The Drowning City (Tokyo Noir Book 1)

by J. Scott Matthews

  “‘Sup, dawg,” Jeremy said when Satoshi got down from the van.

  “How’s it going? I’m Satoshi. I’m normally with Tengu’s crew.”

  “I remember you. Heard you were coming.” He held a closed fist out for a bump, which Satoshi returned.

  “Alright. Think you can give me a hand carrying this shit up to your boss?” Satoshi asked, motioning towards the heavy boxes in the back of the truck.

  “No, but I can give you a hand by watching it down here.”

  “Come on, man, just—”

  “Orders, man. I don’t leave the entrance till he calls me up.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Satoshi loaded a dolly he found in the back of the truck and wheeled the boxes to the elevator, huffing from the exertion.

  The office was mostly dark; the only light came from an incandescent blue glow emanating from one corner, which illuminated a short academic type. The hair remaining on his balding scalp was close-cropped, while the wrinkled skin of his face spoke to his advanced age. Every time Satoshi had seen the man, he was always wearing a blue jumpsuit, like what a janitor would wear. He looked up from the computer he was working on and watched Satoshi approach.

  “‘Sup, dawg,” he said when Satoshi dumped the boxes by him, holding his fist out. “Pound it out.”

  Satoshi smiled and obliged. “How you doing?”

  “Alright, alright,” the man said. “Perfect timing. I’m just finishing the first run. Just about cleaned out my powder.”

  “Well, got three hundred pounds here for you,” Satoshi said, patting the top box.

  “Tight. Just firing up the printer for a last pass.”

  Satoshi walked over to the 3-D printer that had been set up on one of the tables and peered inside. It was roughly the size and shape of an oven. Up top it had a glass window he could look into, below which was a cabinet that was roughly two feet tall. It was hooked up to the laptop that the Toymaker was currently hunched over.

  Inside, Satoshi could see several pieces of metal that were half-submerged in a fine-grain powder. He heard a whirring sound and saw the tray containing the metal and the powder sink. Then an arm that had been recessed on one side of the process chamber came out, smoothing powder over top of the metal pieces until they were completely covered.

  “Check this out,” the Toymaker said.

  A shower of sparks erupted from the powder atop where one of the metal pieces was located. There was no visible laser from the top, just a flowering of sparks that traced an outline above the piece until the steel powder had been fused into solid metal with the lower layers. This process was repeated a number of times before the bed lowered itself and the arm pushed a fresh layer of powder over top.

  “You make the bullets too, right?”

  “Yup, full-service weapons shop. Oh, speaking of weapons. Vasili said you’ve got a blank check to cash, so take whatever you like. You best step correct if you’re going after Masa.”

  “Why’s that?” Satoshi asked.

  “He picked up some pretty heavy gear for some hush-hush job Vasili put him on. I mean, we’re talking heavy artillery. I wasn’t entirely comfortable giving him that much iron, but the order came from the big man himself, so I wasn’t about to give no static. Not sure what he did with it to earn a bounty.”

  “Vasili didn’t mention anything about that to me.”

  “It’s about time if you ask me,” the Toymaker said, his eyes fixed on the printer. “Masa’s been let off the leash for too long. You’d be doing everyone a favor by putting that mad dog down. Too much beefing, too many bodies on that boy.”

  “Fuck’s sake, man, you talk about him like he was Ichiro the Strangler or something.”

  “Well, Ichiro might have been a cold-blooded murderer, but at least he got shit done. That whole Ginza land development deal was all him.”

  “Look, I don’t want to talk—”

  “Print’s done.”

  The Toymaker began pulling the printed pieces from the thin layer of metal powder still on the bed with tweezers and placing them on a nearby rack. They looked like firing chambers to Satoshi, but he was no expert on making guns. Just using them.

  “Yo, do me a solid and help me reload this bitch.”

  As the Toymaker said this, he called up another design on his print software and calibrated the machine. Satoshi dutifully heaved up the first box and walked it over to the printer.

  “Hatch on the top. Just pour it in, the machine will take care of the rest.”

  Satoshi did as he was told.

  “I guess it’s to be expected, though. You’re gonna have people like that in every crowd, more so in a place like this. That perpetual fog, makes people crazy. Then the Rot sets in.”

  Satoshi really didn’t want to be talking about this. He sighed.

  “The Rot? Come on, isn’t that shit just urban legend? You really believe in that?”

  “I believe in mental illness, shit yeah, I do. It can be exacerbated by prolonged deprivation of sunlight, and the constant fear of radiation, and smog, a lack of Vitamin D, and who knows what else in the air out there. Makes sane people mad and mad people dangerous. Call it what you want, but I absolutely believe it’s real.”

  The Rot was one of the more prominent of the urban myths and legends that had taken root in the people’s minds soon after the fog had covered the city and stayed. Depending on who you asked, the Rot was either the physical toll enacted on the crumbling infrastructure as a result of the increased moisture from the water in the abandoned underground lines and water channels crisscrossing the city, or the toll the permanent fog took on people’s health and well-being. Cancer. Asthma. Lethargy. Cognitive deterioration.

  Or to hear others tell it, the Rot was entirely in the mind. It was the mix of anxiety, depression, and lack of motivation caused by the permanent twilight shrouding the city. Plus the aggression and irritability it had produced in quite a few people. For some, the Rot took on near-mythic status as an explanation for everything wrong with the city. Satoshi thought it was just bullshit. Just another name for the ugliness that was already inside people.

  “Alright. Well, unless you need anything else, I’d like to head off. Maybe see my girlfriend for a change.”

  “Sure thing, dawg, wouldn’t want to keep you from yo’ shorty. Let’s see that hardware list.”

  Satoshi handed him his shopping list.

  “Explosive charges?” the Toymaker asked, raising a single bushy eyebrow. “These are for punching through metal. Best not be using them on nobody. Even if we are talking about Masa here.”

  “Those are for another job.”

  “Aight. Grab those from Jeremy on your way out. And good luck to you.”

  Satoshi nodded as he headed out.

  Back on the street, Jeremy whistled in appreciation as he perused the list.

  “Damn, that’s quite an order. You trying to kill a tank or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  It was nearly one in the morning by the time Satoshi returned the van and caught a cab back home. He entered the apartment with a lopsided gait, a heavy duffel straining the thin strap slung over one shoulder. There he saw Hisoka curled up on the sofa, watching a game show that involved a lot of shrieking.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  He closed the door behind him and went to dump the small arsenal he was carrying in the nearest closet.

  “But tonight’s date night!” she pouted. “I don’t get another night off for a week!”

  “I know, I’m sorry. Lots to take care of with work.” He went to sit next to her.

  “You work too hard.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Hungry? I made a stir-fry. It’s mostly ready, I just need to finish it up.”

  “You haven’t eaten yet?”

  “I wanted to wait for you.”

  He smiled sheepishly, feeling like an asshole, then gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Sorry to keep you wa
iting, I’ll help get it ready.”

  They got up from the couch and headed for the kitchen. It was a decent size for Japan, but still somewhat cramped for two people cooking at the same time.

  “Can you turn the burner on medium and start heating it up?” she asked, peering into the refrigerator.

  “Sure. What are you looking for?”

  “I made some kinpira too. Oh! And I got some cakes from that new bakery that opened up on Meiji Street.”

  When she came over to set the kinpira down on the counter next to the burner, he put his arms around her and hugged her from behind. It was still early yet, but he could already feel her belly filling out.

  “Cakes, huh?” he said, giving her belly a pat. “Aren’t you already starting to get a little chubby there, debu?”

  Still in his arms, she turned to look at him in mock outrage. “Debu? Oh, and whose fault is that? If you knew how to keep that sword of yours in its sheath, I wouldn’t be filling out like this.”

  “Well, you can’t blame a master swordsman for knowing how to wield his instrument,” he said, imitating the serious tone used by the stoic samurai who was the star of a popular period drama.

  “A master swordsman?” Hisoka asked, giggling to herself.

  “Careful, now. I’ve been compared to Zatoichi before, on account of my swordsmanship.” He grinned as he pulled her close.

  “Really? You sure it’s not because you have trouble getting it in when it’s dark?”

  “Oh, that only happened, like, once … like, a couple of times. And only when I was drunk!”

  “Sure, sure,” she said, drawing into his arms.

  They began to kiss, slowly at first and then with greater intensity. Before long, he picked her up and began carry-walking her towards the bedroom.

  “The stove!” she cried out with a giggle.

  He turned and did his awkward walk-shuffle with her still in his arms back to the stove, flicking it off with one hand before turning back to the bedroom.

  Afterward, Satoshi lay on top of a tangle of sheets, with Hisoka half-draped over top of him. She was tracing her hand over the tattoos that covered most of his chest and stomach.

  “I wish you didn’t have these,” she said for possibly the dozenth time in their relationship.

  His ink extended from his shoulder around to his chest and down to just above his wrists on both sides, with just a band down the center of his chest left uninked. Both sides featured intricately detailed black-and-white designs that consisted largely of waves, flowers, and other traditional patterns. These were punctuated throughout by flashes of lush color rendering gorgeous images: an orange carp jumping from the waves, a vibrant image of a bosatsu, or Buddhist saint, a yellow-eyed demon with a red face grinning from his shoulder.

  Satoshi sighed. “You know I can’t just—”

  “I know, I know. I’m just saying,” she said, propping her head up on his chest to look at him. “You got yours with Masa, right?”

  “Yeah. Most of them, anyway. We pretty much started on the Path together.”

  “I know.” She paused. “So … have you decided what you’re going to do about that?”

  Satoshi looked up towards the ceiling. “I … might have another way to get the money together.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  Satoshi hesitated. No use lying. “Yeah, could be. But no more dangerous than going after Masa.”

  “I know you don’t like to talk about it. But what happened there? Between you two, I mean.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, if we can.” Satoshi had been beating his head against this problem since The Rock had dropped it on him. He wanted to just forget about it for a while.

  “Sure. Oh, I signed us up for that couples’ prenatal class. It starts next Wednesday.”

  “Are you nervous?” Because Satoshi sure as shit was.

  “About the class? No it’s mostly just couples’ exercises, breathing drills, stuff like that.”

  “No, I mean about having the baby,” Satoshi clarified.

  “Oh. Well, sort of. Mostly just giving birth. I think I’ve got everything after that taken care of.”

  “Yeah, you’ve worked at that pediatric ward for what, two years now?”

  “Almost three. So I know what to do once it’s born.”

  Satoshi smiled. “You’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll make a great mom.”

  Satoshi could feel her slow, rhythmic breathing on his neck. She sounded like she was getting drowsy. Satoshi was struggling to stay awake himself.

  “Why don’t you like my tattoos?” Satoshi asked sleepily after a few moments.

  Hisoka nestled her face against his neck, above where his tattoo ended.

  “They make your skin cold.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mei had spent the better part of a gloomy Sunday reading up on serial killer psychology. After skimming most of one book, she was convinced that their killer was taking the organs as trophies. Possibly even feeding on them as a way of symbolically consuming his victims. Her opinion changed after reading part of a second book, which made her think that the mutilation was part of a ritualistic sacrifice. It could even be an offering to an imaginary being or entity (likely the result of a psychosis or psychotic break) that urged the serial killer to murder. Her online research introduced her to the complicated, confusing, and batshit insane belief system of some of the more bizarre underground cults found in and below Tokyo. But after reading a third book, she was convinced that …

  Fuck it, she thought, throwing the book down. They were just making her more confused and leading her in circles. She wasn’t going to figure this guy out just by reading some textbooks and pop-psychology books. It was going to come down to thorough police work and a careful examination of the evidence. They had to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb in the hopes that he had slipped up and revealed something about himself somewhere. Tomorrow she would confer with the team over next steps.

  But first she had to go see her father. She glanced at the wall clock, then instantly sprang to her feet, unleashing a torrent of expletives. She was late. Again. She tore off her sweatshirt and track pants and practically dove into the shower before rushing out the door in minutes while pulling her respirator into place. Then it was bus, subway, bus, and soon she was hurrying towards his house.

  Her father lived near Heiwadai Station, one of the little towns that had been reduced to ghost town-status when the underground Fukutoshin Line serving it had flooded. The station was cut off from convenient access to the rest of the city, so the only way to reach it was by a complicated patchwork of subway lines and bus routes. She walked along the main arcade street fronting the station, the streetlamps spaced at long intervals illuminating the closed shops. There were a few sad-looking restaurants and stores open here and there, but she could probably count the number of pedestrians she passed on one hand. Luckily, the corner liquor store was open, and she ducked in to pick up a bottle of sake for her dad. Alcohol made the visits easier.

  Her father had been a respected detective in his own right back in the day. Had even been on the fast-track for a director-level position in a few years. But then, on the day of the biggest bust of his career, he’d walked away from it all. They’d raided the office of a local boss after a sting that had taken months of careful planning. All the men who took part in the raid that day walked out of it empty-handed. Her father drove straight back to the station and dragged the boxes of evidence outside, where he set them alight. The other detectives working the case resigned, and her father was suspended before ultimately being discharged. His superiors had to fight for an honorable discharge that would allow him to keep his pension, but were able to secure this because of his years of service. He refused to even talk about that day with Mei or her mother.

  Ever since her father had quit, tensions between the two had been strained. She still came to visit every week or two, but she visited more out of a sense of obligation th
an any close familial connection. Her father leaving the force had been a major blow to Mei, still a teenager in high school at the time. Her image of the man had taken a drastic hit that day, one from which it had never fully recovered.

  “Hi, Dad,” Mei said when her father opened the door. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

  “Not at all, come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Smells good. Here, I got you a bottle of that sake you like.”

  “This isn’t the sake I like,” her father said, inspecting the bottle.

  “Really? I always see you drinking it.”

  “Because you keep bringing it over. This one’s a little too dry for my taste.”

  “I’ll get a sweet one next time.”

  “No problem. Have a seat.”

  Her father disappeared into the kitchen to fix their drinks.

  “So, how are things with you?” he asked, coming back with two glasses of the sake that Mei liked. He handed her one and kept the one with ice cubes floating in it for himself. Normally she would have protested putting ice in sake, and she had on many occasions, but now she let it go. Let her dad do what he wanted. “Seeing anyone special lately?”

  “Well, there’s always Tim …”

  “Your little sex slave?”

  “Sex-friend. But it’s nothing serious.”

  “Does he know that?”

  Mei shrugged. “Probably. He suits a purpose. Fills a hole, so to speak.” Such comments usually made her dad uncomfortable, which was why she made them.

  “But nothing serious, I take it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just … I don’t know, it’s hard to find good guys with my job. I don’t even have time to date.”

  “You don’t make it easier on yourself either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, didn’t you threaten to drug test that one guy on your first date?”

  “He looked like he was tweaking.”

  “He probably just liked you! Or what about that—”

  “Why are you always so adamant about me getting a boyfriend?”

  “Doesn’t necessarily have to be a boyfriend. Could be a good friend or two, or a dog, or even just a hobby or … something. Some reason to live beyond the job. Someday you’ll realize that living for the job isn’t really living.”