Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Read online

  Ahead, he saw a small group of people. They seemed upset.

  He picked up his pace.

  Zenji spotted a small black-and-white dog with a stubby tail leaning into a fence across the street. Its eyes were closed.

  “What’s going on?” Zenji asked a young Japanese woman who was hugging a small boy.

  She hesitated. “Who are you?”

  “Zenji Watanabe. I live about a half mile from here. Is that your dog?”

  “My son’s.” The woman’s eyes flooded. “We were walking. A car came and … Nami … the dog … went under it. I thought he’d been killed … but he crawled to the fence. He won’t let us get close.”

  The sight of the shivering dog almost made Zenji sick.

  Do something!

  “I’ll take a look.”

  The dog was struggling to breathe. At least one leg was broken. Blood trickled out of its ears, and who knew what was broken inside.

  “You sure got beat up, little guy.”

  The dog growled when Zenji tried to touch it.

  Zenji stood and went back to the woman and the boy. “I can help you get your dog to your house.”

  The boy broke free and ran off.

  Zenji watched as he raced down the street. It was exactly what he’d done when Ma told him Pop had died.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, “but his father …”

  Zenji knew how it went. You put a badly injured dog out of its misery. You didn’t let it suffer. Who had money to fix a pet?

  “I understand,” he said, and thought for a moment. “Look, I’ll take the dog to my house. Maybe I can help him. If I can, where do you live so I can bring him back?”

  Even as he said it he had doubts. How do you fix a broken dog? But Aiko would help him. And Ma.

  The woman pointed. “The green house.”

  Zenji nodded. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Ken. The dog is Nami. Thank you, Zenji Watanabe. I need to go to my son.”

  She hurried off, and Zenji found a fruit crate in the weeds.

  He took off his shirt, wrapped it around Nami, and gently lifted him into the crate.

  This time, not one yip.

  “Let’s get out of here, boy.”

  When he turned down his quiet street the first thing he saw was a car. A rare sight—nobody in his neighborhood had a car.

  It was parked in front of his house.

  Zenji took the crate to the back of the house, trying to peek in the window to see who was there. But the sun glared on the glass.

  There was a small toolshed under the banyan tree. It was cool and dark inside. The only light came from a small window.

  Zenji set the crate on the dirt floor and squatted next to it. “I’ll be back, Nami. Don’t you die on me, you hear?”

  He ran to the house, crept up the back steps, inched the screen door open, and tiptoed through the kitchen.

  His mother was saying “I’m sorry. I don’t understand” in Japanese.

  “I’m here to see Zenji, Mrs. Watanabe,” a man said in English. His voice was familiar. “I’m sorry. You don’t understand me, do you?”

  Zenji’s jaw dropped when he stepped into the room. “Colonel Blake!”

  Ma turned, startled. “Shizuka dattakara!” You were so quiet!

  “Sorry, Ma,” Zenji said in Japanese. “Where’s Aiko?”

  “Ieni wa inaiyo.” Not home.

  Colonel Blake stood and broke into a huge grin. “It’s good to see you, Zenji.”

  He reached out his hand.

  Zenji shook. “What the heck are you doing here, Colonel?”

  Colonel Blake laughed. “Something’s come up, and you’re the first person I thought of.”

  Ma whispered to Zenji, “Who is this man? What does he want?”

  “He’s my old commanding officer in JROTC. Remember the army thing Henry and I did in high school? I don’t know what he wants.”

  Ma sat back, stiff. To have a haole, a white person, in her house was a grave matter. A visit from the president would not have been more shocking.

  Colonel Blake looked at Zenji. “Does your mother understand English?”

  “Not much.”

  Colonel Blake bowed slightly toward Ma. “Please thank her for her hospitality.”

  Zenji did.

  Ma nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Please, Colonel. Sit.”

  “What does he want?” Ma whispered again.

  “I’m trying to find out.” Zenji turned back to the colonel. “She wants to know why you’re here.”

  “It concerns … a job.”

  “I have a job, sir.”

  Zenji found himself right back in JROTC, calling Colonel Blake sir.

  “This job is more important.”

  Must be, Zenji thought. Why would the colonel come all the way up here to talk to me?

  Ma tugged on Zenji’s sleeve.

  “He wants to talk about a job, Ma.”

  Ma’s face brightened. “He’s not asking you to join the army? That’s no place for you.”

  “What’s wrong with the army?”

  “In the army you die.”

  “Ma, it’s okay. He just wants to talk.”

  Ma pushed herself up off the couch. Zenji and the colonel stood as Ma bowed and went into the kitchen.

  “Is there a problem?” the colonel asked.

  “Naw, it’s just her way. She’s very protective.”

  “As she should be.”

  “What’s this about, Colonel?”

  “As I remember, you were excellent with languages.”

  Zenji looked down. He wasn’t used to compliments. “Only Japanese and English. Couple words in Chinese, and some Hawaiian. Filipino, too. I mean, what they call Tagalog.”

  Colonel Blake smiled. “You like to travel, Zenji?”

  “Never been off the island. But I’ve sure thought about it.”

  “Zenji, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Name it, sir.”

  “You know where Central Intermediate School is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you be there tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp?”

  “Well … I’d like to, but I have to work.”

  “It’s all set. I called your boss.”

  “You know where I work?” Zenji stared at him. How did he know that? “And Mr. Santos said it was okay?”

  “I told him it was important.”

  Zenji started to ask why but stopped. His family and the priests at Japanese school had taught him: respect authority. Never question it.

  Nami! He’d almost forgotten. The dog needed help.

  “Zenji?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  Zenji followed the colonel to the door. “Keep this little conversation under your hat,” the colonel said. “You can tell your family, but that’s it, okay?”

  “Yes, sir … but why?”

  Colonel Blake looked down. “Can’t say right now. But there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re the man they need.”

  “Need for what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They went down the steps. The birds had stopped yakking in the trees, and the sky was painted the soft blue-gray of evening.

  Colonel Blake looked up, and Zenji followed his gaze. One bright star had appeared.

  “Venus,” Colonel Blake said. “Another night in paradise.”

  Zenji nodded, though it was just his dirt street and the end of another hot day.

  Colonel Blake tapped Zenji’s arm. “Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  As Colonel Blake drove off, Zenji ran around the house to Nami.

  Aiko skidded to a stop next to the shed, the rear tire of her bike fanning out dirt.

  “Jeese, Aiko! You want to give me a heart attack?”

  “You have a heart?”

  “Funny.”

 
Aiko was as tough as any boy her age, and the boys knew it. Zenji called her the Watanabe Warrior, which she loved.

  “Come,” Zenji said. “I want to show you something.”

  Inside, they knelt over the crate. “A puppy?” she said. “It looks sick.”

  “He was hit by a car, and he’s not mine.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Kid named Ken. His mother didn’t know what to do. I said I’d help.”

  Aiko leaned in. “You poor thing.”

  “His name is Nami.”

  “Nami,” Aiko whispered. She bent close to look at the dog’s broken leg. “We have to fix that.”

  “Yeah, but how?”

  Aiko chewed on her lip. “Find some short straight sticks. I’ll get something to wrap around the leg, and some string. We’re going to put him back together.”

  Aiko ran to the house. Zenji found a board and sliced off two splints with a machete, then chopped them down to size.

  Ma came back with Aiko. “What’s this?”

  Zenji looked over his shoulder. “A car hit him, Ma.”

  “Let me see.”

  Zenji moved aside.

  Gently, Ma felt Nami’s ribs, legs, and neck. “Get a bowl of water and a rag. This dog needs to drink.”

  Zenji hurried back to the house. He’d known Ma and Aiko would want to help Nami!

  When he got back, Nami’s leg was bound tight to the splints with cloth and string. Ma soaked the rag in the water and let the dog suck on it. “What we just did to his leg must have been painful. Yet he was silent.” She stroked his head. “You’re a brave dog.”

  “Will he be okay, Ma?”

  “I think so … if he’s still alive tomorrow.”

  When Henry came home Zenji took him to the shed. Nami was sleeping. “Always wanted a dog,” Henry said. “Too bad he got hurt.”

  “Ma said he might make it.”

  “She would know.”

  Ma’s parents had a little farm in Japan. They were poor, but they took good care of their animals. She’d been sixteen when she married Pop and came to the islands looking for better work.

  Henry stroked Nami. “Aiko said some haole stopped by today.”

  “Colonel Blake.”

  “From JROTC?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good guy,” Henry said. “I almost went into the army because of him.”

  Zenji squatted down next to Nami. “He came in the house.”

  “Ma let him in?”

  “What could she do?”

  “Wow. First time a haole set foot in our house.… Was she nervous?”

  Zenji shook his head. “Suspicious.”

  Henry whistled, low. “The neighbors will talk.”

  “Let um.”

  “Yeah, who cares?”

  “He wants to talk to me about a job.”

  “In the army?”

  “He said he couldn’t tell me.”

  “Is that so.”

  Zenji stood. “I’m supposed to show up at Central Intermediate School tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me. What do you think he wants?”

  Henry shrugged. “Maybe he wants to invite you up to Schofield with Nick and Takeo, make you a soldier.”

  Henry’s two high school friends had joined up right after graduation. Now they were at boot camp. There was a war going on in Europe, but the U.S. was at peace, so they’d be safe.

  Zenji scoffed. “I’m too young.”

  “I guess this time tomorrow we can talk about it, huh?”

  That night, Zenji slept on the dirt floor of the shed.

  He kept getting up to check on Nami and give him water. He couldn’t sleep anyway. Everything was too weird. Chinese guys wanting to beat him up and put glass in his food. A broken dog. Colonel Blake.

  He finally dozed off just before dawn.

  When he woke, sunlight was streaming through the window. He popped up, squinting.

  Ma was kneeling by the crate. “You were snoring. You must have been awake all night.”

  “Pretty much. How is he?”

  “Look.”

  The dog blinked and lifted his head.

  Zenji grinned.

  Ma soaked the rag and squeezed water into Nami’s mouth. “You late for work already. Get up. I’ll make you rice and egg.”

  “What time is it, Ma? I got to be at the school.”

  Ma said nothing.

  “Ma, it’s just about a job, and it could pay more. That would be good, right?”

  “We don’t need more. We’re fine.”

  Nami gave a whispery woof.

  Zenji stroked his head. “That’s what I say, too.”

  He hurried to the house, wondering what he would find at the school. Maybe Ma was right to be nervous.

  Nah. Colonel Blake would never steer him wrong.

  When Zenji arrived at the school Colonel Blake wasn’t anywhere in sight, so Zenji entered alone. A uniformed man stood when he walked in.

  “Good morning. Follow me.”

  He led Zenji to a room where six uniformed men—two army and four navy—sat behind a long table.

  Zenji gawked.

  An army guy stood, name plate HACKNER. “Zenji Watanabe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you for coming.” He motioned toward a metal chair facing the men. “Please sit.”

  This was an interview? It felt more like he’d been arrested and was about to be grilled. What had Colonel Blake gotten him into? Where was he, anyway?

  “We’re here from Washington, D.C.,” Hackner began, motioning to the men at the table. “We’re conducting interviews with special candidates such as yourself. May we begin?”

  Candidates? Washington, D.C.?

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  There was a long moment of silence as Hackner looked over some papers. The five other men stared at Zenji. Each had a glass of water, a pen, and a notepad in front of him.

  “Mr. Watanabe, your former JROTC commanding officer, Colonel Blake, gives you a very high recommendation.”

  Ho! Hackner had spoken in Japanese! Perfect Japanese. Zenji had never heard a haole speak Japanese like that. His inflections and mannerisms were flawless.

  “Mr. Watanabe?”

  “Uh, thank you, sir.”

  “You may speak in Japanese.”

  “Yes,” Zenji said, switching to Japanese. “Thank you, sir.”

  Did they all speak Japanese?

  Hackner went on. “Where were you born?”

  “Honolulu.”

  “Were your parents born here?”

  “No, sir, they were born in Okinawa, Japan.”

  “So they’re still citizens of Japan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officers scribbled notes. They did speak Japanese.

  “When did your parents arrive in the islands?”

  Zenji thought. “Around 1920, I guess. I don’t know for sure.”

  “What work does your father do?”

  “He was killed when I was eight years old. He was a welder at Pearl Harbor.”

  “I see. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You wear glasses. What’s your vision like without them?”

  What a weird question. “Okay for long distances. Close up it’s fuzzy, but not bad.”

  Hackner nodded.

  “Have you ever been to Japan?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have a desire to go to Japan?”

  “Maybe someday, sure.”

  All six men wrote something on their pads.

  “Would you relocate there?”

  “No, sir. I like it here. This is my home.”

  “Any other place you’d like to visit?”

  Zenji considered that for a moment. “Los Angeles. I’ve always wanted to go to the mainland.”

  “Why?”

  “Just heard about it.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”
/>   Zenji blinked. “No, sir.”

  Who’s your best friend?”

  “A guy named Tosh Otani. I’ve known him all my life.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Works with his dad.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Yard work … for rich people.”

  For the next six hours, even while they ate the box lunches that an aide brought in, Zenji answered questions. Some seemed pointless, like whom he hung out with in high school. But he answered as if each one was important.

  Where was all this going?

  The final question confused him even more. “Can you make yourself available for the next three days?”

  “I have a job … but … maybe I can work it out.”

  “Good. Be here again at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. We have some tests for you to take with the other candidates.”

  “Other candidates?”

  “Twenty-nine more.” Hackner smiled, his first of the day.

  All his life Zenji had been told: never question authority. Even so, he usually had a million things to ask.

  Today, when he walked back out into the sun, he had only one: what the spit was going on?

  “So tell us,” Henry said at dinner as they ate Ma’s cabbage soup. “What happened at the school?”

  Zenji looked at Ma, who acted as if she hadn’t heard.

  “Well … it was an interview.”

  “About what?”

  “Where I went to school, who my friends are, where Ma and Pop came from, had I ever been to Japan, did I want to go there.”

  Henry slapped his leg. “I knew it!”

  “Knew what?”

  “I’ve been hearing rumors that the army and the FBI have been keeping track of Japanese.”

  Ma stopped eating and looked at him. “Why?”

  “Politics.”

  “What politics?” Zenji said. “And why are they talking to me, not you?”

  Henry drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t get that part, either.”

  “Don’t talk to the army, either of you,” Ma said. “You already have work.”

  Henry pointed his soupspoon at Zenji. “I think this is about more than a job, Ma.”

  Ma scowled. “No army!”

  “It’s okay, Ma,” Henry said.

  She looked away, grim.

  Aiko kept quiet, but glanced at each of them.

  “Get this,” Zenji went on. “They all spoke Japanese! Six haole army and navy officers, all speaking perfect Japanese. Crazy.”