Dale Furutani - Death in Little Tokyo

“He killed my sister,” Yoshida said simply.

“Yuki?”

“Yes.”

“I thought she was murdered by one of the camp guards?”

“So did I. For fifty years. But I guess seeing me after all these years shocked Susumu. After we went drinking together he got very drunk and admitted that he killed Yuki. He started crying. In his room he begged for forgiveness. He got on his knees and bowed in an old-fashioned kowtow right there on the floor until his forehead hit the ground, begging for forgiveness.

“He said he still loved Yuki after the big fight over the loyalty oath, but that Yuki didn’t want to have much to do with him because of the fight between him and me. He said that he wanted to reconcile with Yuki, and on the night she was murdered they met so they could talk with each other. He told her he wanted to go back to Japan after the war, no matter who won. He wanted her to come with him.

“She got mad at him. For some reason she got it into her head that maybe he’d come round to my way of thinking, and she was expecting him to tell her that he was going to volunteer for the army and fight for the U.S. Since I was in a hospital after my accident, Yuki felt strong feelings of patriotism, and she was upset with Matsuda when he said that he hated the U.S. and wanted to go back to Japan. He said he got so mad at her that he pushed her down and she hit her head on a rock. He said it was an accident. I don’t know if that was true or not. It didn’t make any difference to me.

“For half a century I thought one of the white guards had killed my sister. That was the icing on the cake for everything else that white society had done to me. Here in this country my ambitions, my life, what I could and could not do, where I could and could not go, all those things were restricted because I had a yellow face in a white society. The fact that we were in the camps in the first place was because we were Japanese in a white man’s world in the United States.

“When I got torn up by the hand grenade, it was because some meathead sergeant, who probably couldn’t even read and write, was put in charge of training Japanese troops. It was probably punishment for him because he wasn’t good enough to train white troops.

“I was lying in the hospital torn up in pain, knowing that whatever slim chance I might ever have of making it as a song and dance man in this society had disappeared in a shower of smoke and shell fragments. Then I heard that my only sister had been killed. I was told that it was by one of the white guards and that they had involved themselves in a cover-up to protect the real murderer. For fifty years that hate had been added on top of all the others and it stayed locked up in here.” He struck his chest.

“Then Matsuda told me that he was the one who killed my sister. The lousy kibei who wanted to go back to Japan, who didn’t want to stay in white society and fight it out and try to do something despite the obstacles that we had. He killed my sister just because she got mad at him and had a fight with him about going back to Japan.”

Yoshida looked up at me. His eyes looked very tired. “Something inside me just snapped then. I took out my sword from my cane.” He grasped the top of his cane with one hand and the shaft with the other and pulled them apart a few inches, showing me the gleaming sword blade held in the cane. “And I started hitting him and hitting him with the sword, hacking him to pieces. I just couldn’t stop.” Yoshida started crying.

“Why did he tell you he killed your sister?” I asked. “I mean, after fifty years, why didn’t he just keep his mouth shut?”

“You’re Japanese,” Yoshida said. “You should know that Japanese have a compulsion to apologize, sometimes even when they haven’t done anything wrong. Remember when they had that big cyclamate scare, when they said that cyclamates in soft drinks cause cancer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in Japan when they took the cyclamates out of the soft drinks, all the Japanese soft drink companies published big ads apologizing to the public for putting something which might be unhealthful into their drinks. What was funny about that was that companies that never used cyclamates in their soft drinks also published apologies. They apologized because they might have used something unhealthy in their drinks, even though they didn’t. Typically Japanese. Don’t you sometimes apologize when you’ve never really done anything?”

“I’ve never thought about it, but I guess that’s true,” I said.

“It’s part of the social legacy we Japanese have along with the exaggerated politeness and the stiff social customs between strangers. When Matsuda got drunk, his defenses went down. I guess the shock of seeing me after all those years set him off, asking for forgiveness for Yuki’s murder, although he called it an accident. For all I know, it was an accident. I guess it doesn’t make any difference now.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” I said. “I’m going to have to call the police.”

“I know. Weren’t you afraid I’d do something to you when you came here?”

“No. You had some reason for what you did to Matsuda. I didn’t think you’d have the same kind of rage against me. In addition to the police, I think we should also call a lawyer. If you don’t have one, I can recommend a good one. He’s the cousin of my girlfriend.”

“Shigata ga nai,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”

“Then, I’ll call you a lawyer. You’ll need one. Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Why did you tell me all this? I mean about why you did it to Matsuda.”

Yoshida looked up at me, an expression of ineffable sadness in his eyes. “I told you, we Japanese have a compulsion to apologize. I was sorry.”

The office door opened and a timid soul stuck his head in. Mariko was sitting in front of a typing stand with an old-fashioned manual typewriter on it, buffing her nails. She looked smashing in a silk jade-colored top and a long black leather skirt that was slit to the thigh.

“‘Nother customer, Boss!” she said, popping the gum she was chewing. “C’mon in,” she said.

The newcomer entered the office and tentatively made his way toward my desk.

“Am I in the right place?” he asked.

I pushed my hat back on my head and leaned back in my chair. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Where do you want to be?”

“I’m new at this, and I want to make sure I’m at the right place.”

A newbie, I thought; someone new to mystery weekends. I broke character for a moment and said, “If you’re participating in the L.A. Mystery Club’s mystery weekend, you’re in the right place.”

“Oh good. I’m, ah. .”

“Are you looking for someone?” I coaxed.

“Yes. A Mr. Ken Tanaka, Private Detective.”

“I’m Tanaka. What do you want?”

“Ah, I guess I’m supposed to ask for more information.”

“What kind of information?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

“Well, have you stopped by the Kawashiri Boutique to talk to Big Mama Kawashiri?”

“Is that on the map they gave me when I registered for the event?”

“Yep. If you go and talk to Big Mama you might find out some things that will help you when you come back here to ask for more information.”

“Okay, thanks,” he said as he started backing out of the office.

“Psst!” Mariko beckoned him in a loud stage whisper.

He looked a little startled and walked over to her. I started looking down at some paperwork on the desk as Mariko gave an exaggerated glance in my direction. She then reached into the top of her blouse and withdrew a folded slip of paper. “Take this and read it before you talk to Big Mama! Tell her you’ve come to talk to her about the Jade Penguin. But for God’s sake be careful and don’t read the note until you leave the office!”