Matsuo arrived in a cab a few minutes later. He opened the door, stepped out, and before I knew it they were in each other's arms.
My mouth went dry as I watched them. This was not a friendly embrace—this was a hungry, needful. And then, as quickly as they had come together, they parted. Even from where I stood I could see by the way they looked away from each other and went about the task of loading her luggage into the cab that they were both acutely embarrassed.
And suddenly, it all became clear to me why Meiko spoke little of her fiancé and why Matsuo had been limiting his time with her.
With a small lump in my throat and a bigger one in my chest, I left the doorway and walked away.
Both were trapped in a no-win situation and they knew it. I felt sorry for them.
But I felt sorrier for myself.
1932
THE YEAR OF THE MONKEY
JUNE
At last, it was time.
Matsuo stood before the mirror in the dorm room he had to himself and inspected the goatee he had been growing since the first of the year. Patchy, ragged, and ugly—quite ugly—but it served its purpose. He put on the horn-rimmed glasses he had recently purchased and considered the result. Even Nagata would have to look closely to recognize him.
But the disguise needed one final touch. He folded a white handkerchief into a narrow band and tied it around his head as a hachimaki. Now he was ready for battle. A special kind of battle. One played with a tapered stick and sixteen balls two and a quarter inches in diameter on a field of green felt enclosed with cushioned bumpers.
A game. But more than a game tonight. More than winning, more than money at stake.
Tonight Matsuo played for giri.
He took the ferry across the bay. He blocked out the talk around about the invasion of the American capital city by thousands of ex-servicemen demanding to cash their bonus certificates.
Things were no more peaceful at home. The Japanese Army had taken over Manchuria last fall and was consolidating its occupation there. And just last month, Prime Minister Inukai had been assassinated by Army fanatics in his home before the eyes of his daughter, all because he had expressed a desire to cut the military budget.
Was Japan as mad as the rest of the world?
Matsuo hated that thought. He leaned forward against the ferry's front railing, drumming his fingers impatiently as he urged the sluggish craft forward through the night toward the lighted tower clock of the Ferry Building on the far side. He’d heard talk of building a long bridge across the bay, linking Oakland and San Francisco, and a huge suspension bridge across the Golden Gate. He remembered laughing at the idea when he had first heard it proposed, but after visiting New York City last summer and seeing the newly completed Empire State Building thrusting nearly a quarter-mile into the sky, he laughed no longer. If anyone could do it, the Americans could.
Much as he loathed them, he had to admit a grudging admiration for their "can-do" spirit. Even in the depths of the world's worst depression, they completed a building taller than anyone had ever dreamed possible. They built to the point where good sense told them to halt, and then kept going, up and up and up. Matsuo had gone to the top. The view from the observation deck had been awe inspiring. And as he had stood there in the wind and looked down at the waterways and the teeming city below, he had thought of Father and his talk of the coming confrontation with America. Japan could beat America in small things; Americans had no appreciation for fine, delicate work. But on a large scale, how could Japan—how could any country—prevail against a people who didn't recognize when enough was enough, who didn't know when to quit?
And what of home? Japan in Manchuria. He knew the province on the mainland would supply desperately needed raw materials for his homeland's growing industry, but still the thought of his country at war disturbed him. Surely Japan could find what it needed without killing people.
After all, he had found a way to settle a grievance without resorting to brute force. Or at least he hoped so. He would know later tonight.
He brushed away concerns of home. They were for the future. This was now. The ferry was pulling into its San Francisco dock and he wanted no distractions during the conflict ahead.
* * *
"How much for a birrard table for two hours?" Matsuo said in a thick Japanese accent to the florid-faced man behind the bar at O'Boyle's Pool Emporium.
The place had been a tavern before Prohibition, but Matsuo figured that O'Boyle probably sold more liquor now than when it had been legal.
Early yet on this Wednesday night, with only a few drinkers lounging around in the smoky dimness. With Repeal a certainty after the presidential election in the coming fall, no one was trying to hide what he was drinking. O'Boyle's had obviously seen better days. Through the grime that covered everything, Matsuo could see the sturdy grain of fine oak paneling on the walls and ceiling, and delicate decorative carving on the support columns. The huge beveled mirrors were as dirty and dingy as the front windows. On an elevated platform at the rear of the room, set off by a low oak railing, sat three billiard tables, each under a bright hanging lamp. No one was using them.
"You mean a pool table?" said the man, O'Boyle himself.
Matsuo exaggerated his accent to the point of caricature. "Yes. I wish to pray poo."
O'Boyle looked at him closely. "I can't tell if you're a Chink or a Jap, pal, but either way, you ain't playing in my joint."
"Japanese, and the charge, I berieve, is fifty cents per hour?"
Matsuo placed a silver dollar on the bar top. The charge was a dime an hour, he knew, with O'Boyle taking a ten-percent cut of whatever money was won.
O'Boyle stared at the hard money for a full minute, then snatched it up.
"Okay. Just this once."
Matsuo had already started toward the rear. There was, after all, a depression on.
"But don't use the table on the left!" O'Boyle called after him.
Matsuo went to the wall rack and picked out a cue, then he racked up the balls on the left table.
"Hey!" said O'Boyle, hurrying back. "Can't you understand English, you yellow jerk? I said not that table. It's reserved every Wednesday night."
Matsuo looked him in the eye through the flat lenses in his glasses. "I rike this one."
Then he broke the stack.
O'Boyle gave him a nasty smile as he nodded. "Okay, wiseguy. Have it your way. But someone is going to be very unhappy when he finds a Jap using his favorite table."
Matsuo lined up a shot. He was counting on that.
He played for two hours, acquainting himself with the table, until he heard a voice say, "Because you're just a stupid Jap who don't know no better, I'll let you off this time."
Matsuo turned and faced the man who had spoken. Mick McGarrigle hadn't changed much. He still had red hair and freckles, still had the same squint, the same arrogant leer. He was beefier across the chest and abdomen, and had a new hat—those were the only differences.
He had brought his own cue stick and was now screwing the two halves together. Three cronies flanked him.
"My table," he said and jerked his thumb toward the front door. "Get lost."
If a similar confrontation had occurred upon Matsuo's return to America, he would have hurled himself at Mick's throat and killed him. But tonight was different. Matsuo had been planning this moment for years. The anger and rage remained, but he kept cool and controlled behind his disguise.
Matsuo looked him in the eye, waiting for some sign of recognition. None came.
Good. His disguise was working. And why not? Between the hachimaki and the goatee, only his eyes and nose were visible; those eyes sat behind glasses and the nose had been broken by Mick during their last encounter.
Matsuo had been watching O'Boyle's for over three years now. The first thing he had done upon returning to America was scour the seediest areas of San Francisco for Mick. He had found him here in O'Boyle's, on the downhill fringe of the Tende
rloin, and for many nights had crouched at the rear window, watching as Mick won match after match against anyone who played him. Players were brought in from other pool halls in other sections of town and pitted against him, but Mick always won. He had a loyal band of followers who always bet with him and were never disappointed. Mick McGarrigle was a hero in O'Boyle's. His life centered around these pool tables where he was undisputed master.
That was when Matsuo had decided to learn to play pool.
"Oh?" he said. "Do you pray birrards?"
"Yeah. I 'pray birrards,' all right."
This brought a laugh from his companions.
"I wiw surrender to a better prayer."
"Get lost, Jap. I ain't wasting my time with the likes of you."
Matsuo reached into his pocket and brought out five twenty-dollar gold pieces.
"You wish perhaps to prace a wager on a game?"
Mick's eyes fairly bulged at the sight of the gold double eagles.
* * *
Mick saw the light gleaming off the shiny surfaces of the coins and salivated. Things were tight hustling the tables, and he figured he’d be losing his laborer's job soon. Not much around to steal these days. A hundred bucks would set him up pretty. And besides, he’d heard talk about the government no longer using gold for money. So old coins were starting to disappear. One way or another, he was going to leave here tonight with those double eagles in his pocket.
A crowd began to collect around the table.
"I ain't got that kind of money," Mick said, wondering how he was going to work this.
The Jap bowed. “Surery you have friends who wiw cover you."
A chorus of excited cries saying they’d cover two dollars or five broke from the crowd.
Mick was warmed by the response from his friends, his fans. They were with him all the way. He’d never let them down.
He emptied his pockets of whatever cash he had while the O'Boyle's regulars dug deep into their meager funds for the chance to cover the remainder of the bet, supremely confident in their man's ability to beat this upstart Jap.
Within minutes, one hundred dollars in paper and coin had appeared on Mick's side of the table. The Jap reached over and scooped it up. As he stuffed it all in his jacket pocket, everyone started yelling in protest.
The Jap stared at them through his thick glasses. "The entire group of you does not think you can retrieve this money from one poor Jap should he be the roser?"
They quieted down at that. Mick looked hard at the yellow bastard. Something familiar about him. But they all looked pretty much alike, didn't they?
Mick won the toss for break but that gave the Jap the choice of game. He couldn’t believe his luck when the guy picked Chicago. His best game. No one had beaten him at Chicago in two years. The crowd was grinning knowingly and nudging each other. Mick had all he could do to keep from laughing out loud.
This was almost too good to be true.
* * *
Matsuo knew very well that Chicago was Mick's favorite game. It was also the one Matsuo had been practicing for three years. It required sinking the fifteen balls in numerical order. The first player to reach sixty-one points won.
He stood back and watched Mick break. He was an excellent player. That had been evident even from Matsuo's old vantage point at the rear window in the alley. Up close now, Mick's technique was even more impressive. He had excellent control and a surprisingly delicate touch. Matsuo watched with mounting tension as Mick ran his first rack and was progressing confidently through his second when he missed on his twenty-ninth ball.
Matsuo glanced around at the onlookers. The two-dozen onlookers, mostly men, all in work clothes, were relaxed, smoking and drinking and having a good time. And why not? Their man had run twenty-eight balls straight before Matsuo had lifted his cue.
Taking his turn at the table, Matsuo settled down to the game, forgetting about Mick and remembering his kyo-jutsu training, making himself one with the cue stick.
After he cleaned the table and ran the next rack, he looked up and noticed that the crowd wasn't quite so noisy or jocular. He glanced at Mick as the balls were being reracked. He was seated on a barstool in the corner with his cue stick across his lap, his face an unreadable mask.
As Matsuo ran his third rack, the crowd became progressively more quiet. Another glance at Mick before he broke the fourth and Matsuo saw that the freckled face was mottled with red; perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip. As Matsuo ran through the fourth rack, he tried to control his excitement, knowing that it would interfere with his game. But he found it hard to resist the mounting exaltation as he saw his score creep closer and closer to the magic total of sixty-one.
Matsuo's score reached sixty. One point to go. Mick was now a sickly pale. Matsuo took aim on the winning ball—number 14. He melted into the cue and called for the corner pocket. But as he thrust the cue stick forward, a heavy boot struck him in the left calf, causing his shot to strike off-center.
Reining in the anger that suddenly raced through him, Matsuo turned and looked at the man who had interfered with his shot. He stood well over six feet and grinned with mock innocence.
"Got a cramp in my leg," he said.
The crowd laughed.
"So sorry to hear that," Matsuo said.
He stepped up close to him and, using atemi, grasped the man's right leg above the knee, striking vital points with his thumb and forefinger. The man howled and dropped to the ground, clutching his leg.
"Ah!" Matsuo said. "Another cramp. So sorry."
As some of the members of the crowd stepped forward menacingly, Matsuo turned his back and faced Mick.
"Your turn," he said with a bow.
Mick's color was returning to normal. He stared at Matsuo with a puzzled expression on his face. After a moment he shrugged, leaned over the table, and sank the next ball. The crowd cheered as he cleaned the table and the balls were racked again. He ran his score up to forty-eight before he ran into trouble.
Thirteen balls were on the table. Mick needed to sink the 4 for his next point but he was trapped behind the 5 with no shot. He called safe and tapped the cue ball against the 5, leaving Matsuo without a shot.
At least that was the way it looked at first.
But Matsuo didn't want to trade "safe" shots with Mick. He wanted an utterly demoralizing victory. And to achieve that he would have to take risks. He studied the lay of the balls and traced a mental path in his mind. It was possible . . . just possible . . . but it would require the deftest touch imaginable.
He leaned over the table and aimed the cue ball almost 180 degrees away from 4.
He said, "Side pocket."
It looked like an impossible shot, and he hoped that would keep any of Mick's backers from kicking him again. The already quiet room became as silent as a grave. Even the sound of breathing stopped.
Melting into his cue stick more intimately than ever before, becoming one with it, he said a prayer to all his ancestors and let fly at the white ball.
The cue ball banked off the near-end cushion, the side cushion, the far-end cushion, and then rolled toward the 14, losing momentum all the time. Matsuo held his breath as it tapped the ball and sent it rolling. The 4 caromed off the 15 and rolled right up to the lip of the side pocket where it paused, tottered .. .
... and rolled in.
Amid a mass exhalation of stale air, someone started to cheer, then caught himself.
I did it. I really did it!
Matsuo wanted to shout, to get up on the green felt of the table and do a dance. But he couldn't. He had to remain cool and placid, had to maintain the role of the inscrutable Oriental.
Moving slowly but precisely, Matsuo picked up his jacket and said to the tight-lipped, blanched-faced Mick, "Thank you for a very preasant evening.”
He then turned to O'Boyle and handed him a wad of cash.
"Drinks for everyone!"
* * *
Mick stood cold and numb wi
th shock and shame. He’d lost. Lost to a Jap. This wasn't happening. He leapt out of his chair before anyone could laugh or shout or move away from the table.
"Wait a minute, Jap! You ain't going anywhere until I get a chance to win back what I lost!"
The crowd watched in silence.
"Gradry." The Jap reached into his pocket, pulled out his original five twenty-dollar gold pieces, and set them in a pile on the felt surface of the pool table. "But I rearry don't want more of your money."
"Don't worry." Mick flashed a confident sneer for the benefit of the regulars. "You ain't gettin' any." He turned to the crowd. "All right—who wants a piece of this action?"
The regulars shuffled their feet, looked at each other, at the ground, anywhere but at him, then began to break up and wander back toward the bar. O'Boyle scurried ahead of them with his fistful of money.
"Hey! Where're you goin'?" Mick said to their backs. "He used some cheap Jap tricks to beat me!"
"Maybe you better learn a few of those tricks yourself," somebody muttered.
Their icy rejection was like a gut punch. He took a few steps after them.
"I can beat him! You know I can! Cover me and I'll get your money back!"
"Already lost too much," somebody else said.
This can't be. They can't do this to me.
"Wait, fellas ..."
But they were gone. Only he and the Jap remained in the billiards area, facing each other across the still, silent, green table.
* * *
Matsuo watched Mick’s slack face as his gaze flicked from the crowd at the bar, to the pool table, and back to the bar. His reputation was in ruins; his self-respect shattered; his one pride in life, his skill with a pool cue, had been won away from him in a humiliating defeat.
Matsuo tried to dredge up a mote of pity for him but kept seeing Izumi-san's bloody, broken head. He knew then that no matter how much humiliation he had inflicted on Mick, it was not enough. It would never be enough.
In Japan, tonight's defeat might have been cause enough for Mick to consider killing himself. But this was America and Matsuo knew that Mick would never have such grace.