by Dave Daren
“I also know Tucker Watts has ties to the Mizuchi,” I continued. That statement might have been an exaggeration, but I was curious to hear if the FBI could link Watts and Mizuchi.
There was a long silence. I heard a burst of laughter from the hallway and the whir of the fan in the projector as it clicked on, and still Agent Smart didn’t speak.
“I’m pretty sure the rest of the board are probably either members of the yakuza, or willing to take their money to look the other way,” I added.
“Watts was a power player in Singapore shipping, and we believe that it was yakuza money that gave him that power,” Smart finally replied. “The current members of the ArDex board have a history with Watts.”
“Did anyone ever investigate all those strange events surrounding the original board members?” I asked.
“We have a file,” was all Agent Smart conceded.
“What about the deaths of Arturo and Leonardo Bernardi?”
“Arturo’s death was listed as an undetermined bacterial infection,” she replied.
“But you never looked any closer?” I asked incredulously.
“We had no grounds,” she finally stated after another long pause.
“I believe that both father and son were killed by the yakuza,” I said.
“I read your complaint,” she replied with a quick smile. “The case for Leonardo’s death being a murder is possible, and we may be taking a closer look. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do with regard to Arturo’s death. There’s nothing in the autopsy that would justify an investigation, at least not yet.”
“And if I can find something that would point towards the cause of death being something other than bacterial infection?” I asked.
“We would certainly be interested,” she noted.
“We’re looking at a few possibilities,” I hinted. “There’s one other name I’d like to ask you about.”
“Go ahead,” she agreed.
“Joseph Kurzak,” I replied.
“He’s the in-house counsel,” she noted. “He might have popped on our radar a few years ago.”
“Why?” I asked.
“How much do you know about Mr. Kurzak’s personal life?” she queried.
“Not much,” I replied. “I know he was divorced, that he and Arturo Bernardi were old friends, that they had a final falling out just before Arturo became ill.”
“Mr. Kurzak has a gambling problem,” she declared. “It was the reason for his divorce and was the reason for much of the strife between Bernardi and Kurzak. We know that Kurzak took a vacation to Macao and lost a great deal of money in the casinos. That seems to have been the reason for the final split.”
“And you think that debt is what made him susceptible to the yakuza,” I surmised.
“That’s our guess, yes,” she replied. “As far as we can tell, he’s never repaid the debts, and no one has ever tried to recover the debts.”
“Why did he go to Macao?” I wondered. “I mean, Vegas is right next door.”
“There could be any number of reasons,” she said. “The thrill of someplace new, or his usual places in Vegas weren’t willing to offer him as much credit.”
“Or he won a free trip,” I suggested. It was one of the oldest scams in the book. Offer a free trip, get the sap in the room, and then get them to buy whatever you were selling. In this case, relief from your debts in exchange for your company.
“Mr. Creed, I feel I need to warn you,” she said. “The people you’re looking into are dangerous people. Murder, violence, these are a way of life to them, and they have no problem inflicting pain on anyone they perceive as a problem. They also understand the value of examples. And someone like you and Ms. Bernardi, who make a very noisy challenge to their power, can be turned into a nice example of what happens to anybody who steps out of line.”
“I’ve had a taste of that,” I admitted.
“Yes, I noticed that,” she said with a glance at the bruise around my eye. “I should also tell you that I don’t have approval from DC for any protection, so I can’t make any offers right now.”
“We’ll be careful,” I tried to assure her.
“That may not be enough,” she replied.
“What will it take to get approval from DC?” I asked. I could take care of myself, but I was worried about Anna. She’d been lucky so far, but I wasn’t sure how much longer that luck would hold.
“I’m working on it,” Agent Smart said with a shrug. “I’ll let you know.”
It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I thanked Agent Smart for the information and promised to keep her updated on our own investigation. I still had time before I was supposed to meet Miyo, so after I left the Federal Building, I put in a call to Anna. It went to voicemail, so I asked her to call when she had the chance. Sofia didn’t pick up either when I tried her phone. I finally gave up and retrieved my car. A large serving of crispy fried chicken was calling.
Chapter 12
The Old Pantry Diner is a classic diner in every sense of the word. Servers still wear white, button down jackets and hustle between the tables at warp speed. Diners who grab a stool at the counter have a front-row seat to the action on the griddle where the cook turns out an endless array of eggs, bacon, sausage, and fried bread without missing a beat. The menu is tacked up on the wall and is short enough to fit on a single page. The focus is definitely on breakfast foods, but there are other options for lunch and dinner.
My early arrival worked in my favor. I secured a table for two inside just ahead of the dinner crowd. The waiter left me with a cup of hot coffee while I enjoyed the view of my fellow Angelinos waiting in line for a coveted spot.
Miyo’s entrance was hard to miss. Though she was shorter than almost everyone else around her, people stepped back and made way. There was an aura of something powerful about her, like a big cat on the prowl. Maybe it was the little black dress that wrapped her body in all the right places or the look of fierce defiance that sat so easily on her face. Whatever it was, this was a far more dangerous woman than the one that had come to my office.
She spotted me at the table, and her features instantly softened. She gave a quick wave and zigzagged around servers bearing trays of food. Her walk had changed as well, I noticed. It was less panther-like and more fashion runway model.
“Vincent,” she said a little breathlessly as she stepped up to the table. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”
“My meeting ended a little early,” I replied with a shrug. I stood up and helped her remove her jacket. She gave me a quick smile and sat down, but I remained standing for a moment, her jacket forgotten. The little black dress was little indeed. The back of the garment dipped dangerously low and offered an enticing view of flawless skin, but that wasn’t what held me in place. An impressive dragon tattoo slithered across her back and shoulders and continued down her right arm. The colors were amazing: red and gold and pearlescent white. The thing was positively lifelike and I almost expected it to hiss at me.
“That’s some tattoo,” I said as I sat back down. I tried for nonchalant, but I felt my heart rate accelerate a few beats.
“Do you like it?” I asked. “You had it covered up the other day.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It’s easier. Too many questions otherwise.”
“But tattoos are pretty common these days,” I pointed out, though most tattoos lacked the fine work of the one she sported. Most tattoos, I also thought, don’t symbolize your yakuza.
“Yes, but not like mine,” she said with a shrug.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” I noted. “It’s a piece of art, really.”
“Thank you,” she said with another smile. “I had it done during my rebellious teenager phase. My boyfriend at the time talked me into it, and I went along with it because I knew my parents would hate it. Only bad girls get tattoos in Japan, according to them.”
“Like yakuza?” I pressed.
“Ya
kuza,” Miyo said dismissively. “But yes. It’s like being Italian in New York, I suppose. Everyone thinks you must be a member of the mafia.”
“But you’re not,” I said. I tried to make it sound like I was simply teasing her, but that tattoo definitely had a yakuza look.
“No,” she sighed. “There were almost two million people in my city, and I never met a member of the yakuza.”
“That you know of,” I added.
“True,” she agreed with a smile. “Some boys in my school used to talk about joining, but that was all it was. I don’t think they even knew where to find the yakuza.”
“How long did it take to get the tattoo inked?” I asked in genuine wonderment. Everything she’d said made sense, and I was starting to feel a little less wary.
“Several months and it had to be done on the sly,” she replied. She had a grin on her face now and she was looking at a place just over my shoulder as she remembered those long-ago days. “I didn’t want them to learn about it before it was done.”
“So how did you pull off the big reveal?”
“Oh, I was terrible,” she admitted with a happy laugh. “We took a family trip to one of the onsen, that is hot springs. My parents had been looking forward to it for months. It was the first time they’d been able to get out of Sapporo in years. Of course, I didn’t want to leave the city. I wanted to stay with my boyfriend.”
“Sapporo,” I said. “Like the beer.” I suddenly had a flashback to Agent Smart’s slideshow images. Still, Sapporo was a major city, and as Miyo had pointed out, they weren’t all members of the yakuza.
“Why is that always the first thing people think of?” she protested. “Yes, like the beer. But you know, there’s a lot more to the city. And for a teenage girl looking for trouble, there was plenty to do.”
“Ah,” I said. “It must have been terrible when your parents announced they were dragging you off to this onsen.”
“It was horrible,” she agreed. “I locked myself in my room for a week. But then I realized I could use the onsen to show them what I had done, so I emerged one morning, and told my parents that I regretted being such a bad daughter, and I would be happy to go to the onsen with them.”
“They believed you?” I asked.
“My mother was so relieved, I don’t think she cared,” she said thoughtfully. “My father was suspicious, but he was so desperate to get out of the city that I don’t think he cared.”
“So, it was off to the onsen,” I urged.
“The first day there, I accompanied my mother to the spring that was used just by women,” Miyo continued. “My mother was going on about some son of a coworker of my father. She was always trying to set me up with an ‘appropriate young man’. Anyway, we were standing at the edge of the pool, which was already packed with all these other women and girls and I just opened my robe and let it fall to the ground, like they always do in the movies.”
“Your poor mother,” I commented with a laugh of my own.
“I’d never seen her looked so shocked,” Miyo said more somberly. “I didn’t appreciate just what I had done, not only in their eyes but in the eyes of everyone else. I couldn’t see beyond my own need to be a rebel.”
“What happened next?” I asked.
“My mother didn’t say a word,” she replied. “She just quietly handed me my robe and walked away from the hot spring. She kept her gaze on the ground the whole way back to our room. I could hear the other women start chattering as soon as we left. You know, my mom never said a word to me the rest of that trip. My father, on the other hand, wouldn’t stop yelling at me. He kept telling me I’d ruined my life, and whatever chances I’d had to be successful.”
“That was harsh,” I said, surprised at the reaction.
“Tattoos are still seen as something only criminals do, especially once you move away from the cities,” she explained sadly. “If you have a tattoo, no one would hire you, for anything. My father, sadly, wasn’t that far off.”
“The yakuza,” I suggested. I couldn’t seem to get away from that theme.
“That’s the assumption,” she sighed unhappily. “I thought it was just some silly thing that only old people still believed. Turns out, a lot of younger people believe it as well. I went from being hip rebel to outcast with that reveal. That’s a large part of why I decided to go to college here instead of Japan.”
“You decided to keep it,” I commented.
“Yes,” she replied. “Apart from the cost of removing it, I’ve grown used to it. It really is beautiful, and sometimes, it helps remind me to be strong.”
The server interrupted our discussion and I ordered the fried chicken I’d been dreaming about while Miyo opted for one of the notoriously gooey, super-cheesy omelets. Another round of coffee was poured and I decided it was time to turn to business.
“You said you had your receipts,” I began.
“Yes,” Miyo said with a nod. She pulled her purse into her lap and extracted a folder. “Everything is in there.”
I opened the folder and found not only receipts, but pay stubs, lists of credit and debit card charges, and a spreadsheet that showed a list of clients for the last two months, how much each client had been billed, and how much tip that person had left. Whatever doubts I might have had about Miyo’s story started to fade as I read through the material. Each paystub had a different client’s signature, was crumpled in a different way, and had age marks. It did seem serendipitous that I was suddenly present with a Japanese client while in the midst of an investigation into a Yakuza scheme, but Miyo’s folder seemed too finely detailed to be a forgery.
“This is good,” I whistled as I looked over the numbers.
“I only printed out the last two months,” Miyo explained, “but I’ve kept track of everything in that spreadsheet almost since I started. I can email you the whole thing.”
“That would be good,” I replied. My brain was still working through the numbers when our food arrived. I finally set the folder off to the side and turned my focus on my plate.
It was the traditional Old Pantry dinner plate with enough fried chicken to feed at least two adults. I tore into the crispy, juicy goodness with relish. Miyo, I noticed, was devouring her omelette just as ferociously.
I finally had to give up with half the chicken still to go. I sat back and watched Miyo scoop up the last bit of egg, bacon, and hashbrown from her own plate, a smile on her face as she savored that final bite. The server came by and offered a plastic container for the remaining chicken, which I gladly accepted.
“I was hungrier than I thought,” Miyo declared. “Dessert?”
“Ugh,” I complained. “I’m not sure I have enough room.”
“Split an apple pie with me,” she suggested.
“Only if you’re willing to eat most of it,” I replied.
“Done,” she said as she signaled to our server.
The slice of apple pie wasn’t quite half the pie, but it was close. There was a glob of vanilla ice cream as well, which was slowly melting into the cinnamon goodness below.
“Divine,” Miyo moaned as she took the first bite. She closed her eyes and chewed very slowly, clearly enjoying the taste.
“Perfection,” I proclaimed as I savored my own first taste.
Miyo slowly opened her eyes, looking at me from beneath a set of very long lashes. Her lips curved ever so slowly into a smile, and she carefully licked a small speck of ice cream from them. I watched her tongue until it slowly retreated.
“Dessert is always my favorite part of the meal,” she confessed. Her gaze had locked onto mine, and I found myself nodding in agreement. I’m not sure what I would have done next. I couldn’t deny I was enjoying the attention and part of my brain was wondering just how far down that tattoo traveled. The diner had simply disappeared, and I was drowning in her eyes.
And then a bin full of dirty dishes crashed to the floor, and a cheer went up from the other guests. The spell was broken. I jumped a
t the noise and looked around. I heard Miyo hiss and when I glanced her way, she was staring angrily at the busboy through narrowed eyes.
“At least it wasn’t someone’s order,” I remarked.
Miyo made a small clicking sound in response. She shot another dagger towards the debris that was now being swept away and then turned back to face me. She was under control again, the glare now replaced with a happy smile.
“That was very dramatic,” she said.
“Isn’t everything in L.A.?” I commented as I turned my focus firmly on the pie. That odd, dual personality had emerged again, however briefly, and I had a hard time reconciling that with the pleasant dinner companion who’d willingly shared her darkest secret with me.
“And a mood killer.” She gave another radiant smile as she took a large bite of the pie.
We polished off the rest of the sticky sweetness, and I stuck to more desultory topics of conversation, like movie openings and the latest celebrity cheating scandals.
The air was hot and sticky when we finally stepped outside. Despite that, we both slipped our jackets back on. Me, because I hate carrying a jacket. Miyo, I assumed, wanted to conceal the tattoo again.
“Where are you parked?” I asked.
“Just up here,” she replied. She pointed towards the right, and we ambled along the sidewalk. For the most part, this was a safe neighborhood. There was plenty of lighting, and constant traffic. Streams of people moved along the sidewalks, some just leaving their offices while others were gearing up for the night ahead. It was easy to forget about mobsters and assassins, especially with such a beautiful woman on my arm.
Miyo pulled me into a small side street with a giggle. There wasn’t nearly as much traffic through here, either car or pedestrian. It was almost a shock to the senses to end up in this place suddenly with so little light or sound.
“You parked down here?” I asked doubtfully. Surely no woman familiar with large cities would park her car down here.
“I couldn’t find anything else,” Miyo replied with a shrug. “And that street light was on when I parked.”
Miyo dug her car keys out of her bag and pressed a button on the remote. A small car about halfway down the block blinked in response.