Let me know what you think. Of course, it will always be YOUR book. But let’s not delay!
Congratulations, and keep up the good work.
Sincerely,
Maxine Wakefield
Maxine Wakefield,
Associate Editor,
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc.
P.S. My best wishes to your father for a speedy recovery from his beating at the hands of those marauding bullies. I’ve heard broken ribs can be quite painful and one must be careful with head injuries. And with a fine son like you, I’m sure he’s resting easy. Who knows, Takumi? In time, royalties from a successful book could compensate for any lost income from his shuttered business. Crossed fingers!
Excerpt from chapter two of The Orchid and the Secret Agent, a novel by William Thorne
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945
Jimmy Park got to the movie house too late.
At first, he didn’t know a crime had already taken place or that the criminal had already fled. How would he? The Tracy and Hepburn movie was still playing inside.
All seemed to be going as planned.
At the box office, he had flashed his consultant’s ID card from the FBI and proceeded straight in, stopping in the ornate, but nearly deserted, lobby. Here, the soundtrack of the movie was audible (though the actors’ dialogue was muffled through the walls). He scanned for a good vantage from which to observe the audience when they exited the movie. A narrow wooden staircase led up to a door, likely the manager’s office or the entrance to the projectionist’s room.
“How much longer does the movie run?” he asked a teenaged usher who stood near a pretty girl working the concession stand. There were no customers about.
The usher’s Adam’s apple moved up and down as he looked suspiciously at Jimmy, saying nothing.
Such suspicions were not unusual these days. Jimmy Park held it against no one. Who could blame any American for being cautious? Nonetheless, it made his life more complicated. Since the shameful events of December 7, he’d found it necessary to introduce himself to almost everyone he met, no matter how casually, to reassure them he was not a Jap. “My name’s Jimmy Park,” he said, holding out his hand to shake.
The usher sighed in relief. “Park . . . Korean, then?” he said, taking Jimmy’s proffered hand.
“That’s right. Tell me, how much longer does the movie run?”
The usher looked at his watch. “About twenty minutes.”
Jimmy showed the teenager his ID card from the Feds. “I need to ‘make the acquaintance’ of a man currently in your audience. I think it best to do so as he comes out.” He turned and, with a nod of his head, indicated the wooden staircase. “That seems like the best place to get a view.”
The usher nodded. “You can go up there to Mr. Pike’s office and knock. He’s the manager.”
“Thanks.”
“Funny thing,” the usher added. “You’re the third Oriental to make his way up there in the last hour.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the first was a Jap who claimed to be confused about what movie was playing.”
“What did he look like?” Jimmy pressed.
The boy opened his palms helplessly. “I don’t know. Kind of like you, but not you.”
“And the second man?” Jimmy asked.
“It was right after,” the boy said.
“Real thin, no bigger than a boy, in a cloak that covered all but the eyes,” the girl volunteered.
“Cloak?” Jimmy asked.
“I thought it was for the rain or something,” the boy continued.
Jimmy didn’t hesitate. He ran up the stairs and burst into the office.
That’s when he knew he was too late.
Jimmy’s eyes went to the movie-house manager’s body on the floor. There was blood everywhere. Jimmy rushed to the victim’s side, kneeling. “Mr. Pike!” he implored. But the man’s head had been caved in by a blunt object. He was dead.
Was the assailant still here?
Jimmy rose to his feet, withdrawing the .45 from his raincoat pocket.
He turned in a slow circle. No windows. Only the one door.
He looked behind the desk, behind a battered, velvet sofa, behind a filing cabinet.
The assailant was gone.
Jimmy rushed back to the door and called down to the teenagers.
“Did you see anyone leave this room?”
The two shook their heads no.
Jimmy turned back to the room. Weren’t ninjas known for the ability to become almost invisible?
But that was mere legend.
Jimmy took a deep breath, steadying himself. There had to be a practical answer to the killer’s disappearance. For example, wasn’t it likely that the libidinous teenagers in the lobby had simply been too preoccupied with each another to notice the man’s departure from the office?
Then Jimmy noticed what was written on the far wall.
He’d seen a lot in his line of work, but nothing like this.
The manager’s murderer had sliced a tassel from the velvet sofa and, dipping the tassel into the pool of blood from the manager’s bashed-in head, had used it as a calligraphy brush to write a series of Japanese characters on the wall. Being an expert in Oriental languages, Jimmy translated:
And so it begins for you, white devils.
Jimmy picked up the phone from the manager’s desk. “Get me the LAPD,” he said solemnly.
A few minutes later, the theater crowd emptied, passing through a quickly but efficiently assembled cordon of police at all exits. There were no Japanese among them.
THE REVISED—CHAPTER TWO
No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river . . .
—Heraclitus
Sam Sumida’s night only got worse.
After leaving the Rialto he walked up Broadway to Seventh, drenched by the heavy rain, and then continued up past the Basilisk Club to the parking lot where he’d left his ’37 Dodge Coupe less than an hour before. He removed the damp claim check from his pocket and handed it to an acne-scarred parking attendant, who wore a bright-yellow rain slicker and up-to-the-knee rubbers. Sam wondered how often the kid got to wear the wet-weather outfit. This was LA. Not Seattle, for God’s sake.
Huddled beneath an umbrella rigged near the key-stand, the attendant glanced from the claim check to the board of keys. After a moment, he turned to Sumida.
“We don’t got your car,” he said, shrugging.
“What?”
He motioned for Sumida to look at the keys hanging on the numbered board.
“See, nothing there that matches this number.”
“Maybe you hung the keys on the wrong peg,” Sumida suggested.
“You see them hanging anywhere?”
Sumida surveyed the board. His keys were not there.
“You can look in the lot if you want to,” the attendant offered.
“I don’t want to look in the lot,” Sumida answered. “I dropped off the car an hour ago. It’s your . . .”
“Wait a minute,” the attendant interrupted, looking more closely at the claim check. “This ticket is for December sixth. You can’t leave a car here for that long.” He handed it back to Sumida. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow, when the manager’s here, to figure this out.”
“But you handed me that ticket just an hour ago. The date on it must be wrong.”
“Me? No,” the attendant said. “I just came on shift fifteen minutes ago.”
“Well, somebody did.”
The attendant shrugged. “Yeah, almost two months ago.”
Sumida considered the calendar in the theater manager’s office.
The inexplicably sudden rain storm . . .
The absence of Christmas decorations on Broadway . . .
Still, he knew what he knew. It was Saturday night, December 6, 1941. Otherwise, where did that leave him?
“Look, the keys aren’t here,�
�� the attendant said impatiently, as he pointed again to the board. “And your car’s not here, and your ticket is invalid as far as I’m concerned. So you’re just going to have to take this up with the manager tomorrow.”
A well-dressed man and woman, holding tight to one another beneath their umbrella, walked up to the stand, handing their ticket to the attendant to claim their car. The kid grabbed a set of keys off the board and started at a jog into the lot. Before he went, however, he muttered loud enough to be heard even in the rain, “Jap.”
Sumida turned to the well-dressed couple, shaking his head in patient disapproval of the slur.
But the couple only looked away, disgust crossing their faces.
Sumida didn’t understand what was going on tonight, in this city that he’d always thought of as his home.
He noticed a phone booth across the street.
He glanced again around the lot—no ’37 Dodge.
He needed answers, or at least to hear a familiar voice.
Dashing across the street, he leaped over an oil-slicked puddle at the corner and onto the far sidewalk. Once inside the booth, at last out of the rain, he dug a dime out of his pocket and dialed the number of his friend Tony Fortuna, who lived with his wife and two kids across the street from Sumida in Echo Park. Sometimes, Tony went with Sumida to LA Angels baseball games at Wrigley Field over on Avalon and Forty-First. They both agreed that “Peanuts” Lowrey wasn’t going to be in the Pacific Coast League for long but was bound for the Majors.
The coin clattered into the phone.
Tony picked up on the second ring. “’Lo?”
“Tony, it’s me, Sam.”
“Who?”
“Sam,” he snapped, impatiently. “Listen, buddy, I need a ride. It’s been a tough night. Are you free to . . .”
“Sam who?” Tony interrupted.
“Sumida,” he answered.
There was silence on the other end.
“Tony?” Sumida pressed.
“I don’t know no Sam Sumida,” his friend said.
“Of course you do, from across the street. The ball games . . .”
“Sumida . . . that’s a Jap name?”
“Look Tony, it’s me. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you!” Tony shouted. “I don’t know no Japs,” he snarled before hanging up.
Sumida dug out another dime and called back.
“What!” Tony snapped as he answered.
“Look Tony, don’t hang up. I need help.”
Tony laughed. “If you’re a Jap in this town these days, I think you’re right.”
“So, please . . .”
“But I ain’t lying,” Tony interrupted. “You got the wrong number.”
“Wait, what’s today’s date, Tony?” Sumida asked.
“What is this, some kind of prank? It’s January twenty-second,” Tony said, before hanging up again.
Sumida put the receiver back on the cradle. But he didn’t leave the booth. He took a long, deep breath. Things outside of this booth were cockeyed, as if he’d fallen down a rabbit hole and discovered himself in a dark, Wonderland-version of his life. He could call somebody else. He had former colleagues from local colleges. But he didn’t know how to explain what was happening without sounding mad as a hatter.
The best thing to do was to go home, get some sleep, and wake tomorrow in a world that made sense.
Pulling his drenched jacket tighter around his shoulders, he stepped out of the phone booth, bending into the wind-blown rain and pushing the brim of his hat down so far that he could see only two steps ahead on the sidewalk. His bungalow in Echo Park was at least four miles away, so he made for the number 7 streetcar. The offices and stores were closed, but there were plenty of bars and people around. When the streetcar arrived, it was crowded.
He stepped through the door and onto the top step, reaching into his pocket for a coin.
“Hey, there’s no room,” said a young man standing near the entrance in a neatly pressed Army uniform, his girl hanging on his arm. “Can’t you see this streetcar is for Americans only?”
“I am an American,” Sumida said, wearying of this nightmare.
“You a Chink?” the soldier asked. “I can never tell the difference.”
“My name’s Sam Sumida.”
“Get off before I throw you off,” the soldier snapped, his girlfriend grinning and pressing closer into his broad shoulder. “You don’t belong out at this hour anyway. It’d be within my rights to shoot you dead.”
Sumida glanced deeper into the streetcar.
Even the Negroes on board looked at him as if he had crossed some line.
“Look . . .” Sumida started.
He was interrupted by the streetcar operator, who pushed him in the chest and off the bottom step of the streetcar.
“I don’t want no trouble,” the operator said, looking at his watch. “Don’t you know the time? It’s five minutes to eight.”
Sumida looked at his watch. “What happens at eight?”
“Curfew for Japs, dumb shit,” the operator said.
This curfew business mentioned again . . . He wanted to ask what it was all about. But he didn’t think he’d like the answer he got from this crowd, which would likely be no answer at all.
The streetcar started away without Sumida. He watched it go.
So he’d walk. Already drenched, he couldn’t get any wetter. Maybe a cab would happen by . . .
It was after eleven when he finally walked up McDuff Street. He noticed that his house was all alight inside.
He didn’t remember having turned on any lights before he left.
Excerpt from chapter three of The Orchid and the Secret Agent, a novel by William Thorne
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945
. . . Jimmy considered: The manager had likely been murdered only to inform the Feds that the assassin knew they were after him. Immediately, Jimmy thought of the welfare of his informant.
He rushed down the wooden stairs to the Rialto lobby.
All to no avail.
Within the hour, LAPD found the body of Jimmy’s “eyes and ears,” José “Gypsy” Martinez, a skid-row regular who frequented the backstreets of nearby Little Tokyo, Jap Town. The corpse had been stuffed in six pieces (head, four limbs, and torso) into an orange crate in an alley off Seventh. The first officers on the scene, upon examining the body parts, indicated the weapon had likely been a long, sharp blade.
Samurai sword, Jimmy thought. Poor Gypsy.
Written on the alley wall in the victim’s blood, in the same steady hand, was another message, which translated
We are watching your eyes, even as they fail to see us.
Excerpt from a letter dated March 31, 1942:
. . . a good list, though I have to disagree on your proposed final choice. While I think Richard Barratt is a perfectly good name for a character, it’s a little weak as a pen name. Sure, its respectability and Anglo-Saxon pedigree are impeccable. Perhaps you can give it to a high-level agent . . . But I believe your discarded choice, William Thorne, is actually much stronger for use as a pseudonym. Over my years in the business, I’ve noted that readers find characters who have long vowel sounds in their names to be stronger, and the long “o” in “Thorne” works just that way. Additionally, that “thorn” is a word makes the name easier for readers to remember. And that is important, as I can imagine this book spawning a whole series featuring Jimmy Park vs. evildoers.
As for your proposed changes to your new outline, which would condense all the action into a single, twenty-four-hour period, I’m quite enthused! I wish I’d thought of it myself. (What kind of sorry editor am I, anyway?) But seriously, for a first-time novelist like yourself, that kind of tight time chronology will surely serve to discipline your focus on continually moving the story forward. And that’s what bestsellers are made of!!!
Sincerely,
Maxine Wakefield
Maxine Wakefield,
Associate Editor,
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc.
P.S. I did not miss your fanciful questions regarding what I think becomes of characters who’ve been cut from never-to-be-written drafts (i.e. Sumida and the murderous Czernicek). I do agree that a well-drawn character achieves a kind of life that is ultimately independent of his author. You’re right about Huck Finn being “alive” today in a way that Twain is not. Is that merely because the famous novel is still read? Or, instead, might the animating force be the result of the character’s creation alone or even his author’s initial conception of the character, regardless of ultimate readership? And, if that is so, then where are these characters that an author conceives, only later to cut? Good questions. I don’t know. Nor can we ever know. Maybe such characters don’t go anywhere, but remain where they’ve always been, relegated to unwitting background roles. Or maybe they just molder on a wadded sheet of typing paper in a trash can, soon incinerated with the rest of the garbage.
THE REVISED—CHAPTER TWO cont'd.
The rain had stopped and Sam Sumida stood for a moment on the sidewalk outside his house. Aside from the lights burning inside, everything looked as he had left it. He couldn’t help thinking about Kyoko, who had picked out the bungalow from among those in Echo Park they could afford. The neighborhood was reasonably safe and centrally located, with a lovely urban park near enough that he and his wife planned to one day walk there hand-in-hand with their children. But there were no children and there never would be. There was no Kyoko.
Still, Sam couldn’t help remembering.
They had held a housewarming party in the backyard just three years before. Friends and family had come. Dr. Shinoda, whose thriving Little Tokyo dental practice Kyoko managed, brought champagne and toothbrushes for everyone. The head of the art department at UCLA had brought, as a housewarming present, a print signed by Diego Rivera. It hung in the living room. Kyoko loved the print. She loved the house. She loved Sam too, at least for a while. But some bastard with a .22 ended all possibilities of their ever being happy again. Why? It had fallen to Sam to find out.
Woman with a Blue Pencil Page 3
