He said to
Maurice, “Do you know something, there used to be a show called Duffy’s Tavern,
and every program started with this guy on the phone saying, ‘Duffy’s
Tavern...
Archie the manager speaking.
Duffy ain’t here.
Oh, hello Duffy.’
“
Maurice stared
at him, and nodded. “When was that?” he asked, just to be polite. “I don’t
think I ever saw it.”
“Radio,” said
Jerry.
“Sometime before you were born.”
“Oh,” said
Maurice.
The telephone
rang. Mack said, “Answer it, will you, Olive?” but Olive was in the bedroom
now, dressing. Mack picked the receiver up and said, “Duffy’s Tavern...
Archie the manager speaking.”
There was a
pause. Then Mack held the receiver out to Jerry, his face serious. “Did you
give my number to Crowley?” he asked.
Jerry said,
“I’m sorry. You know how urgent it is. I left a message on his recorder.
“Well, feel
free,” said Mack. “I just hope the guy isn’t a psychopathic killer, like the
rest of his friends.”
Jerry took the
phone and said, “Mr. Crowley?”
“That’s right.
I’m at the office right now. Did you hear the news?”
“Yes,” said
Jerry. “I’m not sure what it means.”
“It means that
this whole thing’s falling apart, that’s what. If there’s something big in
hand, they’re going to try to do it quick, or else they’re not going to try to
do it at all. They’re going to be pullingout of Pacoima within the week,
believe me, and that means you’ve got to get your boy out of there just as soon
as you can.”
Jerry asked,
“Have you told them you’ve been in touch with me?”
“I told them
we’ve arranged a meet for later on today. I’ve told them you’re willing to do
any kind of a deal to get your son back, and that I should be able to cajole
you back to the ranch.”
“You’ve got the
guns?”
“I’ve got the
M-60 and six belts of ammunition, as well as two spare barrels, although you
probably won’t need them. I couldn’t get any Ingrams, but I’ve got you a
Canadian SMG and a couple of Browning high-power automatics.”
“Sounds like
enough for World War Three,’’ said Jerry. Across the room, Mack raised his
eyebrows and lit up a handrolled cigarette. Maurice was already mopping up the
last of his egg. “Just listen,” said Gerard. “All the guns are in the trunk of
a white Grand Prix, parked at the Chateau Mar-mont, on Sunset. All you have to
do is go to the desk and ask for Mr. Wisby’s keys.
You got that?
Mr. Wisby’s keys.
They’ll give you the keys and you can go
straight down to the parking lot and drive the car away. Then I’ll meet up with
you at the intersection of Van Nuys Boulevard and San Fernando Road, by the
Whiteman Air Park, at three o’clock on the button.
You with me?
I’ll be driving a Riviera, but I’ll see you
before you see me.”
Jerry was
silent. Then he said, “How do I really know that I can trust you?”
“You don’t
know,” Gerard retorted. “But if someone gives you a heavy-duty machine gun and
a heap of ammunition, and offers to help you get your son back, free of charge
and with no strings attached except a good reference, well, that could be a
sign that he isn’t entirely antagonistic, wouldn’t you say?”
Jerry said,
“Okay. I’ll meet you at three.”
He handed the
phone back to Mack, who hung it up and stared at him, with smoke blowing evenly
out of his nostrils. “Well?” Mack asked him. “That sounded like all systems
go.’’
“He’s got the
machine gun,” said Jerry. “We’re going out to Pacoima at three o’clock this
afternoon.”
Olive came in,
wearing lemon-yellow jeans and a loose crocheted top. “Don’t ask Mack to go
with you,’’ she said. “Please, I’m scared.”
Maurice said,
“I’ll go. No problem. Just so long as I get to use the M-60. Can you imagine my
brother’s face when I tell him about it?”
“You probably
won’t live to tell him about it,” said Olive.
“Aw, come on.
Olive,” grinned Maurice. “Where’s your good old American sense of humor?”
“That’s right,
sweetheart,” put in Mack. “Haven’t you learned that it’s fun to kill people,
especially when they’re of different racial origin? These are Japanese. We
killed J
V/ millions of them in World War Two.
What’s half a dozen
more?”
Olive looked at
him warily. “Don’t tell me you’re going, too?”
Mack puffed at
his cigarette and nodded. “You think I’m going to let Maurice use an M-60, and
I’m not even there?”
“But you said
just a minute ago that...”
Mack stood up,
and reached for his wornout cotton-twill jacket. “Forget what I said a minute
ago. These guys killed Sherry, right? The least I can do is
help
to wipe them out.”
“Oh, John
Wayne,” said Olive sarcastically. “When I started going out with you, I thought
I was getting into a free-and-easy laid-back Hollywood hanger-on situation, bed
and avocado-burgers and a little late-night music. I didn’t realize I was
joining the Green Berets.”
“It’s
pronounced berays, not barettes,” said Mack, kissing her on the forehead. “And,
believe
me,
I’ll stay way out of trouble.”
“Do you have to
go now?” Olive wanted to know. “It’s only eleven-thirty.”
Jerry said, “I
think it would be a good idea if we all went around to my place and picked up
some maps. I’d like to go get my own gun, too, in case of problems.”
Olive lowered
her eyes.
“All right.
If that’s the way you want it.
But I can’t guarantee that I’m going to be here when you get back, //you
get
back.”
“Sweetheart,”
Mack appealed.
“Sweetheart my
fanny,” retorted Olive.
“You see what
being married to a sailor does to a girl?” asked Mack.
O
utside, in the sunshine, Detective Arthur was standing beside
Jerry’s car, his notebook tucked under his arm, inhaling violently from a
Dristan nasal spray.
“Good morning,
officer,” said Jerry. “How’s the allergy?”
“Worse,” said
Arthur. “Some other damned plant has started pollinating now. It’s killing me.
And yesterday
they gave me a case near a eucalyptus grove.”
“What can I do
for you today?” asked Jerry.
“Sergeant
Skrolnik wanted you to know that Lieutenant Edward Smith is assuming overall
direction of the Sherry Cantor case, after that thing out at Rancho Encino last
night. Sergeant Skrolnik was out there himself, twisted his ankle or something.
Now he’s hobbling around like an alligator with a jalapeño pepper up its ass.
Having to report to Lieutenant Smith isn’t helping his temper much, either.”
Jerry asked,
“Is there anything else? I was just about to go home.”
“Well,” said
Detective Arthur, wiping his nose again and then opening up his notebook,
“Sergeant Skrolnik
did want to ask you if knew anything about some sort of Japanese ritual where
you have two blue-and-white porcelain bowls...
that’s what he’s written down here in my notebook...
and two crossed samurai swords. The bowls are
supposed to contain some sort of stuff like ash or incense.”
Jerry frowned.
“It isn’t like anything that I’ve ever heard of. But I’m not an expert on
Japan. I was just there during the war and the occupation.”
“He wanted you
to think about it, that’s all. He also asked me to advise you not to leave
town, not for a day or two.”
“So Sergeant
Skrolnik thinks there’s some kind of connection between Sherry Cantor’s murder
and Admiral Thorson’s murder?” asked Jerry.
“Some kind of
Japanese connection?”
Detective
Arthur put away his notebook, and spent a long time trying to push the clip of
his ballpen into the torn lining of his inside pocket. “The guys who tried to
knock off Admiral Thorson were all Japanese except one, who was an unidentified
Caucasian. Three of them were killed: one by security guards at the hospital,
one by police, and one by this unknown Caucasian.”
Jerry asked,
‘ The
killer who was supposed to have come to life again and
killed Admiral Thorson last night–he was Japanese, too?”
“That’s what I
said. They were all Japanese except one unidentified Caucasian.”
“It doesn’t say
in the Times that he was Japanese.”
Arthur sniffed,
and shook his head. “If you want to know the truth, Skrolnik’s playing the
whole thing so tight to the chest that nobody knows what’s going on. I can tell
you something,
though,
a few heads are going to roll
for what happened out at Rancho Encino last night. A killer was supposed to be
dead and he wasn’t? He actually got out of the morgue and attacked his victim
for the second time? I’m glad / wasn’t in charge, believe me. Poor old Harry
Calsbeek’s been put on suspension–he was the officer responsible. They’ll
probably bust him without a pension; and Skrolnik’s not much safer, either.
They’d probably suspend him, too, if they had the manpower.”
“What’s
Skrolnik doing now?” asked Mack.
“Putting the
shit up the whole Japanese ethnic community, that’s what,” said Detective
Arthur.
“He’s got foot
patrols going around to every sitshi bar, every teriyaki joint, every tempura
restaurant, you name it. There isn’t a tatami mat in town that’s going to go
unturned. He’s already had complaints from the Japanese community-relations
people. They still remember what we did to the Issei and the Nisei during the
war. But the guy’s desperate.
Two spectacular buchery cases
and nothing to show for it.
He’s even been around to the Japanese
Culture Department at UCLA, asking about those porcelain bowls and those
swords. If it’s got anything to do with Japan, Skrolnik’s going to shake it down.
Karate clubs, flower-arranging classes–he’s hitting them all.”
Jerry turned
back to Mack and raised his eyebrows. Mack shrugged noncommittally. They’d just
have to hope that Skrolnik didn’t locate the ranch out at Pacoima before this
afternoon.
Jerry said to
Detective Arthur, “I’ll keep in touch, okay? Right now I’m going home. If I can
think what those bowls and swords were all about, I’ll call you.”
Detective
Arthur went back to his car. Maurice said to Jerry, “Do you actually know what
those bowls and swords could have been?”
“I don’t have
any idea,” said Jerry. “But Nancy Shiranuka may know. Perhaps if you guys could
go pick up the car with the guns on it, and drive it back to my house, you
could drop me off at Alia Loma Road on the way, so that I can talk to her.’’
They climbed
into Jerry’s Dodge, with Maurice taking up most of the rear seat. Jerry heard
the suspension groan as El Krusho made
himself
comfortable.
Jerry drove to
Alta Loma Road and parked outside Nancy Shiranuka’s apartment house. “If I’m
not back out again in two or three minutes, just drive off and get the Grand
Prix,” he told Mack.
“And for
Christ’s sake, be careful. I don’t want Olive’s worst fears to come true.”
“Me neither,”
said Mack, sliding across behind the wheel.
Jerry went up
to Nancy’s apartment and pressed the bell. After a little while, he heard the
slap of her slippers on the polished wood floor, and she opened the door
herself. “Jerry,’’ she said, with mild surprise. “Why don’t you come in? I’m on
the telephone.
Jerry took off
his shoes and followed her into her serene living room. He sat down on a
zabuton and waited while Nancy spoke in Japanese to someone who was obviously a
girlfriend of hers. “Well,” she said when she had finished. “I didn’t expect
you back so soon.”
“I saw Gerard
Crowley yesterday.”
“He told me. He
also told me what he plans to do.”
“What do you
think about it?” asked Jerry.
“About
attacking the Tengus? I think it is very dangerous. But there are ways of
protecting yourself.”
“You think it’s
better not to call the police?”
Nancy nodded.
“The Out at the ranch would kill your son and everyone else if they even so
much as glimpsed a police car or a uniform.”
“You say there
are ways of protecting ourselves?”
“Of course.
The world is populated by good kami as well as
black kami. It is possible to invoke their help against any of the demons,
including Tengu.”
“How?” asked
Jerry.
Nancy said,
“The greatest protection of all is the bond between two people who have been
physically and mentally unified. The apotropaic spirit of that bond can be
contained in any token or artifact that belongs to the person with whom you
have joined. Do you have a lover?”
Jerry blew out
a little tight breath of anxiety. “No,” he said.
“Not
exactly.
There was only Rhoda, my wife, and as you know she’s–well, you
know what happened.”
Nancy looked at
Jerry with those dark, liquid eyes and said nothing. Jerry tugged at his leg,
in an attempt to tuck it under himself Japanese-style, but his knee was too
stiff. He said, “Out of practice. Out of practice in lots of things, I guess.”
Nancy said,
“The bond must necessarily be with a living person. Once the person is dead,
his kami has left for another plane of life altogether, beyond the gates of
heaven.”
“Then I guess
I’ll just have to do without it. I haven’t been with anyone since Rhoda.”
Nancy thought
for a moment or two, and then stood up. “Come,” she said, and held out her hand
for him. He stared at her, uncertain of what it was that she expected of him.
But then he took her hand, climbed up off the zabuton, and followed her along
the corridor to a plain, wood-floored anteroom. Its walls were hung with a
collection of five erotic woodblocks in the style of Kiyomitsu, beautifully
dressed Japanese women in flowing silk robes