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Brute. Con Sellers
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She held the flavor of warm winds over richly blooming fields, tasting of downy blossoms and far valleys. She was sweetly trembling in his arms, thick hair swirling as he let her go to wriggle out of her dress and bolt the door. She was entrancing hillocks and desirable vales, a flowing together of smooth-warm legs and softflare hips, a clasping, surrendering rocking of thighs and breasts, blending, enveloping. Gladly, he sought to lose himself in her.
And for the moment, she was even tinier, an elfin perfection that clung and spread, and loved in mad-wild passion and an intriguing, gentle tenderness.
He whispered it into the musky sheen of her hair: “Sueko—Sueko—”
She didn’t stiffen and roll away. If she was hurt, the girl didn’t show her pain. Instead, Machiko held him closer, substituting herself for the girl this huge, gentle man dreamed of, wishing in spite of herself that she was actually the one he sought. It would be nice to be so loved.
Brad Saxon sighed back from the girl at last, drained of hasty desire, relaxing in the heady aura of womanhood and the insiduous glow of the liquor within him. He was a little puzzled at the way she clung so fervently to him—as if she would never see him again. And he remembered the watchful caution of the hardfaced madam in the bar.
CHAPTER II
From the Classified rooms of the Mainichi newspaper, Brad rode the hurtling little “kamikaze” taxi back to his hotel. The Nomura wasn’t far from the fabulous Rocker Four Club, most luxurious setup in the world for Army NCOs. It was semi-deserted in the daytime, and passing it, Brad felt a momentary twinge of something indefinable.
Regret? he wondered. No. A sense of being on the outside, perhaps; of not belonging any more. The herd instinct normally strong in man, but stronger yet in the Service. Brad Saxon wasn’t sorry he wasn’t in uniform any more. The Army was for fighting wars; when there were no more wars, he could see little reason for its existence.
Of course, a standing army was necessary, but that kind of life irked Brad. Spit and polish and the boredom of repeated training; and, he told himself, he mustn’t forget the brass-plated and self-appointed gods. A little of them was more than enough. Sure, there were good men in command, even great ones. But there were also the free riders, the desk-and-briefcase politicians who never earned the right to be called soldiers.
Brad crawled out of the cab after it shrieked to a sliding stop outside the Nomura, and paid the gold-toothed hackie. Adding a fat tip, he said: “Here, sport—buy yourself a shrine. You keep driving that way, and you’re going to need it.”
The driver shrugged fatalistically and roared the taxi into traffic as Brad turned away and moved through the lobby. The desk clerk bowed slightly when he passed by and into the elevator. Brad grinned to himself. Tokyo—city of no questions asked, as long as you could pay your way. And the big display ad he’d just ordered in the Mainichi should pay its way, too. For the hundred-dollar reward he’d offered, half the city ought to be trying to find Sueko.
At the third floor, Brad turned down the carpeted hall and into his room. There was another lead he could follow himself, the dog-eared, carefully protected letter from Sueko—the last one. Seven years ago, but it had a return address, and not the New Opal Hotel. Her home, perhaps. She’d mentioned a family.
In the shower, Brad let the cool water flow over him, and thought for the hundredth time that his trip might not pay off. Sueko could be dead; she might be married to some GI, living respectably in the States. Brad stepped out and towelled himself. But he had to try. The years away from her had taught him one thing—that all other women stood in her shadow. He had to find her and take her back with him.
Brad plugged in the razor and massaged it over his stubble. Some guys he knew would think he’d flipped; they’d think any man who wanted to marry a prostitute was out of his head. During the past nine years Sueko had probably slept with a thousand men.
But Brad Saxon had been the first. And if he hadn’t been such a damned fool, he’d have been the only one. He grimaced at his battered face in the mirror. Well, even damned fools may get another chance, if they’re lucky. He wouldn’t louse up this opportunity. All the men between didn’t matter. Nothing did—except the vital, driving fact that he must hold Sueko in his arms again, permanently.
He took his big, hairy body into the bedroom and began fitting it into a tailored sharkskin suit. Maybe he’d honeymoon in Hong Kong with Sueko, if she liked the idea. They could stock up on good clothes there. Hell, he’d buy her the moon, if she wanted it.
And he could almost afford it. He’d never have to count the bruises again, never have to limp out on the field with the bad knee taped tight, hoping it would hold out through the game. Let the other clowns bang their heads together for the paychecks. Brad Saxon had his.
School had seemed so damned important. The old man had pushed a little, too, wanting Brad to follow him into the State Department. Still, he couldn’t blame school—nor the old man—for leaving Sueko as he had. Sure, the Army had a lot to do with it, hustling him back for discharge, tying up marriage applications in red tape. But Brad could have come back as a civilian. He should have come back.
Brad knotted his tie, ran a brush over cropped hair. Maybe he should blame the bid from the Forty-Niners, too. Only you don’t blame a job that brought you in almost thirty thousand per. It wasn’t bad pay for a big slob who enjoyed banging other big slobs around. A little rough on the hide, perhaps, but tackles weren’t supposed to be glamor boys. That was left to the backfield.
He grinned at himself. Some of the old gang were still on the sports pages, still dragging themselves off the field every Sunday. Through the old man’s needling and advice, Brad had invested his paychecks in solid payoff stocks, a little finagling here, a little quick selling there. Now he was fat. Now he could afford to run around the world, looking for a certain girl.
If he could find her.
There was a discreet knock on the door. “Yeah?” Brad said.
The man was small and shabby, with rimless spectacles and a jerky manner of bowing. “I’m Mr. Hara. May I come in?”
Brad shrugged. “I’ve only got a minute. I’m going out.” Whatever the guy was selling, Brad didn’t want any.
Hara smiled diffidently. “So. To search for Miss Kamiya?”
Brad stared at the little man. “Come in and shut the door. What do you know about her?”
Then he wondered how this man knew. The ad wouldn’t be in the paper until tomorrow. The New Opal? The girl there? Machiko had seemed to know something, but she’d been afraid to say anything. The omnipresent madam had made that plain. Brad asked his visitor where he got his information.
Hara bowed slightly. “A friend in the composing room of the Mainichi. He thought I would be interested.”
“Oh?” Eagerly, Brad leaned over the man. “Okay; I should care how. All I want to know is where she is.”
“I’m sorry,” Hara said, his English precise and stilted. “I do not know the whereabouts of Miss Kamiya. But I should like to offer my services. You will need an interpreter, a man who knows the city well.”
Leave it to the Nippers, Brad thought. Let them smell a dollar, and they’ll come running. Still, Hara was right; Brad would need help to sort the truth from rumors, the con men from people who actually knew something. This little guy looked and talked like a college professor down on his luck.
“For how much?” he asked.
Hara named a ridiculously low figure.
“You’re hired,” Brad said, and reached for the envelope with the return address. “Know where this is?”
Hara peered at the faded Oriental characters through his glasses. “We will find