Tokyo Redux

by David Peace

  Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.

  Harry, Harry! The fuck are you doing –

  Holding the bouquet, picking up the lamp, Harry Sweeney stepped off the tracks, away from the tracks, stepped back from the train, out of its path, turning his face, turning his body away from the train and away from the tracks, Harry Sweeney seeing two lanterns, seeing two men clambering up the embankment, climbing up toward him, the young officer and Susumu Toda clambering and climbing, calling and shouting, through the noise of the train, the sound of its wheels, the young officer and Susumu Toda reaching the top of the embankment, running down the tracks, the train disappearing up the line, vanishing into the night, the young officer and Susumu Toda running toward Harry Sweeney, reaching Harry Sweeney, Susumu Toda grabbing Harry Sweeney, holding Harry Sweeney, whispering, Harry, the Colonel, the Chief…

  * * *

  —

  They don’t believe you, said Harry Sweeney. We can find no record of you – of who you say you are, of what you say you are – no record whatsoever, and, of course, the Soviet Mission are denying any and all knowledge of you.

  In the cramped basement storeroom of the NYK building, in a borrowed chair at a borrowed table, his face broken and swollen still, but stitched and bandaged now, Lee Jung-Hwan smiled and said, What did you expect them to say? What else could they say?

  But there’s not a single shred of evidence, said Harry Sweeney, not one single scrap of proof to back up one single word you’ve said.

  Lee Jung-Hwan smiled again and shook his head: Apart from the dead man on the railroad track.

  The Metropolitan Police have been receiving confessions by the hour, said Harry Sweeney. They’re flooding in, now the government has offered a reward. The police are inundated, fucking drowning in them.

  Lee Jung-Hwan shook his head again and pointed to his face, to the bruises and the cuts, the bandages and the stitches: I didn’t come to you, you came to me. Just look at me, look what they fucking did to me!

  Tell the police, the Japanese police, said Harry Sweeney. You’re to be handed over to them later on today.

  Why? What for?

  So you can make a formal statement.

  But I already have – to you!

  Public Safety are not investigating this case, said Harry Sweeney. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and the Public Prosecutor’s Office are in charge of the investigation. Tell them what you told us, told me; they may believe you.

  Like fuck they will! You know they won’t…

  I don’t know that, said Harry Sweeney.

  Lee Jung-Hwan banged his hands down on the top of the table: Yes, you fucking do –

  I don’t, said Harry Sweeney again. Ask to speak to the Second Investigative Division or to the Public Prosecutor’s Office. But when you do, make sure you have some fucking proof, yeah? Some evidence to back up your story.

  Lee Jung-Hwan slumped forward in his chair, his arms on the table, and whispered, What’s the point…

  Well, the point is, if you don’t, said Harry Sweeney, if you don’t come up with any proof, if they don’t believe your story, then my bet is you’ll be sent straight to Kosuge.

  Lee Jung-Hwan looked up: For what? For getting beaten to within an inch of my life by the biggest gangster in Tokyo? For that I’ll be sent to fucking prison?

  For being an undocumented and therefore illegal alien, said Harry Sweeney. And so then to await repatriation. That is, unless you come up with any proof.

  This is all a mistake, said Lee Jung-Hwan, looking across the table at Harry Sweeney, shaking his head at Harry Sweeney. This isn’t what was supposed to happen…

  Never is, said Harry Sweeney, pushing back his chair, standing up. Nothing ever is.

  Wait, said Lee Jung-Hwan. What about my brother? You said you’d talk to him, said you’d let me see him…

  I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney.

  What? What do you mean, you’re sorry?

  I mean, he’s dead. I’m sorry.

  But how? When?

  It appears he drowned, said Harry Sweeney, gripping the back of the chair, pain shooting through the knuckles of his hands. Probably trying to get away from…

  Lee Jung-Hwan slumped forward again, his arms on the table, his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking, his body trembling, groaning and sobbing, then springing back, his body and his shoulders, his arms and his face to the ceiling, screaming, No, no, no…

  I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney again.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. They killed him, the bastards. The fucking bastards, they killed him and they set me up.

  Harry Sweeney pushed the chair under the table, turning away, saying again, I’m sorry.

  Wait, said Lee Jung-Hwan. Wait…

  But Harry Sweeney did not wait, he did not turn back. He walked toward the door and he –

  Please. You’ve got to help me…

  Turned the handle and –

  Listen to me, please…

  Opened the door –

  Please, whispered Lee Jung-Hwan. I work for you, for Hongō House. I’m with Zed Unit.

  * * *

  —

  Thanks, kid, said Harry Sweeney as he wound down the window in the back of the car, then sat back and closed his eyes to the strains of a sonata he just couldn’t place, the car driving through the morning, driving through the city, along Avenue A, then up Avenue W, under the railroad tracks, through the crossroads at Gofukubashi and on past the Yashima Hotel, turning left by the Shirokiya department store, then over the river at Nihonbashi, past the Mitsukoshi department store, its glass and gold doors just opening, its two bronze lions sat watching, their car going on along Ginza Street, heading on through Kanda, across Manseibashi, on through Suehirochō to the Matsuzakaya department store, turning left at Hirokōji, up Avenue N, then right down a side street, up a back road, a slight slope, the car slowing down, the car pulling up, Harry Sweeney suddenly opening his eyes, suddenly barking, Too late!

  Excuse me, sir, said Shin. But we’re here.

  Harry Sweeney wiped his mouth and chin, unstuck his shirt from his skin, and looked out of the windows of the car, saw the high walls and the tall trees, the red, English-brick walls and the dark, timeless trees, saw the gates and the sign, the closed gates and the sign which read: OFF LIMITS: STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.

  The second movement of the sonata ending, the third movement of the sonata beginning, from scherzo to lento, Harry Sweeney smiled, looked at his watch, its face still cracked, its hands still stopped, then blinked and smiled again, opened the passenger door, and said, I’ll be back in five minutes.

  II

  THE BRIDGE OF TEARS

  5

  Minus Fifteen to Minus Eleven

  June 20–June 24, 1964

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  Murota Hideki twitched, jumped, and opened his eyes. His heart pounding, his breath trapped, he swallowed, he choked, he spluttered and coughed. He wiped his mouth, he wiped his chin, he blinked and blinked again, looking down at the desk, the sticky desk and brown rings, the dirty glass and half-empty bottle, looking up and around the office, the tiny office and yellow walls, the dusty shelves and empty cabinet. His desk, his office, all dirt and all dust –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  He put his hands on his desk, pushed himself up and the chair back. He got to his feet and walked over to the window. He closed the window, closed the city, the stench from the river and fumes, the noise of construction and trains, always that stench, that noise: the stench of the past, the noise of the future; Edo stench, Olympic noise –

  Ton-ton. Ton-ton…

  He sat back down in his chair at his desk, his collar wet, his shirt damp. He took out his handkerchief. He wiped
his neck. He tried to unstick his shirt from his vest, then to straighten his thinning hair, the smell of his clothes and his hair fighting with the stink from the sink in the corner, the trash can by the door, the ashtrays on his desk, the alcohol on his breath. That taste, that taste, always that taste. He picked up a packet of cigarettes from the desk, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He squeezed the end of his nose and sniffed, massaged his right temple with cigarette fingers and closed his eyes, the dream hanging over him still, all dirt and dust, all stench and noise, with that taste, that taste –

  Ton-ton…

  Trapped, stale –

  He opened his eyes, stubbed out the cigarette, and then called out, Yes?

  The door opened and a thin young man in a tight, gray-shiny suit stepped into the office. He gave the mess of the room the quick once-over, spent a moment too long on the empty bottles of cheap Chinese wine, did the same to Murota Hideki, then smiled and asked him, Is this Kanda Investigations?

  Like it says on the door, said Murota Hideki.

  And so you’re Murota-san, the owner?

  And sole employee. Next question?

  Excuse me, said the young man, putting down his new and expensive-looking attaché case. He reached inside his jacket. He took out a silver-plated name card holder. He took out a card from the holder. He put the holder back inside his jacket. He approached the desk. He held out the name card in both hands, bowed briefly, and said, I’m Hasegawa.

  Murota Hideki pulled in his stomach and got to his feet. He reached across the desk to take the card from the man. He read the name on the card, the profession, position, and company beneath. He shook his head, tried to hand the card back to the man, saying, Not interested.

  The young man frowned: But you don’t –

  Yeah, I do know, said Murota Hideki. You’re an editor. You work for a publishing house with a famous weekly magazine. But I don’t talk to the press. It’s bad for business.

  The man gave the office the quick once-over act again, this time with a sneer: Business good, is it?

  Good, bad, or gone-to-the-fucking-dogs, it’s my business, not yours, said Murota Hideki, flicking the card at the man, the card falling to the floor. See, about once or twice a year, some skinny young hotshot like you shows up here, in their tight suit with their smart mouth, asking for one of two things: if I got any dirt on anyone famous to sell, or if I’ll spill some sexy private-eye bullshit for the feature they’re writing. Either way, each time I tell them what I’m going to tell you: you got the wrong guy, now go get lost.

  The young man bent down. He picked up the card from the floor. He held it out toward Murota Hideki again, in both hands again, but this time in a longer, deeper bow as he said, Excuse me. I apologize. But thank you. Now I know you’re the right man. And so I’d be very grateful if you would please just listen, at least just listen to what I have to say. Please.

  Murota Hideki looked at the man standing there, with his card out and his head bowed. He rolled his eyes and sighed, then sat back down and said, Go on then, sit down.

  The man looked up. He thanked Murota Hideki. Then, with the card still in his hands, he sat down, smiled, and asked, Do you by any chance remember the name Kuroda Roman?

  Murota Hideki nodded: A writer, yeah?

  I’m impressed, said the young man. You read a lot?

  Murota Hideki shook his head: Just the papers.

  Then you must have a good memory.

  Unfortunately, smiled Murota Hideki. But that was what they call a good guess, you being in publishing.

  So you don’t remember Kuroda Roman then? You’ve never read any of his books then?

  Nope. Sorry.

  Don’t be, said the man. Few people have these days. He was briefly popular during Taishō, then there was a period of mental illness and silence. He published nothing more before or during the war; a couple of translations maybe, that was all. But then he did have a few books published après-guerre, as they used to say. Mysteries, true crime, that kind of thing. I thought, in your line of work, there was a chance you…

  Be the last thing I’d read, said Murota Hideki.

  Really, said the young man, staring at Murota Hideki, smiling at Murota Hideki. But you were a policeman, right? During the war, after the war? I’d heard cops liked reading true-crime books? Just thought you might’ve read –

  Murota Hideki held the man’s stare, ignored his smile, swallowed, and said, Who told you that?

  Told me what?

  That I was a policeman?

  Well, he did.

  Who?

  Kuroda Roman, said the man, looking away now, but still smiling. Well, not in person, in one of his books. You’re in one of his books, you see. Tokyo Bluebeard: Lust of a Demon. It’s the one about –

  I can imagine what it’s about, said Murota Hideki.

  But you’ve not read it, said the young man, nodding to himself. Well, you’ve not missed anything, it’s not that good. And you’re only mentioned very briefly. About how –

  I was dismissed, said Murota Hideki.

  For improper conduct, yeah.

  For fucking a pan-pan gal on my beat, said Murota Hideki, still staring across his desk at this man, this thin young man, in his tight, gray-shiny suit.

  Yes, said the man.

  Murota Hideki picked up the packet of cigarettes from his desk again, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He inhaled, then exhaled, blowing the smoke across the desk at the man, saying, It’s no secret. It was in some of the papers, or a version of it. Nearly twenty years ago now. So that’s my story. Now you going to tell me yours, Mister Editor, tell me why you’re sitting here? Or you going to keep on sitting there, wasting my time?

  Excuse me. I apologize, said the young man again. That came across very badly. I just wanted to say, I know you’re an ex-policeman. And I know you lost your job, but that it was a long time ago now. But I also know that you know how to keep a confidence. You don’t betray people.

  Murota Hideki said nothing. He glanced at his watch, his watch running slow again, losing time again.

  The man coughed, cleared his throat, then said, Sorry, I’ll get to the point: Kuroda Roman has disappeared. He’s gone missing. And we’d like you to find him.

  “We” being who exactly?

  Our publishing house.

  Why, asked Murota Hideki. You said yourself, no one’s heard of this guy or reads his books these days.

  Unusually, said the young man, lowering his voice, and somewhat foolishly, one of my predecessors advanced a number of quite substantial payments to Kuroda. Understandably, the owners of our publishing house are very keen to recoup the money. Or the manuscript.

  Murota Hideki stubbed out his cigarette, looked up at the man, shook his head, and said again, Not interested.

  Why, asked the man, frowning again.

  Pre-marital background checks, divorce cases, some insurance, that’s what I do, said Murota Hideki. Nothing heavy, no debt-collecting, that’s not what I do.

  No, no, no, said the young man. That’s not what we want you to do. We just want you to find him, that’s all.

  Murota Hideki shook his head again: But you’re not bothered about him, not concerned for the man’s welfare, right? You just want your money back, yeah?

  Yes, said the man. But you don’t have to do that part; our lawyers will handle all that.

  If you can find him.

  If you can find him, said the young man, smiling again. That’s why I’m sitting here, wasting your time.

  Murota Hideki stared at the man, not smiling, saying, Just because I’m mentioned in one of his fucking books? That’s why you’re sitting here asking me?

  Not only that, said the man, still smiling. Actually, that was my idea, asking you. See, I thought you might’ve met the man, met Kuroda Roman, back
then, before.

  Still staring, not smiling, Murota Hideki shook his head, But I didn’t. Never met the man, even heard of him.

  Doesn’t matter, said the young man, reaching down to pick up his attaché case. Might have been a bonus, might have helped, but it’s not important. What is important is that I’m sure you are the right man to find him.

  Murota Hideki reached for another cigarette from his packet and lit it: What about the police, they know he’s missing? Any family, friends reported him missing?

  No, said the man, opening his case.

  Murota Hideki inhaled, exhaled, then smiled and said, Popular guy, this writer of yours, yeah?

  Used to be. Briefly.

  When did you last see him?

  Me, said the man. I’ve never seen him, never met him.

  Murota Hideki inhaled again, exhaled again, then sighed and said, Great. So how long’s he been missing…?

  About six months, we think…

  You think?

  We’re not sure, said the young man, taking out a large brown envelope from his attaché case.

  Look, Mister, er, Hasegawa?

  Yes, said the young man.

  This isn’t one of your mystery novels, this ain’t the movies. It’s a big city, getting bigger by the day, in a big, big country. Believe me, this is a big place to get lost in, and six months a long time to be lost for, ’specially if a man don’t want to be found. See, my guess is your man isn’t missing, your man isn’t lost; he just don’t want to be found.

  Mister Murota, said the man, the case on his lap, the envelope in his hands, I know this isn’t a novel, I know this ain’t the movies. But we need to find this man, we want our money back, and we want both done quickly. Now if you don’t want the job, we’ll engage someone else.