The Last Train (Detective Hiroshi Series Book 1)

by Michael Pronko

Hiroshi had never even thought of going to a church in America. He’d insisted it was all superstition manipulated to make money. Linda argued for the deep spiritual beauty of the places. He accused her of romanticizing the orient as exotic and “other.” She accused him of overcompensating with rationality and therefore missing the beauty.

  They were both right—and both wrong—Hiroshi realized, now, too late.

  When she left, he felt like he had been dropped off a ledge. From the grand, sweeping view of Japan they had together, he fell into an up-close encounter with a culture and society he no longer felt part of. He could no longer look at Japan through her eyes. He had to look through his own.

  ***

  Near the main shrine, the three monks—one old and two young—stood impassive in their robes, shaved heads unmoving, hands folded respectfully over prayer beads. The taller and older of the three, his large bald head catching the courtyard lights, watched the proceedings with unmoving eyes and statuesque equanimity.

  At the main front gate, the mourners were all passing under the torii and getting into taxis. Someone held an umbrella over the collapsing woman from the front row and helped her into a taxi. Others climbed in after discussing where they should sit. Another taxi pulled up, took four more passengers in, and pulled off.

  Hiroshi put up his umbrella and started to walk over, but he knew it would be too late, and he had no idea what Takamatsu wanted him to ask.

  The last few mourners stood talking under large black umbrellas. Many of them were foreigners. Hiroshi could tell from the way they stood and moved. But just as many were Japanese, bowing politely and nodding. When the last taxi left, stillness fell over the shrine.

  Hiroshi glanced back at the monks, envying them their serenity. He glanced over at the woman, still sitting there, and wondered at her composure and her distance. He would go speak with her after he went inside. He could pay his respects to the deceased and see what the funeral might offer in the way of insight into his life. Nothing, he guessed.

  The two young monks hurried out in the rain to fold and stack the chairs. Hiroshi walked to the room set up for Steve Deveaux inside the shrine.

  He took off his shoes at the bottom of the wooden stairs, put his umbrella in the worn umbrella rack and climbed up to the inner altar. Inside, a photo of Steve was placed in the middle, surrounded by bottles of whiskey and sake, a few cigars, piles of oranges and flowers, and many books and cards.

  Hiroshi lit several sticks of incense, bowed three times and placed them in the smoldering forest of incense. He looked at the large black and white photo of Deveaux and wondered how long ago that photo had been taken. In the photo, Steve looked handsome and cocky, his eyes and smile brimming with confidence and enthusiasm.

  Judging from the body bag, though, he must have packed on a lot of weight over the years in Tokyo. The city’s life must have added—and extracted—its load right up to his final battering. Staring at the photo, Hiroshi wondered how someone with all the energy that photo displayed could end up where he did. Hiroshi bowed to the photo again and left.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Hiroshi pulled on his shoes and opened his umbrella. He headed across the courtyard but the lone woman was gone. He looked toward where she had been sitting then back again, and around the courtyard, but could see her nowhere. She must have slipped out very quickly.

  The older monk stood calmly under the eaves of the shrine, while the two young monks, their shaved heads dripping rain onto their thick brown robes, clacked the unused chairs together in neat stacks on a metal cart.

  “You have a lot of funerals?” Hiroshi asked them.

  “Every day,” one answered, reaching for another chair.

  “Foreigners?”

  “Not often,” said the other, slapping the chairs together on the cart with a clank.

  Hiroshi nodded and looked around the empty space. “Must be a lot of cleaning up here.”

  “That’s all we do,” said the other monk, tossing the last chair up on top and catching it before it slipped off the other side.

  “Aging population,” the other said.

  “This one wasn’t so old,” Hiroshi said.

  Hiroshi saw the head monk by the back wall placidly waiting without moving, his large bald head gleaming even as the evening darkened around the black-painted shrine. He envied the monk’s strength in the face of solitude, and wished he could do the same.

  At the front gate, there were no taxis along the empty street in either direction, and the rain began to fall more heavily. He waited a minute, hoping another taxi would drive by, but none did. He started walking away from the shrine and the smell of incense turned to the smell of pure, clear rain.

  He had several hours before meeting Takamatsu to start the rounds of Roppongi nightclubs. Walking through the back streets would clear his head and give him some exercise. He could only connect things in his mind when he was away from the computer, walking the city by himself far enough from the data to let it assemble itself into the patterns he needed to put a case together. Only for this case, he didn’t have much data.

  As the downpour thudded onto the nylon of his umbrella and the wet soaked into his socks, he wondered whether the queasy, unsettled feeling he got from all these funerals accumulated somewhere inside to become a strength, or just another kind of weakness.

  Chapter 9

  Roppongi pulsed and glowed. Lighted signs listing the clubs inside zipped up the sides of buildings from sidewalk to rooftop. The names shouted over each other—Black Moon, Abrazos, Kingdom Come, Patpong Alibi, ManZoku, Balibago Den. The overhead writing in all the Japanese scripts, romaji, hiragana, katakana and kanji blurred with foreign words into a crossword puzzle of decadence and desire. Light cascaded out of these mini-marquees that climbed the buildings like electric ivy.

  On the sidewalk, waist-high signs on rollers for restaurants, clubs and bars jutted out into the flow of pedestrian traffic. African doormen in tuxedos boomed out baritone invitations. Teensy dyed-blond girls with dimpled, lipsticked smiles in clinging dresses handed out leaflets. In Roppongi, no taste, need, pleasure or curiosity was left un-catered to.

  People streamed out of subway exits, slid out of taxis, and stepped off bus after bus. Hordes of office workers in dull gray pants and dark skirts blocked corners, shouting directions into their cell phones to those yet to arrive. Fashion-conscious hipsters, mini-skirted amateurs, and yakuza wannabes walked to their favorite places to play, eat, drink, or work. The night sidewalk their only point of overlap, everyone was out for a good time in their own way. To arrive in Roppongi was to feel a little high already.

  Hiroshi gave himself over to the rush. He zigzagged through the crowd convening outside Almond Coffee, one of the most popular meeting points. Before their undercover research at the clubs, Hiroshi wanted to fill his stomach with ramen noodles, a foundation to soak up the alcohol. Certain counters, standing bars and all trains welcomed single people, allowing Hiroshi to always find someplace he could feel comfortably alone. He had his places to eat and drink all over the city.

  His favorite spot was in a half-floor-down basement that specialized in spicy miso-flavored ramen. A small, hand-lettered sign covered in Saran Wrap pointed down the oily stairs. Ramen was what he missed most during the years he studied in Boston. His father took him for ramen—the one thing they did together after his mother died. Ramen was more than hangover prevention; it restored him to himself.

  Inside, the shop was humid from the constantly boiling water for the noodles and the simmering broth that made the air deliciously sour and salty. He tucked a thousand yen note into the vending machine by the door for tickets for miso ramen, dumplings and a small bowl of rice. He handed the tickets to the chef and stared at the TV on the wall. The comedy programs were all the same to him, laughing talento celebrities overacting a hollow sense of fun—not unlike Roppongi itself.

  The cook one-handed his bowl of noodles over the counter and turned back to the cutting boa
rd. Hiroshi alternated slurps of thick, chewy noodle with spoonfuls of salty broth. Between glances at the pseudo-comedy show, he tucked in bites of rice sprinkled with furikake flakes of seaweed, dried fish, and sesame seed.

  The cook set a small plate of fried dumplings on the counter and Hiroshi pulled it to the lower counter. Once the dumplings had cooled a little, he dipped them one by one into a mixture of soy sauce, vinegar, and hot oil, heavy on the vinegar.

  It would be another hour before Takamatsu arrived to begin their rounds. In his mind, he could hear Takamatsu’s banter already. Until then, Hiroshi wanted to enjoy the beauty of a ramen meal, sitting quietly in his own interior world.

  ***

  By seven in the evening, the coffee shop, “Les Chats Gris,” was full of bar hostesses flipping through glossy magazines, drinking coffee, chain smoking, and tapping messages on bejeweled cell phones. Quaint photos of Paris adorned the shop’s mock-French interior. The Paris in the photos—where passionate lovers kissed, wise beret-wearing men smoked and jaunty boys paraded huge baguettes—felt like the urban opposite of Roppongi.

  The hostesses dressed in sexy outfits with low necklines and open backs. Their tanned, young bodies were draped in sheer tops and short skirts that puffed or clung or glittered, depending on their club’s atmosphere. Many wore one-piece dresses with coiled necklaces across their collarbones. High-tech bras lifted and molded their breasts into alluring shapes.

  The afternoon spent at hair salons, layering the well-teased curls and pinioning them with gleaming barrettes, was conspicuous. Their cheeks, canvases of pastel colors sharpened by the thick mascara and dark eyeliner above, appeared to need constant upkeep, as they repeatedly touched up their faces in fold-out mirrors kept ever-ready in their purses.

  Most hostesses smoked, pulling cigarettes from designer cases and lighting them with expensive lighters. Several women recognized each other by nodding, and a few sat together chatting. To not receive a call or two was an embarrassment. When their phones buzzed to life, they covered the mouthpiece with long, sparkly nails, keeping whispers unheard, but on full display.

  In the middle of the coffee shop, Michiko sat alone. She was dressed in all black, her hair newly dyed chestnut brown with blond streaks. Over her shoulders hung a thick, black shawl, as intricately knotted as chain mail. Unlike the others, she hunched over her table working, her long straight hair falling around her like a curtain. She knew a few of the hostesses. Many of them, like her, had been coming to the coffee shop for years, but she acknowledged no one.

  She worked back and forth, using two smartphones, several notebooks, and a ledger book propped upright on her leather bag. She wrote in careful, neat lines from top to bottom, in traditional style, and used a ruler to keep the columns of numbers in line.

  Numbers came so easily to her, she was accused of cheating on her math exams the last year she bothered going to high school. She didn’t know why it was easy; her mother and father had barely finished junior high. Years later, she took a night class in accounting, but quit because it was so simple. Her own accountant, a dour man, who handled only complicated accounts like hers, had taught her more.

  Over the years, she had also gleaned a lot from talking with men about the actualities of making, keeping track of and investing money. Appearing confused, but interested elicited lectures in financial management and tricks of the money trade. She mastered what the men said about money as completely as she had the convivial fictions of hostess talk. When the money started coming in, she knew what to do with it.

  More hostesses, getting ready for the night’s work, crowded the shop. Several latecomers eyed the open chair beside Michiko, but they all sat elsewhere.

  One young hostess with a round, pleasant face and a figure so full and plump she had to twist sideways and suck in to maneuver through the densely packed chairs, pushed in to find a seat. She seemed new to hostessing or only part-time. As she tiptoed behind Michiko, her purse slipped from her shoulder and swung down, hitting Michiko square in her back.

  Michiko erupted out of her chair, her arms taut and ready at her sides.

  Startled, the plump woman lost her balance and landed sideways on the next table. Her high heels scrambled for purchase like a cat on ice. Her skirt hiked up to her underwear and her coffee cup clattered to the floor. The other hostesses recoiled in their chairs, yanking up their anklet-adorned legs.

  A couple of women asked in high, plaintive voices, “Daijobu desu ka? Are you OK?”

  Others let out an unhappy, “Waaa!”

  A waiter in black tie and vest scurried over to help, promising to bring a new cup of coffee for her. Another woman reached out with an arm to steady the fallen woman, as she righted herself and pulled her dress back in place.

  Michiko drew in a full breath and calmed down. A splash of coffee had landed on her account book and Michiko wiped it off with her handkerchief, which she tossed on the table.

  The plump woman stood up, brushed herself off and laughed, ready to apologize and forget it.

  Michiko glared, towering over the scene, the tendons in her arms and hands visible beneath her skin, her shoulders set back and her legs in a ready stance.

  The plump woman laughed again, and bowed in apology to Michiko.

  Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief, but Michiko failed to acknowledge the apology. So, the plump woman bowed again, more stiffly, straightened her tight-packed one-piece, and carried her shame and stained dress to the bathroom.

  Michiko folded shut her notebooks, fingered off her cell phones and dropped them in her bag. All eyes were on her as she straightened her black dress, swung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door without a glance to either side.

  Michiko was going to work that evening, too. She had come there for years, but was tired of these hostess hangouts. The coffee shops in Europe were another thing altogether. She had to go change for her alibi of being at work before she finished the evening’s plan.

  Chapter 10

  Hiroshi walked the back streets past the cheaper hostess clubs with garish front door colors and glitzy photos of women in coy poses. Other clubs took the opposite approach, arousing curiosity with a single elegant character in dark red. In Roppongi, understated simplicity was just as inviting as open arms.

  Hiroshi finally found the club—the Venus de Milo. Hiroshi nodded to the men in suits, hair oil and biceps at the door and walked up the marble-lined entryway, a red carpet underfoot. At the top of the curving stairway was a full-size copy of the Venus de Milo, gleaming white beneath bright spotlights.

  Takamatsu was not there yet, and Hiroshi hesitated to go in without him. But the mama-san—a large woman in a sequined gown with thick, upswept hair—spoke to two of the women congregated at the back comparing outfits. They dutifully walked over with graceful steps. Once they took his arms, Hiroshi could not back out, so he followed them to a sofa. There were no other customers. It was too early.

  The room, drenched in a russet glow from soft purple sofas and maroon carpeting, was large, separated into discrete areas with patterned glass dividers, large potted plants and tall gauze curtains that swept down from the high ceiling.

  At points around the walls were positioned Venus de Milo busts on pedestals. Spotlights under the smaller replicas of the famous sculpture cast upswept shadows over their classic features.

  Hiroshi was about to start talking with the two women when Takamatsu blustered in, drawing everyone’s attention. When it was clear Takamatsu would be joining them, one of the women unfolded her long legs and moved to escort him over.

  The two hostesses, both dressed in tight silk dresses with low necklines, welcomed Hiroshi and Takamatsu by leaning toward them with deep-throated coos, settling the men into place. Before the conversation got going, a bottle of whiskey arrived with a bucket of ice, bottled spring water, and glasses.

  “First time here?” the hostesses asked, brushing their hair back and settling onto the sofa beside Hiroshi
and Takamatsu, boy-girl, boy-girl.

  Takamatsu said, “Yes, but not the last.” He looked at the two girls with a face that displayed desire without any filter or restraint.

  “I’m Miki and that’s Shiho,” the shorter of the two said.

  “I’m Suzuki and that’s Sato.” Hiroshi made a mental note to remember his cover name, though the girls would remember it better than he would. The girls had their working names, so why shouldn’t the guys? Miki leaned forward to mix the whiskey, weak yellow for the women and strong brown for the men.

  Miki had straight, jet-black hair and almond-shaped eyelids. Her eyes veered politely sideways, attentive, but never connecting. Her smooth hands and manicured fingernails handled the bottle, drink stirrer and ice tongs with practiced poise. Each time she moved, the bright yellow squares on her tight, red dress contorted delectably.

  Shiho, in an all-black dress, sat forward with her eyes on Hiroshi. Her long body sank deep into the soft cushions. She smiled with such directness that Hiroshi felt a gratifying bolt of desire. He snuck a glance at Shiho’s shapely legs as she reseated herself and pulled her dress into place.

  Takamatsu raised his glass for a toast, everyone singing out, “Kanpai! Cheers!” together as one.

  Takamatsu took off his jacket, and a waiter came to take it, patting it to be sure he didn’t forget his cell phone before hanging up the jacket. Takamatsu rolled up his sleeves in three perfect folds and shook out cigarettes for the girls. Only Miki smoked.

  “You’ve got the good girl,” Takamatsu said. “We smokers stick together. Bad habits lead to more bad habits, right?”

  “I hope so.” Miki laughed and bounced on the sofa. She drew deep on her cigarette and held it up as she blew out, waiting to see if Takamatsu would take the conversational reins.

  “You’re attractive, you two,” Takamatsu said.

  “Let’s not talk about us. Let’s talk about you. What do you do?” Miki asked.