“Here, or in Bangkok?”
“Here. He worked hard here, to the end, even though he was starting things for the new branch in Bangkok.”
“If he was so good, why let him go to Bangkok?”
“Very simple. Steve built us up from the ground floor here. Always the right people and the right investments. We wanted him to do the same again.”
“He would be in charge of a large budget then?”
“His entertainment expenses were legend, but every employee needs some indulgence.”
“I meant budget for setting up the office.”
Barbara thought for a minute and said, “Suffice it to say that a new office involves a very large initial outlay.” Hiroshi realized only then that Barbara was older and more in control than she first appeared to be.
“Was there anyone you could think of who could benefit from his death?”
“We are a business that handles information about investing in property. That’s not usually dangerous, is it?”
“What about his personal life?”
“Mark can perhaps fill you in on that.”
“Are there records of his expenses?”
“We have a rather soft accounting system for things like that, frankly.”
“I won’t tell the tax office, but it would help to get an idea of his day-to-day.”
“I’ll try to get those to you.”
“Who did he work with most closely?”
“Mark was set to take over Steve’s client base here in Tokyo.”
“Mark’s name was the most often called from Steve’s cell phone,” said Hiroshi, pausing and waiting. “Yours was the second most often called.”
Barbara nodded coolly. “As his direct boss, that shouldn’t be a surprise, should it?”
“He called repeatedly the days before he died.”
“Endless, last minute details about Bangkok.”
“But he was still working on things in Tokyo, you said?”
“He was a worker.”
“Were his personal finances in order?”
“He had an ex-wife, if that’s what you mean. We were not sure who to contact, actually.”
“Was there any cash anywhere?”
“Cash? American taxes for citizens abroad are complicated. Britain is easier—but we all shelter where we can.”
“Was he the kind of person to commit suicide?”
“Definitely not. I tried to convince the other detective who came here of that, but he seemed reluctant to listen. Perhaps suicides are less trouble.”
“They are, perhaps, when they’re true.”
Hiroshi and Barbara looked out the window at the looming clouds, their coffee cold and untouched.
Chapter 17
Not far from the love hotels of Shinjuku, a small tangle of back alleys rebuffed the glow from Shinjuku’s neon-peppered streets. The alleys huddled tight along the train tracks converging on Shinjuku Station. The yakitori stands and tachinomi bars, their odd-angled braces and slapdash crossbeams trembled with each passing train.
Gusts of typhoon rain dripped off the ramshackle gutters and sluiced through rusted pipes onto the woven rice-straw mats slung over the alleys. Grizzled men and dough-faced women worked tirelessly all night serving shochu distilled rice liquor, cold bottles of beer, and small plates of food.
Michiko and Mark sat at the oily counter of a yakitori place at the end of the alley. Shadows fell from the single bulb dangling over the grill counter. Michiko sat up straight sipping a tepid glass of shochu. Mark leaned heavily on the counter. He roused himself to brush his thick blond hair out of his glassy eyes, an empty glass empty in front of him.
Michiko checked her cell phone for the schedule of trains and then settled their bill, hoisting up Mark and—half-holding, half-stumbling—guided him out the door. At the end of the alley, she leaned him against a wooden pillar as she dug into her bag for her umbrella. He was tall and hard to balance, but she maneuvered him to an underpass beneath the tracks. In the rainy night air, she’d begun to sweat with his added weight.
Near the exit, Mark suddenly stirred and shouted, “Michiko, I love you!”
“We need to hurry,” she said, and kept peg-legging him forward, step by step. She checked her cell phone again and shook it as if that would give her a little more time. They could catch the last local train and ride it two stations away to a quieter station where the last express of the night would speed through without stopping.
Out of the underpass, toward the station, people walked briskly in one homeward-bound herd. Women skittered on stiletto heels, men swung briefcases, and shoppers bounced along with bags in both hands. Michiko moved Mark through the crowds as quickly as she could, irritated that Shinjuku always had too many people.
Inside the station, everyone searched for train passes or spare coins, looking up at the electronic departures board. Lovers hugged shyly in corners, and groups of friends made promises in goodbye clusters. All of them watched the time.
She maneuvered Mark close to the entrance and dug around in her purse for her pass. Then she pulled his wallet out of his pants. “Where’s your pass?” she yelled at him. She dug into his pockets, but he just pulled a silent-movie, no-idea face. He wobbled forward and back.
Deep-voiced train announcements boomed through the underground passageways. People sprinted toward the gate, frantically checking overhead to be sure their train had not left yet. Michiko hurried to the ticket machines, dropped in coins, and pressed a button. It didn’t matter what ticket she got; any ticket would get them through the gate.
A large sign dangled from a chain across the Keio line entrance, blocking entry. A conductor with a megaphone announced a “human incident”—the euphemism for a suicide. A handwritten scrawl on a whiteboard recommended alternative platforms for the lines that were still running.
She scowled at the conductor blocking their entry, but he was too busy to notice. She pulled out her cell phone to check the other train lines.
“I think I’m drunk,” Mark stammered, smiling. “What did we drink?”
She pulled him forward toward the Shinjuku south exit. There was still an Odakyu Line train, if they could make it.
“Michiko?” Mark said into her ear. “I need to sleep.”
“Soon,” she answered, scrolling through the online train schedule and yanking him along by his upper arm. If she could make it, the Odakyu Line would take them one station away to a less crowded platform where one last express came through.
She wove through the underground passageway, dodging passengers who were deciding whether to run for it, keep drinking, crash out in a capsule hotel, or pay for a taxi home.
She pulled Mark closer, against her body to keep him walking toward the gate as he slowed down, but she needed another ticket for him.
He ran a hand through his blond hair and smiled at her. “Michiko?” The bright lights from the ticket machines shone down on him like a beacon. “I need to lie down.”
“Soon,” was all she said as she put his ticket into the machine. She looked up at the overhead departure board and saw the train’s light wink off and disappear from the list. She stamped her foot.
“Isn’t there another local?” she shouted at the conductor.
He turned around to look at the board. “Train service finished,” it flashed in polite Japanese.
“Not tonight,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”
She twisted Mark’s arm until he shouted, “Ow!” They took an escalator down to another deserted underground walkway that led away from the station, the walkway storefronts all shuttered. His knees locked and unlocked until they got to a steep stairway that ascended almost two stories to street level. Mark could barely make it up the first step, much less the second.
“Where are we going?” He asked, obediently wobbling upward.
“Come on.” She got behind and pushed him. She would have to help him up concrete step-by-concrete step, all the way to the top.
Halfway up, Mark wailed, “I’m so tired.” There was no one in the long stairwell below. She kept shoving him upward.
Near street level, she balanced him against the handrail and hurried ahead to the top landing, looking down at him as he struggled toward her.
When he was three steps from the top, she set her body and took a deep breath.
Mark appeared surprised to find himself near the night air of the street. “Almost there,” he giggled.
Michiko closed her eyes in concentration.
When she opened them, she noticed, on the periphery, a line of people waiting for taxis across the street. They were facing in her direction, scanning the street in both directions for the next taxis.
She was furious.
From the other direction, a group of business people—men and women together—hurried through the rain toward the exit/entrance, clutching black umbrellas and chattering, red-faced and amiable.
Mark stepped forward, but it was too late. There were too many people. She shouldn’t have mixed it so strong. It all could have worked out, and she could have been taking a taxi to the shrine already.
She spun her umbrella, too angry to think clearly, while the drunken office workers took down their umbrellas and headed around Mark down the stairs, their drunken banter echoing in the steep stairwell.
“Made it,” Mark said, pleased with himself. He stuck his hand out to feel the heavy rain outside the small glass awning. Michiko grabbed him and pushed him into the rain. He got soaked in an instant, sobering him slightly before she covered him with her umbrella. He wiped the rain from his face as she steered him down a small lane that curved back toward the station.
“Where are we going?” Mark asked.
A taxi eased along the lane, straight toward them, heading for the taxi line. Without warning, Michiko stepped in front of the taxi. It jerked to a stop. She clutched her hands together and pulled in her shoulders imploring the driver with cutesy, girlish gestures.
The driver shook his head, “no,” through the windshield wipers and pointed toward the taxi line.
She twisted her body like a schoolgirl to beg him again, catching his eye and smiling.
He looked away, but when she got to the side window, pointing at Mark’s condition and gesturing, “Please,” the driver opened the back door.
She pushed Mark inside, leaned in and tossed a 10,000-yen note at the driver as she gave him the address, repeating it twice. To both of the men’s surprise, she stepped back from the taxi.
Mark twisted, confused, trying to see her face through the fogged-over rear window, but she’d already walked away, her umbrella covering her, until she was lost in the rainy dark.
Chapter 18
“Where do you want to start?” Takamatsu asked Hiroshi, reading his notebook in the light of a convenience store a block from the Roppongi crossing. “We have a choice between Pata-Pata, Backside, Golden Showers, Man-zoku, Roomful of Mirrors or Sanctum Sanctorum?”
“They each sound awful in their own special way,” Hiroshi said, ignoring Takamatsu’s horse-snort laugh.
“The David Lounge is what we want. Some girl from one of these clubs will escort us in.”
“Start at the top then—the Pata-Pata.”
They wandered across the four-way crosswalk and headed toward Azabu, Takamatsu checking the map the secretaries printed out for them.
“Sakaguchi was impressed,” Takamatsu said, “with how you handled yourself.”
“I didn’t get stabbed. Why’s he working over there in the chikan squad anyway?”
“He took the blame for a screw-up. Budget money. It wasn’t his fault.”
“Whose fault was it?”
“What did you find at the dead man’s company?” Takamatsu asked.
“Steve’s company seemed upfront. But then, so do all the front companies.”
“They all look good until they don’t. Like women.”
“Not everything’s about women,” Hiroshi said.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Takamatsu cut left onto a small, downhill street, heading toward an area of small bars. Takamatsu looked up at the wall of a building for the small blue street address tag. They had to backtrack. “I asked around. Seems Bentley Associates is a little too good at getting ahead of the competition.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have the right information before everyone else.”
“How would they get that?”
“Steal it or buy it.”
“Where would they do that?”
Takamatsu stopped and spread his arms open wide.
“Here? In Roppongi?” Hiroshi looked around.
“When booze is flowing, secrets spill.” Takamatsu chuckled. “All the girls have to do is listen.”
“Girls?”
“Hostesses, companions, masseuses, ‘delivery health girls’—whatever they call themselves. A couple years ago, during my leave—”
“Your suspension.”
“I worked part-time, consulting at a company. Spying, basically. I followed employees to see where leaks happened.”
“Information leaks?”
“Any kind of edge on new products, real estate sales, mergers, corporate strategy, is crucial.”
“Crucial for…?”
“Making money. And saving face. Not knowing is the worst embarrassment.”
“I thought we were investigating a murder.”
“There’s no such thing as a murder.” Takamatsu walked on a few steps and then turned back and said, “It paid better, too.”
“Why did you come back then?”
“Safer as a detective. They play rough in the corporate world.”
“So, you think our dead guy was a corporate spy?”
“Information is the real currency of Japan,” Takamatsu said.
“I thought you said it was real estate?”
“Information always comes first.”
Takamatsu stopped in front of a small sign by a back staircase. “Here we are. Pata-Pata, first show, ten nightly.”
A large wooden door opened to a bald-headed bouncer standing alone in a curtained area the size of a closet. He looked Takamatsu and Hiroshi over and asked how they knew the place.
“Steve,” said Takamatsu. Whether the bouncer actually knew Steve or the name just sounded right, he waved them in.
A rotating spotlight wandered over the stage. Two girls in eye-patch bikinis and high heels danced listlessly. A young girl, topless, led them toward a second row seat. The girl leaned forward as she set the menu on their table, her breasts at eye level.
“You won’t need plastic covers in these seats. I’ll be back with your drinks in a second.” She pirouetted away on high heels.
“Plastic covers?” Hiroshi wondered aloud.
Once their eyes adjusted to the dark, they could see the place was full of customers. Near-naked women in high heels walked to and fro delivering drinks. Their small, firm breasts swayed as they set down drinks, picked up empties and paraded their flesh.
“You’ve got to get back out there,” Takamatsu said, his eyes following a waitress walking by.
“I will,” Hiroshi said, taking a drink.
“You can’t let one woman unman you.”
“I know,” Hiroshi said, drinking deeply from the iced whiskey.
A shout erupted from the crowd. Two nude women strode from the back of the bar. Spotlights hit the stage. The dancing girls were gone, and waitresses pulled back a tarp to reveal a huge pit of gray mud sunk into the stage. Men in the front row giggled, pulling a long sheet of plastic up to their necks.
A nude, black woman with large breasts swayed back and forth for the crowd. Everyone clapped wildly. A second woman—Japanese with a full, round body, a surprisingly thin waist and weightlifter arms and shoulders—took the stage with her hands raised over her head.
Takamatsu laughed and Hiroshi couldn’t help it. He laughed, too. The crowd and noise and drinks and the unabas
hed nakedness was intoxicating.
The girls squared off and went right to it. They leapt into the knee-deep pit of mud, locked each other around the shoulders, the crowd whooping as one. Tables of drunken salarymen were already out of their chairs hooting till they were red in the face.
The women toyed with the crowd. They faked judo throws and karate chops. They slogged in and grappled in the wet grayness. They positioned their breasts like weapons, wiggled their asses against the plastic, and humped each other, finally slathering handfuls of mud onto the long plastic sheet under which the front row cowered in titillation.
“How’s that!” shouted Takamatsu.
“Unbelievable!” Hiroshi agreed, his eyes riveted by the spectacle.
The match ended when the women came together in a muddy embrace, kissing.
As they came down off the stage, one drunkard leapt up and blocked the path of the women wrestlers. The black woman, used to it all, grabbed him in a full-body hug that sent the crowd into collective spasms. The man spun around proudly dripping mud from his white shirt and tie. His friends gave him a standing ovation.
The crowd quieted with fresh drinks. Hiroshi noticed that every table had an identical bottle of whiskey, ice cubes, water pitcher, tongs, and drink stirrer.
Takamatsu waved for the waitress. When she came over, he whispered in her ear. She shook her head, no, but leaned down to listen as Takamatsu continued, her breasts bobbing in front of his face. Finally, smiling, she leaned back, focused on Takamatsu, and shook her head again, no. She set the bill on the table, and Takamatsu pushed it over to Hiroshi.
Hiroshi looked at the bill and said, “They must’ve been wrestling in pure silver!”
Takamatsu took a look. “That puts a crimp in our investigations.”
Takamatsu flipped cash onto the table, and a large bald man in a soft black suit came over to collect it.
“Everything okay this evening, gentlemen?” the man asked, in a gruff rumble.
“Great,” said Takamatsu. “It’s all right to bring foreign clients next time?”
“We take credit cards,” answered the man, tucking the money into a thick, black leather waist pouch inside his suit. He escorted them out, handing them a flyer from a stack at the door. “Here’s our monthly calendar of events.”
The Last Train (Detective Hiroshi Series Book 1) Page 10
