled a cup with some of the most rancid coffee he’d ever tasted even after he tried to soften it by adding copious amounts of sugar and four Mini-Moos creamers. Mission accomplished and his taste buds almost certainly assassinated, he returned to the homicide office. He slid back into his chair and faced Chee Wei again. He sipped the coffee and grimaced.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Zhu lawyered up last night,” Chee Wei said. “I just got a call from the D.A.’s office.”

  “So?”

  “Her representative is Victor Chin,” Chee Wei said. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his fingers together behind his head.

  Ryker sighed again. Victor Chin had started out as a Bay Area ambulance chaser, who now made more money representing specific Asian interests in the city. His current calling was acting as counsel to the “underrepresented” Chinese community whom had been “victimized” by the racist San Francisco Police Department. The S.F.P.D., and more importantly the District Attorney’s office, were already handling several lawsuits initiated by the do-gooder and social crusader with the two thousand dollar sharkskin shoes named Chin.

  “This day really is starting to suck.”

  Chee Wei shrugged.

  “Look, we knew she had money. So of course she’s going to get the best she can get, and Chin’s just going to be the first one. If he doesn’t work out, she’ll just grab someone with more horsepower who won’t make such a scene in public.”