by David Peace
* * *
—
Back again, laughed Akira Senju, the man who would not die, the man who really ruled this city, its Secret Emperor. In plain sight, in his Shimbashi Palace, at the heart of his thriving empire, at the top of his shiny new building, in his luxurious modern office, at his antique rosewood desk, in his expensive tailored suit, with his fat foreign cigar, he reached into a drawer, took out a piece of paper, and handed it across the desk to Harry Sweeney: That should keep you occupied, Harry-san.
Harry Sweeney glanced down at the piece of paper, its list of names: Formosan names, Korean names. Harry Sweeney folded the paper in half, put it in his jacket pocket, and started to get to his feet, to turn to the door, the exit.
Not staying for a drink tonight, Harry, said Akira Senju. Of course not, excuse me, you’re a busy man, I know. I was actually surprised you called, surprised you came. I thought you’d have had your hands full, trying to find your missing president. Very careless that, I must say, Harry. Losing a president. All over the radio, all over the papers. Looks very bad, very careless. Makes people nervous, makes people worried. Our imperial masters, our foreign saviors, and you go and lose your president, your own little lapdog, your little puppet. I mean, if you can’t protect the President of the National Railroads, if he can be abducted in broad daylight, then who can you protect, Harry? And if you can’t find him, can’t save him, then who can you save?
Harry Sweeney turned back from the door. He said, You’re so certain he’s been abducted, are you?
What else could have happened, Harry? You fire a man, you expect a reaction. You fire thirty thousand men, you expect thirty thousand reactions, no? Extreme reactions, violent reactions. I mean, a man doesn’t simply disappear, simply vanish. Well, some men, yeah. But not presidents. Presidents, well, they tend to…Well, they tend to get assassinated, Harry.
Harry Sweeney smiled: We’ll see.
We will, Harry, we will. I’m just surprised you’re not out there now. Cracking union skulls, breaking red bones. That’s what I’d be doing. Cracking skulls and breaking bones. Turning this city upside down, burning it down, if I had to. If that’s what I had to do, if that’s what it took to get my man back. That’s what I’d be doing, Harry.
Harry Sweeney smiled again: Well, I’m not you.
Really, laughed Akira Senju. Well, you keep telling yourself whatever you need to tell yourself, Harry. I know how it is, I understand. But remember: you ever need a list of Communists, of Reds, of skulls to crack, of bones to break, then you know where to find me, Harry. You know where I am. And I am here to help. So you be sure to tell the General, General Willoughby, I’m your man, Harry-san. I’m your man.
* * *
—
Fuck, cursed Harry Sweeney in a telephone booth in the lobby of the Dai-ichi Hotel. He replaced the receiver and stepped out of the booth. He walked across the lobby and handed his hat to the checkroom girl. The Japanese girl gave him a ticket and bowed. Harry Sweeney smiled, thanked her, then turned and walked down the stairs into the cellar bar. Low lights and loud voices. Foreign voices, American voices. Americans playing poker in one corner, Americans playing ping-pong in another, Americans singing “Roll Me Over in the Clover,” Americans clapping and Americans laughing; Americans drinking, Americans drunk. Harry Sweeney took a stool at the bar and nodded to the Japanese barman. In his white shirt and black bow tie, the barman came over: What’ll it be, Harry?
The usual please, Joe, said Harry Sweeney.
Joe the barman put a glass down on the counter in front of Harry Sweeney. He picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He filled the glass: You still never say when, Harry?
That’s me, Joe. No ice, no soda, no when.
Joe the barman filled the glass to the brim. He put the bottle down. He said, She’s been and gone, Harry.
Harry Sweeney nodded. He reached out toward the glass. He gripped it in his fingers. He leaned forward, bowed over the drink. He smiled and nodded again.
Joe the barman shook his head: And you won’t find her in there, Harry. You know that.
No harm in just looking, is there, Joe?
Joe shook his head again.
A young woman in a red dress walked down the length of the bar. She had large eyes, a large nose, and she was smoking a cigarette, holding a glass. She put the glass on the counter next to Harry Sweeney, put her hand on the stool next to Harry Sweeney, and said, You expecting company?
I try to avoid expectations, said Harry Sweeney.
But you don’t mind some?
Mind some what?
Some company?
Depends on the company.
The woman sat down on the stool, turned and held out her hand toward Harry Sweeney. She had a wide mouth and full lips. She smiled and said, Gloria Wilson.
Harry Sweeney.
I know, said Gloria Wilson. We’re neighbors.
You don’t say.
I do say, laughed Gloria Wilson. You’re on the fourth floor, I’m on the third. At the NYK building.
Well, fancy that.
Not really, said Gloria Wilson. It’s such a small world, don’t you think, Mister Sweeney? This world. And it’s all Sir Charles’s world. We’re all his children. You, me, and everyone here. We’re all his children, Mister Sweeney.
You should be careful, Miss Wilson. Walls have ears. The General might not like it if he heard you talking that way. He might take offense.
I’m sure he would, Mister Sweeney. But he wouldn’t like the color of my dress either, would he? He’d be offended by that. He’s so easily offended. Poor man.
Harry Sweeney nodded at Joe the barman: Give the lady another of whatever she’s drinking, please, Joe.
I hope you’re not implying I’m some kind of lush, Mister Sweeney, said Gloria Wilson. Because I’m not.
Harry Sweeney shook his head: Not at all, Miss Wilson. It’s just called being friendly where I come from.
And where’s that, Mister Sweeney?
Montana.
Billings? Missoula? Helena?
Nope.
Great Falls? Butte?
No.
Well, that’s me stumped, Mister Sweeney. You win.
Not really, said Harry Sweeney. Anaconda.
It must be very beautiful. The Big Sky.
You’ve never been to Montana.
No, but I’d like to go.
What makes you say that?
Oh, no reason, sighed Gloria Wilson. No reason except it isn’t Muncie, Indiana, I guess.
Muncie, Indiana’s that bad?
Yes, laughed Gloria Wilson. That bad.
So how long you been free of Muncie, Indiana?
Probably too long now.
Too long? So you want to go home?
No, Mister Sweeney, said Gloria Wilson. I do not want to go home. I sometimes dream I’m back home, back in Muncie. But then, when I wake up, when I open my eyes and I look around my room, I’m so very glad I’m not back home in Muncie. I’m so very relieved I’m still here, here in Tokyo.
In the Kingdom of Sir Charles?
Well now, we can’t have everything now, can we, Mister Sweeney? That just wouldn’t be fair.
But you feel guilty you don’t want to go home.
Yes, I do, Mister Sweeney, I do! I feel so very guilty.
Harry Sweeney slowly raised his glass, careful not to spill the whisky: Nice to meet you, Miss Wilson.
Gloria Wilson raised her glass, gently touched it against the glass in Harry Sweeney’s hand, smiled, and said, Nice to meet you, too, Mister Sweeney.
And here’s to not being in Anaconda or Muncie, said Harry Sweeney, gently touching glasses again, then carefully putting his own back down on the counter.
You bet! But you’re not drinking your drink?
&nbs
p; I just watch these days.
You see much happen, laughed Gloria Wilson.
More than you’d think.
But you don’t mind if I drink mine?
I’d be heartbroken if you didn’t, Miss Wilson.
Then I surely shall, said Gloria Wilson. She took a sip from her glass, and then another: If only to keep your heart from breaking, Mister Sweeney.
You’re very kind, Miss Wilson. Thank you.
I’m not really, said Gloria Wilson. But thank you for saying so. And please, call me Gloria, Mister Sweeney.
Then call me Harry, if you don’t mind.
I don’t mind at all, Harry. You’re famous.
For what, Miss Wilson? Sorry, I mean Gloria.
Now you’re being a tease, Harry Sweeney. You know full well for what. You were in the papers. You’re the man who’s busting all their gangs. Everyone knows that.
You really shouldn’t believe everything you read, said Harry Sweeney. But what about you? What do you do, Gloria? Down on the third floor?
Well, nothing so exciting or glamorous as you, Harry, laughed Gloria Wilson. I’m just Miss Plain Jane the librarian. In the Historical Branch. That’s dull little me.
I very much doubt that, said Harry Sweeney. You sure don’t dress like any librarian I ever saw. Not in Montana.
Gloria Wilson laughed: And not in Muncie, Indiana, either. Then she nodded at the poker game over in the corner: But we’re having an historical night on the town.
Harry Sweeney glanced at the corner, at the faces round the table. Three Americans, one Japanese. No one clapping, no one laughing. Not joining in the songs, just playing their cards. Harry Sweeney smiled: Looks like a swell old party.
You’re kidding me? Worse than the library. But my friends Don and Mary, they said they’d swing by. They’re a blast, you’d like them…
Harry Sweeney smiled again. Harry Sweeney looked at his watch. Then Harry Sweeney nodded to Joe the barman again as he stood up: Freshen up the lady’s glass for her, will you, Joe, and stick it on my tab, please.
Don’t tell me you’re leaving, said Gloria Wilson.
Harry Sweeney bowed: Back to work for me, I’m afraid. But it’s been real nice to meet you, Gloria.
Just my luck, laughed Gloria Wilson. I finally run into someone in this town who’ll still buy a drink for a round-eyes and make nice, and you’re a workaholic. But thank you, Harry Sweeney. Thank you. It’s been a pleasure…
Harry Sweeney smiled: See you around, Gloria.
You bet you will. I’ll come find you…
You’re welcome to try, laughed Harry Sweeney, then he walked away from the woman, the bar, and the drink, and up the stairs. He handed his ticket to the checkroom girl. The girl gave him his hat with a smile and a bow. Harry Sweeney smiled back and thanked her. He walked across the lobby, out through the doors, and straight into a couple: a Japanese woman in a kimono and an American man in uniform –
Well, hell, the odds of that, laughed Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon. We don’t meet for four years, then twice in the same goddamn day. You find my president for me, did you yet, Mister Sweeney?
Your president, sir?
My railroad, my goddamn president.
Not last I heard, sir, no.
Colonel Channon put a hand in his pocket, took out a wad of notes, and waved them about in front of Harry Sweeney: A hundred goddamn dollars, Sweeney.
Donny, please, said the Japanese woman at his side. Come on, Donny. Let’s just go home, please, Donny…
Jesus Christ, spat Colonel Channon, pushing the woman away, staggering on the step, scattering the notes, swinging at the woman, and shouting, What did I tell you about speaking when I’m speaking! And calling me…
Harry Sweeney took the Colonel’s arm, pulling him away from the woman: It’s late, sir. I think –
Don’t you goddamn tell me what you think, Sweeney. I know you, Sweeney, you’re no saint. Just a pack of lies, a goddamn pack of lies. That’s you, Sweeney, same as all the goddamn rest of them. I don’t give a crap what you think, what any of you fucking think. I love this woman! Goddamn fucking love her, Sweeney. You hear me? You all fucking hear me! And I love her goddamn fucking country, too! So screw you, Sweeney. Screw you and goodnight.
* * *
—
Harry Sweeney put the key in the lock of the door to his room in the Yaesu Hotel. He turned the key, he opened the door. He shut the door behind him, he locked the door behind him. He stood in the center of the room and he looked around the room. In the light from the street, in the light from the night. The screwed-up envelope, the torn-up letter. The open Bible, the fallen crucifix. The upturned suitcase, the empty wardrobe. The pile of damp clothes, the bundle of soiled sheets. The bare mattress, the empty bed. He heard the rain on the window, he heard the rain in the night. He walked over to the washstand. He looked down into the basin. He saw the shards of broken glass. He looked back up into the mirror, he stared at the face in the mirror. He stared at its jaw, its cheek, its eyes, its nose, and its mouth. He reached up to touch the face in the mirror, to trace the outline of its jaw, its cheek, its eyes, its nose, and its mouth. He ran his fingers up and down the edge of the mirror. He gripped the edges of the mirror. He prized the mirror off the wall. He crouched down. He placed the face of the mirror against the wall beneath the window. He started to stand back up. He saw spots of blood on the carpet. He took off his jacket. He threw it onto the mattress. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. He rolled up the cuffs of his shirt. He saw the spots of blood on the bandages on his wrists. He undid the buttons of his shirt. He took off his shirt. He tossed it onto the mattress. He took off his watch. He dropped it on the floor. He unhooked the safety pin that secured the bandage on his left wrist. He put the pin between the faucets of the washbasin. He unwound the bandage on his left wrist. He threw the length of bandage on top of his shirt on the mattress. He unhooked the safety pin that secured the bandage on his right wrist. He put it next to the other safety pin between the faucets. He unwound the bandage from his right wrist. He tossed this length of bandage onto the other bandage on top of his shirt. He picked up the trash can. He carried it over to the basin. He picked out the pieces of broken glass. He put them in the trash. He turned on the faucets. He waited for the water to come. To drown out the rain on the window, to silence the rain in the night. He put the stopper in the basin, he filled the basin. He turned off the faucets. The sound of the rain on the window again, the noise of the rain in the night again. He put his hands and his wrists into the basin and the water. He soaked his hands and his wrists in the water in the basin. He watched the water wash away the blood. He felt the water cleanse his wounds. He nudged out the stopper. He watched the water drain from the basin, from around his wrists, from between his fingers. He lifted his hands from the basin. He picked up a towel from the floor. He dried his hands and his wrists on the towel. He folded the towel. He hung the towel on the rail beside the basin. He walked back into the center of the room. In the light from the street, in the light from the night. He held out his hands, he turned over his palms. He looked down at the clean, dry scars on his wrists. He stared at them for a long time. Then he knelt down in the center of the room. By the screwed-up envelope, before the torn-up letter. The scraps of paper, the scraps of phrases. Betrayal. Deceit. Judas. Lust. Marriage. Sanctity. My religion. You traitor. Will never give up. Give you a divorce. I know what you are like, I know who you are. But I forgive you, Harry. The children forgive you, Harry. Come home, Harry. Please just come home. Harry Sweeney brought his palms together. Harry Sweeney raised his hands toward his face. He bowed his head. He closed his eyes. In the middle of the American Century, in the middle of the American night. Bowed in his room, his hotel room. The rain on the window, the rain in the night. On his knees, his stained knees. Falling down, pouring down. Harry Sweeney heard the telephones r
inging. The voices raised, the orders barked. The boots down the stairs, the boots in the street. Car doors opening, car doors closing. Engines across the city, brakes four stories below. Boots up the stairs, boots down the corridor. The knuckles on the door, the words through the wood: Are you there, Harry? Are you in there?
Harry Sweeney opened his eyes. He got to his feet and he steadied himself. He walked to the bed. He picked up his shirt, he put on his shirt. He stared across the room at the door. Then he walked to the door and he put his hand on the key. He breathed in, he breathed out. He turned the key, he opened the door, and said, What you want, Susumu?
Toda standing in the corridor, Toda soaked from head to toe: They’ve found him, Harry.
Thank Christ.
He’s dead.
2
The Next Day
July 6, 1949
They drove as fast as they could through the night and the rain: Harry Sweeney in the back beside Bill Betz, Toda up front with Ichirō at the wheel, north through Ueno and up Avenue Q, then east at Minowa and across the river, the Sumida River.
Harry Sweeney looked at his watch again, its face cracked and hands stopped: What time is it now?
Just gone four, said Toda.
Harry Sweeney turned back to the side window, to the night and the rain, the city and its streets, deserted and silent, buildings ebbing as fields emerged, heading north again now, to the edge of the city, as fast as they could.
It’s here, said Toda, as Ichirō pulled in and parked up behind Ayase station. There were cars on either side of them, standing black and empty under buckets of water.
