The Crafty Teddy (6 page)

“What was he telling folks?”

“That Ash had invited Poole over to our house one afternoon while I was in Harrisonburg at a doctor’s appointment. The inference was that she was eager—panting almost—for a little laying-on of his hands.”

Richert shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”

“Ash was incredibly hurt and ashamed when she found out what Poole had said.” I tightened my hand around the plastic glass until my knuckles were white. “Nobody does that to my wife. And my only regret is that the randy reverend was in the wind before I could come back to conduct a little amateur dental extraction work on his front teeth.”

“Well, come tomorrow I hope the Remmelkemp Mill Apostolic Assembly can begin to make some amends for my predecessor’s behavior.” Richert reached over to pat me on the arm.

Although Richert meant well, I thought his idea of discussing the false tale in church was a bad idea. People love gossip, so even though the purpose of his sermon would be to debunk the slimy story, the result would be like shattering a two-liter glass bottle of olive oil on a kitchen floor. The mess would spread everywhere and take forever to clean up. But before I could voice my misgivings, the door opened.

A stern-faced Asian man paused in the entrance to slowly scan the restaurant’s interior through mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was about five-nine, kind of stocky, and had longish black pomaded hair. He was dressed in business casual: navy slacks, a periwinkle polo shirt, and a blue blazer that bore a small red diamond-shaped pin on the right lapel. I also noticed that he kept his right hand tucked inside the jacket pocket, which made me a little wary. Twenty-five years as a cop had drilled a vital lesson into my skull: watch people’s hands and be cautious around someone deliberately concealing them. Without thinking, I reached out and took hold of my cane, ready to use it as a club.

Apparently deciding the restaurant was safe, the man—who was obviously either some sort of bodyguard or had watched far too many old Warner Bros. gangster films—held the door open for someone outside. That’s when I got a look at his left hand and went into full alert mode. The tip of his pinky finger was gone. Most people wouldn’t realize the significance of the missing bit of bone and flesh, but I did.

Mistaking my suddenly attentive demeanor for anger, Richert said, “I hope I didn’t say anything to upset you.”

“No, I’m just fascinated by the guy doing the bad George Raft impression,” I murmured, and nodded toward the door. “And it would be best if you didn’t turn around and stare at him.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

A second Asian man entered the restaurant and walked up to the counter, followed closely by his bodyguard. The newcomer looked to be in his mid-fifties with a plump physique, receding hairline, black hair that shone like the sealing wax nose of an antique Steiff teddy bear, and eyes invisible behind silver-framed eyeglasses with gray transition lenses. His clothing was similar to his bodyguard’s, including the diamond-shaped lapel pin. However, he wore a twill shirt with a button-down collar. The man sniffed the air appreciatively, nodded, and softly said something to the younger man, who nodded and quietly barked, “
Hai
.”

I casually turned to take a quick look out the window at the parking lot and saw there was a third member of the group outside. The man was also Asian, was dressed in a brown business casual ensemble, and wore the inevitable mirrored aviator sunglasses. He stood in the scorching sun, smoking a cigarette next to a huge Hummer H3, an already ugly vehicle made even harder on the eyes because it was painted the same color orange as a highway roadwork sign. The Hummer had a Virginia license plate and I set myself to memorizing the alphanumeric sequence.

Sergei appeared through the doorway at the back of the kitchen and I guessed he’d been turning the chickens over in the brick pit. He looked first at the two newcomers and then glanced at me. Noticing my rigid posture and the cane in my hand, Sergei realized something was amiss. Calling out a cheerful, “Good morning,” he strolled over to the cash register, where I knew he kept a loaded .45 semiautomatic pistol under the counter.

“Good morning and excuse me, please.” The older man bowed slightly and spoke in Japanese-accented English. “We are visiting your wonderful country and have become lost. Please can you tell us how to get to the Massanutten Museum of History?”

“My pleasure. All you have to do is make a right turn from the parking lot and go down the road until you come to the stop sign. That’s Wheale Road.” Sergei pointed in the proper direction with his left hand while nonchalantly putting the right under the counter.

“Wheale Road.” The older man nodded and looked at his bodyguard to make certain he understood.

“Turn left there and go about two miles through the farmland. You’ll see the sign for the museum on your left. It’s in a farmhouse.”

“Thank you.” The older man took another approving sniff. “And it is unfortunate that our schedule doesn’t allow us to have lunch here. The food smells very good.”

“Thank you. Perhaps some other time.”

“Perhaps. Thank you, again.”

The pair left the restaurant, the bodyguard walking backwards to keep an eye on us.

Once the door shut, I said, “Can I borrow a pen?”

Sergei tossed me a ballpoint pen that looked as if it had been stolen from the post office. Pulling a napkin from the metal dispenser, I wrote down the license number. Then I joined Sergei and Richert at the window. We watched as the Hummer backed up and then turned westbound onto Coggins Spring Road.

“Well there’s something you don’t see everyday in Remmelkemp Mill,” I said.

“What’s that?” asked Richert.

“Three Yakuza—Japanese gangsters. I wonder what they want at the museum.”

Five

“Yakuza? You’re sure?” asked Sergei.

“Certain enough to be worried about what the tough guy had in his jacket pocket,” I said.

“How could you tell who they were?”

“The first
tip-off
was that the bodyguard was missing the first joint from his left pinky finger.”

Sergei rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Why is that important?” Richert asked.

I said, “It’s a common injury among Yakuza foot soldiers.”

“Why?” Richert asked.

“Because in the Yakuza, giving someone the finger isn’t just an expression. If a gangster screws up or embarrasses his organization, he chops off a finger joint and delivers it to his boss as a form of atonement. It’s called
yubizume
.”

“I’d call it insane.” Richert looked a little dazed. “How do you know so much about this?”

“About nine years ago, I worked a murder that was connected with gun-runners who were selling weapons to a Japanese organized crime group. U.S. Customs loaned us one of their experts on the Yakuza and he allowed me to read a bunch of their intel files. They’re bad hombres.”

Richert noticed Sergei nodding in agreement and asked, “But how do you know about them?”

“Oh, I don’t really know anything more about them than what I’ve seen in the movies,” Sergei blandly replied while shooting me a brief knowing look. “If you get the chance, you should rent the DVD of
Black Rain
.”

Richert turned to me. “What else made you think they were Yakuza?”

“It’s hotter than a freaking sauna outside and the two that came in and the guy outside were all wearing sports jackets. That was probably to conceal their clan badge tattoos—most Yakuza are covered with them.”

“What about the matching lapel pins?” Sergei asked.

“Good obs. They’re extremely significant,” I said walking back to the table and sitting down. “If memory serves, that diamond-shaped pin is the emblem for the
Yamaguchi-gumi
, one of the biggest crime cartels in Japan…or at least they were back in the nineties.”

“Wait a minute, are you saying that these crooks actually advertise who they are?” Richert’s jaw hung half-open in amazement.

“Yeah, they’re proud of it. The Yakuza party line is that they are the lineal descendents of the samurai—a bunch of big-hearted Robin Hoods who look out for the little guy, which is complete BS. They aren’t called the Japanese Mafia for nothing.”

“How so?”

“They’re major players in the Asian narcotics trade, world-class extortionists, and also operate prostitution rings that keep the girls in virtual slavery. What would Maid Marian say? However, unlike the Mafia, they are extremely visible in Japanese society.”

“So, what are those guys doing here in America?” asked Richert.

“It looks like the
oyabun
—the boss—is on vacation. Although why you’d travel halfway around the globe to visit Remmelkemp Mill is beyond me.”

“Actually, I was more interested in
how
they got in. Isn’t Customs supposed to stop criminals from entering the country?”

“They are. But if the boss and his entourage don’t have criminal records and he’s also buds with some high-rollers in the Japanese government, which is probably the case, our Customs people don’t really have a choice about letting him in.”

“So, what are you going to do with the license number?” Sergei went back behind the counter.

“I’ll give the info to Tina after the teddy bear guild meeting. As hard as she works, there’s no point in disturbing her. Those guys are suspicious-looking, but they weren’t committing a crime.”

“And the museum director would have a coronary if he found out you’d prevented three paying customers from visiting,” said Sergei.

“Yeah, I imagine it gets a little lonely there, which is a shame, because it’s a neat little museum.”

Richert grabbed his hat and sunglasses from the table. “Well, thanks for the excitement. But I’ve got a Summer Bible Camp session to teach, so I guess I’d better be going.”

“Before you do, I’ve got to tell you I’m a little worried about you bringing up those stories about Ash in your sermon. I appreciate your intentions, but it could be that you’re just going to give those vicious lies a second life.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too concerned about that.” Richert slipped the sunglasses on and gave me a toothy and strangely chilly smile. “You see, up until now these folks have been preached to by Reverend Doctor Jeckyll. Tomorrow morning, they’re going to meet Pastor Hyde. Please tell Ashleigh I said hello.”

I pushed myself to my feet to shake hands with him. “Thanks, Terry.”

“Happy to be of service.” Richert put his hat on and went out the door.

After Richert left, I went over to the counter and said, “I like him.”

Sergei pulled a fat head of cabbage from the refrigerator and shut the door with his foot. “Me too. So,
that’s
what the solemn conversation was about?”

“Yeah. That damn story Poole made up about Ash having the hots for him. Apparently it’s still in circulation at the church.”

“Really? Nobody had better repeat it in my presence.” Sergei slid a small carving knife into the bottom of the cabbage. His wrist flicked and a large chunk of vegetable stalk went flying.

“Anyway, Terry said he’s going to bury the story once and for all, tomorrow at church during his sermon.”

“Isn’t he the optimistic fellow.”

“I suspect there’s a full supply of old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone behind that affable persona.”

“I hope so, for your sake.” Sergei discarded the knife, picked up the cleaver, and split the cabbage with a single deft blow. He looked up at me. “But as far as I’m concerned, there’s only one thing to be done with people who refuse to keep their mouths shut. It’s what we used to do back in Russia.”

“What’s that?”

“Send them to the Gulag.”

I chatted with Sergei for about another hour. The topics shifted from West Coast jazz to handguns and finally to high-speed driving techniques, which led to Sergei telling a funny story about how, back in 1981, he’d driven the 250 miles from a hotel in the center of Paris to Geneva, Switzerland, in less than three hours. I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t mention
why
he’d covered that distance at such an insane speed, but I figured it had something to do with the fact he was working as a Soviet spy at the time.

“God, I loved that Mercedes. What an autobahn burner,” Sergei said dreamily at the end of the tale. Then his expression became sad. “I was a young daredevil then, and now…What business does an old man like me have in even considering courting a woman of Tina’s age? Bradley, please tell me the truth. Am I being a fool?”

“Not at all. And what’s this crap about being an old man? You look younger than me.”

“That’s no comfort. Lenin’s corpse in Red Square looked younger than you.”

“That’s true, but look who I get to go to bed with
every
night.”

He grunted. “Point taken.”

“Look, we’re more vain than women about our age, we just keep it a secret. It took me a long time to realize that Ash truly doesn’t care how old I look and I can’t imagine Tina being worried about that in a man either. My guess is she’s looking for someone who first and foremost can be trusted.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“So, remember you’re still the same man who frightened French drivers. Ask her out to dinner. What’s the worst she can say?”

“No.”

“Or ask whether she’ll have to drive or if you’ll both ride the assisted living facility’s shuttle bus.”

“Bradley, you are an unalloyed bastard, but thank you.”

The lunch crowd began coming in shortly before 11:30 and the restaurant began to get busy. I said good-bye, grabbed the books, and went out to the Xterra. Sitting behind the wheel, I wondered how I was going to waste the next thirty minutes, because the guild meetings lasted until noon. Then curiosity got the better of me. I started the SUV and a few seconds later was driving southbound on Wheale Road, on my way to the Massanutten Museum of History. All I planned to do was drive by the place and see if the Hummer was still in the parking lot, because I didn’t want to waste Tina’s time sending her on a wild goose chase on her day off.