What a layer of lies – telling Nessheim he was helping a relative in Oregon, then ‘admitting’ he’d gone to the Sierra, when in fact he’d gone to Hawaii. ‘Was this a vacation?’
‘He claimed it was family business,’ Hanako said crossly. ‘Since both his parents are dead, I don’t know what family he had in mind.’ She gave a sour laugh, and added, ‘He was only gone a week.’
‘What about this cousin of his, did you ever meet him?’
‘No.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘On Terminal Island, off San Pedro. There’s a Japanese community there. He’s one of the fishermen. They sell their catch to the canneries on the island.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘No. Talk about yogone – Billy says the people there are very coarse.’
‘Does his cousin look like Billy?’
‘No. By Japanese standards he’s tall – but not as tall as Billy. I saw a picture of him once at Mrs Oka’s. He has a harsh face and when he’s out at sea he doesn’t shave.’
That will help me find him, thought Nessheim. ‘Did you ever meet him?’
Hanako shook her head. ‘Billy said since he’d met my family I should meet his, and I was always happy to see Mrs Oka. She was a sweet old lady. But I drew the line at Akiro.’
Nessheim noted the name. ‘Why’s that?’
‘He is not a good influence on Billy. For one thing, he started him gambling. And I know he doesn’t think Billy should be courting me.’ Hanako said irritably, ‘Billy told me Akiro called me a gaijin wannabe.’
‘What?’
‘It means I’m loyal to America more than Japan. Which I am, Mr Agent Nessheim. I was born here, I work here, I have a home here. I have as many rights as you do.’
‘I’m not arguing with that,’ he said mildly.
She was still cross. ‘I just want to be American – if I’m allowed.’ She added with a shake of her head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Yes I would,’ he said quietly. Nessheim thought of his father, hounded during the last war for his ancestry – a mob had made him get on his knees and kiss the American flag. ‘But Akiro doesn’t want that for himself?’
‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘He believes in Japan. He likes to look backward rather than forward.’
‘Was Billy like that?’ It seemed hard to believe, after Larson’s portrait of Billy as so eager to be American that he turned a blind eye to the prejudice blocking his way.
Hanako hesitated, but when she spoke it was emphatic: ‘No.’
‘If you never met Akiro, how do you know? Did Billy tell you?’
‘He knew I disapproved of him so he didn’t talk about him much. But you only have to know the kinds of people Akiro hangs out with. Gamblers, hoodlums.’
‘The Tokyo Club,’ he said.
‘For sure,’ she said vigorously.
‘You know much about them?’
‘More than enough.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Nessheim.
Hanako sighed. ‘You remember Mr Satake?
‘Of course.’
‘He’s a very good grocer.’
‘Yes, and president of the bank.’
‘He doesn’t own the bank.’
Nessheim could see she wanted him to ask. ‘So who does?’
‘The Tokyo Club.’
19
HOOD WAS ON vacation and Cohan was acting SAC. He’d taken over Hood’s corner office and made a point of calling people in to see him. When it was Nessheim’s turn he found Cohan gazing out the window towards the San Gabriel Mountains, which were picture-sharp this morning and snow-peaked. He swivelled in his chair and Nessheim saw that Cohan had his suit jacket buttoned and his tie pulled up tight in a Windsor knot. He looked like he was going to a funeral, or about to conduct one.
But he spoke cheerfully enough, saying, ‘You had a phone call earlier today. One of the girls took the message – I got it somewhere here.’ He fumbled with the papers on his desk, then handed a pink phone slip to Nessheim. It had a number and the Please Call box was ticked. The caller’s name was written down as Mrs M.
Cohan said, ‘So how are we doing on the visit to the studio?’
‘I spoke to Dedway – no problem there. Let me talk to Pearl. I know he’ll want you to have the VIP tour.’
Cohan seemed satisfied by this. ‘Well, I checked out your friend Mo. There’s nothing in the file.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s clean,’ said Cohan emphatically. ‘I even called Cleveland for you. Nothing there.’
‘Cleveland have never heard of him?’
‘Oh they’ve heard of him – he was a big shot there until he came West. But the businesses were all legit.’
‘I thought he was in booze.’
‘He was for a while, after Prohibition. He had a little trouble at one point with the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms folks, but they never charged him with anything. And while nobody’s saying this guy’s a fairy godmother, he’s white as far as the Bureau’s concerned.’
Cohan looked down at the papers on his desk to indicate that they were through. But there was another question Nessheim wanted to ask. ‘Tell me something. You know this guy I was using, Osaka?’
‘What about him?’ Cohan said warily.
‘What does Hood have against him?’
Cohan shrugged. ‘Osaka was supposed to help us with our list of who’s who among the Nips in LA. That way if war breaks out, we’ll be ready to nab the important ones right away. Though if it was up to me,’ he added, making Nessheim grateful it wasn’t, ‘I’d round them all up.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Osaka kept making excuses and not giving us any names. Finally Hood got fed up and took his retainer away. I don’t think Osaka was ever going to help us.’
‘Maybe he didn’t want to be a pigeon for his own people.’
Cohan looked at him scornfully. ‘When you start thinking that way you’re no use to the Bureau.’
Nessheim took the cue this time and left.
His desk didn’t have a phone, but the agent sitting closest to him was away so he used his. He tried Guttman first and got his secretary Marie, who explained he was out of the office – Nessheim was leery of leaving a message. There was a telex in the field office, but he distrusted it – a copy of what he sent would be retained and could be read. On the drive home he could stop at Western Union in Hollywood and send a wire instead.
Then he looked at the slip Cohan had given him and dialled the number.
After three rings a woman answered.
‘Hello, I had a message to call a Mrs M,’ he said.
‘Is that Mr Nessheim?’ The voice was mildly familiar.
‘Yes. Who’s that?’
‘It’s Elizaveta Mukasei.’
It sounded like a garble of consonants. ‘Yes,’ he said tentatively.
‘You know, the lady standing next to “Bruiser” at the benefit the other night?’
He laughed. ‘Otherwise known as the wife of the Soviet Vice-Consul.’
‘I believe you found my husband a little verbose.’ Her English was excellent – accented to be sure and with the elocution of someone taught the language, but surprisingly idiomatic.
‘Don’t mind me: I was just itching for a drink.’
A chuckle came over the phone. ‘You amuse me, Agent Nessheim. I enjoyed our little talk. It would be nice to meet up with you some time.’
‘Well sure,’ he said, taken by surprise. ‘I’m a little busy right now, but I could meet for a coffee maybe,’ he added, feeling slightly awkward.
‘I had something more formal to offer.’
‘Right,’ he said neutrally.
‘Show some enthusiasm, Agent Nessheim,’ she said, struggling with the ‘th’ – it came out as ‘entusiasm’.
‘Okay, I’ll do my best.’ What did this woman want?
‘My husband and I are hosting a weekend at a ranch near Santa Ba
rbara. Have you been there?’
‘Never.’ He found himself wondering how the workers of the world could run to a Santa Barbara ranch.
‘Before you say anything, you should know that it doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to a friend of our country, and he’s lent it to us. The weekend after next I would like you to come.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, along with other friends from LA. Before you politely say no, let me explain. You see, there’s something in it for both of us. It will let me try and convince you that America is a natural ally for the Soviet Union. And in turn you can see the kind of company the Russians are keeping in Los Angeles.’
‘What do you mean?’
She gave another low chuckle. ‘I know something about the FBI, Mr Nessheim. Your Mr Hoover is no friend of ours. But I am sure he believes in that old saying “know your enemy”. I am coming to you as a friend, but if I have to entertain you as an enemy, that’s all right too. You will be able to tell your superiors all about the Soviet plans for world domination, even if the presence of the German army in my country would suggest the foolishness of that view.’ This time she gave a full-throated laugh.
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not sure how I’m fixed that weekend. I may be working.’
‘At the weekend? Some of our guests are coming out Friday evening, but if you prefer come Saturday. Bring trunks and some warm clothes – it gets cold up in the hills when the sun goes down. And you’ll want to spend the night I hope. It’s a long drive after all. Believe me, I know you would not find it a waste of time. And I think you would enjoy yourself.’
‘I’m sure I would,’ he said mechanically.
‘So you will do your best to come? I think we have a lot to talk about, Agent Nessheim. You might be surprised.’
‘Okay, I’ll let you know,’ he said.
‘I’ll send you directions. Do svidaniya,’ she said and hung up.
He sat for a minute, puzzled by the call. Hadn’t the Russians better things to do right now, with their backs against the wall? It wasn’t as if Nessheim was looking for company – at least not the artsy Communist sort. If Hood didn’t like Nessheim’s imaginary source Fifi, God knows what he would make of the real Red thing.
20
HE WAS TIRED and hot when he reached San Pedro after his drive south the following morning. It was only twenty miles from downtown Los Angeles, but Figueroa was a jammed road, full of trucks coming back and forth from the port of Los Angeles, rather than any kind of free-flowing highway. It took him an hour, driving at a speed where the air blown through his open windows didn’t cool him down at all – it was over eighty degrees and he yearned for the crispness that was October in Wisconsin.
As he came down out of the foothills he could see the town’s harbour, a messy assemblage of docked freighters, warehouses and factories. A thin line of blue divided the mainland from a right-angled piece of land that must be Terminal Island. When both Figueroa and the Highway ended he took Gaffey Street into San Pedro itself. It was a wide avenue of wooden houses that turned to stores as he neared the water. Pulling over, he went into a coffee shop, where a big and long-jawed blonde was cleaning away dishes from the tables.
She looked up as Nessheim came in and said, ‘You’re kind of late for breakfast. I could do eggs, but that’s about it.’
‘I’m just looking for directions. How do I get to Terminal Island?’
She pointed. ‘Water’s three blocks that-a-way. The island’s on the other side of it.’
‘Is there a bridge across?’
‘At the northern end. But a ferry’s opened at Sixth Street. You’d be quicker taking that.’
‘What street is this?’
‘Ninth, though people called it Croatia. You know your way around the island?’
‘No. I’m trying to find somebody who lives there.’
‘Lives there?’ She looked at him, rag in her hand. ‘Only folks live out there are Japs.’
‘Guy I’m looking for is one of them.’
She shook her head and frowned. ‘They don’t like strangers much. Especially white ones.’
‘I’m not sure where to start.’
‘There’s a community centre in Fishermen’s Hall on Terminal Way. They might be able to give you a steer.’
‘Thanks. But why do all the Japs live out there?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘’Cause nobody wants them over here.’
‘Is that right?’
She finished wiping the last table and stood upright, looking at Nessheim. ‘We got all sorts here – Croats like me, and lots of Italians. Then there’s the Norwegians – look for a beard, they used to say, and you got yourself a Viking. Lately there’s even been a few Mexicans. But not the Japanese. They’re just not welcome.’
‘That bad, are they?’
‘I didn’t say so. But they stick together and don’t mix in. People worry that if war comes they’ll cross the water and knife us in our beds.’ She gave a rich laugh. ‘As far as I can tell, they’re pretty quiet folks, which is more than you can say about half the white sailors show up in this town. But they don’t like strangers, I do know that.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘You better do more than that, mister. Take care out there.’
* * *
The ferry wouldn’t go for another half hour, so he parked on the street in front of the new ferry building, a squat concrete block that had a central tower four storeys high and an enormous black numbered clock on the side facing town. Getting out of his car he could smell fish and a salt tang in the air, as well as the faintly nauseating smell of diesel. He walked around to kill time, admiring a new post office and a new courthouse, both of which he figured came courtesy of FDR. The adjacent park was almost deserted, except for an old man in a captain’s cap, walking a dachshund, and a pair of old biddies in calico dresses, who sat on a bench crocheting. Along the waterfront’s line of old brick buildings he passed a store selling nautical stuff (everything from rope to pea jackets), two tattoo parlours, a union hall, and bar after bar with exotic names – Shanghai Red’s, the Scuttle Butt Inn. He peered into another one, a joint with Chinese murals called The Silver Dollar, where he saw a solitary customer nursing a beer.
It seemed a pleasant, sleepy kind of town, but he knew the impression was deceptive. The fishermen would still be at sea or unloading their catch; the other men would be working the docks or doing a shift in the canneries. In four hours’ time this part of town would start to come alive; it would be another twelve before it went to sleep again, after too much of what Morgan, his former SAC in San Francisco, had called the Double F of every port in the world – fucking and fighting.
The ferry cost him thirty cents – a quarter for the car and a nickel for its driver – and the ride lasted less than ten minutes: only a thousand feet of listless channel divided the island from the shore. He found Fishermen’s Hall on Terminal Way and parked outside. It was a modest building of dingy brick that resembled a non-conformist chapel – one sharp gable and a few narrow windows on its ground floor. Inside, half of the building consisted of one large room the size of a high-school gym, but without the basketball backboards. The posters on the walls were in Japanese and a small exhibition of photographs showed local Japanese fishermen unloading tuna out of large fishing boats, the bows riding heavy and high, the sterns cut low to help bring the full nets on board.
Crossing to the other side he found a stout Japanese woman with pink coral earrings, sitting behind a thin, warped sheet of stud partition halfway along a narrow corridor. A pine slab perched on two empty barrels served as her desk, and held a phone and an empty coffee cup. When Nessheim tapped politely on her open door, she showed little interest. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. She didn’t ask him to come in.
‘I’m looking for someone who lives on the island.’
‘This is not a Missing Persons Bureau for debt collectors.’
‘Do I look like a debt col
lector?’
She turned her head and eyeballed him. He was wearing a khaki suit he’d bought at Bullock’s department store, but it fitted him well, and his shirt was starched, his tie straight and his hat was a good one. She said flatly, ‘Debt collectors come in all shapes and sizes.’
He showed his badge. ‘I’m from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to find a man named Akiro and I am sure you don’t want to obstruct me.’
She stood up and went to a filing cabinet in the corner. ‘If he lives here he must be a fisherman.’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘He’s probably ten miles the other side of Catalina looking for albacore.’ But she took out a stapled sheaf of mimeographed papers in her hand and began flipping the pages. ‘Here he is. Try Dock Six. It’s next to the Makovich Cannery – he must sell his fish to them.’
‘Any chance you can point me in the right direction?’
‘Right out the door, third left down, then head for the water.’ She wouldn’t look at him.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
He drove for a minute or two, past rows of barrack-like frame houses with low wide roofs. They were crammed into small lots – between the little parallel streets as many as four houses sat back to back where two would have been placed anywhere else. He passed a Baptist Mission and a Grammar school, then turned onto Tuna Street, which was lined by small shops with Japanese signs in front. When he reached the edge of the water he found the Makovich Cannery tucked in the shadow of its immense neighbour, the French Tuna Company.
He walked around behind the cannery, but the loading dock was deserted and no boats berthed. He went back to the building’s entrance and went inside, into a small atrium that had time clocks on the wall where the workers punched in. Opening another internal door he stepped into a vast room with whitewashed walls. About two dozen Japanese women, dressed like nurses in white uniforms and wearing hairnets, were working on an assembly line which consisted of a single steel conveyor belt. It came out an open door at the rear, then twisted and turned through the room like a snakes and ladders game. He could see in the back the big tuna emerging, silver skins gleaming in individual wire trays.
The Little Tokyo Informant Page 18