Black Wind

  "Ha! You see?" the old Jap said. "You boy go now, not get hurt!"

  Mick reached a hand up to his stinging scalp. It came away bloody.

  "You dirty son of a bitch!" he screamed. "I'll show you who gets hurt!"

  He charged in, swinging the bat. The old Jap tried to protect himself by putting up his skinny arms but Mick just batted them aside, hearing one crack in the process. The old guy cried out in pain and grabbed his forearm. Now the way was clear for Mick to get even and give the old Jap a shot to the head just like he had given Mick. He swung the bat hard. He felt it crunch into the side of the skull. The Jap went down like a sack of potatoes.

  "Oh, shit!" someone said behind him.

  Mick looked down at the Jap. Holy Mother! He wasn't moving or breathing or doing anything!

  "Let's get out of here!" another voice said.

  "Yeah." Mick was all for that. "But let's hide him somewhere first!"

  Now I've done it, he thought. But he was old, and didn't have long to go anyway. And he was only a Jap. He kept telling himself that. Only an old Jap.

  * * *

  "Dad! Try to punch me. Go ahead. Try it."

  "Don't be silly."

  "C'mon. Don't be afraid. You won't hurt me."

  He smiled, then shrugged. "All right. If you insist."

  He didn't try to punch me, just give me a shove. I grabbed him by the wrist, spun him around, and had him in an armlock before he knew what happened. I took real pleasure in my father's widened eyes.

  "Lucky shot!” He backed away and faced me again. “Bet you can't get away with that twice!"

  I laughed. "Try me, big guy!"

  The day after Christmas and we were alone in the house. Mom was off visiting Aunt Christine and we’d just finished snacking on some leftover apple pie. From my position in the dining room, I could see the tree in the living room window and the opened gifts still cluttered beneath it. The late afternoon sun poured through the bay windows, warming the tree and filling the house with the scent of fresh-cut pine.

  Instead of swinging at me this time, Dad charged in for a body tackle. I flipped him over my hip and he tumbled to the floor.

  "I'm impressed," he said, standing and brushing off his clothes. He smoothed his moustache with a thumb and forefinger. "Who taught you that?"

  "Matsuo," I said, dropping into my usual seat at the table.

  "And where'd he learn it?"

  "From Nagata."

  My father nodded. "What else has he been teaching you?"

  "How to throw, how to block, how to move. All sorts of swell stuff."

  I was getting good, but nowhere near as good as Matsuo.

  "Is all that so important?"

  "It is when you've got a guy like Mick McGarrigle dogging your heels."

  "You like Matsuo, don't you."

  "He's my best pal, Dad."

  My daily lessons in jujutsu had brought us closer than ever. He was sharing a secret, an almost magic way of fighting. And I was improving every day. Maybe because I worked so hard at it. I knew that jujutsu could be the equalizer between me and the Micks of the world. But no matter how good I got, Matsuo would always be ten times better. He moved like liquid, like lightning. When we squared off against each other, he always seemed to know what I was going to do before I did it.

  Dad sighed. "I don't know, Frankie."

  "You don't know what, Dad?"

  "I don't know if it's such a good idea for you and Matsuo to be so inseparable."

  "Because he's Japanese?"

  My father's nod set my blood to boiling. I shot to my feet.

  "You're just like everybody else!"

  As I passed him on the way out of the room, he grabbed my arm and stopped me.

  "That's not fair, Frankie. Not fair at all. You haven't heard me out."

  I didn't want to hear any more. I felt tears starting in my eyes and I didn't want him to see. But he held me fast and finally I slumped back into my seat.

  "Listen to me, Frankie," he said, finding my eyes with his and holding them. "I have nothing against the Japanese. In fact, I like the Japanese. But I'm a minority here in California, and I worry that if trouble comes looking for Matsuo because he's Japanese, it just might find you too because you're with him."

  "If you like Japanese, how come you never hire any?"

  "I'd love to, believe me. Most people don't see them the way I do. They're clean, decent, hardworking people. If I had my way, I'd hire every single one I could find to work in the factory. They don't know anything about precision tool-and-die machining, but I'll bet it wouldn't take them long to learn."

  "Then why don't you?"

  I was interested in his answer, but more than that, this was my father talking to me. He hardly ever talked to me. He was always rushing here and there on business. We almost never got a chance to be together, and now here he was sitting alone with me at the breakfast table talking man-to-man. I almost didn't care now what he said; I just didn't want him to stop.

  "It's not that easy, Frankie."

  "Sure it is. Someday, when I'm boss at the factory, I'll hire a whole bunch of Japanese and show everybody."

  "Not if you want to have a company left."

  Something in his voice gave me a chill.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The workers—the white Californians, at least—won't stand for it. They don't want to see Nips hired to take jobs that could go to their brothers and cousins and sons. You'd have a riot on the factory floor every day. Production would fall off, you'd miss deadlines, and your customers would start looking elsewhere for their precision steel parts. Soon you'd be out of business."

  I could hardly believe my ears. "But you're the boss. You own the place. You can fire anyone who makes trouble."

  Dad's smile was sad as he gave his head a slow shake. "Years ago I might have thought that, too. I worked myself half to death to get that business going. Nobody thought there'd be much demand for precision parts after the war, but I figured there would always be some need. So I got together every cent I could beg, borrow, or steal, bought up used machinery at bargain prices, set them up in an old garage, and went looking for customers. Took me a while, but I found them, and I did good work for them, and so I got more customers and more machines and now I've got fat military contracts and own a big factory where I employ a hundred and fifty men in round-the-clock shifts. And what do I have to say about who I hire? Nothing."

  "But why not, Dad?"

  "If I hire Japs and then have to fire them because of all the dissension their presence will cause, I'll feel like a heel. And it'll prove once and for all that I'm really no longer my own boss, a fact I don't like to face. If on the other hand I fire the white troublemakers, I'll be labeled as someone who favors foreigners over his countrymen. I won't have too many friends after that gets around. And worse, I'll run the risk of getting my car stoned as I drive through the factory gates or maybe even being burned out of this house. At the very least, the old soldiers who make the deals for the Army and the Navy will get wind of it and decide I'm not the sort of man they want to buy from. If that happens, I'm out of business."

  I sat there in shock. When I didn't say anything, he smiled and reached over and tousled my hair.

  "Sure you still want to take over the factory when you grow up?"

  I thought about that for a moment, then said, "Yes."

  I didn't have any friends besides Matsuo anyway. What did I have to lose?

  He sighed. "Well, maybe you won't have to worry about that. If some of the stock deals I'm getting into pay off, we'll be so rich that neither you nor I will ever have to even think about working for the rest of our days."

  "That would be swell," I said, smoothing my hair down over my forehead. On impulse, I lifted it up to bare the wine stain. "Doesn't this ever go away?"

  Dad lifted his hair to show his own mark. His was a small red crescent just below the hairline, barely visible. The rest was hidden beneath the hair on his sc
alp. "No. Your grandfather's never went away and neither has mine."

  "But mine is so big and ugly." I pulled the hair back down over it.

  "I didn't know it bothered you so much."

  "The kids call me Spot."

  I saw sympathy and fury weave across his face. "I didn't know."

  We sat in silence while I considered how many things my father didn't know about me. Maybe he was thinking the same thing.

  Finally he said, "Someday I'm sure doctors will be able to do something about it. But as for right now . . ."

  I forced a smile. "Right now it's the only face I've got."

  He laughed. "Right." He slapped his palms on the table. "Well! It was a good Christmas, wasn't it?"

  "The best. Hope you liked the muffler."

  "It's swell."

  "You're a hard guy to buy for. You have everything."

  A cloud passed over his face. "Not really, Frankie. Not yet. But I'm sure as hell trying."

  I left him there sitting and staring out the window and went to find Matsuo.

  * * *

  The late afternoon wind off the San Francisco Bay stung Matsuo's face, making his eyes water. He knew he should have dressed in more than a suit jacket and a scarf, but the cold didn't bother him. He guessed it was the warmth of this Christian holiday called Christmas that insulated him. A wonderful holiday, Christmas, or Kurisumasu as the folks in Japantown called it. Such good feelings between people in this season, even the Westerners who would usually scowl or snub a Japan boy had genuine smiles for him these days. Matsuo had adopted Nagata's mixture of Shintoism and Zen Buddhism, but would have gladly traded them for Christianity because of this one holiday.

  "Nagata-san!" he called from the ground to the floor above the garage. Frankie stood beside him. "I am leaving now!"

  Nagata stuck his head out the door. "It is late, Matsuo," he said in Japanese. "You know I have warned you about being out after dark. It can wait until tomorrow."

  "If you will permit, sensei, I would like to collect my pay from Izumi-san today. Frankie is coming with me."

  "Very well. But no dawdling. Return here directly."

  Matsuo said, "Hai," and gave a little bow.

  "You went too fast for me there," Frankie said as they walked side-by-side toward the trolley stop. "Why are we heading down-town?"

  "I have two weeks' pay due me. Maybe we can go to a movie tomorrow."

  "Swell. If not, we can always practice some throws."

  Matsuo had to smile at Frankie. His friend had become totally enthralled with jujutsu. He never seemed to tire of learning new throws or practicing and honing old ones. It had worked quite a change on him. A new self-confidence bloomed in his friend. He walked with his head high, his back straight, his shoulders square. He seemed more willing to look people in the eye.

  Matsuo was amazed at the progress Frankie had made in four short months. He had gone from an awkward, lead-footed novice to an agile, confident fighter—although one who had never been tested. He still had a lot to learn, and every so often Matsuo had to demonstrate just how far he had to go. Still, he was impressed with his friend's remarkable progress.

  The hoped-for confrontation with Mick had not occurred, how-ever. The bully had not returned to school in September. Matsuo had caught glimpses of him and a few of his pals skulking around the downtown area during the past few months, and the talk among the boys in school was that Mick had been trying his hand at petty thievery with some success.

  Matsuo had been terribly frustrated at first by Mick's absence. His plan had been to turn Frankie into a fighter and let him give Mick a thrashing. It had seemed like a perfect solution. Not only would Frankie satisfy his own giri to his name, but through him, as Frankie's teacher, Matsuo would also satisfy his giri without neglecting the various on that constrained him. And in the process, his friend would develop new self-respect. He had considered it a stroke of genius. But his plans had come to naught.

  At least they were both being spared further insults. If nothing else, that was something to be thankful for.

  "Thinking about Mick?" Frankie said as they stood and shivered at the trolley stop.

  "How did you know?"

  "Because whenever you do you get real quiet and your jaw muscles bulge."

  Matsuo rubbed his jaw. Nagata always said he showed too much of his inner face.

  Frankie said, "If he came up to you right now and started pushing you around, what would you do?"

  Matsuo hid a sigh. He knew where this was leading. "I would step aside and let you squash him like a bug."

  "I don't know if I could do that," Frankie said with a laugh. "But I sure could give him one heck of a surprise." He paused, then said, "Not as big a surprise as you could, though."

  Matsuo made no reply in the hope that Frankie would switch to another topic.

  He didn't.

  "I still can't figure out why you've let Mick push you around all these years. You're the best fighter I've ever seen. You could have mopped the floor with him any time you wanted to."

  "I can't mop the floor with anyone. I've told you: Nagata-san forbids me. Shi-no-on."

  "But that doesn't make sense, Matsuo. Nagata's an old war-horse. I can't see him allowing his nephew to get pushed around like that."

  "I have not lied to you," Matsuo said softly, struggling to hold onto his patience.

  Frankie quickly put a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, I didn't mean that. I just… I just don't understand. And when I think about all the beatings we took when you could have—"

  "It was not my choice but it was my duty. Wakarimasu ka?"

  "Oh, I understand that perfectly. I just don't understand why Nagata made that rule for you."

  "A sensei should not be questioned," Matsuo said, repressing a smile as he remembered all the times he had questioned Nagata's rules.

  "If you say so," Frankie said with apparent resignation.

  The trolley came then, and once they were on it, Frankie said, "I used your Christmas present already."

  "Really?" Matsuo was glad to be on the happy subject of Christmas. He had given Frankie an ivory hanko on Christmas Eve, explaining how to use the little seal and inkpad. "Where?"

  Frankie showed him the back of his left hand. There in red ink was the imprint of the hanko, a circle bordered with tiny castles pointing inward toward the ideogram for "friend."

  "That's supposed to be used like a signature."

  "I know. But I don't have anything to sign, and I wanted to use it. I sat at my father's desk this morning and filled a couple of sheets of paper with it." He held it up close to his face and inspected it. "I really like it, Matsuo. I think it looks swell. I'm going to start using it on my homework. Everything I hand in will have my hanko on it." He smiled suddenly. "Franko's hanko. I like the sound of that. Pretty soon I won't have to sign my name at all. Mrs. Evans will know it's me just from this."

  "It is a poor thing beside your gift to me," Matsuo said. "As soon as spring comes, I'm going to find the proper place for it in the garden."

  Matsuo had been moved almost to tears by Frankie's gift. A rock. A special rock, one that Frankie had found nested in the slope by the bay on Thanksgiving Day and had saved for Matsuo. It had a streak of quartz running through its center and green swirls in the stone on either side of the streak. Frankie had said it looked like the stream running through the garden.

  The unique and personal nature of the gift had deeply touched Matsuo. The stone had meaning for no one in all of America, in all the world—except perhaps for Nagata. But it had not been given to Nagata; it had been given to Matsuo, and its specialness had made him ashamed of the little store-bought hanko he had given in return. He wondered how he had come to be honored with a friend as true as Frankie.

  Because it was the day after Christmas, the traffic made for a slow trip to Japantown. Matsuo chafed at the snaillike pace of the trolley through the car-and pedestrian-clogged streets. The shadows were lengthening as the sun d
ropped to the horizon. He had promised Nagata to be home before dark.

  Finally they reached Nihonmachi and jumped from the rear of the car. Together they raced along Geary Street to Izumi's yao-ya, Matsuo in the lead until Frankie overtook him with a surprise burst of speed at the last minute.

  And then they both stopped dead. The store was closed. The produce trays in the front were empty. Matsuo tried the door and found it locked.

  "What's the matter?" a voice said behind them.

  Matsuo looked up and saw Sachi walking down the street in a new gray suit.

  "Where's your uncle?"

  Sachi shrugged. "I wasn't working today. Must have closed early."

  Matsuo wondered about that. Izumi-san loved his profits too much to close on such a busy day. Matsuo peered through the cloudy window into the darkened interior. Nothing moved.

  "You think he's all right?"

  "Sure," Sachi said. "Look, I've got to get over to my aunt's for dinner. I'll be seeing you." He hurried off.

  Matsuo could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. "Let's go around back."

  They squeezed through the narrow, garbage-strewn passage to the rear of the building where a rickety wooden stairway curved up to Izumi's rooms over the shop. Matsuo led the way up to another locked door. His persistent knocking was not answered.

  "How long has that window been broken?" Frankie said from behind him.

  He was leaning over the railing on the second-floor landing and staring down at the rear of the store. Matsuo looked down to where he pointed. His stomach lurched at the sight of the broken pane in the window beside the rear door. Without a word, he raced down and threw himself against the door. It burst open as soon as he made contact. Not even latched.

  "Izumi-san?" Matsuo called from the doorway, his heart thudding in his throat. "Izumi-san!"

  The store was quiet…quiet as a tomb. The odor of spoiling vegetables filled the closed space of the back room. Matsuo reached up and found the string for the light and pulled it, dreading what he might see. He glanced about, peering into the shadows that shifted and rolled in the light of the swaying bulb. The empty fruit and vegetable crates, which Izumi always insisted that he stack so neatly here, were strewn about in chaos. A few were smashed.