Death in Little Tokyo (Ken Tanaka Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  “Ken?”

  “Yes. You sound funny. Is something wrong?”

  “Thank God you’ve returned. Please come to the boutique right away. Something bad has happened.”

  17

  I left the office and half jogged to the boutique. When I got there a small crowd was gathered in front of it, peering through the window. I pushed my way through the crowd and got to the door where a uniformed policeman stopped me.

  Past the policeman’s shoulder I could see the boutique. It resembled the mess I had found the office in, but while the office was ransacked methodically, the clothes in the boutique were just scattered on the floor, with clothes racks tipped over in a haphazard fashion. Inside, another uniformed officer was talking to Mrs. Kawashiri, with Mariko hovering by.

  “Mariko,” I called. She saw me and walked over to the officer by the door.

  “It’s okay,” she said to the policeman. “Please let him in. He’s my boyfriend.” The policeman shrugged and I stepped past him.

  “What happened?”

  “It was awful,” Mariko said. Her frail body was shaking. I thought she was fearful, and I placed my arms around her shoulders.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of,” I said. “I’m here now and so are the police.”

  Mariko’s eyes flashed. “I’m not scared,” she spat out. “I’m just so damn angry. If I had a baseball bat when that S.O.B. was in here, I’d have flattened him.”

  “What S.O.B.? What happened? What’s going on?”

  Mariko calmed herself down, taking a deep breath and gaining control of her anger. “About an hour ago a guy came into the boutique.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No,” Mariko said. “He was a Caucasian, about six feet tall, light brown curly hair, muscular, with brown eyes. He wore a sports shirt and jeans. He seemed just like a regular guy. There was a customer in here when he walked in, and he waited until the customer left. When I asked if I could help him, he asked me if I knew Ken Tanaka. I thought he might be a friend of yours. He was leaning on the counter as nice as he could be.” Mariko indicated the counter in front of the cash register. “Smiling, talking, and actually being quite charming. I told him that I did know you. He said that he was supposed to meet you here to pick up a package. He said he was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by early.”

  “Did he have a girl with him?”

  “No. He was all by himself.”

  “Did you see somebody standing outside the shop? A blonde?”

  “No. He just came in by himself, like he didn’t have a care in the world. After I said I knew you, he said that he’d appreciate it if I gave him the package now, so he could save himself a trip coming back. There must have been something in the way I hesitated. That must have tipped him off that I either had it or I knew where it was. I must be a crummy actress!

  “He started needling me about the package, saying it was okay for me to give it to him, that he and you were good friends, and that it would be a great favor to him so he wouldn’t have to come back. I didn’t know if he was a friend of yours or not, but I didn’t think that he could have been a good friend, because in the time I’ve known you, you’ve never mentioned anybody with his name.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Well, he called himself George Martin, but I doubt now that’s his real name. Anyway, I started getting a little suspicious of the guy, so I told him that I didn’t have any package here, and that he would have to come back and talk to you. That’s when he started getting violent and abusive. He started raising his voice at me and pounding on the counter. He called me a Jap, a bitch, and a slut. Then he started throwing things around.” She waved her hand around the boutique. “He just started going berserk. He yanked clothes off the racks and threw them around, then he knocked the racks over.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “By that time Mrs. Kawashiri came out from the back to see what the commotion was. When Mrs. Kawashiri saw what was going on, she ran in the back and got a knife she keeps back there to cut up bread for sandwiches. When she came back, she shouted at the guy to leave. You should have seen her yelling and waving around this little six-inch paring knife. I didn’t know if I should be frightened for her or laughing. When the guy saw Mrs. Kawashiri with a knife, he hesitated. I don’t know, Ken, but I thought maybe he might have had a gun tucked under his shirt or something. Anyway, he told me that I’d be sorry that I didn’t give him the package when I had a chance, and he got out of here.”

  “Did you see which way he went? Or if he got into a car or anything?”

  “No. We were all too shook up and upset. We called the police right away.”

  “Did he get the package?”

  Mariko glared at me. “Of course not. It’s still in the hatbox. Do you think I’m going to let a jerk like that intimidate me?”

  I sighed. “I’ll go apologize to Mrs. Kawashiri as soon as she’s done with the police.”

  “Apologize for what?”

  “I feel like I’m the one who’s responsible for getting the shop wrecked.”

  “Aside from getting the clothes dirty,” Mariko said, “he really didn’t do any permanent damage. I’m just so angry with him. I’m going to buy a nice big aluminum baseball bat and keep it under the counter there, and if that guy ever walks into this shop again, I’m going to put a dent in that bat that matches the curvature of his pointed head.”

  The police finished and left the shop. I stayed to help Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri clean up the mess. As we worked I brought both Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri up to date on what I’d found out about the Yakuza and the value of the warranty claim forms.

  Then, in Japanese fashion, I formally apologized to Mrs. Kawashiri for causing so much trouble. In an equally Japanese reaction, Mrs. Kawashiri absolutely insisted that no trouble had been caused, at least by me, and that I had no responsibility in the incident.

  We both knew that I had caused trouble, and that I was in some manner responsible because it was my package that had triggered the problem. But despite the fact that both Mrs. Kawashiri and I are thoroughly Americanized in other parts of our lives, in our social interaction with other Japanese we play the complicated Japanese social ballet.

  After making my apologies I said good-bye to Mariko and returned to the office. The phone was ringing when I got to the office, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that maybe it was Mariko calling again because something else had happened at the boutique. Instead, when I picked up the phone I was surprised to hear Rita Newly’s voice on the line.

  “Don’t you have a service or answering machine?” she started, irritated.

  “No, and before we continue this conversation, you’re going to give me your phone number and your address so I can contact you when it’s necessary.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she gave me a number and address in the San Fernando valley, which I wrote down on a slip of paper, along with her name.

  “Now, I want my property,” Rita said.

  “I think a friend of yours has already tried to get the package.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning a Caucasian man calling himself George Martin just tried to tear apart the Kawashiri Boutique here in Little Tokyo, demanding your package.”

  Silence.

  “I figure he must be a friend of yours. I told you the package was somewhere near my office and safe, so he probably hung around the office and followed me to the boutique. Unfortunately, that’s not where the package is,” I lied. “All he succeeded in doing was tearing up the shop and causing trouble.”

  “Damn!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Look, Mr. Tanaka, I did have a friend of mine follow you, but he wasn’t supposed to do anything. If he did something stupid, it was completely on his own. It’s just that the package is very important to me, and I don’t want to have to trust you without knowing where it might be.” A pause. “Do you think five hundred dollars would c
over whatever damage he might have done?”

  “I’ll check with the owner of the boutique and call you right back at the number you’ve given me.” I figured I was being clever, checking that the phone number was valid.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I called the boutique, and Mrs. Kawashiri’s warm and friendly voice came on the line.

  “Mrs. Kawashiri, I just talked to the owner of the package, and she offered to pay you five hundred dollars for the damage caused.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “I don’t want the money. What I want to see is that guy in jail. He has no right to do this to my shop. He can’t make things right by just paying for the damage he’s done.”

  “I understand your feelings, Mrs. Kawashiri,” I said. “But I really think you should take the money. It’s being offered by the owner of the package, not the guy who was in your shop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she knows the guy. Besides, even if they do catch this guy and bring him to court, the chances of him really being seriously punished are almost nonexistent.”

  “But don’t you think it’s important for people to know they can’t buy their way out of problems?” she said.

  “Yes, I do. But sometimes what’s important and what actually happens are two different things.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Mrs. Kawashiri said. “It’s not right. It’s just not right.”

  “Sometimes we can’t always do what’s right in this world. Look, how about this as a compromise?” I suggested. “Why don’t you take the money to repair the damage done, but I’ll tell them that the money doesn’t absolve them of any criminal penalties which might be involved.”

  Mrs. Kawashiri considered for a moment, then said, “Okay. Let’s try that. But I don’t want any more than three hundred fifty dollars. That’s what I think it will cost to clean the dresses that require it. I don’t want any more.”

  “All right.”

  “Thank you for your help in this, Ken-san.”

  I hung up and called Rita Newly back and was almost surprised to hear her answering the phone.

  “Mrs. Kawashiri only wants three hundred fifty dollars. That’s all it will take to clean the dresses. She also wants you to know that this doesn’t absolve your friend of any criminal charges.”

  “She doesn’t want all the money?” Rita was incredulous.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Fine. Now, how about my package?”

  I checked my watch. “Well, I’m actually late for an appointment. I don’t want to be petty, but I figure you can wait until after my appointment for me to call you and settle this package thing.”

  “Damn it, Mr. Tanaka . . .”

  I gently put the receiver back on the hook. I was stalling because I knew I was going to turn the package over to the police. Besides, I know I said I didn’t want to be petty, but I have to admit that there was a certain satisfaction in being petty, no matter what my better nature said.

  On a whim, I called back to the boutique and asked Mariko if she wanted to have dinner. She told me that she was helping Mrs. Kawashiri take some of the dresses to the dry cleaners, and I immediately volunteered to help. Before leaving I took the two warranty claims out of my pocket and put them in the top drawer of the desk.

  18

  Mariko and I had dinner at the Ginza Gardens Coffee Shop. Then she asked me if I wanted to come to her place. “Maybe later,” I told her. “I’ve been spending so much time on real mysteries that I’m falling behind on preparing for the L.A. Mystery Club’s mystery. If I don’t start working on it, there will be more than a few club members willing to kill me. How about I go back to the office for an hour or so, then I stop by your apartment?”

  “Okay, but don’t keep me waiting.”

  I returned to the office, and as I unlocked the door and walked in, a voice said, “You really should get a better lock for your front door.”

  I jumped from surprise and spun around. There, standing on either side of the door, were the two Asians who had scared Rita away. The small man gave me a grin, showing off some of the gold-capped teeth that festooned his mouth.

  “We didn’t want to wait in the hall,” he added. “So we let ourselves in and made ourselves comfortable. The lock on your front door is ridiculously easy to open.”

  “Never mind the lock on my front door, what the hell are you two doing here?” I said.

  “That’s not a very warm greeting for two potential clients,” the little man said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the sign on the door says you’re a detective,” the little man answered. “And we want you to find someone for us. Rita Newly.”

  “What do you want her for?”

  “I think you know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s very good,” the little man said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you said you don’t know, it had just the right ring of sincerity combined with anger at finding us in your office.”

  “Look, I’m not playing a game when I say I don’t know what the hell’s going with you two and Rita Newly.”

  The small man shrugged. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the two warranty forms. “These say different. It was careless to leave them in this office. Just because we searched it once, that doesn’t mean we weren’t going to search it again.”

  I calculated the odds of making it through the office doorway past the men. As if reading my mind, the larger of the two men stepped into the doorway, blocking it. He closed the door. The lousy latch made an ominous click, and despite what I had been told about how poor a lock it was, it sounded solid enough to me. Especially with a miniature gorilla standing in front of it.

  “I wouldn’t try it,” the little man said. “My companion is very strong and quite good at the martial arts. More importantly, even if you were able to subdue him, you would then have to deal with me.”

  I shot a glance of surprise at the small man for this declaration of bravado. The man caught my glance and smiled once again. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small automatic pistol. The ugly blue-black barrel of the automatic pointed squarely at my midsection without a waver or a hint of hesitation.

  “This makes me equal to just about anybody,” the small man said. “Please don’t do anything rash. This isn’t one of the pieces of junk that Rita sold to my father in Japan. This is a pistol that I purchased right here in the United States, and I’m quite a good shot with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I can kill you if I choose to or simply blow out your kneecaps and cripple you for life.”

  I felt I was in some kind of grotesque comedy. I explained myself. “I didn’t ask your meaning to find out if you’re a good shot. I was asking about what kind of junk Rita sold to your father.”

  “Surely, you know.”

  I sighed. I was scared and playing for time in the desperate hope that some bright idea would occur to me. “I really don’t. Maybe I could help you if you’d explain to me what the hell’s going on.”

  “Rita sold a shipment of pistols to my father in Japan. In Japan, firearms are strictly prohibited, and a good supply of guns is rather hard to come by. A four-hundred-dollar gun in the U.S. is worth five thousand dollars in Japan, to the right people. Rita arranged for a supply of pistols to be sent to Japan packed in a container of ball bearings. How she arranged that is her business, but what finally arrived in Japan turns out to be my business. The guns are junk, almost worthless. All of them are worn out, and some of them don’t even work. They were probably destined to be sold as scrap. Instead, they were sold to us at quite a premium because of the difficulty of getting such merchandise into Japan.” He held up the invoices. “Now we want to get the payment for that merchandise back. We also wanted to have a talk with Rita to explain to her that it’s not nice
to play such tricks on my father and to also ask her what she knows about the death of Matsuda-san.”

  “You weren’t involved in that?”

  “Of course not. Matsuda-san was a valuable member of our organization. That’s why we want to talk to Rita about it.”

  “But not to me?” I didn’t know if I should believe him about not being involved in Matsuda’s killing. If he did confess to it, it was probably a bad sign for me because it meant that I probably wouldn’t be around to tell anyone about it.

  “You, too. Matsuda-san called us after he delivered the package to you. He was the one who gave us your name and address. He said you were simply a messenger boy and it made him suspicious that Rita didn’t come by to pick up the package herself, or at least didn’t send someone she worked with.

  “Matsuda-san was no fool. He suggested that we should immediately contact Japan and have them check over the shipment of guns. He concluded that there might be something wrong with the shipment. The reason Rita hired someone to come by and pick up the payment was because she was afraid we might have discovered that the guns delivered were no good.”

  “Your English is very good,” I said incongruously.

  “Thank you,” the small man said, pleased. “I went to USC. That’s one of the advantages of having wealthy parents in Japan.”

  At my look of surprise, the small man grinned again. “It’s hard to get into Japanese colleges, and private U.S. schools are so much more accommodating if you can pay the fees. It just takes wealth. Our wealth, of course, was attained through the Yakuza. In fact, you might say that I’m now following through with the family business, running the U.S. operations while my father continues to run things in Japan.”

  I looked at the bigger man. “And don’t you ever say anything?”

  The man looked back impassively, still blocking the door.

  “No, he doesn’t talk too much,” the smaller man said. “But he can be very persuasive when he wants to be. As much fun as this conversation has been, I believe it’s time that he does become very persuasive with you. Now, where can we find Rita and where can we find the rest of the warranty claims?”