The Spycatcher Caper

by Robert Muccigrosso

  The block before the diner featured a smoke shop that sold newspapers, all of them in Chinese. The proprietor professed not to know where DeWitt could find English-language ones, but the look on his face, like that on the laundry man's, bespoke an aversion to outsiders, as did his mutterings as DeWitt left.

  The sign on the diner, in contrast, promised a friendlier welcome: “Chinese-American Food. All Welcome.” The morning rush hour—if indeed there had been a rush hour—had peaked, leaving behind a few stray patrons, a man behind the counter, a cook, and a cashier sitting on a high stool next to the door. The lone waitress tottered to his table as though her feet had been bound, tradition-style in old China, as a child. She flung down a menu. “Likee bleakfast special?” she asked. “It good and plenty, just like the candy.” She smiled, exposing an occasional tooth.

  DeWitt, unable to decide if he wanted Chinese or American food, ordered both. “Gimme some of your mooshu pork with a side order of bacon and sausages. Yeah, and I'll have a root beer to wash it down with.”

  The waitress nodded and moved unsteadily away, saying something that sounded like “Clazy Amelican.”

  While waiting for his breakfast to arrive, DeWitt walked up to the cashier in hope that the latter could suggest where an English-language newspaper might be found.

  “You bet I know where you can find a newspaper you can read. Right here.” The cashier reached down and pulled up the morning edition of the Los Angeles Times. You want to read about the war, yes? We're going to kick the you know what out of those Japanese bastards or my name isn't Sammy Burpp.”

  DeWitt stared at the cashier. He doesn't look like a Sammy Burpp, he thought, but he doesn't look like an egg foo yung, either.

  “Yeah, we're going to win this war, all right. By the way, if you don't mind my asking, are you yellow or white?”

  The smile faded from Sammy Burpp's face. “I'm both. My mother was Cantonese and my father was a round eye like you. He was a merchant sailor who met my mother after he was shanghaied in San Francisco and taken to Shanghai. A couple of years later they came to Los Angeles and here I am,” he laughed. “But what are you doing here? I saw you last evening. I know my food is good, but why are you here again so soon, if I may ask?”

  DeWitt had to think on his feet, although he would have preferred thinking while comfortably seated. He didn't want to blow his cover, so he knew that he'd better come up with a believable story.”

  “My name is Dick DeWitt. I'm a rice salesman, and I know how

  you Chinamen and half-Chinamen love your rice. So here I am in

  Chinatown.”

  Burpp's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, and where does this rice come from?”

  DeWitt thought fast. “Well, most of it comes from Indiana.”

  Burpp's eyebrows shot up skyrocketed.

  “But not all of it. Some comes from New Jersey. Weehawken, I think.”

  The cashier stroked his chin. “Tell me, Mr. DeWitt, do you have time while you're here to sightsee? Chinatown has many delights, if you know what I mean, and…” He brought his face nearer. “Now that they've begun putting those accursed Japs into camps, Little Tokyo is not to be missed, especially by a sensitive man such as yourself. You are a sensitive man, are you not?”

  “You bet I am. When I shave I nick myself and get a rash. That runs in the family. My great uncle Clinton DeWitt used to say that shaving was the work of the Devil. I guess that's why he refused to shave until the vermin in his beard began to itch too much.”

  “I see your point, Mr. DeWitt. Tell me, I know someone, a frequent visitor to my humble diner, who would enjoy giving you a first-class tour of Chinatown and Little Tokyo, which is. Would you be interested in availing yourself of her services? She's also very beautiful and speaks English perfectly”

  Manna from heaven. DeWitt couldn't believe his good fortune. Now he could get the lay of the land and… no, he mustn't get too distracted. Uncle Sam was counting on him to help win the war.

  He thanked the owner, who told him to return the next morning around 8:00 or 8:30 and his guide would be waiting. And enjoy today's breakfast, he added.

  DeWitt did enjoy his repast, although he failed to take note of the grease that fell from the plate and stained his only clean pair of trousers. He nearly tipped the waitress but settled for paying the cashier and giving a hearty burp to Mr. Burpp. “See you tomorrow,” he promised.

  DeWitt could have begun exploring Little Tokyo on his own, but frankly he had no idea of what a Japanese spy, saboteur, or fifth columnist might look like, save that his skin was either light, medium, or dark yellow. Even so, he asked himself, how was he to distinguish a Chink from a Nip? They all look alike, don't they? No, he'd better wait for the next day and the knowledgeable assistance of the dame Burpp had recommended.

  Self-satisfied, he spent the late morning in a nostalgic haze, exploring some of the sites he well remembered from several years ago when he had worked on the case of the Hollywood Starlet: the apartment he shared with Marty “Mumbles” Hardy on Bunker Hill; the spacious Brookdale Cafeteria, the world's largest; and the Pink Pussycat Lounge, where he first met the luscious starlet Scarlett. But he hadn't forgotten that Hollywood had nearly killed him. Now he only had to worry that anyone with yellow skin might finish the job. As the exasperated Oliver Hardy said to his friend, Stanley Laurel, “And here's another fine mess.”

  Chapter 6

  Lack of sleep the previous night and the long walking tour of old haunts afforded DeWitt peaceful hours of slumber. Knowing that he had a rendezvous at Burpp's diner somewhere between 8:00 and 8:30, he left a note on the kitchen table for Lotus Blossom to knock on his bedroom door at 7:00, which she failed to do. Fortunately, the blood-curdling screams of Lotus and Feng Shui, and two other Chinese women, did the trick at 8:15. He threw on his clothes (the ones he had worn both yesterday and the day before, having forgotten to pick up the clean ones at the laundry) and thundered down the steps.

  “Why you up so early, soldier boy?”

  “What do you mean early? I left you a note to wake me at 7:00.”

  Lotus Blossom rolled the dice before looking up.

  “No. You write “9:00,” not 7:00. They no teach you how to write in school?”

  DeWitt's instinct was to propel the Mah Jongg tiles onto the floor, pick up the board, and bash in Lotus Blossom's head. But the need to rush to the diner prevailed.

  Dodging traffic and giving the bird to the owner of the smoke shop, he made it to the diner a little before 9:00. His basic training in New Jersey notwithstanding, he was out of breath. He had not raced this quickly since an angry husband had chased him with a blowtorch.

  “I thought you had changed your mind,” said a concerned-looking Sammy Burpp.

  “No, my worthless landlady didn't rouse me.”

  “Sit down and have some breakfast. Your guide stepped out for a few minutes but promised she would soon return. She told me that you should wait for her and that she would make it worth your while.”

  DeWitt wasn't so sure that she would, but he knew he had to garner information for Colonel Worthy, and the sole piece of solid information he could now report was that Chinatown had a lot of Chinese. With only that, he feared he might be sent to a hotspot in the Pacific, where the most important bit of information was that a helluva lot of Nips wanted to kill a helluva lot of Americans.

  The diner, like the previous day, was mostly empty. DeWitt sat at the same table as then and waited for the same waitress to make her painful way to him.

  “You like same as yesterday?”

  “No, I think I'll have something simple. How about some corn flakes, a side order of sardines, a glass of grapefruit juice, and a cup of java?”

  “Solly, we no have java. Maybe you like coffee?”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “Solly, but we have only tea this morning. Good tea.”

  “Skip it.”

  “I no can skip. I have bad feet.”

  DeWitt
was undecided as to whether he should step on the waitress' foot or swat her on the head with her stack of menus. But just then the door opened for a newcomer, whom Burpp greeted with gusto.

  “Here she is, Mr. DeWitt. I want you to meet your guide, Miss Rosie O'Grady.”

  DeWitt did a double take. The guide, who looked in her late twenties or early thirties, was slim and of medium height, with jet black straight hair that hung half way down her back. She was wearing a tight-fitting classy dress, its slit running well above her knees. The soldier boy concluded that she would have been a knockout if it weren't for her nose, which was too large for the rest of her face and sported a bump in the middle.

  Then, too, her name belied her Asian features. “Are you 'Sweet Rosie O'Grady' or just sweet, or just Rosie O'Grady?” DeWitt asked, much pleased with himself for the witticism.

  The woman darted a puzzled look at the diner's owner, who told her that “Sweet Rosie O'Grady” was an old-time song.

  “Rosie, why don't you sit down with Mr. DeWitt and get acquainted before you set out on your sightseeing. Besides, he hasn't had his breakfast yet, and I'm sure he'll need it.”

  Rosie sashayed over to where DeWitt was sitting and announced that she was all his for the day.

  “How about the night, too?”

  The look on Rosie's face showed displeasure. “Is that a joke, Mr. DeWitt? I'm not that kind of woman,” she retorted.

  Dick usually didn't understand when he gave offense—which was much of the time—but he did on this occasion and apologized as best he could. “It was only a joke, sweetie. Everyone knows I'm a real gent.”

  “I forgive you.” She smiled. Sort of. “Here comes Ping Pong with your breakfast. Enjoy it, and then we'll get started.”

  After plopping down DeWitt's breakfast, the waitress turned to Rosie: “Missy like cup of coffee?”

  DeWitt began to choke on the spoonful of cereal and sardines he had shoved into his mouth. “Hey Ping Pong, or Bing Bang, or Ding Dong, or whatever your name is, you told me that you didn't have any coffee.”

  “We have no coffee then but I bring you some now. Okay?”

  While devouring his meal, the gumshoe and his guide got better acquainted.

  “Mr. Burpp told me that you are a rice salesman, Mr. DeWitt—or “Dick,” as you say you prefer. How fascinating! How did you get into that line of work?”

  “To tell the truth, Rosie,” Dick said as he wiped a helping of corn flakes and sardines that had fallen onto his trousers, I love rice so much that I wanted to bring it into the lives and stomachs of my fellow humans. I've always been the kind, generous sort, so I followed my calling.”

  “That's wonderful, Dick. Your mother must have been so proud when you did.”

  “To be honest, Rosie, she was a little sore that I didn't become a proctologist. She said that the work and I made a perfect match. I'm not sure why, but then mom was a little hard to understand. But I just couldn't get over my dream of selling rice, if you know what I mean.”

  “But how about you, Rosie? You look like a Chink… er, a Chinaman… er, I mean a Chinese gal. But how'd you get your name?”

  She darted a sharp look at DeWitt. “My father was an American soldier who went to rescue Westerners from the siege of Peking during the Boxer Rebellion at the end of the nineteenth century. There he met my mother, who was a servant to an English couple. Soldier and servant fall in love, make love, and some years later have daughter, who now is sitting in front of you. Sadly, both parents are dead, and I am alone.”

  DeWitt waited while she shed some tears and blew her prominent nose.

  “But what do you do now to make ends meet?

  Rosie smiled. “I do different things. I paint and sell my water colors, and I am a part-time hostess in a nightclub. That helps to pay the rent and keep me from being a concubine or a down-and-out woman of the streets.”

  “You got real guts, Rosie. Now if you don't mind my saying, you also got a real schnoz. Hell, it's almost as big as Jimmy Durante's. Where'd you get that from, your mother's side or your father's? I've never come across a Chin… a Chinese person with a beak that size, and a broken one to boot.

  “Are you always this sensitive, Mr. DeWitt?”

  “Well, thanks, Rosie. I think you're the first person who's called me sensitive. But I just say what's on my mind. I believe in calling a spade a spade and a Ch … You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I certainly do know what you mean. If you must know, I got my nose from jiu-jitsu.”

  “Who's this jiu guy? I know the Jews have their faults—plenty of them—but going around beating up women is not one of them. Anyway, I wish they'd go around and beat up all those Kraut Nazi bastards who are making their lives hell.”

  Rosie, though continuing to seethe inwardly, explained that jiu-jitsu was an ancient skilled Japanese martial art. “Believe me,” she said, “I'd like to demonstrate it if we had more time.”

  “That's real white of you, but I guess you're right. We'd better get started on our tour. Shall we split the check or do you want to pay for your own?”

  After paying their respective checks and saying good-by to the proprietor, they left the diner.

  “While we're walking to Little Tokyo, Mr. DeWitt, I'm going to give you some background that might help you to peddle your rice and maybe, just maybe, enlarge your knowledge about people you know absolutely nothing about.”

  DeWitt was insulted. He knew there were Nips and Chinks, and that his country was at war with one of them. He also knew the color of their skins and the strange shape of their eyes, as well as the funny way they spoke. Hell, how much more did he need to know? he wondered.

  Before the war, Rosie explained, a thriving Little Tokyo existed. During the 1920s it had been a hotbed for drugs and prostitution, but much less so since then. Most of the more than 30,000 Japanese Americans who lived in Los Angeles and Los Angeles County were decent, hardworking, law-abiding, and family-oriented. Restricted by law from owning land outright, they earned their living largely by growing fruits and vegetables on rented land or as fishermen. Anglos respected their agricultural prowess but continued to disrespect, if not downright despise, them for their race. This had been the lot of both Japanese and Chinese since they came to the United States in the latter nineteenth century. Their children—the Nisei, in the case of the Japanese, fared little better. And the more discrimination continued undiminished, the more those discriminated against remained a close-knit group, fearful, secretive, and, in turn, despising outsiders.

  DeWitt asked Rosie why she had any sympathy whatever for yellow-bellied Japs. After Pearl Harbor, how could anyone say anything good about them.

  “Mr. DeWitt,” Rosie said in a low voice while looking about, “the Japanese have an ancient culture, much older than that of Americans, and that culture has produced much that is fine and beautiful. Japan has a long warrior history, it is true, but the attack on Pearl Harbor was not the work of all of its people. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. Well sort of.”

  Rosie could tell he wasn't convinced, but that wasn't her problem. Her problem was getting through the day with this coarse, vulgar idiot.

  DeWitt, perceptive gumshoe that he was, noted a paucity of people on the streets and a plethora of small shops that posted “Closed” signs in English and signs in Japanese that he assumed relayed much the same message. He could tell from people entering and exiting both the Shinto temple on Jackson Street and the Buddhist one that stood near the intersection of First Street and Central Avenue that religious sites continued to offer comfort, but too few in number, at least on this day.

  “Rosie, I'm hungry. All this walking around has worked up my appetite. Any chance for chowing down somewhere near?”

  “As a matter of fact there is. The Black Samurai is only a few blocks from here. It's remained open ever since the government has started relocating Japanese. I've eaten there a few times myself and can vouch for the food. Maybe today they'll ha
ve the house specialty, broiled eel.”

  A few minutes later, having agreed to skip lunch, Dick DeWitt and Rosie O'Grady parted company, but not before exchanging phone numbers and promising to keep in touch.

  Chapter 7

  “Private DeWitt? This is Sergeant Grimm calling from Army Intelligence. The colonel wants you to haul your ass over here on the double. And between you and me, he's in a worse mood than usual.”

  “Can I have breakfast first?”

  “DeWitt, haul your stinking ass over here NOW! Is that understood?”

  It was understood. DeWitt arrived at Army Intelligence as soon as he finished breakfast.

  “Come in.”

  “Good morning, colonel. Nice day, isn't it? Is Los Angeles always this nice this time of year?”

  “Sit down and shut up, private. I called you here because I want an account of your activities and whether or not you've been putting our taxpayers' money to good use.” The colonel lit up a cigarette. “Well?”

  “Well, sir, I think that you'll agree that I've learned a lot so far. A couple of days ago a dame—half-Chink and half-Mick–showed me around Niptown. Weren't many of the yellow devils on the streets, but I got a pretty good idea of the lay of the land. And,” DeWitt made a face, “I found out that they like to eat eel, just like the Chinks you've got me boarding with.”

  The colonel took a long drag on his cigarette, gave DeWitt a hard look, and asked what else he had learned.

  The private looked puzzled. “Isn't that pretty good for a guy who's been on the job for less than a week? Believe me, colonel, you and our country have nothing to worry about. When Dick DeWitt puts his nose to the ground and gets a whiff of the scent, well… you've made a good bet that your horse is going to come in a winner. My motto as a private eye was 'If you need a dick, Dick's your man'.”

  The colonel swore to himself that if he and the Army needed a dickhead, they need look no further.