Death in Little Tokyo (15 page)

Mary read her the dealer number written on the claim form.

“Oh, that’s a subcontracting dealer number. That means you’re not one of our regular dealers.”

“Is that common?”

“Sure. A lot of our warranty work is being done by subcontractors these days. Dealers are mostly sales agents, and a lot of them don’t have comprehensive repair departments.”

“Could you give me some information on what I’m supposed to do with these claims?”

“Well, are the claims stickered?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there a small, white bar code sticker on the face of the claim?”

“Yes, all the claims have those kinds of stickers on them.”

“Good. That means they’ve been reviewed and preapproved by the warranty department. All you have to do is mail them in, and we’ll send you a check. Make sure that your business name and address is clearly noted on each invoice. We won’t have your name and address in our warranty file, and if we don’t have the address clearly indicated on the claim there might be some problem on getting your payment to you.”

“The claims I have are for quite a lot,” Mary said. “Do you think that will cause any problems?”

“How much are you talking about?”

“Over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

“That is a lot, but not too unusual. Usually that amount represents several month’s worth of work.”

“That’s right,” Mary said. “From the two claims I have in front of me, the dates cover two different months, so that appears to be the situation.”

“I wish your boss submitted them as they were done, instead of accumulating so many at one time. But it really doesn’t make much difference. We pay over two million dollars worth of claims per month. Just go ahead and send the claims in, and we’ll get them processed. Don’t forget to put your name and address on them. Like I said, as long as they’ve got their sticker on them, they’re as good as gold.”

“Okay,” Mary said. “Thank you.”

When I walked back into her living room, she waved the claim forms at me like a triumphant flag. “They’re as valuable as cashier checks. Just about anybody can type a name and address onto the claim forms and collect a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, just like clockwork.”

“A hundred and twenty-three thousand and something,” I said.

“Don’t be pedantic,” Mary said. “Why do you think it’s an odd number like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she charges sales tax.”

“Right.”

“Okay. So maybe she doesn’t charge sales tax. Maybe it’s an odd number so it doesn’t stick out on any reports,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean odd numbers sort of blend in on any audit reports. If it came out to be an even number, like a hundred and twenty thousand or a hundred and twenty-five thousand, it would probably seem like an unusual coincidence to anybody looking over audit reports or computer listings of all the claims being paid during a particular month. Still, that seems like a large amount.”

“Evidently not. You heard them say they pay over two million dollars in claims each month. Besides, all the claims have a dealer number that’s evidently used by all subcontractors. It would be hard to trace that some new person has been receiving that amount of money.”

“Why would someone want to do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Get paid this way. Why not just give her cash?”

“I’m not sure, but I can think of a couple of reasons. One is that by doing it this way, Mihara Electric Company is actually footing the bill, either knowingly or unknowingly. Those little white stickers on the claim forms are approvals by the warranty department. Those could easily be stolen, or maybe Mihara is tied up with the Yakuza in some way.

“The second reason for receiving payment this way is that you’d be able to show some legal source for the money if you wanted to declare it on your income taxes. In fact, it also makes it a tax deduction for Mihara Electric, so Uncle Sam helps to partially foot the bill with this scheme.”

“You mean someone who’s going to get involved in something shady would be scrupulous on taxes?” I asked.

“You never know,” Mary answered. “Remember, that’s how they got Al Capone.”

Mary gave me a lot to think about, both with the art stuffed in her bungalow and with the information about the warranty claims. I drove back to the office and opened the door to a persistently ringing phone. I thought it might be Michael Kosaka, because I gave him both my home and office numbers, and I dived for the phone.

I picked it up and recognized Mariko’s voice.

“Ken?”

“Yes. You sound funny. Is something wrong?”

“Thank God you’ve returned. Please come to the boutique right away. Something bad has happened.”

17

I
left the office and half jogged to the boutique. When I got there a small crowd was gathered in front of it, peering through the window. I pushed my way through the crowd and got to the door where a uniformed policeman stopped me.

Past the policeman’s shoulder I could see the boutique. It resembled the mess I had found the office in, but while the office was ransacked methodically, the clothes in the boutique were just scattered on the floor, with clothes racks tipped over in a haphazard fashion. Inside, another uniformed officer was talking to Mrs. Kawashiri, with Mariko hovering by.

“Mariko,” I called. She saw me and walked over to the officer by the door.

“It’s okay,” she said to the policeman. “Please let him in. He’s my boyfriend.” The policeman shrugged and I stepped past him.

“What happened?”

“It was awful,” Mariko said. Her frail body was shaking. I thought she was fearful, and I placed my arms around her shoulders.

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” I said. “I’m here now and so are the police.”

Mariko’s eyes flashed. “I’m not scared,” she spat out. “I’m just so damn angry. If I had a baseball bat when that S.O.B. was in here, I’d have flattened him.”

“What S.O.B.? What happened? What’s going on?”

Mariko calmed herself down, taking a deep breath and gaining control of her anger. “About an hour ago a guy came into the boutique.”

“Did you know him?”

“No,” Mariko said. “He was a Caucasian, about six feet tall, light brown curly hair, muscular, with brown eyes. He wore a sports shirt and jeans. He seemed just like a regular guy. There was a customer in here when he walked in, and he waited until the customer left. When I asked if I could help him, he asked me if I knew Ken Tanaka. I thought he might be a friend of yours. He was leaning on the counter as nice as he could be.” Mariko indicated the counter in front of the cash register. “Smiling, talking, and actually being quite charming. I told him that I did know you. He said that he was supposed to meet you here to pick up a package. He said he was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by early.”

“Did he have a girl with him?”

“No. He was all by himself.”

“Did you see somebody standing outside the shop? A blonde?”

“No. He just came in by himself, like he didn’t have a care in the world. After I said I knew you, he said that he’d appreciate it if I gave him the package now, so he could save himself a trip coming back. There must have been something in the way I hesitated. That must have tipped him off that I either had it or I knew where it was. I must be a crummy actress!

“He started needling me about the package, saying it was okay for me to give it to him, that he and you were good friends, and that it would be a great favor to him so he wouldn’t have to come back. I didn’t know if he was a friend of yours or not, but I didn’t think that he could have been a good friend, because in the time I’ve known you, you’ve never mentioned anybody with his name.”

“What’s his name?”

“Well, he called himself George Martin, but I doubt now that’s his real name. Anyway, I started getting a little suspicious of the guy, so I told him that I didn’t have any package here, and that he would have to come back and talk to you. That’s when he started getting violent and abusive. He started raising his voice at me and pounding on the counter. He called me a Jap, a bitch, and a slut. Then he started throwing things around.” She waved her hand around the boutique. “He just started going berserk. He yanked clothes off the racks and threw them around, then he knocked the racks over.”

“Then what happened?”

“By that time Mrs. Kawashiri came out from the back to see what the commotion was. When Mrs. Kawashiri saw what was going on, she ran in the back and got a knife she keeps back there to cut up bread for sandwiches. When she came back, she shouted at the guy to leave. You should have seen her yelling and waving around this little six-inch paring knife. I didn’t know if I should be frightened for her or laughing. When the guy saw Mrs. Kawashiri with a knife, he hesitated. I don’t know, Ken, but I thought maybe he might have had a gun tucked under his shirt or something. Anyway, he told me that I’d be sorry that I didn’t give him the package when I had a chance, and he got out of here.”

“Did you see which way he went? Or if he got into a car or anything?”

“No. We were all too shook up and upset. We called the police right away.”

“Did he get the package?”

Mariko glared at me. “Of course not. It’s still in the hatbox. Do you think I’m going to let a jerk like that intimidate me?”

I sighed. “I’ll go apologize to Mrs. Kawashiri as soon as she’s done with the police.”

“Apologize for what?”

“I feel like I’m the one who’s responsible for getting the shop wrecked.”

“Aside from getting the clothes dirty,” Mariko said, “he really didn’t do any permanent damage. I’m just so angry with him. I’m going to buy a nice big aluminum baseball bat and keep it under the counter there, and if that guy ever walks into this shop again, I’m going to put a dent in that bat that matches the curvature of his pointed head.”

The police finished and left the shop. I stayed to help Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri clean up the mess. As we worked I brought both Mariko and Mrs. Kawashiri up to date on what I’d found out about the Yakuza and the value of the warranty claim forms.

Then, in Japanese fashion, I formally apologized to Mrs. Kawashiri for causing so much trouble. In an equally Japanese reaction, Mrs. Kawashiri absolutely insisted that no trouble had been caused, at least by me, and that I had no responsibility in the incident.

We both knew that I had caused trouble, and that I was in some manner responsible because it was my package that had triggered the problem. But despite the fact that both Mrs. Kawashiri and I are thoroughly Americanized in other parts of our lives, in our social interaction with other Japanese we play the complicated Japanese social ballet.

After making my apologies I said good-bye to Mariko and returned to the office. The phone was ringing when I got to the office, and I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that maybe it was Mariko calling again because something else had happened at the boutique. Instead, when I picked up the phone I was surprised to hear Rita Newly’s voice on the line.

“Don’t you have a service or answering machine?” she started, irritated.

“No, and before we continue this conversation, you’re going to give me your phone number and your address so I can contact you when it’s necessary.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she gave me a number and address in the San Fernando valley, which I wrote down on a slip of paper, along with her name.

“Now, I want my property,” Rita said.

“I think a friend of yours has already tried to get the package.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning a Caucasian man calling himself George Martin just tried to tear apart the Kawashiri Boutique here in Little Tokyo, demanding your package.”

Silence.

“I figure he must be a friend of yours. I told you the package was somewhere near my office and safe, so he probably hung around the office and followed me to the boutique. Unfortunately, that’s not where the package is,” I lied. “All he succeeded in doing was tearing up the shop and causing trouble.”

“Damn!”

“Exactly.”

“Look, Mr. Tanaka, I did have a friend of mine follow you, but he wasn’t supposed to do anything. If he did something stupid, it was completely on his own. It’s just that the package is very important to me, and I don’t want to have to trust you without knowing where it might be.” A pause. “Do you think five hundred dollars would cover whatever damage he might have done?”

“I’ll check with the owner of the boutique and call you right back at the number you’ve given me.” I figured I was being clever, checking that the phone number was valid.

“I’ll be waiting.”

I called the boutique, and Mrs. Kawashiri’s warm and friendly voice came on the line.

“Mrs. Kawashiri, I just talked to the owner of the package, and she offered to pay you five hundred dollars for the damage caused.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“I don’t want the money. What I want to see is that guy in jail. He has no right to do this to my shop. He can’t make things right by just paying for the damage he’s done.”

“I understand your feelings, Mrs. Kawashiri,” I said. “But I really think you should take the money. It’s being offered by the owner of the package, not the guy who was in your shop.”

“Why?”

“Because she knows the guy. Besides, even if they do catch this guy and bring him to court, the chances of him really being seriously punished are almost nonexistent.”

“But don’t you think it’s important for people to know they can’t buy their way out of problems?” she said.

“Yes, I do. But sometimes what’s important and what actually happens are two different things.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Mrs. Kawashiri said. “It’s not right. It’s just not right.”

“Sometimes we can’t always do what’s right in this world. Look, how about this as a compromise?” I suggested. “Why don’t you take the money to repair the damage done, but I’ll tell them that the money doesn’t absolve them of any criminal penalties which might be involved.”

Mrs. Kawashiri considered for a moment, then said, “Okay. Let’s try that. But I don’t want any more than three hundred fifty dollars. That’s what I think it will cost to clean the dresses that require it. I don’t want any more.”

“All right.”

“Thank you for your help in this, Ken-san.”

I hung up and called Rita Newly back and was almost surprised to hear her answering the phone.

“Mrs. Kawashiri only wants three hundred fifty dollars. That’s all it will take to clean the dresses. She also wants you to know that this doesn’t absolve your friend of any criminal charges.”

“She doesn’t want all the money?” Rita was incredulous.

“That’s what I said.”

“Fine. Now, how about my package?”

I checked my watch. “Well, I’m actually late for an appointment. I don’t want to be petty, but I figure you can wait until after my appointment for me to call you and settle this package thing.”

“Damn it, Mr. Tanaka . . .”

I gently put the receiver back on the hook. I was stalling because I knew I was going to turn the package over to the police. Besides, I know I said I didn’t want to be petty, but I have to admit that there was a certain satisfaction in being petty, no matter what my better nature said.

On a whim, I called back to the boutique and asked Mariko if she wanted to have dinner. She told me that she was helping Mrs. Kawashiri take some of the dresses to the dry cleaners, and I immediately volunteered to help. Before leaving I took the two warranty claims out of my pocket and put them in the top drawer of the desk.