Asian Pulp

by Asian Pulp (retail) (epub)

  I was stunned.

  “They say he was, da kine, strangled.”

  “Strangled? How could a man that big get strangled?” Ishikabe was probably fat, but he was also a trained athlete, amazingly strong, and sumo wrestlers can be incredibly fast and agile, at least for a short period of time.

  It occurred to me that it would take a pretty big guy to strangle Ishikabe. A guy as big as Gary. If the thought occurred to me it must have occurred to the cops. I would have to call Enrique Velasquez; Gary probably needed a good lawyer.

  I went down to the office and, after a short wait, got in to see Enrique. He was pretty upset with me for not getting the picture despite getting arrested. The camera I broke was just the cherry on the cake. His anger was mollified somewhat, however, when I explained to him the situation with Gary and the fact that Gary would need a lawyer. Before I finished Enrique had called Gary, told him not to say anything more to the police, and told him he would be contacted. The only problem with Enrique representing Gary is that people usually don’t hire a lawyer of Enrique’s reputation and cost unless they are actually guilty. Most innocent people could do with lesser, but competent, lawyers.

  While Enrique was still in the afterglow of snagging a new client, I snuck out of the office and went back to work.

  I returned to Pauley Pavilion. Now that Ishikabe’s disappearance was a murder case I wanted to look at things again. The two Japanese guys were finishing up their work. I watched them for a few minutes, then went back to the room with the broken door and walked the hallway in both directions. At the time of the tournament I imagine there were a lot of people wandering around backstage.

  If you strangle someone who weighs 420 pounds, how do you drag the body through a busy sports stadium to get rid of it? Especially if the body was 420 pounds of literally dead weight.

  I went back to the sumo ring and approached the two Japanese guys. I greeted them in Japanese and asked them if they could speak English. “Yes,” one of them said in slightly accented English. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “I am here investigating the disappearance of Ishikabe-san.” The two guys looked at each other. They had the look that Japanese sometimes get when they don’t how to respond to a stranger. I ignored it and pushed on.

  “Are you connected with the sumo organization?”

  “Yes. We’re ring attendants, called yobidashi in Japanese. On this tour we do everything, including setting up the ring and attending to the wrestlers. My name is Junichi and this is Shimazu-san.”

  “Junichi-san, was Ishikabe-san acting strangely last night?”

  “No. He went through his pre-match preparations as normal. He just wanted to be alone in a room to prepare himself mentally.”

  “Could he have left that room?”

  “No. The UCLA student assisting us talked to him right before he was scheduled to go out to the ring. Shimazu-san and I were backstage. A lot of other people were backstage. Someone would have seen Ishikabe-san if he left.”

  “What other people?”

  “Members of the Sumo Association, local sumo supporters, various local officials, and many other people.”

  “Your English is very good,” I said.

  “Thank you. We’ve both made many trips all over the world. The Sumo Association usually assigns us to these types of tours.”

  “Did Ishikabe-san make many trips?”

  “Yes, he would usually join any group of sumo wrestlers doing a foreign tour to educate people about sumo. The tours are helpful. We have amateur sumo wrestlers all over the world now, places like Europe and Russia, and even places like Turkey or Bulgaria.”

  “So Ishikabe-san was experienced with foreign travel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he ever do anything like this before, disappear before a match?”

  “Never.”

  I felt like I was hitting a stone wall so my next step was to get more information from Gary.

  * * *

  Gary was staying at a really fancy hotel. When I pulled up in my old Nissan they looked at me like a garbage truck had arrived. The real test of a first class hotel is they treat everyone with courtesy and respect. They don’t change behavior based on the kind of car you drive. This place failed the test.

  Gary had a suite that probably cost more per day than I earned in a month. I wish my apartment was half as nice as his hotel room. After the usual greetings we settled in. Gary ordered some room service and I sat in a nice comfy chair. He sat on the couch like it was a piece of children’s furniture.

  “Dat lawyer Enrique said don’t speak to da cops,” Gary said.

  “That’s probably good advice.”

  “But I’m innocent. I don’t need to hide nothing.”

  “At this stage it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent,” I said. “The police are going to start thinking about who is capable of strangling Ishikabe. That doesn’t leave too many suspects. Unfortunately, you’re probably a prime suspect. You’re big enough to strangle a man the size of Ishikabe and there was bad blood between you. To the cops you’re probably suspect number one.”

  Gary opened his mouth, then shut it again. Finally he said, “Why would I be a suspect?”

  I sighed. Gary was basically a kind and trusting guy, and those people often get into trouble when dealing with cops. “Number one, you told the cops you didn’t like Ishikabe. Number two, you broke down the door of the room he was in, which shows how upset you were with him. Number three, you’re big enough to handle Ishikabe physically. And number four, who else could be a suspect?”

  “But he wasn’t in da room when I broke da door down.”

  “The fact that others can verify he wasn’t there is probably the one thing that’s stopping the cops from hauling you downtown. That and Enrique raising his usual fuss about his client being abused and harassed by the police. Plus they want to work out how you transported the body. How Ishikabe ended up in Los Angeles Harbor is just one of the strange things about this whole strange situation. By the way, if you had any involvement in Ishikabe’s disappearance, don’t tell me. Private investigators don’t have the same kind of confidentiality protection as lawyers. You can discuss anything with Enrique, but don’t make any confessions to me.” I didn’t mention that I wasn’t officially assigned to the case, which would make things more complicated.

  A dark cloud passed over Gary’s face. “I told you I’m innocent. I didn’t like da guy, but I wouldn’t kill him.”

  I forgot that I was dealing with a professional athlete capable of incredible violence in the ring. I could see that if Gary was indicted and tried Enrique would never put him on the witness stand. Too frank and too honest. The same openness doesn’t work with the police, either. The cops would take any flashes of anger as evidence that Gary was hot headed enough to murder Ishikabe.

  “Don’t get upset. I know you’re not involved, but I have to say this sort of thing. Just standard legalese.”

  The tension was broken. Room service arrived and the server brought the cart into the room. Gary signed the bill and we pulled up a couple of chairs and tucked in. Gary’s chair gave occasional groans as he shifted about. The parking valets may have been snotty, but the kitchen was certainly top notch. It was the best meal I’ve had for quite a while. It’s difficult to describe how much food Gary was able to ingest. It was an amazing thing to behold. I was eating like a bird by comparison.

  When we finished we sat around making small talk. Something strange caught my eye. It was a little trunk painted dark green and vermilion. It was about three feet long, two feet wide, and eighteen inches high. The top and the bottom had a trim of split bamboo. The front of the chest had big Japanese symbols, the kind families use like a coat of arms, painted in vermilion.

  “What’s that?” I ask Gary.

  “It’s my akeni,” Gary said.

  “A what?”

  “An akeni. It’s a sumo wrestler’s storage chest. It’s presented to you by you
r supporters when you get da kine promotion. Like everything in sumo, it has a long tradition and a story behind it. It’s made out of woven bamboo, a wooden frame, and da whole box is covered in paper which is lacquered.”

  “Paper?”

  “Yeah. They actually use old documents from da 1800s because da quality of da paper is so good. We wrestlers carry our wrestling belt and other gear in dat box. Only one family still makes da akeni. Dat box costs $10,000.”

  “$10,000!”

  “Dat’s right. Sumo is an expensive business. But, like I said, da fans will raise da money to help celebrate any promotion you get into da upper ranks of sumo. Only da wrestlers in da top two ranks of sumo get a box like dat.”

  “And you all get your boxes from the same family?”

  “Yeah.” Gary thought a minute, then said, “Da only person who didn’t was Ishikabe. He had his made by someone else. He claimed it was an antique akeni, but it didn’t look old to me.”

  As Gary finished the phone rang. Gary picked it up and talked for a few minutes. Then he said, “Your boss, Enrique Velasquez, is coming up to talk to me. Da tournament will move to San Jose after tonight so he wants to see me before we leave.”

  I didn’t want to meet with Enrique, especially since he might ask me some embarrassing questions about what I was doing with Gary. After all, I had not been officially assigned to Gary’s case. I told Gary that I had to get back to my investigation and I asked him not to tell Enrique I was there. To his credit, Gary didn’t ask me why.

  I slipped out of Gary’s room and took the stairs for a couple of floors to make sure I didn’t meet Enrique. Then I took the elevator down to deal with the snotty parking attendants.

  Like I told you, I don’t have any special virtues as a PI. I do have persistence. When I run out of new ideas I’m quite willing to start over; to go over everything and talk to everyone to see if I missed something. Sometimes people don’t want to talk to you anymore, but other times you learn something valuable the second or even third time you talk to them.

  I returned to Pauley Pavilion and found the student I talked to earlier. He seemed to find it strange that I wanted to see the room Ishikabe was in one more time, but he obligingly took me there anyway. I searched the room carefully, but frankly didn’t come up with anything that would give me a clue whether he was killed in the room and, if he was, how the body was moved through the busy backstage.

  As we left the room I had a brainstorm. I asked the student, “When you talked to Ishikabe, did you see him or did you just talk to him through the door?”

  “I talked to him through the door. But it was pretty clear he heard me.”

  The light bulb went on. I had an idea. Persistence paid off. I left.

  * * *

  About two hours later I was back at Pauley Pavilion talking to the ring attendants.

  “Thank you very much for seeing me,” I said.

  “We would be here anyway to make sure that everything is in place for tonight’s tournament,” Junichi, who seemed to do all of the talking, said.

  “It’s kind of you to let me disturb your routine, but I need your help. It will help clear Gary of the murder of Ishikabe-san.”

  “Gary?”

  “Excuse me, Torayama.” I had forgotten that only Gary’s ring name would be used by anybody associated with the sumo world.

  Both of the attendants showed recognition at Gary’s sumo name. “Anything we can do to help Torayama-san, we will,” Junichi said.

  “Fine. I want to take a look at Ishikabe’s wrestling chest, his akeni.”

  The two attendants looked at each other. “His akeni?”

  “Yes. I called Torayama at the hotel. He asked officials of the Sumo Association to check Ishikabe’s hotel room. They were able to confirm that his akeni was not in his room. I know that the akeni is brought to the stadium each time a wrestler has a bout. I thought in the confusion his chest probably was not returned to the hotel.”

  “I don’t think it’s here,” Shimazu said. I did a double take. These were the first words I heard him speak and I just figured he didn’t understand English.

  “I think we’d better check,” Junichi said. “Perhaps it is here.”

  Junichi went off under the stands of Pauley as I stood awkwardly with Shimazu. I tried to make a little small talk, but Shimazu could not be drawn into a conversation. Finally Junichi appeared at a door and said something in rapid Japanese. My feeble Japanese couldn’t follow what he said. Shimazu looked at me and said, “I’ll take you to where Ishikabe’s chest is.”

  Junichi disappeared and Shimazu took me into the area under the stands at Pauley. Shimazu seemed to know where he was going. He took me down a hallway to a set of double doors to what must have been a storage room. He opened one of the doors and motioned me to go in.

  I walked into a dimly lit room. Suddenly someone stepped in behind me, slipped a noose around my neck, and pulled it tight. I spun around in time to see Shimazu stepping away from me. Suddenly the noose jerked upwards and it pulled me up until the rope was tight. I grabbed at the rope around my neck. I was able to see Junichi sitting in the seat of the electric forklift used for the sumo ring setup and maintenance. I saw the rope wrapped around the rising forks of the lift. I was being hanged.

  Junichi had his hands on the forklift controls. The look he gave made it clear this was not some kind of sick prank. “Now,” he said, “I want to know why you are interested in seeing Ishikabe-san’s akeni.”

  “Because it’s different,” I croaked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was told Ishikabe had his trunk made by someone different than all the other wrestlers. I wanted to see if I could tell why.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  Junichi gave a small touch to the forklift controls and now I was on my tiptoes.

  “I think there is more than that,” he said. “Tell us.”

  There were several things I could say. I hoped I selected the right one.

  “That’s the only reason.”

  That was the wrong answer. Junichi’s hand twitched and I was suddenly standing on the very points of my toes like some ballet dancer, except ballet dancers are trained to do that. Every time I wobbled or fell off my toes the noose hurt like hell.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  “Okay, okay—I thought the akeni might have something to do with Ishikabe’s death.”

  “Why?”

  “The different manufacturer and the fact it was missing from his room.”

  “And?” The noose momentarily lifted me off my feet and my arms tried to relieve the pain of the noose. Junichi put me back down on my toes. A searing pain was coming from my neck, but there was nothing I could do to loosen the rope.

  “The ring attendants are responsible for moving the trunk to and from the stadium. The trunk was not returned to Ishikabe’s room even though no one knew he was dead yet. I thought there must be a reason. Either you just forgot to return it in the confusion or you wanted the trunk. I also thought you might be lying about seeing Ishikabe on the night he disappeared.”

  “Why?”

  “You and Shimazu are the only people who said they saw him last night. Torayama didn’t see him and he said no one else saw him, either. That means Ishikabe was able to disappear from a locked room at Pauley or you both lied. I think it’s impossible that he just disappeared. And, since the student only talked to Ishikabe, and didn’t see him, I think that it was you or Shimazu in the room. You probably did that ruse to add confusion about what time Ishikabe died. I’m sure you killed him earlier in the day and took a truck you use to haul sumo equipment to dump his body in the harbor.” My arms were getting tired and I had less ability to ease the pressure of the noose. “From this rope and forklift I can see how a man your size could strangle a man Ishikabe’s size. The only thing I don’t know is why you and Shimazu wanted him dead.”

  “That’s easy, isn’t it, Sh
imazu-san?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Shimazu nod agreement. “Ishikabe-san was a cheat,” Junichi said. “We were in business together. His akeni has a false bottom. An akeni is almost never closely inspected by Japanese customs, so it is easy to move drugs into Japan using it. Because of his dress and looks Ishikabe-san could hardly go out looking for drugs in the various foreign cities we visit, but Shimazu-san and I could. Ishikabe-san couldn’t sell the drugs to wholesalers once we got back to Japan, either. Again, Shimazu-san and I did this. Despite Shimazu-san and I taking all the risks, Ishikabe-san wanted most of the money we made. Eventually he started demanding a bigger and bigger share of the profits so Shimazu-san and I decided to end our business with him until we could find a more reasonable sumo wrestler to work with. Ishikabe-san didn’t like this and threatened to have us arrested for drug smuggling. Ishikabe-san said he would claim he was ignorant we were using his akeni to smuggle drugs. They treat sumo wrestlers like little gods in Japan so he would have gotten away with it, too. Just a few years ago, one wrestler claimed he just forgot to pay taxes on three million dollars in cash and the authorities accepted that story. Shimazu-san and I would be thrown to the wolves if Ishikabe-san carried out his threat, so we decided we needed a permanent solution to the problem Ishikabe-san presented. We are going to use the same solution to the problem you present.”

  Junichi moved his hand and the forks lifted again, hauling me a couple of feet off the ground. Fire coursed through my body from the pain shooting through me and my legs started kicking about.

  Suddenly, from the door came a roar and out of the corner of my eye I could see Gary running into the room. He knocked Shimazu aside with a swipe of his arm. Shimazu slammed against the open door and slumped to the floor. Then Gary charged the forklift.

  He struck the forklift with such a shock that I felt it all the way down the rope and through my body. The forklift tipped over and I found myself lying on the floor. It was a concrete floor and I hit it hard, but I was happy to have the pain in my neck ease up.

  Junichi jumped off the seat of the forklift as it tipped. Before he could get away Gary grabbed him, literally picked him up, and tossed him across the room. Junichi bounced against the wall of the room and hit the floor, skidding along for several feet. Gary came up to me, looked down, and asked, “Are you okay, bruddha?”