Autumn Bridge (20 page)

“I have not discovered the pair of matching gold and ivory bracelets contributed to the Bandit by Mr. and Mrs. Berger,” Wu said. “But, of course, that was just yesterday and has not yet — how shall I say — entered the stream of events.”

“I am now completely at a loss,” Stark said. “If you have the proceeds of the robberies, then you must have captured the Bandit.”

Wu shook his head. “I have not.”

“His accomplice, then.”

“No. There is no evidence that he has an accomplice.”

“In that case, how is it that these jewels are in your possession?”

“They were found yesterday in a routine inspection of the women’s quarters here. The women are being questioned, but everyone so far has denied any knowledge of them.”

“By women’s quarters, you mean the bordello.”

“Yes.”

“So one of them has a lover, or a patron, who is the Bandit. It should be simple enough now to discover who he is.” Stark stared hard at Wu. “I fail to see why you have brought me into this.”

“Because it is not so simple,” Wu said. “I was hoping you would help me to solve this mystery in the least painful way for all concerned, and as quickly as possible.”

“How can I do what you cannot? I know far less of this matter than you do.”

“By helping me to put the facts together, and thus perhaps to reason the way to an answer. You are a man of wisdom, sir, everyone says so. Perhaps you will see what escapes the view of others. Item: The Bandit is as adept at breaking in as the best professional burglar. This means he either has training in the art, or much practice. Item: No one has ever seen him entering or leaving any of the houses. He is as stealthy as, say, one of those practitioners of the mystical secret arts of Japanese lore. What are they called?”

“Ninja,” Stark said.

“Yes, ninja. I understand Mrs. Stark had such training in her homeland.”

“You are certainly not suggesting that my wife is the Chinatown Bandit.”

“Of course not, and I apologize most profusely if I gave that impression. I was only pointing out that whoever it is has similar skills.”

“There are less than a hundred Japanese in San Francisco,” Stark said. “I seriously doubt that any of them are ninja.”

“Of course,” Wu said. “To continue. Item: The Bandit is not motivated by material gain. This suggests he has no material needs that are unsatisfied. In short, it strongly indicates that the man is as rich as his victims, if not richer.”

“That’s utterly far-fetched,” Stark said. Where was Wu going with this? Wherever it was, it was beginning to make him uneasy. “Why would a rich man rob anyone? He doesn’t have to.”

“Not out of necessity,” Wu said, “but for the thrill of it. And to give impressive gifts to a pretty girl.”

Stark snorted. “Who would give gifts to a prostitute?”

“Neither you nor I, of course,” Wu said. “We are mature men who do not deceive ourselves about what is real and what is not. But someone with a strong romantic streak, someone very young and impressionable, perhaps, someone without much experience with women — such a young man might think it exactly the right thing to do.”

“You have an idea about who it is. Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to guess?”

Wu shrugged his shoulders. “I was hoping, Mr. Stark, that you would put the facts together and discover the culprit. Of course, if you do, and you can resolve the matter on your own, then there would be no need to involve the authorities, or to force those who may otherwise unjustly suffer injury to resort to vigilante acts. You would look for someone with ninja skills, not driven by material need, young and romantic, inexperienced in matters of love, living perhaps too sheltered a life, one giving rise to a desire for danger and adventure.” Wu paused and bowed before continuing. “Also, someone who is not Chinese, but who might be mistaken for Chinese by those who don’t know better.”

Stark’s chest tightened. The only people in the city who would be mistaken for Chinese were Japanese. And there was, to Stark’s knowledge, one Japanese person who fit Wu’s description exactly, and only one whom Wu would so scrupulously avoid naming in order to keep Stark from losing face. But it couldn’t be, could it? Had Stark been so focused on business concerns that he had failed to see something so outrageous going on right before his eyes? It had to be. Wu was too careful a man to have this meeting with Stark if he were not sure.

“I appreciate your discretion, Mr. Wu,” Stark said at last.

Wu bowed. “As far as I am concerned, Mr. Stark, this conversation never took place.”

“Allow me to compensate you for the loss of business you may have suffered because of the Bandit.”

“Please,” Wu said, raising his hands, “that is completely unnecessary. Putting an end to these crimes is sufficient compensation.” Wu did not mention the Bandit’s booty, now fortuitously in his own hands. Showing the jewels to Stark was necessary to establish the facts. There was, in this particular case, no danger of loss, since Stark could not reveal his own knowledge of them without fatally betraying his own vital interests. Thus, a small fortune in precious gems and metals — for, of course, the jewelry could not remain in their present form — was Wu’s. He was in fact, well compensated for his troubles, and since he had done Stark a favor — it was always useful to do favors for the rich and the powerful — Stark was now in his debt. Not that Wu would ever think to even hint at collecting it. That would be supremely déclassé. Its mere existence was sufficiently favorable.

“My thanks, then,” Stark said. He paused by the door. “May I trouble you a final time before leaving?”

“Please.”

“The girl’s name.”

“When your mother and I came here in ’62,” Stark said, “sixty thousand people lived in San Francisco. Today, the population is a quarter of a million. This city is going to keep growing, and so are opportunities for the quick and the bold.”

“Business opportunities, you mean.” Makoto Stark stared out the living-room window at the city below.

“What other kinds of opportunities are there?”

Makoto looked at Stark. “That’s great, Pop, for people interested in business.”

“There’s a lot to be interested in.”

“Profits and losses, supply and demand, debits and credits,” Makoto said. “Exciting stuff.”

“Paperwork isn’t the business,” Stark said, “it’s a record of the business. Do you know what the Red Hill Consolidated Company actually does?”

“Sure. Sugar, wool, mining. Some factories.”

“We mine iron ore in Canada, and silver in Mexico. We have sheep ranches in California, and sugar plantations in the Hawaiian Kingdom. We operate the biggest sugar refinery in California, and we own the biggest bank in San Francisco.”

Makoto shrugged.

Stark leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been too indulgent with you, and so has your mother.” He thought of Heiko, and thinking of her, he couldn’t be angry with Makoto even now.

“I’ve been doing exactly what you and Mom have told me to do, which is to concentrate on my studies at the university. I’m getting good reports from the professors, aren’t I? Especially in English and literature.”

“English and literature.” Had the world changed so much in such a short time? The father a saddle tramp, the son a literary man, all in one generation? “You’re going to be twenty this year. Seems you should be giving your future serious thought. How do English and literature fit in?”

Makoto smiled. “Did you have your future all mapped out at twenty?”

“Things were different then,” Stark said. Robbing trading posts in Kansas, banks in Missouri. Rustling horses in Mexico, cattle in Texas. Falling in love with a whore in El Paso. Shooting men down in gunfights, nine of them before he was through. “There weren’t as many opportunities for what you would call a career.”

“So I guess it was a lucky thing that you happened to become partners with Mr. Okumichi.”

“Yes,” Stark said, “pure dumb luck.” Mr. Okumichi. He still had trouble thinking of him that way. Okumichi no kami Genji, Great Lord of Akaoka, with the power of life and death over every man, woman, and child in his domain. A warlord dressed in elaborate gowns designed a thousand years ago, his hair arranged in a fancy antique style, two swords at his waist, and ten thousand utterly obedient samurai to do his bidding. Leader of a clan pledged against the Shogun for almost three centuries. All gone now. No topknots, no gown, no swords. No samurai, no domains, no Great Lords, no Shogun. They had not seen each other in twenty years, except in photographs, and their only communication had been through the letters they exchanged with faithful regularity. Stark went to Hawaii every year to check on his sugar plantations, but never went farther west. Genji had traveled to the United States last year, but he had gone by way of Europe, visited New York, Boston, Washington, and Richmond, and returned without coming to California. How could two men be trusted partners and unshakable friends without seeing each other for so long? The power of the past was great indeed. It bound them together forever, and kept them apart forever, because of all the dangers they had braved so many years ago, and of all the people they had known and loved and hated, only one mattered. Heiko. Always, there was Heiko.

Whenever he thought of her, he saw her as she was when they first met. So exquisite, so graceful, so delicate, in a silk kimono covered with a wild embroidery of wind-tossed willow trees. Her English then had been so terribly accented, he could barely understand a word. She learned fast, though, and by the time they left Japan together, she spoke it better than most of the people he’d known in Texas in his youth. He wondered, as he often did, how Genji remembered her.

He would like to tell Makoto about it, all of it, but he couldn’t. He had sworn an oath of secrecy, and he would keep it.

Makoto said, “Not many Americans went to Japan in those days.”

“No, not many.”

“An old friend from your cattle-herding days invited you. Ethan Cruz.”

“That’s right,” Stark said. Found what he’d left behind in the Texas hill country. Tracked him through the deserts and high plains of the West, through Mexico and California, and across the Pacific to Japan. Caught up with him in the mountains above the Kanto Plain. Put one bullet in his chest close to his heart, and the rest from both revolvers into his face. “He had some promising ideas, but took ill and died before the two of us could get started. Mr. Okumichi liked what I had to say, and went partners with me instead. I’ve told you the story a dozen times, at least.”

“Yes, I guess you have,” Makoto said. “You’ve told it the same way each time, too.”

Stark looked at him. “Meaning?”

“Mom told me the most important thing about
ninjitsu
isn’t the fighting part, or the stealth part. It’s being alert to the difference between real and unreal, in word as well as deed. She said there are two ways to catch a liar. The first is easy. Most liars are stupid, and their stories keep changing, because they can’t keep track of what they’ve been saying. The second is hard. A smart liar remembers his lies, and the story doesn’t change. But that’s a giveaway, too. The story stays
exactly
the same, because he’s making sure he remembers
exactly
what he said.”

“The truth itself stays exactly the same, too.”

“The truth does, but not a true telling. Unless you have a memory like a photographic plate, the telling is a little different every time.”

“Why would I lie about how the business got started?”

“I don’t know,” Makoto said. “Maybe there was something unsavory about it. Maybe you were smuggling contraband. Opium, or white slaves.”

“I’ve never smuggled anything in my life,” Stark said. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”

“I don’t really care what happened,” Makoto said. “I just think it’s interesting, that’s all. The only things you lie about that I can tell are your days in Texas, and your days in Japan. Makes me a little curious about what really happened.”

“You’re an expert on lying now?”

Makoto shrugged. “Your life’s your life, Pop. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“Since we’re on the subject anyway,” Stark said, “tell me some lies about Siu-fong.”

Makoto froze.

Stark let the moments pass as Makoto stayed silent. Stark said, “Your mom didn’t tell you the third way, I guess. Which is, the liar gets so tangled up in mendacity, he can’t even get a word out edgewise.”

“I’m not tangled up in anything,” Makoto said. “You’ve never asked about her before. How’d you find out?”

“I had a little conversation with Wu Chun Hing,” Stark said, watching Makoto stall as he tried to figure out how much his father knew. “Siu-fong’s name came up.”

“She hasn’t distracted me from my studies,” Makoto said. “Ask any of my professors and they’ll tell you my work is as excellent as it’s always been.”

“Such a scholar,” Stark said. “I suppose the experience is solely for literary purposes. Or maybe you’re teaching her English.”

“It’s just entertainment,” Makoto said. “But every experience ultimately has possibilities in literature.”