Southern Fried Sushi (3 page)

“Associated Press.” Mia blinked adorable lashes, those frosty green eyes shining like sea foam. “How exciting! I know someone there—Nora Choi. We studied Japanese together in Kobe University.”

“Nora. Yes. She’s our coworker.” I straightened my slipping purse strap, miffed that Mia had somehow entered the AP circle, if only by acquaintance. The mystery I’d hoped to convey faltered.

Carlos stood there like an idiot, hands in his pockets, and then finally cleared his throat. “Well, let’s go then.” And he turned and headed off through the giggling high school girls. (One of whom tried to take his picture, blowing kisses after him.)

I came to my senses and trotted after Carlos, leaving Kyoko and Mia chatting behind us. I took his arm and tried to talk, but he seemed a million miles away. “The heat, amor,” he said shortly.

“But you’re not even sweating!”

“Well, it’s still hot.” He walked with a sort of swagger. “I’m getting promoted, you know. I’m top seller of the month. Again.”

“You told me. Congratulations.”

“It’s really hard to beat my record. But it’s easy for me. I was born for sales. In fact, they might transfer me to Beijing with a promotion.”

“What? But I thought …” I looked up at him in horror.

“I know. You like Japan.”

We turned a corner, and I coughed back my astonishment. Beijing?

“Hey,
porteño
,” Kyoko called to Carlos over the street noise, using the nickname for Buenos Aires natives. Her world knowledge never failed to impress me. “Did you hear Shiloh’s story on Kobe won—”

“I know. Some little … award,” Carlos interrupted, checking his cell phone.

“It’s not little,” I retorted. “It’s a big deal.” All the press crowds, snapping photos while shaking hands, and international telegrams and wires made sure it was a big deal.

“Sure.” Carlos glanced back at Mia and smiled. Looked at me, struggling for conversation.

We walked in silence a few blocks, interrupted only by the ringing of cicadas and endless chatter on cell phones. A
bento
(lunch box) delivery motorcycle buzzed past.

Behind us I could hear Mia’s musical little laugh as she and Kyoko talked. About what, I have no idea because Kyoko sometimes made a piece of shrimp look sociable.

“So you’re going to room with her?” I peered up at Carlos suspiciously through my sunglasses.

We passed an udon noodle shop where businessmen stood slurping bowls of steaming soup through their chopsticks. The delicious smell made me pause for a minute before he pulled me along.

“I guess.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You really think it’s a good idea?”

“Why? You’re not jealous, are you?” He locked black eyes on me. “Stop being childish, Shiloh! This is business. I could use the

money. I mean, I’ve got an extra room I don’t use.”

“Well, why don’t we …?” I fingered the ring again. I didn’t want to push things too fast, but if we got married now, then …

He touched his forehead, which started to glisten slightly with sweat. “I don’t think now’s a good time. I can’t take vacation yet, and a wedding is a big deal. I want to get married back home. It’s better to wait.”

“Bring your parents here. I can help out with the cost.”

“I’ve got a big family, amor. You have no idea how big.”

“I’ve got money,” I pouted again, feeling stung. “I mean, I do work for—”

He tugged on the corner of my scarf, and I snatched it off in exasperation and stuffed it in my purse. He didn’t even notice. “And that trip you took in February? To Brazil?”

“So what?”

“You should have gone to Arhentina. We’ve got a better Carnival. The Brazilians think theirs is so wonderful because they’ve got samba. But we’ve got something better.”

“What?”

“Arhentinians.”

I rolled my eyes. Carlos could be such a nationalistic snob sometimes.

I glanced back at Mia, fluttering her fan while a breeze tossed those white-blond corkscrews. Her celadon eyes glimmered in her happy face as if playing a practical joke on my heart.

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-three.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not sure I like it.”

Carlos rubbed his face with a free hand in annoyance. “I’m helping her out, that’s all. It’s more for her sake. I feel sorry for her.”

“Well, she can come live with me then if she needs help.”

Pure bluff. Housing at the AP apartments would never allow it, and besides, they were already too small. I felt as if I lived in a closet. A nice closet, but still.

“Don’t be silly. You know she can’t live there.” He stopped abruptly on the sidewalk and faced me. “Do you think I would bring her here to meet you if I had other intentions?” He stared me down.

I turned away, blushing. “I guess not.” What a lame answer.

“Then forget it. She’ll only stay a few months. I promise.”

“Months?”

“Weeks. Whatever.”

I laced my fingers through his as if to make sure he stayed with me, no matter what, and tried to push Mia Robinson out of my mind.

Kyoko didn’t say much on the way back. She pretended to be absorbed in her cell phone, typing out text messages nonstop until I finally grabbed her phone and snapped it shut.

“Hey! What’d you do that for?” She scowled. “Now I have to type it all over again.”

I tried to erase the troubled line from my brow, but I couldn’t. “You think it’s a bad idea? Mia and …?”

Kyoko shrank her eyes into dark lines. “You really want to know?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, it’s a bad idea. A very bad idea,” she hissed.

I lifted my chin. “Well, you don’t know Carlos.”

Kyoko grabbed her cell phone back. “Do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean you haven’t known the man for what … eight months? It raises a lot of red flags.”

“Ten. And what do you know about red flags?” I played with the zipper on my purse and fumed. It was also a Louis Vuitton. Okay, so I’d broken my promise. But just that once.

“You asked. I answered.”

“Well, you’ll see. It’ll turn out fine.”

“Besides, Ro, is that even legal?” She squinted at me. “I mean, the company obviously pays for his housing. I doubt they’d be too keen on subletting, no matter how many rooms he has. Did you ever think about that?”

She had a point. Leave it to legal Kyoko. I caught a flash of my face in the glass, lips curved into an unhappy frown. I forced a smile and lifted my head.

“Carlos is my fiancé. I can trust him.” I changed the subject. “Did you go to law school or something?”

She ignored me. “Just the same, better keep him away from Miss Australia for the time being.”

I plodded back to the office in silence, straightening my hair and tying on my scarf in the bathroom mirror. Kyoko reapplied her already dark eyeliner and some purple-brown lipstick. She pressed her lips together, looking like one of those sad, black-clad rockers strumming guitars in subway corners.

We had just come through the glass double doors of the office when Bob the copyeditor jumped out at me. “Good thing you’re back. Dave’s waiting for you.”

“Dave? Why?”

“Says you’re late on a story. He’s not happy.”

I recoiled as if bitten by one of the Japanese monkeys that hung out near the hot springs. They routinely stole lunches and grabbed soft-drink cans. One even tried to carry off Kyoko’s gigantic purse, which is nearly as big as me.

“What? I turned everything in! The Fujimori speech with the faux-pas reference to the shrine. The new recycling bill. The one about—”

“The prime minister’s wife,” Bob finished in irritation.

Sudden horror rose in my stomach, and I felt the floor suddenly buckle, earthquake-like. But I steadied myself and feigned relief. “Oh, of course!” I waved it aside like a pesky bug.

“I’ll send it to you.”

“He’s scheduled a meeting with you at two fifteen.”

I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes.

“No problem. I’ll talk to Dave.”

I hurried back to my desk, pins and needles tingling at the ends of my fingers. My breathing turned shallow, and I sat down quickly at my desk, rubbing my face with trembling hands.

Calm, calm
, I willed myself, trying to get a grip. The prime minister’s wife story. I remember it now. I’d been so consumed with the Diet story and understanding the complex Japanese government issues (and equally complex Carlos, I had to admit) that somehow I’d forgotten the PM’s wife.

I opened my calendar and flipped back through my list of assignments, and to my horror red ink glared at me—deadlined for Wednesday. Today was Friday. Afternoon.

I grabbed my Rolodex and riffled through it with shaking fingers, nearly tearing the pages until I came to the official governmental numbers. Normally I’d have gotten a secretary to make the appointment for me days ago, but in the haste somehow I’d forgotten.

How? How?
I pounded my fingers into the soft fabric of my chair, wondering how on earth something so important could have slipped my mind. I’d never, ever turned in a story late—especially one so stunningly important. Shiloh the award-winning rookie—barely out of college and halfway through her master’s—did not turn in stories late.

If I failed now, I’d fail at everything. Dave would bawl me out. He’d never said a cross word to me, although once I saw Nora Choi fleeing to the bathroom in tears after a heated discussion in his office. The same day he broke the copy machine in half.

What would I say? “Sorry, Dave. I haven’t even started”?

I grabbed the phone and punched in some numbers then hung up. What am I doing? I don’t want Kyoko and the whole world to hear me calling the Japanese government at one thirty inthe afternoon on a Friday! I snatched up my Rolodex and fled to a conference room then shut the door and dialed again. I could hear my panicked breathing as I waited for the sound of ringing.

Please, please pick up!

No answer. I dialed again desperately, keeping an eye on the slowly moving second hand on the clock. Tried another number then another. Finally the beautiful sound of a human voice.

I blurted out my request in my best Japanese, begging for just five minutes to speak to the prime minister’s wife or one of her representatives. I’d just started my lengthy Japanese apology when the receptionist abruptly put me on hold.

I tapped my foot impatiently, maneuvering myself over to the sleek computer on the desk, phone under my chin. Opened a fresh page and set up all the correct headings and formats to save time. I could type the interview, if a miracle occurred, straight into the story.

“Moshi moshi
?” asked a professionally crisp voice. “Hello?”

I introduced myself and begged his mercy then pleaded to speak to the prime minister’s wife. I knew I’d breached all possible protocol, and even Japanese etiquette, by demanding something on the spot—but it was my last recourse. They should know me by now. I’ve interviewed the Japanese prime minister, for crying out loud! I’m dependable! I’m good! I’m …

He was saying something about France. “I’m sorry?”

“France,” he repeated. “The prime minister’s wife is in France.”

I lowered my head to the wall and banged it silently. I knew that, I knew that! They’d given me her schedule already. “I’m sorry. Could I please speak to someone else? It’s urgent, and I really need to—”

“
Sumimasen
. I’m sorry.” And he hung up. Didn’t even bother to give me the typical Japanese runaround where they put you on hold for two hours and rummage for something in a nonexistent file, too polite to actually say no.

I put the phone back in its cradle and slumped there in front of the computer, looking at the empty story with no lines of text. Just a headline and subhead and my poor little by-line looking lost and lonely: Shiloh P. Jacobs.

The cursor blinked.

A scant thirty minutes stood between me and S
HILOH
G
ETS
B
AWLED
O
UT BY
D
AVE
D
RISCOLL
—with a possible sidebar on bodily injury and severance pay.

AP reporters never missed deadline.

And especially not for Dave.

I took a deep breath and glanced shakily up at the clock. That useless phone call just cost me ten precious minutes. I shuffled through my notes to find anything I could write about, racking my brain to think where I could get some information fast. I almost ran to Kyoko for help, but she’d yell at me, too. Besides, she didn’t usually do Japanese government stories.

Tokyo (AP)
—, I typed.

At that exact moment, as the cursor winked, something caught my eye: a little blue icon opening the Internet.

I licked my lips and stared at it, trying to think through my racing pulse.

I moved my hand to the mouse. And then, all of a sudden, I clicked on it.