but which probably made very good sense to her. Brad had learned that much about the Orient.
She twisted under his hands to place the glass on the table, twisted back to flatten her writhing body tightly to him, wet mouth lifted, eyes slumberous. He kissed her, hard and long and searching.
Katsue lifted herself, struggled to crawl through his clothing and into his pores, to blend and mix her straining flesh with his own. Head spinning, Brad carried her toward the bed.
Her hands were frantic at his clothes, the soles of her feet gripping his calves like eager hands. The woman was a seething cauldron, driving, sinuous, an uncontrolled passion that sought as much to destroy as to soothe. They locked together in a battle, thoughtless, senseless. It raged through and around them. Neither of them won.
Angry at himself, Brad pulled away from the girl, thrust his blocky, powerful legs into his pants. The old wound behind his knee twinged. He stalked bare-chested to the brandy and helped himself. He didn’t turn when he heard the swift patter of feet heading for the bath, eyed his glass moodily as the water purled behind a closed door. So the girl had gotten what she wanted, earned whatever bonus she thought it was worth. When she came out of the shower, she was going to tell him about Sueko—or wish she had.
Katsue was glowing, freshened; cold water had cleared her eyes. It hadn’t done anything to the determined set of her mouth. “Hundred dollars?” she reminded him, and added: “Five dollars more.”
Brad snorted, pawed at his hip and brought out his wallet. Her eyes followed it greedily. “Have green money?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
No “green money,” for this girl, or anyone else in Japan. Sure, it brought double its face value. But it also slipped from hand to hand, traveled far and fast, until it came to rest beyond the Yalu River in Red China—or went even farther, to Russia. From there, payments went out for vital war materials, to make paychecks for spies and fellow travelers, to grease hands at borders where American dollars were always good.
“No green money,” he repeated, and brought out thousand-Yen notes. Katsue watched, shrugged and put out a hand. Brad drew the money to him. “Where’s Sueko?”
Her dark eyes fastened to his. “You speak hundred dollars. You pay—even if no can find Sueko?”
“The ad reads: ‘for information leading to her,’ ” Brad said. “You’ll earn the money, if you can tell me anything important. You’ve proven you know her. Now, dammit—tell me!”
A faintly elusive smile played over Katsue’s mouth, not reaching the fixedness of her eyes. “Dead,” she said, as if she enjoyed the taste of the word.
Brad felt the blood drain from his face, felt a cold, hard knot twist itself deep in his belly. “You’re lying!”
She had to be lying. Sueko dead? It couldn’t be—not that dainty, magnificent body; not that flower petal face; not the love and scent and feel of her. No.
Of its own volition, a big hand flashed out, crunched its fingers into Katsue’s upper arm. The girl’s mouth snapped open in terror mixed with an underlying hate. She spat the words at him: “Sueko dead—damn you! I tell you she’s dead. I know!”
Convulsively, Brad flung her from him. Katsue tried to catch her balance, fell sprawling across the bed with her naked legs flailing. Rolling over, she glared up at the huge man towering white-faced over her.
“You know,” Brad mumbled through numb lips. “You know. How do you know?”
She inched across the bed, scuttling slowly back from the wild hurt in his face, from the hint of a great rage threatening to explode in blind destruction, from this coiling man who was about to rip and tear and hammer because a precious thing had been taken from him.
“I know,” she mumbled, “because I am Kamiya Katsue—her sister.”
CHAPTER IV
He was into the second bottle of Hennessy, and it wasn’t doing a hell of a lot of good. It kept him from kicking holes in the walls. Its narcotic effect stopped him from ripping apart the furniture. But that was all. No welcome blackout, where he couldn’t think and feel.
Brad had seen the identity card all prostitutes in Japan are forced to carry. The name on it was Kamiya Katsue; the address the same one he had visited earlier in the day. First the embittered brother, crippled and sullen; then Katsue, whose greed came before anything else. Well, she’d earned her damned blood money.
Another long drink slid down Brad’s throat. Hell-he couldn’t even put flowers on Sueko’s grave. Cremated, Katsue said. The ashes scattered into Tokyo Bay. Hell. He drank again. And again, until the dark curtain closed down around him.
Mr. Hara had rapped several times upon the door, listening between knocks. Finally, he glanced quickly up and down the hallway, and brought out a flat key. He worked it into the lock and slid deftly inside Brad’s room. He nodded at the sight of the big man stretched limp and sweating upon the bed, and eased to his wallet.
The little Japanese thumbed through the billfold, pausing at cards, pursing his lips at the passport. Carefully, he replaced the wallet on its former spot on the table. He didn’t take any money. He went through pockets of the suits hanging in the closet, searched between shirts and underwear in the dresser drawers. Then he went out as softly as he had come, closing and locking the door behind him. Mr. Hara didn’t turn into his own room, but instead moved down the stairs and out into the street. A dark, plain car pulled up at the curb and he ducked into it to be whisked away.
It must have been midnight when the burly man in uniform thumped Brad’s door. Brad stirred, muttered, and flung out one arm. The hammering continued, officious, demanding. Brad forced his eyes open and cursed.
The voice was American, rough and husky, used to command. “Saxon? I know you’re in there. Open up!”
Brad sat up, rubbed bleary eyes, tasted green fuzz inside his mouth. He washed away the taste with a mixture of melted ice and brandy. The pounding continued. Brad didn’t like it.
“Get the hell away from that door,” he said.
“Open up. This is Captain Getty—Military Police!”
Reflex action lifted Brad to his feet and across the room, where he turned the knob before he remembered he was a civilian, that the MPs didn’t have a damned thing to do with him, one way or another.
“So?” he said into the beefy red face.
The man was big—almost as large as Brad himself, but he’d gone to seed. A double roll of flesh bulged beneath his craggy chin; dark pouches sagged his eyes, and a swollen belly pushed at a too-small belt. The uniform was neat, the crossed pistols on its collar brightly polished. Houseboys, Brad thought, were handy to have around.
“May I come in?” Getty asked.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Brad said, and turned away. Getty followed him into the room, ID folder open in one sweaty hand. Brad glanced at it and looked back to the bottle. He’d have to wake up room service and order another, he decided.
“We understand you’re in Tokyo looking for a certain girl,” the captain said.
Brad
