by H. L. Valdez
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he assured her, easing away from her grip.
"Call Marco," he whispered, squeezing her arm, and handing her his business card. “Tell him to meet us at the stadium, immediately.”
"Come on, let's go!" Velvet said jealously, walking between them. “Hurry up,” she blurted, leaving through the side door, entering the alley.
“All right,” Butch replied, turning to look at Miko as he walked away from her, smiling supportively.
"That's quite an informant network. I guess you're bunk-buddies too?"
“The job comes with complicated relationships.”
“Ouch!” she said, walking briskly to the main street.
“It’s in the name of justice.” He said, defensively.
"There's a taxi!" Velvet shouted, whacking him on the back, releasing her pent up frustration. Butch waving three fingers in the air, hailed a black cab.
“Kasumigaoka: the National Stadium.” Butch ordered as the passenger door automatically opened as the white-gloved driver set the meter.
“Get in quickly!” Velvet ordered slapping his back hard entering the air-conditioned cab as the door automatically slammed shut behind them. In the high humidity, the minutes passed in nervous anticipation, each absorbed in private thoughts. “In the name of justice, my ass.” Velvet jealously fumed to herself.
"At last," Velvet said, exasperated as the cab stopped near the spacious wooded park, west of the Imperial Palace. Butch and Velvet joined hundreds of noisy football fans walking through the outer garden of the Meiji shrine and into the National Stadium of Kasumigaoka, packed with over seventy-five thousand fans wearing team colors and clapping in rhythm as drums beat out a deafening cadence on the stadium terraces, creating a pulsating atmosphere.
The goodwill international exhibition soccer game was about to be played in preparation of the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. The best of Japan would meet Manchester United of England as marching bands played on the field as seductive dancers and near nude cheerleaders led the exuberant fans in a cheer and triple clapping sequence: “Nippon!” Clap-clap-clap, “Nippon!” Clap-clap-clap, “Nippon!” Clap-clap-clap, “Nippon!" The audience chanted in unison. Stirring with vigor, Sasha felt energized in the electrifying atmosphere of fanatical support creating a restless, almost hysterical mood, anticipating the sacred male gathering and the test of primordial manhood that was about to begin.
"Back-up should be here by now," Butch shouted, as the crowd pushed and squeezed him closer against Velvet, distracting his observation, as her body pressed against his.
“Where’s my gun?” Velvet complained, abiding by the strict Gun and Sword Act and No-Gun policy in Japan. The intensity of the situation was making her jittery, activating her phobic reactions. From the top of the stairs, Velvet frantically searched the mid-field seating section of the stadium with her binoculars.
“Help, a paranoid person is following me,” she mocked herself, trying to determine a threat perception as fans on pogo sticks jumped above the crowd. The enemy was faceless.
"Here they are!" Butch shouted, spotting Marco pushing past high-strung fans with painted faces. Velvet, with a frightened awareness of being followed, turned quickly, observing a sea of homogenized humanity, searching for the psychotic stranger lurking in the shadows.
"Sounds like you got a hot lead," Marco smiled, being jostled along by boisterous fans waving flags and wearing team colored hats.
"I have a photo I.D.” Butch said proudly, as young men wearing skull masks and horror faces bumped into him while women carrying balloons, threw paper streamers, screaming their chants.
"She's a brunette! This should be easy," Marco laughed looking at the picture. "Only forty-five thousand female brunettes here today." Marco shouted. "Keep your walkie talkies on and fan out,” he directed, as Velvet began suspiciously walking down the concrete stairs.
"Can you see her?" Butch hollered, following her.
"Not yet," she shouted dryly, looking through binoculars as noisy and drunk spectators collided into her. A vendor moving up the steep concrete stairs tossed peanuts and passed beer to fans while making his way to the top level. With pride and passion, the game was underway.
"We will win! We will win! We will win!" Shouted the standing crowd as Sasha sat sipping her beer reading a note passed to her inside the peanut filled bag. As the minutes ticked away, Manchester led Japan 2-to-1. Looking to her right, then to her left, Sasha sat for a moment preparing her escape. On the field, Japan had the ball and was attempting to score. Fans screamed and jeered the winning team’s score on their extended fingers. "Two-One! Two-One! Two-One! Two-One!" Shouted the taunting crowd, as Sasha checked her watch, and then looked at the electronic scoreboard. Suddenly, Japan scores and fans begin cheering themselves hoarse and start synch clapping in rhythmic patterns. Staccato hand clapping surrounded the stadium with precision clapping rhythms taken up by thousands of pairs of hands. Exhilarated and strategically placed fans flung tiny fragments of paper confetti by the sack loads, obscuring the frenzied crowd. White clouds of paper swirled like snowflakes. Instantly, Sasha rose from her seat and rushed up the stairs to her left. On the field, triumphant players were leaping to hug and embrace each other as trumpeters and buglers celebrated in musical harmony.
"I don't see her!" Velvet shouted. "There's too much confusion."
"Get to the other side, I'll stand watch here," Butch yelled
"There she is!" Velvet shouted excitedly, staring into the crowd with her mini binoculars.
"Where?"
"The top of the stairs!" She yelled, pointing. "Come on!" She yelled, shoving people aside moving up the stairs. Then, from almost out of nowhere, a man on a pogo stick bounced in the air and, on the down bounce, cracked a lead filled wooden club over Velvet's head. Spinning quickly, losing her orientation, her knees buckled as she fell against the wall, slumping to the ground, bleeding, half conscious.
"Butch! Where's Velvet?" Rita blared, spotting him at the top of the stairs.
"Up ahead!" He shouted, searching in vain for Velvet.
“I don’t see her,” she yelled, slicing and pushing her way past inebriated male fans that were whispering lewd comments in her ear as dozens of busy roaming fingers were fondling her breasts, buttocks, and crotch as she squeezed by them.
"Velvet, are you alright?" Rita blurted, rushing to her aid stooping down and placing her hands against Velvet's bleeding skull while examining her pupils.
"Here, smell this!" she directed, snapping smelling salts with one hand and wiggling them under her nose.
"How is she?" Butch asked, catching up to them.
"Just hold her up," Rita said, as a limp and dazed Velvet sat bleeding heavily.
“Let me help,” Justin said, coming up from behind, holding her steady.
"Watch for the guy on the pogo stick," Velvet garbled, trying to focus her hazy vision and clear her head as Rita continued wiggling the smelling salts under her nose.
“Just breathe deep. Breathe in real deep,” Justin volunteered.
“I think I can mange here,” Rita said sharply, looking at him, annoyed.
“Just trying to help,” he replied, rolling his eyes, looking at Butch. In the mean time, Sasha swiftly made her way down to a special roadway running beneath the stands reserved exclusively for ambulances. Hoping against hope, the Crisis Response Team desperately searched for Sasha who was already entering a waiting ambulance. Inside the stadium, clapping armies of fanatic fans shouted tribal like chants of the monkey call.
"Ouugh! Ouugh! Ouugh! Ouugh!" Came the shouts as the English player ran with the ball, while a Japanese opponent writhed on the ground. Closing the ambulance door, Sasha looked at Yoshida, and the other two muscular crew-cut gangsters, dressed in white medical uniforms.
"The days of true sportsmanship are over. All we can do now is harness the hatred," Sasha proclaimed, as Primo sat in a police bus watching the ambulance approach the stadium exit, chatting with Dete
ctive Ota.
"Let's get to the airport," she said calmly, as the ambulance edged its way to the stadium exit, passing stadium guards routinely waving them through as they passed parked police cars and busses.
"Are you hungry Sasha-san?" Yoshida asked, hoping she would say yes.
"Not really. Maybe later," she answered, brushing paper confetti from her hair as Yoshida stared at the idling police cars while slowly driving through the exit gate.
"What are you thinking about?" Ota asked, watching the ambulance.
"How do we catch these gangsters? Which airport? Which harbor? Which seaport?" Primo replied, making eye contact with Yoshida watching the ambulance leave the stadium.
"Step on the stone as it appears. Nothing ever seems to work out right, at least not right away," Ota said. "Besides, we are just a handful."
"We lost her," Rita said in anguish, racing up to the large blue police bus as Velvet slowly made her way to the bus, holding a bandage to her head, with Justin walking by her side, his arms around her waist.
"We need a better plan," Butch suggested, throwing his hands up in the air.
"What happened to your head?" Primo asked concerned, stepping out of the bus with his head and face still bandaged from his fight.
"Ambushed," she replied, feeling defeated as the team looked at each other appraising themselves and the situation.
"We’re still developing as a team. This involves trial and error," Marco replied, as Velvet stared at him impatiently.
"We need specific objectives," Justin stated. “I’m an engineer. I don’t handle ambiguity and uncertainty very well.”
"Give me two objectives!" Rita shot back, with a pained expression.
“We need to develop a group psyche and a group reflex," Marco stated, with an alert gaze.
"We also need to put a wiretap on that travel agency,” Butch stated logically.
“We also need to review the tape recordings that Sergeant Ota made," Marco suggested.
"That is time intensive," Justin replied, discouraged, with a pensive expression.
"The situation is complicated," Sergeant Ota interrupted, holding up his hands. "Chinese and Yakuza criminals carry two sets of identification --- one for the police, and a different set for use among their own people. Each gang member carries a different name and biographical information. Smugglers never conduct business in English, and they use over sixty oriental dialects."
"We need special help," Butch stated flatly. "I know someone who may cooperate. But a deal must be struck for the sake of courtesy and procedure."
"Who is this someone?" Marco asked, curiously.
"A highly placed Chinese underworld figure in Hong Kong," Butch answered guardedly.
"What you do affects the team," Marco answered. “Don’t compromise security.”
"I'm working both sides of the street," Butch answered. We must swim through slime to be cleansed," Butch answered, with Marco shaking his head in reluctant agreement.
“Don’t embarrass the agency. Limit information sharing. Don’t draw attention to yourself. And don’t tell me how you got it done.” Marco replied seriously, staring at Butch.
“Be careful swimming in slime. You can get an infection,” Rita warned.
"Primo, you studied Chinese when you were a kid," Marco said. “Work with Detective Ota on this project. We’ll get more help as we go.”
"Seems like we have some basic detective work to do," Rita said dryly.
“We’re in this together. Besides, serious criminals and high achievers share a common need for thrill seeking.” Marco revealed, with street-smart insight.
"We won't stay side tracked for long," Rita told the group, entering the police bus and quickly dry swallowing twenty milligrams of Dexamyl and ten milligrams of Valium.
"There's a connection here," Velvet said. "We have a wheeling, dealing, kick-ass, dangerous broad on our hands."
"I get it," Butch said with instant insight. "This woman was promoted into the inner circle. She's going to make deals in L.A."
"We've got to trace her," Marco said.
“I need a shot Doc, the pain is killing me,” Velvet suggested, holding the compress to her throbbing head, trying to hide her impatience.
“I need to monitor your vitals a little longer. I can’t monitor symptoms if you’re drugged up. What if I give you the wrong medication?”
“How about aspirin?”
“How about water?”
“You’ll be okay, Velvet.” Primo encouraged, walking up to her, putting his arm around her shoulder.
“You promise?” she asked tearfully, looking at his bruised face. “I feel weak,” she said rocking back and forth.
“Don’t fall,” he cautioned, gripping her with a bear hug, holding her up.
“Do I need this?” she asked, leaning her weight against his body.
“Don’t give up during the struggle,” he assured her, adjusting his balance to support her weight.
“I’m dizzy. My head’s coming off,” she moaned, putting her arms around Primo, holding him tight.
“Fight the good fight,” he said, gripping her tighter, struggling to support her.
“You’re alive. That’s the greatest gift,” he said gently, while re-positioning himself supporting her snugly against his body.
“I’m alive,” she mumbled, leaning into Primo’s muscular and strong embrace.
“One moment, then the next moment,” he whispered as she closed her eyes, burying her head into his chest, sheltered in his sturdy grip. The group stood silent, watching Primo softly rest his head against hers. Butch watched in jealous resentment, envious of Primo providing comfort to Velvet. Stoic on the outside, miserable on the inside, Butch was burning with sexual competition for Velvet’s favors. He wanted to console her, but hesitated. Japanese culture dictated refraining from public displays of affection. He held back his pure feeling. Pride held him back. It hurt to see her in the arms of another man. In that moment, he realized that she was gone forever. This moment was the payment that equalized the karmic debt. The morality tax caught up with Butch. He had been intimate with Miko while seeing Velvet, and living with his wife.
P. I. Style
26 August 1964. Olongapo, Philippines. Gina Leung was warily riding in the front seat of a Jeepney bus with no doors, looking through the grimy window at dark cluttered streets while listening to A Hard Day's Night by the Beatles, blaring from the stereo. Decorated with plastic streamers, the gaudy, colorful Jeepney, covered with bumper stickers, was a modified army surplus Willy’s jeep with chromed fenders. Painted blue, red, black, pink, green, and white, a nickel-plated stallion was on the hood, and a golden eagle hung on the front grill with a plastic Jesus glued to the dashboard. With six air horns mounted on the front bumper, and numerous small lights flickering around the roof, the driver wildly maneuvered through the wet and congested streets, beeping at everyone and everything.
Gina was ready to leap from her hair-raising ride as ten passengers sitting in the back section clutched silver handrails, while sitting on long wooden benches facing each other. The bus ride resembled a Roman chariot race with drivers careering through dusty pot-holed streets, darting into the oncoming traffic lane, tempting fate at every corner. The ride was a combination of madness and terror with passengers entering and exiting through the open rear exit carrying chickens, pigs, fish, sacks of rice, and gripping metal rails attached to the multi-colored painted ceiling.
“You gotta be crazy to be a cabbie in this town!” Gina yelled above the noise, holding a grab-bar attached to the dashboard.
“You gotta be crazy to be a passenger!” He yelled back, adjusting his sunglasses as dried flowers hanging from the rear view mirror, swayed back-and-forth. The ride was a tour through organized schizophrenia.
“Around here, nobody cares if you’re crazy!” She shouted, over the traffic cacophony.
"Lady, this is the Blow-Row section, very popular, always lively," he hollered, glaring at
the hawking bar girls who were sauntering with extra jauntiness, advertising their favors along sidewalks packed with handsome young athletic servicemen. On the boulevard, a kaleidoscope of blinking neon lights illuminated beautiful Filipina bar girls making wild promises and moving their bodies in response to the live music pouring into the streets from Olongapo's hundreds of bars and discos.
"Come on G.I., one hour OK!" a young girl chanted, walking in spiked heels.
"I screw you good, G.I.” another voluptuous, young prostitute promised, wearing a skin-tight see-through red dress.
"Three hole screw, G.I., you come good!" a young Filipina shouted, dressed in a mini skirt, wearing a tube top halter over flowing with lush cleavage.
“Sex! Sex! Sex!” a prostitute bellowed, pointing to herself, and wearing a transparent blouse, revealing tantalizing and inviting breasts.
“Change your dollars to pesos,” young Philippino males yelled, holding megaphones and wearing frayed cut-off jeans and white undershirts.
"Change your dollars right here!” Wafer thin he-she Lady Boys giggled. Sexually aroused American servicemen were walking the pot-holed city streets embracing sensual petite Filipina prostitutes and eagerly exchanging currencies in the staggering night humidity. Payday had arrived for hundreds of American Sailors, Marines, and civilians who were attached to American aircraft carriers, submarines, and over a dozen escort ships that lay anchored in Manila Bay, or docked at the main U.S. Naval Base at Stanley Point in Cavite.
"Seems everybody is busy," Gina stated, bouncing in the seat as the bus hit a pothole.
"Everybody nervous and happy. Business better very soon," the cabbie replied.
"How's that?"
"American's war with Vietnam," he said, slapping the steering wheel. "F-E-N radio said America passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, big war soon. Big dollars for Olongapo."
"No kidding!" She stated curiously. "Well, they’re in for a tough fight. The communists have been enlarging the Ho Chi Minh Trail for years."