It was quiet, too quiet. If they were really after my skull, you’d think they’d have at least one guy staked out. It was almost as if they’d forgotten about me.
I got in the car, set the bag next to me, and started the engine. The time, a little before five. I looked around warily as I pulled out of the garage and headed toward Aoyama. The streets were deserted, except for taxis and the occasional night-transport truck. I checked the rearview mirror every hundred meters; no sign of anyone tailing me.
Strange how well everything was going. I’d seen every Semiotec trick in the book, and if they were up to something, they weren’t subtle about it. They wouldn’t hire some bungling gas inspector, they wouldn’t forget a lookout. They chose the fastest, most surefire methods, and executed them without mercy. A couple of years ago, they captured five Calcutecs and trimmed off the tops of their crania with one buzz of a power saw. Five Calcutec bodies were found floating in Tokyo Bay minus their skullcaps. When the Semiotecs meant business, they did business. Something didn’t make sense here.
I pulled into the Aoyama supermarket parking garage at five-twenty-eight. The sky to the east was getting light. I entered the store carrying my bag. Almost no one was in the place. A young clerk in a striped uniform sat reading a magazine; a woman of indeterminate age was buying a cartload of cans and instant food. I turned past the liquor display and went straight to the snack bar.
There were a dozen stools, and she wasn’t on any of them. I took a seat on one end and ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk. The milk was so cold I could hardly taste it, the sandwich a soggy ready-made wrapped in plastic. I chewed the sandwich slowly, measuring my sips to make the milk last.
I eyed a poster of Frankfurt on the wall. The season was autumn, the trees along the river blazing with color. An old man in a pointed cap was feeding the swans. A great old stone bridge was on one side, and in the background, the spire of a cathedral. People sat on benches, everyone wore coats, the women had scarves on their heads. A pretty postcard picture. But it gave me the chills. Not because of the cold autumn scene. I always get the chills when I see tall, sharp spires.
I turned my gaze to the poster on the opposite wall. A shiny-faced young man holding a filter-tip was staring obliquely into the distance. Uncanny how models in cigarette ads always have that not-watching-anything, not-thinking-anything look in their eyes.
At six o’clock, the chubby girl still hadn’t shown. Unaccountable, especially since this was supposed to be so urgent. I was here; where was she?
I ordered a coffee. I drank it black, slowly.
The supermarket customers gradually increased. Housewives buying the breakfast bread and milk, university students hungry after a long night out, a young woman squeezing a roll of toilet paper, a businessman snapping up three different newspapers, two middle-aged men lugging their golf clubs in to purchase a bottle of whiskey. I love supermarkets.
I waited until half past six. I went out to the car and drove to Shinjuku Station. I walked to the baggage-check counter and asked to leave my Nike sports bag. Fragile, I told the clerk. He attached a red HANDLE WITH CARE tag with a cocktail glass printed on it. I watched as he placed the bag on the shelf. He handed me the claim ticket.
I went to a station kiosk. For two hundred sixty yen, I bought an envelope and stamps. I put the claim ticket into the envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and addressed it to a p.o. box I’d been keeping under a fictitious company name. I scribbled EXPRESS on it and dropped the goods into the post.
Then I got in the car and went home. I showered and tumbled into bed.
At eleven o’clock, I had visitors. Considering the sequence of events, it was about time. Still, you’d think they could have rung the bell before trying to break the door down. No, they had to come in like an iron wrecking ball, making the floor shake. They could have saved themselves the trouble and wrangled the key out of the superintendent. They could also have saved me a mean repair bill.
While my visitors were rearranging the door, I got dressed and slipped my knife into my pocket. Then, to be on the prudent side, I opened the safe and pushed the ERASE button on the tape recorder. Next, I got potato salad and a beer from the refrigerator for lunch. I thought about escaping via the emergency rope ladder on the balcony, but why bother? Running away wouldn’t solve anything. Solve what? I didn’t even know what the problem was. I needed a reality check.
Nothing but question marks. I finished my potato salad, I finished my beer, and just as I was about to burp, the steel door blew wide open and banged flat down.
Enter one mountain of a man, wearing a loud aloha shirt, khaki army-surplus pants stained with grease, and white tennis shoes the size of scuba-diving flippers. Skinhead, pug snout, a neck as thick as my waist. His eyelids formed gun-metal shells over eyes that bulged molten white. False eyes, I thought immediately, until a flicker of the pupils made them seem human. He must have stood two meters tall, with shoulders so broad that the buttons on his aloha shirt were practically flying off his chest.
The hulk glanced at the wasted door as casually as he might a popped wine cork, then turned his attentions toward me. No complex feelings here. He looked at me like I was another fixture. Would that I were.
He stepped to one side, and behind him there appeared a rather tiny guy. This guy came in at under a meter and a half, a slim, trim figure. He had on a light blue Lacoste shirt, beige chinos, and brown loafers. Had he bought the whole outfit at a nouveau riche children’s haberdashery? A gold Rolex gleamed on his wrist, a normal adult model—guess they didn’t make kiddie Rolexes—so it looked disproportionately big, like a communicator from Star Trek. I figured him for his late thirties, early forties.
The hulk didn’t bother removing his shoes before trudging into the kitchen and swinging around to pull out the chair opposite me. Junior followed presently and quietly took the seat. Big Boy parked his weight on the edge of the sink. He crossed his arms, as thick as normal human thighs, his eyes trained on a point just above my kidneys. I should have escaped while I could have.
Junior barely acknowledged me. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and placed them on the table. Benson & Hedges and a gold Dupont. If Junior’s accoutrements were any indication, the trade imbalance had to have been fabricated by foreign governments. He twirled the lighter between his fingers. Never a dull moment.
I looked around for the Budweiser ashtray I’d gotten from the liquor store, wiped it with my fingers, and set it out in front of the guy. He lit up with a clipped flick, narrowed his eyes, and released a puff of smoke.
Junior didn’t say a word, choosing instead to contemplate the lit end of his cigarette. This was where the Jean-Luc Godard scene would have been titled Il regardait le feu de son tabac. My luck that Godard films were no longer fashionable. When the tip of Junior’s cigarette had transformed into a goodly increment of ash, he gave it a measured tap, and the ash fell on the table. For him, an ashtray was extraneous.
“About the door,” began Junior, in a high, piercing voice. “It was necessary to break it. That’s why we broke it. We could have opened it more gentleman-like if we wanted to. But it wasn’t necessary. I hope you don’t think bad of us.”
“There’s nothing in the apartment,” I said. “Search it, you’ll see.”
“Search?” pipped the little man. “Search?” Cigarette at his lips, he scratched his palm. “And what might we be searching for?”
“Well, I don’t know, but you must’ve come here looking for something. Breaking the door down and all.”
“Can’t say I capisce,” he spoke, measuredly. “Surely you must be mistaken. We don’t want nothing. We just came for a little chat. That’s all. Not looking and not taking. However, if you would care to offer me a Coca-Cola, I’d be happy to oblige.”
I fished two cans of Coke from the refrigerator, which I set out on the table along with a couple of glasses.
“I don’t suppose he’d drink something, too?” I said, point
ing to the hulk behind me.
Junior curled his index finger and Big Boy tiptoed forward to claim a can of Coke. He was amazingly agile for his frame.
“After you’re finished drinking, give him your free demonstration,” Junior said to Big Boy. “It’s a little side show,” he said to me.
I turned around to watch the hulk chug the entire can in one go. Then, after upending it to show that it was empty, he pressed the can between his palms. Not the slightest change came over his face as the familiar red can was crushed into a pathetic scrap of metal.
“A little trick, anybody could do,” said Junior.
Next, Big Boy held the flattened aluminum toy up with his fingertips. Effortlessly, though a faint shadow now twitched on his lip, he tore the metal into shreds. Some trick.
“He can bend hundred-yen coins, too. Not so many humans alive can do that,” said Junior with authority.
I nodded in agreement.
“Ears, he rips ’em right off.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Up until three years ago, he was a pro wrestler,” Junior explained. “Wasn’t a bad wrestler. He was young and fast. Championship material. But you know what he did? He went and injured his knee. And in pro wrestling, you gotta be able to move fast.”
I nodded a third agreement.
“Since his untimely injury, I’ve been looking after him. He’s my cousin, you know.”
“Average body types don’t run in your family?” I queried.
“Care to say that again?” said Junior, glaring at me.
“Just chatting,” I said.
Junior collected his thoughts for the next few moments. Then he flicked his cigarette to the floor and ground it out under his shoe. I decided no comment.
“You really oughta relax more. Open up, take things easy. If you don’t relax, how’re we have gonna have our nice heart-to-heart?” said Junior. “You’re still too tense.”
“May I get a beer?”
“Certainly. Of course. It’s your beer—in your refrigerator—in your apartment. Isn’t it?”
“It was my door, too,” I added.
“Forget about the door. You keep thinking so much, no wonder you’re tense. It was a tacky cheapo door anyway. You make good money, you oughta move someplace with classier doors.”
I got my beer.
Junior poured Coke in his glass and waited for the foam to go down before drinking. Then he spoke. “Forgive the complications. But I wanna explain some things first. We’ve come to help you.”
“By breaking down my door?”
The little man’s face turned instantly red. His nostrils flared.
“There you go with that door again. Didn’t I tell you to drop it?” he bit his words. Then he turned to Big Boy and repeated the question. “Didn’t I?”
The hulk nodded his agreement.
“We’re here on a goodwill mission,” Junior went on. “You’re lost, so we came to give you moral guidance. Well, perhaps lost is not such a nice thing to say. How about confused? Is that better?”
“Lost? Confused?” I said. “I don’t have a clue. No idea, no door.”
Junior grabbed his gold lighter and threw it hard against the refrigerator, making a dent. Big Boy picked the lighter off the floor and returned it to its owner. Everything was back to where we were before, except for the dent. Junior drank the rest of his Coke to calm down.
“What’s one, two lousy doors? Consider the gravity of the situation. We could service this apartment in no time flat. Let’s not hear another word about that door.”
My door. It didn’t matter how cheap it was. That wasn’t the issue. The door stood for something.
“All right, forget about the door,” I said. “This commotion could get me thrown out of the building.”
“If anyone says anything to you, just give me a call. We got an outreach program that’ll make believers out of them. Relax.”
I shut up and drank my beer.
“And a free piece of advice,” Junior offered. “Anybody over thirty-five really oughta kick the beer habit. Beer’s for college students or people doing physical labor. Gives you a paunch. No class at all.”
Great advice. I drank my beer.
“But who am I to tell you what to do?” Junior went on. “Everybody has his weak points. With me, it’s smoking and sweets. Especially sweets. Bad for the teeth, leads to diabetes.”
He lit another cigarette, and glanced at the dial of his Rolex.
“Well then,” Junior cleared his throat. “There’s not much time, so let’s cut the socializing out. Relaxed a bit?”
“A bit,” I said.
“Good. On to the subject at hand,” said Junior. “Like I was saying, our purpose in coming here was to help you unravel your confusion. Anything you don’t know? Go ahead and ask.” Junior made a c’mon-anything-at-all gesture with his hand.
“Okay, just who are you guys?” I had to open my big mouth. “Why are you here? What do you know about what’s going on?”
“Smart questions,” Junior said, looking over to Big Boy for a show of agreement. “You’re pretty sharp. You don’t waste words, you get right to the point.”
Junior tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. Kind of him.
“Think about it this way. We’re here to help you. For the time being, what do you care which organization we belong to. We know lots. We know about the Professor, about the skull, about the shuffled data, about almost everything. We know things you don’t know too. Next question?”
“Fine. Did you pay off a gas inspector to steal the skull?”
“Didn’t I just tell you?” said the little man. “We don’t want the skull, we don’t want nothing.”
“Well, who did? Who bought off the gas inspector?”
“That’s one of the things we don’t know,” said Junior. “Why don’t you tell us?”
“You think I know?” I said. “All I know is I don’t need the grief.”
“We figured that. You don’t know nothing. You’re being used.”
“So why come here?”
“Like I said, a goodwill courtesy call,” said Junior, banging his lighter on the table. “Thought we’d introduce ourselves. Maybe get together, share a few ideas. Your turn now. What do you think’s going on?”
“You want me to speculate?”
“Go right ahead. Let yourself go, free as a bird, vast as the sea. Nobody’s gonna stop you.”
“All right, I think you guys aren’t from either the System or the Factory. You’ve got a different angle on things. I think you’re independent operants, looking to expand your turf. Eyeing Factory territory.”
“See?” Junior remarked to his giant cousin. “Didn’t I tell you? The man’s sharp.”
Big Boy nodded.
“Amazingly sharp for someone living in a dump like this. Amazingly sharp for someone whose wife ran out on him.”
It had been ages since anyone praised me so highly. I blushed.
“You speculate good,” Junior said. “We’re going to get our hands on the Professor’s research and make a name for us. We got these infowars all figured out. We done our homework. We got the backing. We’re ready to move in. We just need a few bits and pieces. That’s the nice thing about infowars. Very democratic. Track record counts for nothing. It’s survival of the sharpest. Survival in a big way. I mean, who’s to say we can’t cut the pie? Is Japan a total monopoly state or what? The System monopolizes everything under the info sun, the Factory monopolizes everything in the shadows. They don’t know the meaning of competition. What ever happened to free enterprise? Is this unfair or what? All we need is the Professor’s research, and you.”
“Why me?” I said. “I’m just a terminal worker ant. I don’t think about anything but my own work. So if you’re thinking of enlisting me—”
“You don’t seem to get the picture,” said Junior, with a click of his tongue. “We don’t wanna enlist you. We just wanna get our hands on you. Next questio
n?”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “How about telling me something about the INKlings then.”
“INKlings? A sharp guy like you don’t know about INKlings? A.k.a. Infra-Nocturnal Kappa. You thought kappa were folktales? They live underground. They hole up in the subways and sewers, eat the city’s garbage, and drink graywater. They don’t bother with human beings. Except for a few subway workmen who disappear, that is, heh heh.”
“Doesn’t the government know about them?”
“Sure, the government knows. The state’s not that dumb.”
“Then why don’t they warn people? Or else drive the INKlings away?”
“First of all,” he said, “it’d upset too many people. Wouldn’t want that to happen, would you? INKlings swarming right under their feet, people wouldn’t like that. Second, forget about exterminating them. What are you gonna do? Send the whole Japanese Self-Defense Force down into the sewers of Tokyo? The swamp down there in the dark is their stomping grounds. It wouldn’t be a pretty picture.
“Another thing, the INKlings have set up shop not too far from the Imperial Palace. It’s a strategic move, you understand. Any trouble and they crawl up at night and drag people under. Japan would be upside-down, heh. Am I right? That’s why the government doesn’t mind INKlings and INKlings don’t mind the government.”
“But I thought the Semiotecs had made friends with the INKlings,” I broke in.
“A rumor. And even if it was true, it’d only mean one group of INKlings got sweet on the Semiotecs. A temporary engagement, not a lasting marriage. Nothing to worry about.”
“But haven’t the INKlings kidnapped the Professor?”
“We heard that too. But we don’t know for sure. Could be the Professor staged it.”
“Why would the Professor do that?”
“The Professor answers to nobody,” Junior said, sizing up his lighter from various angles. “He’s the best and he knows it. The Semiotecs know it, the Calcutecs know it. He just plays the in-betweens. That way he can push on, doing what he pleases with his research. One of these days he’s gonna break through. That’s where you fit in.”
Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World Page 13
