Just Add Water (1) (8 page)

13

“
Get
rid of it, Hetta,” Jan said later that day as we drove to her flat in the city
after the adoption/birthday bash ended in a brawl. Even some of the dogs got
involved.

“What?”

“You know what. The damned key. As
long as you hang on to it, you won’t be able to get over what happened.”

“I am over it. I keep the key to
remind me not to be so stupid again. Ever.”

She shrugged. “Could have happened to
anyone. Hudson Williams had all the credentials. Good job, good education,
great promise. Good looking, too, from the sounds of it. You never showed me
any pictures. Think about it, girl, you were screened up one side and down the
other before you were allowed to work in Japan. As an American working there,
so was he. Even his company’s president said Hudson hoodwinked them, too.”

“True. You’d think the SOB would have
been satisfied stealing Comptec blind. But nooooo, he had to clean out my bank
account, as well. How could I have been so damned dumb? I’d only known him six
months, and he had PIN. Duh! Thank heavens I didn’t keep a big yen account. I
should have a tee shirt printed up that reads, ‘Hudson Williams took a powder
out of Tokyo, and all he left me was this damned key.’ ”

But the Fujitsu’s new information
about the key set me to thinking.
 
Did I
still know anyone in Tokyo who could check out the Key Note Club for me?
Probably not. At least, no
Gaijin
.

I soon found after moving to Tokyo
that
Gaijin
did not mean
foreigner,
but
really means Not Japanese. The Not Japanese distinction
lumped all foreigners into the Barbarian category. The Japanese engineers I’d
worked with probably wouldn’t, or couldn’t, bluff their way past the tight
security of these key clubs. I needed a sneaky
Gaijin
, but my fellow Barbarian friends, perfect for the job, were
probably all gone by now. They were, after all, getting a little long in the
tooth to still hold down their jobs as high-class hookers.

Hookers?

Well, maybe not officially.
Officially they were
hostesses.
Dad’s
generation would have called them B-girls: bar girls. These gals were all stunningly
beautiful, mostly foreign, and were paid barely enough by their Japanese
employers to afford rent on very small apartments and keep themselves in
sequined gowns.

Monday through Friday the hostesses
worked at ritzy nightclubs, hired to entertain Japanese businessmen and their
clients. Mix their drinks, smile a lot, and carry on polite conversations in
English. Sort of Berlitz meets burlesque on the company tab. Whether the after
hours goings-on went on the company’s very liberal expense reports or not, I
never really found out, but the going rate for such high-toned harlotry was a
grand. A thousand big ones, U.S. dollars, per night. I was definitely in the
wrong bidness. But then again, I am neither tall, blonde, nor willing to suffer
the attentions of short drunken men, so I guess I’d better stick to engineering
if the rent is to be paid.

Anyhow, after the Hudson calamity, I
found myself stuck in Tokyo without any non-business related acquaintances. It
was to that end that one Saturday night I wandered back into the bar where I
had met the jilting bastard: Red’s Revenge, Home of the Fightin’ Roo. The gin
joint was, as I knew it would be, frequented mostly by foreigners who liked to
get together, drink, and bitch about their host country. My kind of place.

Red, a diminutive, feisty,
titian-haired Aussie, ran a great bar and a tight ship. She was also an ex
B-girl who had made some good—read, Japanese mafia—connections and ended up
with a successful bar. Her place was a gathering spot on Saturday and Sunday
nights for foreign hostesses whose Japanese clients went home to wife and
family for the weekend.

My newfound friends, including Aussie
Red, ended up spending most Sundays at my apartment. The Baxter Brothers
Corporation had generously set me up in an American-sized two bedroom apartment
capable of housing at least six Japanese families. Not only did I have lots of
space, I had cable TV. In English.

After drinking ourselves silly at
Red’s on Saturday nights, we’d end up eating a Korean Barbecue breakfast at
four or five in the morning. Reeking of
kimchi
,
we staggered back to my place. Sunday mornings found a litter of somewhat
bedraggled beauties sleeping all over my apartment. The day was spent cooking,
watching movies, and educating Hetta as to the subtleties of soliciting mink
coats and the like from ever horny Japanese men. I never had the opportunity to
put my lessons to work, but by golly if I ever need a mink, I know how to get
one. “The same way minks do,” vamped a stunning blonde from Washington, DC. I
heard she later entered politics, working as a PR officer for Bill
Clinton.
  

But those Tokyo beauties were long
gone by now, replaced by a new set of younger women willing to make special
dates after working hours for a thousand bucks a pop.

So, who could I …?
 
Jan’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Hetta,
you missed our turnoff. Are you all right?”

I shook off my musing and turned at
the next block. “Sorry, I was thinking about the key and what could be in the
Tokyo hooch box besides Clown Loyal. Maybe Hudson left something there I could
sell. The jerk still owes me fifteen-hundred bucks.”

Jan shook her head and glared at
me. “Now you listen to me. There’s nothing in the box. All that’s yen under the
bridge. End of story. Forget the whole thing. Throw the key in the garbage, and
get on with your life. And cheer up. How are we supposed to terrorize a street
fair in our usual style today if you aren’t your usual self?”

“And which usual self would that be?”
I grumped. “Pushy? Demented? Terminally manless? Jobless? Bordering on
dogless?”

Jan wisely did not answer, leaving me
to contemplate losing RJ. His birthday/adoption party had painfully reminded me
of the day he got me.

The day after the day of the rat.

* * *

The Oakland dog pound was noisy, smelly
and heartbreaking, but I knew that’s where I’d find my dream doggy.

She would be small, but not too
fancy. Mannerly, of course, perhaps even well-bred, but also fiercely
protective. Cute. Cuddly. Maybe she’d look like Benji. She’d be smart, like Lassie.
But smaller, without all that hair.

Escorted by a gentle, weary
Hispanic volunteer in his seventies, I walked past cage after cage of barking,
howling, cringing, or jumping canines of every make and color. I stuck my
fingers through the wire to pet those that would let me. My heart hurt for each
one. I wanted to take them all home, protect them from the cruel world that put
them behind bars for the crime of being born.

My escort, Juan, pulled on my
elbow, guiding me away from one cell and the low, menacing growl from deep
within. “Stay away from him,
señorita
,”
he warned. “Don’t put your fingers in there.”

I heard the dog rumble again, but
as I hurried to get past, something held me back. Doggy ESP?

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked,
keeping my distance as told.

“He don’ like people, so they gonna
put him down tomorrow.”

“Really?” I stepped closer to the
cage.

“Careful now, he’s....” But I
didn’t hear the rest. Soulful black-rimmed dog eyes locked me in a visual
embrace, then pulled me forward towards the forbidden cage. A foot away, I
stopped.

“Hi, baby,” I said.

Hesitant tail wag.

“Come over here,” I cooed, sticking
my finger through the cage. I ignored the attendant’s fearful intake of air and
continued talking in soft tones to the dog. “I won’t hurt you, honey, I
promise.”
 
I squatted down to the dog’s
level and focused my gaze right above his head so I wasn’t looking him in the
eye.

Tentative steps forward on four
stiff legs brought him within biting distance of my finger.

“You wanta go bye-bye with—” I
didn’t get the “me” out before the dog charged the wire in what can only be
called an ecstasy of wiggles, wags, and grins. He whined his plea, “Get me out
of here, and I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

 
I scratched his ears through the wire and said, “Wrap him up,
Señor Juan, I’m takin’ him home.”

Juan shook his head and shrugged.
“Your funeral.”

“And Juan, you’re wrong. He likes
people, he just don’ like men.”

But I was wrong. My dog was a
racist.

14

“
RJ’s losing weight, isn’t he?” Jan asked after we arrived at her
apartment with only one more wrong turn. The birthday bash, plus Mr. Fujitsu’s
revelation about the key, had left me unable to concentrate on driving, but we
finally got to Jan’s place.

We both looked at my dog. He was
still wearing his red velvet bow tie and was lounging in the bay window of
Jan’s Victorian flat, his red coat glistening in the late afternoon sun. He was
alertly watching passersby on the street below. Someone who didn’t know better
would see a happy, healthy dog. Only his swollen leg and slightly protruding
ribs told the real story.

I nodded. “Two pounds in the last
three weeks, even though we’ve upped his Ben and Jerry’s allotment. He eats
well, though, and doesn’t seem to be in much pain. Craigosaurus keeps a close
eye on him.”

“What was that about you being
jobless?” she asked, referring back to what I’d said in the car while we were
crossing the bridge.

“Oh, nothing. Feeling sorry for
myself. My Seattle gig only has nine or so months to go, and you know how I am.
If I don’t have something new lined up, I start getting antsy.
 
My malaise will pass. As soon as I get a new
project, marry a handyman to save my decaying home, and a dog angel descends to
heal RJ. Oh, and porkers go airborne.”

Jan wasn’t buying my “poor me” act.

“Hetta, get off my bed and comb
your hair. We’re hitting the street fair. Move it!”

I went to check myself in the
mirror while Jan straightened her comforter.

“And when,” I demanded, “did
that
happen?”

“What?" she asked in mid
pillow fluff.

“When did we get neat? Tidy? My
dorm room resembled a garbage dump. Your first apartment was practically
condemned by the Department of Sanitation. We both had cockroaches with NASCAR
numbers on ‘em,” I raved. “When did we start
cleaning?
”

“What in the world are you talking
about?” Jan looked as though she were alone with Norman Bates. She moved
between me and the kitchen cutlery.

I sat down next to RJ and buried my
head in his fur.

“Hetta?”

“Sorry, Jan. It’s just, well, the
other day, when we were in the Coast Guard class, I suddenly wondered when I
started finding men with gray hair attractive. At what point did I begin to
clean house and pay bills on time? I even voted Republican, for pity’s sake!”

Jan planted her hands on her hips
and smiled. “Midlife crisis. Buy a red convertible.”

“I have a red convertible.”

“Then buy something else. Let’s go
to the fair and shop.”

“Good thinking.”

We cruised Union Street, trying on
earrings and embroidered vests, grazing on Polish sausages, pizza, gelato, and
Belgian waffles, ending up in our favorite bar, Perry’s. Using RJ as a shill,
we conned two tourists out of their choice table so we could keep an eye on him
through an open window, and tied him to a parking meter six feet away. His
chagrin at not being allowed inside was soon soothed by strangers’ ear
scratches and coos of “cute dog.”

“Isn’t that your dog?” a cop asked
me, pointing at RJ.

“Uh, maybe. What’s wrong, officer,
his meter run out?” I quipped. Jan’s face lit with approval and the cop burst
out laughing.

“No, I was wondering if I’d have to
arrest him again this year.”

Uh-oh. “Ah,” I said. “Officer
Jones, I presume.”

“The one.”

“Entrapment, sir, pure and simple.
I should like to point out that you
did
leave your car windows down, and cookies on the seat, thereby enticing my mutt
into a life of crime. He’s a minor, you know. You will notice, however, the
alleged criminal is fettered this year to protect him from your obvious ploy to
entrap.”

“Tell it to the judge. What’s wrong
with his leg?”

“Bone cancer.”

“No shit? Damn.” He scratched RJ’s
ears and fondled the baggage tag, a miniature American Express Card, hanging on
my dog’s neck. “Maybe he can buy me a hot dog later. Then, if he wants to get
in my car again, it’s all right. Long as he doesn’t fart.”

Jan and I giggled, then, as the cop
left, she grabbed my arm and pointed down the street. “Gee, Hetta, look who’s
coming.”

Lars and his brother, Robert
“Jenks” Jenkins—USN Ret—were sauntering down the street towards us.

“Oh, great,” I growled. “Can’t we
act like we don’t see them?”

Jan looked guilty.

“Fess up. You invited them, didn’t
you? You told them we’d be here,” I accused.

“Busted. Guilty as charged. I like
Lars. As a matter of fact, I’m going out to dinner with him next week.”

“Goody gumballs for you. I’m in no
mood for that Bob. He hates me.”

“Hate is a strong word, Hetta. Lars
says it’s more like, uh …” She stopped, wishing back her words. But it was too
late.

“Like what?” I pounced. “What did
that Bob person say about me?”

Jan looked uncertain. “You know,
calling him ‘that Bob person’ is very hostile.”

“Okay, okay. Tell me what
Bob
said. I promise not to have my
feelings hurt. What’d he say?”

She sighed. “Just that you were
flighty.”

“Flighty?” I barked. “Flighty?” I
repeated, not believing my ears. “I have been called unbalanced, bossy, loud,
overbearing, driven, caustic, funny, chubby, short, and an old maid, but never
flighty. What does that mean? And where does he get off making judgments about
me? We only met twice. Okay, so one of those times I hit his boat and called
him a retard. Flighty,” I scoffed, took a large gulp of wine, and glared at the
approaching men.

“Oh, Lord, what have I done? Please, please, Hetta,
don’t say anything. I really like Lars and if he knows I told you what he said,
he might....Oh, hi there, Lars, Jenks.”

“Got room for us?” Lars asked,
leaning through the window.

Jan looked nervously in my
direction.

Taking another swig of wine I
nodded. “Sure. Welcome to my nest.” Jan widened her eyes in warning. I shrugged
and said, “What?”

Lars and that brother of his went through
the front entrance, then worked their way through the standing room only crowd
to our table.

And I
was
good. I minded my P’s and Q’s, listening to the brothers tell
sailing tales and stories of their childhood in Brooklyn. I didn’t even call
them Yankees.

They worked together, designing and
installing security and fire protection systems. Neither, it seemed, maintained
a real office. Or worked very hard.

Somehow, it was closing time and
RJ, Jan, Bob and I packed ourselves into Lars’s Porsche and headed across the
Bay Bridge. Why, I do not know; my car was parked in front of Jan’s apartment.
Perhaps I thought I was too drunk to drive. Maybe Lars figured the only way to
get rid of me, thereby getting Jan alone, was to take me home. Whatever, I was
far too wasted to notice Lars was drunker than any of us.

Jenks sat in the passenger seat,
Jan gingerly straddled the gearshift console, and RJ and I were crammed into a
tiny space behind the seat.

“Nice car,” I said.

It was a mistake.

“Yeah, she’s a beauty. Want to see
what she can do?” Lars slurred.

Suddenly sober, I yelled, “Noooo!”

But it was too late.

Lars downshifted.

Jan giggled.

Lars hit the accelerator.