Out

by Natsuo Kirino

  'But I can't think of anyone I could ask to do that,' said Kuniko rather sheepishly. She had apparently given no thought to the matter.

  'Your parents live in Hokkaido, don't they?' He was looking at the original loan application which he'd brought with him. Kuniko had filled in an address and place of employment for her parents, but the column for 'other relatives' was blank.

  'Yes, my father is in Hokkaido, but he's been quite ill.'

  'I'm sure if he knew that his daughter needed help, he wouldn't refuse.'

  'No, I'm afraid that's out of the question. He's been in and out of the hospital, and he doesn't have any money, anyway.'

  'Well then, someone else. It doesn't matter who it is, a relative, a friend. As long as we have a signature and their seal.'

  'I'm afraid there isn't anyone.'

  'Well, that is awkward,' said Jumonji with an exaggerated sigh. 'You're still making payments on your car, aren't you?'

  'Yes, for two .. . no, three more years.'

  'What about another loan?' he asked.

  'I'm trying to avoid that.' The casual way she answered was amazing enough, but Jumonji noticed that no sooner had the words left her mouth than she seemed to pale. Forgetting the cigarette in her hand, she stared at the waitress in the pink uniform who walked by carrying a steak. As he watched her, a film of oily sweat appeared on Kuniko's forehead. Odd, he thought.

  'Are you okay?' he asked.

  'Oh, yes,' she said. 'It's just that the sight of meat makes me a bit queasy.'

  'Are you a vegetarian?'

  'No, but I'm a bit sensitive when it comes to meat.'

  'Oh, I wouldn't have thought of you as sensitive,' he said, unable to pretend otherwise. He smiled apologetically afterward, but he knew that he was beyond caring about her feelings. The only thing that mattered now was how to get his money back from this dumb bitch who didn't even seem to realise how much trouble she was in. If she couldn't pay, he'd put her to work in a bar somewhere - but then again, with that face and body, she wouldn't bring in much. The best plan was probably to find some other loan shark, preferably one who was none too bright, to lend her the money to repay his loan; but now that her husband was gone, that wasn't going to be easy. So the next step was to find the husband, but when he thought about the problems that presented, it made him want to spit.

  Suddenly, Kuniko looked up. 'But you know, there's a good chance I will have some money coming in,' she said. 'And I'm going to start looking for a day job right now.'

  'Money from where?' he asked. 'Different work?'

  'Well, something like that.'

  'About how much?'

  'At least ¥200,000.' So now suddenly she's rich? Maybe she's just bluffing, he thought, studying her eyes as they shifted about, unable to settle. They had an odd, slightly feral look to them.

  In the course of his work collecting bad debts, Jumonji had seen any number of dangerous and desperate people. He'd seen men resort to fraud or robbery when they couldn't repay their debts, and they tended to lash out when pushed into a corner. But Kuniko didn't seem like that type; what he sensed in her was something messier, more suppressed. Come to think of it, it was a look he'd seen once before. He searched his memory and came up with the face of a woman who, in the wake of a visit he and his associates had paid her, had written a letter listing all her endless grievances and then thrown her child off a bridge before killing herself. People like that were blind to their own faults, having convinced themselves that everyone around them was out to get them. Once you developed that kind of paranoia, you didn't care what innocent bystander you dragged down with you.

  Recognising this creepy side to her, Jumonji looked away, focusing instead on the bunched leggings and tempting thighs of the high-school girls who sat puffing cigarettes at another table.

  'Jumonji-san, I think it could be as much as ¥500,000,' said Kuniko with a little giggle.

  'Are you talking about a regular income?'

  'Not exactly, but I think something like that could be arranged.' So, she seemed to have some secret source of cash, maybe some old man she was playing along. But personally he didn't care how she got the money, as long as she made her payments, and he decided he wouldn't bother to find out any more about her. If she could come up with a guarantor, he'd simply keep an eye on the account.

  'Okay. Since you're no longer behind, we'll leave it at that. Why don't you stop by the office tomorrow or the day after and drop this off with the signature and seal of your new guarantor,' he said, handing her a form.

  'Do I really have to have one, if I've got that money coming in?' she asked him with a pout.

  'I'm sorry, but I have to insist. Try to find someone tonight or tomorrow.'

  Kuniko nodded reluctantly.

  'I'll be going then,' said Jumonji.

  'Oh,' she said, still staring at her lap. The tip of her tongue ran back and forth across her mouth, as if she were tasting her lipstick.

  'Excuse me.' Picking up the bill, he stood to go. When Kuniko looked up, he could tell immediately how disappointed she was that he hadn't offered to drive her home, but he turned on his heel and walked away, regretting even having to pay for her coffee. As he stood there in the entrance to the restaurant, he flicked some lint from his suit, as though to brush off the dirt he always felt these deadbeats left on him when he had to meet them.

  It wasn't that he disliked the job. Most of the people he dealt with knew they were never going to dodge a debt completely and were just trying to buy time. In those cases, you simply had to stay one jump ahead of them, and when you caught them they usually coughed up the money. There was even something entertaining about the chase.

  When he reached his second-hand Cima in the vast suburban parking lot, he found that there was a black Gloria with tinted windows parked in the next space. Reaching into his pocket for his key, he began to unlock the door, but as he did so the window of the Gloria slid down and a man poked his head out.

  'Akira? Is that you?' It was Soga, somebody who had been two years ahead of him at middle school in Adachi Ward. After he'd left school, he'd joined a motorcycle gang, and after that a yakuza group, or so Jumonji had heard.

  'Soga-san,' he said, turning to face the car. 'It's been a long time.' They had run into each other five years ago at a bar in Adachi, but he hadn't seen him since. Soga was as thin as ever, and his narrow face was pale, as if he had liver problems. Five years ago he'd seemed like your average punk, but now he was looking fairly prosperous. His hair was smoothed back neatly from his forehead. The collar of his rust-red shirt stuck up stylishly from his sky-blue suit.

  Grinning broadly, Soga got out of his car. 'What the hell are you doing way out here in the sticks? Some kind of powwow?'

  'I'm not in a gang any more,' Jumonji told him. 'I've got my own business now.'

  'Business? What kind of business?' He leaned over, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and peered into Jumonji's car. It was empty except for a neatly folded road map. 'You got a strap in there?' he asked.

  'That was a long time ago,' Jumonji said, remembering the way they'd hung out the window as they cruised the streets.

  'And the hair. You trying to look like a teenager?' said Soga, eyeing his hairstyle, which was parted down the middle and combed back.

  'No,' he muttered.

  'How clean are you?' said Soga, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and bringing his face close.

  'I'm running a loan business.'

  'Loan sharking? That's more like it. You always were more interested in money than anything else. I guess we all wind up doing what comes naturally.'

  Jumonji leaned back to escape Soga's grip. 'And you? What are you up to?'

  'A little of this,' he said, making a sign with his fingers; it was the sign used to identify a gang that was active in Adachi Ward.

  'That figures,' said Jumonji, smiling nervously. 'And what are you doing out here?'

  'Oh, nothing much,' said Soga, looking over at one cor
ner of the parking lot. Jumonji followed his gaze and saw two men standing by their cars, apparently dealing with the aftermath of a rear-end collision. One of them, the older of the two, was looking contrite, hanging his head, while the other, who was dressed in a loud shirt, shouted at him. There was a big dent in the rear fender of one of the cars.

  'An accident?' Jumonji asked.

  'You could say that. He took it in the ass, so to speak.'

  'I get the picture.' Come to think of it, he'd been hearing about a gang that specialised in faking accidents moving into the area. He'd even received an email list of their licence-plate numbers from someone he knew in the business. Their racket was to find a likely victim and then jam on the brakes right in front of him. Once they'd been hit from behind, they would wait for the other driver to jump out and then, depending on how he reacted, figure out the best way to screw money out of him. Jumonji was familiar with the way these groups operated, he just hadn't realised that the new gang was Soga's. 'I'd heard rumours,' he said.

  'People like to talk,' Soga sneered. 'But this is just your gardenvariety accident. That asshole hit us. We're innocent victims.'

  While they were talking, Kuniko had come out of the restaurant and was now standing there, looking nervously in their direction. When she realised Jumonji had seen her, she turned away. Well, if this lit a fire under her to find a guarantor, then he was glad he'd run into Soga.

  'Soga-san, we'll be heading to the hospital,' said one of the guys who had been in the 'accident'. He had come over to report. His partner was still crouching by the cars, dramatically clutching his neck. The older man stood over him, talking frantically. Jumonji felt no pity for such an easy mark. An asshole was always an asshole.

  'Good, good,' said Soga, nodding expansively. 'Akira, do you have a card?' he added, holding out his bony hand.

  'I do,' Jumonji said, taking one from his jacket pocket and handing it to him with mock formality.

  'Jumonji?' Soga read. 'Since when have you been "Jumonji"?' His real name was Akira Yamada, but it had always seemed too ordinary, so he'd taken the name of his favourite bike racer.

  'I guess it does sound a bit funny,' he said.

  'Funny? It's downright weird. You'd think you were an actor. . . . But I guess you always did like the flashy stuff. Shit, why not?' Laughing, Soga stuffed the card into his breast pocket. 'It was lucky, running into you like this. We'll keep in touch now, see more of each other.'

  'Sounds good to me,' Jumonji said, trying to seem enthusiastic. It was hard to believe that at one time they'd belonged to the same biker gang.

  'I could even lend you some muscle for the collection side of business,' Soga added.

  'If I'm ever short-handed, I'll be sure to ask,' said Jumonji. 'But it's mostly small-time stuff that we can handle ourselves.' In point of fact, his customers were small potatoes, and if you leaned on them too much, they sometimes vanished, leaving you with nothing. But they were weak, and being weak they mostly needed just a little reminder now and then. The trick was to find the right balance.

  'Well, suit yourself. But I have to tell you, I'm not sure I like seeing you looking so clean and proper.' He patted Jumonji on the cheek. 'You're a piece of work, you are, but I can always use someone smart like you. Kids these days are just plain stupid, and it makes my life hell. They could all use a few years in the gang to straighten them out.' He glared in the direction of his aides.

  'In the meantime, you wouldn't have any money-making proposition you could put me on to, would you?' Jumonji asked, bringing up a subject that was almost always on his mind.

  'Same old Akira,' Soga said. Looking suddenly serious, he turned back toward his car. A young man with dyed-blond hair, apparently his driver and bodyguard, had been waiting the whole time by the door. Jumonji stood there until they had gone and then climbed into his own car and pulled out of the parking lot. He had no interest in borrowing someone else's goons, but if there was money to be made, he was more than willing. After all, you could never have too much of it.

  -

  On a street behind Higashi Yamato Station there was a nearly deserted sushi restaurant that specialised in take-out. The awning was dirty and the delivery van was muddy, and behind the shop a young employee was using a toilet brush to scrub out the rice buckets. It was the kind of place the health department loved to shut down. And next to it, up a staircase that had a prefab smell to it, was Jumonji's office. He charged up the creaky stairs and opened the plywood door marked with a white name plate reading 'Million Consumers Centre.'

  'Welcome back, boss,' the two employees chimed as he came through the door. The office was sparse: one computer and a few phone lines. In front of them sat a bored-looking young man and a middle-aged woman whose hair was done up in a wild style usually worn by women half her age.

  'What's up?' Jumonji asked.

  'Things are usually pretty quiet after lunch,' said the man. It was probably useless, but Jumonji told him to find out where Kuniko's husband had gone. 'It won't be easy,' the man warned.

  'Well, if it looks like it's going to cost money, just forget it.' The young man looked relieved, having apparently given up already. The woman studied her bright red fingernails a moment, then stood up from her desk.

  'Boss, do you mind if I go home early today - only stay till five?'

  'No problem,' said Jumonji. He'd considered getting rid of this employee and replacing her with someone younger, but in the end it didn't seem worth it. At least this one had a knack for hooking the customers. Then maybe it was the man he should be firing? He sat for a while staring out the window and wondering why Kuniko was expecting to come into some money. Money was all he could think about lately, and his curiosity was aroused. Beyond the grassy plot next to the station that would soon be a new building, the summer sun was sinking from sight.

  7

  He could hear the murmur of insects here and there, damp, quiet sounds, like the grass swaying in the night fog. It was so different from Sao Paolo, where the insects sang like bells ringing in the parched summer air. Kazuo Miyamori crouched in the thick grass, his arms clasped around his knees. For some time now, a small swarm of mosquitoes had been buzzing around him. He was sure they had already bitten him several times on the bare arms below the sleeves of his T-shirt, but he was not going to move - he would not fail the test he had set himself. He often created these trials; he was afraid that without them he would quickly become a bad person.

  As he sat listening in the dark, he realised that he could hear not only the insects but the quiet sound of flowing water. It wasn't a pleasant ripple, nor was it the rushing of a current; the sound he could hear was the murky gurgling of a thick, dense ooze. Kazuo knew that it was the stinking stream in the nearby covered ditch: a solid stream of sewage, mixed with bits of junk and perhaps the occasional dead animal, flowing somewhere underground.

  The summer grass rustled in a sudden breeze, and the rusty shutter behind his back rattled as if it were coming to life. The lonely sound reminded him that there was a cavernous space in the empty factory behind the shutters. He had pushed her up against them - the memory made cold sweat run down his back. What had he done? What kind of monster had he been last night? As soon as he abandoned his trials, he became just another nasty human being. He picked a stalk from the foxtail grass growing around him and flicked at it with his finger.

  -

  In 1953, when emigration had resumed after the war, Kazuo Miyamori's father had left Miyazaki Prefecture and crossed over to Brazil. He was nineteen at the time. Thanks to an introduction from a relative, he had found a job on a Japanese-owned farm in the suburbs of Sao Paolo, and there he hoped to make his fortune. But he soon discovered that there was a big difference between the attitudes of the Japanese who had been educated in a relatively liberal post-war Japan and the more traditional pre-war immigrants who had suffered in Brazil. Before long, Kazuo's freespirited father left the farm and headed for Sao Paolo, though he didn't know a soul in
the city.

  In Sao Paolo, he was taken in not by the Japanese immigrants with whom he had blood ties, but by a kindly Brazilian barber who put him to work as his apprentice. By the time he was thirty, Kazuo's father had taken over the shop, and as soon as he'd settled into his new life, he married a beautiful mixed-blood woman - a mulatto, as they were known in Brazil. In short order, the couple had a child, Roberto Kazuo. But when Kazuo was ten, his father had been killed in an accident, and so he had learned little of the language or culture of his native country. About the only things Japanese his father had left behind were Kazuo's citizenship and his name.

  After graduating from high school in Sao Paolo, Kazuo had gone to work in a print shop. One day he noticed a poster that read 'Workers Wanted for Jobs in Japan. Great Opportunity!' He'd heard that Brazilians of Japanese descent who had Japanese citizenship didn't even need a visa and could choose how long they wanted to stay. It was said that the economy was so good and workers in such short supply that you could find a job anywhere.

  Kazuo asked an acquaintance about the situation in Japan and was told that it was the most prosperous country in the world. The stores were full of every imaginable product, and the weekly salary there was nearly as much as he made in a month at the print shop in Sao Paolo. Kazuo had always been proud of his Japanese heritage, and if the opportunity ever arose, he thought he'd like to see the place his ancestors had come from.

  A few years later, he ran into the man he had consulted about Japan, who this time was driving a brand-new car, having just returned to Brazil after spending two years working in a Japanese car factory. Kazuo was jealous. The economic situation in Brazil was bad, with no prospects of improving, and he could only dream of owning a car on the little he made at the print shop. He decided then and there that he, too, would go to work in Japan. If he could last two years, he could get a car for himself, and if he stayed longer, he might even earn enough for a house - and he would see his father's homeland into the bargain.