Made in Japan, page 1
part #10 of Cherry Delight Series
Cherry Delight
The Tokyo Mob thought they could get rid of Cherry Delight. That was the biggest mistake they ever…
MADE in
JAPAN
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Glen Chase
Originally printed in 1974
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel and Akiko K.
2020 for the Gardner Francis Fox Library
Cover Illustration by Kurt Brugel 2020
Copyright © 2020 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even erotica.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels.
7.5x7.5 softcover paperback book with 165 black & white pages.
This is the book that collects Kurt Brugel’s first half of the scratchboard book cover illustrations he created for the new editions of Mr. Fox’s stories.
I chose scratchboard as my medium for its graphic punch. The book cover is responsible for giving the reader an initial lead-in for what the story is about. Having all of the book covers based on the same motif will also unify the library as a whole. There is enough of a challenge with doing 156 of anything in art, but to have to illustrate the contents of the book using a “pretty face”, well then we have something special in-store. Purchase from- - -
www.gardnerfrancisfoxlibrary.com/art
Table of Contents:
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELEVE
Chapter ONE
I was browsing through the Japanese section of a metropolitan museum when I saw the somewhat plump, elderly Japanese gentleman. He was extremely well-dressed, dapper, in fact, but it was not his Pierre Cardin suit and Bill Blass tie that caught my eye, but his florid coloring under a mop of silvery white hair. The man was obviously terrified.
His black eyes darted here and there as he slunk from display case to display case, crouching down as though those glass walls might hide him from any pursuer. His lips writhed back to show fine white teeth, and there were drops of sweat on his high forehead.
I grew interested, for I have seen a lot of men look just this way. My name is Priscilla Delissio, though most folks call me Cherry Delight. I work for the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization, more usually known as N.Y.M.P.H.O., being a Femme Fatale in that deadly branch of the Mafia fighters. Normally, I would have said that some mobsters were after this man, but since he was a Japanese, and since The Family had not yet invaded Tokyo and environs, to my knowledge, I figured I was wrong.
Still, I was interested in him and his terror.
He was afraid of someone or something. That much was quite clear. If I could help a fellow human in distress, I would, even if no Mafiosi were involved.
I started toward him. At the same time he swung about the display case where I was standing, and bumped into me. I thought the man would die. He jerked and shuddered, the breath hissed in his throat, and his knees buckled.
My hands grabbed him. His head swung around, saw the face I have been told is beautiful, and my red hair which was worn in a topknot this particular day.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked softly.
His eyes pulled back into his head and he shook his head violently from side to side. “Is nothing wrong, is not.”
“Oh, come on.” I wheedled. “You can tell me.”
“You being girl, is no use. But thanking you just the same.”
I grinned at him. He was a like-able old gent, rather handsome in his way, and very polite. He even made one of those ceremonial bows the Japanese indulge in now and then. His tie had come loose and hung outside his jacket. I straightened it and tucked it back into place even as I went on smiling.
“I’m some kind of girl,” I told him. “I’ve killed men that needed killing, before now. I’m an expert shot, I wear the black belt in judo, which as you must know, is just about as good as you can get.
His eyes really sparkled. “Black belt wearer? You must being pretty good.”
“The only people who complain are those I throw around,” I giggled, and he laughed.
Some of the tension went out of him. I tucked my arm in his and brought him toward one of the display cases where some dark gray pottery was placed side by side with some of a reddish color. The printed card said these were Ainu products, made by that hairy, mysterious people who live in the northernmost Japanese islands.
“Tell me about these,” I urged, waving a hand.
His eyes touched the pottery, glanced at the empty doorway behind us. “Ainu work. The dark gray very early, called jomon-doki. The other is later work, called yayoi-chiki.”
“Some of them look almost Polynesian.”
The old gentleman shrugged, said, “Nobody knows where the Ainu came from. They say they came to Japan on the back of a big white dog that swam in the ocean. Only dwarfish people there, at that time. Ainu kill them all, take over.”
He warmed to his subject, forgetting his fear, which was what I wanted. He told me a little about the history of early Japan, how waves of immigrants had come there, supposedly from the Pacific islands, and had driven the Ainu northward.
We moved slowly from one display case to another, with my companion showing a rare knowledge of art. There were copies of frescoes from the Horyuji monastery dating back to the sixth century, we paused before paintings by such historically great painters as Eshin Sozu and Kobo-daishi, we stood admiringly in front of Ukiyo-e woodcuts and painted screens. The old gentleman commented knowingly on all of them.
I saw that his mind was occupied with these artistic displays, he had forgotten his terror for the moment. Oh, it would come back, but I meant to stay beside him until he was back in his hotel, or wherever it was he lodged.
We moved slowly from one case to another, strolling beside the walls where tapestries hung along side paintings, and little statuettes rested on shelves. He told me that the Chinese had called Japan, Jih-pen, and that western merchants who traded with both nations had put this name on their maps.
We could scarcely continue walking through the museum all day, however; it was nearly closing time, and now my new-found friend began scanning his wrist-watch nervously.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll stay beside you. Nothing is going to happen.”
He gave me a weak smile and a glance that seemed to say, What can a mere girl do to help me? I didn’t know, but I figured that I could do something. I’m pretty good at thinking up spur-of-the-moment solutions.
My hand shook his arm in a friendly way. “I mean what I say. I’ll walk along beside you, nobody will do anything while you’re with me.”
In Japanese, he said, “No one can help me. I am doomed. Keiji Tetsuko has said so.”
“Who’s Keiji Tetsuko?”
He blinked. “You know the Japanese?”
“A little. Not as well as I understand Italian and German, to say nothing of French. But I can make my needs known.”
All members of N.Y.M.P.H.O. who are Femmes Fatales must also be expert linguists. It’s part of our training, along with such things as judo and Burmese boxing. Maybe he read my confidence in my eyes, because he relaxed just a little and patted my hand.
“I would not subject such a pretty girl to the ministrations of the yakuza who serve Keiji Tetsuko.”
“Yakuza. That means a good for nothing, doesn’t it?”
“It is the name we give Japanese mobsters.”
“Like the Mafia?” I asked in sheer surprise.
“Something like that, yes. It is a new thing in Japan, this mobsterism. But it exists, it is an outgrowth of our economic surge, our vast industrialization since the war.”
“Imagine that,” I murmured. “Here I am on a Sunday afternoon, just minding my own business, and the Japanese Mafia stick their noses into my affairs.”
He looked puzzled as I talked. It was my turn to pat his hand and tell him I would explain later. I caught his arm and walked closely beside him all the way to the front door. Over my other shoulder I wore my Gucci shoulder bag and in it was the Gold Cup Colt automatic that had been my companion on so many of my cases. The bag was open, I could reach that Colt in a split second.
We saw no one. It was a quiet museum through which we went, with only an occasional couple here and there, or a small family marveling over the treasures on display. Not a Mafia in sight, I told myself.
The big front doors were wide open, we went through them and into warm sunlight. We stood a moment, my eyes going up and down the street. My companion was beginning to shiver again, the fear was starting up and his ruddy face was turning a sickly gray.
“It would be safer with me beside you,” I murmured.
He shook his head. “Bad for girl, bad for girl. Not want you to be in danger.”
I let him free himself, immediately he went down the stone steps toward the sidewalk. He was deathly scared, I felt pity for him. Nobody likes to die, and a violent death is the most fearful one to be faced. Or maybe it is the anticipation that so terrifies one.
Like a statue, I remained on that broad top step, but unlike a statue, I used my eyes. I watched the men and women, seeing nothing at which to take alarm.
Then the little yellow Datsun came along the street. Instinctively, my heart leaped and hammered. There were two Japanese men inside the yellow car.
I beat feet down those stone steps, three at a time. My right hand went into the Gucci and came out with the Colt automatic. My friend was walking slowly along the sidewalk, head turning left and right as he searched the faces of the passersby. I don’t believe he was thinking of cars.
I ran like hell.
Even so, the Datsun beat me.
I saw the man in the suicide seat beside the driver lift a tommy-gun from the floor. All I needed to add wings to my Beth Levines was that. I fairly flew across the sidewalk even as people turned and stared.
Leaving my feet in a diving tackle, I cannonaded into the old Japanese man just as the tommy-gun started its chatter. It seemed I could feel the wind of those bullets as they passed directly above my head.
I hit the man as a pro football blocking back takes out a would-be tackler. He gave one frightened screech, then went off his feet. I landed on him, used his prone body as a perch from which to fire.
The Datsun was moving away.
Those killers thought they had done their job, I felt sure. They had seen their quarry go down with a red-headed girl, they probably thought I’d been killed, too.
My left hand grabbed my right wrist. The Colt was in my right hand. I steadied the gun, took quick aim. The automatic bucked in my hand. All around me people were screaming and yelling, drawing away from me or flopping down on the sidewalk alongside the Japanese guy.
I ran forward. My bullet had caught a tire of the Datsun, causing it to swerve to one side. The Jap with the tommy-gun exploded into the street, whirled to face me.
I have often wondered what his thoughts were, at that moment. He must have believed me to be a mad-woman. Or maybe he reasoned I was a lady cop. At any rate, the tommy-gun came up, aimed right at me.
My Gold Cup got off its shot first.
The bullet took him in the chest, tossed him backward against the car where he sagged, pupils rolling up in his head. I could make out the hole in his chest, where his heart ought to be. Blood was oozing out of that hole.
My feet beat the sidewalk. The driver was stepping out of the Datsun, I wanted to get him, too. But I only wanted to wound him, not to kill. I needed his tongue to tell me who was after my friend.
He had no gun, I saw, so I shoved the Colt automatic back inside the Gucci. The Jap was coming for me, hands out in the traditional judo approach. I guess he figured a pretty redhead would be no match for his knowledge of the art.
His right arm flashed up and came down toward my throat. My hands went to his right wrist even as I swung about to apply the ippon seoi nage, which is really nothing more or less than the shoulder throw. There are defenses to this hold, but I took him by surprise, and before he could recover from it, his body was rising into the air, flying gracefully.
He landed heavily, on the side of his head.
I hadn’t meant to throw him so viciously, but I am used to practicing with Nordic types, big men with plenty of weight to them. My muscles responded instinctively to those practice sessions, and the Jap who had been driving that car was a little man, weighing no more than a hundred and twenty pounds.
My feet took me to him, I knelt down and studied his head. It was tilted at an angle, I would have bet money that when he landed, his neck had snapped.
The Japanese gentleman was pushing his way through the crowd, his face etched with concern for my safety. When he saw the two dead men, he got a funny look on his face.
Right on his heels came two of New York’s Finest, emerging from a squad car and shoving their way between the men and women to stand beside me.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked.
I explained that the two dead men had tried to kill this Japanese gentleman. I grabbed my friend by the sleeve and urged him forward. He was still scared, though not so much so. His eyes went from me to the cops, and back again.
“Is that what happened?” a cop growled.
The Japanese would have pulled away, but my grip was too strong on him. He shook his head and exclaimed in Japanese that he wanted no trouble with the police.
The cops looked at me hard.
It seemed to me one of them was reaching for his handcuffs. I snapped, “Wait a darned minute. I have my ident in my bag.” I got it out and showed it to them.
“I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O., this gentleman was almost killed by these thugs. Look! That one with the bullet-hole in his chest is still hanging on to his tommy-gun.”
One of the cops went over and sniffed the barrel. He nodded, saying, “It’s been shot, all right. And recently.”
“You can probably find the bullets in that building wall,” I told him, pointing. “Anyway, they missed us.”
The Japanese man had not run as I expected him to do. When I pulled my ident wallet from the Gucci bag, he’d seemed most interested. His eyes had gone to the picture and the printing with an intent air.
Now he fidgeted and shuffled his feet. “Is what happened as the lady says,” he muttered to the cop who was standing beside us. “I am merchant from Japan, in New York on business. My name is Saburo Hamokada.”
It was my turn to stare at him. Saburo Hamokada was one of the wealthiest men in Japan, his visit to Fun City had been featured in the Times and the Post. He owned all sorts of industries and businesses, he manufactured cars and radios, television sets and even tractors.
His smile was shy. “Not want get in trouble,” he explained, referring to the fact that he had denied me a few minutes ago. “That wallet you have. Is important?”
“It’s my identification, it explains that I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O.”
“What is nympho?”
I explained our organization and how it and its agents like myself are dedicated to fighting the Mafiosi. He grew visibly more excited at my every word, until I was done, he was almost dancing.
“You come working for me. I pay you good. Hundred thousand dollars, even more.”
One of the cops looked disgusted. I said to him, “You don’t have red hair.”
“Nor boobs like those,” his fellow officer muttered under his breath.
My breasts are rather large, and the knit suit I was wearing didn’t do anything to hide them. As a matter of fact, the fabric gripped them very firmly, so that my nipples were showing.
However, I said loftily, “They have nothing to do with the situation. I saved Mister Hamokada’s life, and he’s just grateful.”
The cops looked weary of it all. “You’ll have to come down to the station-house and sign a report. Both of you.”
It took us about two hours, all told, what with slow police typists and such. It was Sunday and things never seem to go smoothly on Sundays, for some reason. When we were done, Saburo Hamokada insisted that he treat me to dinner, it was the least he could do, though he would show his gratitude in a more substantial manner.
“Besides, I am interest in nympho,” he concluded.
A free meal is a free meal. I said I’d be delighted to go along with him. The old gentleman said he would like a seafood dinner, and if I liked seafood and knew a restaurant where it was served, would I give directions to a cabby. I would and did.
As we were devouring a delicious lobster thermador, Saburo Hamokada said he meant his offer to me of one hundred thousand dollars for one year of employment. When I protested that this was too much (I draw a damn good salary but it isn’t any hundred thousand dollars), he waved aside my protests with a neatly manicured hand.
