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The Bushido Way
A Sam Phillips Mystery
By
M. Anthony Phillips
This book is dedicated to my father Sam Phillips—a P.I. Rest in peace.
Acknowledgements to Sam Phillips Jr., and Vernon Scott, my brothers, who helped shape my mental and physical toughness.
Table of Contents
Part One: Soul Power
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Two: The Streets Run Red
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part Three: Revenge is Best Served Cold
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Part Four: Get Sam
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Part Five: Return of the Rebel
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Part Six: The Big Payback
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Part Seven: The Bushido Way
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Part One
Soul Power
Los Angeles, circa 1976
Chapter 1
They said I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. Choosing to become a P.I. was not what my mother had in mind for me after I got out of ‘Nam. She wanted me to go into the airline industry, or maybe work for a bottling company. It’s 1976—our country’s bicentennial year, as most of the country are doing their part to celebrate. I returned “in” country after the fall of Saigon last year with my body intact, but my mind somewhat damaged. Nightmares are a recurring theme, so working in a “normal environment” just doesn’t work for me.
I settled in Hollywood, California, by way of Kansas City, Missouri, just to get out of my folks’ hair. I took up being a private dick because it was an easy transition from being in the military.
I reside in a dive of an apartment upstairs from a bar that also doubles as my office. It has a pull out sofa for my bed. It’s located on Hollywood and Vine, a block away from Capitol Records Music in an area that’s a far cry from the glamour of Hollywood’s “golden years”.
The bar sits around the corner from 24hr strip clubs, porn stores, and tourist shops, and is run by a tough broad by the name of Bernice Jones. Miss Bernice—as she’s called was a former blues singer back in the Chess Record days but fell on hard times herself. Underneath the bar, she packs a sawed off shotgun to ward off the riff-raff that either can’t hold their liquor or don’t want to leave when she tells them. I, on the other hand, am the latest to draw Bernice’s ire. For what you ask? My rent is due and I can’t make rent.
Just yesterday I got a visit from Bernice. She doesn’t like to come looking for you on rent day because it takes her away from her other duties. She came in and bowled right over my secretary—Constance Turner. “Where’s Sam?!” she asked.
“I think he’s out…”
“No, he’s not—I can smell his cheap Hai Karate cologne, baby!” Bernice said, storming past Constance. She steps into my office with a look on her face that can scare Aunt Esther. “Sam, you know I don’t like coming to find you on rent day!” she yelled. “You should be man enough to come to me even if you ain’t got it!”
What can I say—she’s right. Only a bum would hide away in his office. “You’re right, Miss Bernice. I got caught up calling back potential clients—trying to get a case,” I said, even though it’s bullshit. I was looking through the paper for the lottery results—loser again. “I’m revoking your drinking privileges at the bar until your rent’s paid,” she barked. She looks over at my tiny little Fern sitting in the corner that’s seen better days. That just happens to be the same Fern that she gave me when I first moved in. Just when she was starting to warm up to me—I can see the veins in her forehead starting to pop
“You make sure you have my rent by next week, or you’re out on your ass!” She moves out of the room exactly the way she came in. Like an F4 Tornado.
Chapter 2
Being cut off from drinking privileges just makes me want to drink even more, but I’ve got things to do. Bernice means business, but she’ll be lucky to get the rent this week. Looking out my window there’s a ton of cases out there yet to be solved. I just need to compete with all the grizzled veterans—can you dig it? I need to get out and clear my head—look at things from another perspective. Maybe I’ll go and see my old army buddy Joey, down at the precinct. He’s an Italian American that helped me get through that damn war. Hell—I helped him also.
I walk up to the front office to see Constance looking at the horoscopes again. She thinks every day that the stars will bring Mister Right walking through the door. Constance is a smart young black woman with a B.A. in business, who hides her looks behind Librarian style glasses and frumpy dresses. She’s been with me since day one and is the kind of person that sees life half full. “Any calls Connie?” I asked, looking for any morsel I can get. Constance shakes her head with that angelic smile of hers.
“Nothing so far, boss—it’s still early though. I bet you when you come back, things will turn around.” Sometimes Constance can be “Stepford Wife” material sometimes with that smile of hers. “You enjoy your lunch out there, boss—it’s a beautiful day out there, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, Connie,” I answered back. Connie holds down the fort while I step out to clear my head and get some perspective. I step onto Hollywood Boulevard to get some gossip from newsstand owner Manny who always has the latest. “Heeey, Sammy! Taking a break from the rat race?!” Manny asked.
“Manny, what’s new?”
“Inflation, Sammy. Everything is up, in Gas and Housing. Hopefully, Jimmy Carter will kick Ford’s butt in November.” Manny is a Latino brother who worked hard to get his citizenship and is now prospering with 2 newsstands. Manny rambles on about the politics of the day, but my mind is wandering about bigger issues. I need a case so bad I can taste it. Bernice is not going to stand for it much longer. I can only get by on my good looks for so long.
Maybe I’ll take a ride over to Pink’s for a hot dog—damn I forgot to bring my car! “Hey, amigo—did you hear me?” Manny asked.
“Sorry, Manny, I was day dreaming,” I said.
“I asked are you on a new case?” All I can think about at the moment is a Pink’s hot dog—now that it’s in my head. “No Manny. I’m in between cases. I need a Pink’s but I forgot my car.”
“No problem, Sam. Take my car.” Manny throws me his keys to his Ford Pinto parked in front. It’s a dull looking beige color with a few dings here and there. “Bring me one too fully loaded with extra chili peppers,” Manny said.
“You got it, amigo.”
Chapter 3
I turn the key in the ignition but the car doesn’t fire up. “There’s an ignition switch under the dashboard,” Manny said. “It’ll stop thieves from getting my car.” I smile at Manny to keep from splitting a gut from laughter. I finally get the car going and head off to Pink’s. As I drive down Hollywood Boulevard, I start to think about the days spent with my father as a kid—going on some of his stakeouts. Those were the times we really bonded. He always told me don’t get too emotionally involved in a case, you’ll last longer. He was an avid reader on a multitude of subjects but mainly loved his detective stories. He said they were the reasons he got into the business, and he became the best at it.
I make it to Pink’s and stand in the long line that’s typical here. Sandwiches are named after famous stars who come from miles around on a daily basis. As I’m driving back down La Brea and Hollywood Boulevard, I see all the Bicentennial festivities going on that reminds me of the friends I made back in my unit that didn’t make it back alive. I was one of the lucky ones from Charlie Company who made it back in one piece—although the meds I’m taking for recurring nightmares don’t always work. I make it back to the office after filling my belly and avoiding Miss Bernice. “Welcome back, boss,” said Constance, with a big smile on her face.
“Connie—what’s got you so excited?” I asked. Connie points quietly to my office.
“You have clients in your office,” she whispers. It’s been a whole month since my last case, so I’ll take what I can get, no matter how small the job. I walk back to my office—slash bedroom to find two Asian people—a young lady and man, sitting calmly. They’re dressed in nice, fashionable clothes which seem to indicate they’re maybe middle class. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” I said. The young lady smiles at seeing me, which makes me, do a double take. “Sam—you don’t remember me do you?” she asked. I stood there with a dumb look on my face—mostly upset when someone remembers me but I don’t remember them. That is a big pet-peeve of mine. “I’m sorry…should I?”
“It’s me—Michelle! Michelle Yamada!” she said. “My mom used to work for your father. We met years ago just before you went off to war.”
“Michelle! Wow—it’s been a long time! You were just a skinny little kid from the Valley!” I said. We hug for what seemed an eternity while her brother looks on. “You said you wanted to make a difference…!” We went on for like 15 minutes—reminiscing about the new decade. It was 1970, and Michelle’s mom Mariko was my father’s secretary. My father always said what a valuable asset she was to him. “This is my little brother, Ken. He went to live with my father in Japan when my parents got divorced,” Michelle said. Ken and I shake hands, but I can tell the kid is a man of little words, which means to me that he’s got a whole lot to get off his shoulders.
Chapter 4
Ken is a clean cut looking kid who looks to be around 20 years old who’s probably never even had a traffic ticket. “How is your mom, by the way?” I asked. Michelle’s face suddenly turns sad at the mention of her mother’s well being. “My mother had a stroke. She’s in a nursing home for now,” Michelle said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she gets better.” I can tell this must be very tough on Michelle and Ken. In the Asian community, it’s very rare that senior family members are not being cared for in the home. “So, how can I help you all today?” I asked. Michelle pauses for a second to gather her thoughts as she looks at her little brother. “Our mother told us that your father owed her a favor and that if she came to him—he’d be there like she was for him,” Michelle said.
“My father was a man of his word, but he’s no longer with us,” I said in response.
“You don’t assume your father’s responsibility after he’s gone?” Michelle asked, laying a massive guilt trip on me. Constance walks in and brings me a hot cup of coffee—black, as always. She does it because it’s her job, but also to break up the awkwardness. It’s something we’ve worked out together. “Can I get you folks something to drink?” she asked.
“No thank you,” Michelle said. Ken shakes his head. Constance gives me the eye and walks back to her desk. “I’d be happy to help your mother out anyway I can, but as you can see by my humble surroundings, I can only do so much. I have people standing in line to see me.” Michelle smiles, but Ken doesn’t get it. I sit back in my chair thinking that the favor maybe about me checking in on her mother, or running occasional errands here and there.
“I’m not sure you’re ready for what we’re about to tell you, Sam—It’s a matter of life and death,” Michelle said. That got my attention—especially if life or death involves me. “The reason my parents got divorced is that my mother liked the lifestyle of being American and that my father was the head of the Yakuza in America. When he got called back to Japan, she didn’t want to leave what she built for herself here. She felt more independent here. In the exchange for her freedom, my father insisted on taking Ken with him back to Japan.”
“I heard of the Yakuza—that’s the Japanese Mafia, right?” I asked. Michelle nods her head. Suddenly, Ken stands up and unbuttons his shirt and sliding it off his arms—letting it fall to the floor to reveal a multitude of outrageous body tattoos covering his whole torso. “That is a lot of tattoos,” I said. It’s an impressive display of dragons and snakes and other Asian symbols. “I take it that you are a part of this…Yakuza—right, Ken?”
“Yes. For as long as I can remember I have been Yakuza,” Ken said proudly.
“Ken and I don’t agree on the Yakuza’s ways,” Michelle suggests. “The Yakuza practically ran Japan with an iron fist that has hurt Japan’s image.” Ken has a frown on his face the way his sister describes his second family. “Yakuza gets a bad reputation because of all the movies and news, but we also work with the police to keep the bad crooks from robbing business owners,” Ken snapped. “You fight the other bad guys because they were fighting you over protection money that you take yourself!” I see that I’m gonna’ have to break up these two before blood is spilled which will attract the vampires—Miss Bernice.
Chapter 5
Ken begins to put his shirt back on to the disappointment of Constance, whose glasses are fogging up. “You said that the Yakuza ran Japan, Michelle—like they used to. What’s changed?” I asked. Michelle takes a deep breath to gather her thoughts as Ken sits back down. “There’s a war going on in Japan right now,” she said. “The Yakuza is being challenged by a large, young gang bent on taking over the old heads of the…”
“They have no honor!” Ken interrupts. “Their name is the Yokohama Black Rebels. They wear black masks so we can’t see their faces. They’ve killed some of the old bosses by chopping their heads off and delivering them to their men.”
“Nice guys,” I said. “Okay, you have a gang war going on in Japan—we have gang wars all the time here in Los Angeles, what does that have to do with me?” For a moment the room goes quiet like an E.F. Hutton commercial until Michelle finally speaks up. “My brother and father’s life is in danger, so my father sent him home here—but my mother is in the hospital. He’s getting out of the gang and needs protection.”
“My protection,” I said.
“Yes,” Michelle said, with humbleness.
“If I do this what’s to stop Ken from going back to the Yakuza?” I asked, looking right at Ken. What I’m looking for is a sincerity that he wants to get out before I use my resources. “I want to be here for my family,” Ken said with his head held high. Michelle places her hand on Ken’s in a show of support. She looks at a picture of my father and smiles. “What happened to that fancy car your father owned?” Michelle asked with a smile. I point to the picture of the car with my father standing by it. I remember when he got that car—a gift from a wealthy client for a job well done. “You mean this car?” I pointed out proudly. A 1965 Buick Riviera Gran Sport—black with maroon bucket seats.
“It’s in the parking garage—my father gave it to me in his will.” Michelle grabs the picture and looks at it with fondness. “Your father was a great man, Sam,” Michelle said, wiping away a tear. I can relate to what she’s feeling right now. She’s thinking about her mother and remembering a time when her mother was very happy. “I’ll take on your case, Michelle,” I said without hesitation. “Unfortunately, business is slow right now—how much can you afford to pay?” A smile appears on Michelle’s face along with a sigh of relief from Ken.
“Money is no object—we expected as much,” Michelle added. I smile when a client says money is no object. I’m ready to pull out a cigar that I only smoke when I get a new case. “Connie will draw up the papers with you. I’ll need $500.00 dollars up front, and $150.00 dollars a day for expenses,” I said. We hug and shake hands as I walk them in to see Connie. Returning to my seat, I pull open my desk drawer and pull out a bottle of Cognac and a cigar. I look at a photo of my dad and light up.
Chapter 6
It feels good to be back in the game on a fresh case. The first thing I did was to have Connie pay off Miss Bernice, and to have my privileges reinstated—a P.I.’s got to have his perks. I follow Ken and Michelle back to their place so he could pack up his belongings to bring back with me. Their place is located in Studio City—an upper middle to high class area usually frequented by Hollywood celebrities. I drive down Ventura Boulevard in my Riviera, the same car Michelle and I were talking about, that gets a few stares from pedestrians and drivers alike. I instruct Ken to sit low in the back seat as to not be recognized.
“What makes you think that these young men will come all the way from Japan to go after you, Ken?” I asked. Ken sticks his head up a moment as he looks out on the streets.
“The Black Rebels are probably already here, Mister Phillips—”
“Call me Sam.”
“Sam. The Yakuza are competing with the Triads for control of the Asian businesses—so I’m sure the Black Rebels are already moving in.” I lower my window as the temperature starts to reach 90 degrees with a slight breeze—a typical L.A. summer day. “Great, a turf war is being brought here from Asia, huh?” I asked with worry. Michelle turns her head quickly towards me, away from looking outside. “There’s been a turf war in Little Tokyo, and Chinatown, Sam—you just never hear about it because of the secrecy in the community. We never go to the police for fear of revenge.”
“It’s called Bushido—the Samurai’s code,” said Ken. “It’s the Way of the Warrior—to exact revenge without hesitation. No one will talk.” I laugh a little because it sounds familiar.
“The Black Community has that same code without all the fancy codes,” I said. “It’s called don’t snitch are you get payback.” I laugh, followed by Michelle. Inside their home, I keep an eye out while Ken packs his things. I think about Michelle living alone now that her mother is ill, and the potential for her to come to harm. “And what about you, Michelle—do you have a safe place to stay?” I asked while keeping my eyes looking out the window.
“I have a friend I can stay with—no problem,” Michelle said with confidence.
“She means…a boyfriend!” Ken said, laughing. I notice a strange looking car outside that I didn’t see a moment ago. It could be nothing, but I didn’t see anyone get out, so I casually pull out my gun to check to see if it’s loaded while Michelle and Ken are busy. “Is everything okay, Sam?” Michelle asked. I wave Michelle over and slightly pull back the curtain.
“Do you recognize that blue Toyota over there?” I asked with suspicion. Michelle takes a hard look and then shakes her head. “No, I don’t recognize the car,” she replied.
“Stay put while I check it out.” I button up my suit coat to conceal my gun holster and walk outside toward the vehicle.
Chapter 7
I walk up to the car that’s occupied by 3 Japanese men trying to look uninterested. Dressed like F.B.I. Agents, I proceed with caution. The driver rolls down his window, as it’s time for me to go into character. “Hi—how ya’ll doin’?!” I asked with a southern drawl. The men look at me with disdain. “Ya’ll not from around here are ya’?” I asked, making sure I see their faces.
“We’re looking at a house for sale,” the driver said, in broken English. I look back at the house next door to Michelle and Ken’s place and see the “For Sale” sign. “Oh, that house. I just sold that house to a policeman and his family guys. Here’s my card.” I pull out one of my many different business cards. It read; Sam Phillips—Real Estate Agent. “I’m introducing the new family to their neighbors,” I add. The driver reads the card—crumbles it up and tosses it on the ground. “Say, I paid good money for that card!” I protest. “I was gonna’ ask you to come to the open house too!” The driver drives off none too happy. I run back to the house to speed up the process. Those guys have already found Ken and Michelle, so they are definitely not amateurs. I may have temporarily fooled them, but they may be back. I go back into the house to find that Michelle and Ken are still not done. For people that want protection that just doesn’t get the message of urgency. “We have to go! Leave the rest—I’ll have someone comeback at another time!” I said, stressing the urgency.
“Who was out there?” Ken asked, showing a brave face.
“The bad guys!” I replied. “If they’ve found you this fast, it means that they have a lot of contacts here. That’s going to make my job even harder. I need to break out the big guns.” I have the Yamada’s go out the back where I meet them in the alley way to throw off the scent of the bloodhounds. Michelle looks back out of the back window to see if they are followed. “What about my car!?” she asked, frantically.
“Don’t worry. I’ll have someone come back for it,” I said. I take Michelle to her boyfriend’s place in Woodland Hills—a Los Angeles suburb about 20 miles west of Studio City. She said her boyfriend is a film editor in Hollywood who works on small budget movies like the ones that Roger Corman makes. I watch as Michelle and Ken say their goodbyes to each other while I keep an eye out for any suspicious characters. Ken described to me what to look for with the Black Rebels. They blend in more than the Yakuza because of their refusal of tattoos—none that are seen anyway. In Japan, their look is more of an American Black culture that was very funny to me when I heard it. Ken and I make it back to Hollywood were I place a call to my friend, Armstrong Jones, fresh out of the joint for doing 6 months for beating up three men for foolishly trying to rob him. The judge agreed that the beat down by Armstrong was excessive.
Chapter 8
I’ve been in this business for a short time, and on the hard cases, I’ve used Armstrong for his muscle and his ability to get things done. He can be a little unpredictable at times to say the least, as a couple of times Armstrong thought it would be a good idea to shake down a few clients with scandalous pictures. I’ve fired and hired Armstrong more times than Steinbrenner’s firings of Billy Martin. The first thing on the agenda is making sure Ken is secure, so I stash him at the office for now. “Have you had anything to eat, Ken?” I asked. “I could order takeout.”
“Can we go out to eat?!” Ken asked, excitedly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.” I look at Ken like a man who wants to play Russian roulette with a loaded 357 Magnum. He’s crazy. “You’re not here on a vacation kid, and I ain’t no tour guide,” I said calmly, but firm. I pull two beers out of the mini ‘fridge and pass one to Ken as I go over ground rules with Ken. “Tomorrow we go a place I use for situations like this,” I said. “It’s not the Ritz or the Hilton—it ain’t supposed to be. But we’ll keep you safe. No phone calls, no opening the door for anyone, and no escaping to go wandering the streets, you got that?”
Ken takes a gulp of the cold beer while I water my fern. “That’s a terrible looking plant,” Ken said. “Maybe I’m not in good hands if you can’t take care of a simple plant.”
“Well kid, you got me there. I neglected this little lady, but she’s starting to grow on me—no pun intended.”
“Japan is full of beautiful flowers and plants,” Ken said. I look at Ken as I see the way he’s thinking about home. He reminds me of myself sitting in a foxhole with my army buddies. Boy—did I miss home. “Why did you do it, kid?” I asked. “Why did you join the Yakuza?” Ken looks out the window at the Capitol Records building—staring. “My father is the boss. I saw how he commanded respect and fear from his men. Anyone who didn’t perform their job or made a big mistake that made the family look bad would commit Yubitsume.”
“What does Yubit…sume mean?”
“A soldier would cut off his finger and place it in a towel and place it in front of the boss. He would then apologize for his mistake. The boss could accept the apology or not.” I laugh—not because the act is hilarious, but that it’s brutal and ritualistic. It’s more brutal and final than the Italian mob unless the mob considered a soldier a liability—then it’s a smile, a handshake, followed by two in the back of the head. “So, what if a soldier makes a few mistakes?” I asked.
“There are some soldiers who are missing more than one finger.” I look at Ken’s fingers and see that he still has all his. It must be good to be the boss’s son. “I can see why you would enjoy being in that kind of family,” I said with the utmost sarcasm.
Chapter 9
Ken and I eat Chinese takeout and drink more beer as I find out more about his habits—anything that might be used against him. Ken explains to me in detail what his tattoos represent, letting me get a perspective of the culture. The Yakuza soldiers are like Samurai working for a Shogun or master. Samurai’s without a master are called Ronin which means “masterless samurai”. I begin to understand the code of honor these men have which goes all the way back to the 17th Century.
“Tell me what I’m up against with these…Yokohama Black Rebels,” I said.
“For the first time I’ve seen fear the eyes of my father and other Yakuza bosses,” Ken said. “They are young and fearless, and don’t respect honor or old ways.” Ken pauses for a moment as he gathers his thoughts—being a little intoxicated. “In one shootout, they came at us like Kamikazes…yelling YOKOHAMA BLACK REBELS, as they came at us. I’ve seen a good friend’s head roll out in front of me. For the first time, I had wished I was someplace else.” After another 15 minutes Ken was out like a light, so I place a blanket over him and go over to my desk to catch up on some paper work. The next morning I take Ken to his new home for the time being until this “thing” is over. The place is a small safe house that my father owned in the city off La Brea and Venice Boulevard. I take Ken just early enough that the early birds are just getting in the showers to go to work. Ken looks around the place totally not impressed. There’s barely any furniture or odd things to make the place look lived in. There’s a television set, radio, and cards to pass the time away. The window blinds stay shut for obvious reasons. “It ain’t the Taj Mahal, but it’ll do,” I said as I check all the rooms. Ken follows behind me like an inspector with a white glove on. “It looks like your cleaning lady must have quit huh?” he asked, sarcastically. “What can I say, Ken—inflation is a bitch.” Ken sits his bags down in the middle of the room and jumps on the bed still feeling the effects of an all-nighter. “Wake me when breakfast is ready,” he said.
“Sure—you have a choice between Mcdonald’s or donuts, kid,” I said.
“I’ll take both.” A knock on the door gets my juices going as I pull out my Smith and Wesson, silver .45 caliber pistol with the checkered wood handle, and walk to the blinds to look out. After seeing who it was I holster my gun and go to open the door. It’s Armstrong. Armstrong’s looking spiffy in a Nino Cerrutti double breasted suit, Fedora hat, black Stacey Adams, and a white Yves St. Laurent shirt. “I heard you were looking for me,” Armstrong said. Armstrong always was a sharp dresser, always trying to one-up me. “Man—get in here!” I replied, pulling him in. I’m definitely happy to see the big guy even though he can be a pain in the ass sometimes.
Chapter 10
Armstrong and I hug each other—playing catch up after his incarceration. “Are you good?!” I asked Armstrong, looking up at his 6’4 inch frame.
“Oh, I’m good my brother—now that I’m outta’ the joint. Eating that crappy food made me lose 15 pounds.” I punch at his stomach jokingly to test his reflexes like we always do, even though it’s been a few months. “Yeah—you’re sloppy, man!” I said, laughing. “You’re terribly out of shape. A couple of sessions with Sifu Wang will take care of that,” I added. Sifu Wang has a Kung Fu school 2 doors down from me on Vine Street. Armstrong and I were students there. “How is old Wang doing?” Armstrong asked.
“He asks about you all the time, man—what do you think?” Armstrong smiles and takes a deep breath, obviously happy to be out. “Hey, man—thanks for taking care of my mother,” Armstrong said, shaking my hand firmly. “Hey, you would have done the same thing for me and my mom.” Armstrong looks down at my gun in the holster and smiles. “I see you still pack that pee-shooter,” he said. I pull out my gun and hold it out proudly making sure the safety is on. “This is better than your Magnum any day of the week, my friend,” I joked back.
I know Armstrong. He mentioned my gun for a reason, and I’ll betcha’ two courtside seats at the Forum to see the Lakers play that he’s needing a special favor. “They took my license to carry Sam, is there anyway—”
“I’ll make a few phone calls.” Ken stumbles out of the room after hearing our conversation. Not hard to do with the thin walls. Armstrong looks at all the tattoos on Ken’s body and does a double take. “Man—that had to hurt,” he said.
“Armstrong, this is Ken. Ken is Mariko’s son,” I said.
“Mariko okay?”
“I’ll give you the specifics later. Ken was with the Yakuza Japanese Mafia. He needs our help.” Armstrong shakes Ken's hand with the fervor of a drill sergeant. “This is personal, Armstrong. Mariko is a friend of the family.” Armstrong leans in to whisper in my ear just out of earshot of Ken, maybe not knowing that Ken can speak English. “Does personal mean I don’t get paid?” he asked. “It’s all good, my brother,” I remind him while smiling through my gritting smile. Ken is impressed with Armstrong’s size as he looks up at him like David looked up at Goliath. “How did you get so big, Mister Armstrong?” Ken asked. Armstrong, who must have heard that question a thousand times, laughs at hearing it from a Japanese person. He must feel like a tourist attraction standing in front of the Hollywood Walk of Fame while the Japanese tourists snap away with their cameras.
“Well, little guy. I make sure I eat from the 3 food groups; beef, pork, and chicken,” he said with a giant laugh. Ken is amused. It’s a nice distraction for the moment. “In Japan, you would stand out—be very popular?!”That is a cue for me to hit it and quit. The two of them seem to be hitting it off pretty well. “Well, you two stay cool while I go and get us some breakfast,” I said. I pull Armstrong to the side to give him some extra security. I hand him a .38 Special that Armstrong looks at it like its Kryptonite.
“C’mon Sam. You’re giving me a .38 man?!”
“See you in 15 minutes.”
Chapter 11
I go on a seek and find mission to find breakfast knowing that Armstrong can eat for at least three and a half people—on a day that he’s not hungry. Waiting at a traffic light in the Miracle Mile area, I suddenly feel myself being watched and slowly reach for my “peace maker” until I realized I was being flirted at my 3 beautiful young ladies—each one just as hot as the other. College girls no doubt, probably attending UCLA up the road.
“That is a hot looking car!” one of the girls said.
“It would look even hotter with 3 beautiful girls riding in it,” I fired back. “You girls I bet, go to UCLA.” The girls giggle, with the two on the passenger side leaning out the window.
“That’s right! UCLA Medical School!” they said proudly. Hearing medical school mentioned for a P.I. is like winning the lottery. There are countless cases to be made there, but I’m no ambulance chaser. Well… “Here’s my card, girls. You can call me for business or pleasure,” I said with a wink and a smile. The light changes and we go our separate ways.
After dropping off breakfast and explaining to Armstrong the game plan, I head downtown to see my old army buddy Joey at the 2nd Precinct. If there’s anyone who can tell me a little about the Asian Gangs, it’s Joey. I make it up the precinct stairs just before a summer downpour moves in. Joey is a detective in the Asian Gang Unit, along with his partner Tommy Sato.
I check in as usual at the Sergeant’s desk. He turns and sends me to the Detective’s Bureau. Of course, the first person I see just happens to be the one person who doesn’t care for my “friendly visits”. Captain Harvey Pierpont has been on the job for 28 years and is retiring in two. He was not a fan of my father who helped with a few cases, but for the most part, they butted heads. “It’s you again Phillips? Shouldn’t you be out finding lost puppies!?” Pierpont asked sternly. “Why yes, Captain. I’m doing that tomorrow. Thank you.” The captain gives me a funny look as always as he continues on his merry way. I come up to the desk of my favorite civilian police officer. Ramona Hightower, a smart and beautiful Black woman raising a son while also attending night school, checks in all visitors that are here to see the detectives. She’s a Pam Grier double, with the body to match. We have an on again, off again relationship for the last 2 years that gets pretty heavy some times. “Ramona—hey baby…”
“Don’t hey baby me, Sam Phillips, you stood me up once again,” Ramona said, rolling her eyes. I take off my hat and place’s it on Ramona’s head and bring around one single rose from around my back and place’s it in her hand. “I want you to accept my apology, Ramona.” Ramona smiles briefly but doesn’t want to let me off too easily. “You think a rose is going to change my mind—you really don’t know me at all.” I lean over the desk to whisper in Ramona’s ear which makes her giggle from the touch of me up against her neck.
“The Beverly Hills Hilton!?” she asked. “Did you win the lottery?”
“No, but I have a case,” I replied back.
Chapter 12
It’s on again, as Ramona gives me that familiar smile of hers that can light up Times Square. “Okay, you’re back in—for now.” And there you have it. What else can a man ask for than a beautiful woman to comfort you on a rainy night? And Ramona fills that need quite well. “You’re here to see Joey?” she asked.
“Who’s Joey baby? I came to see only you,” I said, not being able to convince Ramona otherwise. “Liar.” Joey and Tommy Sato come out from an interrogation room, looking spent. Joey slams his fist on his desk in frustration. “That’s not a good way to get Workman’s Comp, Joey,” I said, smiling.
“What’s up paison?” Joey replied back, rushing over to greet me. We hug each other like we always do. It’s a constant reminder that we survived ‘Nam—well…physically anyway. We always talk about looking up the rest of our unit over a couple of beers, but after we sober up we keep moving on, trying not to look back. It was the great Satchel Paige who said; “Don’t look back—something maybe gaining on you.” Prophetic words to us vets.
“What’s up, Tommy?”
“Sam, what brings you down?” Tommy asked.
“New case, man,” I said. Joey nods his head—happy for me. “It’s a favor for a family friend.” Joey pats me on the back, somehow thinking less of my good fortune. “Pro-bono sucks, man,” he said. “It’s a legit case, Sherlock,” I fired back. Joey and Tommy look at each other—laughing under their breath. “I guess you guys have already heard of the war between the Yakuza and the Yokohama Black Rebels,” I said, scoring a back hand slap, and bringing them back down to a level we all can deal with. I have their full attention.
“What do you know about that, brother?” Joey asked.
“Let’s just say my client is involved all the way up to his neck—if you know what I mean,” I said. Joey looks around the precinct as if he’s got great information to the whereabouts of Noah’s Ark. “We’ll show you ours if you show us yours,” Joey said.
“I’ll bite. What you got?” Joey and Tommy take me to look inside the “box” at a suspect involved in a couple of gruesome killings. He’s just a kid—around the same age as Ken, I guess,
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.06.2020
ISBN: 978-3-7487-4803-8
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