by KJ Charles
“Pretty fine right now.”
He’d got his uninjured arm round my shoulders, and I burrowed in closer. “Seriously, how do you feel?”
“Bit of an ache.”
“Bit of an ache? You got shot!”
He sighed. “Alright, it feels like I had a damn elephant land on top of me. Happy?”
“Yeah, well. What goes around comes around.”
He chuckled, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh, okay?”
“Sorry.” I inhaled deeply, running my hand over his smooth chest. “God, Chanko. I thought you were dead. He was going to kill me and torture me, and then you came in—and he shot you—and—”
“Butterfly? Are you crying?”
“Of course I’m bloody crying,” I managed to choke. “I’ve done nothing but bloody cry.”
He held on to me, and I turned my painfully bruised face into his side and sobbed, at first trying to hold back, and then just giving myself up to the grief and relief and slackened tension. It seemed to go on for a very long time. There was a lot to cry for.
“Hey,” he said finally. “You done there?”
“Maybe.” I sniffed. “I’m not promising.”
“You better. I could drown.”
“That’s the least of your worries.” I got a grip and sat up, scrubbing at my eyes. “Do you mind if I call Sonja to have a look at you?”
“Sonja?”
“She trained as a nurse, believe it or not.”
“No way. I bet Taka hopes she kept the uniform.”
Sonja gave Chanko her qualified semiprofessional approval, and a handful of antibiotics and painkillers the doctor had left us, and he was asleep again about five minutes later.
“That man has the constitution of a—a buffalo,” she said. “I swear, my fag burns are hurting more than his bullet holes. Or I just bitch more.”
Minachan was also revealing a useful skill: hairdressing. Taka dug out some old clippers, and she set to work, shaving Sonja’s torn and tufty scalp completely so that the hair could grow back evenly. She had a beautifully shaped head on a long neck, and I thought the bald head gave her an air of slightly alien elegance.
“I look like a cancer patient,” she grumbled.
Minachan told her to stop moaning and go get Yoshi, she couldn’t stand the sight of him any longer.
Minachan got him looking pretty dapper, and we were all admiring her handiwork when Taka came in, looking serious.
“I think you should see this,” he said.
We’d missed the TV newsflash, but the report was also on the channel’s website. Taka produced a laptop that Oguya had missed, and we clustered round it in silence and watched the jerky video images again and again.
Two men had been arrested for the brutal assault on an OL that had shocked Tokyo at the weekend. They had not yet been named, but both men were ex-members of the Mitsuyoshi-kai yakuza family—they had been expelled for misbehaviour some time previously, it said—and both were currently in hospital with very severe injuries, incurred prior to arrest, the newsreader was at pains to state. They had been transferred to a secure hospital until they were sufficiently recovered to stand trial. DNA testing was ongoing but the police were said to be confident they had their culprits. They were also investigating a link to the murder of another woman, as yet unnamed.
“Expelled?” snarled Yoshi. “When were they expelled? Those lying scum.”
“Retroactively,” I said sourly. “It’s as much as we can expect—more. They’ve been handed over. They’ll stand trial. They’ll get justice.”
“They won’t. They won’t get death.”
“They might,” Taka said. “With the old guys gone, who’s going to pay for a lawyer?”
It put a new complexion on things for us. Minachan phoned one of her clients about the “blackmail” we’d set up. He’d been panicked by her call all right, and all the more when a Mitsuyoshi-kai business card had dropped through his letter box (our doing), but when he’d called his wife’s brother or cousin’s dog or whoever his connection was, it had taken about five minutes to get a grovelling apology and assurance that the rogue elements responsible had been eliminated.
The leadership had changed. The Brothers were dead. Park Sang-do was in charge, and he was cutting losses ruthlessly, getting shot of the whole sorry mess.
We’d got away with it.
Yukie’s death made the next set of headlines. The gutter end of the press called it the Tart in the Tub murder, which made Minachan, Sonja and me incoherently angry. The other two both picked up messages from the police, as fellow hostesses of Yukie, and we had a long debate over what they should do. We really didn’t want to look as though we were reneging on the “no cops” agreement with Park, and Sonja had enough raw skin and burn damage to look very much like some sadistic psycho had had an hour in a room with her, certain to raise a lot of awkward questions.
And I had to stay out of sight. The papers hadn’t carried anything about Kelly or the murdered Brother. (The first murdered Brother, I thought with satisfaction.) If anything emerged about that situation, the balloon was really going to go up. If anybody ID’d me, if Hearn had gone to his embassy about Kelly…
It would definitely save trouble if I stayed underground.
Minachan solved the problem. She went to the police, freely announcing that she’d known both Yukie and Noriko well, then put on a brilliant display of hysteria, stupidity, uselessness and girly flapping about. She wept and wailed and wondered if she could get back the handbag she’d lent Yukie. She definitely knew Noriko’s flatmate—well, hardly a flatmate, some girl from Kyushu province who’d been staying for a while. She couldn’t remember the name, though, and anyway the girl had been gone for weeks, or days, or possibly months. She complained about Yukie’s horrid boyfriend Oguya and how he’d looked at all the women in such a nasty way, including her friend Noriko when she’d come to the bar, and there was that time he’d made a pass at Noriko and she’d turned him down—what date? Last week, last month, last year, whatever. She flirted outrageously with the investigating officers, became ferociously defensive at any question she could interpret as accusatory, and finally had to be removed from the premises, sobbing noisily, having supplied a link between the murdered women, shown total ignorance of any yakuza connections, and put feminism in Japan back by about five years.
When Sonja returned the police phone call, in tearful and dreadful Japanese, denying all knowledge, she didn’t even get asked to come in.
Not that the police weren’t doing their job, but by now they had a watertight story and the culprits on a plate. The tests for DNA left on Noriko and Yukie had come back positive, and Soseki and Oguya were in a secure hospital waiting to get well enough for trial. Since the first Mitsuyoshi-san’s murder hadn’t been reported, and nor, apparently, had Kelly’s disappearance, nobody knew anything about anything else, or at least nobody was talking.
Nobody was coming after us.
It took time for us to believe it, but time was something we had. For one thing, we were all unemployed.
The Primrose Path had lost most of its staff—Kelly and Yukie were gone, Keiko had found another job, Jun had vanished. The Mitsuyoshi-kai had torn the place apart looking for the briefcase, and the Takas had kicked in the remaining doors looking for me, and the customers had been deserting in droves anyway. Mama-san must have decided to cut her losses, because she took out a substantial loan against the property for repairs, and disappeared. That meant the bar was closed, and Sonja, Minachan and I were jobless, as if we’d have considered going back.
Yoshi was also unemployed, of course, and with a dismissal and bad reference on his CV, his prospects were pretty poor. That was, until I called his old company, told them I was from the Asahi Shimbun, and asked if it was true they’d sacked him for remaining by the side of his friend who, I happened to know, was the OL who’d been so newsworthily attacked. I outlined the sensationalist article I had in mind to the receptionist, then had an extr
emely enjoyable half hour discussing it with progressively more senior staff members. Before I was off the phone, the managing director had called Yoshi’s mobile, given him a measured apology for the misunderstanding and offered him three months’ pay in lieu of notice and a glowing reference, as long as he didn’t talk to any journalists, particularly not women from the Asahi Shimbun.
On the third day, Minachan, Yoshi and I headed off to the hospital to see Noriko. She was still unconscious, still bruised, but her colour was almost normal, and she had her lucky charm clenched in her hand.
“She knows it’s there,” the nurse assured us, although I’m sure she said that kind of thing about all the patients.
I sat for half an hour, talking to her. I don’t know if any of it went in, but I told her everything, more or less, and at least one of us felt better for it afterwards.
The other two stayed; I think they both had cabin fever by then. I went back to Taka’s to sit with Chanko before he went mad. Sonja was supposed to be there to look after him, but I didn’t imagine he was getting a lot of company.
“Dear God, are they still at it?” I demanded as I walked in and the rhythmic thumping shook the wall.
“Third time. I figure they’re training for a record.”
“I’m beginning to think it’s time to move to a country with thicker walls,” I said. “Honestly, the woman’s shameless.”
“Yeah, I was going to say. Where do you get off, flirting with that guy right in front of me?”
“What? Park? Oh, come on, that was hardly flirting. I can’t believe you even remember that.”
“Gave you his number. I shoulda told the guy off.”
I couldn’t smile. “What are we going to do?” I blurted out.
“About Park?”
“No, I mean us. I mean, me, and also you. I mean, you get better, then what?”
He shrugged, wincing slightly at the unwary shoulder movement. “Dunno. What about you? Another hostess job?”
“Don’t know.” I drummed my fingers. What I actually wanted—well, there were lots of things I wanted, but the relevant one was to have a bank account and an address and a real visa for a real job.
I didn’t think I was going to be able to get them in Japan.
I could do something. Taka could maybe get me new ID, I could start building the edifice of a normal life, but the foundations would be as solid as rice paper. I’d been illegal for years; I’d worked in the water trades; I was linked to at least two murders, probably three; I’d screwed with a yakuza family, not to mention Park Sang-do. If I tried to start a new life in Japan, I’d just be setting myself up for disaster, building a house of cards in an earthquake zone.
But I could stay, just keep on drifting. Get translation work, do the odd bit of hostessing perhaps. And maybe I could drift with Chanko, but maybe a man who was trying to make something better of his life didn’t need an aimless bar girl dragging him down.
Or maybe I could try and make something of my own life, for a change, but for that I had to leave.
“I need my passport,” I said, without looking at him. “I need to go back to the flat, pick up anything that’s survived, and get my ID. Then I can decide.”
“The police might have your passport. Or the yaks.”
“Well, the police never released my name, so I guess they didn’t find it. Don’t know about the yakuza. I guess I’ll just go and look.” I don’t suppose I sounded any more enthusiastic than I felt at the idea of setting foot in there again.
“I’ll come with you.”
Admittedly, he was sitting up now and generally looking a lot better. Nevertheless—
“Are you kidding? Sonja would kill you. Stay in bed.”
“Sonja has other things on her mind. I’m fine. You worry too much.”
I stared at my hands. “I don’t need to get it yet. I mean, there’s no hurry.” If I didn’t have my passport, how could I be expected to go anywhere? Even if I ought to.
“Where are you thinking?” he asked, as if I’d spelled it all out. “Britain?”
“Can’t. Well, I could, but, you know, the whole Ian thing. I don’t know. Hong Kong, maybe, or Singapore.”
“Uh-huh. Ever been to Vietnam?”
“No.”
“Me either. Always meant to go while I was here. You kind of figure it’s just around the corner from Japan, but—”
“Only if you’re American. It’s a long way.”
“Seoul’s pretty close, though.”
I nodded. Maybe I could go to Seoul.
“You could look up some old friends,” he added. “Hell, you got Park’s number.”
Maybe not Seoul, then.
There was a very high-pitched noise from next door and a series of rhino-like grunts, followed by a wail of “Whoo, Mama!” We exchanged pained glances.
“Screw this,” Chanko said. “Let’s go get your stuff. If I drop dead on the way, it’ll be a blessing.”
I refused again, firmly, but he insisted on getting up, washed and dressed anyway. He’d lost a few pounds over the last couple of days, and he looked a bit shaky, but he was definitely better. His jacket was ruined, of course, and he clicked his tongue with annoyance, examining the holes and the fluffy lining that poked out from them, black with dried blood.
“Can we pick you up another one in Roppongi?” I suggested, helping him get a chunky oatmeal-coloured sweater on over the shoulder bandage.
“Not likely. There’s maybe two stores do stuff for guys my size, and they both suck. My sister sent me this one from the States.”
“Well, you shouldn’t go out without a coat, it’s cold,” I said. A thump from Taka’s bedroom shook the wall, and Chanko gave me a look. “Okay, okay, we’ll go, but we’ll take a cab, and that’s flat.”
It was midafternoon by the time we set off, squeezing into the back seat of a cab. Chanko’s face was looking a lot better now, which was kind of a shame because I had a black eye and half of my face was black or yellow-green and swollen, and the driver looked at the huge thug next to me with disgust.
The light was thickening already. I held Chanko’s hand, or he held mine, and we sat in silence. I didn’t want to go back to the flat. I was sure the police had been over it, and for all I knew, by now the landlord had cleared it out and installed new tenants, but my imagination was showing blood pooling on the floor, Oguya’s face, and Noriko’s. I shuddered.
I didn’t want to go to the flat, and I didn’t want to leave Japan, and once I had my passport, I would, because I had to.
Maybe we could just turn the taxi round right now. Pretend it wasn’t happening. Keep things like they were.
The traffic was heavy, and the neon lights were coming on around us as the car nosed through the streets towards Motoyoyogi, the area where we’d lived, Noriko and I, a thousand years ago. I could smell petrol, and the burned-savoury smoke of a yakitori stand, and her perfume.
“I don’t want—” I began.
“It’s okay, babe,” Chanko said softly. “Come on. I’m with you.”
We stopped outside a medium-rise block of flats and paid off the cabbie, who’d clearly found us, or rather Chanko, a compellingly ghastly sight. My code for the front door still worked, and we stepped straight into the waiting lift.
The apartment door was shut, but not secured. Police tape had been stuck over it, and then sliced through, so that it had fluttered down and stuck to the doorframe. It wasn’t locked either. I just pushed, and the door swung open.
I took off my shoes on the genkan and headed in, leaving Chanko to follow.
I clicked on the lights. “God.” It was a chaotic mess of clothes and broken furniture, roughly shoved into heaps. The tatami matting had been removed. I wasn’t going to think about what had happened here.
It smelled of cigarettes, too, and neither of us had smoked. And it was freezing. The long gauze curtains we’d bought to cover the sliding glass doors that formed two walls of the flat were billowing in the
cold wind from outside.
“Weird. Why’s the balcony door open?” I walked towards it, stopping to pick up a lone, expensive stiletto. One of Noriko’s.
“Maybe they were airing—” Chanko began behind me, and broke off with a shout that was something like a scream.
I whipped round. Chanko was doubled over, grabbing his wounded shoulder, and the man who’d come out of the bathroom door behind him had a baseball bat held high in both hands. As I stared in frozen shock, he brought it down again with a meaty thud, hitting the same spot, and Chanko lurched forward. The man raised the bat again.
I threw the shoe with all the force I could manage, right at Michael Hearn’s head.
He smacked it away with the baseball bat, home-run style. It hit the wall, but I was already picking up anything I could, hurling shoes and ornaments and books with wild inaccuracy. Hearn lunged at me, covering his head with his free arm, and Chanko, still doubled over, grabbed at his ankle with his right hand, sending Hearn stumbling forward. I jumped out of the way as he staggered and regained his balance, kicking back at Chanko and raising the bat vindictively.
It would be a blow to the head. I could almost hear the crunch of bone and matter. I leapt forward without thought, gripping Hearn’s wrist, and he turned and grabbed me, one powerful arm round my neck, half lifting me off my feet, and spun us both to face Chanko. I kicked fruitlessly, trying to wrench at the arm that held me, but he just tightened his grip.
Chanko pulled himself upright, with a look of killing rage on his face, skin patched red with pain. They stared at each other, then both of them said “You” with equal animosity.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, struggling to look up at him. “Let me go. This is my flat. Get out.”
“This is your fault, you bitch.” Hearn was talking to me, but I’d have bet he wasn’t taking his eyes off Chanko, who was gripping his damaged shoulder. There was red oozing between his fingers. “This is all your fault.”
“It’s nobody’s fault but yours, you fucking assclown.”
“Shut up, Chanko,” I snapped, trying to balance on my tiptoes so I could breathe. “Why is it my fault, Michael? You set me up. You brought me into this. I didn’t start it.”
