Breakers

by William B. McCIoskey Jr.

  The banquet broke up with bows all around. Little Machiko did more than bow. She touched her head to the floor by his feet. He swayed, not sure how to take it. Like to hold that package, he thought, pulling against Gains’s firm arm to look back. Her eyes followed him. Hold her. Smell her. Feel smooth flesh. Some dancers he’d seen once—Spanish?—tightened their butts and led with their cocks, shook it when they walked, knew how things could boil down there. He knew.

  “Still not too late,” said Mike Tsurifune easily. “Or tomorrow.”

  “Shit, Mike, ol’ lady faithful back home, all that.”

  “You Americans. I love you. Thrash it out for yourself. See you tomorrow. I’d invite you to breakfast, but tennis comes first when you’re going to play tournament end of the month.”

  “Oh you Jap . . . Japanese. Love you too . . . your fuckin’ tennis.”

  At the hotel Gains parted with: “Eight-thirty for breakfast. We’ll talk. Don’t be late, leave a call. They pick us up nine-thirty for ten o’clock meeting. Get sleep.”

  In his room Hank tried to pace but could only bump between bed and washstand. No answer from calls to Jody. Should be just the time she was getting up. Or having lunch? Time wouldn’t stay straight. As he thought of it, though, if he told about the jolly banquet, she’d say something to spoil it.

  Now Helene, she’d listen. She’d have a laugh. Her address had sweated in his jacket pocket, but the blurred number remained readable. When she answered sleepily it was barely hi before he declared: “These people can grab you in more ways than Kabuki, you know?”

  “I wondered if you’d call.”

  “Let me tell you. Food like no tomorrow, and sake out your ass . . . ears, but that wasn’t . . . Know what they did? They had a geisha there behind each guy, and mine—get this—they said she was mine. My own geisha. They said take her home and do whatever!” Silence on the other end. “That shock you?”

  “Oh, shocked. Especially if it really was a geisha. So what did you do?”

  He laughed to cover the fact that he suddenly regretted doing nothing. When ever a chance like that again? Let the laugh be his answer.

  “Did the beard make her tickle?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “You seem to have dismissed her early, for all that.”

  “Not my type. After all.”

  “What is your type, Hank?”

  He lay back on the bed and scratched his thigh. Silence waited. “American type, I guess.” Silence again.

  “Ready to climb down out of that male tree?”

  “Hey?”

  “Want to come talk about it?”

  “Talk about it. Good idea.” Silence. “Where?”

  “I live near Kabuki-Za but you’d never find me. I’ll walk over. Seven-oh-five’s your room number?”

  He closed his eyes. Turn back now or not. “Streets this late, pretty empty. . .”

  “Streets are safe in Tokyo.” Silence.

  Wasn’t he on vacation from everything? “Well then, come on!”

  “Expect me in twenty minutes.”

  He hung up, reached for the phone to dial again and cancel, laid back waiting.

  By the time she knocked he was eager. Her perfume, just like he’d remembered. Soon they pressed naked against each other. He went in with a grunt of relief, enjoying even the teeth in his chest.

  Too fast. Booze had made him too fast before she was ready. They stayed skin to skin and she assured him it was all right, just keep trying. It embarrassed him. Finally, after a fashion, slowly. But now he was sleepy.

  She began to coax. Suddenly he woke and felt his nerve endings come alive. Now he wanted to please her, to show what he could do. When she responded, he responded further. It became all new, all different than with other women.

  “Ohh, you’re good!” she exclaimed. It roused him to perform further. A cry from her, then a new surge of pleasure.

  At last they lay satisfied. He rolled in her warmth. I still have it, he thought. They chuckled at how it had all happened.

  “Yes,” she repeated. “You are good.”

  He woke to find her dressed again, ready to leave. She kissed him lightly. “Call me tomorrow?”

  “Or today.”

  She left. Her perfume remained. He started to doze back comfortably. Suddenly her spell vanished and the perfume smelled bitter. What had he done? Jody! Try to call her. He picked up the phone, then replaced it. Not with that damned apple odor everywhere. He opened the door and swung it back and forth to air the room, finally gave up. Odor lodged on his hands and in his nostrils. He scrubbed, then sat on the bed holding his head. It was Jody he wanted, more than ever.

  Come on. Jody had slept around before they were married, just as he had. Just dumb biology. (Kidding whom? came back the answer.) He rose and swung the door again, then crawled into bed and wrapped a clean towel around his nose. The thing was done. Sort it later. After all, I’m way off in Japan where such things happen.

  The desk call jangled him awake. Something wrong, he knew. It took moments for the malaise to focus. He lay breathing into the towel. Way off in Japan, he reminded himself. Just as he dozed into a fantasy of all’s right, a knock on the door. John Gains, making sure he got up. Gains camped on his bed, already dressed in his suit.

  He made himself stretch. “Feelin’ shitty, John.”

  “That’s news.”

  He forced a grin despite hangover head and rubber-sided mouth. “Don’t worry. Fishermen can booze all night, then be at the pots first light. Don’t think I haven’t done it.”

  “I’m sure you have.” Gains picked up a green patterned scarf that was crushed against the pillow.

  Hank reached to grab it. But too late. He shrugged, at once self-conscious.

  “Not my business, Crawford. But I hope you’re not playing Madama Butterfly here.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  His legs took him to the shower. Hangovers used to be easier. Couldn’t be that much older. He felt like retching and his head thumped. Jody. No, not the same, oh not the same damn it. Just Japan stuff, not real. What would he tell her? Would he tell? Whether he told or not, he knew himself. And now Gains knew. Sort it later. Forget it now. The decision made him easier.

  Coffee downstairs helped. Thank God not green tea to gag on. Gains knew enough to steer to the American dining room rather than the Japanese one that before this Hank chose as part of the game. Hank tightened the tie against his neck to force himself alert. Clink of china helped dim the warm night memory. “So. What’s the drill today?”

  “I’d like to say be yourself, but that’s clearly a snake pit. Just please remember that you’re a damn good American fishing captain, one of the best.”

  “From you, John, that’s very nice.”

  “Never doubted. I hated crewing under you. But that’s because I’m not the deckhand type.”

  “You can say that!” But this was the guy who’d knocked him around in the Kodiak ring. Too soft for it now, if they went again. “At least under me you kept down that flab.”

  Thin smile as Gains rearranged the flowers and silver condiment bottles on the table. “I know you’re hurting back home. Like all the other cowboys who staked the whole bank on king crab. Don’t think that Mr. Tsurifune and his heir don’t know it too. Remember this for yourself. Your trump card is, you’re American.”

  “Damn right I am. So?”

  Gains reopened the napkin that he’d folded twice and laid it on his lap. “Don’t ask me, Crawford. I’m a company man for the Japanese. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”

  The waiter brought scrambled eggs with toast and jam. “I didn’t even know we’d ordered. Damn that looks good. I’ve been doing Japanese for the hell of it, but—”

  “Commendable. But this morning I figured you needed Stateside.”

  “Maybe you’re sometimes okay, John.”

  “Don’t get carried away.”

  The
comforting eggs settled his queasy stomach, partly, and the sweet of the jam soothed. It diminished the swim in his head and refocused the rest. Jody and trust waited back home whether Gains knew or not. What did Gains know, or figure? Hank leaned back. “Well, if you’re through talking business, your geisha last night, could you have laid her?”

  Gains closed his eyes and sighed. “Hank. Your private life’s your own business. And I’ll keep mine to myself. Those were waitresses. Yours was something special, but no geisha. Geisha’s a trained professional. Sex, maybe, but certainly not assumed. Only way, way down the line after rapport, maybe. Remotely. You wouldn’t have appreciated a geisha.”

  “Hm.” He felt foolish. Then remembered Helene, started to grin. But Jody. Sick feeling. Think about it later. Coming up in the office elevator, a sweating, cheerful Mike in white tennis shorts joined them. “Terrific night, Hank. Your stories were a riot. Sleep well? I’ll be there by the time Dad finishes showing his trophies.”

  Mr. Tsurifune rose from his polished desk and strode around to greet Hank with lively eyes, a firm handshake, and (reaching up) a pat on the shoulder. Gains received a lesser nod. “Happy to see you, Mr. Crawford. Good banquet last night?”

  “Hey, sir. You speak better English than I do!”

  “Ha ha. Only little. Please to look around?” The old man’s hand remained on his back, guiding the way.

  A niche in the walls of polished wood held a Shinto altar of the kind Hank had seen in less private Japanese offices, but the blue and yellow vase in this one could have come from a museum. Hank commented. “Ah!” Tsurifune’s smile revealed gold teeth. “Your eyes very good, Mr. Crawford. Imari, seventeenth century.” One wall held a big painting of nothing but one fuzzy red square and a smaller green one. “And this do you recognize, American master Rothko? Very expressive you see. And, ha ha, very expensive must say, but soon I think worth more.” Could have done the same with Christmas paper and glue, thought Hank, but he nodded politely.

  “Come, Mr. Crawford.” With a flourish, Tsurifune threw open a door in the paneling. It opened to a long room with art work hung and stacked. Workmen in smocks were moving some pictures from a white wall that others were repainting white. Tsurifune’s hand led him from one picture to another. There were two big ones by the dribbles guy with the fish name, one of nothing but an empty bathrobe, another of thick, black streaks of the sort done to test a brush. A smooth statue of almost nothing “by Noguchi of course. And here you see also early work Kunyoshi, America and Japan together—friends from many years ago. Now making room for Jasper Johns, purchased through my agent in America yesterday. Yes! Did you know that I have approved this sale by trans-Pacific telephone just while you and I talked of fishing matters in great earnestness?” He looked up at Hank triumphantly. “You are amazed, Mr. Crawford, to find such important and valuable American collection in Tokyo?”

  “Really amazed, sir.”

  Tsurifune gestured to framed canvases and drawings stacked beneath the emptied wall. “All these, American Sam Francis. You know? All Tokyo period, value increasing.”

  “You met Francis during his five years painting in Japan, didn’t you, sir?”

  “Ah, hundred percent, Mr. Gains, you have listened and remembered.” The hand led Hank back to the office. They moved to a wall where spotlights from the ceiling shone on the contents of a floor-length glass case. “And here, Mr. Crawford. Trophies from experience around the world.” It almost duplicated that in the office of the big Seattle Jap . . . Japanese. “You recognize the hat—you call it cap? U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Sweetbrier which I make visit in Alaska. See there scrimshaw on walrus bone, and paperweight with U.S. state seal, and cup with girl painted inside most cunning, gifts of—” He named three powerful U.S. senators. He pointed out other celebrity gifts one by one and finally pointed offhand to a silver ashtray far in the comer of the lowest shelf. “Present of Mr. Sweden Scor’en, I think he is friend?”

  Swede too!

  Mike Tsurifune joined them, as cool and dark-suited as during yesterday’s meeting. His father led the way to thick leather armchairs. A smiling girl immediately brought green tea. Mike’s spicy lotion wafted strong. No hangover that Hank could discern. His own stomach felt sour, his head stuffed.

  Tsurifune leaned back, tapped fingers together, and spoke in Japanese. His lean, aristocratic face assumed a grave but still friendly expression.

  “My father first wishes to apologize for speaking again only Japanese. But he thinks it’s better in order to make all clear, since he’s paid a lot of money to make sure I understand English.” Appropriate polite laughs all around. “Now Hank—it’s okay if I call you Hank?”

  “Sure. Is that your dad talking?”

  “Oh no, of course not. Me. I haven’t begun translating again. Don’t be offended. Older generation in Japan is very formal.” Mike spoke curtly to the girl with the teapot. She bowed (not as deeply as last night’s waitress) and hurried off. His voice eased again. “Now Hank, I’ll just speak for both Tsurifunes. We know king crab times are hard in America. It’s the way things go. And yesterday we told you of Japanese hardship since the U.S. claims more and more fish quota for itself and eases out foreigners.”

  “Well, as I said yesterday—”

  “Needn’t defend. Please let’s not go through all that again.” The chuckles included Mr. Tsurifune, who had not received translation. “We know the reality whatever yesterday’s rhetoric. You’re claiming your own. We would too, if we had it. Now. We’ve made inquiries. No offense, but it’s no secret that you’re having trouble with payments. We know your little boy was sick, and we’re glad to hear that all’s now okay except the bills. And, with your 108-foot crabber Jody Dawn, you’ve rigged expensively for bottomfish also, but the Korean joint venture turned out to be a mess. We’re not surprised, I’d like to point out, since this is typical of doing business with Koreans, and also of such joint ventures your State Department proposes. Also, we note that you are building a new house twenty miles from town not completed or fully paid for.”

  Hank flashed Gains his sudden resentment. Gains’s gaze remained steady.

  “We didn’t need John to tell us, Hank. Don’t be offended, but we have plenty of access. We also know your catch record, not just what you deliver to our plants. You produce, because you seek product even when others give up and go home.”

  “Your plants?” Glance again at the stoic Gains. “I thought you were a small private company that owned five or six trawlers and longliners.”

  “That too, of course. It’s complicated. Don’t let it worry you. Except as reassurance that there are resources.” Mike spoke in Japanese to his father, businesslike, then leaned toward Hank. “What would you say to immediate clearing payments on your Jody Dawn and all other bills? Then, perhaps, some time later . . . who can say?”

  The girl laid down a tray of Scotch and shot glasses. The day continued with little time for pause. After a long luncheon and the usual toasts, Hank spent the afternoon with Tsurifune Company lawyers. They explained the terms of an agreement by which the company paid off the Jody Dawn and assumed co-ownership. Hank would amortize the debt with future earnings and regain full possession. The terms were more flexible than any with his Seattle bank. He refused, however, a further loan for his house and medical debts. Gone deep enough.

  No question but that the Tsurifunes had an agenda for him. But as everyone talked he began to see it as mutual interest. If Japanese controlled the world’s fish money and markets, why not be inside with them rather than nose-against-the-window looking in?

  He tried to call Jody to tell her about it. No answer. She was busy in town probably, the kids in school or at Adele’s, whatever. He’d tried. Admit it: was afraid she’d answer and break the spell. Let Japan continue a while longer and sort it out later.

  By the end of the day he craved sleep. Sleep first, then—this was Japan, other side of the world. But energetic Mike Tsurifune had planned another dinner wi
th waitresses as attentive as little Machiko the night before. His new girl brushed against him often. It left him warmly restless, anticipating. Wasn’t this his time and place? His earned vacation from the cares?

  Back at the hotel he lay back, still restless rather than sleepy, wishing he were not alone. Faintest stimulating perfume smell lingered. Phone her? The phone rang.

  “Cousin Herbert.”

  Sudden guilt. Should hang up. “Hey. I’ve had a pretty long day.”

  “Sounds like you’re up that male tree again.”

  “Huh?”

  “Men. They climb a tree and pull up the ladder.”

  A relief to laugh in spite of himself. “That what you think?” Her creamy voice, pert and funny. Soft skin, thigh to thigh. Just her voice started the itch. The itch grew. He could almost smell fresh perfume. Knew he was waiting for it.

  “Look. I’m so embarrassed. I left something there last night.”

  “Found it, yes.” There it lay in a closed drawer covered by a towel, where he’d tucked it that morning. He leaned over and opened the drawer. That’s what he smelled, not imagination. Better hang up. But he didn’t. “Pretty careless.”

  “Oh my, yes.”

  Think about it later. “Maybe you want to come claim it.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Waiting.” He lay back and stared at the ceiling. Once, twice, had to be the same. On vacation and sort it out later.

  16

  SKIPPER DREAMS

  TOKYO, MAY 1982

  He needed to hear Jody’s voice, and nobody responded all day and night. Her voice would keep him from slipping further. Adele answered the Henrys’ phone only after he’d spent hours trying. Didn’t fishermen’s wives ever stay home?

  “Jody’s father had a stroke, Hank. They weren’t close from what Jody says, but she felt she had to go. Now shut up, Daddy, wait your turn. I can’t believe I’m talking to Japan.”

  He felt a new surge of guilt. “Is Jody all right? Is she upset? Are the kids with her?”