Death in Little Tokyo (2 page)

2

A
couple of weeks later I was involved in another murder. Well, I guess to be accurate, I should say I was planning a murder.

“Lissen, sweetheart,” I said in a passable Bogart imitation. “If you want anything, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you? Just put your two lips together and blow.” Wait a minute. That was Lauren Bacall’s line.

I sighed because I couldn’t recall what Bogart’s line was. It didn’t matter anyway. Let’s face it, physically I couldn’t muster the mass to imitate Bogart’s tough presence. I preferred Alan Ladd when playing a detective. The compact Ladd was much more my size.

I looked at myself in the large mirror I had propped up against the wall and decided I still cut a pretty dashing figure. I figured I looked like a worthy recipient of the Silver Dagger trophy for unraveling the L.A. Mystery Club’s phony murder.

I was dressed in a tan trench coat and a gray hat. The props helped to compensate for my small frame and delicate features . . . two curses for someone who secretly aspired to be a 1930s hardboiled detective. Of course, my being a Japanese-American from Hawaii is also an impediment to this aspiration. The only Asian detectives I remember from old movies were Warner Olan doing his Charlie Chan bit or Peter Lorre doing an incredibly campy Mister Moto. At least Charlie Chan was from Honolulu, although no body I’ve ever met from Hawaii actually looked and talked like Warner Olan did.

My face is round with a slightly squared jaw. My eyes are more deeply set than the Asian stereotype, but many Asians, particularly in Japan or Southeast Asia, have deep set eyes. I have the epicanthic fold that characterizes Asians everywhere, and of course my eye color is deep brown and I have black hair.

The tan Burberry trench coat was a good fit, but somehow the felt fedora just didn’t look right. I pulled it low over my eyes, but that just blocked my vision. I pulled it off and tried placing it on my head at a rakish angle, but a shock of black hair peeked out and the effect was just goofy. I put it squarely on my head and tried bending down the brim a little. Then I sighed. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best of all the variations I had tried. I guess I just wasn’t used to seeing myself in a hat.

I walked over and took off the trench coat. It was a hot August in Los Angeles, and hats and trench coats were definitely not the attire that suited the weather, especially in an old office building with marginal air-conditioning. I hung the trench coat on the old clothes rack that stood in the corner of the office and surveyed my temporary kingdom.

A large wooden desk with many dings and dents dominated the room. Old oak file cabinets stood against the wall next to the propped-up mirror. Four pictures were hung on the walls: photos of Bogart, Alan Ladd, and Cagney, plus a poster for
The Maltese Falcon.
The next wall had two windows that looked down on Second Street. In reverse order, I could see the back of gilt letters that said
KENDO DETECTIVE AGENCY—KEN TANAKA, DET.
On both windows. The letters were the most expensive things in the room.

The furniture was all borrowed or rented. My girlfriend Mariko Kosaka had supplied most of it through one of the little theater groups she belonged to. Theater props were most appropriate because I was setting up a murder as theater.

I’d gone all out for the mystery I was creating. Besides renting a cheap office in Little Tokyo, I had business cards printed up, installed a phone, and had the proper signs put up in the lobby and on the windows.

My plan was to have the members of the mystery club come to the office to kick off the mystery. The office would act as sort of a hub to the action, and members of the club would have to go to various parts of Little Tokyo to unearth clues.

I had bought several props with a Japanese motif, and was in the midst of evolving a complicated mystery involving a stolen jade statue of supposedly priceless value (the Jade Penguin), a variety of cryptic clues scattered around Little Tokyo, and (of course) a couple of murders. Some members of the club would play the parts of villains or stooges, and the other members of the club would be expected to follow the trail of clues to unravel the puzzle and solve the “crime.”

Usually these things were put together by a committee, but except for Mariko’s help I had put this one together pretty much on my own. I’d noticed that the mysteries put together by committees were prone to leaks as members of the committee couldn’t resist dropping cryptic hints to friends. It was as bad as Congress or some other notorious gathering of blabbermouths.

Doing things on my own precluded the chance for leaks, but it meant endless hours putting things together for the mystery to come off right. That meant either a compulsive personality or a lot of time on my hands. I confess to being doubly guilty.

Like many in America, I found myself starting over while on the other side of forty. A failed marriage, a frustrating job and a pink slip as part of the process euphemistically known as “corporate downsizing” had all added up to plenty of time to plan fake murder mysteries. Mariko had given me as much help as possible, but between work, little theater, and AA meetings, she really didn’t have much time to put into the effort.

I stepped away from the clothes rack and took the hat off. With the flick of a wrist, I sent it sailing toward the hat rack. At the last second the unruly swatch of felt veered to one side and fell to the floor, refusing to hang itself on the coat rack peg I was aiming for. Thinking the hat was an apt metaphor for the way my life was going, I walked over and hung it on the rack.

I sat down behind the desk and placed a paper sack before me. I reached in, took out a pair of disposable chopsticks, and split them in two with a practiced hand. In good Japanese restaurants they give you polished disposable chopsticks, and you don’t have to rub them together to get rid of the small splinters. You’re supposed to know the difference, and not automatically rub chopsticks together. After glancing at these chopsticks, I rubbed them together vigorously.

I took a plate out of the sack and looked at it. Staring up at me was an assortment of sushi. The small mounds of rice were covered with raw fish, encircled by pieces of flavored seaweed. A tiny clump of pink ginger and a dab of green
wasabi
(horseradish) completed the plate.

I glanced at my watch and noted that it was only 10:15 in the morning. Somehow knowing that it was that early made me slightly queasy about the sushi.

The idea seemed a bit bizarre, but it had some sense to it. In order to attract some early morning clientele, the Oshima Sushi bar ran a special. If you came in before 10
A.M.,
you got a full sushi plate for just four dollars. A sushi brunch seemed like an ideal combination of delight and economy. But staring at the limp, red slices of raw tuna, I decided I’d just as soon have a ham omelet.

Maybe it was just the idea of sushi for breakfast that gave me a problem. If I actually started eating, I might enjoy myself. So I opened a plastic pouch of soy sauce, poured it into a small plastic cup, and took a dab of wasabi off the plate and put it into the sauce, mixing it in. Bracing myself, I picked up a piece of sushi with my
hashi
(chopsticks) and dipped it into the small container of sauce.

I had the sushi halfway to my mouth when I noticed a visitor had opened the office door and was standing tentatively at the threshold.

She was dressed simply in a white suit that showed her tan to good advantage. Under her arm she had a black purse. I’m not an expert at such things but I figure it costs a lot of money to dress so plainly but look so good, and the dress, purse, and shoes all looked expensive. Very expensive.

She was about five foot ten and her blonde hair was carefully coifed in the windblown style that looks so terrible when it really gets windblown. Her eyes were a very clear gray that stared at me with quizzical appraisal. I put down the piece of sushi.

She walked up to the desk and said, “Mr. Tanaka?” Her voice was well modulated and soft. It was hard to tell her age. I’d say late twenties, but someone so well groomed and made up could easily be ten or fifteen years older. Maybe even older with a good facelift.

“Yes.”

“Kendo Detective Agency?”

My brain started racing. The classic start for a mystery story: pretty woman walks into detective’s office looking for help. I immediately thought this has to be a setup. Some other member of the mystery club hired this blonde to show up at the office to get a mystery within a mystery going before I could get my own stumper launched. I had told them that my mystery was loosely based on
The Maltese Falcon,
and now someone was playing out the opening.

Not many members of the club knew about the office yet, and only Mariko knew the address. Mariko. Maybe Mariko had gotten an actress friend to come down to start her own mystery going as a challenge? Looking at the woman, I thought she was certainly pretty enough to be an actress. I decided to play along.

“That’s right. Can I help you?”

“Perhaps you can. I do need some help. Can we talk now? I wouldn’t want to disturb your meal.” The tone of her voice, however, clearly indicated that it wouldn’t bother her to do just that.

“It’s no disturbance,” I said, putting down the hashi. “I was done anyway. It would take another couple of hours before I’d really find this appetizing. Please sit down,” I said, indicating one of the chairs in the office. She settled into a chair with a dancer’s grace, like a falling apple blossom. “Could you tell me your name?”

“My name is Rita Newly.”

I half expected Wonderly, Mary Astor’s name in the
Maltese Falcon,
but since this was a new mystery I guess New-ly was also appropriate.

“How did you find out about me, Ms. Newly?”

“Actually, I saw your name on the window as I drove by. I stopped on an impulse because I need some help.” She seemed composed, but her hands nervously grasped at her purse. Mariko had once told me some auditions were hard because the hardest performance to give is in front of just one person. I tried to look sympathetic to put her at ease.

“I’ve never dealt with a private detective before,” she said, “so perhaps you can answer some questions for me before I get into details.”

I gave her my warmest smile. Part of the smile was because I was starting to get into the situation, wondering what Mariko had come up with. Part of the smile was because, looking at her, it just wasn’t hard to do. “Sure, I’ll answer any questions I can.”

“First, is our discussion confidential?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’ll maintain that confidentiality?”

“As long as I’m not asked to do anything illegal,” I said, in the most professional manner I could muster.

“Good,” she said. “Then maybe you can help me.”

“What is it you’d like me to do?”

“I want you to pick up a package.”

I was surprised. “Is that all?”

“That’s right. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars to do it.”

I could almost feel my eyes brighten at the mention of the fee. No one would pay $500 for a simple errand, so the plot was bound to thicken soon.

“Just what kind of package do you want me to pick up?”

“It’s rather personal.”

Finally things would start to get complicated. I leaned forward in my seat. I was well and truly hooked, already into the fun and wanting to play along. “Look, I’ll do it for you,” I said. “But I want to assure myself that I’m not getting involved with something that’s illegal. To do that, I really have to know what I’m picking up.”

“Well,” Rita started. She hesitated and looked down, then she looked up at me. Her eyes had a wetness hinting of tears. A few moments before she had seemed so confident and in control of her self. I was surprised by the sudden transformation. There’s nothing as appealing to most men as a pretty woman who needs help. Although I knew that intellectually, I still felt a small part of my heart melt. This woman was good.

“Please tell me, Ms. Newly,” I said gently. “Maybe I can help.” Despite the apparent breakdown in her composure, I found one trait of Rita’s very disquieting. Her eyes didn’t seem to blink much. Despite the dramatic pause, the looking down, and the hint of tears, when her eyes moved back up to look into mine, they were as wide and clear as when she first walked into the office. They were the eyes of a cobra fixed on a mouse.

“The package contains some pictures. They’re pictures of me.” Her voice was very quiet, and I had to strain to hear the last sentence.

“What kind of pictures?”

“Well, it’s very embarrassing,” she said. “And kind of a long story.”

I shrugged. “Why don’t you tell it to me? I’m not trying to embarrass you, but you have to understand I need to know what I’m getting involved in.”

“I’m a singer and a dancer,” Rita started. That didn’t surprise me. “About six months ago, I saw an advertisement looking for singers and dancers to go to Japan. The salary was very good, and it involved free travel in the Orient. The only hitch was you had to agree to a one-year contract. At the time I was single and I didn’t have a steady boyfriend, so I decided to audition. I got the job. They sent me to Japan, but when I got there I discovered they had a quite different type of entertainment in mind. It turned out they were recruiting singers and dancers, but they also wanted us to be . . .” Her voice trailed off.