Country of Origin

by Don Lee

  She smiled ironically at Tom. “Why? You can always make a deal. They might say you can’t, they might go on and on about rules and regulations, but there’s always a deal to be made. Don’t you read the newspapers? This is a country that functions on bribes and corruption. The fact that I’m being asked these questions means that what I know has value. There’s value in what I’m willing to say, and maybe there’s even more value in what I won’t say.”

  “Is that what the ten million yen’s about? Have you been paid by someone to keep quiet?”

  “That ten million’s legit,” she said. “I worked very hard for that ten million, and I’m going to keep it.”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely.”

  “No? Are you absolutely sure about that?” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his forearm for a second. “Can’t you help me?” she asked. “What’s your role here, anyway, Tom? Are you working in my interests, or do you have to report everything I say to that skinny little mouse, Ota? Is there anything like attorney-client privilege between us?”

  “Whatever you tell me will be kept confidential,” Tom said.

  “So I should feel safe with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re here to protect me?”

  “Yeah, I am,” Tom said, fascinated by this undisguised attempt to seduce him.

  “It’s a bit like we’re in cahoots, isn’t it?” she said. “Are we in cahoots, Tom? Could we say we’re in cahoots?”

  “If you want.”

  “You know, for a bureaucrat, you’re not bad-looking.”

  He gave her a list of English-speaking attorneys and inquired about NOK—next of kin. If she wanted him to notify NOK, he would need her to sign Form DS-93-579, a Privacy Act Waiver.

  “Let’s see how this plays out before we worry Mommy and Daddy,” she said.

  He told her he would bring her some reading material next time, and he would ask Ota to fetch a few changes of clothes from her apartment. “Are you going to cooperate with them?” he asked as he was getting ready to leave. “Are you going to tell them anything?”

  “Probably not,” Harper said. “Not until I’m . . . shall we say accommodated? I’m a very patient person.”

  HE CALLED her at her studio at the ISA. “I need to talk to you,” Tom said.

  “This isn’t a good time,” she said.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “There’s someone here,” Julia said.

  “The police contacted me.”

  “Look, is this about the missing girl?” she asked. “I’ve decided I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear about it anymore. I thought I did, but I decided it doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t need to know.”

  In point of fact, Tom had been planning to tell her about Harper Boyd, about Lisa Countryman working as a hostess to research her Ph.D., but another matter entirely had arisen. “It’s about your car,” he told Julia.

  “What about it?”

  “Someone saw the accident.”

  She didn’t want to meet at the usual corner. He suggested Ueno Park, and after work, he got on the Ginza Line subway at Toranomon, and she got on the Yamanote Line at Takadanobaba, and they rendezvoused in Ueno at Shinobazu Pond. Reluctantly she allowed Tom to rent a rowboat for them, and after they set off from the dock, she asked, “What’s going on?”

  “A cop called the embassy this morning,” he said.

  When Mrs. Fujiwara had patched the call through, saying it was a detective from Azabu Police Station, Tom had assumed it was Kenzo Ota, but it hadn’t been Ota. It had been another inspector named Iso Yamada.

  His English, as opposed to Ota’s, had been nearly flawless, with a tinge of a British accent. At some point, Tom thought, he must have studied abroad.

  “We’re investigating an accident,” Yamada had said on the telephone. “A hit-and-run. A woman was injured.”

  She was still in great pain, Yamada said. She had been hospitalized for two weeks with a concussion, a sprained back, a fractured tailbone, and a broken vertebra in her neck. He told Tom that a witness had seen the car from a distance—a green Alfa Romeo Spider—but not the driver or the license plate. They were contacting the owners of all thirty-three green Spiders that were registered in Tokyo. The Traffic Bureau had asked Criminal Investigations for assistance locating one particular owner, an American named Julia Tinsley. She had apparently moved out of her apartment in the Homat Royal in Hiroo in June, but hadn’t submitted the proper change of address forms with the Land Transportation Office for her vehicle registration. Even stranger, she hadn’t left a forwarding address with the ward office, the Immigration Bureau, the apartment management, the post office, the NTT, or the utility companies. She and her nisei husband, Bob Sasaki, seemed to have vanished. Moreover, the Immigration Bureau had no record of a Bob Sasaki in Tokyo, or anywhere else in Japan. Supposedly he was an Air Force civilian working in the PMLD office at Hardy Barracks in Nogizaka, but they couldn’t reach him there. He didn’t seem to exist.

  “This is very unusual,” Yamada had said on the phone. “You can see why the Traffic Bureau referred this inquiry to us.”

  “Yes,” Tom had said.

  “Do you have a telephone number or address for Julia Tinsley or Bob Sasaki?”

  “I’ll have to check,” Tom had said, and promised to get back to him the next day. “I’m confused about something, though. Isn’t this Inspector Ota’s jurisdiction?”

  “Ah, Ota,” Yamada had said. “We’re keeping Ota occupied with other things.”

  On the rowboat, Tom told Julia that she would have to let the police examine her car. “Are you sure there wasn’t any damage other than to the bumper?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia said.

  “What about paint scrapes from the other car? It was red.”

  “You were there. You saw it. We checked it together. You tell me. I never looked at it carefully after that. I didn’t think anything would come of it.”

  “Where’s the car now?”

  “At school.”

  “I guess you can’t take it to a garage now. They’ll be checking garages.”

  “This is typical of the Japanese,” she said. “All this brouhaha over a fender-bender.”

  “The woman was in the hospital.”

  “But you said she was okay. She’s not going to be paralyzed or anything.”

  “I guess.”

  “You have to give them my address?” she asked.

  “Maybe there’s something we can do.”

  “What?”

  They had reached the far end of the pond on the rowboat. There were a few other couples on swan pedal boats, but it was rapidly getting chilly and dark on the water, and Julia hugged her arms around her chest, cold. She looked wonderful.

  “Why have you been avoiding me?” he asked.

  “It was a mistake, sleeping with you,” Julia told him. “I shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “But you did. As much as you want to deny it, you feel the same way I do.”

  “Let’s not get sentimental.”

  Tom pulled in the oars. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “It’s getting late,” she said. “Let’s go in. I’m freezing.”

  “I think I’m in love with you,” he told her.

  “Good Lord,” Julia said. “Is that why we’re on this rowboat? Because you thought it’d be romantic? I thought you were just being paranoid.”

  “I’m in love with you,” he said.

  “Stop saying that. You’re being ridiculous. We barely know each other. You’re a little infatuated, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

  “How do you feel about me?”

  And here she seemed to soften a bit. “Can’t we just say we fucked once, and it was very pleasant, and leave it at that?” she asked.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “You just want me because you can’t have me,” Julia said. “You don’t know m
e. If you got to know me better, you might not like me very much.”

  He was aware of how ridiculous he was being. He didn’t know her very well, and, yes, part of his desire was that he couldn’t have her. If someone—say, Sara—had made these sorts of declarations after what had amounted to a one-night stand, he would have regarded her a fool. Yet he believed he was in love with Julia, that this was what love felt like, the way he thought about her all the time, the way he looked for her wherever he went.

  She wouldn’t listen to him anymore, but once they had docked the boat and had walked down a deserted path in the park, she let him kiss her. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you,” she said. “Sometimes I think I have no control.” She kissed Tom, and he could feel her giving in to him, more a resignation than a choice—a distinction he was willing to ignore.

  “This is the last time we do this,” she told Tom as they rode in a cab to a hotel.

  Later that night, she would do exactly what he would tell her to do. She would go back to the ISA and pick up her convertible, drive it out to Waseda-dori, and rear-end a van—a minor fender-bender, but one that would conveniently obliterate any evidence of previous front-end damage.

  TWELVE

  “LOOK,” INSPECTOR KUNICHI told Kenzo at the morning chorei, “we’re going to let Harper Boyd go.”

  Kenzo was flabbergasted. He felt his face get hot, and he was sure it was flushing an embarrassing red. He began to hear ringing. Every day, it was getting worse, this ringing, a faint but persistent sound, like the ringing of a telephone or an alarm clock in the distance. “But why? What about the money?”

  “We can’t prove she got it illegally.”

  “But she can’t prove she got it legally, either.”

  “True,” Kunichi said. “However, it’s up to the prosecutor, and he doesn’t think the case is worth pursuing.”

  “Tough luck, Ota,” Yamada said. “We all know you’ve gotten to be good friends with her.”

  A couple of the detectives snickered. Kenzo had been interrogating Harper Boyd for six straight days, and, humiliatingly, he had gotten nothing from her.

  He went down to the processing room outside the holding cell, where Harper Boyd was being released. She was haggard and a little gamy, but she looked rather smug. She was going to be deported, but she would be able to reclaim all her possessions, including her ten million yen.

  “How you do it?” Kenzo asked her.

  “Say what?”

  “What you promise? Money? Sex?”

  “Detective Mouse, it’s been a joy to be in your house, but I must, I must, get myself deloused.”

  “You promise Kunichi, or prosecutor?”

  Harper lit a cigarette. “You know, I feel a little sorry for you. Life isn’t easy when you’re not smart enough to be corruptible. Let me throw you a bone. Would you like that? Would you like me to throw you a bone?”

  He didn’t understand the expression.

  “Your English is terrible, you know,” she said. “The laughable thing is, you think it’s good.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Okay, you want to know where I was working?”

  Kenzo widened his eyes, taken aback by the sudden offer of generosity. “Why you tell me now?”

  “Diminishing returns. I’ve milked this place dry. I’ve gotten all I can out of it. You want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure you do. I’m sure it’d be helpful to your image here if you made some progress in this case. But I might have to see you kiss up to me a skosh. Are you willing to grovel?”

  “Excuse?”

  “Beg. I want you to beg. Get on your knees and say, ‘Ms. Boyd, I am velly velly solly for keeping you here for six days and only letting you take one shower and driving you insane with the same stupid questions over and over again for hours at a time.’ Can you do that for me?”

  “I am very, very sorry,” Kenzo said, thankful they were alone in the processing room.

  “Uh-uh. Word for word. On your knees.”

  She stared at him coolly. Why were Americans so vindictive? he thought. Why did they have to affirm their dominance in every matter, no matter how trivial or pointless? “No,” he told her.

  “No? Can you really afford to let me walk away with this information? Your only lead in the case? Okay, see ya,” Harper said, picking up her bag.

  “Wait.”

  Harper made two clicking sounds in her mouth, as if she were praising a dog. “There’s a good boy.”

  SHE DIDN’T know their names. Just a number. No. 397. The bottle-keep number. Harper Boyd told Kenzo the three men attached to No. 397 had become frequent customers at Rendezvous, and they always requested Lisa Countryman to sit with them. She thought Lisa might have gone on secret dohan with the younger man. Yet Harper hadn’t had any reason to regard Lisa’s disappearance as suspicious. As far as she knew, Lisa had left the country on her own volition, calling the club on June 18 and saying she was leaving for Hong Kong. Except for perhaps one thing, nothing unusual or remarkable had occurred in the days beforehand.

  Midori Atsuta, the mama-san at Rendezvous, gave Kenzo the same story when he interviewed her that Wednesday afternoon at her club. They sat in one of the velvet booths, and Kenzo was impressed with the décor and appointments. The club was far fancier than anything to which an ordinary citizen such as himself could ever gain entry.

  The mama-san seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion that something untoward might have happened to Lisa.

  “Didn’t you think it was strange for her to take off so suddenly?” Kenzo asked.

  “Not really,” Midori said. “I was a little miffed, but these gaijin girls, they’re young. They can be very flaky.”

  “Are you sure it was Lisa who called? Did you recognize her voice? Did she sound like she was under duress?”

  “I didn’t actually get the call. The tencho did.”

  “I’ll want to talk to him.”

  “Of course.”

  “And all the hostesses, and the rest of your staff.”

  “I’m happy to cooperate in whatever way I can,” Midori said. “I was quite fond of Lisa. I was sorry to see her go. She was very popular. She had a beautiful singing voice.”

  “She was a favorite of bottle-keep No. 397’s.”

  Midori did not flinch. “No more, no less than any other customer.”

  “That’s not what Harper Boyd told me.”

  “Ah, Harper,” Midori said. “Harper is not an entirely trustworthy person. You must have sensed that, talking to her. She always has her own agenda, her self-interests, at heart.”

  “Why did you fire Harper?”

  “She was going on dohan.”

  “She said these three men, 397, hoarded Lisa’s company beyond the standard thirty-minute shimei.”

  “Oh, maybe once or twice. Lisa was a charming girl.”

  “They paid extra for such special attention?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “They had to arrange it with you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Are they still coming to the club?”

  “Now that you mention it, I guess they are not.”

  “Was it after June 18th that they stopped coming?”

  “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe that’s correct. It very well could be.”

  “Don’t you think that’s quite a coincidence?”

  “Well,” she said, “customers can be fickle. Who really knows the whys and wherefores of their patronage?”

  “But you have to admit it’s a curious coincidence.”

  “Yes, I see your point. I suppose I must agree with you.”

  “And it has been implied that Lisa was unusually affectionate with the younger man.”

  “Is that so? I can’t say I noticed.”

  “Harper told me Lisa was in terrible pain the last time she saw her at the club, as if she had been beaten up.”

  “B
eaten up?” Midori said. “I think Harper was having a little fun with you. I’m pretty certain it was premenstrual cramps.”

  “Cramps?” he said. Or could it have been that Lisa was pregnant? “In any event, you can understand why I must speak to the men.”

  “Yes. Of course. That’s very understandable,” Midori said. “Although I’m afraid it might be somewhat difficult.” She explained that No. 397 was a cash account, and the men always used pseudonyms: Moe, Larry, and Curly. “It sounds silly, I know,” she admitted. “This whole cloak-and-dagger business, it’s like little boys playing James Bond. But I never learned their real names. So you see, I have no way of contacting them.”

  “Hm. But you have a very strict procedure for screening new members, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m any stricter than many other establishments.”

  “You require personal introductions and references.”

  “I find they’re helpful.”

  “So you must have known at least one of the men’s names.”

  “Ah, you’re right. I must have. But I’m very sorry. I can’t seem to recall it at the moment.”

  “Do you recall who made the introduction?”

  “I’m very sorry. I don’t think I do.”

  “Excuse me, but you can see why I would find that difficult to believe.”

  “Yes, I do. I understand completely. I apologize.”

  “Well, then,” Kenzo said, “I guess I will have to speak to all of your clients.”

  “Do you really think that will be necessary?”

  “I’m very thorough.”

  She touched his arm briefly. “I can sense that about you. You must be a very good detective.”

  Kenzo looked at her. Such a refined woman, he thought, a woman of character, educated, with beautiful manners, very pretty, and perceptive. How did she get into this business? he wondered. She could have been a diplomat’s wife. “So I will need your client book and all your financial records.”

  “Are you sure it has to come to that? I would hate to cause my customers inconvenience.”

  “Otherwise, I might have to ask you to close your club down until the investigation is completed.”