Finally, Mick's gaze came to rest on him.
"How does it feel?" Matsuo said, dropping his accent and facing Mick squarely. "How do you like being a nobody?"
"Wha...?" Mick said dully.
"You let them down, Mick. They put their hard-earned money on you and you lost it. Lost it badly. They'll never trust you again. You're garbage as far as they're concerned."
Mick's face grew mottled again. "You son of a bitch!"
Spittle flecked his lower lip. He reversed his pool stick and charged around the table, swinging the heavy end toward Matsuo's head.
Using his own cue like a bo, Matsuo easily parried the blow, then grabbed Mick's cue and ripped it from his grasp before he could swing again. Mick stared at his empty hands.
Out of the corner of his eye Matsuo noted that they had attracted the attention of the men at the bar. Sensing a fight, they began to drift over.
"You surprise me, Mick," Matsuo said. "I didn't think you had the guts to attack anyone on your own. Your style is more like sneaking up on an old Japanese shopkeeper when his back is turned, or attacking a lone Jap boy in a back alley with a group of your friends and trying to kick him to death."
Mick's jaw dropped as he backed up a step.
"You! I knew there was something wrong about you! They told me you ran back to Japan!"
Matsuo bowed. "Correct. But Chinky-boy is back now."
And then he snapped Mick's pool cue in two.
"Damn your slanty eyes!" Mick screamed. "You're a dead man!"
He pushed through the growing crowd of amused onlookers and rushed behind the bar. Matsuo slipped into his jacket as he saw Mick and O'Boyle arguing and then struggling over something.
Mick ran out from behind the bar with a revolver in his hand. The crowd parted before him. He stopped by the railing and pointed the pistol at Matsuo's head.
The room became deathly silent. Matsuo's mind raced as he looked down the barrel of the gun. He saw Mick cock the hammer, heard the cylinder ratchet around, saw Mick's eyes narrow.
"Say good-bye, Jap."
Matsuo dove forward, rolled, and rammed his feet into Mick's belly. The air exploded from Mick in a whoosh, followed immediately by the deafening noise of the shot. The bullet went wild and high, sending the onlookers scurrying for cover. But as he staggered backward, Mick fired again, this time lower. Matsuo felt white-hot pain tear through his shoulder, just to the left of his neck.
He acted instinctively, leaping up through the gunsmoke–filled air directly in front of Mick. Without hesitation, he grabbed a handful of red hair, shoved backward, and then rammed his fist into the freckled white of Mick's exposed throat.
The pistol fell from Mick's hand as he dropped to his knees and clutched at his throat. Soft, strangled, gurgling noises wormed from his mouth as he tried to draw air through his crushed larynx. His eyes reddened and bulged as his face darkened toward a dusky blue.
Shouting arose on all sides.
—"He's choking to death!"—"Get a doctor!"—"He's dying!"—"The Jap's killed him!"—"Get him!"
Matsuo felt himself grabbed from behind by two or three pairs of hands, sending fresh pain lancing through his shoulder. But the pain was blocked by the rage that exploded within him.
Damn these Americans! He was the victim here! He had been unarmed and wounded by a man with a gun! Anyone with any honor would have been on his side. Yet now they were attacking him. Just because he was Japanese.
Marshaling all his te skills, he flashed into action. A back kick and two elbow strikes freed him from those holding him, and then he was heading for the door. Though about thirty whites filled the room, and though Matsuo's left arm was nearly useless, they couldn't stop him. Those who tried were painfully ignorant of the te style of fighting. Their faces revealed their shocked surprise as well as their pain as they fell like wheat before Matsuo's flying kicks and knife-hand thrusts. In seconds he was out the door and running up the ill-lit street.
But he was not safe yet. A howling mob spewed from the tavern door and followed him uphill.
Matsuo spurred himself on. He had to find a hiding place. He could not fight so many, especially with one arm damaged. He felt wetness in his left palm and glanced down as he passed beneath a street lamp: red from blood dripping down his sleeve from the wound in his shoulder. He knew he couldn't bleed like this for long and stay ahead of that wolf pack. He had to hide.
He picked a dark side street at random and ducked into it. The sidewalk was narrow, the houses pushing their front steps almost to the curb. He saw steps leading down under a front staircase to a basement apartment and fairly leaped into the welcoming blackness before his pursuers rounded the corner.
He crouched in the darkest recess and waited. It seemed to take only seconds for the sound of hoarse, angry voices and running feet to approach his hiding place. Matsuo held his breath as they pounded by on the pavement above. Finally, they were gone.
But not for long, he knew. They would run for maybe a block before figuring out that he must be hiding somewhere behind them. Then they would be back. But he had his plans already set: He would creep up the steps and check for stragglers. If none were about, he would run the other way. He went to stand—
—and his knees buckled beneath him.
Had he lost that much blood? Looking down, he saw a dark pool by his feet. He fought the panic that clutched at him. If he didn't get moving, he would be caught and probably strung up by his neck from the nearest lamppost—if he didn't bleed to death first.
He gripped the knob on the door to the basement apartment, praying it would open. But the door held fast—locked.
Desperate, he willed his rubbery legs to straighten. He was halfway to a standing position when the door opened, bathing him in light. He stood there, squinting in the dread illumination, pinned to the wall like some night-crawling insect.
"Get out of here!" said a woman's voice, but gruff and coarse, like the screech of a rusted hinge.
Matsuo looked up at the bulky form silhouetted in the doorway. The face was totally in shadow.
"Get away from my door!"
"I can't."
And it was true. He knew his legs would not take him up the stairs.
A shotgun appeared, seemingly out of the air. Light glinted along its double-barreled length as it swung forward and pointed at his face.
"Get, or I'll shoot!"
Matsuo could see no way out for him. He looked up to where he guessed the woman's eyes should be.
"Shoot," he said. "It will be a far more honorable death than the one your countrymen have planned for me."
The barrels wavered. "What countrymen?"
"From O'Boyle's."
"You're a Jappo, ain't you? And sweet Jesus, you're bleeding. What did you do to get them riled at you?"
"They'll be here in a few minutes. They can tell you."
"Damn it to hell."
The shotgun disappeared and a pair of strong arms helped Matsuo the rest of the way to his feet and into the apartment. From the doorway he managed to stumble to a chair at the room's only table.
The woman closed the door and leaned the shotgun in the corner next to the door molding. Matsuo saw a portly woman of about sixty years wearing a calico dress with a long apron tied around her neck and waist. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on her red nose and cheeks.
She came over to him and gasped. "Look at you. Shuck that coat."
She helped him out of the blood-soaked jacket and the underlying shirts. Then she leaned over his shoulder, adjusting her glasses as she inspected the wound at close range.
She grunted. "Not too bad. A bloody one, but I seen worse." She went into another room and returned with a basin of water. "Who shot you?"
"An old acquaintance," Matsuo said.
His breath hissed in and out as she bathed the area with cool water.
"Another Jappo?"
"No. American."
"Why?"
"I beat him at pool."
"Pool? He shot you for that?"
"I made him look very bad."
"And he's out there looking for you so he can finish the job, right?"
"No." Matsuo hesitated, then decided to be honest with this woman. For some reason—perhaps the tender way she was cleaning his wound—he trusted her. "He's dead. I killed him."
Her hands paused in their ministrations, then continued. "All this happen in O'Boyle's?"
"Yes."
She snorted. "Serves you right for frequenting that den of iniquity. Although I must say, I'm surprised they even let someone like you in there."
"That's another part of the problem." Matsuo studied her weathered face as she leaned over him. "May I ask your name?"
"Worth. Betsy Worth. You can call me Mrs. Worth." She straightened up. "There. Now it's ready for some stitches."
"Stitches?"
Matsuo looked over at his shoulder. Mick's bullet had torn up a triangular flap of flesh as it passed through the meaty area above the left collarbone. Mrs. Worth had cleaned away the blood and pressed the flap back into place, but blood still oozed slowly from beneath the edges.
"Are you a nurse?"
"Yes and no," she said, returning with her sewing basket. "Never worked in a hospital or anything like that, but when Mr. Worth and me lived in Colorado, he and his friends used to go hunting for meat nearly every week. Hardly was a time when one of them wouldn't come back hurt or mauled or even accidentally shot by himself or one of the others. I've mended lots of injured men in my time."
She had been threading a curved needle as she spoke. Now she appeared to be ready.
"Okay. This'll smart a bit."
Matsuo gritted his teeth as she sat down behind him. He felt the needle pierce his skin, felt the thread pull through his flesh, felt the tug as a knot was tied. It hurt, but it was bearable.
Suddenly, he heard voices outside. His heart sank. They had found him.
"It's them," he said.
Mrs. Worth must have heard them too, for she was already helping him to his feet and guiding him toward the back room. Matsuo's head swam and blotches of blackness jittered before his eyes as he moved. She left him leaning against the wall as she hurried back to the table. He had a vague impression of a darkened bedroom behind him.
Fists began hammering on the door to the apartment.
"Hello, in there!" said a voice. "Open up!"
"Coming!" she said as she gathered up Matsuo's bloody clothes and pulled the chair toward the back room where she set it beside him and dropped the clothes behind it. "Sit and be quiet," she said as she helped Matsuo ease into the chair. Then she closed the door.
Matsuo inched the chair forward and opened the door a crack so he could see into the front room.
"Hold your horses!" Mrs. Worth said as the pounding on the door continued. Matsuo saw her lift the sawed-off shotgun by the barrel with her left hand and hold it behind her ample frame as she opened the door with her right.
"What is it?" she said, her tone ringing with true annoyance.
She effectively blocked the doorway with her bulk, but Matsuo saw at least half a dozen faces in the stairwell peering into the apartment over and around her.
"There's a killer on the loose," somebody said. "A Jap."
"A killer!" Mrs. Worth said. "And just who did he kill?"
"A friend of ours. Down at O'Boyle's. We know he's been here."
"And how would you know that?"
"Blood. He left a trail of it down the steps and there's a big splotch of it right here outside your door. Where is he?"
"I found him right where you're standing. I told him to git, just like I'm telling you."
"And he left?" The tone was incredulous.
"You don't see him here, do you?"
"No offense, ma'am," said the voice, "but he's pretty dangerous and I don't think he'd run off just on your say-so. Maybe we'd better come in and look around just to be sure he's not forcing you—"
Matsuo saw Mrs. Worth draw the scattergun around to the front of her where it disappeared from view. He could see the men in the stairwell almost stumble over each other as they backed up with widened eyes.
"He found this very persuasive," she said.
Nervous laughter echoed into the apartment. "I'll bet he sure as hell did!" someone said. "Which way did he go?"
"I didn't watch him go. Now, if you gentlemen don't mind, I'll get back to my sewing."
So saying, she closed the door. Matsuo watched her turn the key in the lock and then press her ear against the door. After a while, she straightened and leaned the shotgun back in its corner.
Matsuo opened the bedroom door all the way as she approached him. He stared into her scowling face in wonder. No words could express his gratitude, but he had to try.
"Thank you. But why—?"
"I know their type. Met plenty of them in Colorado." She helped him back to the kitchen table where he sat in the other chair. "The kind back there used to say the only good Injun was a dead Injun. These fellows are no different. Mr. Worth, however, had different ideas. He thought some of the finest men he ever knew were Injuns."
Matsuo noted the past tense. "Is he…?"
"Passed away a long time ago. Bear got him bad. One of his Injun friends carried him all the way back to our cabin." As if to punish Matsuo for asking her about her late husband, she jabbed the needle into his shoulder for another stitch. "I tried my best to patch him up but he began to fever. He died in my arms. I've always been grateful to that Injun for giving me that last chance to be with him."
"I'm not an Indian," Matsuo said as she knotted the thread.
"You'll do."
* * *
She waited with him until dawn. She said anyone looking for him would have given up by then, and probably wouldn't recognize him without his beard, anyway.
"Now remember what I told you. Keep that wound clean. Don't let no fluids build up in it. Keep it draining."
She had sutured the flap loosely into place, covered it with a salve and a dry compress, then wrapped the shoulder in a long strip of bed sheet. That done, she had heated up some soup and made him eat it despite his protests of nausea. While he ate she had washed most of the blood out of his coat. As it had hung by the stove to dry, she shaved his goatee, then forced more soup into him.
"And keep changing that dressing today—maybe every two or three hours."
"I will. I will." He rose to his feet. He felt stronger; strong enough to make the walk back to the Oakland ferry. "How can I repay you?" She had already refused the money he had offered her.
"Just get home safe. Don't get yourself into trouble along the way or all my needlework will have been for nothing."
He looked into her eyes. "There must be something—"
Mrs. Worth reached for the scattergun. "Git."
Matsuo bowed. "I am indebted. Eternally."
"Git!"
Matsuo got. With a warm glow inside, he climbed the stairs into the milky first light of day. The paper money he had won still crinkled in his pocket but all the twenty-dollar gold double eagles he had brought with him now lay hidden in Mrs. Worth's sugar bowl. She would find them when she had her next cup of tea.
He began walking toward the ferry dock. The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. The streets were deserted. His jacket was damp but the air was warm and clean and salty. It was good to be alive. It was wonderful to be alive.
And best of all, he and Meiko would set sail for Japan the day after tomorrow, never again, he prayed, to set foot in this thrice-cursed country he hated so. He craved the blessed day when he could bid farewell to a land that produced cowards like Frank Slater and beasts like Mick McGarrigle…
...and brave, noble people like Mrs. Worth.
He sighed and shook his head as he walked.
Why was nothing ever simple?
PART THREE
1933-1937
1933
THE YEAR OF THE ROOSTER
APRIL
SAN FRANCISCO
I sat waiting to see Commander Foster, mentally humming "Stormy Weather." The lyrics were certainly appropriate to the times, especially the "gloom and mis'ry ev'rywhere" part. I had been looking for work for ten months and come up empty-handed all around.
Franklin D. Roosevelt was officially President now but I hadn't seen any magic yet. Still panic in the streets. I remembered the hordes of frightened faces crowded in front of all the locked doors in the financial district last month when he closed the banks by Presidential order. And now he was taking us off the gold standard. Things were looking pretty black.
"Frankie!" I looked up and saw Commander Foster motioning me toward his office. "Come on in."
The commander had been one of the few business associates of my father to show up at his funeral. I hated trying to trade on Dad's old contacts, but I was desperate. I was even willing to work for the Navy.
We made polite chitchat for the required interval. He was a gray-haired, jowly, fatherly fellow with an easy smile, but the smile faded when he got down to business.
"I'm afraid the news isn't good, Frankie. You know I'd help you if I could. I liked your dad—he was an honest man who knew his stuff. You could rely on anything machined in the Slater plant. And because of that, I've gone to bat for you. But Frankie, the Navy's rotten with engineers. There's not enough to do for the ones we already have."
I had expected something like this, but that didn't make it any less disappointing. I guess my face showed it.
"But look," he said, trying to cheer me up. "The government will be starting all sorts of public works programs soon. They'll be building dams and roads and monuments and the like. They'll need engineers."
"But I need something now. I can't wait until fall or next year."
Mom had sold the house and we’d moved into a smaller place. We had it free and clear but taxes and living expenses were eating up all our savings. I would have loved an apartment of my own, but that was out of the question.
Black Wind Page 16