2:34 a.m.

Ashida wrote in kanji.

He summarized his private findings. He sprayed his paper with a preflammable mist. Direct heat would burn it.

He was relearning his mother tongue. Translation came slowly. Words came in fragments.

He worked at the kitchen table. Mariko and Ward Littell gabbed in the living room. Bookies’ “flash paper.” It spawned his idea.

He botched dual-language clauses. His pen skipped.

English to Japanese and back again. Kanji to Arabic script.

“Shortwave radio at house. Steal radio. Play new broadcasts.”

His mind misfired. He omitted parts of speech.

“Broken glass with fish smell at house. Shrimp residue on victims’ feet. Fish smell on man at farm property.”

He translated and retranslated. It assured accuracy. He blew on the pages and dried the ink. He trembled. He had to sleep. He knew he’d never sleep. Kay Lake’s phone call got to him.

It unnerved him. It made him think fantastically. Kay Lake had interdicted his brain waves. She seemed to be clairvoyant. She was immersed in Bucky Bleichert. Her erotic view of Bucky disturbed him. It granted her insight and deductive force. He was afraid that she could read his mind and decode his shameful thoughts.

Mariko walked in. She was stinko. Ashida covered his notepad.

“Mother, did Captain Madrano or any of the other Mexican policemen inquire about our farm labor? About replacing them or buying our farm?”

Mariko shook her head and snatched an ice tray. Ashida heard noise outside. He tilted his chair up to the window.

The Sumitomo Bank was open. Deputies loaded cash bags into a van. Thad Brown held a tommy gun and watchdogged the transfer.

The van pulled out. Brown nailed a seizure bill to the door.

Ashida went back to work.

Kanji, Arabic, kanji. “What did I miss at the house?”

He yawned. It hurt. He stood up and saw spots. He had to stop. He couldn’t drive home. He had to fall down somewhere close.

His bedroom was Ward’s bedroom now. His chemistry gear was packed in the closet. He could brew sleep.

He weaved down the hall. The door was open. He grabbed vials of fo-ti and liquid valerian. He took them to the bathroom and ran sink water into a cup. It tasted like astringent mud. He got it down in one gulp.

The spots returned. He braced himself on the walls and made it back to the kitchen. Mariko’s rocking chair glowed some strange color.

He fell down in it. He rocked himself to some strange place. It looked like a bank vault. The money was purple, not green. The Lake girl and the Bennett boy committed seppuku. Their blood was the color the money should be. The Bennett boy stood under a shower. Water splashed on a secret camera. He tried to form a stop sign in kanji. Kay Lake blew smoke in his face.

He heard gunshots. His eyes burned. He opened them and saw daylight out the window. The last gunshot was the bank bell clanging. He squinted and saw the bank clock. The big hand and little hand said 1:30.

The gunshots were the doorbell. The water was his own sweat and urine. The world was the rocking chair on the floor.

He stumbled to the door. He opened it. Bucky Bleichert stood there.

“Hideo, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t—”

He hit him and hit him and hit him. Belmont ’35, green-and-black forever. Bucky stood there and took it.

He hit him. Bucky’s blood was some strange new color. He hit him until he couldn’t hold his hands up.