Chameleon (12 page)

III

Kimura walked slowly through the park, past the topaz gardens and the Zen pools, which were marvelously lush and green, even this early in the spring, and headed toward the city. A priest from the Tenryu-ji temple on Mount Hiei scurried by, taking the path down through a stand of tall Japanese cypress trees, setting off on a lonely vigil, the Walk of a Thousand Days, one which the Zen Buddhists believe would grant him special powers. A thousand days of austerities which the Buddhists believed would reveal to them the secret powers of Zen.

Kimura remembered his vigils well. Three times he had done the Walk of a Thousand Days, and even now he could remember those lonely times vividly. The last was just after his wife had died. He was fifty-five at the time and had walked almost a thousand miles in the three years he was gone, begging at doorways for his meals, as is the Custom. The mystical journey had eased the hurt of her death.

He remembered her constantly, and the things he loved most in the world still reminded him of her: their grandchildren; the great temple of Kinkaku-ji, where they had met, and which had since been burned to the ground by a mad Buddhist monk; the giant weeping cherry tree in Maruyama Park under which he had asked her to be his wife; and the gold-and-silver Lotus Sutra scroll, which contains the fundamental text of the Tendai, the definitive teachings of Buddha, and where he had spent three days in meditation before becoming a Master of the higaru-dashi.

This park was full of sweet memories, and as he walked through the giant torii and left it, he dedicated his happy thoughts to the gods.

He walked past the sprawling International Hotel and the American Culture Centre to the Gion district, two miles away. This was the old world, the world he loved. The alleys were narrow and spotlessly clean and bordered by high bamboo fences, the shops were true to the architecture of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Here, among the people he knew best in the world, the Kyoto dialect had not yet been bastardized, and there was harmony in the symmetry of the houses and among the people who lived in them.

He did not go straight home. He turned instead and walked down a bamboo-walled alley to a house that sat back from the rest of the homes on the street. It was a handsome structure, two hundred years old and perfectly preserved, its handmade latticework oiled and shiny.

The owner of the house was known as Mama Momo, Mother Peach, because her complexion was still smooth, unwrinkled and unblemished despite the storms of sixty-odd years. Kimura had known Mama Momo since the year after his wife died; she was an old friend, and an understanding one. He came to the house twice a week, and each time he brought her 5,112 yen, which is $22.54, in a rice paper bag that was hand-painted by an artist in one of his kendo classes. And each time she would wait until he went to the back before she opened the bag and counted the money.

He walked down the hail to the rear of the house and entered a room which was decorated with chrysanthemums, and with sprig of plum and cherry blossoms. The house was built in a rectangle with its rooms facing a stone garden in the courtyard. Kimura sat on a tatami, stared at the single stone boat near its centre and waited.

How much of Eliza’s story was true,, he wondered, and how much was hidden from view? Was she what she seemed? Kimura’s instincts told him to trust her,, but looking at the stone boat, he was forced to consider the posibi1ity that she, too, had come to kill 0’ Hara.

His thoughts were interrupted by a young girl, no more than twenty, who entered the room with a tray of oils and knelt beside him. She bowed and then smiled at him and ran her fingertips down his cellophane cheeks.. Kimura took her other hand in both of his and smiled back.

‘Ah,’ he said, in the dialect of Kyoto, ‘Miei, my favourite.’

She giggled and answered in the same dialect, ‘We are all your favourites, Tokenrui-san.’ She knelt behind him and slipped off her kimono. Her voice was a bird’s, soft and melodic, and she began to caress his chest and shoulders.

There was a knock on the door. Kimura sighed and leaned back on his arms. The girl put the kimono back on.

‘Who is it?’ he asked,

‘It’s me.’

‘Dozo.’

A big man slid the panelled door open, left his shoes beside the door and entered the room. He was a shade over six feet tall, Caucasian, with a great shock of black hair, a full beard and slate-gray eyes. He bowed to Tokenrui-sari and sat cross-legged in front of him. Miei slipped behind the old man and began massaging his shoulders.

The big man, too, spoke in the dialect of old Kyoto. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said,

‘I have plenty of time.’

‘You met the girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘I found her refreshingly exuberant arid naïve for a Westerner.’

‘In what way?’

‘A certain desperation to get the message to you. But death was not in the desperation. There was.. . innocence? I played some games with her. Reciting abstractions as if they were written in the Tendai. By now she probably thinks everyone in Japan over fifty speaks like a bad American movie.’

‘But you trust her?’

‘Ah, an interesting question. Let us say I am willing to convey her message to you. I am not sure I am willing to advise you to listen.’

‘I read the correspondence in her room. There are two letters. One from the Winter Man lifting the sanction. The other from Howe, verifying its validity. There is also a document from a man named Falmouth in which he swears under oath that the Winter Man offered him twenty thousand dollars to carry it out.’

‘So, it would seem her story is true.’

‘There’s a catch,’ O’Hara said.

‘Ah?’

‘She’s got a shadow.’

‘Anybody known to us?’

‘No. In fact, judging from his manner, I would say he is not even of the Game. He acts more like an American gangster.’

‘What else?’

‘He is large, with bullet head and little pig ears. They are so small, they’re almost a deformity.’

‘And this man, Little Ears, he followed her?’ Kimura asked.

‘He watched your meeting from the hail of the Ashikaga shoguns. Sammi stayed with him the entire time.’

‘Hmm. If it is a trap, does it not seem likely she would have told him where she was going so he could go ahead?’

‘Yes,’ O’Hara said. ‘Unless they are even more clever than we imagine.’

Kimura looked back at the stone boat in the garden for a few moments and nodded. ‘That is an option,’ he agreed. ‘Have you arranged to meet her later?’

‘Yes, at the old place in Amagasaki.’

‘And you will be there ahead of them?’

‘Right. Unless she gives him the address first.’

‘You will know if they are partners. She will tell him where the meeting place is and he will go ahead. If he stays behind her, get between them and force him to make a desperate move. If he does, you will know.’

‘One other thing. I have checked oat her papers. She is what she says she is.’

‘By tonight you will know. This is the first time I have had any feeling about those who have been sent here. I like the young woman. I hope she is what she appears.’

‘Either Sammi or I will call you after it’s over.’

‘I will be waiting.’

The big man got up and went to the door. He looked back at Kimura and Miei and chuckled. ‘You certainly have a way with the young ladies. What’s your secret?’

‘I tell them if they make love to an old man, the gods will add many years to their life.’

‘And...’

‘And they believe me.’

IV

They drove south on the Kobe highway, around the sweeping curve of the bay until, looking back over her shoulder, on what was an uncommonly clear night, she could see the lights of the big industrial plants and shipyards of Osaka harbor.

The trip along the waterfront into a rowdy little village between Osaka and Kobe, its streets teeming with sailors and workers in hardhats, took less than half an hour. They were in what appeared to be the red4ight district. The driver, an elderly man who muttered a lot to himself, guided the Honda through the heavy pedestrian traffic, entered a narrow, winding Street, ablaze with neon calligraphy, pachinko parlours and strip joints, and then turned into an even narrower alley.

The driver stopped in front of a tattoo parlour, twenty or so feet from the main street. He turned to her. ‘Missu sure about numba?’ he asked. ‘Thisu no prace you go.’ He checked the piece of paper and shook his head. ‘Thisee bad place all over.’

‘How much?’ she asked. ‘Ikura desu ka?’

He told her the fare and continued shaking his head as she counted it out. ‘No good bah, no good bah,’he repeated several times.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s getting to be the story of my life. I’ve been in every no good bah between here and Rio de Janeiro. Arigato, old buddy.’

‘Wanna me wait?’ he asked.

She brightened. There was a sense of security in knowing somebody in the country was looking out for her.

‘Hai. Domo arigato,’ she said. ‘I’ll just check.’ She got out and went into the tattoo parlour. The operator was naked from the waist up. He was a short man with an enormous belly and his head was shaved, except for a tuft at the back, which was tied in a pony tail. The man he was working on was covered with tattoos. Hardly an inch of skin on his torso and arms had escaped the needle.

‘Uh, anybody speak English?’ Eliza asked timidly.

The tattooist stared at her without expression, grunted and went back to work. The needle hummed and the customer jumped as it touched his back.

‘Speak Engrish a riddle bit,’ the tattooed man said.

‘I’m looking for the Red Dragon Fireworks office,’ she said. ‘It’s supposed to be here, in this building.’

‘Fiewooks?’

‘Fireworks. Firecrackers. You know, boom, boom.’ She made a giant imaginary mushroom with her arms.

‘Ah.’ He nodded and smiled and pointed toward the floor.

‘Downstairs? Uh... shita ni?’ she asked.

He nodded again. ‘Crosed up.’

‘Crosed up?’

He pantomimed closing a door and locking it.

‘Oh, closed up. For the night? Uh. .. nasai?’

The tattooed man shook his head. ‘Alee time.’

‘Forever? For good?’

‘Hai.’

Great, Gunn. Down an alley in the middle of Shit City, Japan, and the store’s closed. Any other bright ideas?

‘Domo arigato,’ she said, with a tiny bow.

‘Do itashimashite,’ he answered.

She went back outside and walked to the doorway beside the tattoo parlour. There was a red sign beside the door with gold letters, but it was in calligraphy. A light gleamed feebly inside. She tried the door. It was open. She cracked it a few inches and stuck her face up to the opening.

‘Hello? Whoever you are? Are you there?’

She pushed it open a little more and went in. There was a small anteroom followed by a flight of stairs. Nobody had used this building for a very long time; refuse littered the anteroom and the steps. She walked to the head of the steps and yelled down: ‘Hello! Anybody there?’

Still nothing. Another weak lamp glimmered on the end of a cord hanging from the ceiling at the foot of the staircase.

Well, the note said to go down to the pier on the first floor. Let’s do it, Gunn.

She started down the stairs.

Across the street, the man with the little ears stepped from a doorway. He had watched her get out and enter the tattoo shop. Now the cab driver was watching the building she had entered. He would be a nuisance. Little Ears strolled across the alley and approached the taxi from the driver’s rear. As he got to the window, the driver turned and looked up at him. Little Ears struck him with his right hand, a short, straight blow with the fingertips, just below the ear. The cab driver’s head jerked against the headrest, and his mouth fell open. A moment later, he crumpled in the seat.

Little Ears approached the building cautiously. The window in the front door was haloed with dust. He made a small circle with his hand and looked in. The Gunn woman was at the foot of the steps. She turned into a hallway and went out of view. Little Ears quietly entered the building.

The place was scary. Eliza found herself in a long grim narrow hallway. At the far end she could see a door hanging awkwardly from its hinges, and beyond it, the bay. A foghorn bleated far off in the darkness someplace and was answered by another, from even farther away.

She walked about halfway down the hail and stopped. There were sounds all around her: water slapping at pilings; the creaking of old wood; and somewhere in front of her in the darkness, a rat, squealing and skittering across the floor. Squinting down into the darkness, she said to herself, You’re not walking down there, Gunn. There is no way you are going one step farther.

‘Hello?’

Nothing.

I’m not going another inch. I don’t think this is funny at

A door opened at the far end of the corridor and yellow light flickered on the floor. She walked a little closer. The sounds surrounded her now. The stairs behind her, creaking with age; the dock, groaning with the tide.

She was nearly at the doorway when a hand grabbed her from behind. It squeezed her mouth shut. She felt cold metal against her throat. She tried to scream, but it was impossible. Breath, foul with garlic, was hot against her cheek.

‘Easy, lady,’ a voice said in her ear. ‘We’re gonna do us a little fishing.’

She jerked her head up sharply and the hand slipped away from her mouth and she bit it. Hard. And kept biting until she tasted blood in her mouth. The man screamed and she whirled away from him. Another grabbed her in the darkness and spun her into the room. She was caught in a kaleidoscope of movement, images and voices: a new voice in her ear saying, ‘Don’t worry, you are okay’; a table in the middle of the room with a candle, set in a pool of its own wax, burning at one corner; another man standing between her and the candlelight; a towering, frightening silhouette in a thick fur jacket; black shaggy hair; a black full beard. And those eyes, peering from the dark, shapeless face; cold gray eyes looking right through her; the big man charging past her, swinging through the doorway in a crouch.

Little Ears was backed against the wall, his bleeding hand in his mouth, his face bunched up with anger. He hadn’t expected the big man. As he turned, the big man’s foot swept in a wide arc and shattered Little Ears’ wrist bone. The gun, a police special, spun out of his hand, flew across the hallway and stuck in the plaster wall, muzzle first, its stock and chamber protruding out into the hail.

Little Ears swung his hands up in a classic karate position and leaped toward the pistol, but before he could complete the move, his attacker twisted sideways and lashed out with his left leg. He missed, but the move distracted Little Ears and the big man whirled and caught him deep in the gut with the heel of his other foot. Breath whooshed out of Little Ears like air from a punctured balloon. His face turned red with pain and he jack-knifed forward, clutching his stomach. The big man twisted him around with one hand and slammed him in the middle of the back with the palm of the other.

Little Ears flew across the hallway, almost tiptoeing, trying vainly to regain his footing. His arm smashed through the cracked pane of the door, hanging at the entrance to the dock, was caught there for a moment and then the door tore loose and he sprawled headlong onto the dock in a shower of broken glass and curse words. The old dock creaked under his weight. He rolled fast, got his feet under him and jumped into a crouch, but the big man in the fur jacket was all over him. He grabbed Little Ear’s wrist, twisted hard, stepped in close and flipped him in a tight loop.

Little Ears kept moving, rolling out of the loop, trying to get back into the hallway. He snapped his wrist and a switchblade slid from his sleeve into his hand. The blade hissed from the handle, glittering in reflected light. Before Little Ears could turn, the big man leaped into the doorway and slashed his elbow into Little Ears’ jaw. The blow knocked him back onto the dock. He hit the antiquated dock railing, which cracked under his weight. He staggered away from it and took a hard swipe with the knife. Its blade swished an inch from the big man’s face. The big man stepped in fast, getting inside his reach, but Little Ears slashed back and the knife sliced through the big man’s jacket and ripped into his shoulder.

The big man did not utter a sound. He feinted with a chop, stepped back as Little Ears made another swipe, then moved in and threw a body block across him, grabbing his wrist and twisting. Little Ears shrieked and fell to his knees. The knife clattered to the floor.

The big man spun him around, wrapped his wounded arm around Little Ears’ neck, ground his fist into his throat and held the point of the knife against his jugular. He pressed a knuckle from his fist into Little Ears’ carotid.

‘Calm down,’ the big man said. ‘It would be real embarrassing to get your throat cut with your own knife.’

Little Ears grunted something and tried to twist away.

The knuckles dug in deeper. Little Ears growled with pain. The big man said, ‘Listen to me, pal, if you’re after O’Hara, you missed the party.’

Little Ears stopped struggling, He moved his head away from the knife. ‘Aaargh ... larder. . . furmilpuf ...‘ he said.

The big man let up the pressure with the knuckle a little. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘Somebody’s already pushed him over?’ Little Ears asked in a husky voice.

‘No, the Winter Man called off the sanction. The Game’s over.’

Little Ears snapped ‘Bullshit!’ and tried to pull away. The knuckle dug in harder. In a moment Little Ears began to go limp. The big man loosened up again. Little Ears was not convinced. He glared at the girl. Then he said, ‘That lying Winter Man told me this was my stunt. Exclusive, he said.’

The big man drove the knuckle into the artery again. His shoulder was killing him, but he kept the pressure on, neutralizing Little Ears.

‘If you don’t calm down, you’re going to have a sore throat for the rest of your life,’ the big man said and turned to Eliza. ‘You got the letter from Dobbs?’

Her eyes were as wide as dollar pancakes. She nodded vigorously.

‘Well, get it up before this jackass dies on me.’

She dug in her bag, thrashing around among clinking mirror, lipstick, comb, brush, hairpins, pens, paper, and finally produced the letter. But Little Ears wasn’t interested. He jammed his elbow into the big man’s ribs and twisted, and the big man let him go, kicked him hard in the kneecap and threw a hard punch straight to Little Ears’ temple. The man hit the railing and it shattered. He soared off the dock, head over heels, and hit the water six feet below, spread-eagled.

The big man leaned back against the wall and sighed. ‘I hope you can swim,’ he said, looking down at Little Ears, who was floundering in the frigid black water,

Little Ears struggled to the dock and dragged himself up on it. He collapsed on his hands and knees.

The big man grabbed a fistful of his collar and pulled him up, and dragged him into the room. He held the letter in front of Little Ears’ face. ‘Can you read?’

Little Ears tried to focus his eyes. He was beginning to shiver. He spat water on the floor.

‘Read it!’

Little Ears waited until his eyes could focus, and he read the letter. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said. He read it again, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘You almost got yourself burned for nothing,’ the big man said. His shoulder was throbbing.

Little Ears rubbed the spot on his neck. It was already beginning to bruise. His voice was a tortured whisper. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I fucking don’t believe this. You know what I got in this job? I started following her in San Francisco, for Chrissakes. I must be close to six grand out of pocket. And that don’t count the time. Three, four weeks. I must be out, dammit, close to ten grand.’

‘Send the Winter Man a bill.’

‘I’ll send him a bill, I’ll go back and castrate the son of a bitch.’

‘Good, you’ll need this.’ The big man pressed the release button on the knife and shoved the blade against the wall. It slid back into the handle. He tossed it to Little Ears. ‘At least you got your knife back,’ he said.

‘Jesus, I don’t believe any of this,’ Little Ears said, still shaking his head, and he dragged his wet, shivering body from the room, pulled his .38 out of the wall and limped up the stairs, the gun hanging forgotten in his hand as he went out the door, still rubbing his throat.

The big man turned to Eliza. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you looked pretty good in there, for a midget.’

Eliza’s eyes were still the size of dollar pancakes, and the questions came tumbling as they returned to the street. ‘Are you okay? Who was that? Is he just going to walk away from it like that? Isn’t he mad or something? You almost broke his neck. You threatened to cut his throat. He tried to kill you. What the hell’s going on, anyway? Won’t he come looking for you later?’

‘He’s a head-hunter,’ the big man said. ‘First thing they learn, never let emotion get in the way of business. If he starts feeling instead of thinking, he’ll end face-up smiling at the moon.’

She shuddered, for the full impact of what had just happened had begun to sink in. The man with the Little Ears had tried to kill them.

‘Kazuo?’

The voice came from behind her, a quiet voice, yet forged with authority. Turning, she found herself face to face with a young Japanese man. He was a head shorter than the big man, wide through the shoulders with no waist to speak of. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, black pants, black soft-soled shoes, and his long black hair tumbled over the sweater at his neck. His brown eyes burned with anxiety.