Murder On The East China Sea

by Mark W M Smith

  The man’s anger had kept the latch from catching.

  I slipped in low and quick before my brain could talk me out of it. Squatting just inside and left of the entryway, my pump sounded its command for retreat.

  A sliver of cheap light escaped a tiny room with a hidden entrance, caressing my sneaker. The shop owner pecked at the strippers’ incomes on an electric adding machine. The keys tapped out a message. “You only lie to keep from losing your pecker.”

  I scuttled along the opposite edge of the catwalk.

  My reflection followed. The keys mocked, “You don’t lie to help your friend keep his.””

  One-way glass gave management a unique perspective on GI lust. The owner’s murky shadow glowed from behind the pane. His demonic gray head bent forward, conjuring numbers from his electronic cauldron. My ghostly image stood beside him.

  “Daddy peddles Asian cars to desperate American farmers,” the machine chanted. “You barter your white dick to vulnerable women.”

  I shook my head at the image. This wasn’t about me. I was helping G become comfortable with women. My affair meant to balance the scales after Nansi gambled our savings into oblivion.

  My ghostly image refused the logic. Tentacles of shame constricted my chest. The mirror wrapped me into its replica, leaving nothing but my huckster of a father, Dixon Pierce, conman, car peddler, and womanizer staring back. Dixon had abandoned his children to protect them from angry battles with his wife, simultaneously saving himself the trouble of caring for us. Here I was, conning a way to stay in the fight without fully committing myself.

  * * *

  Ducking below the mirror’s accusation, I crawled through a doorway into the back.

  A short hall separated four small rooms into pairs on either side. Each eight-by-eight cube was hidden behind a dark Oriental fabric embroidered with fanciful characters engaged in erotic activities aglow under the black light from the ceiling fixture. An ominous metal door guarded the exit.

  Only one of the tiny rooms had the curtain pinned back and a strip of dark tape across the opening.

  I ducked beneath it onto one knee, letting my eyes adjust.

  A cot occupied one corner. The rest of the space was bare.

  I lowered myself to search under the bed. Odors of sweat and dust and dead perfume filled my nostrils. My pupils widened a bit more, revealing sweep marks that showed high disregard for proper cleanliness. They also swept away any anticipation of evidence collection. Strength and vitality drained away. I would find no clues. The filthy chill of the floor was caressing my cheek when a coin glinted at me from against the wall under the bed.

  Two dimes stuck together.

  Blocking thoughts of the adhesive fluids available in a strip club that catered to sexual favors for money, I scooted on my belly for the required reach.

  My position obstructed the minimal light.

  I gritted my teeth, scooping its general location.

  The object bit my finger.

  “Damn!” I shoved out of the dark, hit my head on the bed frame and relinquished my grip.

  The momentary hold and pinging sound of the item’s bounce gave it identity. A lapel pin. It landed beneath the frame’s edge.

  Bending forward allowed me to see a bigger problem than my false loyalty. A tiny badge winked at me from beneath the wings of an eagle.

  Someone scuffed a shoe outside of the room.

  A hook of my fingers captured the pin. The jab in my palm sent it flying back under the bed. I scrambled under the tape for the back door, praying to God it wasn’t locked. The knob twisted and I slammed mid-height with my shoulder.

  The night air had dropped five degrees against the heat of the coming day.

  My body’s momentum hurtled me over the steps, but I recovered with preternatural agility. Stumbling onto the asphalt, I scooted behind a dumpster just as the glow from upstairs barked out, “Zakennayo! Stupid GI. Yakuza feed you fish.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AS QUICK AS the door latched, I skedaddled like Granddad Pierce once the dishes cleared the table. In my haste, I turned onto a wrong street and stumbled down a dark alley.

  Tiptoeing along the middle to avoid kicking a garbage can or stepping in unfettered waste, my mind sorted the implications of my discovery. I squinted, trying to recall its exact shape.

  A cop’s lapel pin? Dropped during an investigation? Could that happen?

  Foggy memory banks crackled out an idea that this specific pin was worn with civvies. Maybe talk overheard at a barracks mixer. Or I’d seen something similar while attending a True Blue Air Crew soirée.

  My foot landed in squishy, prompting a high-stepping dance. Searching the murkiness for goo pulled my attention from questions about coppers and their insignia.

  I stomped my foot, barking out loud, “Dammit!”

  The words ricocheted off my throat, stimulating my heart for take off. I lengthened my stride.

  A blast of light jumped at me.

  I dodged into shadow.

  “Gaijin!” a grungy middle-aged woman whispered from the opened doorway. “Come, come. Anything you knee. Five dollar.”

  “Shit,” my lips declared. Whisper Alley. Sakahaichi to the regulars hiding their naughtiness from wives and lovers. “No, no. Me fine,” I replied in Americanized avoidance.

  Her door closed. Another popped open. “Gaijin! GI! Ten dollar sucky!”

  “No thanks, lady. I’m just looking for my car.” I stretched my legs to full stride. “You people need to review your marketing plan. Raising prices to entice buyers? Sketchy.” Even as I uttered the phrase it occurred that this was precisely aligned with American marketing tactics.

  Bam! Light flooded my path from door number three. This time from the left.

  I hopped right.

  A small female form shot from the luminance. Her silky dark hair wrapped around me. A dainty hand grabbed my sleeve.

  Stunned, I stared into her sixteen-year-old face. Her exquisite features startled me silent. Escape scenarios raced around my prefrontal cortex. Sex with her was out, no matter the price.

  She pressed into me. Her breath caressed my face. “GI Soldier? Come, come.” She tugged my shirt toward the open doorway.

  I dug in. “No way, young lady. I can’t do that.”

  She pulled harder. “Come on, American man!”

  “I can’t. You’re too young.”

  Her hair fanned out with perfection as she spun to thump my chest with a tiny fist. “Oh see! Me okay to take off clothes for tough guy soldier, but no talkie talkie!”

  The comment flooded me with both arousal and shame. Her face matched the lithe gymnast from the strip club. My cheeks flushed hot. “You can’t be over sixteen.”

  “Oh?” She toe-lifted to match my height.

  Her absurdity broke a grin free.

  “How old I am naked?”

  A sharp inhale of self loathing knocked my jaw loose. “I— ”

  “I no want fuck you,” she said with a twist toward the door. “Come.” Her strength increased by ten. “Yakuza looking GI boner.”

  Stumbling after her I asked, “GI Boner? Who the hell is that?”

  * * *

  The room shrunk as we stepped inside. Its single bare bulb represented the mustard sun of a dying universe.

  “Nice place,” I lied.

  Two cots took up the rightmost wall, one smoothed with an expert hand and the other a bundle of blankets adorned with long, silky hair striped with gray. A kitchenette in porcelain and rust occupied the opposite wall. The center of the space held an American dinette table with ribbed aluminum trim surrounding a marbled yellow top. Burn marks in the surface reminisced on thousands of desperate groans in underpriced sexual gratification. They had chopped the legs short to suit tatami-style seating.

  “I no live,” she said grabbing an olive green duffle from under the bed. “This house friend. My home. Kin town. We go. You drive. Natsuko go own home.”

  The di
m light and rapid movement prevented identifying the GI's name stamped along the edge of the bag. It was definitely U.S. Air Force issue.

  “I’ve got to get back to my wife, girl. I’m not driving you anywhere.”

  “You not argue me,” she said without stopping the systematic collection of personal goods from around the room. “You want me get killed? I not get killed for GI soldier.” She hesitated near the sleeping woman, stooped and kissed her head before yanking the pull string.

  Total darkness stopped time.

  My mind blanked. The whole adventure was just a frightening dream. I was reaching into my pocket to prove it when her tender steel grip yanked me into the dank alley.

  It had grown brighter in our absence.

  “You car where?” she asked, walking toward the street.

  “Not far.” I was running out of energy to dismiss her. “We going to Stockholm, little lady?”

  “We go Natsuko. I tell who kill Keziah.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A RISING SUN angled the wheels of the car eastward. We traveled north on Highway 329 toward Kin Town. Natsuko talked while a golden thread of candor cracked over the ocean.

  Flashes of Nansi frolicking in her bikini the summer before Penelope was born intruded on Natsuko’s monologue. Bits of her broken English dropped in, glints of reflected sunshine off the autumn waves. A curve aimed the windshield into the eastern horizon. The blazing ball of pure light pierced my soul. My eyes teared. This tiny act as the good samaritan slammed up against my failures. I’d failed to help G. I didn't respect my wife. And I’d treated this young woman’s friend with no more consideration than a backstreet whore moments before her murder.

  My aggressive hitchhiker shutdown the introspective moment.

  “I not poke poke suck suck girl.” She emphasized her point with finger-in-fist action followed by the fake-a-lollipop-with-your-tongue motion.

  I flinched, expecting a punch. “Why hang out in Whisper Alley?”

  “Hiding!”

  A glance away from the sun’s accusations revealed her disdain.

  “Okay. Me stupid gaijin,” I said. “Why Natsuko hide where GI want blowjob?”

  Her lightning jab caught my tricep.

  My condescending chuckle ended with a grunt. “Ow.” It reminded me of a teenage argument with my sister, Renée, over who ate the last of the Count Chocula.

  “Hide where Yakuza and Gaijin cop no lookie look.” She looked past me toward the growing morning.

  “Yakuza?” Hair on my neck pulled my shoulders to attention.

  “My stripper name Summer,” she responded to the sky.

  I almost lost sight of the road watching her angelic transformation.

  “Keziah help me find name. She good. I not good.” Without looking I could sense her tears forming.

  “Summer?”

  “Natsuko a tree in forest. Invisible to family. Keziah say, Summer bright.” The smile came through her voice. “Like future of Natsuko.” She faded. “No more.”

  “That’s beautiful.” I cringed at the use of a GI come on line. “Keziah must have been a smart girl.”

  “She love us.”

  Surprise at her diction raised my eyebrows.

  “Keziah help all girls,” Natsuko said with rising intensity. “Rosamie beat by boyfriend, Keziah nurse. Valentina lose special bracelet from father, Keziah find one same.” She paused. “Natsuko rape, Keziah say okay. Not Natsuko choice. GI choice. Keziah give hope.”

  My tongue wouldn’t hold the question. “Someone raped you?”

  “Before.” She blurted. “I sixteen. Nice American GI. He say marry. Anmaa, Natsuko mama, she says no marry GI. Boyfriend angry, he says he make wife—”

  My fists tightened on the steering wheel.

  “It good I not marry. Him not true nice.”

  I fumed on it. Natsuko believed her name was a promise of hope. Keziah helped her choose a performer title that encouraged that idea. Now she feared dying alone and cold, a withering plant in winter. Because selfish men refused to control themselves. It placed a spotlight on my own moral weakness.

  “Cinnamon murdered.”

  That threw me off the horse of self-loathing.

  “That Keziah stripper name. No one kill Keziah. She good. Kill Cinnamon.”

  My mind absorbed the concept with surprising quickness. To battle the depraved and chaotic nature of murder, Natsuko changed the narrative into an acceptable version of her loss.

  “She Filipino. Keziah mean tree of cinnamon. She love cinnamon. Cinnamon stage name. Family name is field. She say ‘Cinnamon Field, flowers and peace.’ This make Keziah move through time, help her okay with GI touch touch suck suck. She always smile, lift other girls. She lives in dream. She tell us ‘I be nurse. I make life good for baby sisters, little brother. No more begging food. Father no more working dark morning, come home dark night.’”

  “Turn this,” she said, pointing to a street on the right.

  I slowed and banked into a winding road near the beach.

  “I get out. You go home wife. No more looking at troubles.”

  I flushed. Natsuko was a kind girl in a harsh environment. “No more strip clubs,” I promised.

  She scowled and shook her head. “Keziah believe Cinnamon good name,” she told me, opening her expression. “She say call her cinnamon bark. She tough.” Natsuko thumped her chest. Her eyes darkened. “When boyfriend gave her strange hat, I worry. He creeping, show up surprise. I no want Keziah man come visit.” She pulled the door latch. Fresh sea air engulfed the interior.

  “Strange hat?” I asked, grabbing at the clue.

  Natsuko stepped into the street and slammed the door.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “You said you knew who killed Keziah.”

  The back door opened, and she grabbed the duffle.

  I latched onto it, preventing her from leaving.

  Sticking her face inside she added, “You don’t be mister Sherlock. Keziah boyfriend,” she lifted an eyebrow, “he a cop.” She ripped the bag from my hand and disappeared.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MY WATCH TOLD me I had ten minutes to get to the base for my shift. Camp Hansen was nearby. That meant the Expressway was close. I dug in my pocket for the 500 yen toll and pulled out a Bicentennial quarter and a 100 yen coin.

  “Perfect.” I rolled down the window to yell at my good deed for the day.

  She turned a corner into oblivion.

  “Hey!” My shout surrendered to a gust of sea breeze. “I’ll come back and thank you later,” I muttered, rolling the glass up again. “When I have nothing but time because I lost my job helping you.”

  Drawing a bead southbound on Highway 329, I made it less than two kilometers before a bend in the road trapped me behind a stalled farm truck.

  I cranked my neck to peer out the back window, grabbed reverse and backed twenty-five yards before a black sedan filled my rear window.

  My tires screeched to a stop.

  “Damn it, people!”

  My door popped open. Four massive, tattoo-covered knuckles smashed my right cheek bone into next week.

  The damn thing nearly came off of its hinges. Before I could catch my bearings and scramble out the passenger side, my body was being yanked from the car. My feet caught the lip of the doorsill and the big multi-colored bastard just let me drop. Coral-based asphalt bit into my jacked up jawline as my face hit the roadway. Fear choked my throat while anger boiled in my gut. I struggled to push myself erect while my brain sorted out the details.

  Godzilla was Okinawan or Japanese and by the bits and pieces of elaborate tattooing I could make out, he was likely Yakuza.

  “Hey buddy,” I forced out of my sideways screwed mouth.

  His steel-toed boot kicked me a couple times and I’m sure I heard a rib crack.

  I puked a bit of last night’s dinner and tried to remember what it was. The only memory left intact told me my airplane was set to launch in an hour with a gaggle of
pararescue jumpers who needed a ride over the ocean. Getting the shit kicked out of me by a Japanese Yakuza made no sense at all.

  Was it for snooping around his club? Not tipping worth a damn? Hanging out with his girls? Hell, he probably thought I was dating Natsuko.

  “I wasn’t trying to date your girl,” I blathered.

  He booted me twice, grabbed my collar and hefted me to my feet like laundry. His colorful knuckles punched my face.

  I heard bones break but my nerves had abandoned ship. I swung for his Adam’s apple and connected well enough to break his grip.

  He kicked me again on my descent.

  Each excruciating blow pushed the fear that stuck in my throat closer to my open mouth. I rolled against his legs and grabbed hold.

  He tipped backwards, crashing onto the curb.

  I spun away to get my feet under me. My shoulder banged into the damned open car door. I was so freaking mad by now I didn’t even notice it. Up. On my toes. Moving in and swinging hard. This guy was big. A head taller and 100 pounds heavier. My punches didn’t phase him, but I was angry and anger can drive you insane. Insane enough to kick the shit out of a Yakuza gangster.

  As my fists smashed flesh, I worked out where is this guy’s weakness? He’s got to have a weakness. He’s big. He’s slow. Got to keep him from laying hands on me.

  He reached for my hair and cocked an arm for another punch to my face.

  I ducked and took a couple quick shots under his rib cage.

  This pushed him back a step, but he was a machine. Beating people up was his life. I was just an amateur. He started smacking on my head.

  I covered the way sensei Higa taught me, elbows high. Boom boom against my forearms.

  Godzilla thumped out an easy tempo with a pair of sledgehammers.

  Between blows, I went for his neck again and got one clean shot, right in the Adam’s apple, that sent him reeling.