“Glock was very close to Mayumi. And she seemed positive that Mayumi had no involvement with any men,” I mused aloud. “I wonder about the situation with Eri. She seemed kind of anti-male, but she’s got that enjo-kousai racket going on—”
“Who cares? Let’s get going on your hair.”
Richard jumped up to capture a temporarily vacant barstool. Carrying it toward the restroom, he inclined his head toward me. I followed him, thinking that getting a free haircut in a mixed-gender restroom was just another adventure to add to my life story.
In the tiny restroom, which was decorated with multiple vending machines and safe-sex-instruction signs, Richard positioned me on the barstool so I faced away from the mirror over the sink. I felt water flicking all over my head and then steel on my neck.
I kept smiling at the men and women coming in and out the door, acting as if I was supposed to be there, getting the haircut. Most restroom users wanted to know whether Richard was going to turn me into a wavy blond like Shakira. When he shook his head, they lost interest.
“We can get you some clothes from the lost and found,” Richard said. “People get hot here, take their clothes off, and forget to put them back on. Yoshiko’s out looking.”
“A lot of Japanese men are the same size as me,” I said. So much hair was falling. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel my head becoming lighter. Freer. I hoped against hope that when I saw Michael again, he’d still like the way I looked.
Richard continued cutting, singing the Shakira song that was playing through the doorway, “Waka Waka, This Time for Africa.” Richard entreated me to join in, but my cooling cup of coffee wasn’t enough to put the same music in me.
Yoshiko hustled in after fifteen minutes with her arms full of clothes. She also apologized for not learning anything useful about Mayumi and Glock.
“So the staff is protecting the girls’ privacy,” Richard said. “It should make me feel safe, but at the moment it’s irritating.”
I suggested, “Maybe if I explained Mayumi is dead, it would be different—”
“Why would they believe you? Parents hire undercover detectives to find out what their unmarried adult children are doing. The staff here won’t let you stay on the premises if they think you’re asking too much. You haven’t been here in years, and you aren’t even a bona fide Shakira Club member.”
“It’s a bit hard because you are a double outsider here—not gay and not Japanese,” Yoshiko said. “But don’t feel bad—you look wonderful as a boy. I’ll draw a moustache on you with my eyebrow pencil.”
“Please, don’t. It’s not Halloween.”
“Hold the whiskers for sec. Audrey Hepburn has returned from her untimely demise and is ready for action,” Richard swiveled the stool so I was facing the mirror.
I opened the eyes I’d squeezed shut to view the side-swept bangs and a sleek brown-black cap of hair that was about two inches long. The hair was gone. I didn’t look like the thirty-year-old married woman who played mah-jongg with her senior citizen friends. I looked younger and more edgy.
Richard walked around the stool, scrutinizing. “I may have left you too feminine around the front—but that’ll be good later on. Yoshiko, see if there’s a hat we can put over my masterpiece. And let me use the eyebrow pencil to create some five o’clock shadow.”
A tweed newsboy cap soon arrived to top off the hair, thanks to a loan from Yoshiko’s friend on the dance floor. The cap coordinated nicely with a chamois shirt, denim jacket, and oversized jeans she’d brought out of the bar’s lost and found, along with a pair of typical male, brown loafers. Richard suggested that I put my wedding and engagement rings in my backpack, which Yoshiko would carry out when we all left.
When I stepped out of the restroom in the borrowed clothes, all the men and two women waiting in the long line gave me the once-over. So I really did look like a pretty boy, or perhaps a transgendered one.
Richard, Yoshiko, and I went the club’s back door, armed with sharp-tipped umbrellas liberated from the lost and found. I was tense, because we had to pass through two alleys to reach the fabled bathhouse. I remembered the black van parked behind Summer Grass.
But no cars or vans passed us in the narrow old lane. Richard whispered the plan to me: he would walk me in and introduce me as his special guest. I’d have to come up with the 3,000 yen for the price of a bath and a couple of drinks, because it was important that I appeared to be interested in recreation. A bit later I could act tired and pay the 6,000-yen fee for a private room.
“Sixty dollars is a pittance for a night’s stay,” I said after Yoshiko had said goodbye and split for the subway and the two of us continued. “But could the staff think you’re cheating on Enrique? Things could be awkward the next time he’s here.”
“I suppose wagging tongues would be a pain to deal with,” Richard admitted. “Okay, I won’t ask for the room key right away. You could get fake-drunk, and when I book a room for you later on, they would think I was behaving like a humanitarian friend. The main point is get you through the door and convince people you’re a gay man who doesn’t speak Japanese.”
There was no welcoming noren curtain outside Boys Bath’s heavy steel door, nor were any prospective customers lined up for admission. The only clue that this place was a private-admission, men’s-only bath club was the doorman, who wore a long, blue-and-white yukata robe tied over jeans. Richard greeted the doorman by name and was answered in the friendliest of manners: a kiss. Richard put his arm around my shoulders, introducing me as Raymond Shimura, a “Rocku Staa Banana,” who had dreamed of visiting a very special bath.
Once inside, the charade continued. In quick, whispery Japanese, Richard told the concierge that Raymond Shimura was a Japanese-Korean boy-band performer from Canada. Apparently, I’d finished a sold-out gig in Yokohama and had come to the city for some rest and relaxation. The concierge whispered a question to Richard about how fluent Raymond’s Japanese was. Richard whispered back that Raymond looked Asian but regrettably only spoke English. This is what made Raymond a banana. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside, and rumored to be delish.
“Take him right to our Wild Cats Lounge,” the concierge instructed. “And you know, his VIP guest admission ticket includes two free drinks.”
The recommended lounge was small, but appeared even smaller, because of its black walls, low lighting, and plush stuffed tigers, cheetahs, and panthers posed around the place. The seat cushions on the bar stools were zebra-print velour, and the gleaming bar appeared to be a facsimile of ebony. A sexy Japanese bartender sporting dyed red hair and the classic black-leather-vest-with-nothing-underneath-it motioned for us to take two prime seats.
“One cosmopolitan with an extra twist, please,” Richard said to him in Japanese. When my friend turned to me, he spoke English. “What’ll it be, Raymond?”
“Just a beer, please,” I answered. “Whatever’s on tap.”
“Ah, he is American,” the bartender commented.
“Raymond is from Toronto, Canada. We went to school together. He is a boy-band performer who just gave a concert.” Richard trotted out the lies he’d dreamed up.
“But of course,” the bartender exclaimed. “I think I saw him on television this morning.”
“It must have been someone else, because Raymond’s contract doesn’t allow filming,” Richard ad-libbed. “You see, he has a pending deal with a soft-drink company. Only they can promote his image.”
“I want to know more about your band,” the bartender tried in stilted English. “Are you the lead singer? Is everyone else also bananas?”
“I’m going bananas,” I started saying, while Richard pinched me.
“Raymond not only sings but plays bass guitar.”
The bartender laughed. “A true talento. Two ways is better than one, neh? I recommend our very special beer cocktail.”
The big crepe I’d eaten in Harajuku had been absorbed long ago, so the beer cocktail—a mix of white al
e, bourbon, lemon juice, and bitters—hit me hard. I was beginning to feel less fearful of the texter, and also starting to think maybe the Mayumi search was not really worth the work. I would talk to Mr. Ishida about it the next day. But tonight, I’d maybe have another nightcap. Get a room, sink into a bed. Everything would be all right.
“Raymond, I’ll be here tomorrow morning to pick you up for your news interview. Don’t have too much fun tonight,” Richard said, kissing me lightly on the lips.
I hadn’t realized how much time had passed, but it was midnight. I’d been intrigued by the bartender’s flirtation with me, and the shy, smiling admiration from the Wildcat’s other customers. Now, without Richard’s help, I wasn’t sure I could continue carrying off the rock-star charade. Someone might bring me a guitar or flute or drag me into the karaoke lounge. When I really couldn’t sing.
“Here, Raymond. Gift from a friend.” The bartender slid a glass toward me and gazed eagerly for a reaction. I took a sniff of the drink that had odors of Coke, Curacao, and something else. Did Rohypnol have an odor? I knew I shouldn’t try it.
“Oishii,” I said, although it did not look delicious at all.
“Raymond-chan said oishii. His Japanese is very good. He knows Japanese!”
And so it went. Because Richard’s protection was gone, the other customers dared to come closer. “Oh, Raymond-san, have you tried a Japanese bath before? I will show you everything.”
“Americans wash in the morning,” I rumbled back. “How early does this bath open?”
“Aren’t you Canadian? You may learn Japanese ways—”
“If he’s toransukei,” one man said to the other in soft Japanese, “he could be shy.”
The concierge who’d handled my admission stepped into the room and signaled to the bartender. As they stood ten feet away, chatting and looking repeatedly at me, I felt nervous. Something had come up, and Richard wasn’t around to help me.
“Raymond-san, will you please come with me?” the concierge said in English. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“I will come, too,” suggested one admirer, a middle-aged gentleman in a salaryman’s typical gray suit.
“No, no.” The concierge crossed his arms in a protective X before me.
“Thank you. I’m ready to roll.” I practically fell off my bar stool, I was so eager to go. Richard had surely come through with the room arrangement. I tried to walk unsteadily, so I looked quite drunk.
“Sorry to interrupt conversations with new friends,” the concierge said in English. “Raymond-san, we have a special customer already waiting.”
Shaking my head, I said, “No customers, okay? I must sleep alone to give a good concert tomorrow.”
“The customer is called Burukkusu-san. He is older, handsome, looks like a butcho,” he said, using the word for senior corporate executive. “Maybe a music producer?”
“No, I do not know him. Please tell him I’m sorry, but I cannot go to him. May I buy a key for my own room instead?”
“Of course, of course, you can have your own room, too. But I must take you to Boroku-san. He paid for you.”
“For me!” I was both outraged and frightened. Perhaps someone who’d been in the bar earlier decided to go for broke with a private invitation. But the concierge seemed nonplussed.
“I said to him: Raymond-san is a rock star, not rent boy. Still, he gave a small financial gift to us just for a favor of bringing you for an autograph and whatever might come. He would like to give you a bigger gift, if you want it.”
What a conundrum. All I wanted was to lie down in peace. But I also had to appear like a curious gay rock musician. Such people did sign autographs. And have random sex.
Glumly, I followed the concierge into an elevator decorated with pictures of the bathhouse’s various luxuries—a screening room for erotic films, the bar, a restaurant, and numerous baths including one that contained a low-level electric current. Seeing me looking at it he said, “That bath is our most stimulating one. Because of the electric crisis, though, TEPCO has asked us to refrain from running it, at least for this time being.”
“Yes,” I said as the doors parted with a cheerful ring and he waved me ahead of him into the hallway.
“I am bringing you because Burukkusu-san is very private. He does not want his room number spoken aloud. His tour guide was most specific.”
“Tour guide?”
“Tonight is a big night for our having international visitors: a good thing after the tsunami. Our government is afraid no more tourists will come. It made us afraid, too.”
The mention of the tsunami put me on edge. Could my stalker have booked himself into a room? How private and members-only was this club? I remembered the famous Groucho Marx line about never wanting to join a club that would have one as a member. If Boys Bath had allowed me as a guest, it might also admit another dubious individual.
The manager stopped at door thirteen and knocked smartly. “Burukkusu-san, hotel management has come,” he called out in English.
But there was no answer.
As I deliberated whether to start walking away, the manager fished a key out of his pocket and gave me a wink. “Master key opens everything. There, you go ahead.”
“Can we go in together? You might need to translate for me, because all I can give is an autograph.”
“I met him. No translation will be necessary. And he wants to see you,” the concierge whispered, putting his hands on my shoulders and propelling me inside. He closed the door and, too quickly, his footsteps faded off.
I could have run out myself, but I paused. I checked out twin beds that hadn’t been slept in, and between them a low table with an iPod dock and a small basket with the typical sexual accoutrements of any Japanese love hotel, plus a big box of tissues. There was also a notepad emblazoned with BOYS BATH and a cute image of two little bears scrubbing each other. Tearing off a page, I carefully wrote “To Burukkusu-san, Keep on Rockin! Raymond Shimura” in English script. My job was done. The concierge would get his tip, and I’d get my private room.
The bathroom door was cracked open. I heard a slight sloshing sound of water and smelled the aroma of eucalyptus bath salts. The man called Burukkusu-san was apparently in the bathtub. I had a new thought. If he were in a bath, I’d have the physical advantage. I’d get a good look at him to satisfy my worries and be gone before he could get out. If he tried anything outrageous, I would snap a full-frontal photograph that could be shared with the police.
This meant turning on my phone again. I did that and then got into camera mode. Then, counting silently to three, I gently pushed open the bathroom door.
As I’d anticipated, the bath was full and a naked man was inside. He was far too long for it, with his legs folded up like pretzels. But what I could see of him was darkly tanned and pretty hunky.
I knew that body. And that face. Familiar blue eyes met mine, but instead of holding happy recognition, they looked panicked.
“Get the hell out,” my husband shouted.
Chapter 28
“I mean it, guy!” He was starting to rise out of the tub. “How’d you get in here?”
I held out my arms. “Michael, it’s me! Your wife!”
Michael stopped yelling. His eyes ran over my masculine outfit, the phone in my hand, and then back to my face. Clearing his throat, he said, “That’s a hell of a cover.”
“Speak for yourself. I was scared to death coming up here. Why are they calling you Burukkusu-san? Hendricks-san would have been enough.”
“B-R-O-O-K-S. I thought you’d recognize my old code name.” He shook his head, still looking me up and down. “Enrique promised that Richard would bring you sometime tonight. I just didn’t think you’d look this way.”
I was growing more confused. “Did you not specifically request Raymond Shimura, a boy-band member?”
Michael shook his head and started to laugh. Together we both said: “Richard.”
“And look what he did to
me half an hour ago.” I pulled off the newsboy cap to reveal my new haircut.
Michael stopped laughing. “You cut your hair.”
“I worried you wouldn’t like it. Well, at least hair grows back.”
“It’s not bad.” Michael paused, studying me. “It would look prettier after you, ah, remove the faux beard. That washes off, right? I could help you.”
“Just a sex. I mean, sec!”
Double-locking the door and putting a chain on it, I went to the bedside table with the dock and looked at the songs loaded onto my phone. What was the right music for the place, moment, and man? The late, great LCD Sound System doing “I Can Change.”
When I went back to the bathroom, I was singing along tunelessly, and the lost-and-found guys’ clothes were slowly coming off to reveal the same old me.
I got into the tub. Between long kisses, Michael explained that he and his colleages had been transported by helicopter from Misawa Air Base and dropped onto a navy cruiser stationed in the waters.
“Just like old times, huh?” I said.
“Not quite. Looking at those steaming reactors was worse than anything I’ve ever seen in a disaster movie.”
“Um, how close were you?” My old anxiety for him returned.
Michael dropped his head, looking uncomfortable. “We were about twenty kilometers away. But you do know the big blaze is out, right?”
“I didn’t know. That’s great news. But did you guys really have to get that close?”
“Nobody made us do anything. But you know, being operational was the best way to find out what’s really going on.”
“So, I’m sitting in the water with you here… could it be radioactive?” As my question formed, I realized how stupid it sounded.
“If the Tokyo drinking water’s got radiation, I’m sure the bath water does too. Don’t blame me for that,” Michael said.
“I won’t.”
“After things stabilized, I got clearance to take off and visit you. I was in Sugihama yesterday, but you’d already headed out.”
The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) Page 24
