Woman with a Blue Pencil

by Gordon McAlpine

  “Chicken pot pies for the both of us,” Joe said, folding his menu and handing it up to the girl.

  The girl turned and started away.

  When she was out of earshot, Joe turned to Jimmy. “So, can I help this no-name organization?”

  Jimmy looked at Joe. “There may come a time that we need a friend on the inside of the LAPD, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”

  “Oh, I see. You wanted to talk baseball,” Joe snapped, sarcastically.

  Jimmy reached inside his suit coat pocket and removed a sheaf of five handwritten pages, folded vertically. He dropped it on the tabletop between them.

  Joe picked it up. “What is it?”

  “My last will and testament,” Jimmy answered.

  Joe said nothing.

  “You’re in it,” Jimmy said, brightly.

  Joe didn’t smile back. “Why do you need to give this to me now?”

  Jimmy didn’t hesitate. “You know why, Joe.”

  “Does Sun know about this?”

  Jimmy shook his head. He knew his girlfriend would take it hard. “She’d just worry.”

  Joe nodded. He picked up the folded sheets and slipped them into his own jacket pocket.

  For a moment the men were silent.

  “This chicken pot pie better be as good as you say,” Joe said at last, slapping his hand down on the table.

  Jimmy shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never had it!”

  Excerpt from a letter dated December 19, 1942:

  . . . more balls to keep up in the air than any juggler would dare attempt. But that’s the nature of the novelist’s task. With that in mind, it occurs to me that, while your original, discarded submission (Sumida, Czernicek, etc.) had plenty of sexual motivations, including the murder, this revision has very little. Of course, the nature of the new book, being a novel of espionage, somewhat excuses this, exchanging international stakes for personal ones; also, we’re going to meet the Orchid soon enough and she will bring tremendous femme fatale power. But in your latest submission to me, with Jimmy and Joe in the diner, I found myself both delighted by the complexity and warmth of the men’s friendship and also a little worried. I’m sure you’d agree that the last thing we want is for readers to suspect that there is any queer aspect to the Jimmy/Joe relationship. Yet in your manuscript there have been, as yet, no mentions of women by either man. As we’ve been crackling along at an excellent action pace, I understand that there’s been little attention paid to Jimmy’s personal life at all. However, I’m wondering if you can include some sort of brief reference to Jimmy’s having a girlfriend in this scene to assuage any suspicions your readers may develop regarding this otherwise quite moving moment of male bonding. (Please understand that here in New York I have more than one discreet homosexual friend and that I hold a live-and-let-live attitude in my personal life, but remember you are writing for a general and very broad readership.) Besides, I’m sure the idea of Jimmy and Joe’s closeness as being anything but good, old-fashioned friendship has never even occurred to you. That’s what you need a jaded New York editor for, right? So, even a slight reference in this scene to a girlfriend will do in your revision. And perhaps a reference in an earlier chapter (back at Jimmy’s house?) about Jimmy’s girlfriend and maybe Joe having a wife, too.

  Sincerely,

  Maxine Wakefield

  Maxine Wakefield,

  Associate Editor,

  Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc.

  THE REVISED—CHAPTER SIX cont'd.

  By the time Sumida had trekked across downtown, avoiding any groups of men he saw coming along the sidewalk in his direction, the last rays of the winter sun cast shadows about the Little Tokyo streets, which were uncharacteristically empty of pedestrian traffic. Many of the shops that ordinarily stayed open late were already closed. Almost all displayed in their plate glass windows either American flags or signs that read “WE ARE AMERICANS.” A few windows had been boarded up, shards of their shattered glass swept from the sidewalk into the gutter, and a five-and-ten-cent store in the middle of a block of brick storefronts had been burned out. The cigar stands and little candy shops were gone. Things had changed. Still, Sumida felt the old ache in the pit of his stomach when he ventured onto these streets, where he’d shared happy hours with Kyoko. Of course, he knew that global events—war—dwarfed his loss. But that knowledge didn’t diminish the ache he felt for his wife. It only added a sense of selfish shame to it.

  Dr. Shinoda’s dental office waiting room was empty when Sumida walked in. On the walls hung three framed WPA posters of National Parks. Sumida, art historian, considered the posters a cut above the ordinary treacly waiting room fare. And very American too, which was doubtless a benefit in these fragile times. The big coffee table, centered between a worn sofa and a pair of velveteen end chairs, held issues of the Saturday Evening Post, Time, Life, Look, National Geographic, and a handful of Japanese-language magazines, some dating as far back as the mid-thirties. Atop the magazines were scattered refolded sections of that morning’s LA Times.

  The newspaper stopped him.

  He was struck by what his uncle would describe as seiten no heki-reki, an idea as abrupt as a thunderclap out of the sky.

  Earlier in the periodicals room of the library . . .

  When he’d asked for the LA Times edition that he presumed (mistakenly) would contain the article about his wife’s murder . . .

  It had been checked out earlier that day . . . by Czernicek.

  Why?

  Sumida swallowed hard. The date had to mean something to Czernicek, just as it did to Sumida. Could the cop have been looking for some other article in that particular edition? Very unlikely. Might his have been a lingering professional interest in Kyoko’s case? No. During the investigation, Czernicek had worn his disinterest like a medal of honor. Indeed, he’d been more an active impediment than a merely disinterested party.

  So might he have had a personal interest in Kyoko’s murder that Sumida had never considered?

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Sumida turned, startled out of his reverie, and refocused his attention on an unfamiliar, middle-aged woman who sat at the receptionist’s desk behind the open, sliding-glass window, where Kyoko used to sit.

  “I’m afraid we’re booked for today,” she continued. “But I can make an appointment for you later in the week.”

  “Is this still Dr. Shinoda’s office?”

  She nodded. “God willing, we’ll get to stay.”

  “In business?”

  “In our homes,” she answered, as if it should be obvious.

  Sumida had overheard talk coming from the counter of the Parkview Diner that the government was considering relocating all West Coast Japanese Americans to detention camps, a prospect unthinkable as recently as this past December sixth. (Or was it just last night?)

  “Do you know a woman named Kyoko Sumida?” he asked.

  The receptionist considered. “That name’s not familiar to me.”

  “She used to hold your same job for Dr. Shinoda,” Sumida continued. “Then she was promoted to office manager.”

  The woman shook her head. “That’s not possible. I’ve been with Dr. Shinoda since he opened his practice. And I’m the office manager.”

  Sumida understood the futility of arguing these points. “I see.”

  “So, do you need an appointment?” she asked.

  “No.” He turned to go and then stopped. Hadn’t Czernicek said something about being a patient of a Japanese dentist? Yes, this was what detectives did. “On second thought, I would like an appointment,” he said, turning back to the receptionist. “Just a checkup and teeth cleaning.”

  She flipped open a large appointment book. “We have ten a.m. available next Monday,” she said.

  “That’ll do just fine.”

  “Your name?”

  “Henry Czernicek,” he said.

  She looked up at him, confused. “Wha
t?”

  “Just write it on an appointment card, please.” He patted the counter casually. “My name and the date and time of my appointment.”

  She still looked confused. “But . . .”

  Sumida explained away the name. “My father was a white man,” he lied.

  “That’s not what’s confusing me,” she said. “It’s . . . how do you spell that last name?”

  “Oh, right,” Sumida said. He did his best with the spelling.

  She gave him a card.

  He slipped it into his suit jacket.

  Excerpt from chapter ten of The Orchid and the Secret Agent, a novel by William Thorne

  Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc., New York, N.Y., 1945

  . . . A group of frat boys posing a serious threat to Jimmy’s safety as he cut through the alley behind the Parkside Diner on his way back to the parking lot? This was the last thing Jimmy thought he’d have to worry about just now, particularly in light of the more obvious threat posed by the murderous Japanese spy ring, which he was just hours from attempting to infiltrate. He hadn’t time for this nonsense. And the USA could not afford his being delayed by stupidity. But there they were . . . six college men in lettermen’s jackets, at least four of them big enough to be football linemen, all of them red-faced and belligerent from too much alcohol, three of them armed with tire irons, the other three brandishing hammers.

  “Damned Jap,” the burliest muttered, balling his free hand into a fist. “What makes you think you can just walk around after dark?”

  The others laughed.

  “I’m not a Jap,” Jimmy said. “My name’s Park. Korean. Now let me pass.”

  “Ha!” the talkative frat boy belched. “That’s what they all say!”

  Jimmy was confident he could take the frat boys, even with their tire irons and hammers. But six was a lot. Sure, he’d ultimately leave them scattered and unconscious in the alley, but not before suffering damage himself. . . . Maybe broken ribs, nose, teeth, jaw, or even a broken hand from fending off their weapons. The best he could hope for would be bruises and lumps. While a little ice and a few shots of rye would make such injuries better, he still didn’t want to show up black-eyed in Long Beach to see the Gypsy fortune-teller, looking like he’d been coerced by the Feds into taking the Jap spy ring’s blood-soaked bait. No, he needed to look his best tonight. He needed the spy ring to want him on their side. And who’d want to recruit a human punching bag?

  Unfortunately, Joe had cut across Pershing Square after they’d parted at the diner and so Jimmy couldn’t call for his buddy’s help. Nonetheless, he glanced back in the direction from which he’d come. In the dusk, a small crowd of curious pedestrians had gathered at the end of the alley, effectively blocking it. He turned. A small crowd was gathering at the other end too.

  Jimmy called to them. “Hey, somebody want to talk some sense to these young men?”

  None of the spectators moved.

  What they seemed to want was to see a beating.

  “Look, I have ID,” Jimmy said, turning back to the boys.

  The frat boys moved forward.

  “We don’t trust your kind, whatever false documents you may have,” said one.

  If Jimmy were to take out his .45 and fire off a few warning shots—the obvious answer—he’d scatter the cowardly collegians but he’d also create a panic among the spectators, likely resulting in police involvement, delay, and possibly even newspaper or radio coverage, which might discourage the Jap spy ring from their recruitment of him even more than a few broken bones and a black eye. So he decided to just take out all six collegians with his hands and feet. Sure, there might be a few lumps to endure—but what else could he do?

  He moved forward, reminding himself that these collegians were little more than drunken fools. They’d earned a beating . . . but no more than that. He’d use his Taekwondo skills to break no bones, with the exception of a few noses or jaws. These were Americans of military age, and soon they’d be serving the United States in the war. Naturally, a small part of Jimmy would have relished using his hands and feet to silence their unwarranted aggression by putting them all in the intensive care unit. He was only human. But he’d go easy on the boys, leaving them merely bruised and concussed outpatients who could be stitched up in the emergency room.

  “Look, he’s coming toward us!” one of the collegians said, disbelieving.

  “That’s right, boys,” Jimmy said, calmly.

  He took care of business, wading through the bruisers with flashing hands and footwork, using their own hammers and tire irons against them, leaving them scattered and bloodied and unconscious. They hardly laid a hand on him.

  The spectators at either end of the alley were stunned; after a moment, a few of the beefier men began to cautiously move forward. This could get even uglier, Jimmy thought. Meanwhile, other spectators scattered, likely to alert the police.

  Jimmy needed to get gone.

  Hemmed in now on both sides of the alley, he jumped lithely onto a garbage can and reached up to a window casing, pulling himself up to a brick outcropping. From there, he leapfrogged to the next outcropping and the next and the next, until he had scaled the sheer side of the building and hopped over the ledge onto the roof.

  He looked down at the alley.

  The spectators gazed up at him with their mouths agape, as if he were some kind of comic book character.

  But he knew the truth about himself. He was just a United States government operative who was pretty darn good at his job.

  He waved down to the startled spectators and started across the rooftop, leaping an alley to another building and then another and another, and in this way he made his escape.

  Excerpt from a letter dated January 30, 1943:

  . . . very effective to demonstrate that Jimmy is not only an enthusiastic agent for America but also an extraordinarily capable one. However, my trusty blue pencil has cut some of the most offensive dialogue that you gave to the drunken college boys. Don’t misunderstand: I support your wanting to depict the broad racism currently in America’s streets. That’s admirable. But describing the college boys’ verbal antipathy toward Mexicans and Negroes, in addition to “Japs,” goes too far for our purposes. I know from the note you included with the chapter that you feel adamant about changing little or nothing in this scene. But, quite honestly, even after my cleaning it up (which you’ll see on the extensively marked typescript, included with this letter), it still strains the limits of the genre and the war department’s sensibilities. Besides, most of our readers are white men who may have gotten stupidly drunk once or twice and said things that they may later have regretted. Who do you want to alienate? In this light, I’ve indicated places where you can show just how broad-minded Jimmy is by his considering the eventual usefulness of these youths to the coming war effort for the USA.

  Look, I believe we get away with the scene at all because, as ugly as the white boys’ racism and threats of violence are, the flip side of the circumstance is that those same ugly elements serve as secondary justification for the internment of Japanese Americans (which, sadly, you are only too familiar with); that is, Japanese Americans have been relocated to camps, in part, for their own safety. In that light, how then can the censors at the war office object to what you’ve written when the specific depiction of racism toward Japanese serves to justify as humanitarian the government’s recent actions all up and down the West Coast? You understand that I do not favor the internment, but I am merely speaking as your partner in making every scene in your book viable within the restrictions of the genre and our complex times. Do you see that I take all your ambitions seriously? Do you know that I consider your book more than a mere spy thriller? Don’t you appreciate that I share your mixed feelings about a story that derives drama from the internal threat of Japanese infiltration in our West Coast cities, even as you, a talented and law-abiding Nisei, are interned? What a brave man you are!

  I know your novel as it exi
sts today isn’t what you originally planned. But isn’t it quite good anyway? Besides, circumstances change. We’ve all been affected by the war. On a personal note, my husband was reported missing-in-action last week on Guadalcanal. I believe in my heart he will turn up any day, perhaps wounded but generally sound. I have to believe it; otherwise I’d lose my mind. I ought not to have told you this. . . . It is really quite unprofessional. But I feel we are growing close in this creative process, you in Manzanar, me in Manhattan. I do hope that, despite what you described in your note as your “unyielding commitment to the dialogue as it is,” you can see fit to allow my cuts for all the reasons I’ve outlined above. Otherwise, I see no sense continuing with this project, as neither our readership nor the war department will endorse a scene that makes generalized racists of the very young men who, for all their faults, will soon be on foreign shores in the uniform of the United States.

  Please let me know if you can live with my revisions.

  Your humble and hopeful friend,

  Maxine Wakefield

  Maxine Wakefield,

  Associate Editor,

  Metropolitan Modern Mysteries, Inc.

  THE REVISED—CHAPTER SIX cont'd.

  Exiting Dr. Shinoda’s office, Sumida found that the handful of stores and restaurants that remained open in Little Tokyo were nonetheless as dark behind their newly mandated black-out curtains as the shuttered businesses. Sumida knew that the small storefront of the fortune-teller never closed, as she lived in an apartment upstairs and did not keep regular hours. Kyoko had visited her at least a dozen times, claiming that the fortune-teller served more as a kind of psychological counselor than as a clairvoyant. But Sam knew his wife took much of what the old woman said as irrefutable, supernaturally acquired truth. He had accompanied Kyoko on a few of her trips here but always made a point of waiting outside, allowing no crack in the armor of his rationality. Now, with rational explanations elusive, he wondered if Kyoko might have had it right all along. (Though of what use was a soothsayer if she failed to warn a woman of impending murder?)