Ration of Lies, page 4
More accustomed to taking more creative pictures to accompany articles she wrote for national magazines, Ione had stepped into her husband’s job in the newspaper’s photo department. They were both my pals.
“Have you heard from Jenkins?” He’d left for basic training a few days earlier.
“I got my first letter yesterday. He says he’s the only one in his platoon whose feet aren’t sore.”
“Hey, that church group that brought the Japanese workers up here, do you happen to know its name? Maybe somebody in it?”
“The Church Federation. The man who used to be in charge here got moved to Cincinnati. I’m not sure who his replacement is. Any church secretary will know, or know where to point you.
“Got to dash. I’m souping prints.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time I’d tracked down someone to talk to at the Church Federation and made an appointment for that afternoon, it was time for lunch. I walked a few blocks over to buy a copy of the noon edition and then to the Arcade to get a sandwich.
The kid who’d been selling me papers for seven or eight years now was named Heebs. He was a happy-go-lucky towhead with a little gap between his front teeth when he grinned, which was most of the time. Today, though, instead of greeting me with his usual wisecrack, he just said, “Hiya, Maggie.” This morning I hadn’t noticed it. Now I did.
“You okay, Heebs? You’re awfully quiet today.”
“Doing great, Sis.” He pulled his breezy manner back into place. “But I’ve been thinking...” He paused to sell a paper to someone else and dip into his carrier’s bag for another copy. “I’ve been thinking, you could make some nice change on the side if you posed for some pinup shots and sold copies. Nothing real trashy, just hike your skirt to show those great gams.”
I started to laugh.
“I’m serious, Sis. GIs are buying those pictures like hot cakes. We’d make a killing.”
“Ah. You’re going to be my agent. Is that it?”
“Well, sure. ’Cause...” He peered politely around. “...we both know I’m better at sales than you.”
He paused to peddle two papers in quick succession. I turned away smiling. For as long as I’d known him, Heebs had been on his own, sleeping in doorways and getting food whenever and wherever he could. He could hatch more schemes than anyone I’d ever known. When I could, I came up with odd jobs for him to help him out. Last year, I’d barely managed to come up with one that got him away from an idea he had about lying about his age to enlist in the Army.
When he’d seen to a couple more customers, he called out to me.
“You take care of yourself, Sis.”
I looked back and waved. “Yeah, you too, Heebs.”
If he was in some kind of jam, I was pretty sure he’d come and see me. I got a sandwich and took it and the newspaper back to my office to see what had happened since breakfast time.
***
The man I finally reached from the Church Federation met me in a room at the back of a huge brick church overlooking the Great Miami. Spires and arches and a dozen big stained-glass windows decorated it. My middle-aged host was round at the hemisphere without being fat. He peered at me through tortoise-shell glasses with eyes that were guarded but kind. His name was Willard King.
“You told me on the phone that you’re a private detective, and that this has something to do with one of our Nisei families?”
He observed me intently as we took our seats on either side of his desk.
“I’m not here to make trouble for anyone or ask about anyone. I’m here for advice.”
His shoulders relaxed enough to see it.
“Go on.”
“Day before yesterday a girl came into my office. She wants to hire me to help her brother, who she thinks might be in some kind of trouble. She brought a wad of cash to pay for my services, but I have a feeling she didn’t consult with her parents first. Her name is Daisy Hashimoto.”
“Ah. Daisy.” His voice gave a turn that suggested a held-back sigh. His lips curved slightly.
“I’m guessing you’re feeling glad you’re not her father.”
He chuckled. “Something like that.”
King had been sitting up. Now he eased back a little. His index fingers formed a steeple like the one on the roof outside. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair.
“Daisy is a remarkable young woman. I won’t call her a girl, because the word doesn’t seem appropriate. In many ways, she’s mature for her age. She’s intelligent. Acutely observant. I hesitate to use the word ‘genius,’ but she’s highly gifted in certain areas. She already holds some kind of patent. Perhaps more than one.”
“Patent?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I associated patents with men like the Wright Brothers and engineering whiz Charles Kettering.
“I don’t know the particulars. She apparently developed something several years ago, back in San Francisco. Before the Japanese were rounded up and sent to camps.
“That has nothing to do with her brother, of course. It’s just to explain that because of the business dealings she’s had, I think Daisy’s used to being viewed as an adult.” He paused. “I assume this has something to do with the fire at the place where Tosh — her brother — worked?”
“Yes. But I told you I wasn’t here to ask questions, and I’m not. From the little I’ve learned, I think Daisy could be right that whatever happened that night, and to her brother, merits a closer look. I can’t, in conscience, do that without making sure her parents agree. I want to talk to them. I was hoping for your advice on how best to approach them, so I don’t offend them because of, um...”
“Differences in our two cultures?”
“Yes.”
“In conscience. How refreshing,” murmured the man behind the desk. He smiled. “Daisy’s parents are thoroughly American, I assure you. Mrs. Hashimoto came here as a babe in arms. Dr. Hashimoto arrived with his parents when he was a toddler, I believe. I expect they’ll react like any other parents whose child has taken it upon herself to talk to a stranger about a family matter.”
I winced. He laughed.
“Exactly.”
“Would you be willing to call ahead and prepare them somehow? I thought perhaps if you told them you’d met me...”
“Yes. They will appreciate that you’ve made the effort to approach them with some sensitivity rather than simply turning up on their doorstep. You’re wanting to see them as soon as possible, I expect?”
“Yes.”
“They’re both at work right now, but Dr. Hashimoto is just down at St. Elizabeth’s, assigned to the laboratory. I’ll stop by and see him. If he agrees, would half past seven tonight be agreeable?”
“It would be perfect. Thank you.”
King stood up. Gracious as he’d been, he probably had a dozen other tasks awaiting him. We shook hands.
“Would you like to have me there when you talk to them? I could meet you there,” he offered as we started out.
“If you can spare the time, I’d be grateful.”
Despite his assurance the Hashimotos were like any other family, I’d feel better having someone who could act as a buffer if I made a misstep. As the door at the back of the church opened into the outside world again, King’s kindly eyes gave a twinkle.
“And you were right. As challenging as I find my own two daughters at times, I tremble at the thought of having to keep one step ahead of a child like Daisy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
What with Wee Willie’s funeral the previous day and my running around today, I was behind on the background checks that I did week-to-week for regular clients. For the next several hours, I worked my way through the stack of them waiting on my desk. I was down to one where I’d have to talk to people in person, not on the telephone, when Daisy showed up again just as she’d said she would.
This time I noticed her uniform as she helped herself to the chair in front of me.
“I forgot to say thanks last night for getting me out of that jam with the watchman,” she said. “So, thanks. Have you decided?”
“Hello to you, too, Daisy. Nice to see you again.”
She gave a martyred snort.
“If you’re inquiring whether I’ve decided to have a look at Tosh’s disappearance, I’ll let you know after I talk to your parents this evening. Mr. King from the Church Federation was kind enough to pave the way for me. He just called to confirm that they’re expecting me.”
Daisy’s mouth flew open and stopped. She couldn’t decide whether to be indignant or pleased she was one step closer to getting what she wanted. Somewhere in the midst of it, civility inserted itself.
“They can hardly see straight, they’re so worried.” Her voice was low. “I wanted to spare them.”
“I understand. But they needed to know.”
“Are you going to tell them about last night?”
“Not unless you really annoy me.”
She had been slumping. Now she came erect in her chair.
“What kind of answer is that?”
“My kind.”
Her lip curled just enough to show disdain. “And cautionary?”
I grinned. “Glad to see Julienne still drums vocabulary into its students. Look. If it will smooth your feathers any, there are a couple of things about the night of the fire and people claiming they saw your brother that bother me.” A lift of my hand forestalled her question. “They may come to nothing, but I think they’re worth checking.
“Now, why don’t you tell me about the man who tried to strangle me, or maybe just scare me, last night in the alley?”
“What? When?” She was startled enough to forget she disliked me, as I had hoped she would be.
“Right after you went inside. Right after you began whistling.”
“How did...? Did you get out of your car?”
She showed every sign she was about to light into me with a lecture on safety just as I’d done her.
“No, I did not.”
“Then how—?”
“We’d put our windows down, remember? The man reached in.”
“You saw him?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it was a man?”
“By his size. By the way he moved running away.”
“It wasn’t Tosh, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“How do you know?”
“He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t come near the house. He’d be afraid it would get us in trouble.”
“What if he was the one in trouble?”
Her mouth quivered once before she controlled it.
“He wouldn’t then, either. I don’t think. It’s...a matter of honor. And he wouldn’t hurt anyone!”
I studied her for a couple of minutes. She believed every word she was saying.
“What about some fellow who’s sweet on you. Could someone be playing Sir Lancelot, trying to protect you?”
“Are you nuts? Of course not. I haven’t met a single boy here or anywhere else that I’d give the time of day!”
Which wouldn’t necessarily prevent one having the sort of crush on her that would make him fiercely protective.
“Okay, then scoot. I’ve got things to do before I talk to your parents.”
“‘Scoot.’” Her disdain returned full blown. She shouldered her school bag and left.
***
I walked to a drugstore and then to McCrory’s in hopes one place or the other had received a shipment of shampoo. Neither had. When I’d gotten around a bowl of vegetable soup and the four crackers served with it, I headed to Mrs. Z’s to freshen up before presenting myself to the Hashimotos.
On the door to my room, I found a felt flower peering from the little corduroy pocket now tacked to each door. If you’d had a phone call or someone wanted to see you, a slip of paper with the pertinent information appeared in the pocket. A flower meant Mrs. Z wanted to see you. I put my purse in a bureau drawer and went downstairs.
There was no response when I knocked on the door of our landlady’s cozy apartment. I was turning to go when she peeked out the door to the kitchen at the rear of the house. She was wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Oh, I’ve interrupted your dinner. I saw the flower on my door. I’ll come back later.”
“No, now is fine. The burners are off. Go on in.”
I opened the door as cautiously as possible. Mrs. Z had a fat yellow tom cat who loved to bite ankles almost as much as he loved to escape. Butterball was curled up in a chair and stirred himself only enough to hiss.
“Sit down, Margaret.”
I did. I had a feeling whatever I was about to hear wasn’t going to be pleasant. That hunch was confirmed as Mrs. Z seated herself in a chair across from me and clasped her hands in her lap.
“Margaret, one of the girls in Room 4 came to me with a very upsetting accusation. She says you tried to choke her to death last night—”
“The big blonde.”
“Yes. It seems quite outlandish, but given the type of work you do...I felt I must ask, Margaret. Did you?”
Several seconds passed before I responded.
“I shoved her up against the wall. I did not try to choke her.” Though there might have been a second or two when I’d tried to give the impression I might.
Lines of concern appeared on Mrs. Z’s forehead. “I assume she had provoked you in some way?”
“She had her radio playing full blast with the door open. There were a bunch in her room yelling and whooping it up and having a party. I asked if she’d turn the music down and close the door. When she smarted off and refused, I put it to her more forcefully.” I let my breath out. In retrospect, I wasn’t especially proud of my behavior. “In case she didn’t tell you, I also threatened to drag her down the stairs and throw her outside.”
Mrs. Z grew more distressed with every word of my account.
“She said you were quite drunk, that she could smell it on your breath.”
“I’d seen my closest childhood friend buried that afternoon. So, yes, I’d had a few. I’m surprised she could smell it, given how freely they were passing their bottle around.”
With that, the tide turned in my favor. My landlady’s chin hardened. She expressly forbade liquor in our rooms. Knowing my actions had dragged her into all this unpleasantness made me feel lousy.
“Look, I’m sorry I’ve put you through this. I’ll go apologize—”
“No. Don’t. There’s not a speck of quality to her. I can’t take the measure of someone before I decide whether or not to rent to them like I did with you and Jolene and Genevieve and all of you who knew each other. There’s such pressure to provide housing. When there’s a vacancy, I have girls at the door — men, too — before I can even put an ad in the paper. Turning someone down if I’m not outright fearful of what they might do or that they might have a disease seems unpatriotic.”
“I understand. I’ll try not to lose my temper again.”
“That’s all then. I’m sure you have things to do. If her music is too loud again, come tell me. I’ll see to her myself. And, Margaret,” she added, causing me to pause at the door and look back. “You’ve always been one of my best renters. I should hate to lose you. But if there is...another altercation like this, I may have to ask you to leave.”
CHAPTER NINE
Sufficiently contrite, I arrived five minutes early at the house where the Hashimotos were staying. The car that had been parked across the street last night was nowhere in evidence. Just in front of me, Willard King, the man from the Church Federation, was getting out of a tan Dodge that had seen better days.
“I don’t believe I mentioned the Hashimotos have another son, Haruto,” he said as we went up the sidewalk. “He’s with the 442nd. It’s an all-Nisei U.S. Army unit,” he added. “Nisei are second-generation Japanese-Americans, those born to parents who had already become American citizens.”
“Like Daisy and her brothers.”
“Yes. Some of us involved in the local project, on both sides, have come to use the term loosely to mean all those brought to Dayton, save for the very few elderly couples like Daisy’s grandparents. You may meet them. They’re Mrs. Hashimoto’s parents.”
A frazzled-looking woman who wore an apron and smelled of dish soap greeted us. She and her husband and five children were one of the families who had agreed to share their homes with relocated Japanese families. Just inside the door, beside a low bench, a dozen pairs of adult shoes were lined up neatly behind a jumble of smaller ones.
“They’re all in there.” The woman who’d greeted us waved toward a room on the left and scurried off.
Absorbing the novel experience of running around in my socks, I followed Willard King through a pocket door into what until recently must have been a living room. Now, despite several decorative folding screens, it served as the entire living space for Daisy and her family. A sofa and upholstered chair from the room’s original furnishings were pushed against one wall and surrounded by an odd assortment of trunks and baskets, a low table, and assorted lamps. A profusion of graceful Japanese brush paintings such as I’d seen once in a museum decorated the walls.
Two photographs in silver frames sat on the fireplace mantel. One showed a young Japanese-American in an Army uniform. The other showed three teenagers laughing and looking obediently at the camera as they stood with arms around each other in front of a roomy four-door Buick so well polished the camera had captured its gleam. Daisy was in the middle. The boy who was now in uniform stood to her left. On her right was a boy whose good looks were accentuated by a pair of black-rimmed glasses that framed a glint of wry humor. He was the tallest of the three, and wore his fedora tipped back at an angle. He must be Tosh.
Daisy’s mother greeted me with a smile and offered her hand.
