The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3)

"Between the most excellent characters, the settings to vivid you'll see them in your dreams and all of the crazy paranormal shenanigannery Stein and Candle get into, there's not much left to NOT love. It's campy, it's crazy and most of all it's fun. You really can't beat that."
-
Donna @ BiteMyBooks.com
(Review of S&C, Vol. 1)

"Michael Panush is a very talented young writer (he’s only 22) and based upon his work so far, I predict great things for him ahead. Thanks to Curiosity Quills for bringing us fresh, young talent like this, to entertain and edify."
-
Katy Sozaeva
(Review of S&C, Vol. 2)

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Trouble in Tokyo

I
didn’t like Tokyo from the start. During the War, we had done our best to set that city and everyone in it on fire. From the look of things, it was still burning. Most of the buildings had been rebuilt and new ones were springing up all over the place, but the scars remained. You could see them in the glare of the neon lights, the way men and women in their western clothes hurried down the narrow streets, and the wafts of blue smoke drifting up from joss sticks in altars and shrines. The wounds of the War were still raw, and it didn’t take much to get the blood of Tokyo’s people flowing again.

My partner Weatherby and I had arrived in Tokyo by plane and headed directly to a seedy downtown gin mill to meet with our client. He was a cop, a flatfoot by the name of Lieutenant Sakai, but that didn’t mean anything. Rumor had it that the Japanese police were as corrupt as they come. A new force was moving into Japan, muscling out the government as the American occupiers drifted away. They were called Yakuza, and it seemed like the Land of the Rising Sun was theirs.

I noticed them lounging about in the back of the bar, laughing uproariously over cups of sake, their neat Western suits just managing to hide their intricate, colorful tattoos. I recognized the type. After spending my whole life in Brooklyn – where stuck-up thugs ruled the streets – I’d be an idiot not to. I leaned back in the seat and had some of my own sake. It tasted too warm. Weatherby was sipping tea, which he seemed to enjoy. The kid didn’t like the bar, but he did like the tea.

“Do you suppose we’ll have time for any sightseeing, Mort?” he asked. “My father visited the Orient in his youth. It was apparently a transformative experience.”

“Sure, kiddo. I’m sure we’ll see plenty of sights. Maybe not very nice ones, but I think we’ll see them anyway.” I looked at the door. “I just wish this Jap cop would show up. We stand out like sore thumbs in this joint. And I thought these people were supposed to be punctual.”

“Please, Mort.” Weatherby pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave me a look like I had started smelling bad. “Keep your bigoted opinions to yourself. Need I remind you what the racism and cruelty of Germany did to people of my persuasion?”

“That’s different. You didn’t cause any trouble. But I heard stories about what happened to the G.I.s and Marines who got sent to the Pacific. France was bad, and Belgium and Germany were worse, but I’m still glad I didn’t end up in the Philippines, or Guadalcanal or Iwo Jima. The stories I’ve heard make those places sound like hell. And the Japanese did their best to play the role of devils.”

Footstep neared our table. A tall Japanese fellow in a stiff brown suit walked over and sat down. He had square glasses and a look that told me he didn’t know what humor was. He was younger than I expected, probably right out of the academy. He sat down and held out his hand. “Mr. Candle?” he asked, his English perfect. “And is this Mr. Stein?”

“That’s right,” I said. “And you’re Sakai?”

“Yes.” He tried his best to smile. “Are you enjoying Tokyo?”

“This is a marvelous country,” Weatherby said, nodding as he raised his cup.

“With some real skeletons in the closet.” I folded my hands. “Tell me, Lieutenant, what exactly were you up to during the War?”

He shrugged and answered without a pause. “I was too young to fight. I was with my mother. My father died in China, and we had a great deal of trouble. It was… a bad time.” He looked straight up at me, daring me to contradict him. “The war was a bad time for our country. I do not approve of the Imperialists, or of the atrocities they committed in Asia and the Pacific Islands. I do not believe that Japan needs a brutal government. But a government so weak it falls before organized crime will not help us either, and I fear that is what we currently have.”

It was a fair answer. I told myself to shut up. Weatherby looked over his shoulder, at the laughing gangsters in the back of the bar. “You are referring to the Yakuza groups?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sakai agreed. “It is difficult to find a police officer who has not been corrupted by their reach. But lately, some unknown force is moving against the Yakuza gangs, and I fear it may be something worse than them, asserting its power in the underworld.” He leaned forward. “A number of attacks have left the two largest Yakuza groups, the Nagasako-Gumi and Hasegawa-Gumi, reeling. These attacks are arcane in nature.”

That explained why he had called us. “Well, you came to the right place, pal,” I said. “What kind of creepy crawly spooks did the killings? And do you have any idea who is behind it?”

“A wide variety of demons carried out the attack.” Sakai spoke like he was describing bank account management. “A private plane carrying several high-ranking Nagasako members was attacked and destroyed in midair by a band of flying monsters with large red noses and feathered wings. Simultaneously, a nightclub owned by the Hasewaga-Gumi was torn apart by a pale female form with long dark hair.”

Weatherby nodded. “Winged Tengu and an Onryo vengeance ghost. Whoever summoned them must have a great deal of occult power. Do you have any idea who might be controlling them, Lieutenant Sakai?”

Sakai looked at Weatherby, a little surprised that the kid knew so much. It was something I had gotten used to, more or less. “Well, the Hasegawa-Gumi and the Nagasako-Gumi are both in competition with the powerful Yamoto-Gumi. The Yamoto organization has several of the most murderous assassins and killers on its payroll. They are undoubtedly the strongest of the Tokyo Yakuza groups. Their Oyabun, Boss Yamoto, resides at the Cherry Blossom Tea House, and oversees control of numerous lucrative rackets.”

“A real big shot,” I said, thinking of the American counterpart, some fat greaseball with a cigar and an expensive suit. “I know the type. But would he use magic, instead of good old fashioned knives and guns, to take out his rivals?”

“I do not know.” At least Sakai was truthful.

I stood up. “Well, that’s what you hired us to find out. Maybe we’ll go and see what Boss Yamoto is up to. You got the address to this tea house?”

He wrote it down on a napkin as I set my fedora on my head and slipped into my trench coat. “I must warn you, Mr. Candle, the Yamoto-Gumi are particularly violent,” Sakai explained, as he handed me the napkin. “They dislike Westerners. Gaijin such as you may have trouble, showing up to their place of business uninvited.”

I had my .45s in crossed shoulder-holsters, and a powerful shotgun in my suitcase. I patted the handle of one of my pistols. “Got all the invitation I need right here. Nice meeting you, Lieutenant. Come on, kiddo. Let’s take the air.”

Weatherby and I headed out of the bar and hit the street. The sun was going down, the neon was coming out, and Tokyo was just starting to come alive. We walked along the crowded buildings, looking up at the skyscrapers mingling with bamboo shacks and refugee tents. I called a cab and handed him the napkin. Weatherby seemed a little nervous, his hands in the pocket of his frock coat and his dark eyes flashing around the car.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” I asked, as the black taxi rolled into the crowded street. “You afraid of these Oriental types?”

“I think you may be underestimating them. I am remembering my father’s stories of some of the concepts, upheld by certain Japanese groups, which are lacking in the local criminals of your neighborhood.” He shivered a little in the cold. “I fear a direct approach may be disastrous.”

I shrugged. “It ain’t failed me yet.” I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, letting the taxi take us where we wanted to go.

The Cherry Blossom Tea House was a large round structure, traditional as they come, with pale paper walls, wooden grid windows, fountains and statues in the gardens outside, and two stories of tables and chairs in neat rows. The only sign that it wasn’t something out of the Feudal Era was the neon sign on the side, which was pink, purple and pulsing into the night. Weatherby and I watched it from across the street. I took out a deck of cigarettes and had a pair, waiting for the last of the civilian customers to head home.

Right before I started for the Tea House, I saw two carloads of Yakuza soldiers pull up outside. They headed in, laughing, talking and smoking, with the bulges of pistols in their coats and swords in wooden scabbards on their shoulders. I looked back to Weatherby. “Something big must be going down. They’re pulling in their extra muscle.”