Death in Little Tokyo (4 page)

4

I
worked at the office until early evening, setting up the clues that would be used for the upcoming mystery weekend. I dashed out to the Ginza Gardens Coffee Shop for a bowl of noodles for dinner and returned to the office to work some more.

Each of the clue givers in a mystery weekend has an instruction sheet written up for him or her. The sheet gives biographical information about their character, what their attitude is about the crime, and what key pieces of information they’re supposed to give to the people trying to solve the mystery. Except for the “murderer,” the clue givers normally don’t know the total picture, so they can’t give away too much inadvertently. Sometimes the player has to ask the right question, or to mention the right person or event to get the information. This means you have to juggle a lot of different elements when writing up the individual “rap sheets” for the clue givers.

Frankly, my mind wasn’t really on the fictitious case I was creating. Instead, it kept drifting to the very real events of the day and the commission I received from Rita Newly. I turned her story over and over in my mind, and came to the conclusion that either Rita’s story was genuine, or I was being set up to act as a courier in a drug buy or some similar illegal activity. Either possibility gave me a jolt of excitement tinged with fear. Against my better judgment, I welcomed both.

Going through with the package pickup for Rita Newly had the possibility of real danger. Some people might think that living in L.A. is dangerous enough, but for a lot of reasons I needed something more in my life, and this need clouded my judgment. Except for my relationship with Mariko, I was drifting. It was not a comfortable position to be in.

Like the generation before me, I had expected to reap the rewards of my education and experience in my forties. Instead, I was facing an uncertain future and the potential for increasingly difficult employment opportunities as I aged. It sometimes made me frustrated and angry. Frustrated and angry people sometimes do foolish things, like welcome a whiff of danger.

I told myself I’d be cautious, and seek out the police if it looked like I was involved in anything shady, but the truth is I found the aroma of real adventure an intoxicating perfume that dulled my senses. Maybe I should have taken up bungee jumping.

When I finished working on the clues I walked over to the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel and entered the lobby a little after eight. It was close to the office so I didn’t call ahead. The compact lobby was elegant and reminded me of a ship, with dark green carpet, dark wood panels, and fittings of polished brass.

“Can I help you, sir?” The Japanese behind the desk was impeccably dressed in a gray and green uniform. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and perpetually upturned eyebrows gave his face a quizzical expression.

“Do you have a house phone? I’d like to call one of your guests.”

“Certainly, sir. Right over there.”

I walked to the house phone and picked it up.

“May I help you?” the operator’s voice cut into the dial-tone.

“Would you ring Mr. Susumu Matsuda’s room, please?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The phone rang three times before it was picked up. “Yes?” The voice was remarkably free of accent. Since Rita said Matsuda came from Japan, I expected him to have more of a Japanese accent. Instead his English was flawless.

“Mr. Matsuda?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Ken Tanaka. I’ve been asked to pick up a package from you by Rita Newly.”

“You say your name is Tanaka?”

“That’s right. Ms. Newly asked me to pick up the package you have for her.”

“When do you want to pick it up?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Matsuda, I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If it’s not inconvenient, I’d like to come up right now and pick it up.”

There was a long pause. I almost thought that I had been disconnected. Finally Matsuda said, “Okay. Come on up to room five-one-seven.”

I hung up, looked around the lobby to get my bearings, and walked over to the elevator. After a few seconds one of the three elevators opened. I got in and punched the fifth floor button. On the fifth floor the hall had a gray and green carpet, green wall paper, and dark wooden doors. It was supposed to be elegant but I actually found it kind of dark and depressing.

I came to 517 and knocked. I could hear the murmur of voices behind the door—a man’s and a woman’s. I waited a minute and knocked a second time.

“Just a second.” The man’s voice.

They seemed to be arguing about something, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally, after several minutes delay, the door was opened.

Standing before me was a Japanese man in his late sixties or early seventies. I was surprised at his age because I expected someone much younger. His gaunt face had the look of a wolf to it. He wore the stereotypical Japanese businessman’s dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His hair was thinning and shot with gray. His expression was stern and suspicious. On his left cheek was a large, brown discoloration or birthmark.

“Mr. Matsuda?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Ken Tanaka.”

“Okay. I have the package,” he said. “Come in for a moment.”

I stepped into the room. Against the wall was a queen-sized bed with a dark green comforter on top. Two pictures of the “shopping-center-parking-lot-art-sale” school of art adorned the wall. A lamp, a television, a clock-radio, a small round table, and two chairs formed the rest of the furniture in the room. Standard hotel issue.

“Rita sent you?” Matsuda said suspiciously.

“Yes, she did.”

“All right,” Matsuda said. “I want some kind of receipt.”

“That’s no problem.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out one of the Kendo Agency business cards. On the back of the card I scrawled, “Received one package from Mr. Matsuda—K. Tanaka.” I put the date on it.

While I was writing the receipt, Matsuda put a large wheeled suitcase on the bed. He unlocked the suitcase, opened it, and reached into it and pulled out a brown envelope. The envelope was sealed and tied with string—the pale, white, cellophane-like string that I’ve seen on packages from Japan.

I handed over the business card and accepted the package from Matsuda. He studied what I had written and seemed satisfied.

Just as I turned to leave, the door to the bathroom burst open. A short Latina came bustling out. Her hair was dyed a flaming orange and she wore a tight purple dress that clashed with the hair color.

“I’m tired of waiting in there,” she announced as she strutted out of the bathroom. “I don’t see why I have to be locked up in the john just so you can handle a little business.”

She was wearing several rings on her hands, as many as three to a finger. She even wore a couple of rings on each of her thumbs. The scoop neck on her dress revealed two large breasts, and the tight fit across her hips picked up the curving theme of the bosom.

“Say, you’re kind of cute, honey,” the woman said, looking me over.

I was flustered by the unexpected outburst and looked at Matsuda for guidance.

Matsuda’s face was tight with anger, not embarrassment. He said to the woman, “I thought I told you to wait in the bathroom until I was done with my business.”

“Listen, honey, I got tired of waiting in there. I told you I didn’t wanna go in there in the first place. We ain’t got nothing to hide. Besides, I could give you guys a special deal on a little three-way party.”

The woman gave me a toothy grin. I noticed the cracked lipstick around the edges of her mouth. She might have been in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell with all the makeup she had on. She could easily be older or younger. I was both surprised and amused by her sudden appearance. I hoped that I’d be as sexually active as Matsuda appeared to be when I reached my sixties or seventies.

“Well, how about it? Care to join a little fun? We can party until ten-thirty or so, then I got ta get dressed and leave ‘cause I got to be on stage waving my G-string by eleven.” She stopped and gave a short pirouette. She wore black patent leather shoes with tall spike heels. Her dancer’s twirl was surprisingly graceful and polished.

“He’s not here to join us,” Matsuda said in a tight voice. “In fact, he’s just leaving.”

“That’s too bad, honey” the woman said. “I think you’d have made quite an addition to our party.”

I smiled from reflex and, clutching the envelope tightly to me, I slid past her toward the door. “It’s nice of you to say so, but Mr. Matsuda’s right. I really should be going. I believe we’ve accomplished our business. Thank you, Mr. Matsuda. I hope this contains everything that Ms. Newly expects it to contain.”

“Sure it does,” Matsuda said dryly. “If it doesn’t, I’ll be in Los Angeles for at least three more days and she can contact me.”

“I’m sure she will if everything she’s expecting is not here. Well, good night.” I nodded to both Matsuda and the woman, and let myself out.

Outside of the room I had to control myself so I didn’t start laughing. The look on Matsuda’s face when the woman burst out of the bathroom was priceless. Even though Matsuda looked old, I guess he was still frisky. Maybe it’s all the green tea they drink in Japan. I had a good story to tell Mariko the next time I saw her.

My car was parked about five blocks away from the hotel. There was a cab line with two cabs in it in front of the hotel and I thought briefly of taking one to my car. During the day you’re panhandled in downtown L.A., but at night some parts of the city are transformed into homeless tent cities that block the sidewalk. On darkened curbs drug deals also go down. Neither activity seemed like something I wanted to wander into, but I decided to walk. During the American Civil War an officer observed a man running from the front lines of battle and challenged him by asking why he was running. “Because I don’t have wings to fly!” the man shouted as he ran past. That’s exactly how I felt making my way through the darkened streets of downtown L.A. to my car.

When I reached my car I sat in it for a few moments examining the package under the weak dome light. The package was made out of glossy, thick brown paper. It was about seven by ten inches, but slightly odd in proportion, which I thought was because it was made to centimeter specifications, instead of inches like most envelopes I was familiar with. The envelope was about an inch thick and didn’t feel very heavy.

I flexed the package. It felt like there were several sheets inside. I was puzzled.

I had a strange feeling in the back of my mind about the whole arrangement with Rita and Matsuda. Despite what I had told Mariko, it was simply too good to be true. Five hundred dollars seemed like too much money to pay for me to walk a few blocks and act like an errand boy. I was convinced that Rita Newly might be trying to get me involved with a drug pickup.

Because of this, I had resolved to open the package when I received it, just to make sure that I wasn’t being used as a dupe for some illegal transaction. Now the size and weight of the package puzzled me. It could actually be the photographs and negatives that Rita had talked about.

I pursed my lips and thought about the ethics of the situation. When I thought I might be picking up a package of drugs, there was no hesitation in my mind that I would open the package. Now that there seemed to be a possibility that Newly’s story might be true, I was hesitant.

Bouncing the envelope in my hand, I stared at the package.

5

I
wasn’t at the hotel for what happened next, but I later talked to Nachiko Izumi and I feel as though I know exactly what transpired. It started the next morning in the maid’s staging area. Like so many days that turn out to be traumatic, the start was normal and routine.

As was the custom at the hotel, the maids were all lined up in a row with the flair of a military unit. There were nine or ten of them and they all stood at attention as the steely-eyed head of housecleaning for the hotel made her inspection. Next to each housekeeper’s cart was an Asian woman dressed in a white uniform. Piled high on the carts were fresh smelling linens, newly laundered towels, glossy plum colored boxes of matches with the Golden Cherry Blossom imprint, and plastic wrapped water glasses with stickers that proclaimed that the glasses were “Sanitized for your safety.”

Most of the women were Japanese, as was the head of housekeeping. As the head walked down the line of maids, she looked rather like a Marshal of Napoleon reviewing an artillery battalion. She abruptly stopped in front of one of the carts and noticed with distaste that the cart had not been stocked with the geometric precision that the more experienced maids are capable of. “Straighten up those glasses in a neat row, and make sure the various types of towels are not mixed together on the cart,” she ordered in an imperious tone.

A thick accent to her English rubbed off some of the sharp edges of her words, but it was plain she was not pleased, and the hapless maid scurried to do as she had been instructed.

As the head of housekeeping finished walking down the line she turned and gave the maids she supervised one last look. Then she gave a curt nod and said, “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

One of the maids went directly to the fifth floor. She started her routine by checking a clipboard with a computerized list of the rooms to be cleaned, and moved to the first room, pushing her cart down the green-carpeted corridor. The row of drinking glasses in the cart made a cheerful tinkling sound as they banged together, forming a descant to the squeaking baseline provided by a bad bearing in one of the cart’s wheels.

The maid was Nachiko Izumi, and the sound of the wheel annoyed her. Ms. Izumi was twenty-nine years old and in the U.S. less than five months. She was on a student visa and taking college classes in English literature and political science at East Los Angeles College. She was probably working without a green card, but working illegally is a kind of local sport in Los Angeles and I didn’t ask her about this.

She approached number 517, and she didn’t see the thin crescent of dark liquid peaking out from under the edge of the door. People had passed the room all morning without noticing the encroaching stain.

She moved the cart to the door and knocked softly. After a few seconds, she knocked more forcefully, calling out, “Excuse me! Maid!” After another pause she called out,
“Sumimasen”
(excuse me). Many of the clientele of the Golden Cherry Blossom are visiting Japanese tourists and businessmen, so she called out in both English and Japanese before entering the room. Finally, after going through the entire ritual required of her, she inserted her passkey into the door and unlocked it.

As the door opened, her attention was immediately drawn to the dark stain on the carpet and the object that lay just inside the open doorway. She stared at the object for several seconds, her brain not processing what her eyes were seeing.

Lying in a circle of blood was a severed human forearm and what was left of a hand. Two fingers of the hand were missing, cleanly sliced off. The stub of the forearm, cut just below the elbow joint, was a pulpy mass of raw flesh, severed veins and splintered bone. It had been hacked off.

Ms. Izumi stared at the arm and gradually comprehended the horror that greeted her in room 517. She started to scream. It was a long, wailing scream, and she told me it was a long time before she was able to stop.