The Little Tokyo Informant

by Andrew Rosenheim

  And was Billy dead? RIP? Or did they want Nessheim to think that so he would stop looking for him?

  In which case, Osaka was alive.

  Now he pushed his card across the desk. ‘I’m from the FBI. I’ve come to ask about money that was transferred here recently from the Manhattan Savings Association.’

  Mr Satake beamed some more, but did not reply. Nessheim tried again. ‘I am here to enquire about a transfer of monies from a New York bank. Can you help me with this, please?’

  Mr Satake beamed a third time – yet he seemed to recognise the impasse, for he opened a drawer. Extracting some slips of paper, he peered at them, then pushed two across the desk to Nessheim.

  Both had Japanese writing on them and Nessheim was at first none the wiser. He looked at Mr Satake beseechingly, but the Japanese man only offered another smile – like a cook in a diner, waiting to hear what the order would be. Nessheim looked down again at the two slips. They had blanks prefaced by dollar signs and except for the Japanese characters at the top they looked just like the slips in their counterpart American banks – for deposits and withdrawals respectively, he realised. Presumably, Mr Satake was waiting for him to say which he wanted to make.

  Something would have to give. Nessheim stood up, holding out a stiff palm like a traffic cop to tell Mr Satake he should stay put. He went and opened the door, then looked out at the nearby bank end of the store. Three rough tills had been created by the insertion of wooden dividers along a giant slab of mahogany. There were no security grilles, not even a pane of glass between the tellers and the customers. And no sign of any guards. Maybe Little Tokyo was immune to the bank robberies that even seven years after John Dillinger’s death were still plaguing the rest of America.

  The three young Japanese women were standing behind the mahogany counter. An aged Japanese man took a slip from one of them and moved towards the front of the store. The two girls nearest him looked at Nessheim curiously.

  ‘Can you help me please?’ he said, stepping out from the office. His voice sounded loud in this empty part of the store.

  The two girls nearest to him looked up and smiled. Both wore white blouses, buttoned up to the neck, and dark skirts. The third girl, furthest away from Nessheim, was dressed differently, in a grey kind of smock with padded shoulders and long sleeves. She was counting a stack of bills and hadn’t looked up when Nessheim asked his question.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Nessheim asked.

  The first girl gave the same unilluminating smile as Mr Satake. Nessheim looked at the girl next to her; she just shook her head. The third girl was still counting, concentrating as she peeled off individual bills from a diminishing stack of greenbacks.

  ‘How about you, miss?’ Nessheim asked.

  He could see her lips moving. When she’d counted the last bill she exhaled with relief and scribbled down a number. Without looking at Nessheim she said curtly, ‘What do you need?’

  ‘A translator, I guess. I was supposed to have one, but he couldn’t make it. Mr Satake doesn’t seem to speak English.’

  The woman sighed and came out from behind the counter. She was taller than the other girls, who were tiny, and walked with an energetic spring to her step that made her seem taller still. She had good legs under the smock she wore and her black hair was cut nicely with a straight fringe. Hers was a pretty face: a sharp chin, lips the shape of a cupid’s bow and expressive eyes. For a split second Nessheim thought he recognised her, but couldn’t quite place from where.

  She moved towards the office, moving by Nessheim without a glance, and he followed her in. She spoke briefly in Japanese to Satake, then sat down beside the desk with her legs uncrossed and knees together.

  Satake handed over the card Nessheim had given him and as she read it her eyes widened slightly. She spoke sharply to Satake and he too looked surprised.

  ‘So, Mr Special Agent Nessheim,’ she said as he returned to his seat, ‘how can we be of service?’

  ‘I’m here to ask about a wire transfer of funds. It came from New York.’

  ‘We have many such transfers, you know. Most come from Japan, but some are within the domestic US of A.’

  He stared at her. Her English was accentless, the voice soprano but stern. She was clearly born here – Nisei, he remembered from Billy Osaka’s brief tutorial. He said bluntly, ‘This transfer was for fifty thousand dollars.’

  She swallowed and he realised that her air of confidence was as fragile as it was determined.

  ‘Could you please ask Mr Satake if he remembers this transfer?’

  She turned and spoke to the banker in a torrent of Japanese. As she spoke, the man was nodding, but when she’d finished he gave an emphatic shake of his head. She turned to Nessheim, ‘No, he doesn’t,’ she explained unnecessarily.

  ‘Ask him to have another think, please. It came here in August or possibly July.’

  The girl looked at him stonily, then shrugged as if to say more fool you, and turned back to speak to Mr Satake. This time the banker seemed to be pondering his answer. After a moment, when he still didn’t speak, Nessheim said firmly, ‘I can, of course, get the transfer-wire number, if that would help. It would take a day or two and frankly the Bureau has better things to do.’

  The girl stared hard at Nessheim, then almost casually she spoke to Mr Satake. Whatever she said struck home, for Mr Satake replied at length in a high-pitched voice that sounded like the clack of typewriters in Ink Well Alley.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Nessheim impatiently.

  ‘Mr Satake was away for much of the summer, visiting his family in Japan. But he says that naturally there would be a full record of the transaction, especially since such a large sum was involved.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. I’d like to see the record, please.’

  ‘Do you read Japanese, Mr Nessheim?’

  ‘No, but you do, miss.’ He let this sink in, then asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Hanako.’

  ‘Hanako what?’

  ‘Hanako Yukuri. Do you want my middle name too?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Nessheim. ‘What do you do here, Hanako?’

  ‘I’m the head teller. And Mr Satake’s secretary – I have shorthand.’

  ‘Do you remember this wire transfer?’

  ‘I wasn’t the head teller then. Miss Waganaba was.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose I could have a word with Miss … Waganaba?’

  ‘Not easily,’ Hanako said cheerfully. ‘She retired and went back to live in Japan.’

  ‘What about you? I suppose you were in Japan this summer too?’ he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  The girl gave a shadow of a smile. ‘No, I was here.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news.’

  She didn’t reply, but stood up and headed for the door.

  ‘I hope you’re coming back,’ he said, alarmed at the prospect of being alone with Mr Satake again.

  The girl laughed. ‘If you’re good I might,’ she said. There was nothing meek or mouse-like about this girl, thought Nessheim, who had a soft spot for a smart alec.

  When she came back it was with a typed slip – in Japanese. ‘Looks like Greek to me,’ said Nessheim lightly.

  She didn’t smile this time. ‘Money came from New York on August 5th in the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. It was sent on behalf of a Mr Milnikov on behalf of the Russian Consulate in New York City and was received here by a Mr Lyakhov.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘You would have to tell me, Mr Nessheim,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Wouldn’t he need to have an account to receive that large a sum of money?’ Especially since he wasn’t Japanese.

  ‘Not necessarily. But I checked and in fact Mr Lyakhov did have an account here, which he opened on August 1st.’

  ‘Interesting. You said Mr Lyakhov “did have” an account – has he closed it?’

  ‘Yes, on August 19th.’

  ‘That�
�s quick. Would Mr Lyakhov have to establish his credentials to open an account?’

  ‘He would have had to show identification.’

  ‘So you have an address?’

  ‘As a matter of fact we do. A driver’s licence was used as identification and Rose – that’s Miss Waganaba – wrote down the address.’ She handed over another slip of paper. Nessheim looked at it – 301 Longworth Drive.

  ‘Where is this?’

  She seemed amused. ‘I think you’ll find it’s in Palisade Heights.’

  ‘You said twenty-five thousand dollars. I was informed it was fifty.’

  ‘No.’ She was emphatic. ‘We wouldn’t make a mistake over that kind of amount. We handle larger sums than our surroundings might suggest, Agent Nessheim. But that’s a lot of money by any standard.’

  ‘I know it is,’ he said, trying not to show his puzzlement. ‘But could it have come twice – I mean, two twenty-fives …’

  ‘Make fifty, Agent Nessheim. We may not speak your language perfectly, but even Mr Satake is numerate.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting—’

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’ she asked.

  Mr Satake was beaming again.

  ‘No,’ said Nessheim getting up. ‘Other than Mr Lyakhov.’

  15

  ‘NESSHEIM!’

  He was putting back the Osaka file when the SAC called out. Damn: another ten seconds and Nessheim would have been out of there, unnoticed.

  He went and stood in the doorway of Hood’s office.

  ‘Here I am,’ he said.

  The SAC was standing by the window. Behind him a warm and hazy sky blurred the view of the mountains. There was often a murky quality to the air downtown. Teitz said it was due to the exhaust fumes of the growing number of cars, but some days the sky was clear as gin without any noticeable reduction in traffic.

  ‘I’ve had a complaint about you,’ said Hood.

  He was dressed in a khaki-coloured suit with a buttoned vest that was a darker shade of tan and light brown brogues. He looked like a dandified country sheriff, dressed up for a visit to the big city.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘The LAPD. They found the dead body of an old Japanese lady in Little Tokyo. Apparently they found you there too.’

  ‘I’m the one who called them.’

  ‘They seem to think you were messing up the crime scene.’

  ‘Like hell I was,’ Nessheim said. He explained about the money he’d found.

  Hood said, ‘What were you doing there anyway?’

  ‘I was looking for Osaka. The old lady was his grandmother.’

  ‘I thought I told you not to waste your time on the guy. I understand you’ve been in touch with the field Office in Hawaii. Shivers, the SAC out there, answered your telex personally.’

  ‘I was only asking for a Scoop search,’ said Nessheim, slightly appalled by the level of the response.

  ‘Just a Scoop search?’ Nessheim could see Hood was getting annoyed. ‘Listen, you know I’m not happy about this whole set-up. I don’t know why Harry Guttman wants you under his wing and I don’t care, provided you keep your nose clean and stay out of my hair. But when I have a SAC asking me who you are and the local cops complaining, I don’t like it one bit. Now I want you to stay in that studio and make sure they make us look good, and once a month tell me who the Reds are under Hollywood’s bed. You’re not in Investigations any more – I don’t know if you ever really were – and that means you’re not to investigate, except to point the way to Communists, got it? As far as Osaka is concerned you should consider the kid dead and buried.’

  Nessheim flinched at Hood’s choice of words and Hood stared at him. ‘Listen, if this Jap kid killed his grandmother, then he is dead and buried. He’ll get the chair for that.’

  ‘If he killed her why would he leave five hundred bucks on her dresser?’

  ‘Why would anyone?’ Hood said sharply. ‘Like I say, leave it alone. I want his file given the deep six, right?’

  Nessheim nodded and Hood said, ‘Now, did you go to the Reds’ rumpus last night?’

  ‘I did. The usual suspects – and a lot of writers from the studios.’

  ‘Who organised it?’

  ‘A guy named Waverley. He’s a Party member.’

  ‘I know who he is. Did he speak?’

  ‘Yeah. The standard stuff about our brothers in red. A Russian gave a speech too – the Vice-Consul in LA.’

  But Hood wasn’t interested in this. He asked, ‘How many people were there?’

  ‘I’d say between two and three hundred.’

  ‘How much money did they raise?’

  ‘I can tell you that,’ said Nessheim, trying to think of a plausible figure. ‘It was a little more than five grand. I’ve got a friend at the studio who does typing for Waverley on the side.’

  ‘What’s the name of your friend?’

  ‘Her friends call her Fifi,’ said Nessheim, picking the name out of a mental hat. Anything to keep Hood off his back. ‘She’s not a Red, though. Waverley pays her for the typing.’

  ‘Fifi, huh?’ Hood shook his head and Nessheim remembered that Guttman had called him a Puritan, and not in an admiring way. Hood said, ‘I worry about the company you keep, Nessheim.’

  Nessheim went down to the typing pool, where he asked for the reply from the Hawaii Field Office. The head typist rummaged in the papers in a wire tray at one end of her desk, then handed over a sheet of telex paper. It was from the Hawaii SAC:

  In answer to your query:

  William Osaka attended Grade School at PS 5 in Honolulu from 1922 to 1928.

  Last known address was 15 Maypole Avenue in Honolulu, Oahu. Father reported deceased Honolulu May 1924. Mother deceased Honolulu June 1935.

  No felony convictions in the Island Territory jurisdiction, and no record of misdemeanours with police authorities.

  No Territory driver’s license issued in his name.

  Details of High School education were unavailable.

  Robert Shivers

  SAC Honolulu

  Both Osaka parents were dead, which Billy had not noted on his application form to the Bureau here in LA. Why not? It seemed curious, as did the absence of any high-school records. He must have gone to high school, otherwise he wouldn’t have got into UCLA.

  Nessheim walked back to the elevators. When one came it was empty and he breathed a sigh of relief as the door started to close, glad to get out of Hood’s bailiwick. But an arm protruded between the closing doors and whacked them open – revealing Cohan, the Deputy SAC.

  ‘Just the man I want to see,’ he said, entering the elevator. His drawn features looked like the air had been sucked out of his cheeks.

  ‘Really?’ said Nessheim with foreboding. It was bad enough getting chewed out by Hood. He didn’t need a second round with the SAC’s chief sucker-upper.

  ‘I want a favour,’ said Cohan, sounding confident he was going to get one.

  Nessheim turned his head and looked at him blankly.

  ‘You know Harry Dedway?’

  Nessheim laughed. ‘Special Agent Parker?’ The leading man in The Red Herring; the former cowboy picture star who looked lost without his horse.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Cohan. ‘The thing is,’ he said, and Nessheim realised he was embarrassed, ‘my wife’s a big fan. Don’t ask me why.’ He shrugged meaningfully, as if to say, Women! ‘Anyhow, I was wondering if you could get Louise an autograph.’

  ‘Well,’ said Nessheim, unused to a beseeching Cohan. ‘Dedway’s kind of a prima donna. But we get on okay, so sure, I can get an autograph for your wife.’

  ‘That’d be great.’ The doors opened on the ground floor and Cohan strode out.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ Nessheim called out and Cohan stopped, surprised. Nessheim took two steps closer on the lobby’s polished marble floor. ‘Could you check something for me? I need a line on a guy.’

  ‘This on the job?’

  ‘
Of course.’

  ‘Does the SAC know?’

  It was Nessheim’s turn to shrug. ‘No. And he wouldn’t be happy about it if he did. Hood’s already sore that I report to D.C. But I don’t even need to see the file. I just want to know if there is one, and the gist of what’s in it. Shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.’

  ‘That’s a lot to ask for just one autograph,’ Cohan said with a shake of his head, starting to edge away.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Nessheim placidly. He could hear the empty elevator close behind him, and he said just loud enough for Cohan to hear, ‘Would your wife like a tour of the studio? Maybe meet some of the actors?’

  Cohan stopped moving. ‘She’d get to meet Dedway?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Nessheim, wondering how he was going to bring this about. He hadn’t exchanged more than fifteen words with the actor, who only took instruction from the Count.

  ‘Could you really arrange that? I’d come too, just so she feels comfortable.’

  Nessheim laughed. ‘You better. I wouldn’t want my wife to spend time alone with Harry Dedway.’

  ‘I can trust my wife,’ Cohan said haughtily.

  ‘Of course you can. Anyway, I can get her a tour all right, and she can meet Harry Dedway. I’ll be there, you can be there. Hell, there’s a pet donkey in Studio Two that can be there too. All I want in return is a quick sweep of the files. I don’t need anything written down and I promise you it’s Bureau business you’ll be assisting, whatever Hood would say.’

  At last Cohan gave a small resigned sigh. ‘Name?’

  ‘Dubin, Mo Dubin. And any mention of an associate named Ike. I don’t know his last name. Both are origin-ally from Cleveland.’

  ‘I got to phone the field office there?’

  ‘Nah. Dubin’s been in LA a while, I think. If mud stuck in Ohio, some of it would make the file out here. If he has a file.’

  ‘When’s the tour?’ asked Cohan, happier to discuss Nessheim’s end of the bargain.