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Authors: Michael Crichton
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or someone closely connected with the killer. But we should learn more at Miss Austin’s apartment. I believe I see it up ahead, on the right.”
The Imperial Arms was an apartment building on a tree-lined street a kilometer from Westwood Village. Its fake Tudor beams needed a paint job, and the whole building had a run-down appearance. But that was not unusual in this middle-class section of apartments inhabited by graduate students and young families. In fact, the chief characteristic of the Imperial Arms seemed to be its anonymity: you could drive by the building every day and never notice it.
“Perfect,” Connor said, as we walked up the steps to the entrance. “It’s just what they like.”
“What who likes?”
We came into the lobby, which had been renovated in the most bland California style: pastel wallpaper with a flower print, overstuffed couches, cheap ceramic lamps, and a chrome coffee table. The only thing to distinguish it from a hundred other apartment lobbies was the security desk in the corner, where a heavyset Japanese doorman looked up from his comic book with a distinctly unfriendly manner. “Help you?”
Connor showed his badge. He asked where Cheryl Austin’s apartment was.
“I announce you,” the doorman said, reaching for the phone.
“Don’t bother.”
“No. I announce. Maybe she have company now.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Connor said.
“Kore wa keisatsu no shigoto da.”
He was saying we were on official police business.
The doorman gave a tense bow. “
Kyugo shitu.
” He handed Connor a key.
We went through a second glass door, and down a carpeted corridor. There were small lacquer tables at each end of the corridor, and in its simplicity, the interior was surprisingly elegant.
“Typically Japanese,” Connor said, with a smile.
I thought: a run-down, fake Tudor apartment building in Westwood? Typically Japanese? From a room to the left, I heard faint rap music: the latest Hammer hit.
“It’s because the outside gives no clue to the inside,” Connor explained. “That’s a fundamental principle of Japanese thinking. The public facade is unrevealing—in architecture, the human face, everything. It’s always been that way. You look at old samurai houses in Takayama or Kyoto. You can’t tell anything from the outside.”
“This is a Japanese building?”
“Of course. Why else would a Japanese national who hardly speaks English be the doorman? And he is a
yakuza.
You probably noticed the tattoo.”
I hadn’t. The
yakuza
were Japanese gangsters. I didn’t know there were
yakuza
here in America, and said so.
“You must understand,” Connor said, “there is a shadow world—here in Los Angeles, in Honolulu, in New York. Most of the time you’re never aware of it. We live in our regular American world, walking on our American streets, and we never notice that right alongside our world is a second world. Very discreet, very private. Perhaps in New York you will see Japanese businessmen walking through an unmarked door, and catch a glimpse of a club behind. Perhaps you will hear of a small sushi bar in Los Angeles that charges twelve hundred dollars a person, Tokyo prices. But they are not listed in the guidebooks. They are not a part of our American world. They are part of the shadow world, available only to the Japanese.”
“And this place?”
“This is a
bettaku.
A love residence where mistresses are kept. And here is Miss Austin’s apartment.”
Connor unlocked the door with the key the doorman had given him. We went inside.
It was a two-bedroom unit, furnished with expensive oversized rental pieces in pastel pink and green. The oil paintings on the walls had been rented, too; a label on the side of one frame said Breuner’s Rents. The kitchen counter was bare, except for a bowl of fruit. The refrigerator contained only yogurt and cans of Diet Coke. The couches in the living room didn’t look as if anybody had ever sat on them. On the
The Imperial Arms was an apartment building on a tree-lined street a kilometer from Westwood Village. Its fake Tudor beams needed a paint job, and the whole building had a run-down appearance. But that was not unusual in this middle-class section of apartments inhabited by graduate students and young families. In fact, the chief characteristic of the Imperial Arms seemed to be its anonymity: you could drive by the building every day and never notice it.
“Perfect,” Connor said, as we walked up the steps to the entrance. “It’s just what they like.”
“What who likes?”
We came into the lobby, which had been renovated in the most bland California style: pastel wallpaper with a flower print, overstuffed couches, cheap ceramic lamps, and a chrome coffee table. The only thing to distinguish it from a hundred other apartment lobbies was the security desk in the corner, where a heavyset Japanese doorman looked up from his comic book with a distinctly unfriendly manner. “Help you?”
Connor showed his badge. He asked where Cheryl Austin’s apartment was.
“I announce you,” the doorman said, reaching for the phone.
“Don’t bother.”
“No. I announce. Maybe she have company now.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Connor said.
“Kore wa keisatsu no shigoto da.”
He was saying we were on official police business.
The doorman gave a tense bow. “
Kyugo shitu.
” He handed Connor a key.
We went through a second glass door, and down a carpeted corridor. There were small lacquer tables at each end of the corridor, and in its simplicity, the interior was surprisingly elegant.
“Typically Japanese,” Connor said, with a smile.
I thought: a run-down, fake Tudor apartment building in Westwood? Typically Japanese? From a room to the left, I heard faint rap music: the latest Hammer hit.
“It’s because the outside gives no clue to the inside,” Connor explained. “That’s a fundamental principle of Japanese thinking. The public facade is unrevealing—in architecture, the human face, everything. It’s always been that way. You look at old samurai houses in Takayama or Kyoto. You can’t tell anything from the outside.”
“This is a Japanese building?”
“Of course. Why else would a Japanese national who hardly speaks English be the doorman? And he is a
yakuza.
You probably noticed the tattoo.”
I hadn’t. The
yakuza
were Japanese gangsters. I didn’t know there were
yakuza
here in America, and said so.
“You must understand,” Connor said, “there is a shadow world—here in Los Angeles, in Honolulu, in New York. Most of the time you’re never aware of it. We live in our regular American world, walking on our American streets, and we never notice that right alongside our world is a second world. Very discreet, very private. Perhaps in New York you will see Japanese businessmen walking through an unmarked door, and catch a glimpse of a club behind. Perhaps you will hear of a small sushi bar in Los Angeles that charges twelve hundred dollars a person, Tokyo prices. But they are not listed in the guidebooks. They are not a part of our American world. They are part of the shadow world, available only to the Japanese.”
“And this place?”
“This is a
bettaku.
A love residence where mistresses are kept. And here is Miss Austin’s apartment.”
Connor unlocked the door with the key the doorman had given him. We went inside.
It was a two-bedroom unit, furnished with expensive oversized rental pieces in pastel pink and green. The oil paintings on the walls had been rented, too; a label on the side of one frame said Breuner’s Rents. The kitchen counter was bare, except for a bowl of fruit. The refrigerator contained only yogurt and cans of Diet Coke. The couches in the living room didn’t look as if anybody had ever sat on them. On the
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