Brute. Con Sellers
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on the door behind him.
“Your brandy, sir,” the voice said.
Brad fumbled for the knob, blocked the door crack with his bulk as he fed the bellhop wadded Yen notes and snatched the whisky. When he turned back to the room, the woman had pulled herself together, drawn the loose robe about her. It was a damned shame.
He carried the tray to a table—brandy, ice, mixer, wondering if every available Japanese woman he saw was going to do this to him, send the blood racing through his body, urge him with the silken texture of her flesh. If so, he was in for a hell of a time. Ninety percent of the women here were available.
“I am Katsue,” the woman said, moving from the bed in a fluid, entrancing motion, and coming to stand close to him. She took the brandy bottle from him, broke the seal expertly and poured two over the rocks.
“What is this?” Brad asked. “A service of the hotel?”
“Nan-deska?” she said, frowning. “No understand. I come to see you.”
Damn, he thought. This Sueko thing must be pushing him harder than he knew. The woman here, this Katsue, seemed even more like his Sueko than any of the others. Something about the shape of the face, the tone of voice, the richness of her midnight hair and the innate grace with which she walked—
But it couldn’t be. He was seeing Sueko in all women, overlapping her image upon the features of all women. Brad drained his glass. Katsue refilled it with the quick anticipation of the trained Geisha.
Brad moved away from her nearness, sat in the overstuffed chair, his weight making it creak. “All right,” he said, “you wanted to see me. Take it from there.”
Her face was flushed, and he remembered that Oriental women couldn’t really drink; powerful American whisky jolted them in a hurry. Katsue flicked a pink tongue over ripe lips.
“The shinbun” she said, “the newspaper.”
Brad choked on his drink. “What the hell? Does everybody in Tokyo have a friend on the Mainichi? That ad won’t be out until tomorrow.”
“I hear,” Katsue said imperturbably. “Hundred dollars, okay?”
Brad emptied his glass, settled back in the chair. The girl had an angle, he supposed. Get in here with some hint that she knew things, that she could lead him straight to the woman he sought, and meanwhile peddle her very attractive wares.
“I’ll pay a hundred dollar reward,” he said, “or more. If you can prove your information is okay. What do you know about Kamiya Sueko?”
Katsue put down her glass, swayed a bit. “I know, okay. Damn right I know. You think I’m crook, ne? I tell you about Sueko, okay. She’s—twenty-seven; more small than me, sukoshi girl.”
Right, Brad thought, with rising excitement. Sueko would be twenty-seven now. It was strange how he kept remembering her as eighteen.
“And?” Brad said eagerly. “And?”
Katsue fumbled with the kimono sash, whipped it back and away. One manicured fingernail pointed to a spot just below her right hipbone, made a tiny circle upon the bare golden flesh. “Mark here, ne? Funny mark.”
Brad swallowed hard. Sure, Sueko had a birthmark there—a cute, mothlike outline. They had joked about it, laughed over it in those sweetward hours coiled spent and drained upon the soft futon, feeling the tingly silk of the bedding upon their nude bodies, feeling the greater tingle of delightfully familiar flesh touching hip to thigh, knee to knee.
“Where is she?” Brad asked. “Quick, damn you—where is she?”
Katsue giggled, splashed more brandy into her glass. She didn’t bother to close the kimono; light glinted from her rounded thigh, from the swell of her calf. Brad came catlike to his feet, reached her in two swift steps, caught at her shoulders. Her flesh was warm under his palms.
“No hurry,” Katsue said. “Nine years, ne? You wait more sukoshi—little bit more.”
The girl tilted her glass, spilled amber drops across her chin. One trickled down her throat, came to rest diamonding the dusky valley between her erect breasts. Brad wanted to shake her, to squeeze her until the information he needed squirted from her like seeds from an orange. But she might lie. She had reasons for coming here as she had—reasons a Caucasian might not understand, but which probably made very good sense to her. Brad had learned that much about the Orient.
She twisted under his hands to place the glass on the table, twisted back to flatten her writhing body tightly to him, wet mouth lifted, eyes slumberous. He kissed her, hard and long and searching.
Katsue lifted herself, struggled to crawl through his clothing and into his pores, to blend and mix her straining flesh with his own. Head spinning, Brad carried her toward the bed.
Her hands were frantic at his clothes, the soles of her feet gripping his calves like eager hands. The woman was a seething cauldron, driving, sinuous, an uncontrolled passion that sought as much to destroy as to soothe. They locked together in a battle, thoughtless, senseless. It raged through and around them. Neither of them won.
Angry at himself, Brad pulled away from the girl, thrust his blocky, powerful legs into his pants. The old wound behind his knee twinged. He stalked bare-chested to the brandy and helped himself. He didn’t turn when he heard the swift patter of feet heading for the bath, eyed his glass moodily as the water purled behind a closed door. So the girl had gotten what she wanted, earned whatever bonus she thought it was worth. When she came out of the shower, she was going to tell him about Sueko—or wish she had.
Katsue was glowing, freshened; cold water had cleared her eyes. It hadn’t done anything to the determined set of her mouth. “Hundred dollars?” she reminded him, and added: “Five dollars more.”
Brad snorted, pawed at his hip and brought out his wallet. Her eyes followed it greedily. “Have green money?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
No “green money,” for this girl, or anyone else in Japan. Sure, it brought double its face value. But it also slipped from hand to hand, traveled far and fast, until it came to rest beyond the Yalu River in Red China—or went even farther, to Russia. From there, payments went out for vital war materials, to make paychecks for spies and fellow travelers, to grease hands at borders where American dollars were always good.
“No green money,” he repeated, and brought out thousand-Yen notes. Katsue watched, shrugged and put out a hand. Brad drew the money to him. “Where’s Sueko?”
Her dark eyes fastened to his. “You speak hundred dollars. You pay—even if no can find Sueko?”
“The ad reads: ‘for information leading to her,’ ” Brad said. “You’ll earn the money, if you can tell me anything important. You’ve proven you know her. Now, dammit—tell me!”
A faintly elusive smile played over Katsue’s mouth, not reaching the fixedness of her eyes. “Dead,” she said, as if she enjoyed the taste of the word.
Brad felt the blood drain from his face, felt a cold, hard knot twist itself deep in his belly. “You’re lying!”
She had to be lying. Sueko dead? It couldn’t be—not that dainty, magnificent body; not that flower petal face; not the love and scent and feel of her. No.
Of its own volition, a big hand flashed out, crunched its fingers into Katsue’s upper arm. The girl’s mouth snapped open in terror mixed with an underlying hate. She spat the words at him: “Sueko dead—damn you! I tell you she’s dead. I know!”
Convulsively, Brad flung her from him. Katsue tried to catch her balance, fell sprawling across the bed with her naked legs flailing. Rolling over, she glared up at the huge man towering white-faced over her.
“You know,” Brad mumbled through numb lips. “You know. How