Quicksilver (Nameless Detective) (12 page)

The first thing I did when I entered the flat was to check the telephone book for a local listing on either Sanjiro Masaoka or Kazuo Hama. No luck; it wasn’t going to be that easy.

My answering machine had one message on it—from Jeanne Emerson, asking again if I would please call her as soon as possible. No, I would not please call her as soon as possible. I would call her tomorrow—maybe. On the other hand, if I ignored her she might just go away; and that might be the best solution for all of us. Especially for me, craven coward that I was when it came to women.

I called Kerry instead and asked her if I could come over and tell her about my day and maybe continue our discussion on primitive mating habits. She said, “I know you, you’ve got lust in your heart,” and I said, “Yup,” and she said, “All right, then, I’ll risk it. Come ahead. I’ll see what I can find for dinner.”

What she’d found for dinner, I discovered when I got there, was a tuna fish salad with hardboiled eggs and some crackers and an apple for dessert. She saw me looking at it and told me to quit making faces and sit down and eat. I obeyed; I would have eaten anything right then, including the asparagus fem she had hanging in one corner of the dining area.

Over coffee I gave her a rundown of my day. We discussed matters for a while, to no particular conclusion. Then I made a fire with a Presto-log and we sat on the couch and watched the rain patter down outside her picture window, distorting the lights of the city. The fire and the rain made me drowsy and amorous at the same time. So I showed her a few of my primitive moves, the preliminary ones, and she suggested I show her the rest of my repertoire in the bedroom. We got up and walked in there holding hands.

Well, it should have been a terrific finale after all that buildup. It should have been passion and excitement and atavism and fulfillment, followed by tenderness and languor and gentle touching. It should have been a lot of things like that, but it wasn’t any of them. It wasn’t any damned thing at all.

I fell asleep waiting for her to come out of the bathroom in her sexy black negligee.

I didn’t get any loving in the morning, either. Kerry was already up and in the shower when I woke up at seven-thirty; I remembered groggily that even though it was Saturday, she had an early meeting at Bates and Carpenter. I lurched into the bathroom with the idea of getting something started in the shower, but by the time I got there she was on her way out. I made a grab at all that pink and glowing flesh; she swatted me with her towel, hard enough to sting.

“Well, well,” she said, “the big lover’s alive after all.”

“Ah, hell, I’m sorry I fell asleep. But I had a rough day. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I tried to wake you up. You’ve probably got bruises all over you from me trying to wake you up.”

I made another grab for her, and she smacked me again with the towel. “I don’t have time now, Don Juan,” she said. “You had your chance.”

I said something petulant.

“Go weigh yourself,” she said.

“What? What kind of suggestion is that?”

“
Weigh
, you idiot, not lay. Go weigh yourself on my scale. Let’s see how much weight you’ve lost so far.”

Grumbling, I went and stepped on the scale. It was one of those fancy jobs with frilly covers that women have and I felt foolish standing on it all naked and hairy. Two hundred and twenty-seven pounds, it said. Give or take half a pound.

“Down about three,” I said over my shoulder.

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. I been starving myself for two weeks for a lousy three pounds.”

“Well, it takes time,” she said. “You’ll lose a lot all at once. It always works that way.”

“Yeah,” I said, “sure,” and got off the scale and into the shower. I thought about three rashers of bacon and flapjacks with maple syrup and a whole canteloupe. Then I got out and dried myself and dressed and Kerry served me two softboiled eggs and half a grapefruit for breakfast. I felt a little like bawling.

She left for the agency at eight-twenty, while I was still working on my coffee and feeling deprived. I was in no hurry myself; I didn’t want to go knocking on doors before nine o’clock, and I couldn’t get in touch with Harry Fletcher at the DMV before nine-thirty. I picked up one of the pulps I’d loaned Kerry and tried to read a story by William Campbell Gault, one of the best of the old pulpsters; but I was too hungry and restless to enjoy it. I got up and paced around instead, finishing my coffee.

Kerry’s apartment is big—two bedrooms, one of them converted into an office; living room, dining area, kitchen, two bathrooms, and a utility porch. Among other features, it has modernistic furniture with lots of chrome and sharp angles and whitish, tweedy-looking upholstery; massive paintings of the abstract impressionist type, emphasis on blacks and whites and oranges; an antique brass double bed, the only nonmodern furnishing in the place; and lots of bookshelves full of all sorts of fiction and nonfiction, because Kerry is a reader like me and has much more catholic tastes. I liked all of those things—they were warm and comfortable and individual and a little unconventional, just as Kerry herself was. The only thing I didn’t like about the place, in fact, was that she kept framed photographs of her parents in the bedroom, and it always seemed as though Ivan the Terrible was watching us make love and maybe thinking up evil curses to wither my immortal soul. He was an expert on the occult, after all.

Without Kerry there, the apartment felt incomplete. It also made me feel doubly deprived—but then, I only had myself to blame for my sexual frustration. Falling asleep like that ... my God! The next step was probably lapses of memory and eccentric behavior, and the one after that would be commitment to a home where a battery of nurses could take turns wiping the drool off my chin.

Time to go to work, I thought. Busy hands are happy hands and all that crap. I put the coffee cup in the kitchen, rinsed it out, got my coat, locked the apartment door behind me with Kerry’s spare key, walked downstairs and outside, started toward where I had left my car—and came to a sudden standstill.

Across the street and fifty yards down the block was a familiar white Ford with two Japanese guys sitting in it.

It made me more angry than anything else The first thing I thought was that they’d followed me here from my flat last night, even though I’d been watching and hadn’t spotted them. Then I remembered that Kerry’s name had been in the news story about Tamura’s death, and that she was listed in the telephone book. After I’d surprised them yesterday, they must have switched tactics and gone to tail
her
instead.

I put my hands in my overcoat pockets so the two guys wouldn’t see me clenching them. Then I walked over there, not doing it in any hurry. It wasn’t raining at the moment, although the sky was heavy with clouds, and I could see them both clearly through the windshield. They didn’t do anything except watch me in return—didn’t even move their heads.

When I came up onto the sidewalk in front of them I saw that the driver’s window was rolled down. So I kept on going until I was abreast of it and then stopped and squatted down and looked in at them. The one with the nose like a blob of putty was behind the wheel today; he stared back at me with an expression as blank as an erased slate. The other one ran a finger slowly and rhythmically over his mustache and looked straight ahead, trancelike, as if he were a Buddhist monk trying to achieve Nirvana.

“Something I can do for you boys?” I said.

Neither of them responded. The putty-nosed one kept on staring through me; I might have been a lamppost or a fire hydrant, or not there at all.

“Yesterday morning, out by China Beach,” I said. “You followed me there and I spotted you and got your license number. Remember?”

Silence.

“I don’t like to be followed,” I said. “And I especially don’t like having friends of mine followed. If you want something from me, suppose you just cut out the crap and get right down to it.”

Silence. The putty-nosed one turned his head slightly and I saw his eyes flicker to the CB radio unit mounted under the dash.

“Go ahead,” I said, “call up whoever you’re working for. Tell him I’m here waiting. Tell him to come talk to me so we can get this business finished.”

More silence. The other guy quit stroking his mustache, but that was all that happened. They just sat there. I had the thought that if I reached in and smacked one or the other they wouldn’t even try to retaliate. Not without orders.

There wasn’t anything more for me to say. I straightened, put my back to the Ford, and recrossed the street to where my car was parked. When I got inside I rolled the window down and adjusted the side-view mirror so I could watch them while I started the engine and let it warm up. The putty-nosed guy was talking into the CB microphone; I could see the handset and the cord even from this distance.

Ten to one they get the same orders they got yesterday, thought. Cease and desist—for the time being.

But I would have lost the bet. Damned if they didn’t pull out behind me as I drove off, and damned if they didn’t follow me all the way to my flat in Pacific Heights.

The Department of Motor Vehicles was open half a day on Saturday. I got through to Harry Fletcher at nine-forty, spelled out the two names that had been on the back of the photograph, told him their approximate ages, and asked him to get me addresses for all California residents who matched up. Neither name seemed particularly common, although I was no expert on Japanese nomenclature. Fletcher wasn’t either; he said to give him an hour, just in case.

I decided there were better things to do with that hour than hang around the flat. I checked the answering machine, discovered that nobody had called me since last evening, and went back out to my car. When I glanced up at the rear-view mirror after half a block, the white Ford was right there in my wake again.

I considered trying a few maneuvers to shake them. But I was too old for fast driving games; and I would have had to detour all the way downtown to try shaking them in traffic. Besides which, they would only show up at my flat again later on. Or worse, go bother Kerry again. The best thing to do was to let them tag along and see that I wasn’t doing anything sinister or thrilling, and maybe that would convince them to go away. If not, I would have to find some way to deal with them later on.

So I drove straight out California Street without paying much attention to the Ford. Number 2610 was an old, beige, stucco apartment house a few blocks this side of Children’s Hospital—the kind with a wide front stoop and fire escapes zig-zagging down its facade like livid scars. There was a bus zone in front of it; I parked there illegally. The two
kobun
drove on by, turned the corner, and stopped alongside a fire hydrant, which was even more illegal.

I went up onto the front stoop of 2610 and hunted among the mailbox nameplates until I found
K. Yamasaki, Apt.
7. I pushed the button next to that one and kept my finger on it for fifteen seconds or so. Nothing happened, except that an elderly Japanese lady came down the flight of stairs inside, opened the door, and stepped out.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Do you know Ken Yamasaki?”

She gave me one of those looks people reserve for strangers who might also be insurance or household accessory salesmen: half wary, half blank. “Yes?” she said.

“He doesn’t seem to be in. Would you happen to know where I can find him?”

“Yes?” she said.

“Where would that be?”

“Yes?”

“Ma’am ... do you speak English?”

“Yes?”

“Terrific. Sorry to have bothered you.” I started down the steps, paused, and said, “Uh,
sayonara.
”

“Yes,” she said, without the question mark this time, and bobbed her head and grinned as she followed after me.

I was pretty slow this morning: It didn’t occur to me until I was getting into the car that she probably did speak English and had been putting me on the whole time.

I stopped at a Chevron station out near Park Presidio Drive, and while an attendent fed the car I went to the phone booth nearby and rang up the DMV again. There were two sixtyish Kazuo Hamas living in California, Fletcher told me, only one up here in the northern part of the state; that one’s residence was Hama Egg Ranch, Rainsville Road, Petaluma. Petaluma was close to San Francisco—about forty miles away to the north. The other Kazuo Hama lived in Orange County, in some town I had never heard of. I took down his address too.

The DMV records showed a single Sanjiro Masaoka: 72 West Point Avenue, Princeton. Which was even closer to the city, Princeton being a small fishing village snuggled up to the larger community of Half Moon Bay, some twenty-five miles south on Highway One.

I thanked Fletcher, promised him a couple of bottles of Johnnie Walker Red Label—he wouldn’t take money from me because he said it made him feel dishonest—and went back and ransomed the car. When I left the station I swung over to Geary and drove out to the Great Highway and then pointed the car south toward Highway One. I didn’t have anything better to do, the rain was still holding off, and Princeton was a good place to get a seafood lunch, if nothing else. Or it would have been if I hadn’t had my unwanted company.