The next morning we flew from Las Vegas to San Francisco. Cully carried a huge suitcase of rich brown leather, its corners made of dull shining brass. Strips of brass bound the case. The locking plate was also heavy. It was formidable-looking and strong. “It won’t bust open,” Cully said. “And it will be easy for us to keep track of it on the baggage trucks.”
I had never seen a suitcase like it and said so. “Just an antique I picked up in LA,” Cully said smugly.
We jumped on a Japan Airlines 747 with just fifteen minutes to spare. Cully had deliberately timed it very close. On the long flight we played gin, and when we landed in Tokyo, I had him beaten for six thousand dollars. But Cully didn’t seem to mind; he just slapped me on the back and said, “I’ll get you on the trip home.”
We took a taxi from the airport to our Tokyo hotel. I was eager to see the fabulous city of the Far East. But it looked like a shabbier and smokier New York. It also seemed smaller in scale, the people shorter, the buildings flatter, the dusky skyline a miniaturization of the familiar and overpowering skyline of New York City. When we entered the heart of the city, I saw men wearing white surgical gauze masks. It made them look eerie. Cully told me that the Japanese in urban centers wore these masks to guard against lung infections from the heavily polluted air.
We passed buildings and stores that seemed to be made of wood, as if they were sets on a movie lot, and intermingled with them were modern skyscrapers and office buildings. The streets were full of people, many of them in Western dress, others, mainly women, in some sort of kimono outfit. It was a bewildering collage of styles.
The hotel was a disappointment. It was modern and American. The huge lobby had a chocolate-colored rug and a great many black leather armchairs. Small Japanese men in black American business suits sat in most of these chairs clutching briefcases. It could have been a Hilton hotel in New York.
“This is the Orient?” I said to Cully.
Cully shook his head impatiently. “We’re getting a good night’s snooze. Tomorrow I’ll do my business, and tomorrow night I’ll show you what Tokyo is really made of. You’ll have a great time. Don’t worry.”
We had a big suite together, a two-bedroom suite. We unpacked our suitcases and I noticed that Cully had very little in his brassbound monster. We were both tired from the trip, and though it was only six o’clock Tokyo time, we went to bed.
The next morning there was a knock at the door of my bedroom and Cully said, “Come on, time to get up.” Dawn was just breaking outside my window.
He ordered breakfast in the suite, which disappointed me. I began to get the idea that I wasn’t going to see much of Japan. We had eggs and bacon, coffee and orange juice and even some English muffins. The only thing Oriental were some pancakes. The pancakes were huge and twice as thick as a pancake should be. They were more like huge slabs of bread, and they were a very funny sickly yellow color rather than brown. I tasted one and I could swear that it tasted like fish.
I said to Cully, “What the hell are these?”
He said, “They’re pancakes but cooked in fish oil.”
“I’ll pass,” I said, and I pushed the dish over to him.
Cully finished them off with gusto. “All you have to do is get used to it,” he said.
Over our coffee I asked him, “What’s the program?”
“It’s a beautiful day out,” Cully said. “We’ll take a walk and I’ll lay it out for you.”
I understood that he didn’t want to talk in the room. That he was afraid it might be bugged.
We left the hotel. It was still very early in the morning, the sun just coming up. We turned down a side street and suddenly I was in the Orient. As far as the eye could see there were little ramshackle houses, small buildings and along the curb stretched huge piles of green-colored garbage so high that it formed a wall.
There were a few people out in the streets, and a man went by us riding a bicycle, his black kimono floating behind him. Two wiry men in khaki work pants and khaki shirts, white gauze masks covering their faces, suddenly appeared before us. I gave a little jump and Cully laughed as the two men turned into another side street.
“Jesus,” I said, “those masks are spooky.”
“You’ll get used to them,” Cully said. “Now listen close. I want you to know everything that’s going on, so you don’t make any mistakes.”
As we walked along the wall of gray-green garbage, Cully explained to me that he was smuggling out two million dollars in Japanese yen and that the government had very strict laws about exporting the national currency.
“If I get caught, I go to jail,” Cully said. “Unless Fummiro can put the fix in. Or unless Fummiro goes to jail with me.”
“How about me?” I said. “If you get caught, don’t I get caught?”
“You’re an eminent writer,” Cully said. “The Japanese have a great respect for culture. You’ll just get thrown out of the country. Just keep your mouth shut.”
“So I'm just here to have a good time,” I said. I knew he was full of shit and I wanted him to know I knew it.
Then another thing occurred to me. “How the hell do we get through customs in the States?” I said.
“We don’t,” Cully said. “We dump the money in Hong Kong. It’s a free port. The only people who have to go through customs there are the ones traveling on Hong Kong passports.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Now you tell me we’re going to Hong Kong. Where the fuck do we go after that, Tibet?”
“Be serious,” Cully said. “Don’t panic. I did this a year ago with a little money, just for a trial run.”
“Get a gun for me,” I said. “I got a wife and three kids, you son of a bitch. Give me a fighting chance.” But I was laughing. Cully had really roped me in.
But Cully didn’t know I was kidding. “You can’t carry a gun,” he said. “Every Japanese airline has their electronic security check of your person and your hand luggage. And most of them X-ray any baggage you check in.” He paused for a moment and then said, “The only airline that doesn’t X-ray checked baggage is the Cathay. So if something happens to me, you know what to do.”
“I can just picture myself alone in Hong Kong with two million bucks,” I said. “I’d have a million fucking hatchets in my neck,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Cully said soothingly. “Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll have a ball.”
I was laughing, but I was also worried. “But if something does happen,” I said, “what do I do in Hong Kong?”
Cully said, “Go to the Futaba Bank and ask for the vice-president. He’ll take the money and change it into Hong Kong dollars. He’ll give you a receipt and charge you may be twenty grand. Then he’ll change the Hong Kong dollars into American dollars and charge you another fifty thousand dollars. The American dollars will be sent to Switzerland and you’ll get another receipt. A week from now the Hotel Xanadu will receive a draft from the Swiss bank for two million minus the Hong Kong bank charges. See how simple it is?”
I thought this over as we walked back to the hotel. Finally I came back to my original question. “Why the hell do you need me?”
“Don’t ask me any more questions, just do what I tell you,” Cully said. “You owe me a favor, right?”
“Right,” I said. And I didn’t ask any more questions.
When we got back to the hotel, Cully made some phone calls, talking Japanese, and then told me he was going out. “I should be back around five P.M.,” he said. “But I may be a little late. Just wait in this room for me. If I’m not back tonight, you hop the morning plane for home. OK?”
“OK,” I said.
I tried reading in the bedroom of the suite and then imagined noises in the living room, so I went there to read. I ordered lunch in the suite, and after I had finished eating, I called the States. The connection went through in only a few minutes, which surprised me. I thought it would take at least a half hour.