by Rex Burns
“When will he be back?”
“Tuesday afternoon. You’re welcome to call then.”
He might not have to. A glance through the Yellow Pages under “Storage—Residential and Commercial” identified a dozen self-storage lots that were within a few miles of Eckles’s or his sister’s home. He started driving.
He had luck at the fourth address, a series of cinder-block rows painted flamingo pink and marked with white doors. The lot manager, stroking his full beard and finally accepting twenty dollars for his time, read down the list of renters and stopped at Eckles. “Ralph Eckles? That the one, man?” He read an address that was familiar.
Devlin nodded. “What unit?”
“Twenty-seven. But I can’t let you in there without a search warrant, man. I mean, you know, I can tell you who rented it, no problem. But you want to go in, you got to have a warrant. That’s the law.”
“Right you are. And if I need to get in, I’ll be back with one.”
“No problem, man.”
It wasn’t until the following morning that Kirk could reach Allen Schute in New York and tell him what he’d discovered.
“Good job, Kirk. Can you run out to San Diego and interview Eckles?”
He glanced at the wall calendar with its cramped writing scattered thinly across the white squares of days. “I think I can fit you in. You want me to squeeze him or just get a statement?”
“If you can shake something out of him, go ahead.”
“I’ll call you after I talk with him.”
Bunch came in as Devlin was about to telephone for plane reservations and a rental car to be held at the San Diego airport.
“You going to make it back by tonight?”
Devlin nodded. “I’ll take an overnight bag in case, but I plan to be back on the red-eye. Why?”
“Guess who I got a call from last night?”
Devlin couldn’t.
“Mitsuko-san. She and Humphries are eager to see you or me this evening.”
“Oh?” Devlin paused with a finger on the telephone’s cradle. “Did she say why?”
“No. But she sure as hell sounded worried. And here.” Bunch tossed a scrap of tablet paper on the desk. It held a series of brief notations. “Last night’s log from Minz’s telephone. Nothing very exciting.”
Devlin looked it over as he called the airline. Then he hurriedly gathered the Eckles papers into a zippered folder. “See what Humphries wants, Bunch. But make sure he’s telling us everything this time. See you in the morning.”
Devlin’s hurrying footsteps rang on the iron stairs, and Bunch half listened to them as he filed the Minz log and then headed for the tiny Subaru and another stint of staring at Jean Truman’s closed front door.
CHAPTER 16
LATER, BUNCH STOPPED at the health club for an hour’s sweat and strain before driving south to Humphries’ home. The exercise shook out the stiffness and boredom of surveillance, and the gyrating, Lycra-clad bodies of after-work secretaries and lady executives brightened his outlook on the world. Funny, though, how—despite pleasing the eye—none of them drew him with the hunger and excitement Susan had. And the few women he’d dated in the couple years since her death had been nice people, good times, and fond memories. But even the warmest moments of lovemaking had not touched that center where, gradually, the hole of emptiness had closed with a scab of acceptance.
He shifted down and angled the Bronco onto the long dirt road leading to the house.
No complaints—he and Susan had some time together. That was a hell of a lot more than a lot of other people ever had. But before knowing Susan, Bunch would have enjoyed a woman and, when the enjoyment ran thin, kissed her off with the usually justified belief that she knew it was coming anyway and was just as tired of him. Now he kissed them off with a sense of waste. Waste of himself, waste of them. Funny … Maybe what Dev told him had some truth: he was getting so goddamn sensitive. Bean sprouts for breakfast. Glass of Perrier and a slice of lemon for lunch. Followed by a thrilling evening at the Women’s Institute for Unisex Bonding. Bullshit. In time, someone else would come along. It wouldn’t be Susan—there had been only one of her—but, in her own way, it could be someone as good. And this time, by God, he would know what to look for. Meantime, as the wailing, nasal song said, “It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t bad.” And that one brunette jogging around the track—the one with long legs and the smooth, strong stride of a natural runner—had given him the big eye. He’d seen her before, and he just might make it a point to see her again.
As Bunch turned out the headlights, Humphries peered through the curtained windows, a target shooter’s silhouette. God preserve the innocent from their own foolishness. If there was a God and if He gave a damn about preserving anything. Bunch took a deep breath and stood for a few moments, looking. Over the range of mountains, the western sky still held the pale green of long mountain twilight. But in the east, where the yellow of autumnal prairie grass rippled like the hide of some tawny animal, the rim of earth had already rolled beneath the chill of coming night. Scattered distant lights marked the occasional houses and ranches that dotted the broad valley and plains. Carried on the warmer breeze that began to sigh up from the valley came the low of a homeward bound cow. It was nice, Bunch thought. Maybe one day he’d have enough money to live in the country. But right now he couldn’t afford it, and he didn’t really want to anyway. A week, two weeks, and he’d be bored out of his gourd and sneaking back to the city to find out what was happening along the streets. Not, to judge from Humphries’ worried eyes, that everything in the countryside was always so peaceful.
“Evening, Mr. Humphries. How’s the security equipment holding up? Everything still work okay?”
“Yes. Please come in.” His eyes searched the dusky trees beyond Bunch’s wide torso. “My wife’s in the living room.”
The large windows had been closed off by drapes. A small fire crackled deep in the recess of the moss-rock fireplace that formed one end of the room. It didn’t do much to take the chill off the early-autumn air, or the tension from Humphries’ quick gestures and nervous stride. Mitsuko Watanabe, feet curled up under her thighs, forced a smile. “Good to see you again.”
“You’re looking good too. What’s the problem? More prowlers?”
The smile disappeared. “Not yet.”
“More threats,” said Humphries. “No one’s showed up yet. But I’ve received threats.”
“What kind?”
The man chewed at a sliver of dry flesh on his lip. “I can’t tell you the whole of it. But I’m certain someone’s going to try and kill us.”
“Why are you so certain, Mr. Humphries?”
“Someone in a good position to know told us.”
Bunch sighed and settled into an overstuffed armchair covered with some kind of fuzzy nap. The soft pillows wheezed as he crossed his legs and leaned back. “Look, Mr. Humphries, if you’re in trouble, why not tell me about it? All about it. There’s not a damn thing I can do to protect you if I don’t know the players and the game. Nobody can do it that way.”
Humphries chewed again, the ticking of teeth at his lips matched by the tiny crackle from the fireplace.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Roland. There’s nothing to hide. Certainly not for my sake.” The woman scratched at a porcelain lighter and held it to the slightly quivering tip of a cigarette. “Either you tell Mr. Bunchcroft about us or I will.”
The man swallowed and sat on the other end of the couch, his knees high and elbows resting on them. “Well—ah—Mitsuko and I, we’re not married.”
“So?”
“Well, to a lot of people, I suppose it makes no difference. I know that.” Nonetheless, his expression said, it should; if it was that important to him, it should be important to Bunch. “But to her family, it’s an eternal stain. An insult to their ancestors.”
“Ancestors are very important to us in Japan, Mr. Bunchcroft. The living generation is the temporary guardian of th
e family’s history and pride. It’s our responsibility to go to our ancestors without having besmirched the family name.” The cigarette waved and her voice took on a note of bitterness, “We’re supposed to live for the dead instead of living for ourselves.”
“Mitsuko’s far more modern than her family. She doesn’t do justice to the intensity of their feelings. But it’s strong enough that they … they want to kill us for dishonoring the family name.”
“They said that?”
“Not directly, no.”
“We Japanese seldom do anything directly.”
“After Mitsuko first moved in with me here, we were afraid her family would try to find us. Mitsuko said—”
“My father is a very powerful man, Mr. Bunchcroft. He has many acquaintances in America. When I left New York to move out here, I tried to do it quietly. But …” The cigarette waved again.
“That’s why we wanted your help initially. In case one of her father’s acquaintances—or someone hired by her father—tried to find her.” Humphries stood and started pacing again, three steps per sentence. “That’s what we were afraid of then, but things seemed quiet.”
“So there were no prowlers. No brown car.”
“No. That was Mitsi’s idea—with my approval, of course. We had to be certain no one had followed Mitsi from New York.” Three paces. “But there could have been. You have to understand the strength of her father’s feelings about Mitsi living with a gaijin—a foreigner.”
Bunch glanced at the woman sitting with her legs stretched out on the sofa. She stared at the pink dots of her toenails.
“When we couldn’t find anyone, you figured you didn’t need our services anymore,” he said.
“Yes.”
“But now something’s happened.”
“Two days ago, Mitsuko telephoned home. She wanted to talk to her family, see how everything is at home. You understand.”
“Filial piety, Mr. Bunchcroft.” Her tone belied her smile. “Very important to us Asians.”
“Her mother was extremely upset. Somehow they’d found out about us—about where Mitsi was and who she was with. She said Mitsuko’s father had gone to Tokyo to talk to some people he knew. Someone who would be able to … to take care of the situation.”
“How?”
Mitsuko shook her head. “My mother didn’t say.” She stubbed out the cigarette and stared up at one of the prints on the wall. “She didn’t have to. Yojimbo.”
“Say, what?”
“Yojimbo. Professional warriors who rent their services.”
“You mean a samurai?”
“Sort of. The samurai owed allegiance to a lord. The yojimbo was a free-lance warrior who sold his services. Usually as a bodyguard.” A wry smile. “Like you.”
“So your daddy hired a warrior to protect you?”
“That’s how they think of themselves.” She shrugged. “They’re just hired killers, really. Gangsters. The yojimbo tradition gives them some … respectability.” She deepened the ironic tone. “Like geisha—call girls who pretend to follow an old and honored tradition. Customs die hard in Japan. Especially when they can save face.”
“Why in hell didn’t you tell me this before?”
It was Humphries’ turn to shake his head. “I didn’t want to embarrass Mitsi. And it didn’t seem necessary—your security checks didn’t turn up anyone.”
“Now someone is really after you.”
“Yes.”
The woman nervously lit another cigarette and nodded.
Humphries cleared his throat. “What makes it most frightening is the—ah—dedication of a hired Japanese killer, Mr. Bunchcroft. As Mitsuko says, there’s a sense of honor in the calling.”
“Bushido,” said Bunch.
Mitsuko’s eyebrows lifted. “You know about them?”
Bunch had seen a few movies on the late-late shows. “If the killer takes the job, he has to finish or lose face with his employer and the other yojimbo, that right? And if he loses face, he’s supposed to commit suicide.” That’s what the creaky plots were made of. Here and there maybe somebody believed in that crap. The few hired killers Bunch had run across—Japanese or otherwise—were no different: if they could make the hit without being caught, they would. If not, they passed. “Has the guy been hired yet?”
“Probably.” The woman stubbed out the long cigarette. “My father likes to think he’s a man who doesn’t act idly.”
“Is he?”
“In this, I think yes.”
Humphries swallowed. “We probably won’t know for certain until someone actually tries to kill us.”
“Have you told anyone besides me about it? The police?”
“Well, just you. I mean, I went to that policeman a while back when Mitsi first moved out here. I told him of … possible threats. But he didn’t take me seriously. He said Japan was out of his jurisdiction.”
“Yeah, I guess he would. Exactly what do you want me to do, Mr. Humphries?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious? I want protection—I want you to keep me and Mitsi alive!”
“You have to figure if somebody’s coming all the way from Japan to kill you, it’s going to take more than just protection to stop him.”
Mitsuko looked up from studying her toes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Bunch spelled it out, “if somebody really wants to kill you, nobody—not me, not the police, nobody—can give you enough protection. It’ll take what the politicos call a preemptive strike.”
Humphries fiddled with his class ring. “You mean you’d have to—ah—do something to the assassin?”
“That’s what I mean. And maybe to the next assassin. And the one after that—if Mitsuko’s old man has that kind of money.”
“I don’t know if he would send more than one.”
Humphries sank onto the couch again, his head in his hands. “I don’t know what else to do! The man could be on his way right now. The killer could already be here in Denver and looking for me and Mitsuko. What are we supposed to do, just wait for him?”
“Mitsuko could go back.”
“I don’t want her to.” Humphries looked at her. “I mean, not if she really doesn’t want to.”
“We’ve talked about that, Roland. I don’t want to.”
“See?”
“Then maybe you should get married right now. Then Papa-san would be killing a member of his own family. Something the old ancestors might get pissed off about.”
Humphries shifted on the couch. “Well, we’ve talked that over, Mr. Bunchcroft. But I can’t get married right now—family reasons … political in nature … .”
“Roland doesn’t want to marry me, Mr. Bunchcroft.”
“That’s not entirely true, Mitsi! I’ve told you how my own family—”
The woman smiled widely. “It’s not an option, you see.”
“Then split up. Send Mitsuko back to New York.”
Humphries’ expression shifted from discomfort to stubbornness. “I don’t want that, either. Mitsi and I are trying to work out our lives together, and—well—we love each other …”
“I don’t think that would do us any good now, Mr. Bunchcroft. The family name has already been insulted.”
“So your choice is hara-kiri or sushi, that’s it?”
Pallid and suddenly sweating, Humphries mumbled something and walked swiftly out of the room.
Mitsuko looked at him with some surprise. “He’s going to be sick, isn’t he?”
Bunch leaned toward her. “Honey, just what the hell is your game?”
She stared at him a long moment, black eyes calculating and bright in the mask of her face. “My game?” Standing slowly, she stretched her locked hands high above her head and tilted her face to the ceiling. The white clothes outlined a lithe and softly muscular body, and her black hair swept down to tickle the swell of taut buttocks. “My game, Mr. Bunchcroft, is to stay alive. It is my father’s wish to kill me. He has the power and the wi
ll to do it.”
“And you don’t have the money to run away from Humphries?”
Another long stare. “You are perceptive. I have a little money, but—as you guess—I’ve had to rely on my father. Now”—a shrug— “I have to rely on Roland.”
“What about your mother? Can’t she send you money?”
“No. All the wealth is in my father’s name. Women in Japan are owned by men, Mr. Bunchcroft.” Sharper bitterness pulled her mouth into a scowl. “Our lives are their property.”
“Have you tried to talk to your father?”
She said it once more. “He wants me dead.” Then, “Please stand up.”
He did. “Why?”
She measured herself against his jacket. “I barely reach as high as your chest, don’t I? I’ve never been with a man that big. Are you so big everywhere?”
He sat again. “Look, Mitsuko, I’m not a congressman. My services are limited to the security business. Not monkey business.”
“But you’ve thought of monkey business. I’ve seen you.” A laugh briefly replaced the worry in those black eyes. “My God— talk about rabbit-woman and elephant-man!”
“Try a sumo wrestler.”
“They’re too fat!”
“Well, quit vamping me. It’s not going to do you any good.”
She strode over to the window and yanked open the drapes. “He could be out there right now. Out there in the dark staring through the window right now, couldn’t he? Just waiting.” A deep, shaky breath. “Maybe that would be best: just get it over with.”
“For God’s sake, close the curtain, Mitsi!” Humphries, still pale but no longer sweaty, half ran across the room and tugged the drapes shut. “Don’t do that—it’s dangerous!”
Bunch eyed the tense man and the woman who tried to hide her own fear with a tinkling laugh. What he should do was walk away from this loony bin. Let Humphries find out for himself what kind of tiger’s tail he’d gotten hold of. But the trouble with that was, Humphries’ realization could come slightly after the fact—maybe one thousandth of a second after the bullet hit him. Even Francis Macomber did better than that. So he wouldn’t walk away. What the hell—people were always telling him he was just a big old softy. Some people were. He thought he remembered somebody telling him that one time. And Devlin would be pissed to lose a client like Humphries. Most important, Bunch was curious, and this gig beat the boredom of sitting in that Subaru watching Jean Truman’s silent house. “Mr. Humphries, here’s what we do.”