by Carrie Asai
With a grunt I knocked the dagger out of the ninja’s hand, and we scrambled over each other toward it like slapstick comedians. He reached it first and wheeled around, blocking me back into the same position we’d been in before. I cursed myself for being so sloppy. My upper-arm strength was giving out—I was no match for the ninja in this position. I arched my back, trying to get some leverage to hurl him off me, but I couldn’t. I managed to slide up so that he wasn’t aiming at my face, but as the dagger came closer to my chest, I smelled the sickening smell of his breath, fishy and damp.
Ka-blam! Another shot rang out and I braced for the impact I was sure was coming. It would be just my luck, I figured. Instead the ninja’s eyes widened, and the dagger clattered to the pavement near my head. The ninja slumped on top of me.
“Aaargh,” I grunted as I threw the deadweight off me and sat up. I didn’t want to do it, but I forced myself to pull the mask off my dead attacker’s face. Right before it came free, I wondered briefly if he was the same ninja who’d killed Ohiko but then dismissed the thought—that ninja had fought like no one I’d ever seen before—not even Hiro was that smooth. This ninja was hardly a match even for me. Very third rate. Someone’s funds seemed to be running out.
He was Japanese. I’d seen that face before. I would have bet my life on it. I tried to memorize his features—this was exactly the key I needed to get some answers. I stared at his gaping, empty eyes and the small sharp nose, willing my memory to deliver its secret.
No go.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. It occurred to me suddenly that it was my fault he was dead—and it felt good. I closed my eyes.
“Heaven! Are you okay?” Detective Wachter came sprinting across the pavilion toward me, Detective Martin right behind him. I forced myself to open my eyes and turned around just as droves of policemen wearing bullet-proof vests emerged from around the building. It was like someone had let loose a herd of wild cops on the place. The detectives reached me and each grabbed one of my arms, pulling me up. “Did he cut you?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said. It was strange—but fighting with the ninja had actually been…fun. Was I getting totally psychopathic about everything? Or was it just that I’d known I had backup, which made it hard to believe I’d really get hurt? It was a strange feeling all around. The guy was dead, and I was acting like I’d just won a game of volleyball or something.
“That was just so freaking awesome,” Detective Martin said, a huge grin on her face. “I had no idea you could do that!”
I slapped her outstretched hand. Time enough to think about the ninja’s identity later. “Yeah, well, all in a day’s work.” I wiped the dust off my pants and massaged my knee. “Where’s Teddy?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Detective Wachter frowned. “Gone. We couldn’t move in because we didn’t want to risk anything happening to you. We had some guys tailing him out of the parking lot, but they lost him almost immediately—he ditched his car.” The detective looked at me thoughtfully. “What spooked him back there?”
I looked into Detective Wachter’s blue eyes and knew that he knew I’d tipped Teddy off. “I had this feeling something wasn’t right…and then the ninja…,” I said vaguely.
“So ninjas really do attack you a lot?” Detective Martin asked.
“Seems weird, huh?” I answered.
“A little,” she said, chuckling.
“I feel bad about that,” I said, gesturing down at my fallen attacker. It seemed like the right thing to say. One of the cops moved in with a sheet and spread it over the body.
“Don’t worry,” Detective Martin said. “After all, you didn’t kill him.”
“I guess not,” I said doubtfully, starting to feel the familiar weakness that always came over me after the adrenaline of battle stopped pumping. “So you guys see this kind of stuff all the time, huh?”
“Believe me, this is nothing,” Detective Martin said.
“Well, we’ll get him next time,” Detective Wachter interrupted, sighing. “Thanks for trying.”
“Sorry about that,” I said, trying to sound actually sorry. “You know, Detective,” I continued as we walked back toward the police car, my knees trembling a little, “it’s not Teddy you should be worrying about—it’s his father. Yoji Yukemura is behind all these deals.”
“Believe me, we know that,” Detective Wachter said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “But there are all sorts of reasons we can’t go after Yoji—first of all, we have no jurisdiction over him. He can come to the U.S. and pretty much do whatever he wants—that is, unless we actually watch him kill someone. And that would never happen. That’s what the yakuza are all about, Heaven, you know that. Just like the mafia here, they’re very good at keeping the ‘godfather’ disconnected from their real dirty work.”
“Just wishful thinking, I guess,” I murmured as we drove back to the police station. I thought about what I had learned and tried to figure out the big picture. If the guys Teddy had been with in Mexico were Yukemura men, then why had the men followed us in the SUV? I was positive I’d seen the face of the Yukemura kidnapper back there. Maybe it was just one more screwup in my long, long list.
“So are you going to go back to Japan now?” Detective Martin asked, craning her neck around to look at me.
I stared out the window at Los Angeles. Night had fallen, but the city was filled with light. I wondered what it would be like to see Tokyo again.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Oh my, Heaven is quite a different girl since the wedding. Quite different. So much more sure of herself, more confident…not the daddy’s little princess I saw at the wedding. This explains why it’s been so difficult to locate her. She’s grown from a puppy into a full-grown—well, it’s not polite to say.
This suite really is delightful. The linens are the finest, the mattress firm. It’s almost enough to make me want to stay in bed for a moment or two more. Just a moment or two. Aaah, yes…
“Kord! Bring me a cup of tea.”
My servant, Kord, bows from the doorway and goes to get the tea. I’ll rise when it arrives. No need to rush just now. Haven’t I been working night and day like a dog?
Yes, at the wedding she was useless. Pretty, certainly. In fact, quite exquisite, but overcoddled and dull seeming, with none of that spark of intelligence and fire that a woman needs. After the attack I’d assumed they’d find her a few blocks away, shivering in her kimono, then lead her back to the hotel like a good little lamb, a dutiful little daughter. That was the plan, anyway.
Quite remarkable, when you come to think of it. The girl has managed to elude both the Kogos and the Yukemuras—and whoever else—since she fled. I give her young friend Hiro much of the credit for that. But as they say, “the jig is up.” It’s time for us to finish this thing for good. We can’t have Little Miss Heaven careening across the West Coast of the U.S., leaving a trail of bodies in her path, can we? And that unfortunate incident with the ninja last night, tsk, tsk…such a waste.
My poor sister. Mieko told me she wants Heaven home immediately. Mieko is a sensitive woman, refined, and her nerves are absolutely raw from all these false starts, all this waiting, all these plans that have died or been aborted at different phases of their execution. It’s really been too much for the poor thing to bear. Of course, she also has to keep up appearances with Konishi, and that’s a task no woman should have to suffer. At his bedside every day, accepting visits from those horrible old biddies with their condolences. Oh, it’s too much. Just too much.
I must make sure that Kord has properly packed my bags for the flight. I think I’ll take breakfast in my room this morning so I can make the necessary arrangements.
I am confident Heaven will return with me.
What other choice does she have?
Ah, my tea.
Masato
14
It was night. The crickets were ch
irping, and I felt the coolness of the dew beneath my bare feet as I walked across the grass. The air smelled like cherry blossoms, a sweet scent carried by the night breeze. When I first saw the speck of light, it seemed far, far away, and I wondered if it might be a firefly or even a match struck to light a candle or a lantern. But soon the light grew stronger and I saw that it was a flame, and that whoever was carrying the torch was walking toward me.
I felt no fear, so I continued across the broad lawn to meet whoever it was. I was walking on the grounds of my father’s Tokyo compound, out behind the guest houses where the thick grass curved down a hill toward a stream that bordered one side of the property. Next to the stream was a thicket of trees, a small wooded area where Ohiko and I had played as children.
It suddenly occurred to me that it was my brother who held the torch, and joy filled me as he approached. I was conscious that this was a dream, one of the vivid, lifelike ones I’d had right after he was killed—but I didn’t care. It felt like a real visit from the beyond, and I was happy to speak with my brother again, whether on this plane of existence or some other one.
He stopped about five feet away from me, and before I could go to him, he held the torch up so that the flames blocked his face. I could have easily walked around the torch, but somehow I knew that it was a warning—if I ventured too far, I’d be burned. I wanted so much to see his face.
“Ohiko, put the torch down,” I said.
“I can’t,” he replied, in that voice that was so familiar to me, almost as familiar as my own.
“What should I do?” I asked. “Should I go back to Japan?” The part of me that knew I was dreaming decided that I would do whatever Ohiko told me to. But he was silent. “Ohiko?” I ventured, wanting at least to hear his voice again.
Ohiko turned and walked up the hill, and I followed him, mesmerized by the flickering of the torch. After a moment time shifted, and we were all of a sudden inside the house, walking down the long hallway toward the kitchen. The only light was coming from Ohiko’s torch. Being in the familiar hall filled me with comfort, and I somehow knew that everyone was right where they were supposed to be—my father and Mieko, both sleeping in their beds, the servants done with their duties for the night, and our old nanny, Harumi, snoring in her sitting room.
Ohiko turned when he reached the kitchen and continued into the east wing of the house, where our bedrooms had been. When he stepped into my room, he walked over to the window and stopped, the torch still held up to block his face. I looked around, surprised that nothing had changed—there was my futon, made up as if ready for me to jump right into after a long night of studying or watching DVDs with Katie. The maids had straightened the piles of book and CDs, and there weren’t any clothes lying on the floor like there would have been if I was home. But it was all there…just waiting for me.
“Are you telling me to come home?” I asked Ohiko, and started to cry.
Ohiko lowered his torch, and I caught a brief glimpse of his face. He was crying, too.
Then the torch went out.
I woke up, shaken, and wiped the tears from my face. After Ohiko had died, many of the dreams I’d had were comforting: Ohiko and I were children again, playing by the pool, or else Ohiko was as he’d been the last time I’d seen him in Japan, coming to me with a smile on his face, telling me not to worry. But this dream was different—more real somehow. I felt like I’d actually been with my brother for a second, and now I felt the loss of his death, his absence all over again. I wasn’t sure what it meant.
But it was pretty clear I needed to go back to Japan to find out.
I wiped my eyes and hauled myself off the cot and over to the tin sink, where I splashed cold water on myself. In a few minutes, after I’d shaken free of the dream’s grip, I felt better rested than I had in weeks.
“Good morning, Heaven.” I turned and saw Detective Wachter slide open the bars as he balanced two cups of coffee and a Krispy Kreme bag in one hand. “Time for breakfast,” he said with a smile.
“Wow, thanks,” I said. “Who told you Krispy Kremes were my favorite?”
“Aren’t they everyone’s?” he said, handing me the bag and one of the coffees. “I wasn’t sure how you like it, so I just got black,” he added apologetically.
“Black is good,” I said, and tore into a maple doughnut. Man, I loved those things. So sugary and sweet they made your teeth hurt. But the way they melted in your mouth…I peeked into the bag. Three more, including a chocolate covered—all my favorites. “Don’t you want one?” I asked him.
“No, thanks,” he said, sitting down on a folding chair the guard had pushed into the cell. “I’ve already had twice as many as I should have.” He rubbed his stomach gingerly.
Hooray, I thought, massive doughnut binge for me! I was starved, as per usual, so I sat down on the bed and set to work on doughnut number two—French cruller.
“So what have you decided?” Detective Wachter asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
I chewed my doughnut thoughtfully, then took a swig of coffee. “I’m not totally sure yet, to be honest,” I said.
“Well, I think I should tell you what happens if you decide to stay here.” Detective Wachter leaned forward on the folding chair. He had circles under his eyes, and I felt bad remembering how I’d ruined his sting. I hoped he got a promotion or something anyway. He was nice, and not bad looking for an older guy, either.
“Okay,” I agreed, through a mouthful of doughnut.
“If you stay here, we can offer you police protection for the time being. But I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave the station. We’ll do everything in our power, but…” He shrugged, searching for words.
“But the yakuza are everywhere,” I supplied.
Detective Wachter sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. And their resources are far greater than ours. But even forgetting about that,” he continued, “we’ve checked with the INS, and you only have a couple of months left on your tourist visa. If you accept police custody, we’ll have to send you back to Japan at the end of that time. If you don’t want our protection—you could probably avoid being deported indefinitely. But—you’ll be on your own.”
“I see,” I said, reaching into the bag for another doughnut. “So staying here is only a temporary fix, you’re saying?”
“Well, it all depends on what you want to achieve while you’re here. If two months will do it, then it seems to me you’re set.”
“What about Hiro?” I asked. I didn’t know why I trusted Detective Wachter so much, but ever since I’d met him, I’d know that he was a kind man—and wise. Perception be damned—that was just the good, old-fashioned vibe he gave off. And he seemed as good a person as any to ask for advice. After all—who else could I go to? I knew what Masato would say and even Hiro—Hiro would tell me I was crazy to go back to Japan. But I wasn’t ready to deal with that part of the equation yet anyway—not quite.
“He’s still in the motel. We’ve been watching his house for the last two days, and we think it’s safe for him to return. He’s legal here, you know, so there’s no reason for him not to go back home. He’ll probably be heading over there later this morning.”
I fished a napkin out of the bag and wiped my hands, then stared longingly at the next doughnut—custard filled. “I just can’t do it.” I sighed.
“Go back to Japan?” Detective Wachter asked, his eyebrows kitting together.
“No—tackle that last doughnut. I might OD on the sugar.”
Detective Wachter grinned, and I laughed. It felt good, after all that had happened and all the decisions that needed to be made, to at least know one thing for sure—there was no way I could eat that last doughnut.
“So what do you think I should do?” I asked. Detective Wachter rubbed his eyes, then looked at me hard.
“I think you know what you need to do,” he said, standing. “Your uncle will be here in a few minutes.”
As if on cue, the guard appeared at the bars a
nd announced that Masato had arrived.
I followed the detective out into the lobby of the precinct, ignoring the jeers of the other inmates. I was getting to feel downright at home in the L.A. jail. Masato stood at the front desk, looking like he’d smelled a very bad smell but just as immaculately dressed as he’d been the first time I met him—today he wore a gray silk pin-striped suit with a pale blue shirt, complete with silver (platinum?) cuff links. In his hands he held a portfolio of soft, ebony leather. Not the type of guy you’d expect to find at central booking, that was for sure.
“Hello, Uncle,” I said, bowing.
“Niece,” he replied, trying to smile but looking like he just wanted to get out of the police station as fast as he could. “Hello, Detective.” They shook hands. “So,” Masato said, turning to me, “the police phoned me this morning with the details of your ‘sting,’ as they say. Such a shame it didn’t work out, but the police tell me they are very grateful for your assistance nonetheless.”
Detective Wachter bowed slightly and nodded.
“So have you made your decision?” Masato asked, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.
“Almost,” I said. “I just need to make one quick phone call. Is that okay?”
Masato looked at his watch. “We need to leave here in under fifteen minutes if we’re going to catch our flight. I like to be early for these things. One never knows what will happen these days, does one?” he said, looking at Detective Wachter as if for confirmation.
“Traffic can get pretty bad around here,” Detective Wachter agreed, smiling a little bit. I wondered what he thought of Masato and his fancy clothes, his slightly prissy ways. The detective looked like he’d been wearing the same khaki-colored suit his whole life. But I guess you didn’t get to be a detective without being able to handle all types of people.