“Yes, it is.”
“Great. And I promise we won’t be any trouble.”
They dropped me off at the hotel, and I made a mental note to tell Peabody—next time I talked to him—that I did not appreciate his broadcasting the news about Lettie’s period to the whole world. I felt strongly that my personal affairs should be kept private, especially when they were of such a sensitive nature. That held true no matter how much money I was being paid—not that I had earned any of it so far.
And I was upset about Matsumoto, too. Far from being the despicable individual Peabody had made him out to be, he had turned out to be a decent sort and highly respected, exactly the kind of fellow who might respond to my northern fowl mite procedure, although obviously, it would be awkward presenting it to him under the circumstances.
What had I gotten myself into? First there was Dickie Moué in his wheelchair. Now it was Matsumoto who was revered by his employees. It was true that he could only sleep with the same woman once, but that could have related to some psychological flaw buried deep in his childhood. And it was certainly no justification for taking the man’s life, although some feminist groups might disagree.
Yet who among us, I would argue to them, does not have some human frailty?
I thought of calling Peabody and telling him to count me out, but I knew that this was just bravado on my part. The day I’d signed on with him, I had crossed a line, and there was no turning back. Once embarked on a course of action, I have always found it virtually impossible to switch gears, a trait that Peabody had probably detected in me.
Nonetheless, I was restless. Since sleep was out of the question, I decided to take advantage of the hotel’s massage service, which was listed prominently in the guest directory.
In truth, I was hoping for a bright young thing to show up and was somewhat disappointed when a toothless little grandmother appeared at my door. Perhaps I should have been more specific about my requirements.
She turned out to be a tough old bird. She flipped me over on my stomach, jumped up on my back and began to stomp all over me with her rough and ancient feet. Each time I looked around to see what she was up to, she smacked my head and indicated that I was to mind my own business. I thought she would break my back, but she stopped just short of doing that. Despite her rough technique, it turned out that she knew what she was doing. When she finally hopped off my back, I was limp as a dishrag and ready to go to bed.
I consoled myself by thinking that a beautiful young woman would not have done half so good a job.
And when I woke up the next morning, I saw that she had shined my shoes for no extra charge.
Chapter Eleven
Kevin showed up bright and early and immediately apologized for his wife’s absence.
“That was a wild night we all had and putting two of them back to back would have been a strain. She also had to rest up for her pearl-diving class. But Sandy thought you were a wonderful guy, and I want to thank you for making me look good.”
“Not at all,” I said, wondering what was so wild about the previous night, which had seemed uneventful to me. And I did not point out that she seemed a little mature to be getting into pearl diving.
“Sandy also agreed with you that it was wrong of me to bring up your daughter’s period—so you can relax on that score.”
“Let’s get going,” I said.
We headed for the outskirts of Tokyo and after three hours of driving, we hit a range of mountains, which surprised me. I knew about Mt. Fuji, of course, but did not realize that Japan had some other less famous mountains as well.
After parking at the foot of one, we made our way to what appeared to be a recreational area. It had a row of little gift shops, and I considered stopping at one and picking up some souvenirs for Lettie, but decided a wise course would be to purchase them on the way home, assuming I made it back safely.
Kevin said the parade was in a picnic area on top of the mountain. Then he led me to the chairlift that took visitors up there. After we had strapped ourselves in and started up the mountain, he casually handed me a gun and a silencer and told me to put both items in my pocket.
“Val told me to give them to you.”
It amazed me that he could go on and on about trivial matters yet be so nonchalant when it came to issues of substance.
I did not know the precise designation of the weapon, but it was the heaviest one I had ever handled and felt bulky in my suit jacket. I took it out and slipped it under my belt, along with the silencer, hoping that the gun would not accidentally shoot off my hip.
“You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?” said Kevin.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” I said with a confidence I did not truthfully feel.
We traveled up along the hills, taking in the scenic wonders below.
“Isn’t it great,” said Kevin. “And here I was—worried about a pissy little sportscasting job at a major network when I can have this!”
“Who said you can’t have both?”
“That’s right,” he said, smacking his head. “And as usual, you’ve made a terrific point.”
As we approached the top of the mountain, we saw a crowd of monkeys following us along below, chattering and baring their teeth and taking swipes in our direction as if they were trying to get at us. I thought it was a clever touch on the part of the Japanese to arrange it so that we could watch the monkeys carry on in a threatening manner yet remain beyond their reach. But we did not stay that way for long. As we touched down, the monkeys were on hand to greet us, spitting and screeching and continuing to take those nasty swipes in our direction. Signs were posted saying that visitors were not to annoy the monkeys, which struck me as being ironic since they were the ones who were trying to get at us.
We shooed them off to the best of our ability and made our way across a primitive rope bridge and then on to a large clearing in the woods where we saw an amazing sight.
A long line of workers in fatigues paraded by us carrying inflatable penises of all shapes and sizes. Some were erect while others were in a more relaxed state and had ribbons tied around them at the base of the scrotum. A float accompanied the marchers, carrying a band that played, “Straighten Up and Fly Right” and then segued into, “Baby, Won’t You Light My Fire.”
Groups of family members lined the parade route carrying souvenir penises of their own and waving them supportively at the marching breadwinners. The atmosphere was that of a festival, and I would have settled in to enjoy it had I not been saddled with an onerous responsibility.
Concession stands at the edge of the woods did a banner business selling ice cream in the shape of penis shafts, each adorned with two small scoops at the base to suggest testicles—a touch that I personally felt was in poor taste and bordered on the tacky. There were also foot-long hotdogs for sale, which made their point without having to be tarted up.
Though most of the crowd had joined in the spirit of the event, a small but vociferous group of women held up inflatable vaginas and carried signs in both English and Japanese that said: WHAT ABOUT US? and HOW LONG, OH LORD, HOW LONG?
I had never seen anything like it—and that was putting it mildly. But as I watched the parade go by, I recalled an evening at a campfire site—long before—in the company of Little Irwin and his father, Little Irwin Sr., who was a rascal in his own right. Little Irwin and I sat at Little Irwin Sr.’s feet and listened in fascination as he described to us a similar event (though on a smaller scale) he had accidentally happened upon in Hokkaido, as a member of the occupation forces in postwar Japan. Needless to say, we hung on his every word.
“I almost got my ass shot off when they spotted me,” he had said, “but it was the highlight of my wartime experience.”
So obviously this was not a one-shot; the event appeared to be part of a tradition, albeit one the Japanese people did not care to publicize. And judging from the suspicious looks that came our way, they were no more eager to have the even
t witnessed by outsiders than they were when Little Irwin Sr. had been a GI.
I personally did not see what they were being so touchy about. In other societies, everything from broomsticks to baseball bats are interpreted as being penis symbols. The Japanese people had cut through all of that to declare their respect and admiration for the penis itself. Shouldn’t they be given credit for being forthright? That’s the way I would vote—and I made a mental note to mention the event in a letter to my Montagnard friends. Since they lived their lives in a more natural state than the rest of us, they would be sure to appreciate it.
“Jesus Christ,” said Kevin, smacking his head and ignoring the female protestors. “Did you ever see so many cocks in your life! It’s a lucky thing Sandy isn’t here. She would have been very upset.”
“It’s not that arousing,” I said.
“Really? All those peckers are not that arousing? I don’t know about you, but I am getting very hot.”
He thought a second and said: “That doesn’t make me a fag, does it?”
“A gay guy,” I said, politically correcting him. “And I doubt it.”
Just then, a huge float sailed by carrying a small man in a business suit who sat astride a huge flower-bedecked penis, the most prominent one in the parade. He waved at the cheering crowd and judging from their reaction, I could only assume that the neatly dressed executive was Mr. Matsumoto. Though I was only able to get a quick look at him, it seemed to me that he was a bit young to have been a contemporary of the octogenarian Thomas Gnu. I had felt the same way about Dickie Moué and ended up ascribing his youthful appearance to some quirk related to his illness. Here again, it was possible that Mr. Matsumoto’s well-preserved appearance was a result of his having led an exemplary life (notwithstanding his unwillingness to sleep with the same woman more than once).
Then, too, it is difficult for me to judge the age of the Japanese people, as I would imagine it is hard for them to judge ours.
We got some more hostile looks from the crowd, no doubt because of our Western appearance, mine in particular, that caused us to stand out. To help us blend in, we bought some souvenir penises of our own and joined the crowd in waving them at the workers as they filed by. The tempo of the event picked up when a trio of clowns came tumbling out of a fire truck and delighted the crowd by setting off exploding penises. A group of marchers wearing John Wayne masks sauntered by with Stetsons on their penises, carrying signs that said: BIG SWINGING DICKS.
At one point, an enthusiastic marcher got carried away and laughingly whipped out his own penis, pointing it at the crowd. The waggish fellow was immediately seized by security guards and hustled off the parade grounds while the crowd whistled and hooted its disapproval. But obviously, flagrant displays of sexuality were not about to be tolerated.
Kevin poked me in the side and drew my attention to a befuddled little band of Tony Bennett fans who held aloft pictures of the celebrated ballad singer and had obviously wandered into the wrong parade.
“Wait till I tell Sandy,” he said excitedly. “She loves that guy.”
I said I had great admiration for the venerable recording artist as well, but in truth, my thoughts were on Mr. Matsumoto and how to get him off by himself, an impossibility, it seemed, in the light of all the merrymakers who were milling about the parade grounds.
A partial solution presented itself when a siren went off and the marchers came to a halt. Picnic baskets were brought forth by family members and everyone settled in for a lunch break.
Up ahead, I could see Matsumoto’s float veer off and come to a stop at a clearing in the woods. Several executives jumped down from the float and assisted Mr. Matsumoto as he slid gracefully down from his penis.
Kevin and I drew close and watched the executives set up a rustic banquet table and then call up to some underlings on the float. They quickly gathered up a number of freezer packs labeled SUSHI, and carried them down to be laid out on the table.
The sun had gone down. Since the opportunity we sought had not fully presented itself, Kevin and I decided to take a lunch break of our own. We found a quiet spot in the shade of some pine trees and broke out the tuna salad sandwiches and pickled vegetables that had been so thoughtfully provided by Sandy.
Before we had taken our first bite, a fireworks display started up, as if for our own personal enjoyment. Most were of a variety that I recognized, such as pinwheels and Roman candles. But others were not familiar to me. In the spirit of the event, they were shaped like penises. And if that were not novelty enough, they gradually grew in size, hit their zenith—and finally spurted off into the clouds, in simulation of the ejaculative function.
“That did it,” said Kevin as he watched the display. “I’m whacking off.”
“Suit yourself,” I said. “But remember what happened to that fellow they dragged out of the parade.”
“All right,” said Kevin, backing off. “But there are hot guys out here, and they should have taken that into account. Not that I want to say anything against my people.”
Despite their erotic nature, the fireworks had no effect on me other than to sharpen my concentration. I studied Mr. Matsumoto as he enjoyed his sushi lunch, passing up the traditional chopsticks in favor of a knife and fork. No doubt this was an accommodation he had made to the Western CEOs he was forced to deal with.
Taking advantage of our concealed position, I started to attach the silencer to my weapon. But I must have been a bit more jittery than I realized, and in fumbling around, I shot off a round that caused the earth around us to shake.
“Jesus Christ,” said Kevin, as he covered his ears and dove for cover. “What was that?”
“It was unintentional,” I said, fearing that we would immediately be apprehended. But as luck would have it, the discharge was covered by the sound of the exploding penis fireworks. Several of the marchers did look over at us suspiciously, but then one of them smiled and applauded lightly, having assumed that we had joined in on the festivities with some modest fireworks of our own.
“I don’t want to insult you,” said Kevin. “You’re a great guy, and you made a terrific impression on Sandy, but are you sure you know what the fuck you’re doing?”
“Trust me,” I said, affecting a steely eyed gaze and a confident look.
“That’s some look,” said Kevin, drawing back defensively and throwing up his hands. “You just scared the hell out of me.”
“Good.”
At that point, Mr. Matsumoto stood up, bowed to his executive assistants and excused himself from the table.
“This is it,” I said as I watched him start off toward the woods, no doubt to relieve himself.
There was no question his company had the resources to provide him with a portable commode, but he had obviously spurned it because of his democratic nature—and perhaps as a cost-cutting measure.
“Good luck,” said Kevin. “I’d help you, but I’m very nervous and you’re probably getting paid more than I am. Not that you have to tell me the exact figure unless you want to.”
I let the question go unanswered and started forward toward the woods, surprised at how relaxed and focused I was. Though I had gone through considerable inner turmoil before signing on for the venture, I had experienced very little since. Did that mean I was cold and insensitive? I doubt it—but will leave it for others to decide.
Matsumoto poked his way through the brambles, found a spot to his liking and unzipped his trousers. Drawing on a technique I recalled from my days in the armed forces, I lined him up in my sights, took a deep breath and held it. As I was about to pull the trigger, half a dozen hooded men dropped down from the trees, surrounded Matsumoto and began to whack him about the head with long black penis-like objects. At first I thought it might be part of the celebration, but the heavy dull sound of the blows led me to believe that the penises in use were of a lethal variety. Mr. Matsumoto fell to the ground, and after finishing him off with additional blows to the head, the hooded intrude
rs disappeared in the woods.
Who were these uninvited Ninja-style thugs, I had to wonder. Was it possible that Peabody had lost confidence in my abilities at the last minute and signed them up to do the job for me? If that were so, I would have been sorely disappointed.
And did this unexpected turn of events mean that I would not get paid?
Setting aside these troubling concerns for the moment—and acting out of some ineradicable humanistic impulse, I rushed forward to help the man but quickly saw that I had arrived too late. Kevin had followed close behind me and drew back in horror when he saw the slain executive.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, stifling a near hysterical laugh. “They beat him to death with schvonces.
“I’m sorry, Matthew,” he said, realizing his comment may have come across as unfeeling. “But isn’t that what happened?”
Selfishly, and to my everlasting shame, I thought of giving the poor man a few taps with my souvenir penis so I could claim that, at least technically, I had been in on his demise.
But I could not bring myself to go to such lengths.
A group of executive assistants soon appeared on the site. When they saw Mr. Matsumoto’s lifeless form, they fell to their knees, pounded at the ground with their fists, and emitted deep-throated guttural moans that were distinctly different in type from our American mourning sounds. One of the executives managed to pull himself together long enough to ask what had happened. Since I had only a meager knowledge of the Japanese language, I deferred to Kevin, who filled him in, and then pointed to the area of woods through which the intruders had made their escape. Several security guards showed up, and when the situation had been explained to them, they set off through the woods in pursuit of the perpetrators. By that time a huge crowd had gathered and proceeded to express their grief over the loss of their beloved employer.
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