Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  Tagama met his son’s eyes. “My past isn’t good.”

  “I need to know about it.”

  Tagama nodded. “Fair enough.”

  The concurrence surprised Ryan enough that his foot slipped off the brake pedal. The car drifted about a foot before he fumbled to a stop.

  Tagama didn’t smile, but Ryan felt a lightening in his father’s mood. “Let’s park,” the old man said.

  Ryan drove to guest parking and the men rode the elevator in silence to the fifteenth floor. Now that he’d asked for truth, Ryan wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. He wondered how his father felt.

  It had been a couple of years since Ryan had been to his father’s home. Lara and he had invited his old man to their place for dinner twice, and Tagama had taken the two of them to nice restaurants on occasion. Ryan remembered his father’s apartment as having a great view to the ocean, but no soul. No family pictures, no magazines, papers, notes on the refrigerator door. Spotless glass, leather, and cold marble.

  There were only two apartments on the fifteenth floor, both opulent and large. Ryan was surprised to see two pairs of his father’s shoes outside the door. The other apartment had a pile of shoes, small ones among them. Taking off shoes before entering the home was an island custom, but Tagama not only wouldn’t leave personal belongings in public view, he wouldn’t abide the untidiness.

  And there sat his somewhat muddy, custom-made golf shoes. One lay on its side, next to some rubber slippers. Ryan had never even seen his dad in flip-flops. Or a swim suit, for that matter.

  Tagama opened the door without explanation, and kicked off the shoes he was wearing. Ryan shed his also, too surprised to say anything about his father’s change of habit.

  Inside, glorious light reflected from the beach and brilliant turquoise of the ocean, filled the apartment. The room, however, looked different to Ryan. Same glass and marble coffee table, but it was strewn with the morning’s Honolulu Star Bulletin, New York Times, and the Hawaii Hochi, a Japanese language paper. Two teacups and a plate, empty except for a scattering of crumbs, sat next to the paper. A couple of magazines were stacked at one end of the sofa—not the rigid black leather and stainless sling that Ryan remembered, but a cushy saddle-colored one. With throw pillows. He stared. The scene momentarily eclipsed Obake’s nasty accusations.

  Tagama misinterpreted Ryan’s surprise. “Er, the maid is running late.”

  “No, it looks good. I like the new couch.” Ryan couldn’t say any more, though, because he’d caught sight of something else he’d never expect to see in his father’s living room. He could only point. “That’s a—”

  “My obutsudan?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan blinked. “A Buddhist shrine?”

  “I’m trying to change some things.” Tagama cleared his throat.

  “Right.”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Tagama picked up the cups and plate from the coffee table and took them to the kitchen. Some food items—a loaf of bread, a hand of bananas, an open package of English muffins, and a crumb-strewn toaster—were still on the countertop.

  “Dad, are you seeing someone?” Only a woman could make this much of a difference.

  Tagama didn’t answer, and a moment later, Ryan heard the refrigerator door close. His dad came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of orange juice, a bottle of Grey Goose, and two glasses. “You want vodka with this? We have a lot of talking to do.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the newspapers aside and set the bottle, glasses, and juice on the coffee table. He poured juice without liquor, then walked across the room to the shrine.

  Ryan had still not taken a seat, and he stared after his father as the older man placed the glass of juice and sections of a peeled orange on a small offering stand.

  Tagama sensed his son’s scrutiny and looked over his shoulder. “An extra offering to Guan-Gong. He gives protection. Before he became the god of martial arts and war in the afterlife, he was a general in the Chinese Army.”

  “Chinese?” Ryan sputtered.

  “Chinese, Japanese, I figure we’re all the same in the afterlife.”

  “Where did you learn this?” Ryan gestured toward the neat, lacquered red box, which smelled faintly of incense. A glowering statue with flowing beard and warrior’s armor presided over the orange pieces. If his father had told him the figure was samurai, Ryan would have believed him. But Chinese? Tagama had always struck him as a Japanese nationalist, patriotic to the point of xenophobia.

  “We’ll talk about that later. We have enough to discuss.” Tagama came back to the sofa, sat down, and poured two glasses of orange juice.

  Ryan took a grateful gulp. It was fresh and delicious. His father didn’t squeeze oranges, either.

  His throat not quite as tight and dry, Ryan forced out the question that had tormented him since leaving Obake’s club. “What rape was he talking about?”

  “When you were young, I did some things I’m not proud of.”

  Ryan sat back on the couch. He’d still been hoping his father would tell him Obake had lied.

  “It was a big mistake,” Tagama said.

  Ryan’s stomach rolled. Obake had told the truth? His father was a rapist? Ryan swallowed his nausea with effort. He felt poisoned.

  “I managed a club.”

  Ryan didn’t respond, and Tagama went on. “We had a tour business, mostly Japanese businessmen. Very expensive, very exclusive. A week’s vacation on Maui at a fine hotel. I won’t tell you the name of the hotel. We sold it ten years ago. Evenings at the club—”

  Ryan interrupted. “We?”

  “You know this part. Obake was a partner in those days.”

  “Is this the money we’re investing now?” Ryan’s words were bitter rinds of loathing. “The money I’m taking home to Lara? The money I’m saving for my own son one day?”

  Tagama held up a hand. “Please, let me finish.” His tone was so calm and sad that Ryan sucked back his acid tirade.

  “I hadn’t learned that money doesn’t civilize a person, or give him humanity. I didn’t know how people use money to hide their atrocities.”

  He fumbled with his juice glass. “Not only did my ego and ambition blind me, I was a coward.” He mumbled the last words, and Ryan saw him glance at the vodka bottle.

  “But I must regard my failures with clear eyes. It is a way of life I am late in adopting.”

  “What about the rape?”

  “It was during a party with a group of sokaiya.”

  “Just tell me in English,” Ryan snapped.

  “Yakuza posing as a company’s shareholders. They own a few shares, but they mostly get dirt on the company’s officers and threaten to reveal it at a shareholder’s meeting.” He looked at his son.

  “Extortion,” Ryan said.

  “Yes, though I thought they were regular businessmen, just one of our vacation packages. As always, we’d set up a few nights with girls, who were well paid.”

  Ryan interrupted. “Who was the pimp?”

  Tagama sighed. “I don’t know. I closed my eyes to that part of the preparations.”

  Ryan’s stomach still clenched, but the nausea had passed. He listened with the same sick voyeurism he felt when he saw a bad traffic accident. “What happened?”

  “Obake was host of this group.”

  “What business was targeted?”

  “Just a small local group. Nothing big, some people who wanted to buy a local restaurant. But you asked about the women.”

  Tagama looked at his son, and Ryan sat up a little straighter. He watched his father’s hands, which were curled around his untouched orange juice glass. The skin over Tagama’s heavy knuckles was shiny with tension.

  “Go on.”

  “We had a suite at the hotel. I was with about twenty men, drinking at the bar in the big sitting room. There was a kitchen, too, and a couple of bedrooms. Obake told me to go first, with a pretty blonde. Sh
e was young, and I think a little scared, but she whispered in my ear when I went to embrace her in front of the other men. She told me I had to make it look rough.”

  He shook his head at the memory. “I drew back.” He glanced at Ryan, who couldn’t meet his eyes. “This is true, son. It took me a minute to realize she’d been paid extra to act out a role.” Tagama sighed. “But she was afraid, and when she acted like she was sucking on my ear, she whispered that if we didn’t play the part, it would be bad for both of us.”

  Ryan felt as if he’d swallowed a golf ball. Tagama went on.

  “I gave her a shove, which made her stumble. She caught herself, though, and I made like I was pushing her down the hallway. She was a good actress, too, she even lost a shoe on the way. The men laughed.”

  “Where was Obake?”

  Tagama looked at the floor. “He had another girl. He and some other guys went in the kitchen. They were doing one-armed push-ups, showing off their muscles before they—”

  “Guys? How old were these girls?”

  “Fifteen, sixteen.” Tagama didn’t look up.

  “That was statutory rape.” Ryan’s voice rasped in his dry throat.

  “No, Hawai‘i has the lowest age of consent in the United States. A child fourteen or older can have consensual sex.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes, it is.” Those three words sounded as if they’d been dragged from Tagama’s soul.

  “It makes it easier for the Yakuza to force little girls into prostitution.”

  Tagama just nodded.

  “So Obake was with other men, and in the kitchen with the other lucky girl. Where were you?”

  “A bedroom.”

  “And you fucked?” Ryan’s words were lifeless.

  “I gave her a large tip.”

  “Great.” Ryan fell back into the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

  Tagama didn’t talk for several minutes. Ryan felt as if his father had opened his jugular and filled him with lead.

  “I didn’t rape her.” Tagama brought his glass to his lips, and Ryan noticed that his father’s hand trembled.

  “But that shove, it gave a couple of the other guys ideas.” Tagama sighed deeply. “She came out a few minutes after I did, and one of the men grabbed at her. She pulled away, and he hit her in the face. Broke her nose and knocked a couple of her front teeth out. She spit them at him.”

  Ryan stared, numb.

  “Everyone laughed. Obake was busy with the other girl, so I grabbed her arm and got her out the front door and to a doctor.”

  Both men sat in silence for a while. Years ago in California, Ryan had been at a fraternity party with hookers. He hadn’t had enough money to share in the fun, but he’d been curious. He didn’t know what he’d have done if someone had told him to go first, that it had been paid for. He might have gone for it. Now he wondered how the girls felt. He’d never considered it.

  Tagama might have misinterpreted his silence, for he spoke in a voice so low Ryan only caught a few words. “…can ask her.”

  “Huh?” Ryan said, and stared at his father. Ryan was reeling from his father’s story and his own memories of the fraternity party. How different was he than his father?

  The elder Tagama’s words sank in. Ask her?

  This woman would be ten to fifteen years younger than his own father and mother. Tagama had said she was blonde, and someone had punched her in the face and knocked out a couple of her teeth.

  He tore at his hair and moaned. “Oh, Dad.”

  Her teeth had been repaired. A smile with a glint of gold came to him. He knew who she was.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Stella stared out the windshield with glassy, unseeing eyes for at least ten miles. Storm’s mind whirled on the implications of Keiko and Carmen together. Stella was the first to break the silence.

  “Can Keiko be arrested for kidnapping?”

  “Possibly. She’s going to need a lawyer.”

  “Will you take the job?” Stella asked.

  Storm pulled a sigh from the bottoms of her feet. What the hell was she getting into? “I have to talk to her.”

  “I can pay you.”

  “We’ll discuss that,” Storm said. “Right now, let’s find her.”

  “She has cash and could get a hotel room somewhere.” Stella thought for a minute. “I didn’t check to see if any of our camping gear was missing. That’s another option.”

  “Does she have any friends?”

  “Not really. She isn’t very outgoing.”

  “Does she trust any of your friends?”

  Conversation was returning some color to Stella’s face. “Maybe Pauline Harding. We call her Auntie Piko.”

  “The one with the jewelry store?”

  Stella was surprised. “You know her?”

  “No, I just heard she sold her store.”

  “Lara offered her a good price and it was good timing. She was tired of the drive.”

  “But the Tagamas own the shopping center, right?”

  “Pauline wouldn’t sell to the Tagamas. She doesn’t trust them.” Stella was firm.

  That was odd. Manny of Manny’s Deli and Louise the waitress told Storm that Pauline had sold to the Tagamas. “Do you trust them?” she asked.

  Stella squinted into the sun. “I have history with Ichiru Tagama. He’s okay.” She added an afterthought. “As long as he’s not being pressured by some of his partners.”

  “Who are his partners?”

  “I’m not sure these days.”

  Storm gave Stella a hard look, but she didn’t notice. The older woman seemed to be pondering how much to reveal, and Storm decided to let her spill it on her own.

  It was interesting how the woman with the most property—and the most to lose—was Lara. And Lara wasn’t nearly as inclined to protect her interests as Storm wanted her to be.

  “Do you trust Ryan?” Storm asked.

  “He’s a nice boy.” For the first time since Stella got into the car, a flash of amusement brightened her face. “I introduced them.”

  They traveled the next ten minutes in silence. No one spoke until Storm stopped at the Pi‘ilani Highway cutoff.

  “Where does Pauline live?” Storm glanced over at her passenger.

  “Upcountry, in Makawao.”

  They were nearly in Kihei. If Stella hadn’t needed to get to work, Storm would have suggested making a u-turn and going to see Pauline. She wanted to talk to Aunty Piko about a number of things. It would be interesting to hear Pauline’s version of why she’d sold the shop. Storm also wanted to know her history, and how she came to be close to Keiko and Stella.

  “Would you mind calling her?” Storm asked. “See if Keiko’s been in touch.”

  Stella pulled out her mobile phone and dialed a number. “Hi Pauline, this is Stella again. You seen Keiko yet?” She listened to Pauline for a couple of minutes, then responded. “You’re right. She’s probably running some errands. Um, have her call me if you see her?”

  Frowning, Stella disconnected. “Not there.”

  “You called her earlier?”

  “Yes, and she said the same thing.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s becoming annoyed.” Stella sighed.

  “She’ll forgive you.” Storm kept her tone light. “Say, did Lara get along well with her father?”

  “Sure, why are you asking?”

  “We were talking about our fathers the other day, and she told me about the restaurant he wanted to buy.”

  “Lara is convinced that restaurant mess was the final straw. She thinks it gave him the heart attack.”

  “She said he was betrayed.”

  “You could put it that way.” Stella glanced at Storm. “But to answer your question, she worshipped her father.”

  “He was good to his family?”

  “When he wasn’t drinking.” Stella rushed to
complete her thought. “You see, Angela was his baby. He hit the bottle for a while after she left home.”

  Storm gripped the steering wheel in surprise. It was the first time she’d made the connection that Stella’s goddaughter, who’d died from an overdose, was Lara’s sister.

  “How old was Angela when she left?” Storm asked.

  “Eighteen. Right before her high school graduation.”

  “Was Barb about the same age when she left school?”

  Stella looked out the window, away from Storm. “Barb was younger.” Her voice sounded as if it traveled from the past. “Angela had some conflicts with her mother. I always told Barb it was just teenage stuff. She needed to relax.”

  “Did Lara have difficulties with her mother, too?”

  “Not like Angela’s.”

  “Did the sisters get along?”

  “There was some sibling rivalry, but nothing unusual. When the girls were young, Lara was a little jealous. Angela was a great swimmer. But Angela quit, and it wasn’t long before she felt she couldn’t measure up to Lara.”

  “Did Lara make her feel that way?”

  Stella thought for a minute. “No, though Lara could be a bit selfish. Competitive, you know? But she always loved her sister.” Stella resumed twisting her hands. “I always told Angela she was beautiful and had her own talents.”

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, and then Stella spoke as if there had been no pause. “She always looked to men for approval. She didn’t do things for herself, you know?”

  “Who did? Angela?”

  Stella looked over at Storm. “I was thinking about Barb, but yeah, Angela did it too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They both were smart, but didn’t care much for school. Barb believed her looks were the most important quality she had, but she only felt beautiful when men verified it.”

  “Verified it in a sexual way?”

  “I suppose so. We don’t think through these things when we’re teenagers, do we?”

  “No, I guess not,” Storm said. “How about after she married Michael?”

  “She relied on him.”

  “For everything?” Storm asked.

  “Totally.”

  “That must have been hard on him, too.”