“So the three victims died just because, together, their names constituted this message,” Mr. Barratt mused.
“Nobody said we were going up against choirboys,” Jimmy reminded his spy handler.
“I think you’re going to do all right,” Mr. Barratt said.
“Thanks,” Jimmy answered, though he knew this was just the beginning.
Mr. Barratt picked up a telephone in the corner of the room. “Get me a secure line with all the men who were in my office this past hour.” He paused, listening to the voice at the other end. “No, I don’t want you to call me back, I’ll hold,” he snapped. “I need that call now!”
Jimmy and the code breakers remained silent as Mr. Barratt waited to be put through.
After a moment, Mr. Barratt turned and whispered to Jimmy, his protégé, “I guess we can call off some of our dogs in Jap town.”
Jimmy nodded, though he didn’t know about any specific agents working for Barratt in Jap Town.
Still holding, the spy-handler turned and spoke loudly enough for the cryptologists from Cal Tech to hear too. “It’s funny, boys, but we thought for a while that a wretched old fortune-teller on Alameda, a real crone, whose place we searched and roughed up a bit, might be involved with the Orchid’s syndicate. A Jap instead of a Gypsy, but still . . . fortune-teller, what a coincidence!” He adjusted the receiver against his ear. “Then again, we’ve also been doing surveillance on a Jap Town dentist named Shinoda and some doctors’ offices too. So there goes the coincidence. I guess you just file it all under the category of ‘leaving no stone unturned.’ In any case, Jimmy’s breakthrough here today changes everything!” Suddenly, he returned his attention to the phone. After a moment of listening, he shouted into the receiver: “I don’t care if the senator is in transit! Tell them to pull the darned train over, if necessary!”
Excerpt from a letter dated November 22, 1942:
. . . lovely, but I think you can do better, even if the fortune-teller in Little Tokyo is real. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate and value the details of the actual downtown LA that you pepper throughout your book. Further, that you’ve personally visited this old soothsayer lends verisimilitude to the scene; however, it comes as no great surprise to the reader if the Orchid’s nefarious organization proves to be headquartered in Little Tokyo. For that reason, I suggest you choose another location for the evil soothsayer—something unexpected and rich with dramatic possibility. Perhaps an amusement park. (We have Coney Island here in New York; what is the Los Angeles equivalent?) And perhaps the fortune-teller should be a Gypsy rather than Japanese, adding a layer between your hero and the Orchid herself. Of course, I understand that this will require your going back to revise the “clues” contained in the three murders. But the name “Fortuna” still works. So you really only have to figure out two new names that serve as clues.
Look, this soothsayer business ultimately leads to the climactic confrontation, and so why not set it in a more chaotic place? Crowds, roller coaster, calliope, house of mirrors . . . Indulge. Just give us excitement! And the unexpected! These are the hallmarks of a good thriller. As for your portrayal of the actual Japanese soothsayer in Little Tokyo . . . it’s quite evocative, but I suggest you save it for your memoirs of life in LA before the war or some such thing.
I love the little, real touches, but don’t ever let reality limit you!
Warmest,
Maxine Wakefield
Maxine Wakefield,
Associate Editor,
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc.
P.S. I’ve enclosed with this letter my blue-penciled revisions to your proposed “bio” of the pseudonymous William Thorne. You’ll see that I’ve made some changes and additions, as I think we were a bit cautious or conservative in some of our original concepts. This is, after all, for distribution by the publicity department. So why not allow your reader to be nearly as fascinated by the author Thorne as he/she is by your fictional characters? Aren’t we justified in bending a few publishing rules in light of the unusual and unfair commercial problems that your real name poses these days? So I’ve retained your idea that due to his sensitive police/government work Thorne is not the author’s real name (you’re right that we don’t want anybody thinking they can look him up for a magazine profile etc.) But rather than describing him as a mere veteran of the Great War I’ve made him a Congressional Medal of Honor winner. Why not? If a journalist should attempt to contact actual honorees to determine the “real” identity of the author, the reporter will, naturally, be met only by denials. And yet isn’t that exactly what the “real” William Thorne would do? Deny. Isn’t this fun, Takumi! Also, rather than being a mere LAPD detective, I’ve made Thorne a Fed with a distinguished history of bringing to justice Yakuza gangsters who, for decades, have attempted to infiltrate and corrupt American cities by distributing heroin and other illicit substances to our youth. Now a “consultant” with the LAPD, Thorne has written the novel not strictly for literary purposes but to warn the American public about the real threat of Fifth Column activities in our own communities. Oh, and I made him a father of four, married to his high school sweetheart for almost two decades. If you think that’s putting it on a little thick, let me know. We don’t want to get called out for our little publishing misdemeanor.
THE REVISED—CHAPTER SIX
Write the characters in dust . . .
—Sir Walter Scott
Sumida watched Czernicek approach the square from the direction of the diner, a toothpick angled in his mouth. The big detective walked like he owned the city, even though he seemed to be as mysteriously cut off from its inhabitants as Sumida. Drawing near, he tossed his toothpick into some bushes. He didn’t sit on the bench but loomed over Sumida. His voice was full of derision. “So now I suggest you get your ass off this bench and go back to the periodicals room to catch up on the events of the last couple months. It’s information. Maybe you’ll find something in it. That’s what detectives do, Sumida. Real detectives. Actually, I’d have thought the same was true of college instructors, like you, but who knows how your type operates? What kind of teacher were you anyway? I’ve forgotten.”
“Oriental art history,” Sumida answered.
“Figures . . . that’s a limp dick subject.”
“So what’s your list of virile subjects, Mr. Academia?”
Czernicek shrugged. “Law. Medicine. Engineering. But you’d be no good at any of those things.”
For a time in his late teens, Sumida had studied engineering. But he wasn’t going to defend himself, wasn’t going to engage Czernicek in his asinine assertions.
“Oh, you people are good at some things,” Czernicek continued, burying his hands in his coat pocket. “I’ll give you that. Good gardeners, for example. And I’ve seen plenty of small-time fishermen down in San Pedro who seemed to know what they were doing. Even a little modest farming in Paramount and down in Orange County. Oh, and cut-rate dentistry over in Jap town. Damn near pain-free. I gave up Caucasian dentists long ago. I think it’s your people’s squinty eyes and little hands. And your older women make good crafts, like the ladies that turn sheets of paper into swans or grasshoppers. And your younger women . . . well, do you want me to elaborate on their most outstanding attributes?”
“That’s enough, Czernicek,” Sumida answered.
Czernicek laughed. “I’m just trying to be honest and companionable.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah. Anyway, meet me tonight at my hotel,” Czernicek said, turning away.
Sumida watched him stride across the plaza, eventually disappearing into a crowd.
Only then did Sumida gather himself up.
He wasn’t going back to the periodicals room. He already knew that the catastrophe at Pearl Harbor had changed the world for millions (including every Nisei, like himself, trying to peaceably make his or her way in this city and, doubtless, in every city on the West Coast). And he already knew that there had been
no report of Kyoko’s murder in the edition of the LA Times where, the previous year, there had been a two-column story with a picture.
He had another plan.
Sumida knew of a woman in Little Tokyo who practiced traditional forms of fortune-telling. Being an academic, he’d never put much faith in such practices. And he surely knew better than to mention such a thing to Czernicek. But the last hours had demonstrated that perhaps Shakespeare had gotten it right when he wrote that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in your philosophy. If a skilled old woman could discern the future by reading the cracks on a heated tortoise shell (kiboku), or interpreting the cries of passing birds (toriura), or the words of passersby (tsujiura), or by the tossing and reading of a large number of bamboo sticks called zeichiku, then might she also be able to discern some explanation for Sam’s predicament? Anything at all would put him ahead of where he stood now, which was nowhere.
The ten bucks ought to do the trick.
The challenge, however, would be returning to that neighborhood. Since Kyoko’s death, he had set foot there only when his investigation had required it. For example, he’d interviewed her former employer, Dr. Shinoda, and talked with all of her working acquaintances—none of whom had even been contacted in the LAPD’s initial, farcical investigation. But it had come to nothing. And each time Sumida had entered the sixteen square blocks that constituted Little Tokyo, he suffered the weight of Kyoko’s loss all over again. It was not only her place of work, it had been their place for fun. Early in their marriage, they’d dined at her favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant near Temple and Alameda and window-shopped and drank sake and joked in a playful mix of English and Japanese with other Nisei. So now no place was more painful for him. Her presence remained everywhere he looked in the neighborhood.
He knew he would still feel her there.
Yet he suspected that when he spoke her name in Shinoda’s dental office he’d be met only with empty expressions. As if she’d never been. Still, he had to try. And if his questions came to nothing, then he’d continue on to the fortune-teller, who might tell him what he was (a figment of his own imagination?), or why he was here, or, at least, how he was supposed to find a way to keep going.
Excerpt from chapter nine of The Orchid and the Secret Agent, a novel by William Thorne
Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945
. . . At a quarter to five, Jimmy Park and his good friend Joe Lucas settled into an isolated booth at the far end of the Parkside Diner, across the street from Pershing Square. Since the outbreak of war, the square had ceased to be lit in the evenings, and so now, as dusk approached outside the big picture window, the square appeared as a large garden of shadows. Soon, the diner would draw its blackout curtains, eliminating the view of the square altogether.
“Get the chicken pot pie,” Jimmy suggested.
“It’s a little early for dinner, don’t you think, Jimmy?”
Jimmy shrugged an apology. “I wanted to see you, Joe. And the rest of my night is pretty booked up.”
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Cole Porter. Thanks for fitting me into your busy social schedule.”
Jimmy sighed. “There’ll be no social engagements for me tonight.”
Joe looked at his friend. After a moment, he acquiesced, making a show of picking up his menu. “You disappear for the whole day,” he said, scanning the daily special on the handwritten index card paper-clipped to the top of the menu. “You leave me to clean up that bloody mess at your place, which, incidentally, has been put down both in the papers and in the DA’s office as an accidental death, and now you want to tell me what to eat?”
“Sorry,” Jimmy answered.
“Sorry for what, the mess you left me with or your dinner recommendation?” Joe pressed.
“I make no apologies for the chicken pot pie,” Jimmy said, smiling sheepishly.
But Joe was in no laughing mood. “And when I say ‘cleaning up,’ I don’t just mean the blood, you understand?” He took a sip from his water glass, his hand shaking just perceptibly.
“I appreciate your getting that wall painted so quick and carting off that sofa,” Jimmy said. “That’s going above and beyond the call of duty, buddy.”
Joe shook his head. “I didn’t pick up any paint brush. My nephew Tommy painted over the Jap scribbles, after the police photographers were done with it.” He stopped and swallowed hard.
Jimmy waited, letting his friend say what he needed to say.
“Oh don’t worry, I did my part,” Joe continued, shaking his head in disgust. “Look, I played it exactly like your FBI guys asked me. You don’t have to worry about that. I understand things are real complicated these days. The department understands that too. But hell, I’m your friend. It’s time you told me what was going on here. And who took my .38 Special?”
Jimmy shrugged. “You know there are some things I’m not at liberty to say.”
Joe nodded. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give his friend a hard time. “Well, don’t think that paint job was a gift. You’ll be getting a bill from my nephew any day now.”
“Good.”
“And he don’t work cheap.”
“I would hope not,” Jimmy said.
“And I didn’t cart off the goddamn blood-soaked sofa,” Joe continued. “The Feds took it this morning.”
“That makes sense,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, well . . . at least something makes sense.”
Jimmy said nothing.
Joe looked down at the table. “The worst part of it was my being asked to lie to that poor woman across the street about her husband having ‘fallen down and hit his head.’”
“Funny thing is . . .” Jimmy started. “The coroner said he did have a lump on the back of his head, suggesting he’d been knocked unconscious, but was still alive, when they slit his throat.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Jimmy looked away, sympathetically. He lowered his voice, though no one was seated near them. “There are some things that can’t be allowed to get out to the public. Like what became of poor Tony Fortuna. The carnage. And the Jap writing in blood on the wall. You know as well as I do it’d panic people to know how truly evil our enemies are. And, worse, how nearby.”
“What did the Jap writing say?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“But you told the widow the truth? She’s in on it?”
“No. That would have only endangered her.” Jimmy stopped.
Joe sighed. “Okay, national security. . . . But does that mean that Fortuna’s widow isn’t going to get to see her husband’s body?”
“That slash across his throat would blow the ‘accident’ angle, right?”
“Yeah,” Joe said, distractedly rubbing the side of his face with one hand. “But it don’t seem right.”
“I agree, Joe. It’s not right. But it’s necessary.”
“So what’ll our people do?” Joe pressed. “About the funeral?”
Jimmy tapped his fingers on the Formica tabletop. After a moment, he answered flatly, “There’s going to be a ‘mix-up’ at the mortuary. Sadly, her husband’s body ‘inadvertently’ will be cremated.”
Joe’s jaw dropped. “Like some kind of Hindu?”
Jimmy looked away.
“Poor woman,” Joe said.
“I agree,” Jimmy answered. He turned and looked out the window, but now he saw more of his own reflection than the shadowy square. Nonetheless, he didn’t turn back to Joe. “These weren’t my decisions. They were made at the highest levels. And the stakes . . . well, they’re even higher.” He looked at Joe. “You trust me?”
After a moment, in answer, Joe tapped his fist twice on the tabletop and nodded.
“Good,” Jimmy said.
“So why’d you pick this place for us to meet?” Joe asked.
“It’s a clean, well-lighted place.”
Joe recognized the phrase. “That’s
a Hemingway story,” he observed.
Jimmy nodded.
“A story about death,” Joe added.
Jimmy didn’t want to talk about that. “I just wanted a public place,” he said.
“Why?”
“Safe.”
“From who?”
Jimmy decided to give his friend more than he’d originally intended. “That’s what my job is now. To find out.”
“What have you got yourself involved with?” Joe asked, his deep concern manifesting as lines on his forehead.
Jimmy chuckled as if it were nothing.
Joe looked Jimmy in the eye. “Wait a minute . . .” The wheels of his mind were turning. “It’s not the FBI you’re working for. And it’s not Army or Navy Intelligence either. It’s some other kind of organization that calls the shots for all the others. Some government group that I don’t even know the name of.”
Jimmy wasn’t going to lie to his friend. “The group doesn’t really even have any name, yet.”
Joe sat back in the Naugahyde booth. “Yeah, that’s how you get away with covering up murder,” Joe said, a note of bitterness slipping into his voice.
Jimmy understood. Joe Lucas was a good cop. He only wanted the best. “Look Joe, we’re going to get the killers. That’s the whole idea.”
Just then, the waitress, a good-looking kid in a mustard-stained uniform, arrived at their booth. She looked at Jimmy. “Sorry, but we don’t serve Japs anymore.”
Jimmy started to give his usual answer, but Joe stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“Look, I’m LAPD and this man’s name is Jimmy Park.” Joe spoke with the brusque manner of a motorcycle cop giving a speeding ticket. “And he’s of Korean ancestry.”
She looked doubtful. “What’s with cops bringing Orientals into my station today?”
They didn’t follow.
Joe removed his badge from his suit jacket pocket and showed it to her. “You can trust me.”
“Oh, well, that’s OK then.” She removed her order pad from a large, hip pocket on her uniform and a pencil from within her nest of blonde hair. “What can I get for you and your Korean friend, Officer?”
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