I froze for a second, unable to move. As the ringing continued, Kirita began to turn away from the woman toward the noise. I dropped the phone back in the bag and concentrated on doing up the zip. The sound grew muffled but he didn’t seem to notice. The waitress said sorry to both Kirita and me. Heart pounding, I stood up and apologized as well. Kirita wasn’t looking at me, though. He opened the satchel and answered the phone. I thought about making my exit, but it seemed important to hear his conversation, so I helped the waitress pick up the glass. Kirita didn’t speak, but I managed to catch a glimpse of the notes he made: Thursday, 7, Shibuya, Daijingu. I nodded again and paid my bill. Now that he’d seen my face up close, shadowing him would be tricky.
I TOOK A cab back to my apartment, asking the driver if I could smoke. He said he didn’t mind because he was finishing up for the day and opened the window a fraction. I lit up and watched the neon lights flowing past in the busy streets. I just couldn’t relax. Kizaki’s face appeared in front of me, then Ishikawa’s, then Saeko’s. I wondered what she would say if she saw me now. I was going down in the world, being manipulated, dancing to Kizaki’s tune, but still I thought she probably wouldn’t despise me. Knowing her, she’d be more likely to laugh as she undressed, saying maybe we’ll die soon, and come down here with me.
When I got home the boy was asleep on the floor outside my front door. This time he was wearing long trousers, but his gray sweatshirt was thin. Looking at his arms and legs, I felt once more that his life had been determined at birth. In his downtrodden situation he just did the best he could and kept on going. I prodded him lightly with my foot, thinking he’d die of cold, and he opened his eyes. He scowled at me for a second, maybe because I’d kicked him. But before I could say anything he quietly asked me to let him stay for the night.
“Nothing doing. Go home.”
“Why not?”
The boy’s breath came out in faint white puffs.
“Because your mom will come looking for you and the cops will get involved.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“No?”
“She wants to get rid of me.”
He stood up, brushing sand and grime from the palms of his hands. His skin was dirty and the soles of his shoes were almost worn through. I was about to let him in, but then realized that I didn’t have a kettle or plates or anything to eat. We’d have to go to a convenience store. When I walked off, the boy came with me.
“He’s there all the time now and I’m in the way.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He’s always telling me, because he wants to do it with Mom all the time.”
In the distance I heard the sound of a car accelerating.
“He’s jealous about Mom. Because they’re always at it, I have to be out all day. And when they’re finished he gets drunk and hits me.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“This guy. Does he know what your mother …?”
“He knows. He makes her do it but he still gets jealous.”
My throat felt tight.
“You want to get out?”
“Yeah.”
There was a strange gleam in his eyes.
“I’d run away, but I’m just a kid and I’d get caught. And then I’d get bawled out, and if he was there he’d beat me up.”
“Well, you can’t stay here….”
“Why not?”
I took my hand off his shoulder. Probably I picked the wrong time to do it.
“My job’s risky. I don’t know when I might get killed. You don’t need to get mixed up with any more adults who’ve messed up their lives.”
“But….”
“What about a children’s home?”
I looked at his face. He seemed to be thinking seriously.
“Could I get into one?”
“If you go through the formalities. But when it comes down to it you don’t really want to be away from your mom, do you?”
“I’m not a baby.”
He looked up at me. His wide defiant eyes, like two laser beams, reminded me of myself a long time ago.
“I’ll talk to her. And from now on I’ll leave my room unlocked, so if it’s cold you can go in whenever you like.”
With that, we went into the convenience store and bought hot tea, milk and a lunch box full of fried food.
14 My second target was a twenty-eight-year-old man who lived in a seven-story apartment building. I didn’t know what he did for a living, but judging from his dress and demeanor he wasn’t exactly a big player in the underworld. His condo was also in a residential area, so I couldn’t just loiter out on the street. I watched the passers-by through the windows of a nearby café. He was bound to go this way to get to the station. He didn’t have a car or a bike. I waited for a couple hours, but he didn’t appear. I left the coffee shop, ambled along the road in front of his condo and then returned to my post.
It was noon on the second day of my stake-out when he came out of the building. I’d come by taxi and waited for a while, but there was no sign of him. I’d just placed my order in the café when I saw him walking towards me. I left the shop and followed him. He went to the station, through the turnstile and onto the platform. If they were going to leave his lighter and hairs next to a dead body, that meant he must have a record. It was hard to believe, though—he looked even more baby-faced and meek than he did in his photo.
Fortunately the train was crowded. I stood right behind him, thinking this would be the best place. His black hair was lightly styled with wax. There were no loose hairs on his neck or shoulders, so I’d have to pluck them out directly. The carriage was overheated and he was sweating. As the train came to a stop he moved closer to the passenger in front as though he was planning to get off, and I pressed myself right up against his back. Attached roughly to the tips of my forefinger and middle finger were pieces of a nail file I’d found at home. The doors opened, letting in the cold air. When he took a step forward I pretended to lose my balance. Raising my hand as though clutching at air, I pinched a few strands of hair between my fingers and pulled. I felt a slight tug as they came out. He turned involuntarily, but I slipped past so that I was in front of him. Now all I needed was his lighter.
He seemed to be heading towards the stairs, but then he suddenly changed direction. I realized he was going to the smoking area on the platform for the Yamanote line. He took out his cigarettes and hunted for his lighter. My first reaction was that I’d be in trouble if he’d lost it, but then I had a brainwave. Putting on my gloves, I wiped my own cheap disposable lighter several times inside my jacket. Then I stood right beside him and lit up. He was still searching, and just as he was about to give up I silently handed him mine. He nodded his thanks and used it to light his cigarette. I thought the fingerprints might not look natural, so when he returned the lighter I fumbled it and it fell to the ground. He picked it up for me. This time I took it, and the job was finished. I boarded the next train and got out of there.
• • •
I WENT TO a hairdresser’s to get my hair cut and dyed brown. Then I put on a pair of glasses with fake lenses. The day I met Kirita I had been wearing my usual black coat, so I changed my image with a white down jacket and jeans. At six in the evening I headed for Shibuya. I was sure I’d find him there, in a bar called Daijingu. Since he’d only seen me for a second he probably wouldn’t remember me, but just on the off-chance I needed a disguise.
I spotted him from the cab when we stopped at a red light in front of the Seibu department store in Shibuya. He was in the same black coat as before, carrying the same satchel. I got out of the car and followed him. The narrow street was overflowing with people and every time he paused I moved closer. Maybe I could take it before he reached the bar. He stopped at a red light. I was standing right behind him, but for some reason the woman beside me was staring at him, so I couldn’t do anything. The lights turned green and I stayed on his heels through the dense crowd.
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br /> Just as I’d made up my mind to do it at the next intersection, Kirita turned round abruptly. I tensed up, but he hadn’t spotted me. I looked away as he passed. After giving him a head start, I tailed him again. He went into a Parco store. Inside he glanced around and then headed for the escalator. Because people are standing at different heights, escalators are perfect for stealing things from their bags. I stood behind him as we went up, psyched myself up for it. There were mirrors along the side so I waited for a gap. The man behind me was chatting to the woman below him, not looking in my direction. I figured this was the ideal place and the ideal time. I felt the warmth inside me, was aware of a pleasant numbness in my arms. As soon as his head was in the dead space between two mirrors, I grabbed the bottom of his satchel with my left hand so that it wouldn’t shake and undid the zip with my right. Then I pulled out his cell phone and hid it in my sleeve, closed the zip again and let go of the bag. When he moved on to the next up escalator I veered off to the left, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I looked for the stairs on that floor and went down. My body went limp and a tremor passed through me as I transferred the phone to my pocket.
Back out on the busy Shibuya streets I snuck my hand into the pocket of an expensively dressed man walking towards me, hid his wallet in my sleeve. The afterimage of the light reflecting off his tie pin remained as a green spot in my eye. I took a cab and checked what was in the wallet. It held 120,000 yen, several credit cards and a bunch of business cards handed out by women from hostess bars. The confined spaces of taxis, isolated from the city and the people, always gave me the feeling that I could escape.
I STAYED IN the car and headed for Ebisu. The apartment building I’d been directed to was fairly new and clean. Once I put these in the mailbox for room 702, two of my tasks would be finished. As instructed, I opened it, removed the white envelope inside and replaced it with the bag containing the cell phone, lighter and hair. I thought about watching from a distance to see who came to collect it, but instead I caught another cab and opened the envelope. This would be the photo of the guy I had to steal the documents from, plus basic information like his address. As I took out the picture I felt uneasy. A man in his forties, thinning hair, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Looking at his face, I could tell he wasn’t someone you wanted to mess with. In the past it was uncanny how often my hunches had turned out to be correct. I wanted a smoke to calm my nerves, but the driver said I couldn’t, so I got out.
Lighting a cigarette, I walked along an unfamiliar street through a housing estate with rows of elderly apartment buildings and not many streetlights. Suddenly my cell phone rang and I looked around foolishly. The only people who knew this number were Saeko and Ishikawa. The caller ID was blocked and when I answered it, it was a man I didn’t know.
“That was quick, only one left. You got the envelope from the mailbox?”
His voice was unpleasantly high and harsh.
“Who is this?”
“I think you can guess. The last guy, Yonezawa, will be in Shinjuku at eight o’clock tomorrow night. Grab it then.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You’ve got till next Tuesday. Five days left. But thanks to you, my job has gotten a whole lot easier. I hear that if you don’t succeed you’re going to die. Don’t think about doing a runner, though.”
A young blonde walking her dog was looking at me strangely.
“Is Kizaki with you?”
“Mr. Kizaki? No. I don’t know where he is.”
“What’s he really after?”
The man on the other end sighed wearily.
“I don’t mean just the papers and the lighter,” I said.
“That’s none of your business.”
Behind him I could hear a woman’s faint laughter. The background noise gradually grew louder and then the line went dead. The woman was still watching me as her plump pet sniffed urgently at a telephone pole. When I stared back, she spoke to the dog and dragged him away. The area was dark. Perhaps she hadn’t been looking at me at all, but at something just behind me.
15 In his photo Yonezawa was wearing a scruffy black coat, but his condo was big enough to have a reception desk and getting inside wouldn’t be easy. I didn’t know what he did for a living, but if he walked around with a gun in his pocket he was probably no saint. Looking at the deep-set eyes in his picture I felt that murder or something similar was lurking behind them.
I hired a car and parked in a place where I could keep an eye on the entrance to his building, but not too close. Though there was a risk the cops might ask what I was doing there, a car is definitely best for surveillance. I expected to see a taxi pull up outside his apartment, but when he came out he left on foot. He walked with a bounce, as though he was dragging his feet slightly. He looked idly around, glared at some children coming towards him.
I got out of the car and tailed him, keeping a safe distance. He was clearly a man who didn’t like spending money. If he was living in a place like this, I figured he must really feel he was in danger. In the station he took a long time buying his ticket. After casting his eye over the people around him, he fixed his gaze on a woman in a skimpy outfit, staring at her intently. I shifted further away. It didn’t look like I’d be able to get close to him until we got on the train.
When he reached the platform, Yonezawa scratched his neck several times and checked out a woman in a coat standing near him. His hair was oddly slicked down and his cheeks were dotted with freckles that hadn’t shown up in the photo. His shoes were filthy. When the train arrived it was hardly crowded at all. I opened my newspaper, still keeping a good distance from him. Yonezawa didn’t sit, but stood in a corner with a vacant look on his face.
His wallet was jammed tightly in his right front pocket, but he wasn’t carrying a bag and I couldn’t tell where the envelope was. Probably in his inside coat pocket, I thought, but the chances of taking it now looked slim. Gradually, however, the train started to fill up, and I mentally prepared myself. I got up, threaded my way through the passengers and stood in front of the door.
At Ikebukuro a whole lot of people got off, but even more got on, so that it was hard to move inside the carriage. An announcement over the loudspeaker told us that we were approaching Shinjuku. Then the doors opened and the crowd started to move. I focused on edging closer to Yonezawa in the crush. When my body was right up against his I unbuttoned his coat and slipped my hand inside. His breath felt unpleasant against my cheek. My fingertips felt something shaped like an envelope and I thought I could take it, but when I extended my fingers I realized that the inner pocket was closed up. Not with a button or a zip, but actually sewn shut. With a dull pain in my heart I quickly withdrew my hand. Merging with the river of people boarding, I shoved close to him again and fastened his coat once more. The crowd continued to heave violently.
Yonezawa exited onto the platform, and just before the doors closed I got off, too. My pulse was racing. It was impossible to switch the envelope sewn into his pocket with the one I had. If I cut the stitches to steal it, there was no way he wouldn’t notice for two days. I followed him slowly, but I didn’t have a clue what I should do next. Maybe I could somehow replace his whole jacket with a different one, but I’d never be able to buy a coat that matched his shabby old thing. Even if I could find something similar, it would be hard to reproduce exactly the same worn patches. It was inconceivable that someone as highly-strung as he was wouldn’t notice the difference.
Yonezawa took the east exit towards Kabukicho. His body swung as he walked, his eyes scanning the crowd. He tripped and lost his balance, then scowled at a passing woman for a few seconds before going into a gray building. I thought about going to see Kizaki, but I didn’t know where to find him. Remembering the condo in Ebisu, I decided to visit room 702. I caught a cab and all the way there my head was filled with images of Ishikawa and Saeko’s faces.
When I arrived I took the elevator up and pressed the doorbell of the apartment. After
a silence, a man’s voice came over the intercom. I told him my name and the door opened. The guy who came out looked at me sullenly and then went back inside. I didn’t think it was the same one I’d talked to on the phone yesterday. The room resembled Ishikawa’s old office, just a desk and sofa on a gray carpet.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
I stood directly in front of him.
“Yonezawa’s got the envelope sewn inside his jacket. It’ll be impossible to steal it without him knowing.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“I want to talk to Kizaki.”
“Tough.”
He stared at me like I was a real pain in the ass, sat at the desk and turned on the TV. A woman in a bikini ran across the screen as if she were chasing something.
“If I fail, it’ll make things harder for you guys too, won’t it? Let me talk to Kizaki. If you don’t, you could be in deep shit.” I paused. “Well, if you won’t help me, I’ll go.”
Still gazing at the screen, the man muttered something and picked up the phone without looking at me. He spoke into it quietly, then took his ear away from the receiver, turned the TV off and sighed. Racing papers and candies were scattered around the desk. He passed me the phone. After a short wait a man I didn’t know answered. I told him I wanted to talk to Kizaki and he said I couldn’t, but then there was another pause and Kizaki came on. He told me I had five minutes. There was no doubt it was him, but his voice was so low he sounded like a different person.
“Yonezawa’s envelope is sewn inside his coat. There’s no way I can switch it. Can’t I just steal it?”
There was a brief silence and then he laughed.
“Bad luck. What a shame.”
The Thief Page 9
