And then a strange thing happened. A few months later I got my first mediocre performance review at Calcommon.
I was angry and upset, and I remember my immediate supervisor wouldn’t look me in the eye when he gave me the review. I was transferred from software development to software maintenance. In the world of software, development is where the fun and challenge is. Maintenance is usually where you stick beginners and less-qualified programmers, who spend their days making minor changes to the work of others.
As I considered my options, the nagging voice of my mother reached out from the grave. Like a good second generation Japanese mother, she valued security above all else. When she was alive she’d counsel, “Don’t make waves” or “Play along” or “Don’t cause trouble,” and to my undying shame, as soon as the anger passed, that’s what I did.
About a year later Calcommon went through what the MBA types euphemistically call “downsizing,” and I was cut. So much for playing safe and not making waves. Calcommon did give me a generous severance package, but I regarded that as a payoff for being a “model minority.”
I was tired of being a model minority, but I didn’t relish the thought of having to confess to Hansen that I had misled him about the package. I decided to take Mariko’s advice and talk to her lawyer cousin Michael before I did anything more.
“You said the pictures of the body were pretty awful,” Mariko said.
“They were. I bet the television crews were mad as hell they couldn’t get into the room to film it.”
“You’re getting cynical in your old age.”
“Age has nothing to do with it. I was always cynical. As I get older I’m just getting braver about showing it. You know blood and gore make for big ratings. The only thing missing is sex, and maybe the prostitute in Matsuda’s room or Rita Newly will supply that.” I paused. “It really was awful to see those pictures, Mariko. But the way Matsuda died is in itself a clue.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the cops said that he was hacked up with something like a sword. People don’t go running around with swords these days. It’s hard to understand why you’d chose that weapon. Plus somebody had a real grudge against Matsuda or else they wouldn’t have taken the time and effort to slice him up the way they did.”
“It must have been a mess,” Mariko said.
“It was. They didn’t show me all the pictures, but I’m sure the entire room must have been splattered in blood. Whoever did it must have been covered in it. In fact, it’s amazing that they were able to get out of the hotel without someone seeing them covered with blood.”
Mariko touched my cheek. “You’re shaking.” We kissed. Her lips were cool and moist. I sank into their softness and, after a time, I stopped shaking. I’ll spare you the active details of our sex life. Just think of pounding surf, rearing stallions, heavy rain, and any other sexual cliché you like from old movies.
When we were done with our lovemaking, during that period when women like to cuddle and men just want to drift into unconsciousness, Mariko said, “Did you forget about tomorrow night?”
That snapped me awake. Women and men sometimes have trouble communicating, but even the dullest man learns when a woman is broadcasting a signal. This was not a question; it was a test. Men hate these tests, but women keep giving them because we men seem to keep failing them. “Of course not. It’s your first time speaking at an AA meeting, and I will be there for you,” I said with aplomb.
She snuggled closer to me. The test was not only passed, it was aced.
10
The phone rang. I picked it up and recognized Mariko’s voice. It was unusual for her to call me early in the morning.
“There’s a big write-up about your murder in the L.A. Times,” she said.
“My murder? If it’s about my murder, then like Mark Twain said, my death has been greatly exaggerated!”
“Gee, the wonders of a sixth-grade education.”
“Never mind the sarcasm. What are you talking about?”
“There’s a big write-up in the Times about Matsuda’s murder,” Mariko said. “It talks about Matsuda and then discusses how other Japanese businessmen have been victimized by crime in Little Tokyo. You know, muggings and things like that.”
“Why don’t you read it to me?”
“Read it to you? It’s about half a page long. It wouldn’t kill you to go out and get a paper.”
“Ever helpful.”
“Well, I’m trying to be,” Mariko answered. “I thought you might be interested in it. Besides, you’re mentioned in the article.”
“I am?”
“Sure, I’ll read you that part, at least. ‘The police say they are following up on various clues and checking out the stories of suspects.’ I figure that’s you,” Mariko announced.
“You’re not going to think it’s so funny if it turns out to be true, and you end up bringing me gift baskets at some maximum security prison. Remember ‘Bubba’?”
Mariko’s voice was much less animated. “Do you think that will actually happen?”
“Well, I hope not. But it has happened in the past, and I certainly don’t want to put it to the test in this case. You know the cops can start feeling the heat just like anybody else. And if there’s a lot of pressure being put on Hansen to make an arrest, there’s no telling what he might do.”
“I was kidding.”
“I hope you’re kidding, too. I just want you to know you shouldn’t go around joking about me being a suspect because it’s probably true.”
“Now you’ve got me worried sick,” Mariko said.
“About me?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you were worried that I might say that you were the mastermind behind the whole thing.”
“Don’t tease about this, Ken.”
“I’m like you. I sort of vacillate between macabre humor and outright hysteria. I’ll go down and read what the Times has to say about the case, then I’ll call you back later this afternoon. Will you call your lawyer cousin and set up a time for me to see him? I want to get rid of the package as soon as possible.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, Mariko?”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“Finally some sense comes out of your mouth.” She hung up.
I went down to the corner doughnut shop and got a Times. Back in my apartment I read the story about the murder. It had a short interview with Nachiko Izumi, the maid who found the body, but the actual details of the murder were pretty sketchy. I did learn that the police confirmed the weapon was probably a sword, based on the wounds inflicted on the body. And I was fascinated to read a little bit about Matsuda’s background.
Matsuda had been raised in the United States, but he went to Japan right after World War II and renounced his U.S. citizenship. Since that time, he had been in the United States frequently, acting as a sales agent for a variety of companies.
The article went on to talk about other crimes in Little Tokyo, with visiting Japanese businessmen as their victims. The crime rate in the United States is much higher than in Japan, and despite a lot of publicity in Japan about it, many of the visitors simply weren’t trained to cope with the Los Angeles urban jungle.
A favorite technique seemed to be going from room to room in hotels that catered to the Japanese businesspeople, knocking on doors and mugging or robbing the residents when they opened the door to see who was there. Welcome to America.
After reading the paper and having some breakfast (this time, cornflakes, not sushi), I decided to call Ezekiel Stein, the president of the L.A. Mystery Club. Ezekiel was a manager in the Water Quality Division of the L.A. Department of Water and Power (DWP). He was a thin man in his fifties, with a small beard and thick, black-rimmed glasses.