Suzuki gave me a nod that was almost a bow, stepped inside and out of his shoes, and I closed the door.
“Those two in the lobby,” I said, “do they work for you?”
He frowned. “Jesus and Ramon? Did they give you trouble?”
“No. I just saw their clothing, and the billy clubs, and wondered.”
“Billy…?”
“Billy clubs. Nightsticks, batons?” I pantomimed holding a billy and slapping it in my open palm.
That he understood. “They are…native police. Ten Chamorro work with us—internal security. We have Jesus…” He traced a finger down his right cheek, in imitation of the bullnecked pockmarked Chamorro’s scar.
I nodded that I understood who he meant.
He continued: “We have Jesus on guard here many time. Jesus is my top jungkicho…detective. Jesus takes care of his people.”
All of a sudden Suzuki was sounding like the priest. But what I figured he meant was, Jesus took care of investigations into crimes among the Chamorro.
“Well,” I said, “he didn’t give me any trouble…. The shichokan said you wanted a favor, involving a woman in this hotel.”
“Yes,” Captain Suzuki said. “May I sit?”
“Certainly….”
Soon we were seated on floor mats facing each other.
His skeletal, gray-mustached countenance was grave, and regret clung to his words like a vine on a trellis. “Some people think the woman in this hotel…in the room above yours…should receive mercy. They say she is a fine person. A beautiful person.”
Trying not to betray the chill his words had sent through me, I said easily, “If she is who the shichokan says she is, she is a famous person, too. Important.”
“Yes. This is true. Nonetheless I disagree—she came here to carry out duties as a spy, and it cannot be helped. She should be executed.”
And then Captain Suzuki asked his favor of Father O’Leary.
18
The room directly above mine was number 14. Chief Suzuki did not accompany me up the stairs, nor were there any signs of Jesus Sablan or Ramon Reyes, the chief’s Chamorro watchdogs; Jesus and Ramon were apparently still down in the lobby, playing rummy with smeary cards. I was alone in the hallway; according to the chief, right now only a few guests were registered at this hotel, whose rooms were reserved by the Japanese for honored guests—and prisoners.
My two knocks made a lonely echo.
From behind the door came a soft, muffled, “Yes?”
Wrapped up in the sound of that one spoken word were so many hopes and dreams carried with me across the months, across the ocean, a single word spoken in that low, rich, matter-of-fact feminine voice I never thought I’d hear again.
“Amy?” I said to the door, my face almost rubbing against its harsh, paint-blistered surface.
But the door didn’t reply. The voice on the other side of it had granted me only that one word….
I looked both ways, a kid crossing the street for the first time—stairwell at one end, window at the other, no Chief Suzuki, no members of his Chamorro goon squad, either. I kept my voice at a whisper, in case someone was eavesdropping across the way.
“Amy—it’s Nathan.”
It seemed like forever, and was probably fifteen seconds, but finally the door creaked open to reveal a sliver of the pale, lightly powdered elongated oval of her face. Under the familiar tousle of dark blonde hair, one blue-gray eye, sunken but alert, gaped at me, as half of the sensuous mouth (no lipstick) dropped open in astonishment.
“You know what I hate,” I said, “about seeing a married woman?”
The door opened wider and displayed her full face with the astonished expression frozen there, though her lips quivered and seemed almost to form a smile. “…What?”
“Always meeting in hotel rooms.”
And she backed away, shaking her head in disbelief, hand over her mouth, eyes filling with tears, as I stepped into the room, shutting the door behind me; she was thin but not emaciated, her face gaunt but not skeletal. She wore a short-sleeve mannish sportshirt and rust-color slacks and no shoes and looked neat and clean.
That’s all I had time to take in before she flew into my arms, clutching me desperately, and I held her close, held her tight, as she wept into my clerical suitcoat, saying my name over and over, and I kissed the nape of her neck, and maybe I wept a little, too.
“You’re here,” she was saying, “how can you be here? Crazy…you’re here…so crazy…here….”
Our first kiss in a very long time was salty and tender and yearning and tried not to end, but when at last she drew away from me, just a little, still in my arms, and looked at me with bewilderment, she didn’t seem able to form any more words, the surprise had knocked the wind from her.
And so she kissed me again, greedily; I savored it, then pulled gently away.
“Take it easy, baby,” I said, running a finger around my clerical collar. “I got a vow of celibacy to maintain.”
And she laughed—with only a little hysteria in it—and said, “Nathan Heller a priest? That’s good…. That’s rich.”
“That’s Father Brian O’Leary,” I corrected, stepping away from her, taking a look around her room. “If anyone should ask….”
Her living quarters were identical to mine, save for a few additional allowances for an American “guest”: a well-worn faded green upholstered armchair and, near the window looking onto the neighboring house and the rooftops beyond, a small Japanese-magazine-arrayed table with a reading lamp and an ashtray bearing the residue of several incense sticks. Incense fragrance lingered, apparently Amy’s antidote to the ever-present Garapan bouquet of dried fish and copra.
But she had the same woven-reed carpet, padded quilts for a bed, low-slung teakwood table with floor cushions. On the clothesrack, among a few simple dresses and the inevitable plaid shirts, hung the oil-stained, weathered leather flight jacket she’d worn when she flew me in her Vega from St. Louis to Burbank. I checked the walls—including behind her dresser mirror—for drilled holes, found nothing to indicate we were being monitored. I didn’t figure we had much to worry about: the Japanese weren’t exactly known for their technical wizardry.
Nonetheless, we both kept our voices hushed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, studying me with wide eyes that didn’t seem to know whether to be filled with joy, disbelief or fear. “How in God’s name did you…?”
“Does it matter?”
“No,” she said, with a sigh of a laugh, “hell no,” a rare swear word from this proper creature, and she flung herself into my arms again. I squeezed her tight, then held her face in my hands and studied it, memorized it, and kissed her as sweetly as I knew how.
“Why did do you this?” she asked, cheek pressed against my chest, arms clasped around me, grasped around me, as if she were afraid I might bolt. “Why did you…?”
“You know me,” I said. “I was hired. Works out to a grand a week.”
And she was laughing quietly into my suitcoat.
“You just can’t admit it, can you?” She looked up at me, grinning her wonderful gap-toothed grin. “You’re a romantic fool. My mercenary detective…coming halfway around the world for a woman….”
There was something I had to ask, had to know, though I knew she was brimming with so many questions she didn’t know where or how to start. With us standing there, in each other’s arms, I said, “I thought…maybe…”
She was studying me now, almost amused. “What?”
“That there might be…someone else here with you.”
“Who?” She winced. “Fred? He’s in that horrible jail…poor thing.”
“No, I…Amy, was there a baby?” It came out in a rush of ridiculous words. “Did you have your baby and they took it away from you?”
She smiled half a smile, and it settled on one side of her face; she touched the tip of my nose with a finger lightly, then asked, “Who told you I was pregnant?”