by David Peace
Harry Sweeney nodded again, smiled again, then asked, So the man you think might have been President Shimoyama and this other man, how did they seem? How were they speaking? Like they were maybe friends?
Not really, no, said the waitress. I mean, the man who looked like President Shimoyama, he hardly spoke at all. He was just sat there listening. Had his hands together, folded on the table. I remember that because when I brought their order over, he had to move his hands so I could put the drinks down. Sort of hunched over, you know? Looked dispirited, really.
“Dispirited” in what way?
You know, worried. Like he was getting bad news.
Harry Sweeney nodded: I see. Did you catch any bits of their conversation, any fragment at all?
Not really, no, said the waitress again. I mean, I couldn’t hear at all what the other man was saying. It was like he was whispering, almost. But President Shimoyama – I mean, the man who looked like him – he was just sort of grunting.
“Grunting”? Like how?
You know, sort of um, um, like that. Um, um.
Harry Sweeney nodded again, said again, I see. And so how long did they stay, the two of them?
Not more than thirty minutes.
And they paid at the table, is that correct?
Yes, said the waitress.
And separately, then, from these other three men, the men on the next table, across the aisle?
Yes, said the waitress again, nodding. That’s why I’m pretty sure they weren’t together.
Harry Sweeney said, Sorry – what did they order?
The man who looked like President Shimoyama and the other man? Er, the other man had Japanese tea, and the man who looked like President Shimoyama, he had a soda.
Harry Sweeney nodded: Did they smoke?
No, sir, not as far as I remember.
And which of them paid?
I’m sorry, sir, she said. I don’t know. See, when I came back, back from in here, the money was on the table and they’d already left. But it was the other man who’d asked for the bill, so I’m assuming it was him who had paid.
Harry Sweeney nodded again, smiled again, then said, You’re probably right. Now I want you to think carefully, very carefully, and see if you can remember who else was in here that morning. Maybe a little bit before they arrived? Maybe they used the telephone, that one just out there?
Yes, said Kazuko Kawada, the twenty-year-old waitress of the Coffee Shop Hong Kong nodding as she looked Harry Sweeney in the eye, as she said, There was someone, yes. Using the telephone. How did you know?
* * *
—
Harry Sweeney took the stairs up to the street, two at a time. He headed south down Ginza Street, through the lunchtime crowds, over the Nihonbashi Bridge, until he came to the crossroads with Avenue W. He stopped on the corner opposite the Shirokiya department store and took off his jacket. He glanced over his shoulder, then turned to the right, walking west up Avenue W, past the Yashima Hotel, until he came to Gofukubashi. He glanced over his shoulder again, then crossed Avenue W and headed south along 5th Street, past the Yaesu entrance to Tokyo station, until he came to Kajibashi. He put his jacket back on as he waited to cross, took out a cigarette and lit it, then walked west up Avenue Y, under the tracks, until he came to 4th Street. He turned right, crossed the road, and walked along the street until he came to the extended canopy of the Yaesu Hotel. He dropped his cigarette butt into the ashtray by the door, then turned to look back down 4th Street. He saw a man standing on the corner, in the shade of the Chiyoda Bank. He stared down the street at the man. The man turned and disappeared around the corner, back onto Avenue Y. Harry Sweeney took out another cigarette and lit it. He stood under the canopy, smoking the cigarette, watching the corner by the Chiyoda Bank. Harry Sweeney finished his cigarette, dropped it into the ashtray, then went through the doors into the Yaesu Hotel. He crossed the lobby to the elevators, nodded at the boy stood inside number five, and said, Fourth floor, please.
Very good, said the elevator boy.
That’s “very good, sir,” said Harry Sweeney.
Very good, said the elevator boy, not turning around, closing the doors, waiting for a beat to say, sir.
You’re new here, yeah, said Harry Sweeney to the back of the kid’s head, the elevator going up.
Yes, said the elevator boy, with a nod and another beat before he said, sir.
Uniform or no uniform, said Harry Sweeney, you address every man as “sir” and every lady as “ma’am,” okay?
Yes, sir, said the elevator boy, with another nod, as the elevator stopped, as he opened the doors. Fourth floor, sir.
Thank you, said Harry Sweeney, stepping out.
It’s not lucky, you know, sir, said the boy.
Harry Sweeney turned around: What’s not lucky?
The number four, smiled the boy. In Japan, sir.
Harry Sweeney reached up, held open the doors, and stared at the boy as he said, You speak good English, kid. Probably went to a good school. But you got a smart mouth and a bad attitude. Ain’t my fault your country got its ass kicked, ain’t my fault you’re working this elevator here. Ain’t my fault, and it ain’t your fault either, I know that, kid. So let’s lose the smart mouth and bad attitude and just get along. Okay?
Okay, said the elevator boy. Sir.
Harry Sweeney looked at the boy – the privileged face, the resentful eyes – then shook his head, turned, and walked away, down the corridor to the door of his room.
Harry Sweeney took out his key, put it in the lock, turned the key, and opened the door. He slammed the door shut behind him. He crossed the room, drew back the curtains, and sat down on the bed. He took off his shoes, then stood back up. He took off his jacket, his shirt, and his pants. He walked over to the washstand and turned on the faucets. He washed and he shaved. He changed the bandages around his wrists and then his underwear and socks. He found a clean shirt, a dark tie and put them on. He picked up his jacket and pants from the bed and put them back on. He walked back over to the washstand and picked up his watch. Its face cracked, its hands stopped. He put on his watch, over the bandages on his left wrist. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and jacket, then straightened his tie. He picked up his hat and his key, opened the door, and stepped out of his room. He closed the door, he locked the door, then walked back along the corridor toward the elevators. He walked past the elevators and took the stairs, the four flights down to the lobby. He walked through the lobby toward –
Mister Sweeney, sir, called out Satō-san from behind the front desk. Excuse me, but you’ve got some mail, sir.
Harry Sweeney turned, smiled, and said, Thanks, Satō-san, I’ll pick it up later. I gotta dash now…
And Harry Sweeney walked out through the doors of the Yaesu Hotel, under the length of its canopy, to a cab sitting on the curb. He stopped to glance down the road, over at the corner of the Chiyoda Bank. He saw a man standing on the corner, in the shade of the bank. He stared down the street at the man, the man just standing there, not moving, looking back in the direction of Harry Sweeney. Harry Sweeney opened the door of the cab, got in the back, closed the door, and said, Seishōji temple, Shiba, please.
* * *
—
They had come in black and in white, in their hundreds and their thousands, to stand in lines and in queues, lines and queues which stretched all the way back to the trees of the park. In black and white, in hundreds and thousands, the lines and the queues, edging forward, slowly, slowly, step by step, hour by hour, under the sun, the afternoon sun, toward the gate, toward the temple. In black and white, in hundreds and thousands, in lines and queues, slowly, slowly, step by step, hour by hour, under the sun, the afternoon sun, to pay their respects and mourn the man, to mourn Sadanori Shimoyama; to mourn him as a public figure, a man they had not known, had only ever rea
d about, maybe only even in his death; or to mourn the private man, their classmate or alumnus, their colleague or their boss, the engineer or bureaucrat, their friend or relative, their cousin or their uncle, their brother or their son, their husband or their father; the public figure or the private man, all had come to mourn Sadanori Shimoyama –
Through the black and white, through the hundreds and thousands, the lines and queues, edging forward, slowly, slowly, step by step, shuffling forward, trying not to push, not to shove, gently and quietly, Harry Sweeney weaved his way among the mourners, up the steps and under the first gate, made of stone and made of wood, slowly, slowly, gently and quietly, Harry Sweeney walked over the gravel and up more steps, then under a second gate, out into the main precinct of the temple, its central pathway lined with baskets of flowers and wreaths on stands, the smell of incense and the sound of sutras, on the air, in the air, the scents and the chants, across the precincts of the temple, over the thousands of mourners, from out of the main hall, the ceremonial hall –
Inside the large hall, in its long shadows, the air thick with clouds of incense, heavy with the drone of the sutras, Harry Sweeney stood at the back, staring over the rows of bowed heads, watching the chief mourners, the bereaved relatives, in their black suits and kimonos, their cleaned and pressed uniforms, all seated in rows to the left and the right of an altar draped in white and decked with flowers, giant wreaths towering on stilts over the altar, over the chief mourners, the bereaved relatives, Harry Sweeney counting the wreaths and the baskets of flowers – the one hundred and sixty-two wreaths and baskets of flowers, from the Emperor and the Prime Minister, from cabinet members and members of the Diet, from the Minister for Transport and from General Headquarters, from Railroad executives and Railroad employees, from the union and its members; but from the back of the hall, from among its long shadows, Harry Sweeney’s eyes kept coming back to the chief mourners, the bereaved relatives and family, to Missus Shimoyama in her black kimono, to her four sons, three still in their school uniforms, pressed and clean; this family bereft and diminished, beneath the tall wreaths, lost among the flowers, the incense, and the chants, beside the altar, before the altar, draped in white cloth, decked with more flowers, with its candles and with its photograph; the single, solitary photograph, framed in black, bordered in black, the formal portrait of a man, a husband and a father, in his best suit and tie, a portrait of Sadanori Shimoyama, the eyes of Sadanori Shimoyama staring sadly, sadly back across the mourners, over their heads and into the shadows, back into the eyes of Harry Sweeney –
Harry Sweeney blinked, rubbed, and wiped his eyes, bowed his head toward the altar, toward the portrait of the man, then turned and gently, quietly edged his way out of the shadows and out of the hall, made his way across the precincts and down its paths, down its steps and under its gates, weaving his way through the hundreds and thousands, the lines and the queues, until he was standing on the street, taking out his pack of cigarettes and –
Well, that’s just grand, said Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon, coming up on the blind side of Harry Sweeney. Not only they got half the goddamn Jap police here on crowd control, we got our own police investigator here, too.
Harry Sweeney put away his pack of cigarettes, took a step back, and asked, Is something wrong, sir?
You goddamn bet your life there is, said Colonel Channon, red in the face, rye on his breath. You think you gonna catch his fucking killers at his funeral, do you, Sweeney?
Harry Sweeney smiled: I think maybe we should find your car, sir. Maybe get you home, sir…
You should find his goddamn fucking killers is what you should do, Sweeney, said Colonel Channon, two fingers prodding into the chest of Harry Sweeney, flicking up his tie. ’Stead of hanging round his funeral like a spare fucking prick.
Harry Sweeney took another step back, stared at Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon, and said, Maybe I thought I’d come take a look for myself at that goddamn nest of vipers you were telling me about, sir.
Hey, hey, now hold on there, Sweeney, said Colonel Channon, shaking his head, wagging his finger. Few kickbacks, bit of pocket-lining is all I meant by that. Didn’t say nothing about fucking murdering no one.
Honor among thieves, think that’s what they call it. That what you mean, sir?
Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon tried to stare at Harry Sweeney, tried to jab his finger at Harry Sweeney, saying, Harp to a harp, fuck you, Sweeney, is what I mean.
Harp to a harp, I think you should go home, sir, said Harry Sweeney, turning away, starting to walk away –
Don’t you fucking turn your back on me, Sweeney, said Colonel Channon, grabbing Harry Sweeney by the arm of his jacket, turning Harry Sweeney back around into his face. Don’t you fucking walk away from me when I’m speaking to you. Not when I ain’t done speaking to you, mister.
Harry Sweeney put his hand on the hand of Colonel Channon, gently, firmly loosening the grip of Colonel Channon round his arm, firmly, slowly removing the fingers of Colonel Channon from the sleeve of his jacket, then slowly, slowly taking a step back as he said, Go on then, please, sir, by all means. If you’ve something more to say, sir?
You bet I’ve got something more to say, said Colonel Channon, nodding to himself, flapping an arm in the direction of the temple, its gate, and its funeral: I say you should go back in there, arrest that goddamn Red bastard, is what I say.
Which goddamn Red bastard is that, sir?
That fucking guy Honda is who.
Honda, sir? I’m sorry, I…
Jesus, Sweeney, laughed Colonel Channon. You at the back of the church, day they was handing out the smarts? Ichizō Honda, Vice Chairman of the fucking union, is who.
And you say he’s here today, sir?
Fucking nerve of the guy, said Colonel Channon, shaking his head, swaying on his feet. You believe it? Like a goddamn skull on a stick, he is, with the greased-back fucking hair, wanting to give his condolences, saying how fucking sorry he is, how much he liked and respected old Shimoyama. Now the man’s fucking dead, in pieces on the goddamn tracks, like he fucking don’t know who did it, goddamn lying son of a bitch, making with the condolences, the blood still fucking wet on his hands, the goddamn murdering Commie son of a bitch. His skinny yellow ass you should be hauling in, Sweeney, that’s what you should be fucking doing, making with the third degree. Give him the old fucking third degree, he’ll soon tell you what you need to know, tell you who fucking did it, you goddamn bet he will, Sweeney.
Harry Sweeney had taken out his notebook, taken out his pencil, had written down the name Ichizō Honda. Harry Sweeney closed his notebook over his pencil, put them back inside his pocket. Then he patted the left side of his jacket and said, Thank you, sir. Sure that’s very useful information, sir.
You bet your fucking life it is, Sweeney, said Colonel Channon. Solves your fucking case for you, is what it does.
Harry Sweeney nodded, then smiled at Lieutenant Colonel Donald E. Channon and said, Thank you, sir, I’m sure you’re right, sir. I’ll just go tie up the loose ends…
* * *
—
Because he had not slept, because he never could, they were stabbing at his skin, they were slicing off his ears, drilling down the holes, poking round with wires, scratching at his skull, scraping along its bone, the birds in the sky, the insects through the air, the kids on the corners, the people on the streets, the boots on the sidewalk, and the tires in the road, marching and turning, pounding and screeching, putting on the brakes, coming to a halt, the voice from a car, calling from its window, Hey, hey, hold up there, detective, will you!
Harry Sweeney stopped in the street, halted his long march back to the office, turned to the car parked up on the curb, turned to see Detective Hattori leaning out of the window on the passenger side, and Harry Sweeney said, What is it?
You’re a hard man to fin
d, detective, said Hattori.
Harry Sweeney looked at Detective Hattori, smiled, and said, Obviously not that hard, detective.
Obviously not that hard, repeated Hattori, laughing. I like that, that’s very good, detective.
What is it, detective? What do you want?
We want to take you for a little ride, said Hattori. If that’s okay with you, detective?
Where and why?
Not far, said Hattori. Just to Headquarters. We got a witness there Chief Inspector Kanehara thinks you should meet. That is, if you would like, detective? If you got the time?
Harry Sweeney nodded: Sure.
Hop in then, detective, said Hattori, smiling. Let’s go.
Harry Sweeney opened the back door of the unmarked police car and climbed in the back. He closed the door and then the car set off, speeding along, silence inside, north up Mita Avenue, then west onto 10th Street, turning north again onto Avenue B, past the Education Ministry and the Finance building, past the Construction Ministry and the Justice Ministry, left again at Sakuradamon, pulling up in front of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters –
Follow me, detective, said Hattori, getting out of the car, lighting a cigarette, leading Harry Sweeney inside the building, through the reception area and up the stairs, down a long corridor of many doors, the doors all closed, down the corridor to the door at its end –
In here, detective, said Hattori, dropping his cigarette into an ashtray of sand, then tapping on the door, then opening the door, showing Harry Sweeney into the room: a small room, a spartan room, a narrow strip of glass along the top of one wall, four chairs, and one table; a thick file on top of the table between the two people sat across from each other – a man and a woman, the man in a uniform, the woman in monpe pantaloons, the man in the uniform getting up from his seat, the woman in the pantaloons looking up at Harry Sweeney and Detective Hattori.
