The Little Tokyo Informant

by Andrew Rosenheim

  Pearl turned around. He had unclenched his hands and his palms were up in mock surrender. He pointed a finger right at Nessheim, jabbing the air as he spoke. ‘Agent Nessheim,’ he said, and though he was smiling there was nothing ingratiating in his voice. ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse.’

  Nessheim didn’t say anything, but Pearl didn’t seem to notice his silence and continued: ‘I checked you out. Tolson said you played ball.’

  ‘I told you that on Sunday.’

  ‘You didn’t mention you were an all-American.’ Pearl sounded as if he were offended by this omission.

  ‘I was only second team.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Pearl had raised his voice. ‘I heard you didn’t play your senior year. Did you just go off the boil or something?’

  ‘I got hurt,’ said Nessheim. He resented having to say this. It triggered a memory he could do without: jumping high as a gazelle, catching the ball with his outstretched fingertips, then the next thing he knew he was coming round on the locker-room table, a vial of ammonia spirit shoved under his nose.

  Pearl took two steps closer. ‘You know my boy TD, he’s a pretty good ballplayer too.’

  ‘So I heard.’ From Junior himself. ‘Did you play football, Mr Pearl?’

  ‘Me?’ Pearl said with disbelief. ‘I played stickball, Nessheim, not football. And that was only in a Bronx alley while I waited for the groceries that I had to deliver. I worked every day after school since I was twelve years old.’ There would have been something endearing about this, had Pearl not seemed so impressed by it himself. ‘Anyway, USC is nothing to sneeze at,’ he said, as if Nessheim had just gone kerchoo. ‘You should help my boy – you know, give him some tips.’

  Nessheim said, ‘USC is top of the heap. He’ll get the best coaching in the country – there’s nothing I could teach him that they couldn’t teach him a million times better.’ Except how to be nice to the Mexican help, he thought.

  Pearl said, ‘They don’t seem to appreciate the talent my kid’s got.’

  ‘They will,’ said Nessheim earnestly. ‘They will.’

  Pearl nodded and Nessheim hoped their little talk was over. But then the mogul started to pace, first back to the window where he barely looked out, then over to the desk, then finally to the middle of the room, where he seemed to make a decision to stand still. ‘Have you heard from Mr Hoover lately?’ he asked abruptly.

  There seemed no point explaining that he never heard from Mr Hoover. ‘No,’ Nessheim said simply.

  ‘He’s supposed to be coming out here this Fall. Did you know that?’

  Nessheim tried to look benign. ‘There has been rumour of it. But the Director’s plans have been known to change.’

  ‘Rumour.’ Pearl lifted his head and eyeballed Nessheim as if he were a plucked bird, and he was trying to decide which end to shove in the oven first. ‘Tolson says they’ll be coming. I hope so, because I got something to discuss with them.’

  Nessheim knew that people didn’t announce they wanted to talk about something unless they wanted to say what that something was. He waited and eventually Pearl explained. ‘The thing is, the FBI pics so far have done okay, but they haven’t changed the way that AMP is seen.’

  ‘By the other studios, you mean?’

  ‘The other studios can go fuck themselves. They owe me, pal, in ways I don’t even want to discuss. But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve had an idea.’

  For all his vulgarity, Pearl wasn’t stupid – that much Nessheim knew, so he was paying close attention. ‘You see, this series you’ve been helping on only goes so far. Yeah, they’re cheap to make and easy to sell, but only to the B theatres. If AMP is going to break into the big time, it’s going to have to have bigger productions.’

  That means money, thought Nessheim. Colour film sometimes and bigger stars than the likes of Dedway or other deadbeats borrowed from the bigger studios.

  ‘With all the dough in the world you can’t make people buy something that’s no good. If we’re going to make the big time we need something special.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Nessheim, trying to sound patient.

  ‘An FBI picture.’ He raised a hand to stave off objections Nessheim was not about to make. ‘But not the kind of schmaltz low-budget dogshit our esteemed Mr Dedway has been starring in.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nessheim tentatively.

  ‘This would be the FBI flick to end all FBI flicks. It’ll have an agent – but not just any agent. It will be the Agent.’ Pearl was now staring at him so intently that for an awful moment Nessheim wondered if the Agent might be himself. Pearl continued, ‘The Bureau was made by Hoover, Hoover is the Bureau, and that’s your movie right there: The Life and Times of the Man Who Made the FBI. What do ya think?’

  ‘It seems a natural idea,’ he managed to say.

  ‘That’s what I believe.’ Yet Pearl’s face was troubled. ‘There’s just one thing. I’ve got to persuade your Director to let me do it.’

  This didn’t seem the problem to Nessheim. He knew, part by reputation, part from his own experience, that Hoover in his own eyes was synonymous with his agency. Woe betide anyone else who tried to share the limelight. Sometimes it seemed Hoover begrudged the Bureau itself when it got publicity; as Guttman once remarked, it was as if Dr Frankenstein himself had run amok. Hoover hadn’t created a monster – his creation had turned him into one.

  Nessheim said carefully, ‘I think the Director would be very flattered.’

  ‘Oh, he’s tickled pink by the idea. It’s just whether AMP’s the one to make the picture. A lot of people would say Warners was the obvious choice, and I know Mayer or Zanuck would do it given half a chance. So I need all the help I can get.’ Pearl looked meaningfully at Nessheim. ‘The Director says he and Clyde Tolson are coming to LA this Fall and he’ll be happy to talk about my idea then. I said I’d show him the town and he seemed to think that was a swell idea. I know he likes the nightlife and the track – I got friends at Santa Anita, so that won’t be a problem. I can show him and his buddy Clyde a good time all right, but that may not be enough. He’s got to be persuaded that we can do the job.’

  Nessheim could see the problem now. Hoover must like Pearl – why else encourage the studio to make the quickie pictures Nessheim advised on? But there would only be one shot at this big idea – with bad consequences for the studio if it got it wrong, and even worse ones for Hoover and the Bureau.

  ‘I am sure you can make a good case to the Director,’ he said stolidly.

  ‘Sure, but anything I say he’s gotta take with a pinch of salt. What he’ll want is an objective opinion from someone he can trust.’ Again he gave Nessheim a look.

  Nessheim said nothing and suddenly Pearl took a different tack. ‘Tell me Nessheim, you got a girlfriend?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste much time worrying about it. You’re still a young fella and LA’s full of girls. Half of them want to be in the pictures, and the other half want to hump the guys who already are. You’ve got a good position here if you’re feeling lonely. I could help some, you know. Not a day goes by that I don’t have something special in my waiting room, and if I was to say the word they’d be happy enough to pay you a visit too.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nessheim without enthusiasm.

  Pearl must have sensed Nessheim’s lack of interest, for he went on. ‘Maybe you like the track too, just like the Director. I got a box there. You’re welcome to use it any time. Take a girl along, meet the jockeys and some of the other owners. I can even give you a tip or two,’ he added slyly.

  The silence that followed was awkward. Pearl grew exasperated. ‘What do you like then, buddy? There’s got to be something. Cars? A vacation in Tijuana you’ll never forget? Everybody wants something.’

  ‘There is one thing. I’m looking for somebody.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Pearl said without apparent interest.

  ‘His name’s Osaka.’

>   He stared at Nessheim. ‘A Jap?’

  ‘He’s half-Japanese, half-Irish. And I’m not the only one looking for him.’

  Pearl’s lips pursed. ‘What’s he done, this guy?’

  ‘Disappeared.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned. The other people looking for him may think different.’

  ‘Yeah, and they may think you’re in the way.’ He put a finger up to his face and scratched one cheek absent-mindedly, then pointed a finger at Nessheim. ‘You don’t want to be sticking your nose into something that doesn’t involve you, young man.’

  He was trying to sound avuncular, but there was a coercive timbre in his voice which Nessheim resented. He said firmly, ‘I’ll have to be the judge of that.’

  Pearl didn’t like this; his eyes flared angrily, then just as suddenly relaxed, slipping into neutral. Pearl tried to smile. ‘Take it easy, okay? Tell me the guy’s name again and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll scratch your back and when Hoover’s here you scratch mine.’

  Nessheim nodded, figuring he had nothing to lose. ‘His name’s Osaka,’ he said, ‘Billy Osaka.’ But Pearl was already halfway out the door, figuring his side of the deal was set.

  18

  HE SAT IN his Dodge with the radio on and watched until the girl came out of Woodward Court and walked along First Street, then caught the yellow LARy streetcar that would take her east. Once she got on, Nessheim set off himself, though he couldn’t keep up with the tram despite its frequent stops, since traffic was heavy heading out of downtown. He’d read that one in three Angelenos owned a car and all of them seemed to be heading east this evening.

  After he’d crossed the bridge and followed First Street he spotted her turning towards the address he’d found in the phone book, half a mile north of Billy Osaka’s apartment. This part of Boyle Heights was tidy if poor: the streets were smoothly paved, the sidewalks laid to square and the lawns, though tiny, carefully mown, with trimmed ornamental bushes and flowering plants in neatly tended beds. The bungalows and two-storey houses were undivided. This was a neighbourhood of families, all of them Japanese in these half dozen streets, less than a mile east of the Los Angeles River.

  He did a circle of two blocks and pulled up a hundred yards ahead of her on Concord Street. Making a U-turn he parked so that the passenger door was next to the curb. Looking in the side mirror he timed his wait, then opened his door and got out, standing with his forearms crossed on the top of the car. The woman was almost even with him now and looked over at Nessheim, first with curiosity, then with dismay. He was sure now – it was the same unhappy expression on her face that he’d seen on the porch of Billy Osaka’s house, though this time there were no tears.

  ‘Got a minute, Miss Yukuri?’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said firmly.

  ‘You sure?’ he said. ‘I don’t want to have to make this more formal.’

  ‘Formal?’

  ‘Yeah, I could drive you downtown and we could talk there.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many movies.’

  He’d forgotten the discrepancy between her sweetie-pie appearance and sharp tongue. ‘It wouldn’t look too good, now would it? What would people think?’

  ‘People would wonder why some plain-clothes cop was harassing me. It would be a lot worse if I got in the car. If they saw me sitting alone with a white man, people would really talk.’

  ‘I tell you what. I’ll drive up and park in the alley. We can talk there and no one will see us. How’s that sound?’

  She didn’t answer, so he got in the car and started up, then drove about a hundred feet before turning right into a little alley that intersected the otherwise continuous line of tidy houses. In his rear-view mirror he saw her come to the corner, hesitate, then finally walk his way.

  She opened the passenger side door and slid into the front seat, leaving the door open. She winced at the heat of the leather seat and tucked her skirt under her stockinged thighs.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asked. ‘I thought we’d done all our business at the bank.’

  ‘Not quite. I’d like to know where the extra twenty-five thousand went.’

  She made a show of sighing. ‘I told you, we only received twenty-five thousand. I double-checked.’

  ‘So where’s the rest?’

  ‘It was probably some clerical error in New York.’ She moved over the ‘r’s in her words like a pianist skimming scales – too quick to make the error identifiable, but with something sounding not quite right. When he kept looking at her, she said sharply, ‘It didn’t make it to LA. You need to talk to the people back East.’

  ‘Oh we will, don’t you worry about that.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, and then she said brightly, ‘Okay mister? I need to get home.’

  ‘There’s another thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Billy Osaka.’

  ‘Who?’ she said, but her voice quavered.

  ‘He has a message for you.’

  Without thinking she said, ‘You’ve heard from him?’

  Realising her mistake, she made to get out of the car, but he grabbed her arm, roughly enough that she wasn’t going to get away without a struggle. When she sat back again, he let go.

  He said, ‘Now that we’ve established you know him, the honest answer is no. I’m trying to find him and it sounds like you want to know where he is, too.’

  She gave a thin laugh. ‘If you know Billy at all, you know he never stays put for long.’

  ‘I know that, but I’m worried about him. He’s never let me down before.’

  ‘Let you down?’ she asked.

  ‘He called and said he had something urgent to tell me. Do you know what that could be?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything about the bank?’

  ‘Why would it be about the bank?’

  Because the coincidence of Guttman’s instructions and Billy’s links to this girl troubled him. He said, ‘Is he in trouble?’

  She exhaled, and said, ‘Billy is always in trouble. And no, I don’t know where he is. Can I go now?’

  ‘Did you know his grandmother?’

  ‘Mrs Oka?’

  ‘That’s right.’ There was no point holding back. ‘She’s dead.’

  Her lips opened for the briefest moment, like a clam trying a taste of air before saying no thanks. She lowered her head and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, but not surprised. She was very old. When did she die?’

  ‘At the weekend. She was murdered.’

  ‘No! Who would do that?’ Her horrified expression seemed genuine.

  ‘The police think Billy did.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. He loved his grandmother. He was devoted to her.’

  ‘I went to see an old teacher of his, a man named Larson.’ When Hanako frowned he said, ‘You know him?’

  ‘I never met the man.’

  ‘Well, Professor Larson said Billy came to California because he had a cousin here. Do you know who that is?’

  She hesitated. He could see she was trying to decide what to tell him. He said, ‘Listen, Hanako: the cops are looking for Billy, and so are some other people – not nice people. You don’t want them finding Billy before I do, you understand? You’ve got to trust me.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because you haven’t got any choice. And because I know he didn’t kill his grandmother, and I’m not just saying that. I can prove it.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, sounding as if she wanted to believe him.

  He brought the envelope out of his side pocket. ‘Recognise the handwriting?’

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘It was on the dresser in Mrs Oka’s bedroom. It had five hundred dollars in it – that’s with the LAPD now. I kept the envelope.’

  ‘Do you know what it says?’

  ‘“Grandmother”. He wouldn’t have left Mrs Oka five hundred dollars if he�
��d just murdered her.’

  Hanako Yukuri sat silently for a moment. Down the alley two Japanese boys were playing on bicycles, circling around each other slowly and talking animatedly.

  ‘Did she suffer very much?’ asked Hanako.

  ‘I’m afraid she did.’

  Hanako shook her head. ‘I don’t know why anyone would want to harm her.’

  ‘It had to do with Billy. They were warning him.’

  ‘Warning him, how?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me that. All I’ve managed to find out is that Billy liked to gamble. I think he had debts.’

  ‘He liked to play cards, but he only told me about the times he won.’ She looked suddenly disheartened.

  He said more gently, ‘That’s what most people do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m a good girl, from good hard-working parents. They raised me as a Baptist and raised me as an American – it’s other people who seem to have a problem with that. And I never put a foot wrong – until I met Billy.’

  ‘Your parents don’t approve of him.’

  She shook her head. ‘They were polite, but I could tell they didn’t like him. He was doing his best to be humble and respectful, but they could see he isn’t really that way. They thought he was yogone.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A roughneck.’

  He nodded. ‘Did you ever go with Billy to the Sierra?’

  ‘What do you know about that?’ Her eyes widened questioningly.

  He shrugged. ‘Billy mentioned it.’

  ‘He promised to take me there this summer. I arranged everything. I told my parents I was going with old school friends. Then he cancelled at the last minute.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘He went to Hawaii instead.’

  ‘Hawaii?’ He thought back to Billy’s absence. It couldn’t have been more than ten days. Had he lied about this to Hanako too?

  ‘Yes, he flew there. Don’t ask me where he got the money. It costs more than six hundred dollars to go that way.’