Ninja, p.39
Ninja, page 39
The cry came through the wide-open window and he was racing down the dark narrow stairs and into the baking sunshine. Just two doors away, he lay in the alley, his uniform dark with sweat and blood. Trash cans lay tumbled around him, having divulged their slimy secrets as if in one last paroxysm. The gray eyes were open and already glazing; eyes that had always reminded him of a storm-tossed sky. Gentle eyes.
So this was how it ended for Martin Croaker. After twenty-nine years on the New York City Police Force, lying sprawled in an alley piled high with garbage, surrounded by summer stink, fearful rats and incurious roaches, the wail of sirens forlorn in the distance, closing, shot four times forty feet from his own home.
He stared down at the corpse of his father and the world had spun around, canted dangerously on its axis. He felt that, at any moment, its momentum and crazy angle would combine to throw him off.
That’s what he wanted, of course, to run far far away from this stinking hole; never to return. Never.
But that was the easy way out; the coward’s way. Not Lew Croaker’s way. His father had taught him too well.
So he stayed on. To join the police. Old and gray, his mother had come to his Academy graduation and had cried as he was sworn in.
He had never found the man responsible for his father’s death but, after a time, that pain, too, had been put to rest.
He felt her touch his arm; he hadn’t realized the wound was still sensitive. After all this time.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have teased you. I was just…”
“What? You were just what?”
Her eyes lowered. “Happy to be with you.” She tried to make a half-joke out of it, failed. “You make me feel…”
“What?”
She looked up. “Just feel.”
He felt torn. “I bet you could do that and not feel a thing;”
She nodded. “I could. I’m an actress, of course. Do you distrust me? You couldn’t. Not after what you said to me in the van. You took an enormous chance, telling me what you suspect about my father. It was an idiotic thing to do.”
“That’s me. Always the idiot.”
“Yes.” Her voice was as soft as silk.
“You know, you could sell me anything.” He said it defensively, because she was so close. He wanted her to know he knew. He felt he needed that precaution now.
“No,” she said, “I couldn’t. Not now, anyway.” She put her fingers along his arm; they seemed very warm. “The challenge, for myself, is to be honest with you. It’s what will make me happy.”
There came the sound of muted chimes.
She disengaged herself from him, disappeared into the old-fashioned foyer. Her voice floating, “Hi, darling. Come on in.” Returning with her arm around a rather tall boy, dark-haired, almond-eyed. Philip. Croaker turned his back on the proceedings, stared out at the dazzle of the water. A long barge laden with garbage wallowed slowly upriver, a tug at its side. A man in a red and white track suit was jogging along the promenade. He passed the barge, going the other way, and disappeared from view. He and Gelda in bed—flash of flesh against flesh.
“What happened to you, darling? Your face looks awful.”
Her voice was like the background chatter of a TV left on at low volume. He wanted that call to come in so bad he could taste it: the satisfaction of putting a bastard like Tomkin away for twenty years.
“What in God’s name happened to you, darling? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
“No fight, G.”
“Well, what then?”
“Nothing. I fell down….”
There was a sailboat out there—can you imagine? In the middle of the goddamned week. The sail white against the patchwork colors of the buildings on the far shore, scudding along as effortlessly as a cloud. No pressure out there on the river, just the wind and the salt spray and a long way until you reach port. Your own master. Her breasts heavy in his hands; her lips parting.
“… in an alley. The garbage cans—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Philip. And don’t lie to me. Darling, you must tell me what happened. Here, let me put some ice on it—do as I say.” A soft clatter. “There.”
There would be time, after Tomkin was put away, to take some time off. Go to the sea as Melville did when he was sick at heart and he felt like screaming at anyone who came too close. Yes, the sea. Not to fish; he hated fishing. But to sail, perhaps. He’d never done that and it might be time now to try it. Try her.
“At Ah Ma’s—I worked there last night.”
“Well, she’d never do that to you.”
“No. A man—”
“A bastard, that’s what. Here, keep the ice on for a little longer. I forbid you to go there again.”
“But the man is coming there again tonight. She wants me to be there—”
“I don’t care what Ah Ma wants, you’re not going. She’ll have to learn to do without you.”
“It won’t be any good without me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man wants me. That’s how he—ejaculates. I said that right, didn’t I?”
“My God—who is this man?”
“I don’t know. A Japanese. A very strange man. Eyes like dead stones—you know, like he was from another world.”
But Croaker was already turning, his face flushed with the adrenalin building in his body. “Talk to me, Philip,” he said slowly and carefully, masking his excitement. “Tell me about the Japanese with eyes like dead stones.”
Croaker was waiting for them at the tower’s Park Avenue side. His big figure was leaning negligently against the side of his unmarked sedan. The detachable red light revolved atop the car, piercing the long twilight’s sapphire haze like a lighthouse beacon’s unerring warning.
Nicholas emerged from the limo as soon as it pulled over to the curb just to the uptown side of Croaker. As he went quickly toward the detective, he was acutely aware of Tomkin’s presence blooming behind him as Tom, the thin chauffeur, held the heavy door open.
He was aware, too, of the city around him, everything shrouded in blue. The sun was just a memory but its heat refused to leave the asphalt under his shoe soles. The atmosphere was thick with exhaust fumes. The strings of dull yellow cabs along both sides of the avenue seemed like streaming caravans entering and leaving the bowels of the gilt-edged Helmsley Building.
“How’s your boss?” Croaker’s voice was flat and hard and unyielding; he stared past Nicholas’ right shoulder.
Nicholas, feeling the live-wire buildup of tension, said, “Leave it alone, Lew. Forget about—”
“Too late for that, buddy.”
He felt the presence directly behind him even before he heard Tomkin’s voice say, “Still patrolling the streets, I see, Lieutenant. Keeping New York safe for us citizens?” The note of sarcasm was unmistakable.
“This city’s still dangerous for some,” Croaker said pointedly.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out for yourself, Tomkin.”
“I don’t like veiled threats, Lieutenant. Not from anyone. Perhaps I should have another talk with the commissioner and—”
“I knew it was you, you dirty—”
“—we’ll see how long you remain a lieutenant—”
“—reassigned now to this case Nicholas was hired for, so I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“What?”
There was a malicious grin on his face now, his skin yellow, alternately lighter and darker with the wash of passing headlights from the traffic flow.
Brake lights turned Tomkin’s face reddish. “My God, I won’t be saddled with you again!”
“Nothing you can do about it now, I’m afraid. The transfer came down directly from the commissioner himself. Even you won’t get him to change that order. He’d look far too foolish, scurrying to rescind a reassignment.”
“Christ, haven’t I had enough of you, already? You’ve hounded me about—”
“I’m only here to protect you,” Croaker pointed out, “and to nail the ninja before he gets you.”
Tomkin’s eyes narrowed. The peculiar monochromatic light had washed out all color from his eyes; they looked oddly pale. “Wouldn’t you just love to sit back and let him do your dirty work? Sure, sure. You could say, ‘Well, I’m sorry, Captain, but I did my best. I got beaten, is all. Can’t blame me for that.’”
“Listen, you bastard”—Croaker lunged forward, trying to get around Nicholas’ body—“I do my job better than anyone else in this creepy city and if that means making sure you don’t buy it, I’ll do it. When I nail you, buddy, it’s gonna be for all the right reasons—”
“What reasons?” Tomkin snarled. “You got nothing—”
“No, but I will have,” Croaker shouted. “And when I do, I’ll be coming for you with a warrant that’ll stand up to any of your high-priced attorneys!”
“You’ve got nothing,” Tomkin sneered, “and you’ll get nothing. I was nowhere near Angela Didion the night she was murdered. There’s nothing linking me to—”
They were pushing and shoving now. Nicholas heard swift reports on the asphalt as sharp as rifle shots as Tom headed their way. He shouldered the two roughly apart, said, “Knock it off, both of you.”
Then Tom had hold of his boss and was pulling at him. Tomkin allowed himself to be drawn away from the confrontation but lifted a finger, swung it in the air in Croaker’s direction. “I’m warning you,” he cried, “this is harassment. I don’t want you near me!” And then, lowering his voice, said to Nicholas, “He’s after me. I don’t know why. It’s a vendetta. I’ve done nothing, Nick. What’s he doing to me?” He turned away abruptly, walked silently back to the limo with Tom at his side casting a worried glance or two over his shoulder. The revolving red light played on their backs intermittently.
“Well, that was pretty stupid,” Nicholas said, turning around.
“Oh, who gives a fuck? What are you, my nanny? Jesus!” Croaker disappeared into the car.
Nicholas went slowly around to the passenger’s side. He took his time climbing in. Croaker stared fixedly out through the windshield.
“Sorry,” he said, after a time. And then, “That bastard really boils my blood.”
“The antagonism isn’t going to make anything easier.”
Croaker turned his head; looked at Nicholas for the first time since he got in the car. “You know, I worry about you, Nick, I really do.” Their reflections in the windshield like a neon sign, blinking on and off in the backwash of traffic headlights, a product advertisement. “You’re a man who never loses control. Don’t you ever get angry? Or sad?”
Nicholas thought about Justine. He wanted to see her now, to talk to her more than anything.
“Because I feel sorry for you if you don’t.”
“No cause to worry,” he said softly. “I’m as human as the next person. All too human.”
“Hey, you know I’d swear you’re making that sound like a liability. We’re all born into it, buddy.”
“But me,” he said. “I grew up thinking there was no room to make a mistake; that it was some kind of failure if I did.”
“But you made them—”
“Oh, yeah.” Nicholas laughed softly, without humor. “I made plenty of them, especially when it came to women. I trusted when I shouldn’t have; now I guess I’m afraid to try it again.”
“Justine?”
“Yeah. We had a heavy row. It’s mostly my fault, I see now.”
“You know what I think, buddy?” Croaker said, starting the engine.
“What?”
“I think the problem’s not with you and Justine but in the past. What’s so wrong in trusting someone? Like I said, we all do it. Sometimes it pays off and sometimes…” He shrugged. “But what the hell, right? It’s worse never to trust anyone.” He put the car in gear and they edged past Tomkin’s limo, pulling over to the left to make the U-turn downtown.
The flood was coming, Nicholas knew. His face was awash in yellow and red, blue in the shadows between light sweeps. The tsunami, his personal tidal wave, was roaring blackly just behind him, looming over the world. The past will never die, he thought. Pain surged inside him, threatening to engulf him. All the bitter days, hanging like frost on the ledges of his soul, were returning again despite his careful compartmentalizing; the agony returning like a dull river of lead, climbing through him once more. He lacked the strength to push the memories away anymore.
Come! He thought savagely. Here I am; let it happen.
But before the tsunami hit, he heard Croaker saying triumphantly, “But cheer up. We got a break. We may not know who this ninja is but I know where he’s gonna be at exactly 11 P.M. tonight.
“We’re gonna be there, buddy, waiting. You and me and two blue-and-white backup units. We’re gonna nail this bastard before he even gets a chance to get to Raphael Tomkin.”
Osaka / Shimonoseki / Kumamoto / Tokyo Suburbs
WINTER 1963
AT THIS TIME OF the year the countryside was bleak and pale. The searingly spectacular deep reds and oranges of the autumnal foliage had already faded, dropped away to dull brown mulch under animals’ hooves, and the first snow had obstinately yet to fall to leave the sere land hidden beneath its ghostly luminescence.
Rolling by rail under a low sky full of incipient rain reminding him of a child’s face full of an emotion unacknowledged, it seemed sad to see the lines of bare trees like rough wire approximations of next year’s model in among the eternal dark green of the sentinel pines. So forlorn, almost as if God had, after much effort, at last given up on this part of the world.
Nicholas allowed his eyes to focus on the far horizon. The speed-blur of the landscape passing closer about on a fun-house ride. Yukio, leaning half across him to get a better glimpse, pressed the side of one hard breast against him. Fingers spread on his thigh to brace herself against the rocking. Nails digging in, giving her purchase. Warmth spread upward into his groin and he wondered, half-afraid, half-expectant, if her hand would move up with it to cup him.
Opposite, on a seat facing them, a Japanese businessman in a dark-colored pinstripe and a scrubbed face; calfskin attaché case placed carefully on the seat beside him as mute company, surmounted by a charcoal-gray cashmere overcoat folded meticulously and, atop that, like the miniature couple on a white wedding cake, a black bowler hat—in all, an arcane archaeological pyramid offering no ancestral clues—glanced up from reading the paper. His eyes were given the unnatural size and annularity by his thick round glasses. He blinked much as a fish might upon encountering an unexpected foreign object close to hand. Was he staring at the proximity of her fingertips to his crotch before he returned to his reading? The paper rustled slightly. It might have been a brick wall.
Nicholas could see the flash of reflected light from the curving edge of the thick gold ring. He imagined the man to be an important member of the zaibatsu. But which one, he wondered? Mitsubishi, perhaps? Or Sumitomo or Mitsui? Not one of the groups, surely, Fuyo, Sanwa, Dai-Ichi Kangyō. Of the seven lesser konzerns, he was obviously not from Nippon Steel, Toyota or Nissan. No, he had the look about him of the burgeoning electronics firms like Tōshiba-IHI, Matsushita, Hitachi—on second thought, scratch Hitachi—or Tōkyū. Did Tōkyū manufacture electronics, come to think of it? He wasn’t all that certain.
Perhaps this man’s family had started Mitsubishi—the families, he knew, were back running the zaibatsu as they had since the beginning. The American laws that had forced a hiatus had been stricken after only a brief term.
Nicholas stared at the paper barrier as if he had X-ray vision. He could see in his mind the round yellow face, slightly burnished with a light film of sweat, and, below it, the perfect collar white as snow, stiff and starched, the thin dark silk tie the color of the midnight sky. Here was a symbol of the new Japan: the painful climb out of the stone-age isolationism—oddly, still more pressing than the much more recent war—the human memory is so deliberately and de-pressingly selective. Adopting the Western mode of dress was just one manifestation of the Japanese cultural drive to catch up with the West. As monomaniacal as Tojo still. Or MacArthur. Our savior.
Parity was already a fact in Japan and the country was gearing itself up for overdrive, for the great push to surpass those countries from which it had learned. And there would come a day now, Nicholas was convinced, when the Japanese, having proved his economic strength, would shed his Western apurtenances, returning in rewon security to the traditional kimono, robes of state.
They were on the fast train—the express—from Tokyo to Osaka. Out the window on their right was all of the width of Honshu, the main island. On the other side they could see from time to time the glintings of the sea, throwing bright golden reflections in abstract patterns across the car’s ceiling. The vibration from the rails was minimal, as was the noise on this sleek blue and silver liner, quiet, spacious and serene.
Yukio sat back in the seat, linked her arm through his. “Why don’t we stay overnight in Osaka?” she suggested and then, as if in explanation, “I hate trains.”
Nicholas thought about that. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. The night life there was bright and glossy and he needed cheering up right now.
The little bit of clandestine cloak and dagger that Yukio and he had concocted regarding Saigō—he had quite conveniently forgotten whose suggestion it had been—had proved unnecessary. Astoundingly, before she had even had a chance to leave for the dinner at Satsugai’s house, where she was to take a peek at Saigō’s ticket destination, a note had been delivered to Nicholas. It was in Saigō’s hand and it invited him to come to a town called Kumamoto in Kyūshū for a visit during the next few weeks. No reason was given for the invitation. Like everything in Saigō’s life, this, too, was meant to be secretive.
Nicholas had read the note with a mounting sense of deflation. Irrationally, he felt as if Saigō had somehow read his mind and he could not throw off the anticipatory overtones the words set off in him, like a far-off bell tolling from some fog-shrouded hillside. “This will all be unexplored territory,” Kansatsu had said to him, “if you decide it’s what you want. It is totally your decision to make, Nicholas. I cannot guide you. Only say that here you can go no further. For that you must look to the darkness—and the light.” Squelched, his plan had been cruelly revealed as just so much juvenile fantasy and, instead of thinking about why he had been asked south, he made himself busy feeling unhappy, defeated. And to make matters worse, Yukio went to dinner at Satsugai’s anyway.
So this was how it ended for Martin Croaker. After twenty-nine years on the New York City Police Force, lying sprawled in an alley piled high with garbage, surrounded by summer stink, fearful rats and incurious roaches, the wail of sirens forlorn in the distance, closing, shot four times forty feet from his own home.
He stared down at the corpse of his father and the world had spun around, canted dangerously on its axis. He felt that, at any moment, its momentum and crazy angle would combine to throw him off.
That’s what he wanted, of course, to run far far away from this stinking hole; never to return. Never.
But that was the easy way out; the coward’s way. Not Lew Croaker’s way. His father had taught him too well.
So he stayed on. To join the police. Old and gray, his mother had come to his Academy graduation and had cried as he was sworn in.
He had never found the man responsible for his father’s death but, after a time, that pain, too, had been put to rest.
He felt her touch his arm; he hadn’t realized the wound was still sensitive. After all this time.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have teased you. I was just…”
“What? You were just what?”
Her eyes lowered. “Happy to be with you.” She tried to make a half-joke out of it, failed. “You make me feel…”
“What?”
She looked up. “Just feel.”
He felt torn. “I bet you could do that and not feel a thing;”
She nodded. “I could. I’m an actress, of course. Do you distrust me? You couldn’t. Not after what you said to me in the van. You took an enormous chance, telling me what you suspect about my father. It was an idiotic thing to do.”
“That’s me. Always the idiot.”
“Yes.” Her voice was as soft as silk.
“You know, you could sell me anything.” He said it defensively, because she was so close. He wanted her to know he knew. He felt he needed that precaution now.
“No,” she said, “I couldn’t. Not now, anyway.” She put her fingers along his arm; they seemed very warm. “The challenge, for myself, is to be honest with you. It’s what will make me happy.”
There came the sound of muted chimes.
She disengaged herself from him, disappeared into the old-fashioned foyer. Her voice floating, “Hi, darling. Come on in.” Returning with her arm around a rather tall boy, dark-haired, almond-eyed. Philip. Croaker turned his back on the proceedings, stared out at the dazzle of the water. A long barge laden with garbage wallowed slowly upriver, a tug at its side. A man in a red and white track suit was jogging along the promenade. He passed the barge, going the other way, and disappeared from view. He and Gelda in bed—flash of flesh against flesh.
“What happened to you, darling? Your face looks awful.”
Her voice was like the background chatter of a TV left on at low volume. He wanted that call to come in so bad he could taste it: the satisfaction of putting a bastard like Tomkin away for twenty years.
“What in God’s name happened to you, darling? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”
“No fight, G.”
“Well, what then?”
“Nothing. I fell down….”
There was a sailboat out there—can you imagine? In the middle of the goddamned week. The sail white against the patchwork colors of the buildings on the far shore, scudding along as effortlessly as a cloud. No pressure out there on the river, just the wind and the salt spray and a long way until you reach port. Your own master. Her breasts heavy in his hands; her lips parting.
“… in an alley. The garbage cans—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Philip. And don’t lie to me. Darling, you must tell me what happened. Here, let me put some ice on it—do as I say.” A soft clatter. “There.”
There would be time, after Tomkin was put away, to take some time off. Go to the sea as Melville did when he was sick at heart and he felt like screaming at anyone who came too close. Yes, the sea. Not to fish; he hated fishing. But to sail, perhaps. He’d never done that and it might be time now to try it. Try her.
“At Ah Ma’s—I worked there last night.”
“Well, she’d never do that to you.”
“No. A man—”
“A bastard, that’s what. Here, keep the ice on for a little longer. I forbid you to go there again.”
“But the man is coming there again tonight. She wants me to be there—”
“I don’t care what Ah Ma wants, you’re not going. She’ll have to learn to do without you.”
“It won’t be any good without me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man wants me. That’s how he—ejaculates. I said that right, didn’t I?”
“My God—who is this man?”
“I don’t know. A Japanese. A very strange man. Eyes like dead stones—you know, like he was from another world.”
But Croaker was already turning, his face flushed with the adrenalin building in his body. “Talk to me, Philip,” he said slowly and carefully, masking his excitement. “Tell me about the Japanese with eyes like dead stones.”
Croaker was waiting for them at the tower’s Park Avenue side. His big figure was leaning negligently against the side of his unmarked sedan. The detachable red light revolved atop the car, piercing the long twilight’s sapphire haze like a lighthouse beacon’s unerring warning.
Nicholas emerged from the limo as soon as it pulled over to the curb just to the uptown side of Croaker. As he went quickly toward the detective, he was acutely aware of Tomkin’s presence blooming behind him as Tom, the thin chauffeur, held the heavy door open.
He was aware, too, of the city around him, everything shrouded in blue. The sun was just a memory but its heat refused to leave the asphalt under his shoe soles. The atmosphere was thick with exhaust fumes. The strings of dull yellow cabs along both sides of the avenue seemed like streaming caravans entering and leaving the bowels of the gilt-edged Helmsley Building.
“How’s your boss?” Croaker’s voice was flat and hard and unyielding; he stared past Nicholas’ right shoulder.
Nicholas, feeling the live-wire buildup of tension, said, “Leave it alone, Lew. Forget about—”
“Too late for that, buddy.”
He felt the presence directly behind him even before he heard Tomkin’s voice say, “Still patrolling the streets, I see, Lieutenant. Keeping New York safe for us citizens?” The note of sarcasm was unmistakable.
“This city’s still dangerous for some,” Croaker said pointedly.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out for yourself, Tomkin.”
“I don’t like veiled threats, Lieutenant. Not from anyone. Perhaps I should have another talk with the commissioner and—”
“I knew it was you, you dirty—”
“—we’ll see how long you remain a lieutenant—”
“—reassigned now to this case Nicholas was hired for, so I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“What?”
There was a malicious grin on his face now, his skin yellow, alternately lighter and darker with the wash of passing headlights from the traffic flow.
Brake lights turned Tomkin’s face reddish. “My God, I won’t be saddled with you again!”
“Nothing you can do about it now, I’m afraid. The transfer came down directly from the commissioner himself. Even you won’t get him to change that order. He’d look far too foolish, scurrying to rescind a reassignment.”
“Christ, haven’t I had enough of you, already? You’ve hounded me about—”
“I’m only here to protect you,” Croaker pointed out, “and to nail the ninja before he gets you.”
Tomkin’s eyes narrowed. The peculiar monochromatic light had washed out all color from his eyes; they looked oddly pale. “Wouldn’t you just love to sit back and let him do your dirty work? Sure, sure. You could say, ‘Well, I’m sorry, Captain, but I did my best. I got beaten, is all. Can’t blame me for that.’”
“Listen, you bastard”—Croaker lunged forward, trying to get around Nicholas’ body—“I do my job better than anyone else in this creepy city and if that means making sure you don’t buy it, I’ll do it. When I nail you, buddy, it’s gonna be for all the right reasons—”
“What reasons?” Tomkin snarled. “You got nothing—”
“No, but I will have,” Croaker shouted. “And when I do, I’ll be coming for you with a warrant that’ll stand up to any of your high-priced attorneys!”
“You’ve got nothing,” Tomkin sneered, “and you’ll get nothing. I was nowhere near Angela Didion the night she was murdered. There’s nothing linking me to—”
They were pushing and shoving now. Nicholas heard swift reports on the asphalt as sharp as rifle shots as Tom headed their way. He shouldered the two roughly apart, said, “Knock it off, both of you.”
Then Tom had hold of his boss and was pulling at him. Tomkin allowed himself to be drawn away from the confrontation but lifted a finger, swung it in the air in Croaker’s direction. “I’m warning you,” he cried, “this is harassment. I don’t want you near me!” And then, lowering his voice, said to Nicholas, “He’s after me. I don’t know why. It’s a vendetta. I’ve done nothing, Nick. What’s he doing to me?” He turned away abruptly, walked silently back to the limo with Tom at his side casting a worried glance or two over his shoulder. The revolving red light played on their backs intermittently.
“Well, that was pretty stupid,” Nicholas said, turning around.
“Oh, who gives a fuck? What are you, my nanny? Jesus!” Croaker disappeared into the car.
Nicholas went slowly around to the passenger’s side. He took his time climbing in. Croaker stared fixedly out through the windshield.
“Sorry,” he said, after a time. And then, “That bastard really boils my blood.”
“The antagonism isn’t going to make anything easier.”
Croaker turned his head; looked at Nicholas for the first time since he got in the car. “You know, I worry about you, Nick, I really do.” Their reflections in the windshield like a neon sign, blinking on and off in the backwash of traffic headlights, a product advertisement. “You’re a man who never loses control. Don’t you ever get angry? Or sad?”
Nicholas thought about Justine. He wanted to see her now, to talk to her more than anything.
“Because I feel sorry for you if you don’t.”
“No cause to worry,” he said softly. “I’m as human as the next person. All too human.”
“Hey, you know I’d swear you’re making that sound like a liability. We’re all born into it, buddy.”
“But me,” he said. “I grew up thinking there was no room to make a mistake; that it was some kind of failure if I did.”
“But you made them—”
“Oh, yeah.” Nicholas laughed softly, without humor. “I made plenty of them, especially when it came to women. I trusted when I shouldn’t have; now I guess I’m afraid to try it again.”
“Justine?”
“Yeah. We had a heavy row. It’s mostly my fault, I see now.”
“You know what I think, buddy?” Croaker said, starting the engine.
“What?”
“I think the problem’s not with you and Justine but in the past. What’s so wrong in trusting someone? Like I said, we all do it. Sometimes it pays off and sometimes…” He shrugged. “But what the hell, right? It’s worse never to trust anyone.” He put the car in gear and they edged past Tomkin’s limo, pulling over to the left to make the U-turn downtown.
The flood was coming, Nicholas knew. His face was awash in yellow and red, blue in the shadows between light sweeps. The tsunami, his personal tidal wave, was roaring blackly just behind him, looming over the world. The past will never die, he thought. Pain surged inside him, threatening to engulf him. All the bitter days, hanging like frost on the ledges of his soul, were returning again despite his careful compartmentalizing; the agony returning like a dull river of lead, climbing through him once more. He lacked the strength to push the memories away anymore.
Come! He thought savagely. Here I am; let it happen.
But before the tsunami hit, he heard Croaker saying triumphantly, “But cheer up. We got a break. We may not know who this ninja is but I know where he’s gonna be at exactly 11 P.M. tonight.
“We’re gonna be there, buddy, waiting. You and me and two blue-and-white backup units. We’re gonna nail this bastard before he even gets a chance to get to Raphael Tomkin.”
Osaka / Shimonoseki / Kumamoto / Tokyo Suburbs
WINTER 1963
AT THIS TIME OF the year the countryside was bleak and pale. The searingly spectacular deep reds and oranges of the autumnal foliage had already faded, dropped away to dull brown mulch under animals’ hooves, and the first snow had obstinately yet to fall to leave the sere land hidden beneath its ghostly luminescence.
Rolling by rail under a low sky full of incipient rain reminding him of a child’s face full of an emotion unacknowledged, it seemed sad to see the lines of bare trees like rough wire approximations of next year’s model in among the eternal dark green of the sentinel pines. So forlorn, almost as if God had, after much effort, at last given up on this part of the world.
Nicholas allowed his eyes to focus on the far horizon. The speed-blur of the landscape passing closer about on a fun-house ride. Yukio, leaning half across him to get a better glimpse, pressed the side of one hard breast against him. Fingers spread on his thigh to brace herself against the rocking. Nails digging in, giving her purchase. Warmth spread upward into his groin and he wondered, half-afraid, half-expectant, if her hand would move up with it to cup him.
Opposite, on a seat facing them, a Japanese businessman in a dark-colored pinstripe and a scrubbed face; calfskin attaché case placed carefully on the seat beside him as mute company, surmounted by a charcoal-gray cashmere overcoat folded meticulously and, atop that, like the miniature couple on a white wedding cake, a black bowler hat—in all, an arcane archaeological pyramid offering no ancestral clues—glanced up from reading the paper. His eyes were given the unnatural size and annularity by his thick round glasses. He blinked much as a fish might upon encountering an unexpected foreign object close to hand. Was he staring at the proximity of her fingertips to his crotch before he returned to his reading? The paper rustled slightly. It might have been a brick wall.
Nicholas could see the flash of reflected light from the curving edge of the thick gold ring. He imagined the man to be an important member of the zaibatsu. But which one, he wondered? Mitsubishi, perhaps? Or Sumitomo or Mitsui? Not one of the groups, surely, Fuyo, Sanwa, Dai-Ichi Kangyō. Of the seven lesser konzerns, he was obviously not from Nippon Steel, Toyota or Nissan. No, he had the look about him of the burgeoning electronics firms like Tōshiba-IHI, Matsushita, Hitachi—on second thought, scratch Hitachi—or Tōkyū. Did Tōkyū manufacture electronics, come to think of it? He wasn’t all that certain.
Perhaps this man’s family had started Mitsubishi—the families, he knew, were back running the zaibatsu as they had since the beginning. The American laws that had forced a hiatus had been stricken after only a brief term.
Nicholas stared at the paper barrier as if he had X-ray vision. He could see in his mind the round yellow face, slightly burnished with a light film of sweat, and, below it, the perfect collar white as snow, stiff and starched, the thin dark silk tie the color of the midnight sky. Here was a symbol of the new Japan: the painful climb out of the stone-age isolationism—oddly, still more pressing than the much more recent war—the human memory is so deliberately and de-pressingly selective. Adopting the Western mode of dress was just one manifestation of the Japanese cultural drive to catch up with the West. As monomaniacal as Tojo still. Or MacArthur. Our savior.
Parity was already a fact in Japan and the country was gearing itself up for overdrive, for the great push to surpass those countries from which it had learned. And there would come a day now, Nicholas was convinced, when the Japanese, having proved his economic strength, would shed his Western apurtenances, returning in rewon security to the traditional kimono, robes of state.
They were on the fast train—the express—from Tokyo to Osaka. Out the window on their right was all of the width of Honshu, the main island. On the other side they could see from time to time the glintings of the sea, throwing bright golden reflections in abstract patterns across the car’s ceiling. The vibration from the rails was minimal, as was the noise on this sleek blue and silver liner, quiet, spacious and serene.
Yukio sat back in the seat, linked her arm through his. “Why don’t we stay overnight in Osaka?” she suggested and then, as if in explanation, “I hate trains.”
Nicholas thought about that. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. The night life there was bright and glossy and he needed cheering up right now.
The little bit of clandestine cloak and dagger that Yukio and he had concocted regarding Saigō—he had quite conveniently forgotten whose suggestion it had been—had proved unnecessary. Astoundingly, before she had even had a chance to leave for the dinner at Satsugai’s house, where she was to take a peek at Saigō’s ticket destination, a note had been delivered to Nicholas. It was in Saigō’s hand and it invited him to come to a town called Kumamoto in Kyūshū for a visit during the next few weeks. No reason was given for the invitation. Like everything in Saigō’s life, this, too, was meant to be secretive.
Nicholas had read the note with a mounting sense of deflation. Irrationally, he felt as if Saigō had somehow read his mind and he could not throw off the anticipatory overtones the words set off in him, like a far-off bell tolling from some fog-shrouded hillside. “This will all be unexplored territory,” Kansatsu had said to him, “if you decide it’s what you want. It is totally your decision to make, Nicholas. I cannot guide you. Only say that here you can go no further. For that you must look to the darkness—and the light.” Squelched, his plan had been cruelly revealed as just so much juvenile fantasy and, instead of thinking about why he had been asked south, he made himself busy feeling unhappy, defeated. And to make matters worse, Yukio went to dinner at Satsugai’s anyway.
