Nobody moved a muscle or said a word. I pulled the trigger, clicked an empty chamber, and watched Jumbo shake head to toe–bad heebie-jeebies. I said, “Sayonara, Shitbird,” and pulled the trigger again; another hollow click, Jumbo twitching like a hophead going into cold turkey overdrive.
Five to one down to three to one; I could see Lorna, nude, waving bye-bye Hearns, heading toward Stormin’ Norman Killebrew, jazz trombone, rumored to have close to a hard half yard and the only man Lorna implied gave it to her better than me. I pulled the trigger twice–twin empties–shit stink taking over the room as Jumbo evacuated his bowels.
One to one, seven come eleven, the Japs looking uncharacteristically piqued. Now I saw my own funeral cortege, “Prison of Love” blasting as they lowered me into the grave.
“No! I’ll talk!”
I had the trigger at half pull when Bob Murikami’s voice registered. I let go of Jumbo and drew a bead on Bad Bob; he walked over and bowed, supplicant samurai style, at my gun muzzle. Jumbo collapsed; I waved the rest of the group into a tight little circle and said, “Kick the clip and the roscoe over.”
A weasel-faced guy complied; I popped one into the chamber and tucked my Russki roulette piece in my belt. Murikami pointed to a side door; I followed him over, a straight-arm bead on the others.
The door opened into a small bedroom lined with cots–the Underground Railway, 1942 version. I sat down on the cleanest one available and pointed Murikami to a cot a few yards over, well within splatter range. I said, “Spill. Put it together, slow and from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”
Bad Bob Murikami was silent, like he was mustering his thoughts and wondering how much horseshit he could feed me. His face was hard set; he looked tough beyond his years. I smelled musk in the room–a rare combo of blood and Lorna’s “Cougar Woman” perfume. “You can’t lie, Bob. And I won’t hand you up to the Alien Squad.”
Murikami snickered. “You won’t?”
I snickered back. “You people mow a mean lawn and trim a mean shrub. When my ship comes in, I’ll be needing a good gardener.”
Murikami double-snickered–and a smile started to catch at the corners of his mouth. “What’s your name?”
“Spade Hearns.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“I thought private eyes were sensitive guys with a code of honor.”
“Only in the pulps.”
“That’s rich. If you don’t have a code of honor, how do I know you won’t cross me?”
“I’m in too deep now, Tojo. Crossing you’s against my own best interest.”
“Why?”
I pulled out a handful of bankbooks; Murikami’s slant eyes bugged out until he almost looked like a fright-wig nigger. “I killed Walt Koenig for these, and you need a white man to tap the cash. I don’t like witnesses and there’s too many of you guys to kill, even though I’m hopped up on blood bad. Spiel me, papasan. Make it an epic.”
* * *
Murikami spieled for a straight hour. His story was the night train to Far Gonesville.
It started when three Japs, bank building maintenance workers pissed over their imminent internment, cooked up a plot with rogue cop Walt Koenig and a cop buddy of his–Murikami didn’t know the guy’s name. The plot was a straight bank robbery with a no-violence proviso–Koenig and pal taking down the B of A based on inside info, the Japs getting a percentage cut of the getaway loot for the young firebrands stupid enough to think they could hot-foot it to Mexico and stay free, plus Koenig’s safeguarding of confiscated Jap property until the internment ended. But the caper went blood simple: guards snuffed, stray bullets flying. Mrs. Lena Sakimoto, the old dame shot on the street the next day, was the finger woman–she was in the bank pretending to be waiting in line, but her real errand was to pass the word to Koenig and buddy–the split second the vault cash was distributed to the tellers. _She_ was rubbed out because the heisters figured her for a potential snitch.