Tengu Page 3

  Beneath the glittering armor, however, the knight had some fatal weaknesses. In 1951, at the peak of his influence within the Navy, a newspaper investigation had implicated him in a bottomless scandal involving opium, surplus war materials, and worst of all, the procuring of young Japanese girls, some of them no more than seven years old, for the pleasure of himself and other key naval personnel and politicians.

  The corruption had been so deep-laid that Ouvarov had been permitted to resign his command without any formal proceedings against him. As one Pentagon official was heard to remark, “If they court-martial Ouvarov, they’ll have to court-martial the whole damned Navy.”

  Ernest Ouvarov had changed his name, and worked for years in San Francisco for a transshipment company. Most people in San Francisco still called him “Fred Milward,” and thought of him as nothing more than the moderately prosperous vice president of Bay Shipping, Inc. Two months ago, though, a young Japanese lady called Nancy Shiranuka had called at his office, and his life had never been the same.

  He watched Nancy for a minute or two, and then crossed the bare room to the black table. He opened a lacquered box and took out a cigarette. He came back toward her, tapping the cigarette on his thumbnail.

  Nancy said, “Okay, if that’s the best you can do. Call me again when you have more news. Yes, I’m sorry, too. Yes. But tell them to keep a real low profile. That’s right.”

  Ernest left the room and went into the kitchen in search of a light. He came back again, smoking with affected indifference. Nancy said, “Call me later,” and put down the phone.

  “Well,” asked Ernest, “what was all that about?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You’re not sure? That was Yoshikazu, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But he thinks something’s gone wrong. The police are everywhere, and he can’t get close enough to find out.”

  “Wrong?” queried Ernest, wrinkling his nose, just the way he used to on the bridge of the USS

  Ferndale. “What the hell could have gone wrong?”

  “I don’t know. But Yoshikazu’s worried.” Ernest sucked fiercely at his cigarette, and then blew out smoke. “The whole operation was perfectly planned. I can’t believe that anything’s gone wrong. Even Yoshkazu isn’t that dumb.”

  Nancy absentmindedly tied the cord of her silk robe. The sun shone on her hair. “Perfect planning doesn’t always mean perfect execution. You should know that. Even when you’re dealing with ordinary people, things can go wrong.’’

  “You don’t have to give me a lesson in personnel management,’’ snapped Ernest. ‘ This whole thing was set up so tight that nobody had any room to move. Not even the brightest member of the team had room to think. There was no improvisation, no contingency plan, nothing but a sequence of precisely controlled and coordinated events. It can’t have gone wrong.”

  “Yoshikazu seems to think it has.”

  “Well, in that case, he’s probably talking his usual gibberish.”

  “What are you going to do?” smiled Nancy, slyly. “Clap him in irons? Send him off on the next clipper to Shanghai?”

  Ernest scratched the iron-gray stubble on his angular chin. Ht still felt unsettled, working with civilians. His father had been a naval commander before him, and his grandfather had been a friend of Teddy Roosevelt, back in his Rough Rider days. Ernest could only think of life as a battle plan, and he mentally graded the people he had to deal with as admirals, fellow officers, or idiots. Each day presented its difficulties like a fleet of hostile ships, and each difficulty could only be overcome by classic naval tactics. He even walked his three retrievers, John, Paul, and Jones, in line formation.

  Only Nancy Shiranuka knew all about those moments when he disembarked (inside his mind) from his self-imposed regime of naval discipline. Those moments when he sought, perversely and desperately, the consolation of girl-children, and extraordinary sexual techniques. He called those moments his “shore leave.”

  “We need some up-to-date intelligence,” he said. “Can’t Yoshikazu find out what’s happening?”

  “He’s going to try, Commander. But right now the whole area is crawling with police.”

  Ernest crushed out his cigarette. “Dammit, I should have entrusted this one to somebody with experience.’’ He added, with expressive contempt: “Yoshikazu. The nearest Yoshikazu’s been to Tokyo is the Japanese take-out on Sunset and Fairfax.’’

  “I trust him,” said Nancy, pointedly. “I believe it’s better if we simply wait.’’

  Ernest looked at her with a testy expression, and then nodded. “All right. We’ll give him an hour. If he doesn’t report in by then, we’ll go take a look for ourselves. Meanwhile, let’s keep the television going. They might have a news bulletin.”

  Nancy gave a sarcastic salute. “Aye, aye, Commander. Anything you say.”

  The old commander ignored her. “Why don’t you have Kimo fix some breakfast? I’m getting damned hungry. Have him fix some of that dashimaki tamago.”

  Nancy paused for a moment, a slight smile on her face. Then she picked up a small square silver bell from the telephone table and tinkled it. After a while, a young Japanese in a white shirt, white jeans, and a white headband came into the room and stood, waiting.

  ‘The commander has a taste for your eggs this morning, Kemo,” said Nancy.

  Kemo looked across at the commander, and gave a brief, correct nod of his head. If anyone had nodded to him like that in the Navy, the commander would have had him up on a charge of dumb insolence. But Ernest turned irritably away, parted the slatted bamboo blinds with two fingers, and glared out at the trees of Alta Loma Road until Kemo had gone back to his kitchen.

  Nancy asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering, for the six hundredth time, whether this whole damned carnival is ever going to work.”

  “You’re not paid to wonder. You’re paid to make it work.”

  “Correction,” said Ernest. “I’m paid to make my pan of it work. I can’t be responsible for the rest of this ragbag collection of Oriental hoodlums.’’

  Nancy gave a high, tittering laugh. “Sometimes you’re so fierce. You’re just like Gary Grant in Destination Tokyo.”

  “You like that movie?” asked Ernest, surprised.

  “It’s one of my favorites. I like especially the scene where the Japanese pilot parachutes into the water and stabs to death the American seaman who is trying to pull him out.”

  “You would,” growled Ernest. “But I never saw anyone, Jap or American, anything but eternally grateful to be hauled out of the drink. Maybe it just appealed to your cruel sense of humor.”

  “I thought you enjoyed my cruel sense of humor.”

  “Hmh? Well, there’s a time and a place for everything.’’

  Nancy came toward him, raising her arms. The silk sash of her robe slipped apart, revealing her naked body. She was slim and pale, the color of Japanese provincial pottery, and her breasts were tiny and round with dark nipples that always reminded Ernest of those cups that conjurors use to hide dice. Between the thighs of her slim, short legs, her black pubic hair had been trimmed into the shape of a heart.

  Ernest raised his skinny, sinewy arm. “Now, you get away, Nancy. It’s too early. We’ve got this whole operation going snafu, we don’t know what in hell’s going on, and you know as well as I do that we’re going to have Gerard Crowley coming down on top of us by the end of the day like fifteen tons of hot shit. The Huck Finn of Bevcrly Hills.”

  Still smiling, Nancy pressed her bare body up against him, and reached up to ruffle his silver hair. “You shouldn’t call him that,” she cooed. “You know he doesn’t like it.”

  “What else should I call him? He’s a good old country boy, isn’t he, if you want it put politely?

  Now, let go of me, will you?”

  “I wonder what you call me behind my back,” Nancy whispered. “The Dragon Lady?�
��

  Ernest gripped her waist, and twisted her away from him. But then his towel slipped, and he had to release her to save his decency. She tittered again, that high birdlike laugh, and Ernest’s neck went red with irritation.

  “I should have slammed the door in your face that very first day I saw you,” he growled.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Milward,” Nancy mocked. “That would never have done. Think of what you would have missed.”

  Kemo appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea. Nancy drew her robe around herself as he sulkily crossed the room and set the delicate cups and teapot down on the low table.

  “Dashimaki tamago five minutes,” he said, and slip-slopped out again.

  Ernest sighed and sat creakily down on the floor. Nancy poured out two cups of tea, and then sat down beside him, cross-legged. Her robe was wide open again, and he couldn’t help noticing how the heel of her right foot, drawn up under her, parted the bright pink lips of her silk-haired sex. He closed his eyes and inhaled the strange, smoky smell of the Japanese tea.

  “You have no need to fear anything,” said Nancy, in a quiet, monotonous voice. “Even if things have gone wrong this morning, nobody can possibly trace the Tengu back to us. You know that as well as I. And it had to be done. It is all part of the preparations.”

  “There could have been some other way. I told Crowley that.” Ernest spoke without opening his eyes.

  “Crowley wanted to make sure it really worked. And you can scarcely blame him for that, can you, when you think how much money he’s spent?”

  “I don’t know. In my book, the best tactics arc those which are mounted in secrecy. Then–when you can’t keep the secrecy up any longer–you keep your enemy guessing by laying smoke, and taking up unexpected and confusing positions.”

  “Ernest,” said Nancy, in the same quiet voice, “we are not fighting frigates. This is not Midway anymore. And what in the world could be more confusing to everybody than what the Tengu was sent out to do this morning?” Ernest opened his eyes. He peered into his steaming teacup, and watched the dark leaves floating around and around.

  “My God,” he said, under his breath. “What a strange assortment of lost individuals we are.

  What a cause we’re fighting for.’’

  “Is money such a terrible cause?” asked Nancy.

  Ernest thought, and then grimaced, and shook his head.

  Nancy leaned over toward him and kissed the roughness of his cheek. He kept his eyes open, watching her, so that when she came close he was almost squinting. She sat up straight again, and said, “I have a woodblock print somewhere by Eisen, in the style of Ukiyo-e sbunga prints. It shows a Yoshiwara courtesan anointing her lover’s organ with sake before they make love.”

  Ernest stared at her suspiciously. But he made no attempt to ward her off when she reached across and loosened his towel. With one tug, she bared his already-stiffened penis and his salt-and-pepper hair.

  She uncrossed her legs and knelt beside him. She kissed him again, on the forehead. She smelled slightly of sweat, but mostly of some musky, deep-noted perfume.

  “We have no sake,” she said. “But we have something that will please you even more.”

  With one small hand, she stroked his penis up and down, so slowly and leisurely that he felt like gripping his hand over hers and forcing her to rub him faster. But this was one of those times when she was completely in control. He had to wait. He had to obey. If he didn’t, the spell, and the experience she had in store for him, would be forfeit at once.

  He said hoarsely, “Nancy...”

  She raised one immaculately lacquered fingertip to her lips. Then, still slowly stroking him, she reached across to the tea tray and picked up one of the small white towels that were laid beside a dish of salted plums.

  Ernest felt his heart slow up, then quicken, like a man struggling to keep himself afloat in a heavy sea.

  Nancy took the lid off the teapot and lowered the towel into the boiling-hot tea. She swirled it around for a moment, and then lifted it out. Hot tea ran onto the tray and across the table.

  Ernest said, “You’re not...”

  She smiled. She said nothing. With a deft flick of her wrist, she wound the scalding towel around the hard shaft and swollen head of Ernest’s penis, and gave him a brief, vicious squeeze.

  He burst out with a short, sharp shout of pain. He felt as if his whole erection was exploding.

  But then the pain seemed to detonate into something else altogether. More than pain. More than pleasure. A brief dark instant of that terrible feeling which he craved and feared like a drug. It seemed as if his insides were boiling, as If his brain were going to burst into thousands of pieces.

  But then he ejaculated, and his semen fell across the back of Nancy’s wrist.

  The world and the room gradually refocused, as if he were adjusting a pair of binoculars.

  Everything returned, almost absurdly, to normal. Nancy wiped her hands and arms with the towel, and pulled her robe around herself with stylized modesty. Ernest, feeling stunned and sore, reached down and slowly gathered up his towel.

  “Now you know the meaning of Ukiyo’’ said Nancy. “The floating world of pleasure.”

  “I also know the meaning of burned balls,” Ernest told her in a coarse whisper. “You’re a devil, you know that? Much more of a devil than any of those damned Tengus.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps,’’ said Nancy. “But even devils are sometimes obliged to live a symbiotic life. I need you, and you need me, and perhaps we should offer a prayer that we found each other in the prime of life.”

  Ernest, wincing, bent forward and took a salted plum from the tray. He chewed it thoughtfully.

  “My prime,” he said, “was when I was standing on the fantail of the USS FernJale, watching the whole Japanese fleet blazing like the Fourth of July.’’

  Nancy touched his hand consolingly. “I’m sorry I can’t give you an action replay here in my living room. But it won’t be long, will it, before I can offer you something very much like it?”

  Ernest didn’t answer. Kemo came in with the Japanese omelets.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sergeant Skrolnik of the Hollywood police department watched with deep moroseness as two medics from the coroner’s office lifted the white-sheeted stretcher from the living room floor and took it unsteadily outside through the broken French doors.

  The yellow drapes were stirred by the morning breeze as the medics made their way down the path between the fan palms and the poinsettia, and out to the waiting car. The sloping sidewalk was crowded with blank-faced, shuffling spectators.

  The day was glaring and hot, and getting hotter. Skrolnik took off his crumpled linen coat and laid it over the back of a chair. Detective Pullet came through from the bathroom with a pair of small blue satin panties in a self-sealing plastic bag. He stood beside Skrolnik without saying a word, chewing his lip and looking at the wide brown splatter of blood on the rug. There were even splashes of blood up the walls, in the shape of commas and question marks and exclamation points, as if Sherry Cantor’s dying struggle had been punctuated like a comic book. Skrolnik offered Pullet a stick of Wrigley’s, but Pullet shook his head.

  “More hygienic than chewing your damned mouth,” said Skrolnik, without any particular rancor.

  Pullet nodded.

  Skrolnik said, “There are more damned bacteria in the human mouth than down the damned sewer. If you kiss somebody’s ass, instead of their mouth, it seems like you’re doing yourself a favor.”

  Pullet nodded again.

  The two detectives were noticeably ill matched. Skrolnik was short and heavily built, with fraying hair like fuse wire, and a bulbous Slavic face. When they were younger, his two sons had taken delight in squeezing his nose as if it were the horn on a Model T, and there were still one or two fellow officers who were sorely tempted to give it a quick parp when they passed him in the corridor.

  But. Skrolnik was known as a hard man. He p
layed by the rules, straight down the line, and he made sure that everybody else did too, whether they were prostitutes or politicians, winos or brother lawmen. The bunco squad still talked about the day he had caught his partner taking money from a drug racketeer, and had taken him into an alley and beaten him so hard that the man had taken three weeks’ sick leave with broken ribs.

  Skrolnik was 41, a career policeman with twenty years of service behind him. His father, a barber, had always wanted him to be a judge. But Skrolnik had known his own limitations, and he was satisfied for the most pan with what he was. He could be oddly romantic at times, and he doted on his plump wife Sarah and their two plump children. He liked beer and television and taking his family out to the International House of Pancakes.

  Out on the streets, though, Skrolnik was caustic and unforgiving. He was even readier than most to shoot first and discuss the Dodgers afterward. Three of his partners had died in five years, and Skrolnik was quite certain that he didn’t want to end up with his face on the road, watching his lifeblood draining away down the gutter.

  Pullet, on the other hand, was nervous and erratic. He was tall and skinny, with a great wave of brown hair, loose wrists, and a way of grimacing so violently that people often thought they might have offended him without knowing how. At college in Philadelphia, Pullet’s lecturers had marked him for a better-than-avcrage research chemist. But one silent snowy night, Pullet’s kindly parents had died in the wreckage of their 1961 Plymouth on the Burlington Pike, and Pullet had given up science and wandered off like a stray dog.

  Pullet had traveled west by bus, and stayed for several months in a boarding house in San Francisco, under an assumed name. He had played chess in caf6s and thrown pebbles at the ocean. He had eaten more Chinese food than was good for him. He had developed a passion for girls in very short shorts.

  Eventually, one foggy fall, he had driven south to Los Angeles in a rented Pinto and signed up as a policeman. He could never say why; he didn’t even understand it himself. But his officers found him enthusiastic and occasionally inspired, and they could almost forgive his twitches and his unpolished shoes. Skrolnik tried not to think about him too much, but liked him in a big-brotherly, scruff-of-the-neck fashion, and frequently invited him back to his suburban house in Santa Monica for burned wieners, half-thawed apple pie, and a tumble around the crabgrass with his two children.