Dale Furutani - Death in Little Tokyo

“Mr. Matsuda?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Ken Tanaka. I’ve been asked to pick up a package from you by Rita Newly.”

“You say your name is Tanaka?”

“That’s right. Ms. Newly asked me to pick up the package you have for her.”

“When do you want to pick it up?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Matsuda, I’m in the lobby of the hotel. If it’s not inconvenient, I’d like to come up right now and pick it up.”

There was a long pause. I almost thought that I had been disconnected. Finally Matsuda said, “Okay. Come on up to room five-one-seven.”

I hung up, looked around the lobby to get my bearings, and walked over to the elevator. After a few seconds one of the three elevators opened. I got in and punched the fifth floor button. On the fifth floor the hall had a gray and green carpet, green wall paper, and dark wooden doors. It was supposed to be elegant but I actually found it kind of dark and depressing.

I came to 517 and knocked. I could hear the murmur of voices behind the door-a man’s and a woman’s. I waited a minute and knocked a second time.

“Just a second.” The man’s voice.

They seemed to be arguing about something, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally, after several minutes delay, the door was opened.

Standing before me was a Japanese man in his late sixties or early seventies. I was surprised at his age because I expected someone much younger. His gaunt face had the look of a wolf to it. He wore the stereotypical Japanese businessman’s dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His hair was thinning and shot with gray. His expression was stern and suspicious. On his left cheek was a large, brown discoloration or birthmark.

“Mr. Matsuda?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Ken Tanaka.”

“Okay. I have the package,” he said. “Come in for a moment.”

I stepped into the room. Against the wall was a queen-sized bed with a dark green comforter on top. Two pictures of the “shopping-center-parking-lot-art-sale” school of art adorned the wall. A lamp, a television, a clock-radio, a small round table, and two chairs formed the rest of the furniture in the room. Standard hotel issue.

“Rita sent you?” Matsuda said suspiciously.

“Yes, she did.”

“All right,” Matsuda said. “I want some kind of receipt.”

“That’s no problem.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out one of the Kendo Agency business cards. On the back of the card I scrawled, “Received one package from Mr. Matsuda-K. Tanaka.” I put the date on it.

While I was writing the receipt, Matsuda put a large wheeled suitcase on the bed. He unlocked the suitcase, opened it, and reached into it and pulled out a brown envelope. The envelope was sealed and tied with string-the pale, white, cellophane-like string that I’ve seen on packages from Japan.

I handed over the business card and accepted the package from Matsuda. He studied what I had written and seemed satisfied.

Just as I turned to leave, the door to the bathroom burst open. A short Latina came bustling out. Her hair was dyed a flaming orange and she wore a tight purple dress that clashed with the hair color.

“I’m tired of waiting in there,” she announced as she strutted out of the bathroom. “I don’t see why I have to be locked up in the john just so you can handle a little business.”

She was wearing several rings on her hands, as many as three to a finger. She even wore a couple of rings on each of her thumbs. The scoop neck on her dress revealed two large breasts, and the tight fit across her hips picked up the curving theme of the bosom.

“Say, you’re kind of cute, honey,” the woman said, looking me over.

I was flustered by the unexpected outburst and looked at Matsuda for guidance.

Matsuda’s face was tight with anger, not embarrassment. He said to the woman, “I thought I told you to wait in the bathroom until I was done with my business.”

“Listen, honey, I got tired of waiting in there. I told you I didn’t wanna go in there in the first place. We ain’t got nothing to hide. Besides, I could give you guys a special deal on a little three-way party.”

The woman gave me a toothy grin. I noticed the cracked lipstick around the edges of her mouth. She might have been in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to tell with all the makeup she had on. She could easily be older or younger. I was both surprised and amused by her sudden appearance. I hoped that I’d be as sexually active as Matsuda appeared to be when I reached my sixties or seventies.

“Well, how about it? Care to join a little fun? We can party until ten-thirty or so, then I got ta get dressed and leave ‘cause I got to be on stage waving my G-string by eleven.” She stopped and gave a short pirouette. She wore black patent leather shoes with tall spike heels. Her dancer’s twirl was surprisingly graceful and polished.

“He’s not here to join us,” Matsuda said in a tight voice. “In fact, he’s just leaving.”

“That’s too bad, honey” the woman said. “I think you’d have made quite an addition to our party.”

I smiled from reflex and, clutching the envelope tightly to me, I slid past her toward the door. “It’s nice of you to say so, but Mr. Matsuda’s right. I really should be going. I believe we’ve accomplished our business. Thank you, Mr. Matsuda. I hope this contains everything that Ms. Newly expects it to contain.”

“Sure it does,” Matsuda said dryly. “If it doesn’t, I’ll be in Los Angeles for at least three more days and she can contact me.”

“I’m sure she will if everything she’s expecting is not here. Well, good night.” I nodded to both Matsuda and the woman, and let myself out.

Outside of the room I had to control myself so I didn’t start laughing. The look on Matsuda’s face when the woman burst out of the bathroom was priceless. Even though Matsuda looked old, I guess he was still frisky. Maybe it’s all the green tea they drink in Japan. I had a good story to tell Mariko the next time I saw her.

My car was parked about five blocks away from the hotel. There was a cab line with two cabs in it in front of the hotel and I thought briefly of taking one to my car. During the day you’re panhandled in downtown L.A., but at night some parts of the city are transformed into homeless tent cities that block the sidewalk. On darkened curbs drug deals also go down. Neither activity seemed like something I wanted to wander into, but I decided to walk. During the American Civil War an officer observed a man running from the front lines of battle and challenged him by asking why he was running. “Because I don’t have wings to fly!” the man shouted as he ran past. That’s exactly how I felt making my way through the darkened streets of downtown L.A. to my car.

When I reached my car I sat in it for a few moments examining the package under the weak dome light. The package was made out of glossy, thick brown paper. It was about seven by ten inches, but slightly odd in proportion, which I thought was because it was made to centimeter specifications, instead of inches like most envelopes I was familiar with. The envelope was about an inch thick and didn’t feel very heavy.

I flexed the package. It felt like there were several sheets inside. I was puzzled.

I had a strange feeling in the back of my mind about the whole arrangement with Rita and Matsuda. Despite what I had told Mariko, it was simply too good to be true. Five hundred dollars seemed like too much money to pay for me to walk a few blocks and act like an errand boy. I was convinced that Rita Newly might be trying to get me involved with a drug pickup.

Because of this, I had resolved to open the package when I received it, just to make sure that I wasn’t being used as a dupe for some illegal transaction. Now the size and weight of the package puzzled me. It could actually be the photographs and negatives that Rita had talked about.