Iwata backs out of the room unnoticed. The office is empty, the lights off. On the calendar someone has doodled little stars by today’s date, the senior inspector’s birthday. Iwata cannot stand bootlickers. His colleagues tease him as a contrarian, tell him it’s his American side.
In the briefing room, they are all grinning: fellow inspectors, the badges, even the admin guys. Apple-polishers, Iwata thinks, every single one. He wonders what they would say if they knew about him and Hoshiko. It pleases him to imagine them so shocked, though the idea of them knowing he has touched her revolts him at the same time. Distantly, he realizes she has not showed up tonight. Nor has his partner, Taba, Hoshiko’s husband.
Iwata sits at his desk in the corner and looks out of the window. Tiled roofs shine in the moonlight. In the distance pylons break through the forest canopy like migrating giants.
Iwata’s desk holds very little beyond papers. He unlocks his desk drawer. Inside there is framed ticket stub for a Tokyo Verdy game from 1996, the year they won the Emperor’s Cup. On the other side there is a photograph of Cleo holding a newborn Nina – her tiny lips making a bow, her eyes closed. Cleo’s sweat makes the freckles on her cheeks shine. She looks to camera uncertainly.
Iwata shunts them to one side. He knows the Cipralex is finished but he thinks there must be some back-up Zoloft. At the very least, one or two vodka singles.
Someone has brought in a rudimentary karaoke machine and toneless singing is being clapped along to in the briefing room. Because there will be drinking for the birthday, nobody will question ruddy cheeks tonight. Nobody will question slurred speech. Tonight he is safe.
Iwata touches glass, the slim neck of a shōchō mini. He fumbles the cap off and swallows it in one.
‘Nice night for a celebration.’ A gruff voice at the other end of the room.
Iwata sees a large silhouette. As he approaches, moonlight ribbons across his face.
‘Taba.’
‘Did I miss the candles?’
Iwata frowns. Taba’s tone is off, his twitching lips a tight line across his large, boorish face.
‘What’s up?’
‘I think you know, partner.’
Instinctively, Iwata stands. They are a few feet apart.
The first people from the briefing room are spilling out, paper cups of beer in hand, smiles on their faces. They pass Iwata and Taba as if nothing were happening.
‘Taba, why don’t we go outside and –’
‘Outside? No, no, no. It’s too cold to go outside. I’m happy here in the warm amongst my friends and colleagues.’
‘I’m going for a smoke.’
As Iwata tries to pass, Taba grabs him by the arm. ‘You said you were going to quit.’
‘Bad habits die hard.’
Taba punches Iwata in the eye and a wet smack echoes out through the office. There are gasps, and already the men are restraining Taba. He’s a bear and it takes four of them, his face pink as a Christmas ham, spittle sparking from his mouth. ‘Tell them, Iwata! Fucking tell them!’
Iwata drags himself up off the floor, one hand clutching his eye socket. He is terrified, but for some reason he is smiling.
Chief Morimoto emerges from his office. ‘What the hell is this?’
Taba points a trembling finger at his partner. ‘Ask him! Ask him what he’s been doing with my wife!’
The entire police station is aghast at the unspoken obvious. The new senior inspector is still cradling a slice of cake. Morimoto is white with fury. ‘I don’t know what this is about, Iwata, but you’re taking the night off. Taba, in my office. Now.’
Iwata picks up his jacket, his eye already closing up. He floats past his colleagues to the elevator. Grudgingly satisfied, Taba blows on his knuckles. At Morimoto’s door he pauses. ‘Hey, Iwata? Sorry I was late, I had to make a stop.’
‘You told Cleo.’
Taba smiles a new moon until Morimoto barks at him to shut the door. The new senior inspector asks everyone to get back to work.
Iwata descends to the ground floor then steps out into the cold night. There is no traffic in either direction. Fuzzy drizzle is illuminated by the amber streetlight. Except for the low thrum of the power lines, there is only the sound of the wind. He crosses the parking lot and unlocks his car, a black 1979 Isuzu 117 Coupé. Crawling into the back seat, he concludes Hoshiko must have told Taba. Not that it matters now. Iwata wonders what he will say to Cleo. He decides that he will simply tell her the truth. He will say that she was right – she should leave – it will be best for her and for Nina.
And then I’ll be alone, as it was always meant to be.
Iwata reaches under the passenger seat and lifts up the floor mat. He clutches the little tube of Solanax and shakes it. It rattles solidly – the sound of keys in the front door. He tosses two pills into a plastic evidence bag, bundles it up, then hammers the pills into a powder using the butt of his gun. It’s not designed to be taken this way but he doesn’t have time for digestion.
Rolling up a thousand-yen note, he snorts the Solanax. Immediately he is short of breath, dizzy, nauseous. But already there is a tranquil warmth unfurling within him. The drug travels rapidly through the nasal cavity and past the mucus membrane, sailing across the blood–brain barrier like a hungry marlin. Iwata feels gently euphoric, the pain from Taba’s blow already a strange memory.
He curls up into the foetal position. With tears in his eyes, he begins to laugh. ‘What a day!’
20. Obligate Carnivores
When Iwata came to, he was being dragged. His blindfold had come loose. With one bewildered eye, he saw a white mansion in the night like a mass of chalk swept off a blackboard. Far below and all around there was only dark, rocky desert.
He heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. Then he was being lifted up on quivering legs and marched towards the mansion. Flaming torches led the way into gardens of ice sculptures and tiered fountains. Everywhere there were men in body armour carrying automatic rifles, scanning the distance. The mansion was surrounded by surveillance masts, infrared cameras, laser rangefinders.
Iwata was led to the side of the building, down an elevator and through two reinforced security doors. They clunked shut behind him and he was standing in some kind of bunker, music blaring. It was as if a large panic room had been dressed up as a karaoke booth. There were a dozen trans women in skimpy outfits and heavy make-up surrounding a table of champagne coolers and a sandcastle of cocaine.
On the stage Bebé Rivera was wearing a gold silk shirt, cowboy boots and a perm. He was singing ‘Touch Me’ by Samantha Fox, swinging the mic from his crotch as the women whooped. He caressed imaginary breasts, his forehead shiny with sweat, his diamond rings and hair sparkling in the disco lights.
The song finished to rapturous applause and Bebé returned triumphantly from the stage. As he took his seat a flute of champagne was poured for him, two raspberries dropped in. He sipped it and considered his new arrival at last. ‘Girls, go stretch your legs.’
Pouting, the women shuffled out of the room.
‘Except for you, Nayeli. You dance.’ Automatically the lights dimmed and slow music began. She started to circle the pole on the stage. Except for her, Iwata was alone with Bebé.
‘So,’ he said, playing with one of his rings, ‘here you are.’
Iwata didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
‘Sit.’ The man patted the space next to him. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Bebé Rivera.’
‘Then let’s switch to English.’ Bebé poured Iwata champagne. ‘What do you think of Nayeli? She’s an angel, isn’t she?’
Iwata looked at the dancing woman on the pole, her muscles clearly defined in the purple.
‘So strong.’ Bebé grinned, his eyes glazing over.
‘Why am I here?’
‘Drink up.’
Iwata swallowed with difficulty, his head swimming with exhaustion. He presumed it was good champagne but his mouth registere
d only wetness.
The music finished and Bebé applauded. Nayeli smiled, then excused herself. As she left Bebé kissed her on the mouth. Dropping back into his seat, Iwata caught a snatch of cologne. The man smelled good, somewhere between citrus and leather seats – the interior of a rental car.
‘You’re here because you’re looking for missing women.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe if you had come to me as a friend, I could have helped you.’ Bebé shrugged jovially. ‘Then again, life isn’t all about making friends. I mean, take your actions at my housing complex.’
Iwata put down his glass. ‘I saw a young girl in that place. She was strapped to a bed.’
‘We’re discussing your business here, not mine.’ He snorted a line then massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘At first, nobody could figure you out. My people thought maybe you were CIA. Or you belonged to one of my competitors and you’d tricked the good Detective Valentín with a silly story. But you were looked into and it’s as you say. Your business is the girls. And you’ve come a long way, you’ve taken risks. So, Mr Iwata, my only question is: why?’
‘They’re being killed.’
‘So it’s that simple, then. You think you’re a hero and you thought you would find your dragon here.’ Bebé snorted another line, leaned back and closed his eyes, his face pink. ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, friend. There’s nobody like that on the loose in my city.’
‘No? What about you? What about that little girl in the complex? What happens to her after the procedure?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘And what about the missing women? You paid for Meredith. You paid for Geneviève. Benedict Novacek arranged the meetings. You paid for their surgeries. Then you flew them out here. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘Benedict has a good eye. What can I say? Existence is longing, every man has his needs.’
‘What did you do with them? Are they in the desert?’
‘You think I killed them?’ Laughing, he toasted the quality of the joke. ‘Mr Iwata, the zookeeper that loves his animals doesn’t have specimens flown in just to see them die.’ Bebé waved at the door. ‘But this is all getting very serious.’
Immediately the women crowded back in. A white weasel loped into the room after them, snapping its small head around. It was so fast it seemed to undulate, letting out high-pitched chirps.
Bebé screeched with delight. ‘He’s free! He’s free! Nobody touch him!’
‘Aw, he’s scared,’ one of the women said.
‘Diablo isn’t scared of anything, he’s a warrior. You know he has a war dance? It confuses prey. You’ll see him do little backflips, frizz up his tail. Shit, I could watch him all day.’ The weasel scurried under the booth and Bebé slapped the tabletop. ‘Time for another song.’ He turned to Iwata. ‘Okay, Confucius, what’s your favourite?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bullshit, everybody has a favourite song.’ He winked at the woman next to him. ‘Anabel, my plum. Give us something with attitude.’
As she stood and headed towards the stage Iwata saw a bulge in the gusset of her tights. Bebé smiled at him wolfishly. ‘You like what you see, don’t you? Don’t tell me you’re not curious. Look at her, look at how perfect she is. I’ve been promising her money for the procedure for months but I just can’t bring myself to lose it, you know what I mean? She’s hung like a fucking donkey, after all!’ Bebé slapped Iwata on the thigh and leaned in close. ‘Not always, you understand, I’m no fucking maricón. But sometimes it just really gets me going. I don’t know why. Best of both worlds, maybe. I like that I can see when she’s turned on, you know? Anabel can’t hide it from me. Not with the size of her fucking turnip.’
The woman on the stage started to sing Madonna’s ‘Lucky Star’ in passable English. Bebé swigged his champagne, bopping his head, unable to take his eyes from the stage. ‘She hates it, of course. Says having a cock disgusts her. She calls it it.’ He sighed. ‘I guess in the end I’ll have to give in and make her happy.’
The room was clapping along. Bebé kissed the girl next to him on the shoulder and she scooped up a small mound of cocaine under her long pink nail. He devoured it then turned to Iwata, blinking. ‘I was curious about you, Mr Iwata. You caused a bit of a stir in my town. But I see now you’re nothing more than a Don Quixote with too many questions. Questions questions questions. My grandmother used to say, “The mouth is the gateway to catastrophe.” ’ He laughed. ‘Then again, so is shooting my men.’
Iwata felt a deep futility, a floating plastic bottle trying to reason with the tide itself. The weasel popped its head out from under the table now, then scurried into the corner of the room, baring its teeth.
Bebé beamed. ‘Do you know what an obligate carnivore is? Diablo is one of those, you see. Another phrase I like is “true carnivore”. But “obligate carnivore” has such a ring to it. If I ever write an autobiography, that’s my title. Obligate Carnivore by Edgardo Rivera. Anyway’ – he plucked out a raspberry and popped it in his mouth – ‘I like to leave things on a high note. Heard this one the other day – see what you think. So. The world ends and all the people gather before God. The Russians speak first. They say, “God, we can only thank you. You gave us majestic mountains, you gave us oil, you gave us great literature, we were truly blessed by your gifts.” And God says, “Well, yes, that’s true. But I also gave you cold.” The Americans are next up. They say, “God, we can only thank you. Not only did you give us incredible natural beauty and tremendous wealth, but you also gave us our precious freedom, the greatest gift of all.” And God says, “Yes, that’s all technically true. But I also gave you terrible inequality and discord.” The Mexicans are last. When it’s their turn, they kneel before God and say, “Dear God, of all the peoples that have come before you today, we can honestly say that we, the Mexicans, are the most blessed of all. Our lands have everything we need. We have natural resources, we have jungles, we have flowers. Our crops grow, our beaches sparkle, our animals are plentiful. All throughout the world, our food is treasured and our people are loved.” God shrugs and says, “Yeah, but I also gave you Mexicans.” ’
Bebé laughed raucously and slapped the table. His women joined in on cue.
Iwata looked around the murky neon, the smoke, the sweat. It was as if the depth of the room were no longer a fixed concept, the confines of this space suddenly interchangeable with the black desert outside, the smiles surrounding him like coyotes’.
‘Bebé.’ The girl next to him nuzzled into his chest with a dreamy smile. ‘It’s unfair that your friend just gets to watch us without singing himself.’
‘A wonderful idea! Choose something for him. Something oriental.’
She went up to the stage and programmed the song. ‘Ready!’
Bebé turned to Iwata. ‘Get up there and sing for us.’
‘No.’
His jaw stiffened. ‘Say no to me again in front of my friends, you chink fuck, and I will become unreasonable.’
On unsteady legs, Iwata drifted up to the stage. The music began, a jaunty eighties bass-line. He choked on the lyrics, a little yellow ball on the screen skipping across words like a happy frog.
‘Fucking sing!’ Bebé roared.
Iwata began to sing Aneka’s ‘Japanese Boy’.
‘Yes! Louder!’ Bebé started to dance, urging everyone to their feet. Surrounded by his women, he cycled his fists and moved his hips, a fat, permed Travolta. Panicking, the weasel ran from one corner of the room to the other. Iwata sang the song with his eyes closed, trying to grasp at memory instead of reality. He imagined he were somewhere else, somewhere safe. He imagined himself in the aisles of Mitsuwa, the music gentle in the background, the words not his own but those of Akiko Nakamura. He tried to imagine Cleo singing to the crying baby. He tried to imagine Callie humming to herself as she chopped garlic. He tried to imagine Van Morrison on his mother’s porch. Anything to drown out his own voice in this roo
m.
When the song ended the door opened and Valentín entered the room.
‘Hello again, Detective,’ Bebé said.
‘Edgardo.’ She nodded.
‘It’s like I say to my little boy. Make all the mess you want. So long as you do the tidying afterwards.’ Bebé pointed at Iwata. ‘That’s your mess, Valentín.’
1975 – Tokyo
It was the first day of October and a lukewarm evening breeze was blowing through Yūrakuchō. The three drunks in the empty lot were discussing the upcoming Miss International pageant, the favourite a Yugoslav. On the radio in one of the bars the latest number-one hit was playing – Kenji Sawada’s ‘As Time Goes By’. The vendor across the street had two different newspapers in each hand. In his right, the Yomiuri Shimbun, its headline concerning President Ford’s proposed visit to China and the dismay it was causing. In his left, the Asahi Shimbun, its lead article relating to the retrieval of the body of the last remaining tourist killed in the bus accident in Lake Aoki.
All around Yūrakuchō construction barriers were going up, development looming. Still, the salarymen looked on, ties loosened, beers in hand. If the ground split open and demons jumped out, Nozomi imagined another round would be ordered.
She had just taken an order of autumn beer when her father told her she had a call.
‘Another day, another man,’ he muttered.
‘Ryoma? For God’s sake, I’ve already agreed to meet him tomorrow.’
‘No, some older guy.’
‘Older?’ Puffing her fringe out of her face, she answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Ms Nozomi Iwata? My name is Shinji Kuroki. Do you know who I am?’
‘… Shinji Kuroki, the editor?’
‘From Nichibotsu Ltd, that’s right. Ms Iwata, forgive my directness, but I read The Mannequins and I have to say, I’m very excited. Very. I’ve already shared your work with my colleagues and we all agree you’ve really got something here. Would it be possible to meet tomorrow morning? I’d really like to discuss where we go with this … Ms Iwata, are you there?’
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