The Brass Rail Read online

  “Mama-san no like me; she watch me all time. I no like her.” The words were spat out, full of hate.

  “Why don’t you quit; get another job?” he replied sharply.

  “No can do. Have…” There was a long pause, as if she needed to think of an acceptable reply. “Have sick mother. Must work.”

  Perhaps I misjudged the woman, Andy thought, and trying to be polite and make amends, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “My name Peggy,” she replied.

  “No, no, what’s your Japanese name?”

  “I no tell my Japanese name to no one,” she spat back at him.

  “Why not?”

  “I no want you know,” she countered in a nasty tone.

  That little bit of negative chitchat put an icy frosting on their discussion. Time for him to go. He didn’t think she would get into trouble because he wasn’t buying any drinks. Moreover, he didn’t think she was a cherry girl either. There was a deceitful and almost conniving quality about the woman; no wonder Mama-san watched her. He stood up and tapped Mel on the shoulder. “Hey! Leavin’. You gonna stay here, right?”

  Mel had his arm draped over Sumiko’s shoulder, trying to cop a feel, and was not about to let her go. “Guess so. Besides, I’m not ready to go. It’s not even 2100; curfew’s not till 2400. Over three hours left before we need to be back.”

  “OK, but I’m goin’. I’ve had enough beer. Going to hit the latrine first or my kidneys are gonna explode.”

  Andy finished his call of nature and walked out into the main room. He was standing by the door ready to leave when a small, supple arm slipped around his waist. A feminine body soft and warm cuddled invitingly against him, and with only a slight, subtle movement, her hip and leg sensuously caressed his. A light whiff of jasmine perfume wafted through the air; just by the fragrance he knew it was Yoriko, an eighteen-year-old Asian beauty, cute and sexy with a well-proportioned petite figure. He struggled against the influx of hormones that began to surge through his body.

  “You leave now, Andy?” she whispered with a desperate, misty voice. “I no chance be with you. Mama-san say I must talk with the boys over there from Korea, much money to spend. I want be with you, but no can do.”

  Her touch was warm as velvet and smooth as silk.

  “If not tonight, when?” Andy whispered. A flood of sensations began to overwhelm him, and he was ready to explode like a Roman candle at a Fourth of July fireworks celebration. Putting his arms around her, he brought her slim, tantalizing body close to his in an intimate hug. Bad mistake. All it did was increase his already heightened libido.

  “Tomorrow night, no have work. We be ’gether.”

  The suggestive lilt of her voice sent a shiver of anticipation through his body. He needed to leave fast. With a quick, passionate kiss and a fast “See you tomorrow night,” he swung open the door and fled the tavern before something embarrassing happened.

  The languid spring night was a refreshing change after being inside the pub. The evening was warm and tranquil, free of cigarette smoke and the stench of stale beer. Drawing in a deep breath, he noticed the aroma that permeated the darkness was different. The air, so unlike the smell of the windswept plains of eastern Colorado, did not carry the same fragrances as home. An unknown faint pungent odor, unique to the lands of the Far East, hung in the gentle wind. The difference in the essences was unmistakable in the not-so-subtle scents.

  Stores and shops were closed for the evening, their windows and doors boarded against intruders and thieves. It was quiet; little traffic moved on the street, the occasional bicycle and motor scooter or, now and then, a taxi. Couples lingered in secluded, darkened corners and doorways, trying to stay out of sight as they fondled and embraced. Streetwalkers propositioned GIs, while in turn the servicemen haggled to get a lower price for an evening of enjoyment. The world’s oldest profession was not an uncommon way to make a living in a war-torn, occupied country. Ladies of the evening touting their services were a standard aftermath of war; they had a commodity that sold, and it was a way to survive. The war had been over for six years, but its disastrous consequences called for unorthodox solutions in the critical struggle for basic human survival.

  A billboard for the local cinema attracted his attention. The sign advertised John Wayne’s 1934 cowboy presentation ’Neath the Arizona Skies. It was hilarious to listen to the Duke speak in dubbed Japanese. The one time he and Yoriko had gone to a Japanese movie, there had been no popcorn. Instead, they’d snacked on rice crackers and tangerines.

  A few yards past the theater, a viaduct bridged the small river that bisected town. The bridge’s concrete railing was the right height to lean on and loll against on this warm spring night. He stopped, propped his elbows on the rail, and gazed at the river. Light from the stars reflected on the surface of the slow-moving stream and glistened in the darkness. The mirrored glow of the moon, distorted by the water, undulated in constantly rising and falling patterns, much like how his perspective of the world and life had transformed during the months he’d been in Japan.

  Growing up on a farm near a small, isolated town, Andy’s perception of people had been somewhat limited. His view had been greatly altered by the different individuals he had met since joining the military. Most of the acquaintances he had made were casual, but a few were more than chance meetings, and they were people he would remember all his life. They included the unforgettable Remmey, whom he had met on the troopship; a guy nicknamed Skeeter, whom he had met in tech school and who was also stationed there in Japan; Mel and Butler; Yoriko; Sumiko; and Mama-san.

  He diverted his attention as he spotted a woman walking down the road toward him. The dim light and the distance between them made it difficult for him to make out her features. For a second, elation swelled. He thought it might be Yoriko and she had somehow managed to get off work and follow him. As the person drew nearer, though, disappointment took over when he realized it was an older woman. As the lady drew abreast, she said, “I give you short time for three thousand yen. Best ever; maybe I so good you want go all night. OK, GI?”

  What a shame. The woman doesn’t look and isn’t dressed anything like a prostitute. How sad that consequences from the war have driven her to sink to the depths of soliciting on the street. “No have yen,” he said, thinking it proper, polite, and discreet to say he didn’t have any cash rather than tell her he wasn’t interested. He shrugged his shoulders in a negative reply and she walked on by, staring out into space without even looking at his face.

  Andy had observed Mama-san, who owned the bar, staring like that sometimes. A wistful look of fleeing into the past, seeing objects and places only she could see. There were rumors Mama-san had been a geisha before the war. She displayed the characteristics of a trained geisha, the short, gliding, graceful walk; the perfect posture; and the elegant traits and mannerisms associated with the renowned profession. It was rather ironic one of Japan’s elite geisha would now be running a second-rate bar for a bunch of American GIs.

  A splash in the water below startled him. Craning his neck he looked under the bridge, searching the dark shadows for the source of the noise. The dim moonlight highlighted a few ripples in the sluggish-moving water but revealed nothing else. Upstream, indistinct figures scurried cautiously on the banks of the canal. The silhouettes slipped clandestinely in and out of the darkness, pausing and looking back at the bridge, giving the impression they were checking to see if someone was watching. He couldn’t make out who or what they were. Squinting, he peered into the night, trying to keep track of them until the darkness obscured their movements. There was no motion by the bridge or under it, and nothing happening by the water. After waiting quietly for a few minutes, listening, Andy walked across the bridge and stared downstream. Fifty yards away, he could vaguely distinguish human forms lurking by the river’s edge. His attention was riveted on the indistinct figures as they inched toward the bridge.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Encoun
ter

  No one saw as she slipped the opiate drug cocktail into the man’s sake tokkuri. It would be twenty to thirty minutes before the sedative started to work, so when he left the bar he should be amenable to almost any suggestion. At least that was what her pimp had told her, and he’d gotten the drug from the Chinese, who’d said they were using it in the prisoner of war camps in North Korea. The Chinese had supplied the drug as part of the deal when her pimp, Koji, had agreed to steal American military identification cards for them. We should have no trouble rolling the GI, he’d explained to her, taking his money and ID card. The money they could keep. The identification cards went to the Chinese. The Americans are so gullible, especially when drunk or drugged; I don’t understand how they won the war.

  “What do you want, young lady?” Butler snapped. Sensing a presence opposite him, he opened his eyes to see a woman standing across the bar from him. Something troubled him; the only one who served him was Mama-san. Why is this girl messing with my drink? But the wine clouded his ability to reason, and the questions vanished.

  “You mo’ something drink,” she sneered, positive that he’d not seen her slip him the Mickey Finn.

  “No! No!” He waved her off. “Wait a minute.” He looked around. “Is Andy still here?”

  “Who Andy?”

  “That sandy-haired kid who was sitting on the barstool over there. You were talking to him earlier in the evening.”

  “Not here…. Think they all gone now. Go other bar.”

  “If they come back in, tell me…. No, never mind,” he muttered and then continued droning on to himself. “Don’t need any help getting back to the base. Can manage it alone; better alone.” Approaching within earshot of the conversation, Mama-san intervened and instantly shooed Peggy away. The only English words she knew and had managed to hear were “help” and “base,” but she’d immediately grasped what he needed. In a mixture of English, Japanese, and gestures, she communicated, “You stay here and I’ll find you help to the barracks.”

  Butler watched the bar owner and nodded in a perfunctory way. Then he reached for his sake cup and downed the altered contents. Mama-san refilled his cup. He pushed it aside, laid his head on the bar, and closed his eyes.

  The bar owner turned from Butler and saw Peggy, who, with a sleight-of-hand movement, swiped her bar towel and scooped up the change a patron had left lying beside his drink. Deftly depositing the money in her skirt pocket, she smiled at her victim. The unsuspecting customer never spotted his cash had disappeared.

  There had been reports of someone pilfering money, and now Mama-san had caught the culprit. She moved with amazing speed, grabbed the thief by the scruff of her neck, and hauled her into the kitchen, slamming the door behind them.

  The older woman was livid with anger and, using her open hand, she cuffed the barmaid on the cheek.

  “Why did you hit me?” Peggy wailed.

  “Because you’re a worthless piece of gutter trash. I gave you a job, a chance, an opportunity. How do you repay me? By robbing my customers?” The girl had deliberately betrayed her trust, which infuriated Mama-san. She smashed the cowering Peggy across the face with the back of her hand.

  Sobbing, the barmaid began making excuses and seeking sympathy, although she had been caught in the act. “He gave me the money! I didn’t steal it. I’d never take money that is not mine.”

  “Shall we go and ask him?” Mama-san replied.

  “No, don’t. I’m sorry! It was the first time. I’ll never do it again, I promise,” she continued, crying and pleading.

  “Disrobe, now,” demanded Mama-san. “I want to search your clothing.”

  The younger woman sniveled and blubbered. “Here in the kitchen? What about my pride, my modesty; you would take that from me? You slapped me, and now you wish to further demean me here in front of everyone!”

  Mama-san unsympathetically responded, “You stole from me. You have no idea what real pain, humility, and suffering are. You are worthless. You’re a whore, a streetwalker. You have no morals about stealing, so why should undressing bother you? Take off your clothes or I will I call the police.”

  Peggy reluctantly began to peel off her clothing, and Mama-san inspected each garment as she did. Finding the hidden pocket in the petticoat, Mama-san retrieved the rest of the night’s ill-gotten money, and she was satisfied.

  “Enough!” Mama-san ordered, “Now out and never come back, or I’ll have you jailed. Out! Out!” Through the back door of the kitchen Mama-san forcefully shoved the thief, happily rid of the doroboo. “Dress out in the street like the rest of the tramps,” Mama-san added as she threw the discarded clothing at the younger woman, who was now clad only in her bra and underwear. Then the bar owner closed and locked the door.

  ***

  Butler lifted his head off the bar; he took no notice of the mellowing effects of the opiates in the Mickey Finn he’d unwittingly ingested. Bleary-eyed he stared at the sake cup. The small ceramic mug kept shifting in his vision from a single to a double image and back. “Enough booze; time to stop, but better finish this one before I leave,” he slurred, each word incoherent.

  The thought of finishing the sake, however, slipped from his mind as effortlessly as an olive slides to the bottom of a martini glass. Getting off his stool proved to be a challenge, however. Holding onto the bar with one hand as he slid off the stool, he managed to stabilize his equilibrium. Legs unsteady, he staggered toward the john to relieve himself. A cool breeze brushed across his face, and he mindlessly turned toward it, forgetting his objective. The open front door of the bar beckoned him and he wandered outside, stumbling across the threshold.

  Once outside at the tavern’s entrance, a dizziness overwhelmed him, and to keep from falling he propped himself against the doorframe.

  Enraged by Mama-san’s treatment, Peggy had managed to recover her clothing and get dressed. She was furious as she walked around the corner of the building to the front door. Then she stopped and smiled to herself. Even though Mama-san’s slaps hurt, they were nothing like what her pimp would do to her if she returned empty-handed. But it was karma; the GI was still there, leaning against the wall like an old broom. The opportunity of taking his cash was even sweeter now. The American was one of Mama-san’s favorites, and Peggy was determined to make him pay for the humiliating treatment she had received from the old geisha. Who does that uppity, scar-faced bitch think she is, anyway? she grumbled to herself. She would get even with that callous old witch even if she needed to kill the old lady.

  “Mama-san tell me help you back base.”

  Butler dimly heard a soft woman’s voice as it spoke from shadows. A hand grabbed his arm, pulled him from the stoop, and hustled him away from the bar, around the corner and down a back alley. She said Mama-san sent her, so it’s OK. He trusted Mama-san. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind a little voice was telling him to wait until his head cleared, that something wasn’t right. But in his permissive, opiate-clouded state, procrastination was simple, and objections were of no importance.

  Peggy held his arm firmly as she swiftly guided him through the dark and dingy back alleys. At one point he questioned her, saying, “This doesn’t look like the way to the main gate.”

  “Short way. Round corner; you see” was her response.

  His reasoning abilities weakened, he trod along beside her as they passed through an area of decaying buildings. The woman slowed her pace as they approached a dilapidated shack which fronted the alley. They paused, and she rapped loudly on the closed shutters. A treacherous-looking man peered out through a small opening; Peggy motioned for him to follow.

  “Why did you do that?” Butler asked.

  She didn’t answer and only tightened her grip on his arm, compelling the man to accompany her on her trek. In his mellow mood he offered little resistance, permitting the woman to take him in tow as he blindly followed her down the dark, secluded, and narrow alleyways. Yellow slivers of light shone dimly through cracks in
the shuttered windows, suggesting habitation, but none of the shacks or hovels invited entry.

  Peggy glanced back over her shoulder, looking for her partner. Where is he? He should have caught up by now. Was she going to have to rob this GI by herself? She guessed she could do it. The American was as tame as a puppy dog and asleep on his feet. What would she do if he passed out here in the alley? I must find a spot, a safe place to hide him.

  Eventually, they stopped and entered a ramshackle shed. Fatigued, he leaned against the wall as he fought to stay awake. His mind spun in endless circles, a kaleidoscope of meaningless, confused emotions. The dreams were there, just under the surface of his consciousness, groping and clawing to manifest their terror. A memory of his past came tearing across his mind, a panorama flashed in his subconscious; it waved and beckoned as scenes projected onto a silver screen. He was part of the memory and suffered the anxiety and pain, yet he viewed the incidents as an observer.

  On that fateful fall morning in 1942, the gritty and grimy dirt of the African desert caked the inside of his mouth. He was thirsty, desperately craving water, his throat parched beyond relief. The sun’s intense rays beat down upon him, penetrating his clothing as if the material were cheesecloth. No shade or habitation existed in the wilderness in which he might rest and escape the ruthless heat. His sweat-crusted shirt clung to his body like a ravenous leech sucking the last few drops of moisture from his skin. The sergeant, shot in the leg during the skirmish and again in the shoulder, limped along beside him across the darkened terrain, his lifeblood seeping from his wounds. Physically unable to go any farther, he collapsed and lay helpless on the forsaken wasteland.

  Struggling laboriously to breathe, Butler carried and dragged the wounded and unconscious platoon sergeant over the endless miles of scorching sand. Without the perception of movement he traversed the hot, barren landscape inch by inch, constantly moving toward a distant point where he hoped there was an American aid station.