Bill Pronzini - Quicksilver

“Mmm,” McFate said. “Which employee did you come here to see?”

“Ken Yamasaki.”

McFate repeated the name. He wasn’t writing down any of this conversation; he had a photographic memory and he was proud of the fact that he could quote verbatim interrogations that had lasted thirty minutes. I knew that about him because it had been in one of the gossip columns, back when I was still reading the newspapers. “What sort of business did you have with Yamasaki?” he asked.

“Nothing that involves the Yakuza,” I said. “Or Tamura’s death.”

“Suppose you let me be the judge of that.”

I was beginning to like him even less than he liked me. But the world is full of assholes, and you have to be tolerant if you want to keep the peace. So I told him in a nice, even, tolerant voice that Ken Yamasaki was an old boyfriend of Haruko Gage, who had hired me to find out the name of the secret admirer who was sending her presents in the mail.

It must have sounded silly to McFate; it even sounded a little silly to me, the way I explained it. He gave me a look that was half patronage and half watered-down pity. “The detective business must have fallen on hard times,” he said, “if that’s the kind of case you’re taking on.”

“You take what you can get these days,” I said evenly.

“I understand Eberhardt is going into business with you,” he said. “Soon, isn’t it?”

“Next week.”

“He would have been better off if he’d stayed on the force.” McFate smiled as if to take the sting out of the words and then added, “If you don’t mind my saying so.”

I let it blow by. Assholes pass bad wind all the time; that was what you had to remember in dealing with them.

He said, “Do you know where Yamasaki lives?”

“No. He’s not listed in the phone book.”

“Did you know Simon Tamura when he was alive?”

“No. I never even heard of him before today.”

“And you’ve had no recent case involving the Yakuza?”

“I’ve never had any case involving the Yakuza.”

“So be it,” McFate said. “Why don’t you go sit with your lady friend for the time being. I may have more questions a little later.”

“Sure. As long as we can get out of here before midnight.”

I left him and went back into the reception area and plunked myself down in the rattan chair next to Kerry. She said, “What’s the matter? Why are you scowling?”

“Something McFate just told me,” I said. “The dead man back there was Yakuza.”

“What’s Yakuza?”

“Japanese gangster outfit. Sort of like the Mafia.”

“Oh God,” she said.

“Take it easy. It’s not as ominous as it sounds.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t know much about them, but they’re big in Japan and East Asia and they’re starting to get a foothold over here. Prostitution, extortion, that sort of thing. But they only prey on other Japanese-merchants and tourists, mostly.”

“Oh. Then the dead man… do you know his name yet?”

“Simon Tamura. He ran this place, I imagine.”

“Then he was killed by other Yakuza? One of those underworld execution things?”

“Looks that way,” I said. “The Yakuza are supposed to believe that they’re descendants of samurai warriors. And Tamura was murdered with a samurai sword. A ritual killing, maybe, to avenge some breaking of the Yakuza code.”

“Well, thank God you’re not mixed up in it, for a change. It’s bad enough that you had to find the body. And that I had to be here with you.”

“No argument about that.”

“One murder case after another ever since I’ve known you,” she said. “One of these days…”

“One of these days what?”

“You know what I was going to say.”

“Yeah. But I’ve lived this long; I intend to go on living a good while longer.”

“I hope so. Sometimes… damn it, sometimes you scare hell out of me.”

“Sometimes, babe,” I said, “I scare hell out of myself.”

We lapsed into silence, but it was all right between us because Kerry reached over after a few seconds and took hold of my hand. Her fingers were dry and chill-unlike the room itself, which was as warm as Tamura’s office. It started me sweating, and I stood up finally and fumbled with the knob on the radiator until I got the heat shut down.

Cops went in and out, and what seemed like a long time later two white-outfitted interns clumped in with a body bag. Almost immediately after they disappeared toward the office, McFate reappeared and headed toward Kerry and me. We both got on our feet.

“Tamura was definitely Yakuza,” McFate said without preamble. “He had one of their tattoos on his chest-a samurai warrior battling a dragon. And his desk is full of incriminating evidence. He was a local mizu shobai kingpin.”

I had no idea what that last meant, but I was not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. I figured he’d tell us anyway, and he did.

“ Mizu shobai means ‘water business,’ ” he said in his supercilious way. “Extortion from Japanese bars, restaurants, and night clubs in the Bay Area-a variation on the old protection racket. Very lucrative.”

“Which means he probably had rivals.”

“Probably. We’ll find out.” He paused. “Do you still plan to talk to Ken Yamasaki?”

“That depends,” I said, “on whether or not he had anything to do with Tamura’s death.”

“Then you had better not try to contact him until you find out.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. You don’t intend to do any investigating into Yakuza activities, do you?”

“No. Why should I?”

“You shouldn’t, if what you told me earlier is true.”

“It’s true. I don’t lie to the police, McFate.”

“But you do go off on tangents now and then.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you lost your license once,” McFate said, “and it would be a shame if it happened again. So I’d advise you to confine your present activities to tracking down secret admirers. Leave the Yakuza to us.”

I could feel myself getting hot; he was rubbing salt into old wounds now. But making an issue of it with him was not going to buy me anything except trouble. I made myself say, “You don’t have to worry about me,” in a neutral voice. “Is it all right if we go now?”

“You can go, but I want to ask Ms. Wade a few questions before she leaves. For the sake of corroboration.”

Kerry looked at me. I said, “I can use some fresh air. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

She nodded, and McFate gave her one of his charming smiles, and I beat it out of there before I did or said something stupid. There were a couple of reporter types hanging around out front, but they didn’t seem to know who I was; I glared at them the way cops do and they didn’t bother me. I walked up to the end of the block, letting the wind and the steady drizzle cool me off. When I came back to the car I sat behind the wheel, with the window rolled down a little, and watched the clock in the grocery store window.

Five more minutes passed before Kerry came out. She said as she slid in beside me, “Whew, am I glad to get out of there!”

“Did McFate give you a hard time?”

“Not really. But the way he kept looking at me, I was afraid he might try to make a pass. What’s the matter with him, anyway?”

“He’s an asshole,” I said, and let it go at that.

We didn’t take a shower together that night. We didn’t do anything together that night, primitive or otherwise. The combination of the murder and McFate had knocked out all of my amorous feelings and intentions, and Kerry wasn’t much interested either. So we said good night in the car in front of her building, and I drove home and crawled into bed alone.