by Georgia Byng
To Molly’s delight, it looked as though the bird with the black ribbon was winning. The other one was bleeding and its movements were slow. Her rooster made one final lunge for its opponent.
“YES!” Molly shouted, punching the air, her eyes glinting cruelly. The man with the orange flag waved it above his head and the two cage keepers stepped forward to retrieve the birds.
The losing bird looked half dead. The black-ribboned bird, still fired up with adrenaline and aggression, was difficult to catch.
“You win!” Mr. Proila laughed.
“I know!” Molly laughed back. “Is there another fight? Let’s bet again.”
Mr. Proila watched Molly. He liked this Moon girl and had a very good feeling about her. He felt sure they would work well together.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
Molly hadn’t even realized that she’d been gripping her gold coin. She saw his interest had been stirred. “Oh, in Ecuador. A woman gave it to me. It’s just an old coin. It’s a bit of old rubbish really.”
“Doesn’t look like rubbish to me,” Mr. Proila said. He couldn’t have the wool pulled over his eyes so easily. “It looks like solid gold.”
“You know, Mr. Proila, I’m tired,” Molly said, putting the coin away and changing the subject abruptly. “Do you mind if we go? This has been a brilliant evening, but I’ve got to hit the sack.”
Mr. Proila nodded.
As they moved through the crowd Molly felt sure she saw fear in some people’s faces when they saw Mr. Proila. He led Molly toward a door at one side of the room where more bouncers stood guard. “We’ll have a drink before we leave,” he announced.
Not wanting a scene, and curious to see more, Molly nodded. Beyond the door was a room dimly lit with plum-colored light shades. At the end of the room was a bar.
The bartender was pouring a drink for a man who stood with his back to the door.
The man was speaking loudly. His face and lips were visible in the reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
“Did you see him out there?” he was saying (though of course Molly didn’t understand him at all). “Winning, winning, winning. The fights are rigged. He must bribe people to lose.”
The barkeeper raised his eyebrows to warn the customer that Mr. Proila had arrived, but the man was too drunk to notice.
“That’s how Proila got so rich,” the man slurred. “By cheating. Cheating and conning. Tokyo was an easygoing place till he came along. My cousin runs a grocery store. Proila sends his heavies along every week. My cousin has to pay them not to burn his shop down.” He took a slug of his drink. “The guy’s a monster. He’s not even Japanese. What hole of a place did he climb out of?”
Mr. Proila watched the drunken man’s lips in the mirror behind the bar. A sneer spread over his hard face. Then he strode toward the bar and hopped up onto a barstool.
The drunken man turned and suddenly saw who was next to him. “Ergh . . . argh . . . Mr. Proila!”
“Been in this town long? Maybe you speak English. Speak English so my young friend can understand.”
Mr. Proila picked up a cocktail swizzle stick and began inspecting it, his stumpy half finger twitching. “So?”
The man nodded his head dumbly. “Yeah, m-my . . . my grandfather born here, my father, too, and so was I. My family’s been in Tokyo for hundreds of years.”
“Well, I wasn’t born here,” Mr. Proila replied, his voice icy. In a completely different tone he said to the bartender, “Gimme my usual.”
The bartender nodded, picked up the silver cocktail shaker and began preparing the drink.
Mr. Proila went on in a matter-of-fact voice. “I wasn’t born here, but even so, this town is mine. Tomorrow, you are going to get out of my town. For good.” The man’s mouth dropped open. “If you delay for even a day . . .” Mr. Proila insisted, watching the barman shake his drink, “things will get very ugly for you.”
“B-but, Mr. Proila, I didn’t mean what I said. It was the drink talking. I got family here.”
The bartender passed Mr. Proila his drink. He took a sip. “I said, get out.”
The man practically tripped over his own legs as he turned. Miserable and terrified, he stumbled out of the bar.
He brushed past Molly. She saw the fear in his face, but felt no compassion for him. She was impressed that a man as small as Mr. Proila could be so feared. She stepped up to the bar and sat on the stool beside him.
“Do you have concentrated orange squash on the rocks? With a twist of Tabasco?” she asked the barman.
Mr. Proila laughed. He translated Molly’s request for the bartender. Then he lit one of his huge cigars.
“So . . .” he began, smoke puffing out as though his heart were on fire. “So you want to work with me?”
Molly took a sip of her drink. “It depends.” She eyed Mr. Proila’s hand, with its missing finger, and wondered whether she ought to hypnotize him now. It would make everything much easier, yet it would also make things too easy. She knew she could get what she wanted from Mr. Proila without hypnotizing him, and that would make her achievement all the more satisfying. Besides, hypnotized, Mr. Proila wouldn’t behave harshly toward her, and she wanted to get the worst of him. She wanted his insults; she wanted to counter his rude comments. She wanted to hit back and show him that she could match his darkness. If she hypnotized him, all the sport would be gone.
“Whether or not I work with you depends on what kind of deal you are prepared to give me,” she said.
Mr. Proila grimaced. Molly didn’t give him a chance to reply.
“I want a good apartment up front, all expenses paid. And cash up front, too. Let’s say five hundred thousand pounds—not yen. As soon as I start performing, I want half of all profits. And I want to see your accounts so I know you’re being fair. If I make you three million pounds of profit within a month, then my percentage goes up to seventy-five percent. I’m not going to sign myself away like the boys did, Mr. Proila. That would be stupid of me. I’d rather make it alone than do that.” Molly leaned toward Mr. Proila. “And believe me, Mr. Proila, I really do have what it takes to make it alone.”
Mr. Proila couldn’t help admiring Molly’s chutzpah. “Oh yes? Then why do you need me at all?”
“Because of course it will be less effort for me if you are my manager. And that is why you are getting half of the money I make.”
Mr. Proila nodded. “You’re a piece of work, ain’tcha?” He stirred his cocktail and took a sip. “An’ I like that. But if you do manage the three million profit in a month, it’s fairer if we split it seventy/thirty. I’ll deserve that for the things I’m gonna do to put you on the map. You should give me that extra five percent.”
“What for—protection money?” Molly said. “You think I’m scared of you, Mr. Proila?”
Mr. Proila studied the young girl beside him. He had never come across a child so calculating, so ambitious, so fearless, and so heartless. He liked her. If her talent was as truly special as the audience in the Tokyo Dome had thought, she was a genius product that was going to make him a fortune.
“So you’re not afraid of me. You’re hard as nails. No, Miss Moon, the extra five percent isn’t protection money, it’s just for goodwill.”
Molly nodded. “I see.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and stroked her coin. She didn’t care what this silly little man was saying to her. He was as scary to her as a snake without venom. With one zap of her hypnotic eyes she could get him to do whatever she wanted anytime she pleased. In the grand scheme of things the five percent he wanted would be irrelevant. Anyway, eventually she’d send him packing. Mr. Proila had no idea what lay ahead, she thought. Once she had no more use for him, she’d probably hypnotize him so that he ended up playing the pennywhistle on the streets.
“OK,” Molly said. “When I hit the big time, seventy percent for me, thirty for you.”
Mr. Proila offered his hand to Molly. “Sounds like a deal.”
Fifteen
When Rocky arrived in Tokyo, the others were still out at the concert. Miss Shonyo let him in.
He now sat on one of the pea beanbags, having a cup of tea with the old grandmother. Sobo had taken an immediate liking to her dark, good-looking guest.
When Rocky mentioned Molly’s name, the old woman’s expression grew stormy. She tutted and clicked her tongue. She shook her head at Rocky with such concern that Rocky wondered whether Molly was in the hospital or, worse still, dead.
“Molly OK?” Rocky asked.
“Molly blam, blam, blam,” replied the grandmother, miming playing a guitar. Then she shook her head again.
Rocky frowned. Molly was definitely in trouble of some sort.
Suddenly the apartment door burst open and Petula came running in, skidding across the floor to take a flying leap into Rocky’s lap. She licked his face enthusiastically.
“Rocky, you’re here!” Gerry rushed in and jumped onto Rocky as well. “Isn’t Tokyo cool? Meet Chokichi and Toka and Hiroyuki. You’re going to really like them!”
Rocky smiled at the three brothers. “Thanks for having me to stay,” he said. He tried to judge the Japanese boys. Were they the reason Molly was in trouble? Rocky had met a few hypnotists. So, suspicious of the boys, he was on his guard.
“Where’s Molly? And how is she? Is she OK, Gerry?”
“She’s very good at music,” Gerry replied. “She’s really got into her music.”
Rocky thought that this was an odd response, but before he could say anything, “She very well,” Hiroyuki elaborated. “She’ll be back later, and you’ll see. You’re lucky to have her as a friend, Rocky. She’s a genius.”
A genius? Surely Molly hadn’t told these boys she hardly knew about her hypnotic powers?
“In what way?” he asked.
“In what way?” Chokichi laughed. “In her musical way, of course. Wow, can she play guitar! Even with a lifetime’s practice I couldn’t hope to play that well.”
“Her harmonica’s amazin’, too,” Gerry agreed.
Rocky must have looked puzzled because Gerry asked, “You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Rocky lied, realizing that for now this might be the best strategy to help him get to the bottom of whatever was going on. “It’s just . . . she said she was taking a break from her music.”
“Never!” Hiroyuki exclaimed. “Molly must never stop.”
Rocky got up and went over to Gerry, who was standing by the window looking glum. “What’s the matter, Gerry?”
“Oh, I’m cross because Mr. Proila, the band’s manager, told me that fish dealers in Tokyo market are selling bluefin tuna. I hate those people. Bluefin are very special rare fish. How come people don’t care about saving the beautiful things in our world?”
Rocky squeezed his shoulder. “It’s difficult when you care so much about something like that but can’t do anything about it because you’re a kid.”
“Yes. We just have to watch the bad adults messing things up.”
“Well, when you’re older you can be a good adult and fix things.”
Gerry folded his arms. “Yeah? That’s a long time to wait, though.”
Soon everyone decided to go to bed. Rocky was taken up to Toka’s room, where there was another spare mattress. Gerry got into his bed with his clothes still on and yawned. He lay down and rolled over.
“By the way, Rocky,” he said, his eyes fluttering as he was already half asleep, “Molly is a bit different. She reminds me of a mouse fed on sugar lumps. She’s gone just a little bit crazy.”
Before Rocky could ask any more, Gerry fell asleep. Rocky put on his headphones, opened his computer, and began watching a film. He’d catch Molly when she came in.
When Molly got back to the apartment the main living room was dark except for the lights of Tokyo that filtered in through the blinds. Molly sat down on the sofa and pulled out her coin.
Its power was incredible. It was like some fairy godmother, her powerful friend with concern for Molly’s success at its heart. She thought of how Petula and the old woman had attempted to steal it and she gritted her teeth with hatred.
“How did that old bat know about your power?” she whispered to the coin. “Will she tell the boys? Would they believe her? No, they love me now. They’ll just think she’s a nutty old lady. And what about Petula? I suppose she sensed you. I’ll have to keep you always close to me now. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you properly from now on.”
As she whispered she noticed that something was flickering on the balcony, just as it had the night before. There was definitely a man there. She immediately went to investigate. She squinted out but there was nothing there now. Could it have been just the city lights against the glass? She slid open the glass and stepped out.
Molly peered over the railing. No one was there. Molly frowned. Perhaps her tired eyes were playing tricks on her.
Back inside, she locked the sliding door, puzzled. “It’s too high,” she mumbled. “Fourteenth floor. No one could climb up here.”
After changing into silk pajamas, Molly got into bed. She felt excited. Tucking the coin into her pajama pocket, she shut her eyes and pictured her marvelous future. She imagined the awards she would receive. The Emmys and the Grammys, the Oscars and the BAFTAs. Imagining the platinum sales that her CDs would achieve, Molly went to sleep smiling.
At three thirty in the morning, Petula was woken by Gerry’s flashing alarm clock. Gerry was quietly getting out of bed, taking care not to wake Toka, or Rocky, who had nodded off in front of his computer. Petula noticed that Gerry was fully dressed. Was he running away?
Gerry picked up his shoes and jacket and a small camera that stood on the chest of drawers. He sneaked out of his room and tiptoed down the stairs. Petula followed him. As he unlatched the apartment door and opened it, she slipped past his legs to the lobby outside.
“OK, Petula,” Gerry whispered. “You can come with me.”
Instead of using the apartment elevator, Gerry took the stairs. At the bottom he hid until the apartment-building doorman disappeared to his room and then took the opportunity to dash across the lobby.
The city was dark except for streetlamps and a few lights in buildings. Gerry kept to the shadows. He didn’t wanted to be spotted.
After a while he paused in front of a food shop beside a life-size plastic model of a samurai warrior that was advertising a brand of wasabi mustard. Here a streetlight cast a beam down and Gerry took a map from his pocket and opened it. A shadow suddenly blocked the light. Startled, he looked up. It was Rocky.
“What are you up to, Gerry?”
Gerry looked cross. “Don’t try to stop me, Rocky. I’m on a mission.”
“A mission?”
“Yes.”
“To do what?”
“You’ll see. You can come if you like,” Gerry said cagily.
“Has this got anything to do with Molly?” Rocky asked.
“No. It’s to do with sorting a mess out. Someone’s got to do it. Are you coming?”
Rocky knew better than to demand an explanation from Gerry now.
“OK. Sounds exciting.”
Gerry and Petula resumed their journey with Rocky. Petula trotted in between the two boys wondering what they were up to. Soon she noticed a smell of fish. As they walked, the fish smell got stronger and stronger and stronger until they arrived at a dead end. Trucks drove in and out of an entrance. People came and went on foot, too. The place was humming, even though it was the middle of the night. Gerry strode toward it with the intention of a hunter. Among the hubbub, he, Rocky, and Petula entered unnoticed.
Inside, men and women in white overalls were hard at work directing forklift trucks as they moved great frozen objects onto refrigerated trucks. It was like being inside a giant freezer. Cold air billowed from the ceiling, and icy jets his
sed out from the walls. Lying in lines on the well-scrubbed concrete floors, in crates or as big frozen lumps, were chunks of fish—cut up and frozen. This, Petula realized, was a massive fish market. The chilly concrete hurt her feet. She didn’t know it, but the sign above read: TSUKIJI FISH MARKET.
“I think I can guess what you’re up to,” Rocky said.
“This is the biggest fish market in the world, Rocky. The Japanese eat more fish per person than anybody else.”
Rocky had a feeling that Gerry might be intending to cause trouble, though he wondered how much trouble a boy of eight could cause in a huge fish market.
“You get every kind of fish ’ere. I looked it up,” Gerry went on. “It’s brought in by fishermen and then passed on to dealers who sell it to restaurants or to shops. Come on—let’s take a look.”
Rocky and Petula followed Gerry into a labyrinthine warehouse. Petula counted the different types of fish smells as she went. Sardines, sprats, salmon, plaice, sole, swordfish. Herring and mackerel. It was four in the morning, and there were lots of business deals being done.
Gerry looked only at big fish before moving on. Rocky guessed what he was looking for. Finally they came to a grandstand at the end of the warehouse. Quite a few people were collecting there, preparing to buy.
Gerry picked Petula up and, indicating that Rocky should follow him, he stepped behind a tower of blue plastic boxes so they couldn’t be seen.
“Hunting bluefin tuna is almost as bad as hunting whales, Rocky,” he whispered. “I’m going to find the people who are selling it and take photos of them, and I’m going to tell them to stop it.” He fingered the camera that hung round his neck. “The people who buy it are just as bad! Wait till you meet Mr. Proila, Rocky. He’s the nastiest bloke in the world. He eats bluefin tuna.”
“Does he have power over Molly?” Rocky asked.
“I don’t know. Like I said last night, she’s gone a bit crazy.”
Rocky nodded and was then distracted by the people in front of him. “They look suspicious,” he couldn’t help suggesting. He was catching the spirit of Gerry’s mission. Part of him thought it was mad to take on a bunch of fish dealers, yet part of him couldn’t resist. So when Gerry darted forward and hid behind another stack of pallets, even closer to the crowd, Rocky followed him. They noticed that some people were going through a plastic door beside the grandstand. “We need to get in there,” mouthed Gerry, pointing.
