Raiders

by William B. McCloskey

  It was a glum sunny morning when, with a new salmon opening announced, Hank hugged Jody and (suddenly terrified for what he could lose) admonished her not to take chances. He virtually crushed Terry’s hand first and then Ham’s to exact their promise yet again to look after her, then fixed a stern eye on Joel and the other dubious kid hired to fill out the crew, to reaffirm to them that they’d account to him if anything happened to Jody.

  The lines of the Adele H slipped through his hands until at last he tossed each aboard the departing boat. The gap widened. He was still shouting last-thought instructions when she waved gaily, blew him a kiss, then pointed to her ears and shook her head. Now he couldn’t reach her! This should be experienced only by his three children and Adele Henry beside him waving good luck. No fisherman should have to see off from dockside a boat bearing his love.

  Adele’s busty cheer didn’t help, busy everywhere in bulging red pants and giving only lip service to her husband dead a mere month. Why couldn’t she have played the widow poor Jones might have expected: sold the boat, gone to France or whatever, honored Jones’s hang-ups, if only for his memory? Adele now had them dependent and beholden. Yet, what would he and Jody do without her as the trusted (and loved!) caretaker of their children?

  Adele hugged him. “Hank, dear, they’ll be just fine. Don’t look so worried. Jody’s a true heart—she’ll make us all so proud. I’m simply . . . overflowing.”

  He returned the hug, wishing she’d leave him alone but touched by her sincerity, then hugged a second time and meant it. After dinner tonight, though, what a relief it was going to be to take the kids to their home surrounded by woods and water, miles from Adele. Hole up with them for a few days, ignoring town. Precious time to know each other.

  “Now come along,” Adele continued. “If we hurry we can drive to Spruce Cape and wave to the boat again. Hurry.” She included Hank.

  “Sorry, need to go back to the boatyard. But remember, I’m taking you all to dinner, say, seven thirty.”

  “I should think more like six, or at the most six thirty. Not for myself, though Daddy and I always ate early. I like to feed the children at six sharp and give them regular habits. And then there’s certainly no reason for you to drive all that way out in the country to your house with Jody not there. We’ll all settle down for a nice quiet evening at my house.”

  “Generator needs work at the house, sorry,” he lied. “But okay on six thirty.” Now he needed to rush to his radios on the Jody Dawn in the boatyard, to stay in touch with Jody at least through Whale Passage. She’d rejected his wish to see them beyond Whale and fly back from Port Bailey, rejected it with impatience. She’d firmly become Captain Jody. Indeed, the weather was calm, she’d be hitting the right tide, and there trailing her were the Hinda Bee with good old crabby Gus and Jeff Mathews’s Sleepthief Two. Maybe they wanted her to fail, but they wouldn’t see her come to harm. (In truth, wouldn’t a safe, face-saving failure return his Jody home? One, of course, that would leave her content knowing she’d tried?)

  As he trotted on the road, glad for the exercise, he heard a voice from a car exclaim, “Hank! Well, that’s something at least, your shoulder cast’s gone. Good. Get in.” It was John Gains, returned from Bristol Bay. Even in plaid shirt and baseball cap the man looked pressed and combed for the office.

  “In a hurry, John,” Hank snapped, and kept moving.

  “Not so fast. I’ve come looking for you. Important we talk.” When Hank gave his reason for speed, John assured him the cannery had plenty of radios. “You can monitor Jody from my office while we talk.” Hank acquiesced and entered the car, since in any event John’s company radio might have a stronger signal than the boat’s.

  Hank instinctively kept his talk in the car to a minimum. Gains, his former crewman and his junior by a decade, but already a hustling company executive for the Tsurifune interests, always made him restless. The man never stopped acting like a schoolmarm. A glance in the car confirmed that, as usual, John’s full black hair was no more rumpled than his clothes. Did he get that way just from pushing so hard that he needed to stay on guard? He was the son of a Kansas plumber, he’d once admitted, as if it was something to be ashamed of.

  Hank never felt comfortable with the man, even though he knew John had grit for all his office primness. He’d been a boxer in college, as he’d proven by knocking Hank down in the ring during that informal Fourth of July bout in Kodiak four years back. And he’d placed himself in danger during the storm and failed rescue of Jones Henry, volunteer-crewing on the helicopter that had towed the raft with Hank and Jones aboard to safety. Hank owed him and knew it. But John understood—give him that also, Hank conceded—that grateful payback would come with an emergency, not in casual exchange. For the rest, John had become a company man for the Japanese, and maybe their spy.

  Gains’s office indeed had ample radio equipment. Hank talked to Jody throughout Whale Passage, although she didn’t seem to need him. Gus had taken his Hinda Bee ahead to lead the way and she followed close, while Jeff’s Sleepthief trailed. Her tone was light. Gravity would have better reassured him. Her “Ease up, Hank—don’t worry” didn’t help.

  After Jody had signed off, John Gains said reproachfully, “Tsurifune in Tokyo’s been trying to reach you. Why haven’t you stayed in touch?”

  “Well, John, I figured Tsurifune could find me when he wanted. Are we talking the young Tsurifune or the old man?”

  “Shoji, of course—young Mike. Not his father the director for day to day. Expect to see Director Kiyoshi Tsurifune only on special occasions if my experience serves. You were privileged last spring.” John’s face was calm and serious, with the confidence of being in charge. “Frankly, Hank, I don’t think it’s wise to be heard calling the director an old man even if he is in his seventies. He wouldn’t like it.”

  Hank grinned. “Does he still buy those paintings of nothing but splashes? And pay the price of a large boat for ’em?”

  “Not the sort of thing the director would confide in me.”

  John’s reclining executive chair might as well have been rigid for the straight-backed way he occupied it. With clasped hands on the shining-clear desk, and with a sunny window behind him that cast glare in a visitor’s eyes, he appeared faceless and solid. “Now, Hank. It’s already eleven in the evening Tokyo time since it’s taken me so long to find you, but Shoji Tsurifune told me he’d receive your call at his home. My secretary’s putting it through as we speak. You should have stayed in touch. If I hadn’t been off in Bristol Bay . . . What’s this about fishing with your wife when you should have been in town seeing to your boat? And recovering from your injuries so you’d be fit for your part of the bargain? Tsurifune father and son might not be that amused if they heard, though they won’t from me. Your boat’s their investment now, remember. And you are, besides.”

  “Remembered all too well, John. What’s so urgent?”

  “I believe they want you over there.”

  Indeed, over the phone Mike Tsurifune was succinct. Leave the Jody Dawn in Kodiak for whatever repairs were necessary, he said with his usual cool, Harvard-educated confidence, but plans had been canceled for the Seattle retrofit to longline. “We considered your advice, Hank. Very good advisement, Father himself agrees. We must use your vessel Jody Dawn—our vessel together Jody Dawn, ha-ha—for other purpose and prepare a different vessel for longline. Now, soonest plane here please, Hank. Seat reserved for you tomorrow on United hop from Anchorage that leaves at noon, Narita 1:30 PM next day, eight-and-half hours later, driver will meet you. Your visa’s still good from last spring, yes? Or I’ll arrange.”

  “You’ve sure thought it through, Mike. But I’ve got—”

  “Good, then all arranged. See you tomorrow; no, day after.”

  Hank held out for one further day in a tone that warned Mike to acquiesce. It gave him another night to cuddle and read to his children before delivering them back to Aunt Adele, and time to make sure by radio t
hat Jody reached her fishing grounds safely and was settled in.

  Her voice, cheerful and businesslike, changed when she heard the news. “Japan again. I see.”

  Hank had anticipated this. “Listen. You’re my love. What happened there before won’t happen again. Believe me, Jody.”

  After a pause: “I believe you, Hank.”

  Hank caught his breath after the conversation ended. So much had happened since his visit to Japan three months ago that he’d dismissed Helene Foster from his mind until now, except when thinking about the near-wreck of his marriage when he’d confessed to Jody. On this trip, he told himself, don’t even go near the Tokyo Kabuki theater where Helene studied.

  On the flight from Anchorage to Tokyo, he enjoyed the flyover view of Mount McKinley, then had a scotch, and dismissed again all thoughts of Helene as he pictured his Jody.

  Members of the fishery agency waited at Narita airport to greet him, as had happened on his first visit to Japan. There was limp-handed, smiling Teruo Hayashi, and the aggressive fellow named Kodama. Hayashi had relaxed with him during their travels to fishing towns, and Hank assumed the informality remained. “Yashi-san!” he declared, and threw out his arms in a bear hug.

  Hayashi backed away, startled. “Mr. Crawford. You are welcomed.”

  “Mr. Hayashi,” Hank corrected. “Nice to see you again.”

  Kodama, beside him, frowned, and offered a curt but firm handshake. Not even a bow. Hank knew Kodama less well since he’d been one of many at meetings, but he had noted him above the others as sturdier and more direct. Gym bag with smiling cartoon animals, wasn’t it? Ran or something. “Do you still run, Mr. Kodama?”

  “Of course.”

  Hayashi explained that although Hank was now connected with the Tsurifune company, Mr. Shoji Tsurifune, son of the director, had requested that the agency first show him more of important Japanese fisheries.

  “I didn’t come over here to be a tourist again, whatever Mike Tsurifune requested.”

  “However, Mr. Tsurifune gives his driver to transport us all, but sends regrets in this letter. He is called on emergency and asks you be patient. You must enjoy interesting time in Japan until he can return. Very soon, Mr. Crawford, very soon.”

  The letter, scrawled in black ink, was on heavy paper with a letterhead in elegant Japanese characters:

  Dear Hank,

  Shit and all that, but family business suddenly calling. Don’t worry, everything paid and fair emolument to you besides for time loss. I’ve arranged for you to visit an interesting part of Japan where we have investments. Happily please enjoy yourself and learn more about the importance offish to Japanese.

  Shoji/Mike Tsurifune cordially.

  PS: Ancestral fact to interest you. Family name Tsurifune from long time before myself or Father. “Tsuri” means to fish (like line and pole old-fashioned way), and “fune” means ship or vessel. How convenient is such a name, eh? And how can go wrong?

  Will soon return.

  Mike.

  Hank controlled his resentment at being hustled from Kodiak only to wait. Go home? Would probably need to pay for that himself and possibly lose everything. He decided to call the delay part of business and make the best of it, but to be firm. “Last time I was here, I wanted to meet fishermen and go out with them on their boats, but all we did was sit in meetings and drink green tea. This time, I need to have more to do with fishing boats.”

  “Oh, naturally, Mr. Crawford,” said Hayashi. “Fishing boats.”

  “I mean, meet fishermen and go out on a fishing boat. Is that understood?”

  A pause. “Yes, yes, Mr. Tsurifune arranges everything, Mr. Crawford.”

  “All has been arranged, Mr. Carford,” added Kodama in a deeper voice. “Boat, of course.” His confidence was reassuring. Hank decided that he liked him. In contrast to Hayashi, whose slight build suggested nothing more physical than racing an elevator door and who voiced a thought only after consideration, Kodama was vigorous and direct. His eyes glinted with energy. His presence seemed to promise fewer deadly meetings at the least.

  During a dinner of seafood, raw and cooked, both guides were constrained. They conversed gravely in Japanese (undoubtedly, Hayashi explained life with his difficult American) and spoke in English only for courtesies or when Hank initiated a subject.

  It turned out that Yukihiro Kodama was to be his guide and interpreter this time, since Hayashi had been promoted to supervisor. Indeed, next day the gym bag with cartoon faces came to the train as part of Kodama’s luggage. Despite Hayashi’s limp handshake, Hank suddenly regretted leaving such a comfortable presence. The guy had been concerned and gracious. His receding forehead framed by silky hair looked vulnerable beside Kodama’s crew cut, thick as grass.

  The train sped them for hours through hilly countryside, past tile-roofed towns and occasional bizarre sights like a giant gilded Buddha on a hill. “Kanazawa is ancient and beautiful,” declared Kodama sternly, as if Hank might contradict. They arrived late afternoon in heavy rain. Kodama opened his umbrella and announced: “Now sightseeing. Come!” Except for a dark castle of gloomy stone facing a vast formal garden park that dripped green without bright colors, and a damp old temple that a caretaker needed to open, Hank saw little except ugly buildings surrounded by loud traffic. “Certainly interesting,” was the best compliment he could muster.

  “Of course.”

  “What’s for tomorrow?”

  “Fishing cooperative. Important.”

  “Go on boats?”

  “No. Fishing cooperative.”

  They ate in the hotel. Hank, still tired from the long flight and switched time zones, looked forward to an early night and sleep. Worry about boats in the morning. But, “Come, take coat,” ordered Kodama.

  A taxi continued for miles along dimly lighted streets and roads to a busy waterfront. Through the cab window drifted familiar smells of grease, rust, and fish. “Hey, Mr. Kodama!” Hank exclaimed. “Are you actually going to show me fishing?” Steel boats some ninety feet long scraped sluggishly against fenders. Nets lay aft of open holds. A human chain of crewmen in towel headbands handed white containers dripping ice from hold to pier where another chain lifted them into trucks.

  At once Kodama’s sternness disappeared. He joked with the men, sometimes roughly, although he sidestepped Hank’s requests for translations. Following banter with a tired-eyed man standing on one of the bows, he told Hank, “Is Captain Maruyama. His boat Number Fifteen, Chosei-Maru, meaning Long Life Vessel. We have fished together on far seas, but now Americans have taken the grounds and he must stay near shore. You wish to speak him questions?”

  “Hey, you’ve been a fisherman? You didn’t say.”

  “Of course. Captain Maruyama busy, Mr. Carford. Will go to his business if you do not wish to speak him.”

  The translated conversation was polite but impersonal despite Hank’s attempts at warmth between fellow fishermen. The captain, middle-aged with an anxious face sunburned the color of earth, said that they had just delivered sixty-three boxes of shrimp, and also several species of fish. His crew numbered six including himself. The boat would leave again soon after midnight to reach the grounds by daylight, then would fish all day and return as now to deliver between nine and ten in the dark. (Perfect! thought Hank. Daily commitment so that when Tsurifune returns I’m not long at sea.) The captain kept glancing at his wheelhouse while a crewman beside him restlessly jiggled a mooring line untied from its cleat.

  “Further question quickly, please, Mr. Carford.”

  Hank turned to Kodama. “Ask if I can go on his boat tonight, out fishing tomorrow. Say I won’t be in the way. Just one fisherman to another, to observe his gear. I have my own boots and skins. It’s not raining anymore. I’ll sleep on deck.”

  “Impossible. Very important cooperative tomorrow.”

  “Then the day after.”

  “There is schedule.”

  Not the place to argue it, Hank decided. The bo
at would come in every night. “Thank the captain and please say I wish him good sleep now and good catch tomorrow.” At once the man hurried to his wheelhouse. Hank released the line from the bollard by his legs, then hurried to cast off the line aft. The simple scratch of rope in his hands felt right. Long-Life-Fifteen moved off and another boat took its place at once.

  Next, they entered a long, brightly illuminated building. Boxes of iced seafood stood in clusters, while trucks delivered more. Fresh brine odors filled the air. Shrimps appeared to be as bright red and fish as silvery or green as the moment they had come from the sea. A knot of attentive people with notebooks moved from one cluster to another. They trailed a barking auctioneer who thrust down his arm at each completed sale like a baseball umpire declaring man out. Unlike the bigger auctions in Tokyo that he’d seen on his previous trip, Hank noted, here the buyers included women. Their short white boots stood the wet floor as firmly as the men’s. In further contrast to the intensely driven Tokyo Tsukiji Market, the bidding sometimes exploded into jokes. Even the auctioneer laughed.

  Nice people, Hank decided. Kodama was okay as well. When you got them out of their offices.

  8

  “A RUVREY HIGHRINER”

  KANAZAWA, JAPAN, MID-AUGUST 1982

  Hank woke next morning at six thirty when Kodama entered the room with his fiercely tight face streaming sweat. “Hey, why didn’t you wake me to run with you?”

  “Need sleep more than run, Mr. Carford. Important day, now we must hurry.”

  A bus took them along a peninsula facing the Sea of Japan. Through pines and sand brush the sun sparkled on blue water and gleamed over the reds and blacks of high-prowed fishing boats trailing nets. This was country Hank could understand. A car waited by a stop in the road. After courtesies the driver took them into a hillside village. Men with nets worked beside boats on a quay below, but the car parked by a solid building far from the water. Inside, a woman rose from her typewriter and a dignified, white-haired man hurried to conduct them to a hall whose windows faced rooftops. Kodama and the man, Mr. Nagao, bowed and exchanged cards.