by Joel Jenkins
“Yes, shikata ga nai,” the woman repeated as she stood. “Thank you, Nakamura-san. I’ll have the rest of your fee wired to your account tomorrow.”
Kyoko sipped her highball, watching through the window’s reflection as her now-former client left the shot bar. Once she finished the drink, she signaled to the bartender to refill it and looked out over Shinsekai, thinking about her final words to the woman.
Shikata ga nai—a common Japanese phrase meaning it can’t be helped. As a private investigator, those situations were unfortunately how Kyoko Nakamura made her living.
* * *
Kyoko reached for the ringing phone in her office, raising the receiver to her ear. “Nakamura Investigations.” She leaned back in her chair as she listened to the woman on the other end. She spoke with a friendly tone, but her dialect had an air of sophistication to it that seemed to indicate a prestigious education.
“Good afternoon, my name is Misaki Kuroyama. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I was wondering if you could help me.”
Kyoko sat forward and took a notepad from the corner of her desk, setting it in the center and reaching for a pen. “How can I be of service, Kuroyama-sama?” She punctuated the woman’s family name with the honorific suffix.
“I’m not certain if this is the kind of matter you normally investigate, but my brother has gone missing.”
“Mostly I deal with marital cases,” said Kyoko. “Infidelity and the like.”
“I understand that, but I’m a little desperate. You see, my brother went missing last month.”
Kyoko began jotting down some of what the woman was saying. “I see. Have you gone to the police?”
“Well yes, of course, but you see… my brother has something of a… reputation,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if she were telling Kyoko a secret. “He dropped out of high school and our parents more or less disowned him. He was working at a host bar in Umeda and the police think he probably just left town.”
Kyoko made a note of that and tapped the end of the pen against her desk. “It’s not uncommon. Hosts can make a very lucrative living, if they pull in enough clients. But if they can’t, a lot burn out quickly. Given your family’s treatment, maybe he moved somewhere else. Found another job.”
“I understand that is a possibility, but I need some certainty. The police won’t help me and I’m at the end of my rope. Please, can you help me?” Misaki Kuroyama spoke in keigo, an honorific language normally reserved when speaking to superiors. Not a hint of the Osaka dialect Kyoko had become accustomed to in her daily life. It was a little strange for this woman to use that when speaking to someone of Kyoko’s social status.
Kyoko’s lips pulled back and she inhaled through gritted teeth, the universal sound to indicate reticence in Japan. “I have to be honest with you, I can’t guarantee you I can find any information about your brother. And I collect my fee regardless of whether or not I can find him.”
“I understand. But I have to try, regardless. I’m willing to pay you five hundred thousand yen.”
She almost dropped the phone. Five hundred thousand. The going rate for missing persons case without official documents or a letter of attorney was just under a hundred thousand. Kyoko wouldn’t have to take on another case for about two months with that sort of payday. “I’ll need half the money transferred to my account in advance. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Yes, absolutely! Does this mean you will take on the case?”
“It does,” said Kyoko. “What’s your brother’s name?”
“Shinji.”
Her hand wrote out the hiragana characters for the name. “Do you know the name of the club he worked at?”
“He never told me.”
Kyoko frowned. That would make things more difficult—albeit not impossible. “Okay, I’ll need to know any and all information you have on him. Last-known address, phone number, email, anything at all. A recent photograph would also help.”
“The most-recent picture I have is from a few years ago, is that okay? I have to confess, I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“It’ll have to do. Write down all the information and fax it to my office. When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“About two months ago through email. He said he needed some money and I…” Misaki’s voice choked up a bit. “I told him I couldn’t give it to him. He hasn’t answered any emails or calls since then. At first, I thought he was just cross with me, so I went to his apartment and his landlord told me he hadn’t seen him in a month.”
“Is that when you went to the police?”
“Yes, and they said there was nothing that could be done.”
“Shikata ga nai,” muttered Kyoko. “As I said before, I can’t promise anything, but I can promise that I’ll try my best to find out what’s happened to him.”
“Thank you, that’s all I ask. How should I send you the money?”
“Bank transfer is fine.” Kyoko rattled off her account information—bank name, branch, and account number. Everything Misaki would need to perform a transfer through an ATM. “Did you get all that?”
“Yes, I’ll send you the money first thing tomorrow morning. Thank you so much, Nakamura-san.”
“You’re welcome, Kuroyama-sama. I’ll be in touch.”
Kyoko hung up the phone. A missing person. She hadn’t seen a case like that since her time with the Osaka Police Department. Ever since going into business as a private investigator, the bulk of her cases dealt with cheating husbands. She had to admit, it was a bit of a relief to get the chance to utilize her skills in another investigative area. But she had less confidence in the outcome. The best she could hope for was finding someone who knew Shinji, who could at least point her to a general idea of his current location. It wouldn’t be much, but hopefully it would allow Misaki Kuroyama to sleep a little easier.
* * *
When Kyoko arrived at her office at nine the next morning, she found the fax from Misaki waiting to greet her in the paper tray. Taking it from the machine, her eyes scanned the information. Shinji lived in the Shinsekai neighborhood. That was fortunate, as she knew the area well. And it also made sense. Shinsekai’s reputation as a seedy neighborhood grew out of the strong presence of the mizu-shobai, or “water trade.” A euphemism that usually described red light services. Host and hostess bars propagated the area. Kyoko examined the black-and-white photograph of Shinji: the photo showcased an unassuming man with a very youthful face hidden under a mop of dark hair. Kyoko assumed this photo was taken before he dropped out of school and became a host. Shinji likely looked quite different at the time of his disappearance. It was common for hosts to alter their appearance in different forms—new hairstyles, new hair dye, new clothes, etc.
With the information in hand, Kyoko left the office and headed off to Shinji’s last-known address. It was a bit of a hike on foot, and though she could have taken a taxi to cut down the half-hour walk, cabs were too expensive to justify what would likely be a minimal cut in time with traffic.
Upon arrival, at the six-story building, she walked up the staircase to the second floor. The building looked clean enough from the outside, although it did appear to be a bit aged. 203 was the target and she pressed the button under the intercom to ring the bell. She thought there was a chance Shinji was simply ignoring his sister. It was around half past eleven in the morning, so if he was still here, he’d likely be home sleeping, given the host’s typical schedule. She rang the bell again and then tried banging on the heavy metal door.
Nothing. Kyoko sighed and fished through her handbag, hoping she remembered to bring her lock-pick kit. She did, but before she could draw it out, she heard a voice behind her.
“Can I help you?”
The Osaka dialect was heavy. Kyoko spun and smiled at the elderly woman who stood at the top of the staircase. She wore a simple housedress and her hair was short and curled, with streaks of gray in her black hair.
“Do y
ou know who lives here?” asked Kyoko.
“Mmm,” the woman said with a nod. “I rented the place to him. Are you… his girlfriend?”
There was a slight dip in her tone as she said that final word. While on paper, hosts weren’t prostitutes, there was some blurring of that line and many hosts did indeed sleep with their customers. Usually in exchange for money or other gifts. Clearly, the landlady thought Kyoko was one such woman.
“No, I’m a private investigator.” Kyoko removed her card-holder from her purse and took out one of her business cards. Holding it in both hands, she held it out to the woman with a bow. “My name is Kyoko Nakamura.”
The landlady bowed and accepted the card with both hands. “I’m Yasuko Maeda.” She held the card close to her eyes, studying it carefully. Her expression was stoic, not the slightest hint of a smile or a frown. “Why are you interested in him?”
“His sister contacted me, said he’d been missing for some time. She gave me this address.”
“Eh? Missing?” Maeda gasped a bit. “He’s been late with the rent before… I just assumed…”
“Did you know him well?”
Maeda’s head quickly turned from side to side, her curls bouncing against her face. “I didn’t see much of him. His job was at odd hours. He would usually leave around nine or ten at night and would arrive around six or seven in the morning. Usually drunk, sometimes with women. The few times I saw him, he would just bow and not say a word.”
“If possible, I’d like to have a look around his apartment,” said Kyoko.
Maeda sucked in her breath. “I don’t know…”
“Please, Ms. Maeda,” said Kyoko. “Shinji’s sister is extremely worried about him.”
Maeda tapped the business card against her hand. Kyoko kept her head bowed slightly, eyes focused on the ground, hands folded at her waist. “Do you think something’s happened to him?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out. And for that, I’ll need your cooperation.”
Maeda smiled with a grandmotherly grin and patted Kyoko’s arm. “Wait right here. I’ll get the key.” She trotted down the steps and Kyoko stepped up to the edge of the terrace. Like most buildings in this style, the corridor was open-air. Kyoko leaned against the guard and cast her gaze over Shinsekai. During the day, it seemed like a ghost town. But come nightfall, the bars, clubs, restaurants, and pachinko parlors would light up the neighborhood.
“I’ve got it,” said Maeda upon reaching the top step. She walked to the apartment and unlocked the door, then stepped to the side and offered a bow and a hand gesture for Kyoko to enter.
In the tiny foyer, Kyoko stepped carefully to find a spot that wasn’t covered by one of Shinji’s many shoes: numerous dress shoes, sandals, and a pair of gym shoes. All scattered randomly in the foyer. Kyoko removed her own footwear and entered the small corridor of the apartment, with Maeda following. There was a bathroom and washing machine to her right, but she passed by these.
The kitchen was small, basically consisting just of the sink, small refrigerator, and a tiny stove with one burner. A microwave also sat atop the refrigerator. Used instant noodle cups and bento boxes were piled in the sink, tiny flies buzzing around them. Empty beer cans were scattered on the floor. Just past the shoji paper door was a room with tatami straw-mat flooring. A six-mat room, decent enough size, with a mattress lying in the center of the room. Clothes littered the floor, and a small TV sat in the corner of the room on a tiny stand.
“Single men are the worst tenants,” said Maeda. “They don’t know a thing about cleaning. Men need a good woman to keep the house in order and manage their money. Otherwise they have no self-control.”
Kyoko ignored the comment, but she couldn’t deny one element of truth: she couldn’t tell if the mess was the result of a struggle or if Shinji simply lived like a slob. The clothes on the floor seemed to be a mix of clean and dirty, including a fair number of dress shirts, slacks, and blazers. She stepped out of the bedroom and went back into the corridor, pushing open the bathroom door. Above the sink was a mirror and the shelves contained numerous hair care products for men, an electric razor, and a fair bit of cologne and deodorant.
“Do you know where he worked?” asked Kyoko on her return to the kitchen.
“He never said.”
Kyoko nodded and went back into the bedroom. She dug through the piles of clothing, and found a cell phone. When she tried to turn it on, nothing happened. Dead battery. Kyoko slipped it into her purse;, once she returned to her office, she’d charge it and see if anything useful could be found.
“Did you find anything?” asked Maeda, peering into the room. She didn’t look at Kyoko when she asked the question, rather stared at the discarded clothes with disapproval.
“Nothing useful,” said Kyoko. “Thank you for your help, Maeda-san. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.” She bowed deep and Maeda offered a bow of less depth.
Kyoko began the walk back to her office from Shinji’s apartment. She could hear the sound of someone walking behind her and she stopped at a vending machine, lingering at it. While pretending to examine the drink choices, she actually focused on her reflection in the glass and saw the reflection of someone pass behind her. From the corner of her eye, she watched the young man in a baseball cap and track suit turn down the next street. Kyoko moved away from the vending machine and passed through the small intersection.
She stopped at a 7-11 on the corner of the next block. Examining the shop’s collection of onigiri—triangular rice balls usually with a filling of a sort and sometimes wrapped in seaweed—she listened carefully and the bell signaling the entrance of a new customer rang. The chime was accompanied by the greeting of “irasshaimase” from the shop clerks. Kyoko selected an onigiri with tuna and mayonnaise, and turned, moving to the register. Standing by the magazine rack and flipping through the pages of a comic book was the same guy in a track suit. Kyoko paid for the snack and left. She could feel the man’s eyes on her and not long after she left the store, she picked up on the sound of footsteps once more.
Quickening her pace, Kyoko turned down several alleys. Side streets in Japanese cities were often arranged in a chaotic, winding maze; without street signs on anything but the major roads, getting lost was not a difficult task, even for someone who had lived in a given area for years.
That the man in the track suit was able to keep up with her so well showed that he knew these roads almost as well as she. But he had one disadvantage: he expected she would keep moving. So it came as a surprise when he turned a corner and saw her leaning against a shuttered shop, an unlit Seven Stars dangling from her fingertips.
“Got a light?” she asked.
He said nothing, just stared at her.
Kyoko stared back. “The quiet type, huh? Why are you following me?”
Again, no response. Except now he started to look nervous. Rather than interact with her further, he simply turned and ran back the way he came. Kyoko watched him run with a mix of curiosity and confusion. She took the cheap black lighter from her purse and held the flame over the tip of her cigarette.
* * *
After charging the phone in her office, Kyoko lit a cigarette. The first thing she checked on the phone were the photos. Most of them were taken at the club Shinji must have worked at. And in these photos, Shinji definitely updated his appearance. His shaggy hair was styled with sharp spikes hanging around his face and dyed with a reddish tint. In the photos, he almost always wore a white dress shirt loose at the collar, with a blazer or vest. His head was cocked in practically every pose, and there was only the slightest hint of a smile. Some pictures were of him sitting at a table with groups of three to five young women, and a few shots of some older women. In the background of one of the pictures, Kyoko could see the bar’s logo: Nanpa.
Kyoko powered up her laptop and searched for the bar. The website popped up in seconds. She took notice of the address: right in the heart of Shinsekai, just as she had pred
icted. Picking up her cell phone, she quickly dialed a number and a perky receptionist answered.
“Thank you for calling the Osaka Police Department. This is Tachibana speaking. How may I help you?”
“Takeshi Hashimoto, please.”
“Please hold on for a moment.”
Some light music played in the background and Kyoko smoked her cigarette, occasionally brushing off the ash in the small, glass tray. A gruff voice answered. “Hashimoto speaking.”
“It’s Nakamura.”
“Ahh, Naka-chan,” said Hashimoto, his voice picking up in tone. “How are you doing? Still exposing lewd old bastards like me?”
Kyoko gave a clipped snicker. “It’s good to hear your voice, too, Kacho.” Even though she was no longer working under him, Kyoko still used the generic job title to describe the head of her former section. “I’ve actually got something different I’m working on. A woman approached me about her missing brother. She said the police weren’t much help.”
“Did she?” Hashimoto’s tone turned a bit critical.
“Mm. He was working at a host bar in Shinsekai, said the police told her that he probably just moved away. But I visited his place and if he did leave, he certainly didn’t bother informing his landlady or even packing. Left his cell, too.”
“Maybe he had to skip town in a huff. Happens sometimes with these types. Not uncommon for them to get stalkers.”
“Speaking of, I ended up with a stalker myself.” She tapped the cigarette against the tray.
“What? Are you okay?”
“Mm. Guy ran off once I confronted him.”
“And you think it’s connected to your case?”
She leaned back in the chair while keeping the phone pressed against her ear. On her desk was a framed photograph of herself in a police uniform, standing next to Hashimoto. He was a man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and thin-framed glasses who wore the furthest thing from a smile on his face.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Could’ve just been some pervert. But the fact that it happened right after I left the kid’s apartment makes me suspicious.”
