“Excuse me,” a gentle, foreign voice called to me from a corner of the dark room, “but can you give me the correct time.”
Turning to a leather wing chair, I could make out the figure of the man who needed the time, but not much else about him. He was short, svelte, and dressed in a suit. He seemed lost in the big chair. I apologized for not being able to help him. I did not say that I had murder on my mind.
“I am sorry to have bothered you,” he bowed slightly.
“No bother,” I lied, but I was intrigued by his voice. He was Asian, but clearly comfortable with American English.
“I have made the trip across the Pacific many times, but have never learned to reset my watch.”
“You’ll get it eventually,” I assured him, trying to turn back to the front desk.
“No. I fear I shall never make this trip again. I have loved your country, but I can never return to it.”
I could not help but be drawn to him. “Why not, the INS giving you a rough time?
He laughed sadly. “Nothing like that, no. Do you know what I like most about Americans? They can enjoy themselves without self-consciousness, without artifice, without approval of the group. You enjoy to drink, but don’t need to drink. You go to a club and enjoy karoake, but would be fine without it. You can be individuals. In Japan, we have achieved many great things against great odds, but we are not comfortable with ourselves as individuals. Do you know what we do to those who wear their individualism on their sleeves?”
“You beat them down like a nail that sticks out of a board.” I recalled what Kira had said.
“Exactly so,” he bowed again. “You know Japan?”
“No,” I said, “I had a teacher who knew both countries and was wise in spirit.”
He said nothing immediately. There was a stifled gasp somewhere in the darkness. There is nothing particularly sad about hearing a man cry. But to hear him struggle to hold tears back, that is the essence of sadness.
“Are you okay?” I tried to distract him.
“Yes, yes. It is just that my daughter was such a woman as your teacher; torn between two countries and wise in spirit. Now I come to take her home to Japan, but it was never a home to her. I don’t know whether she can ever truly rest there.”
I needed the wall to hold me upright. And just as in my dream, the world fell out from beneath my feet. The world was doing that a lot, lately. This was Kira’s father. It was as if we were standing at opposite ends of a black void, connected but apart. If a pin were to prick the vacuum, we would be drawn together, colliding at the speed of light.
“She will rest,” I assured him. “She will rest.”
“Thank you. Maybe we can speak again.”
“I would like that,” I said. “We have things to share.”
He stood. Bowed at where I was standing and moved quietly out of the room.
When I turned back to the front desk, the clerk was gone. A new face was on duty. So much for shards of glass. The world back under my feet, I walked out of the lounge the way I’d come in. Just through the doorjamb, a shape stepped out in front of me. By the time I recognized it, a gun barrel was buried in my ribs.
“Come on, Mr. Klein, we don’t want to be late for your appointment.”
Piece of Skirt
We walked for a little bit-me, the desk clerk, and the ski dude-down into the basement of the Old Watermill. It was musty as hell and made me pine for Guppy’s broom closet. The three of us had little to say. There was no need. The ski dude’s gun barrel communicated to me speed and direction. I did ask if it was possible for the ski dude not to press his pistol completely through my ribs. He responded by pressing harder. I would remember never to beg him for mercy.
We stopped by a door marked “Storage Room” and I wondered aloud if this was where the desk clerk changed into Superman. That earned me a smack in the back of my head with the gun butt. That was one way to get the damn thing out of my ribs. When I reached up to feel the lump on my head, they pushed me through the door. I landed chin first. That pissed me off and I spat in the desk clerk’s face when he bent over me. Now the square face of the 9 mm Glock was pressed against my teeth. Suddenly, I thought, my ribs weren’t such a bad place for the barrel of a gun after all.
The ski dude just stood above me smiling down. He enjoyed his work just a bit too much for my comfort. In the meantime, the desk clerk frisked me, patting down every spot on my body, turning all my pockets out.
“He doesn’t have it on him,” he said to the ski dude.
“Of course I don’t have the disc on me, you fucking moron.” I got the words out pretty well considering there was a gun in my mouth. “When I get my nephew, you’ll get your disc.”
Ski dude pulled the gun away and yanked me up like I was filled with helium. I didn’t miss the gun. And it was nice to breathe again. The desk clerk gave a nod to his accomplice. Ski dude smiled. I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this. A fist buried itself in my gut so hard that my liver French-kissed my right kidney. Some foul-tasting liquid flew out of my mouth. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was the type of fluid that was supposed to stay inside the human body. I didn’t have a chance to dwell on my body fluids very long. Unconsciousness has a way of distracting me.
To wake up running through an inventory of the parts of your body that ache is usually a bad omen of things to come. My mouth still tasted of the mystery fluid and the slice on my chin was still bleeding, so I guessed I hadn’t been out that long. My liver was back in place, but I felt bruised from the inside out.
I was lying face-down on a concrete slab and when I tried to push myself up, the back of my head nearly exploded. It didn’t do wonders for the contents of my stomach, either. I opted for rolling over onto my back. I managed that without too much discomfort. There was a string of bare bulbs dangling above my head. They swayed as if blown by a breeze I could not feel. There were space heaters placed along the base of the unpainted concrete walls. The walls themselves were not flat, but concave. The place had the feel of a construction sight.
After several minutes on my back, I inched over to a wall and used its gentle slope to ease myself into a sitting position. My head voted against the upright posture, but came around to my way of thinking after punishing me with thirty seconds of extreme nausea and pain. When the wave passed, I felt I recognized my prison. The tunnels beneath the college were of the same dimensions. I was unnerved by the deathly silence of the place. Having grown up in a bedroom above a boiler, around the corner from one of Brooklyn’s busiest thoroughfares and one block away from Coney Island Hospital’s emergency room, I had always been uncomfortable with silence. Okay, when I was writing, I wanted silence. When I was bleeding, I wanted some noise.
I stood up and walked the tunnel, up and back. I was in a section about sixty paces long closed at both ends by ply-wood walls. One wall had a locked, spring-loaded door in it. I did some requisite banging and screaming after which I did some requisite puking. At least now there was some stink to go along with the silence. I got horizontal once again and willed myself to pass out, but even that yielded mixed results. I dreamed I was in pain.
Someone was slapping my cheeks the next time I opened my eyes. Just what a man with a cracked head and a slicedup face needs. I thrust my left arm out at where I thought the slapper’s throat might be and latched onto the first bit of flesh I could find. Hearing choking and feeling hands grab my left wrist, I congratulated myself for good aim.
“Uncle Dylan! Uncle Dylan!” were words I thought I heard through the choking and gasps for air.