“Thanks.” It would mean a trip back on a workday, but I could swing it.
“Do you know where Missouri is?” Mariko asked unexpectedly when we stood up to leave.
“Between Kentucky and Kansas,” said Pepsi, a real wise guy.
“No, the bar,” Mariko said. “There used to be a bar around here called Missouri.”
“Oh, sure!” Pepsi said. “Bar Missouri. A real whippersnapper of a gal ran it, smart-mouthed like you wouldn’t believe.”
Mariko nodded. “Where was it?”
“Where the JaBank is now, on the street that we call the Ginza because it has all the department stores. Not that it compares with the real thing in Tokyo. Why?”
“I want to see the place where I grew up,” Mariko said, startling me.
“How about that!” Pepsi looked speculative. “So tell me what happened to the gals who worked there?”
“The rent went up, so we moved.” Mariko’s eyes flickered to me, as if she worried I might say something. I didn’t. I wanted to hear more about her childhood, but I knew it would come bit by bit, on her own time.
To appease Mariko, we went straight to the Yokosuka JaBank. My annoyance at the way she’d sabotaged things in Old Salts had given way to self-criticism. Bringing her to Yokosuka had been a bad idea, given her trauma only a few hours earlier.
Standing outside the glassed-in vestibule where the cash machine was located, I watched Mariko walk around restlessly. Then while Richard was punching in his access code to withdraw cash, she hovered behind. She appeared to be reading over his shoulder.
I tried to catch Richard’s eye when he came out, but he was full of talk about a curry restaurant Mariko remembered from her girlhood. We walked twenty minutes until we found a grimy little shop with no Indians in evidence. Instead, a moon-faced Japanese woman in late middle age doled a soupy mixture over a scoop of sticky Japanese rice, slapping a fried egg on top.
“This place sucks.” Mariko was speaking Japanese again, now that it was just us three. “I want to get out of here.”
“I thought you wanted to come here,” I reminded her. “This isn’t my taste, either. For real Indian food, you have to go to Moti in Ropppongi.”
“Don’t be a control freak, Rei,” Richard chided. I blew up. “What kind of crap is this, the second you have a new friend I metamorphose into some kind of villain? Watch your back, Richard. That’s all I’ll say.”
Mariko cleared her throat. “Richard-san? What did it mean when those sailor boys called you that thing—fag?”
“It’s slang for guys who like guys. You know, homosexuals.” Richard raised his eyebrows teasingly.
“Well, why did they call you that?” Mariko sounded cross. “What did you say to annoy them?”
“Nothing, really. Sometimes people can just tell.”
“Poor, poor Richard-san!” She put her arms around him. “You can change if you want to. I know a girl who specializes in boys who like boys.”
“But I don’t want to,” Richard said. “Ask Rei. Life’s too good the way it is.”
If she were to ask me, I could tell her his video collection had Debbie Does Dallas and Harry Does Hong Kong. But I was sick of them both.
“I can’t eat this, and I want to stop in Kawasaki to follow up on that address Mariko showed me,” I said.
“I’m not going there, I’ve done enough for you today. Talking to those disgusting old men was like being at work!” Mariko grumbled.
“How many nights a week were you working at Marimba?” I asked.
“Six! It was exhausting.”
“What about New Year’s Eve?”
“That too. Why?” She stared at me, the reality slowly dawning. “You’re pathetic. You want to blame me for my aunt’s murder!”
“Was Kiki, the Mama-san, also working?”
She tossed her dreadlocks. “Of course! If you don’t believe me, ask one of the losers I had to entertain. I have their cards at the Marimba.”
“Rei’s not going to bother you anymore,” Richard promised her. “At least you know I’m here to protect you.”
Richard patted her dreadlocks, and Mariko snuggled into his chest. They seemed happy in their embrace. Too happy. When I got up and said good-bye, only the curry cook acknowledged me.
I was in Kawasaki forty minutes later. Armed with the address I’d found in Setsuko’s book, I went to a police box. The officer on duty located the address for me on an oversized map that decorated the wall.
“It’s best to take the bus, because a taxi will cost a lot,” he advised, deciding to treat me like a backpacker. “But you should go next week. It closed today at noon.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
“The post office.” He tapped significantly on the map. “You’re asking for directions to the Northern District post office.”
Damn them for building up the country so quickly, I thought as I rode the bus anyway, to make sure he was right. Whoever had lived on the property where the shiny white post office now stood was long gone. I went to the fruit vendor on the left and the stationer on the right but no one knew anything about a house that had once stood there and where its owners might have moved.
It took twelve minutes to get back to Tokyo, long enough for depression to roll over me like a heavy blanket. That’s what I needed, to curl up in bed and put everything away for the night. I’d ignore my worries that Mariko was about to rip off Richard’s bank account or had any knowledge of Setsuko’s death. I’d push aside my brutal mental picture of Mrs. Yogetsu falling to her death because of a secret I’d refused to hear. And I wouldn’t dare let myself think of Hugh.
I had intended to lie down for an hour, but when I awoke it was pitch black and freezing. I stuck an arm out from the futon and grabbed the last pair of jeans I’d worn. I pulled on one of Richard’s oxford shirts and my parka before looking around for something to cat. Nothing. The only solution was a snack from Family Mart. I hurried through the neighborhood thinking of my favorite onigiri, a seaweed-wrapped rice ball with a tangy pickled plum buried in the middle. I was deep enough into fantasy that I didn’t see a black sedan speeding around the corner, but jumped back just in time.
“What’s new?” Mr. Waka laid aside his tabloid when I entered his store.
“Not much. I’m alone tonight. Richard’s out having the time of his life with a girl who’s moved in and replaced me.”
“Here, have some of my oden. It’s good for the troubled heart.” Mr. Waka went to the counter and stirred a cauldron of golden-brown fluid, bringing a few odd pieces of sausage and fish cake bobbing to the surface.
“Mmm, I had something less rich in mind,” I demurred. “Just some rice. Any onigiri around?”
Mr. Waka shook his head, sorrowful. “None. Except for salmon, which you do not like.”
I poked around the refrigerator and freezer cases, eventually settling on a Sweet Sixteen ice cream cone. Bland and soothing, it would stay cold on the trip home.
As I walked back holding the ice cream in my gloved hand, my footsteps sounded loud, perhaps because the neighborhood was so quiet. Saturday night in one of the world’s most densely populated cities and not a soul around. I craved a sign of life, something to convince me I wasn’t Tokyo’s loneliest person.
I took back my wish the instant that I rounded the corner to my street. There, parked squarely in front of the door, was the black sedan that had clipped me, hazard lights flashing.
18
Looking up at my lit window, I could make out the shadows of two people. Were they Richard and Mariko, or Kiki’s mobsters? I tried to melt into the sandal factory doorway.
The car started, its headlights blazing on and temporarily blinding me. An electronic window whizzed down on the driver’s side.
“All alone on a Saturday night, Rei Shimura. You surprise me.”
I was shaken in a different way as Hugh Glendinning’s rounded vowels washed over me. He flipped on the interior light, and
I got a good look at him. He was clean shaven and pale, wearing his shearling jacket and corduroy jeans. As he adjusted his position, I caught a glimpse of his bandaged ankle.
“They hurt you!” I said, getting in the car.
“No, I sprained it skiing. Remember?” He put the car in reverse and executed an incredible turn on my dead-end street. I looked over my shoulder at my apartment window, and the figures in the window were waving: Richard and Mariko, after all.
“I’ve had this car for six months. Not bad, eh?” Hugh said, turning the radio on to J-WAVE, a pop station with English programming.
“You almost ran me over back by the Family Mart.”
“Don’t tell me you were the idiot running around in black in the middle of the night?” He looked at my parka. “So you were.”
“How did you find me?” I unwrapped the ice cream I’d almost forgotten.
“Mr. Ota gave me directions. I can’t believe you live here. This district is seedier than hell.”
“It’s poor but safe.” As we passed the liquor store, the door opened and, as if programmed, a drunk emerged, vomiting a plume of liquid onto the sidewalk.
“Not from a public health standpoint. Did you see that?” Hugh exclaimed.
“It’s no worse than the trains. Come on, tell me how you got out!”
“I’m ashamed to admit it now that the Getsu woman is dead—”
“Yogetsu,” I corrected.
“Right.” Hugh picked up speed and headed for the Shuto Expressway. “Because Mrs. Yogetsu was the witness with the most damning story against me, I suggested Ota dig around in her background. He found something interesting: her flower arranging licenses weren’t in order. She’d been passing herself off as a master teacher when she was only third degree. Whatever that means.”
“It means she was practically a rookie! I never liked her flower arrangements. I should have known something was off.”
“Mr. Ota told her that if I went to trial, her misrepresentation would be made public. With that in mind, she amended her previous claim that she’d overheard me with Setsuko in the bath.”
“She saved you.” The woman I’d disliked so much had come through. So what if it was chiefly to save her reputation?
“Mr. Ota sensed there was something else she wasn’t telling him or the police. After signing the new statement, Mrs. Yogetsu shot off for Tokyo, presumably to see you.”
“I was out that night, so she missed me. And then she was killed at my train station. If I’d spoken to her on the telephone, it might never have happened,” I confessed.
“It was tragic. I didn’t learn about it until my hearing this morning, when the prosecutor decided to let me go.”
“So you’re free and clear?” I was astounded.
“Not really. Captain Okuhara is still poking around for a way to bring me back in. If Yamamoto’s body is found with signs of foul play, I may be charged.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “For everything.”
“I wrote that you were forgiven.” His voice didn’t sound particularly warm.
“Yes, Mr. Ota sent me your fax. And did he tell you I went to Setsuko’s farewell ceremony?”
“I know all that. Hikari said you took an address book she’d planned to give Mr. Ota. I’d like you to hand it over. Your work is done, Rei. I don’t want you to feel driven by guilt or something as daft as the fact that we spent one night together.”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” So what I’d read in the fax, the distanced, cold prose, was true. A tense silence descended, broken only when Hugh took a handkerchief out of the glove compartment and handed it to me.
“You’re not worth tears.” I balled it up and threw it back at him.
“Thanks, but you’re still dripping ice cream on the car seat.”
I hadn’t seen the small chunk of strawberry ice cream that had fallen. I hastily wiped it up.
“So what’s in the address book?” He tried again.
“Names. I’m looking up the important people.”
“And why would you be better at it than my lawyer?”
“Because I’m finding people all the time. In fact, I already have her niece Mariko under my care.”
“What! How old is this child?” Hugh braked sharply to avoid hitting a minivan.
“Twenty-four. She’s staying in my apartment right now, if you want me to prove that she really exists—”
“I believe you,” he said grudgingly. “Tell me more.”
I recounted what I’d learned about Setsuko’s humble background and her few remaining relatives. When I got to the story of Mariko’s attack, he clucked disapprovingly.
“So is the niece really safe with you? You live in a building without a concierge, let alone any kind of security system.”
“Did you go upstairs?” I shouldn’t be surprised that Mariko and Richard had opened the door to him. Too bad I’d left the apartment so messy.
“No. I shouted upward, and they called back that you were out. They invited me up, but I can’t climb stairs. So I decided to wait in the comfort of my car.”
Hugh decelerated off the expressway for Roppongi Crossing, the center of young foreign and Japanese night life. It took three changes of the stop-light to make it through the intersection jammed with luxury motorcycles and taxis, but at least I could watch the mob scene: the drama of leather-clad lovers reuniting, young girls stomping off to discotheques, and hawkers in tuxedos and miniskirts, not always according to sex. Hugh turned left at the Roi Building, traveling down a short, steep hill. He stopped in a no-parking zone bordering a cemetery.
“Could you give me a hand getting out?” He asked, extracting crutches from the back seat. “My favorite little place is just over there.” He pointed to a basement-level pub flying the Union Jack.
As we hobbled toward it, a Japanese doorman dressed like a rugby player sprang into action.
“Hugh-san, Hugh-san! You are returned at last, but you have some injury—”
“Nothing permanent, Kozo,” Hugh said as the strong young man took over for me.
“Abunai, Hugh-san. Please be safety…” Kozo scrambled to find chairs for a tiny table in the corner of the dark, smoky room filled with red-faced, primarily middle-aged foreigners.
“Hugh-san will be comfortable, I think,” the waiter said, propping Hugh’s leg up on another chair.
“Thanks, Kozo,” Hugh said, and by the time I had shrugged out of my coat we were surrounded by voices from all corners of the old British empire.
“It’s Shug, back at last!”
“Did they break your leg to exert a confession?”
“It figures you’d land a female police escort!”
“About the only decent thing I accomplished in the Japanese Alps was finding another English speaker to join our ranks,” Hugh grumbled when they were through. “Though I’m stunned to find you here so early on a Saturday night. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“We had a feeling something interesting might turn up. Got a tip from a good source,” an Australian answered with a smirk.
“Piers.” Hugh’s attention had flashed to a very pale man in business clothes who had come up. “An excellent piece of negotiation. I’m indebted.”
“Stay in town and out of trouble, Hugh. That’s all I ask.” Piers Clancy’s eyes landed on me for a half-second before averting them as if he’d seen something distasteful. “Do you plan to retain Ota?”
When Hugh nodded, Piers said, “You should consider Ichikawa, the one who got Raymond off for sexual battery. He’s formidable.”
“I’m not as badly off as Raymond. After all, I didn’t do it,” Hugh snapped.
There was a chorus of things like “Get off, we know you’re clean!” and “Your mates are with you, Shug!” that trailed off when Piers gathered up his Burberry and stalked out into the night.
“He must have work to do,” I said, trying to put a good face on things.
“It’s been fun
, Hugh, but I must be off.” A lanky Englishman clapped Hugh on the shoulder. Another friend suddenly remembered he had to be at the flat to take a call from the London office and the Australians were off to meet some models at Motown.
“Don’t reckon you’re much for dancing with that leg,” one of them said as he swung out the door.
“Ta.” Hugh looked at his watch. “So, it took just five minutes to be reclassified as a virtual pariah.”
“What’s this Shug stuff?” I asked.
“Just a nickname for Hugh. It’s a Scottish thing you wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s right, I’m so terrible with languages. Why did you bring me here? It’s like meeting in Tokyo Station.”
“I didn’t want to be alone with you,” Hugh said, looking past me and out the window at traffic. “The last time, we had those complications. I apologize for losing control.”
Kozo reappeared, taking Hugh’s order for Tennent’s Lager. I stuck with Perrier, given my empty stomach.
“What was I saying?” Hugh asked after Kozo had gone.
“Just that you aren’t interested in me anymore.” I stared him down, willing him to deny it.
“You wouldn’t want me if you knew the truth. I guarantee it.”
“The truth? You mean what you were going to tell me in Shiroyama?” When he nodded, I said, “Try me.”
“Right, here goes. Do you remember the Japan Times piece a while ago about American expatriate businessmen paying Japanese businessmen for privileged information?”
“The economic spies,” I remembered. “It turned out the CIA was behind it. Stories like that make me ashamed to carry an American passport.”
“Right. Some European nations began thinking it would make sense to do the same for the betterment of its trade interests. So I—well, you can imagine.”
The thought of a man who spoke no Japanese and could barely handle chopsticks sneaking around to gather company secrets was ludicrous. I started laughing, a reaction that didn’t please him.
“Damn it, Rei, can’t you see what could happen? If Okuhara digs enough, I’ll be out of the country faster than a subway ride from Roppongi to Hiroo.”
The Salaryman's Wife Page 18
