by Arne Bue
The killer, Sugimoto, looked directly at Mr. Nakano and motioned as though to a pet dog, for him to enter.
Inside, Nakano bowed slightly and said, "This is an honor to me and my family that you have called for me once again."
"Yes, yes, we go back even to childhood, you and I. Yes, yes." He drank some of his whiskey. He continued in a barking tone, a superior to a subordinate. "But this is today, we are no longer children! The whole nation is in economic trouble! Operations are not as rich as they should be! Look at me! Before, I drove a BMW. Now, a stupid little Toyota!"
"My operation is producing revenue. A perfect route. Many years hard work," Nakano responded.
"In hard times there is nothing perfect when what you are doing stands still and does not grow! Look at me! I did not even have my Kobe beef last week!"
"I cannot increase a saturated route! Prices will fall, danger of discovery will rise. My creation will flounder!"
"Do not raise your voice to me!" Nishimoto barked. Nakano did not realize he shouted at his own oyabun. Nishimoto filled his glass and gulped. The killer Sugimoto and Kenso Nakano focused their eyes on the floor.
Nishimoto snarled and slammed his glass on the desk. "What is the matter with you! You made a drug business in Alaska. Now make it grow! If you can create, then create more! We need more money! Use your so-called talents! We've done so much for you! You took the oath with us."
"There is something wrong with my wife," Nakano said. "I must get what the others have. Medical insurance. Or at least take care of her operation, 4,000,000 yen. And I need to set aside much, much more for my son's college education."
"What? What ? You are well-paid! You get your own insurance. Or just pay for that stupid operation yourself!" Nishimoto shouted. "And besides, so what if she dies? Did we not arrange this marriage? We'll just get you another wife!" He laughed and slapped the desk.
The words struck like a knife. Get me another wife? She is Misako! How can he... Nakano recognized the trace of a smile on the face of the soldier, Sugimoto. With a stone face Nakano tried with much difficulty to pay attention as the oyabun pressed on.
"And your son, Kano. He is seventeen years old, correct? When I was his age I had already started here. So you will do exactly what everyone else does. Bring him in with us now! He can start low, work his way up like the rest. College education. A waste of time and money. I don't have a college education, and look at me! I am successful. And I will continue to be successful. But I will not be so happy if you keep begging for money like a common dog. And I will be very unhappy if you do not expand the Alaska route!"
Mr. Nakano controlled his anger, not looking.
Nishimoto continued his barrage, mocking Nakano, "Speak to me, Mr. Kenso Nakano, our little professor who takes pictures, draws pretty little pictures. Tell me again of this beautiful, perfect route you created. How is our little drug operation in Alaska? Smooth? Give me details. I want to hear it again. Please, Mr. Kenso Nakano, our little professor, enlighten me some more."
Mr. Nakano's fists tightened. He said, "My men follow orders. They obey me, always."
He needed to say more. He thought to insert a small, made-up "problem" for Nishimoto to solve. Perhaps, playing to his ego would calm him, drunk as he was. The tactic had worked with him before.
"Only a small problem with Jeffrey Johnson in Sand Point," Nakano said.
Nishimoto sat back in his chair, obviously interested. "Here. You drink some of this whiskey. It is good stuff!"
Mr. Nakano did not drink often, and did not like whiskey, but he took a sip.
"No, no! Drink it all! Drink all of it!" Nishimoto shouted.
Nakano gulped the whiskey down. He was not pleased with the effect strong drink had upon him, Nishimoto refilled the glass.
"This Jeffrey Johnson," Nishimoto said. "Has he betrayed us?"
"No. Nothing like that. Just that he's boisterous. Too noisy for my comfort," Nakano said. The dismissive attitude of his boss towards his wife together with the whiskey that burned his insides made it difficult to think clearly: He could think only of Misako, rather than focus on what he found himself continuing to say and what Nishimoto and Sugimoto heard and understood. And while he talked Nishimoto again insisted he gulp down another glass of the strong American whiskey. He told the two men how Jeffrey Johnson's loud voice carried in the night when drug transfers took place. In the small location of Sand Point, Alaska, that was not good, very dangerous. Everyone knew everyone else. A wrong word, speaking too loudly in the night, and someone could cause trouble with the Alaska State Troopers.
"But I will talk to him, if that is what you wish," Nakano said, giving Nishimoto the opportunity to give him a harsh order to correct this horrible flaw in the system, untrue as it was.
Nishimoto asked, "What does he look like, this Jeffrey Johnson?" He again refilled Nakano's glass.
Mr. Nakano observed how the soldier Kiichi Sugimoto looked and listened as Mr. Nakano threw out a description of Jeffrey Johnson of Sand Point. For over an hour questions from the drunken Nishimoto continued. How much shabu -- the meth -- are you bringing to Alaska on the ships to Whittier? Seward? Southeast Alaska?. Why not double the quantities? Why do you not recruit more distributors? Anchorage has the biggest population, so why not recruit from there? Why do you not get people from our Los Angeles operations to work for you in Anchorage? They will move to Alaska if I tell them to. Nishimoto often returned to the question of Sand Point, Alaska, and Jeffrey Johnson, placing more whiskey on the desk for Mr. Nakano to drink. Nakano's tongue loosened and he became quite imaginative with his description of how disgusting, even barbaric, this Jeffrey Johnson of Sand Point, Alaska had become. Then, at long last, the boss decided something: He decided he was tired.
"I am tired now," Nishimoto said, his words slurred. "You will work on your route. Just make it grow. Make us rich. We are on hard times. But I am tired now. Tired. You may go now. Go away and leave me alone. Go away."
Mr. Nakano reeled from the office out into the rain, where he vomited on the sidewalk.
CHAPTER THREE
"Join me? Tea?" Kosuke Ochi asked, sweeping to the wet bar in the dimness at the far end of the office. A clock with glowing dials displayed the time, eleven o'clock in the morning.
Mr. Nakano once heard a woman friend of his wife's comment on how, from a distance, Mr. Ochi looked like a wet frog, his honey-colored skin glistening. He'd heard others wonder how Mr. Nakano's wife Misako could be so graceful and striking and be related to him. Mr. Ochi wore a dark blue suit with gold buttons. His black hair shined, slicked straight over the top of his soccer-ball skull.
"Yes, tea, of course," Mr. Nakano said. Blue and gold hand-painted deities danced beneath the rims of the porcelain teacups. The tea, cold, must have been sitting for some time; Mr. Ochi drank quickly. Mr. Nakano set his cup down untouched, watching as Ochi opened a drawer. He extracted a hand-sized silver box and poured onto his hand a white powder, which he sniffed. He frowned and considered a matter of great distance and import without moving his eyes from his private deliberations.
Mr. Nakano considered Ochi's special kind of expertise necessary, for he could help with Misako's medical expense as well as college tuition for his son, Kano. Mr. Nakano figured Ochi would help, would he not? Kosuke Ochi was family. That should count for something.
The murmur of a FAX beckoned, and Ochi scurried over and talked to himself as he read what had come in. He wheeled about as though he remembered he had a guest.
"Did Shige Nishimoto send you?" Ochi's voice carried an oily undertone. Blue light from a terminal reflected on his flaccid hands.
"Misako speaks of how you are discreet."
"Secrets keep me wealthy," Kosuke Ochi said. He looked at his watch, and concern darted into his eyes.
"I wish to become someone else," Mr. Nakano said. He detected a flicker of interest as Ochi sat down behind one of his desks. He moved a few folders and documents to the edge.
"Who w
ill see you in this new identity?" Ochi asked.
"Alaskans," Nakano said.
"Alaska ID," Ochi said. "That's not difficult. Credit card and birth certificate. You get the driver's license yourself in Alaska."
The room became dense. "Too dangerous. I can't go to the Alaska Department of Motor Vehicles."
"Then I must make a license here. But you must pay more. I have had a great deal of difficulty duplicating them. Most difficult to make."
"Can you provide them quickly?"
Ochi ran his hands through his oily black hair. "When do you need them?"
"I'll need them before I fly to Anchorage. A week or two," Nakano said, making a serene voice to disguise a heart working the concern that had driven him here.
Ochi stared out, his eyes obsidian. "This will involve a significant investment."
Misako spoke often of the reserves of cash Ochi kept. Sometimes he acted as a sort of bank, making certain loans, she'd said.
"You must help in another matter." The clock made a quiet clicking noise.
"More?"
"I need quantities of the awakening kind, shabu." Nakano watched Kosuke Ochi's brows knit into a frown.
"Your own inventory of meth?" Ochi stood up. He paced about the dimness of the office. His fat fingers toyed with the gold buttons on his suit jacket.
"I will pay you well. An investment! A good return," Nakano shouted.
"Your oyabun? Shige Nishimoto?" Ochi asked, a watchful hesitation.
"Shige Nishimoto must know nothing."
Ochi swung about, facing Mr. Nakano. "You are swimming into the waters of sharks, cousin. How can you expect this not to reach Nishimoto?"
Mr. Nakano's uneasiness grew. "Misako has had her operation! I need 4,000,000 yen," Nakano said. His whole life was drowning. "I have no insurance."
"None?"
"The insurance companies will not give me any."
"Nishimoto always buys insurance for his lieutenants. He must have covered you. And even if he hasn't, he will, if you ask him."
"Nishimoto treats me like a common dog. And he thinks this is a small matter!" Kenso Nakano was too excited. He tried to calm himself. "Please, cousin, help."
Kenso Nakano read the face of Kosuke Ochi. A betrayal! the face of Ochi seemed to say.
But Kosuke Ochi nodded. He said, under hooded eyes, "This will take me a few days. But I will do this. Very risky, you know. Come see me here tonight at eight so we can go over this in more detail. Also, I can take the picture for the ID then. And get me a mailing address in Alaska. Your credit card will arrive there by mail."
"What about the shabu?
"I can finance an inventory of the shabu, enough for Misako's hospital bill. There will be set up fees, you know. On top of interest."
"How much interest?"
"For you only 20 percent. This is risky. If Nishimoto discovers this, we will both be killed. I would normally charge 35 percent, but you are married to Misako, so 20 is fine."
"I will need a larger inventory. I intend to pay for my son's college education, also."
The FAX started again, but Ochi ignored it.
"I hope you know what you are doing," Ochi said, pacing, the fat fingers toying with the gold buttons "How you get the shabu to Alaska will be your problem."
"That is never a problem. I have several ways. My Alaska route is perfect."
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Sugimoto was about to give up and go back to the motel when a breeze from a new direction brought through the coolness a quiet night sound, metallic and flicking. A lighter. Sugimoto smelled cigarette smoke.
He edged the length of the building and peered around. A man stood there. To announce himself, Sugimoto let air leave his lungs. Right away he saw the orange speck of the man's cigarette suspend in the air, the ember like a seeking eye. Undoubtedly, the man had heard him, so Mr. Sugimoto made himself visible in a grace of light from the street. The man's head jerked. He looked right at Sugimoto. Sugimoto heard the man gulp a mouthful of air and scuffle backward until the wall of the building met his back. Sugimoto could not see the face, but enough color came through to allow him to identify springing flaxen hair.
This was the man described by Kenso Nakano at the meeting with the boss before Sugimoto left Tokyo to travel all the way to this foreign and lonely place, this Sand Point, Alaska.
"Who're you?" the man said.
Kiichi Sugimoto placed his hands on his thighs and bowed from the waist. "Someone new, for you," he said, calmly.
"Yeah, I'll say." The man seemed as though ready to detonate.
"Please come. I want to speak to you. Quietly." Sugimoto needed a few more feet, a little closer.
"I don't know about this, man."
"We must be friends, for business," Sugimoto said.
The man took a drag. In the grayness the ember reminded of a ruby. Smoke slipped from his mouth as though he'd gone afire inside.
Sugimoto opened his coat and dipped his hand. His fingers closed on the Glock. He studied the man's body, looking for apprehensiveness in the shift of the man's feet.
With rapid twists he screwed in the silencer.
Sugimoto switched the safety off, and touched his finger to the trigger as he lifted the barrel.
Two muffled reports reverberated about the wall and the dumpster behind Kiichi Sugimoto. Once, he'd heard a wineskin burst, run over by a car, and the sound stayed in his memory and surfaced whenever the Glock made its announcements.
This early morning's discharges had entered the torso, the lead of the bullets soft and tearing away. To Mr. Sugimoto, the man looked like one of those Americans he'd seen on the silver screen in Tokyo, unkempt, about six feet tall, a beer belly. Kiichi Sugimoto tested the air for the smell that comes after his Glock has done its work.
The man leaned in what Sugimoto considered a languid manner against the building. The man did not look at anything in particular, but his eyes darted about, and gray filaments of shade passed upon his cheeks and forehead as though the last of shadows had come to lay claim.
Sugimoto donned a raincoat and slipped on his rubber gloves and boots. A fresh vigor of light crept to the horizon, calling up crepuscular mosquitoes, and Kiichi Sugimoto waved them away with rapid fan-hands, fuming at the thought of the cowardly Kenso Nakano. He'd heard others call Nakano names behind his back, like mule. Of course, no one called Mr. Nakano names to his face, for he'd earned the reputation of a conscientious family member. He'd been the one picked to start the Alaska drug route.
I must roll the body, Sugimoto thought.
More blood spilled like paint upon stone eyes, making the wash rocks glint in sparse light reaching from the morning's burgeoning horizon. The fluid issued from the torso and head, not so much a hard pumping action, more like the flow from his kitchen faucet in his apartment in Tokyo, the handle open a quarter-turn.
He unfolded a tarp, which he first spread like a shroud over the corpse before stuffing with diligence the edges around and under.
Smears from the man somehow glued themselves to the backs of his hands, so he washed in his room at the motel, diligently stroking with a body of soapy foam, stringent in taste and smell.
Now, he thought, I will report to the accountant, Yasumasa Uchigama.
He dialed, long distance to Tokyo.
"Yes?" the quiet, liquid voice said in Japanese.
"The books have arrived," Sugimoto said.
"Ah, yes," Uchigama said.
"I will be on my way on the 7:20 flight tonight to Anchorage, then as promised, on to Los Angeles."
"I know of your former schedule," Uchigama said.
Something was not right. Uchigama had said former schedule. Sugimoto had planned to visit Universal Studios, a dream of his. Then take the 9:50 a.m. flight on Japan Airlines from LAX direct to Tokyo.
Sugimoto said, hoping he'd misunderstood, "I'll arrive 1:30 in the afternoon, Sunday. You said someone would meet me. Correct?" They'd promised a dinner to honor him f
or what he'd accomplished. But something wasn't right, he could tell from the silence on the other end.
Uchigama finally said, quietly, "You must stay."
"Here?"
"Where you are now. Sand Point, Alaska," Uchigama said.
"Why?"
"You have another book delivery."
"This is most unusual," Sugimoto said.
"The Tustumena will be making its run out to the Aleutian Islands. You must deliver books again."
"To whom?" Sugimoto asked.
"Kenso Nakano. You will deliver when the ship is inbound."
"Inbound?"
"The Tustumena will dock in Sand Point on Sunday, October 2."
"Small community, Sand Point. They'll find the body tomorrow, maybe the next day. I've already been looked over by the clerk at the front desk and by the taxi operator and people at the airport. I am a stranger! You are crazy," Sugimoto said. "Back-to-back like this. Crazy. I'm heading to Los Angeles. Everything as agreed!"
"After you finish, you will stay in Anchorage," Uchigama said flatly.
"This is suicide. I refuse. I am returning home."
"If you do not obey we will deliver books to you," the accountant said, quietly.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Captain Sewell?"
John August Sewell wasn't fully awake, still working on the first coffee. He didn't recognize the voice, not one of his Deck Officers or any of the crew. No one calling in sick. He looked out the dining room window at Baxter Bog Park. A woman and her young daughter and a Labrador were walking the trail. The woman reminded of Joyce. He looked away.
"Who is this?"
"Henderson, State Troopers."
"Never heard of you."
"No. I'm on a case. Need a favor."
"Don't run errands, Henderson. I run a ship."
"Captain, sir," Henderson said, "I know that. This is more of a favor. It'd be like a service to the public if you know what I mean."
Give me a break, thought the Captain. Service to the public. Looking to take my mind off running the ship, doing their work for them so they can take the credit, save on their budget and eat into ours, add to our problems, make themselves look good. We screw up, we get the blame, we succeed, they get the glory. The Tustumena never wins when other agencies call asking for a favor.