As we rode, I tried to get into mental fighting trim. It wasn't easy.
Walton, I kept telling myself, you're too old for this kind of
intrigue. And why drag this innocent woman in. You're not shuffling
paper and cutting deals and then going out for a drink with the other
side's counsel after you've both finished impressing your clients by
shoving each other against the wall. You're about to start fooling
around with guys who carry submachine guns. When you wouldn't know what
to do with an Uzi if somebody handed you one. If these boys start
shooting, there won't be a lot of polite inquiries concerning due
process.
Tam was leaning against my shoulder, still perfumed from the bubble
bath, and totally relaxed. She seemed to know what she was doing. Or
maybe she didn't want to think about the risk we were taking. As for
me, this Sam Spade number was definitely not part of my legal arsenal.
My thoughts, however, kept coming back to her. Tam Richardson was the
first woman I'd felt this comfortable with for a long, long time. She
was a mixture of tough and soft, and she was smart. What I'd always
been looking for. Exit Donna, enter Tam. Maybe life was going to give
me another inning.
If we both lived that long.
We'd headed uptown on Sixth Avenue, rutted with slush; at Fourteenth
Street we hung a right, east toward Third. The snowplows were out,
together with the salt machines, while abandoned cars were lodged in
furrows of ice all along the curb. This was definitely shaping up as
the storm of the year. Since most of Tanaka's staff lived in the
Japanese "ghetto" up in Hartsdale and Eastchester (where there's even a
Japanese PTA these days), they surely must have caught the "Orient
Express" out of Grand Central before the trains got stopped dead by the
weather. Certainly tonight of all nights the DNI offices would be
empty. This had to be our shot. So shape up, Walton, and go for it.
While we listened to the sleet bounce off the back window, our Jamaican
driver proceeded to compare New York City unfavorably with every armpit
he'd ever known, as well as a few arctic locales he doubtless was
acquainted with only by reputation. I finally tuned him out and began
asking myself one question over and over. What exactly are we going to
do if we figure out there's some kind of skullduggery afoot? Is there
any way to stop them, even if we wanted to?
Probably nothing short of Congress's cracking down could keep Noda's
money out of the country, and who's going to support that kind of
legislation? Most solons, in fact, were hailing DNI and its Japanese
billions as the salvation of America. No lawmaker was staring at the
cameras and "viewing with concern" this new godsend of cash. Ditto the
stock exchange. They were nervous downtown, sure, but given the avowed
purpose of Wall Street--attracting money--there wasn't exactly a
groundswell of sentiment against Dai Nippon's massive investments. Noda
had come into the market at its darkest moment and begun shoveling in
capital. How could this be anything but positive? So every time another
Japanese billion rolled in and prices ticked up some more, everybody
merely leapt for joy. The Japanese were coming to rejuvenate our land,
cheered the Journal. Billions from the cash-rich Japanese capital
markets were voting with their feet to be part of America's resurgence.
Maybe they're right, I told myself. About the only discordant voices in
this chorus of hesitant hallelujahs belonged to a few op-ed sour-
grape academics. I recalled one piece in particular from late last
week. Who was it: Robert Reich, Lester Thurow, "Adam Smith"?
This must be how it felt all those years in Europe as they helplessly
watched the invasion of American money. Has the U.S. now joined the
Third World, capitalized by rich "Yankees" from the East? Now at last
we realize that setting up plants here for "co-production" was merely
the foot in the door. Does it matter if U.S. industry is owned by
American pension funds or Japanese insurance companies? Guess not,
unless you happen to care whether we still control our own destiny.
America, soon to be the wholly owned subsidiary . . .
The writer was just blowing smoke and knew it. These days a harangue in
the Times and a token will get you on the subway. Even Henderson was
taking a new look at Noda-- astounded by his market savvy. The Georgia
po' boy who once summarized his own trading style as the four F's
("find 'em, fleece 'em, fuck 'em, and forget 'em") had met his match.
What a play Noda had made! To Bill, my new client had acquired the aura
of some omnipotent invader from the depths of space--The Creature That
Ate Wall Street. His eyes glazed over whenever he reflected on Noda's
masterful one-two punch. Billions skimmed inside a week.
"Tam, take a good, long look." I was pointing up into the night as we
emerged onto the slippery sidewalk. "The house that Noda built. Did all
of this happen since only late September?"
"Time flies when you're having fun." She slammed the door and headed
for the lobby, calm as could be. Okay, Walton, you'd better toughen up
too.
I rewarded our grumbling cabbie with a vulgar tip and watched the
vehicle slowly roll off into the sleet, tires crunching, to end another
of those passing New York intimacies so vivid yet so forgettable.
As it turned out, lobby security was a breeze, since yours truly had
approved the application of the night guard personally right after DNI
took over. Eddie Mazzola, blue uniform and grasping a Styrofoam cup of
coffee, glanced up from the Sunday Daily News, his face generic Staten
Island.
"What brings you out on a night like this, Mr. Walton? Nothing wrong, I
hope?"
"Do me a favor, Eddie. Burn this place down. We'll split the insurance
and both retire to Miami Beach. Who needs New York?"
He concurred the idea had merit. I then went on to mention that we'd
just come from uptown; Dr. Richardson here had forgotten some kind of
gobbledygook up on twelve, and we wouldn't be a minute.
"Tell you the truth, Eddie, my fingers are too damned numb to bother
signing the visitor's book."
He saluted and returned his concentration to the Knicks' perennial
slump.
We took the night elevator up, and somewhere around the time we passed
the ninth floor, we managed to settle on a story. Noda, we would say,
had called Tam and asked her to hurry up a special report on one of the
firms for Monday. We'd just left a dinner party on the East Side,
thought we'd drop by and pick up some printouts since she wanted to
work at home tomorrow. Shouldn't be more than a minute.
As the number above the door hit twelve, I tried to remember how to
pray.
In the hallway we waved at the TV eye and the steel door opened.
Standing there was Shiro Yamada: cropped hair, trifle burly, gray
uniform. One of the regulars. He shifted his Uzi as we came through.
Then he recognized Tam and bowed low.
By the wildest of good fortune Yamada only spoke Japanese, a linguistic
limitation that turned out to be crucial. Tam began by observing the
niceties: she commiserated with him about the weather, the late hour,
would the next shift be able to get through and relieve him. He was all
bows and deference and _hai, hai_.
Finally she worked around to why we were there, almost as though that
were a nuisance and the real reason had been to drop by for a chat. By
the way, she added, there were a couple of things she needed from her
office. She gave him the story.
Yamada listened, bowing, _hai, hai_, then sucked in his breath to
demonstrate we'd presented him with a serious conflict of obligations--
which for a Japanese is the most disturbing prospect imaginable. This
situation entails great difficulty, he said, drawing in more air
through his front teeth. _Honto ni muzukashii desu_.
_Muzukashii deshoo ka_? Enquired Tam. Difficulty?
_Hai, so desu_. Yes, and he was deeply apologetic. Lots of _sumimasen_,
very sorry.
At first I thought he just hadn't bought the story. But then it turned
out that there were these rules, you see. No one was allowed on the
floor weekends without a pass signed personally by Tanaka-san. He
glanced at his watch. It was nearly two A.M. More heavy intakes of air
and _muzukashii's_. Of course the honorable Dr. Richardson-san, being
an honorable director herself, should be able to come and go as she
pleased, but the rules . . .
He seemed to be pleading with Tarn to help him find a resolution for
this towering dilemma.
"What's the problem, Tam?" I enquired, sotto voce.
"No fucking pass."
After an extremely awkward pause a light bulb clicked on in my simple
mind. With great theatrics I suddenly slapped my own forehead, gave Tam
a tip-off in English, and began rummaging my pockets. When we left the
house I'd grabbed an old topcoat, not worn since that rainy night I met
Noda, and in it somewhere was . . .
She started explaining that Walton-san may have brought the pass with
him and merely let that fact slip his mind.
Then I felt what I was looking for, in the bottom of the inside pocket.
Noda's _meishi_, his business card, complete with the English note
scribbled across the back.
"How stupid of me," I apologized. "Had it all along. Noda- san's 'top
priority' pass. He gave it to me only yesterday."
Yamada took the business card and studied it with a puzzled look. What
did this have to do with anything?
That's when I impatiently turned it over and pointed to the English
scribbling on the back. Noda's initials, I groused, right there at the
bottom.
"_Hai, wakarimasu_." He understood that Noda-sama surely had written
this, but so what? It wasn't the official form that the rules
specified. More _muzukashii_.
Noda-san was in a rush, I apologized again. Didn't have time to locate
the regular form. Tam passed that along in better Japanese.
"_Soo desu . . ._" Yamada thoughtfully agreed that such oversights
sometimes happened. Everybody knew the big _daimyo _had a tendency to
override official channels. He shifted his Uzi uncertainly.
"Noda-sama insisted I finish this report by Monday," Tam stressed. "We
should only be a minute."
Yamada scrutinized the back of the card a moment longer, holding it up
to the light. What was he going to do?
Finally he handed it back, bowed reluctantly, and looked the other way.
It was a go.
"God, that was close." Tam closed the door behind us and clicked on the
lights. "You don't know how lucky we were. If Morikawa had been on duty
tonight, forget it. He'd never have bought that cock-and-bull routine."