The Case of the Russian Diplomat

12

It was five-thirty and Masuto sat at his desk, staring at his typewriter. Beckman sat facing him and rubbing his hand.

“I can’t write this,” Masuto said. “I don’t know where to start. There was too much yesterday and too much today.”

“Can you move your fingers if your hand is broken?” Beckman asked.

“Suppose you write the report, Sy.”

“How can I type with this hand? Do you think I ought to have it X-rayed?”

“The hell with it,” Masuto said. “I’ll do it tomorrow. I’m going home. I need a bath. You know, we don’t eat anymore. Did you have lunch today?”

“When?” Beckman asked sourly.

Wainwright came into the room then and stood there, staring at them bleakly.

“Something wrong?” Beckman asked.

“You two give me a pain.”

“That’s understandable,” Masuto agreed.

“You got a kidnapping, and you treat it like a personal affair. You bust into a house in Los Angeles and maim two suspects, and you operate like this wasn’t a police department and like you studied to be a pair of lunatics. This Clinton from the F.B.I. says you are arrogant and unreliable, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“We couldn’t reach you,” Masuto said lamely.

“That’s one lousy excuse. Suddenly you don’t have a radio in your car. You knew goddamn well that I was over in the hotel with this Clinton guy, but you couldn’t take five minutes to phone me. Oh, no. Now what the hell am I supposed to tell this guy? You got us involved in an international incident with these creeps from Washington crawling all over the place, and it don’t help one bit for me to tell them that you kept their five lousy agronomists and a lot of plain citizens from being blown out of the sky. Oh, no. All they want to know is why they weren’t informed of what was absolutely an F.B.I. matter, and what kind of a lousy, insubordinate police department do I run, and how come one of my cops nearly beats a suspect to death out of his own personal animosity?”

“I swear I only hit him once,” Beckman protested. “Look at my hand!”

“Well, he’s outside,” Wainwright said.

“Who?”

“The F.B.I. guy, Clinton. And he wants to talk to you, Masao, and I don’t want you giving him any lip or any of your goddamn Charlie Chan routine. You just listen to what he has to say, because we got trouble enough.”

Masuto nodded, rose, and walked outside. Clinton was sitting at a table, his attache case open in front of him, writing. When he saw Masuto, he closed his notebook and rose to face the detective.

“So you finally condescend to speak to me, Sergeant Masuto. You had an appointment with me at eleven o’clock this morning, but you chose to ignore that-”

Now Wainwright and Beckman joined them, standing a few feet behind Masuto. Clinton went on talking.

“-and take matters into your own hand. You were involved in a kidnapping, but you saw no reason to report that to the F.B.I., and then you undertook an illegal search and seizure without a warrant or a court order, and then you and your partner gave a classic demonstration of police brutality. Well, just let me tell you this. That kind of thing is over. This matter is out of your hands. The man found dead in the pool at the Beverly Glen Hotel died of drowning accidentally. Both my government and the government of the Soviet Union concur in that decision, and you are to do nothing and say nothing to contradict this. Furthermore, Mrs. Stillman’s murder of her husband will be treated and tried as an act of jealousy and revenge, and nothing will be said of her connection with the two Arabs. They will be deported, turned over to the German authorities, who have a prior claim and indictment against them. Nothing will be released on the attempt to destroy the airliner, and I have suggested to Captain Wainwright that he take measures concerning the insubordination of you and Detective Beckman. Now, do you understand this?”

Masuto nodded.

“Have you any comment?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Most humble apologies. So very sorry for long and painful list of my ineptitudes. But must make one comment. It seems to me that you are one of the most incompetent and stupid men I have ever encountered, and you can stuff that right up your bureaucratic federal asshole.”

And with that, Masuto turned on his heel and walked out. There was a long moment of silence, and then Beckman began to sputter.

“Get out of here!” Wainwright yelled.

Beckman fled. Clinton took a deep breath and said to Wainwright, “I want you to get rid of that man.”

“Oh?”

“How can you run a police force, even a force like yours, with men like that?”

“I manage,” Wainwright said.

“That insolent bastard! That damn Jap!”

“Hold on,” Wainwright said coldly. “You turn my stomach, mister.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s an American, He’s not Japanese. This is California, Mr. Clinton. We don’t talk that way.”

Clinton stared and Wainwright stared back.

“He’s also a damn good cop,” Wainwright said. “Maybe the best I got. I cooperated with you right down the line, and if you want to twist this filthy mess to your own ends, I got nothing to say about that. But right here you’re on my turf. I don’t come to Washington and tell you how to run your organization, and I’ll thank you not to tell me how to run my police department. So let’s finish up what we got and put this case away.”

Masuto drove home to Culver City. He was tired. His mind had stopped functioning. Rage had wiped out any sense of achievement, and he felt lifeless.

He came into the house, and his son and daughter ran to greet him. They were in their pajamas, ready for bed, and Ana appeared to be none the worse for her experience. She had evidently informed Uraga of all the details of her kidnapping, and they both chattered away, excitedly. Masuto embraced them mechanically and listened without hearing. He was also very conscious of the fact that Kati had not come to greet him as he entered. Usually she was so anxious about his coming home that she would look for him through the window or listen for the sound of his car.

“Where is your mother?” he asked Uraga.

“In the kitchen.”

“Go and play,” he said to them. “I must talk to her.”

He went into the kitchen. Kati stood at the sink, her back to him, cleaning shrimp and vegetables for tempura. She did not turn as he entered, and after a moment he went to her and kissed the bare spot on her shoulder.

“That will not help,” she said coldly, without turning around.

“What have I done?”

“It’s not what you have done. It’s what you haven’t done. Do you know what I went through today?”

He took her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Don’t you think I went thorugh the same thing?”

“Did you? Did you have to sit here and wait? And wait? Do you know what that is? Days go by and I don’t see you and the children don’t see you. Do you know what that is? I’m not Japanese. I’m Nisei, as you are, but you treat me the way the Japanese men treat their wives.”

“I don’t. That’s not fair.”

“It is true, and you know it.”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what to say. I’m going to take a bath.”

He was lying in the hot tub, the water as hot as his skin could bear, half asleep, relaxed for the first time in hours, when the door opened and Kati entered, carrying two huge fluffly white towels. She sat down beside the tub, the towels in her lap.

“Do you know, you are right,” he said to her.

“I know I am.”

“I saw you preparing tempura, so you can’t be too angry at me.”

“Ah, so. It’s not because I am not angry, it’s because I decided what to do.”

“And what is that?”

“It concerns tomorrow, Saturday. Tomorrow, I will prepare a picnic lunch, and we will take the children and our bathing suits and we will drive up to Malibu and have a picnic on the beach, and the children will play all day in the sand and the water, and you and I will have an opportunity to resume our acquaintance.”

“That would be wonderful.” Masuto sighed. “But I have to go into the office and prepare my report.”

“No,” Kati said calmly. “You will call Captain Wainwright and tell him you cannot come in tomorrow. You can even lie to him, if you wish, and tell him that you are sick. You never use any of your sick time.”

“I don’t think Wainwright would appreciate that.”

“But I would. So when you are out of the tub, you will call Captain Wainwright.”

Masuto thought about it. “It’s too sudden to get sick. I would have to tell him the truth.”

“Then you will tell him the truth. Then you can meditate if you wish, and then we will have your supper. I also have sushi.”

“Why did you prepare my favorite food if you were so angry at me?” Masuto wondered.

“What has one thing got to do with the other?”

“Yes. I see. You are a remarkable woman, Kati.”

After he had dried himself and put on his saffron-colored robe, he called the station and spoke to Wainwright.

“I just don’t believe you,” Wainwright said. “After the way you loused things up with the whole goddamn federal government?”

“It’s either that or get a divorce.”

“You give me one pain in the ass, Masao.”

“Do I get the day off?”

“Take it, take it. It’ll be a relief not to see you around for a whole weekend.”

He put down the phone and turned to Kati, who stood there smiling.

“You see,” she said, “it was very simple, wasn’t it?”

He shook his head hopelessly.

“The children are in bed. Shall we eat?”

He nodded.

Later, heaping tempura onto his plate, she asked innocently, “What happened to the dancer?”

“She’s in jail.”

Kati smiled again. “Tomorrow will be a nice day,” she said. “A married man should enjoy his wife and children.”