wouldn’t remember him.
‘How many nights?’ the Lucky Strike clerk asked him.
‘I’m not sure, say four.’
‘Say four you pay up front four.’
‘Okay,’ Porter said, and gave him a credit card.
The man looked at it and turned it over.
‘You American, Australian, what?’ he said. He had been shouting in slow Japanese himself.
‘Canadian.’
‘Ah. Sorry. Thought Korean,’ the clerk apologised.
Porter was pleased about that. ‘Give me some telephone tokens,’ he said. ‘Give me ten. I’ll pay now.’
‘Sure. Canadian is all right,’ the man said. He gave the tokens and Porter waited while his card was checked out. It was very hot and steamy and he was sweating under the wig. His pigtail was fixed tight inside. ‘Isn’t the air conditioning working here?’ he said.
‘Sure, everything working. Only it gives me a cold so I turn it off. And if you want service,’ the clerk said, ‘service is extra.’
‘I don’t want service.’
‘Okay. Room 303. The elevator’s round the corner.’
‘Where are the stairs?’ Porter said.
‘Past the elevator. Next to the coffee bar. Go round the corner, you’ll see.’
Porter went round the corner and found the stairs, also the coffee bar. Also the other entrance. It was as he remembered. It wasn’t necessary to go through the lobby to get in or out of the place.
He skipped the stairs and rode up to 303. It was a neat small Efficiency. Compact kitchen and shower room. European bed, not a futon for the floor. Normal furniture. Phone. He switched the air conditioning on, and used the phone. Then he unpacked and had a shower. He took the wig off in the shower.
He was resting in a towel, with his wig back on, when the doorbell went.
‘Excuse me,’ murmured the Jap outside. He was a neat individual with tortoise-shell glasses and a briefcase. ‘I don’t know if it’s right. I am looking for a Mr Peterson.’
‘Okay, come in,’ Porter said. They were both speaking Japanese.
The Jap came cautiously in.
‘You drink rye?’ Porter asked. He was drinking some himself already.
The man did not disclose what he drank. He carefully looked the Efficiency over, and then he looked Porter over. ‘Maybe you have something to show me?’ he said.
Porter reached for his jacket, and took the headed letter out. It introduced James B. Peterson of New Age Technology, Vancouver to Makosha Microchip KK of Tokyo.
The man carefully examined the letter. ‘Some other details? Some details you have to say yourself to Makosha?’
‘Oh, well, shit … ’ Porter said, but he gave the details.
‘Hey,’ the man said. He seemed nonplussed. ‘We were waiting with a car at the airport. What are you doing here?’
‘I thought I’d come here,’ Porter said.
‘This isn’t good. We don’t make changes.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Porter said, and gave him his drink. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Just Yoshi. On the phone also you just say Yoshi. You don’t say all the things you said.’
‘Okay,’ Porter said. ‘What have you brought me?’
Yoshi was looking round the room. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘There’s a place waiting for you. You have to wait in that place. I’ve brought the material but I can’t leave it.’
‘Just show me what you’ve got,’ Porter said.
Yoshi opened his briefcase and took out a passport and a seaman’s pay book. Both were South Korean and in the name of a Sung Won Choo. Porter had a look at them. They were well-thumbed and greasy. His photograph was slightly different in each but the same bug-eyed seaman stared out, bushy-moustached. His pigtail was over his shoulder in one and up in a bun on the other.
‘And the ship blueprints,’ he said.
Yoshi took a transistor radio out of his case and turned it on. ‘You don’t need them,’ he said, over the row. ‘There’s better material. It’s waiting for you. In the place where you have to be.’
‘Where’s the ship?’
‘At Nagasaki. It’s
‘How many nights?’ the Lucky Strike clerk asked him.
‘I’m not sure, say four.’
‘Say four you pay up front four.’
‘Okay,’ Porter said, and gave him a credit card.
The man looked at it and turned it over.
‘You American, Australian, what?’ he said. He had been shouting in slow Japanese himself.
‘Canadian.’
‘Ah. Sorry. Thought Korean,’ the clerk apologised.
Porter was pleased about that. ‘Give me some telephone tokens,’ he said. ‘Give me ten. I’ll pay now.’
‘Sure. Canadian is all right,’ the man said. He gave the tokens and Porter waited while his card was checked out. It was very hot and steamy and he was sweating under the wig. His pigtail was fixed tight inside. ‘Isn’t the air conditioning working here?’ he said.
‘Sure, everything working. Only it gives me a cold so I turn it off. And if you want service,’ the clerk said, ‘service is extra.’
‘I don’t want service.’
‘Okay. Room 303. The elevator’s round the corner.’
‘Where are the stairs?’ Porter said.
‘Past the elevator. Next to the coffee bar. Go round the corner, you’ll see.’
Porter went round the corner and found the stairs, also the coffee bar. Also the other entrance. It was as he remembered. It wasn’t necessary to go through the lobby to get in or out of the place.
He skipped the stairs and rode up to 303. It was a neat small Efficiency. Compact kitchen and shower room. European bed, not a futon for the floor. Normal furniture. Phone. He switched the air conditioning on, and used the phone. Then he unpacked and had a shower. He took the wig off in the shower.
He was resting in a towel, with his wig back on, when the doorbell went.
‘Excuse me,’ murmured the Jap outside. He was a neat individual with tortoise-shell glasses and a briefcase. ‘I don’t know if it’s right. I am looking for a Mr Peterson.’
‘Okay, come in,’ Porter said. They were both speaking Japanese.
The Jap came cautiously in.
‘You drink rye?’ Porter asked. He was drinking some himself already.
The man did not disclose what he drank. He carefully looked the Efficiency over, and then he looked Porter over. ‘Maybe you have something to show me?’ he said.
Porter reached for his jacket, and took the headed letter out. It introduced James B. Peterson of New Age Technology, Vancouver to Makosha Microchip KK of Tokyo.
The man carefully examined the letter. ‘Some other details? Some details you have to say yourself to Makosha?’
‘Oh, well, shit … ’ Porter said, but he gave the details.
‘Hey,’ the man said. He seemed nonplussed. ‘We were waiting with a car at the airport. What are you doing here?’
‘I thought I’d come here,’ Porter said.
‘This isn’t good. We don’t make changes.’
‘I’ll remember,’ Porter said, and gave him his drink. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Just Yoshi. On the phone also you just say Yoshi. You don’t say all the things you said.’
‘Okay,’ Porter said. ‘What have you brought me?’
Yoshi was looking round the room. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘There’s a place waiting for you. You have to wait in that place. I’ve brought the material but I can’t leave it.’
‘Just show me what you’ve got,’ Porter said.
Yoshi opened his briefcase and took out a passport and a seaman’s pay book. Both were South Korean and in the name of a Sung Won Choo. Porter had a look at them. They were well-thumbed and greasy. His photograph was slightly different in each but the same bug-eyed seaman stared out, bushy-moustached. His pigtail was over his shoulder in one and up in a bun on the other.
‘And the ship blueprints,’ he said.
Yoshi took a transistor radio out of his case and turned it on. ‘You don’t need them,’ he said, over the row. ‘There’s better material. It’s waiting for you. In the place where you have to be.’
‘Where’s the ship?’
‘At Nagasaki. It’s
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