Takamatsu answered, “Business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Foreign investment,” Takamatsu said.
Hiroshi squirmed, unsure of whether he could act like a businessman.
“What does that mean?” Miki asked, Shiho listening quietly.
“It’s mostly just talk and trust. If you talk the right way, you get their trust and make the sale.”
“That sounds like what we do,” Miki laughed.
“It is, indeed. But I like talk after work, too, if you know what I mean,” he said, laughing a little too loudly.
“So do we,” said Miki, squirming on the sofa. “Tell us something interesting about work!”
To Hiroshi, Shiho seemed more beautiful the quieter she remained. He thought of Linda, and then he quit thinking of her and just let his eyes roam over the strong curves of Shiho’s shoulders and breasts and waist. When she leaned back on the sofa, she caught his eyes, and then she looked away with a girlish tilt of her head.
Her chestnut brown, blond-streaked hair billowed thick and long over her shoulders. If all her gestures were practiced, they were practiced to perfection. As she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, her hose rustled and whispered. When she caught him staring, she looked away and smiled. She liked to be looked at, or was used to it.
Takamatsu launched into a story: “We made a killing today. We took these foreigners on a complicated trade. Foreigners think our English isn’t good, but we know how to make money, we Japanese, right?”
“All in a day’s work,” Hiroshi said, trying to act confident. “I deal with foreign companies most of the time, but I hate them.”
“So, you must speak English?”
“A little.”
“Can you teach us?” asked Miki, her eyes wide in anticipation.
“I’d love to,” Takamatsu chimed in. Hiroshi laughed, since he knew Takamatsu could only sputter a few words in a row.
“Why don’t you like foreigners?” asked Shiho, with a frown.
Takamatsu shook his head. “They’re changing the business environment. They bring in Western practices—like transparent accounting—that disrupt the old connections.”
Hiroshi was amazed at Takamatsu’s ability to fabricate—to lie—so convincingly.
Takamatsu continued: “They want a contract for everything, and pay lawyers to write them up. In the old days, Japanese business ran on trust. Not much of that left.”
“I know what you mean,” said Miki, pouring a second round of drinks for everyone.
“I hope you don’t get any foreign devils in here.”
“We do.”
“Are they troublesome?”
“Mama-san is strict, so we switch around among ourselves if there’s ever a problem. This is the best club I’ve ever worked in,” said Miki.
Shiho nodded as if it wasn’t, necessarily, the best one for her.
“I’m taking an English class now,” said Miki. “I want to work in a place with more foreigners if I can.”
Miki set her hand on Takamatsu’s shoulder.
“Foreigners?” Shiho said, finding her voice at last. “They tend to want one thing. And it’s not conversation.”
Everyone laughed.
Miki said, “Nothing wrong with that,” bringing another wave of laughter.
“I meant money,” Shiho said, not laughing.
“One gets the other!” Miki said.
“That’s the same in every country,” Takamatsu said, leaning in closer to whisper to Miki. She giggled as she listened, putting her hand over her mouth and huddling forward.
Takamatsu leaned over to Hiroshi with a mock-quiet whisper, “Divide and conquer,” in terribly accented English. That left Hiroshi and Shiho to talk.
It had been a long time since Hiroshi had bantered with a woman in Japanese. He had hardly spoken to a woman since Linda left. He knew this was all an act, but it was a successful one. He felt as if Shiho were sister, mother, confidante, colleague, and lover all at once. Being attended to—paid for or not—was its own kind of pleasure.
Sensing Hiroshi’s hesitation, Shiho started to talk. She loved to travel, had been to Paris, New York, and most resort spots around Southeast Asia, with, Hiroshi guessed, different men. She liked onsen hot springs resorts and—premature though it was—Hiroshi asked her to go with him to one sometime.
Shiho smiled a disappointed smile and said, “I wish I had met you before.”
Before Hiroshi could say anything more, Takamatsu gave him a serious look and waved his watch at him.
“We have the two most beautiful women in Roppongi right here,” Takamatsu said, “But we still have business to do. Our boss is waiting for us.”
“I thought you were the boss?” Miki said.
“I am, but we still have a meeting. Could we buy you girls a drink later?”
“The mama-san is a little short-handed tonight, so we can’t leave her right now. One of the girls quit yesterday, and another didn’t come back from vacation yet.”
Takamatsu tapped his cell phone so his phone number displayed on the screen and said, “You can contact me here. We need to go.”
“Where do you go after work? Can we meet you there?” asked Hiroshi.
“Miki goes to the David Lounge every night,” Shiho said.
Miki twisted away. “Men have to be accompanied in there,” she said with a restrained, angry smile at Shiho, who had obviously hit a nerve. “Shiho’s leaving soon on vacation.”
They turned to look at her.
“Just for a while,” Shiho said, her eyes darting at Miki, angry at the divulgence.
“Where are you going?” Hiroshi asked.
“Just a short trip abroad.”
“Never mind, we’ll come back another night.” Takamatsu said.
Takamatsu stood up to settle the bill. The two women helped Hiroshi, who let them walk him—one on each side—to the door. The mama-san got down from her perch at the bar and came over to ask if everything was okay, since they were leaving so early.
Takamatsu assured her everything was fine, that they had a meeting, but that they would return again soon. The two women walked with the two men down the carpeted stairway under the gaze of Venus de Milo.
When Takamatsu and Hiroshi got to the street, the two women stood politely on the bottom step, folded their hands at their waists with their high heels formally together.
As Hiroshi and Takamatsu started away, the two women bowed, and waved their hands bye-bye like high school girls until Hiroshi and Takamatsu were out of sight around the corner.
Chapter 11
When they were out of earshot, Hiroshi said, “Now, what did we get out of that?”
“We’re warming up. Getting in character,” Takamatsu said, using badly pronounced English for the last phrase.
Hiroshi shook his head.
“Thanks for sticking me with the bill,” Takamatsu said, once they were out of earshot.
“I thought you had a budget?”
“I’m in trouble with the department accountant already.”
“I can’t believe you talked them into paying for this.”
“It was the foreign aspect that got them. Loss of face. They want this over.”
“Did you tell them we’d be going to hostess clubs?”
“I mentioned the suspect was a hostess, yes.”
“We’re looking for a tall woman with long hair who might be a hostess? That narrows it down to a million suspects in Tokyo.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic. You have to shake the tree.”
“There’re too many trees.” Hiroshi gestured at the clubs in all directions.
“What did you think of those two?” Takamatsu asked.
“Typical hostesses. Not murderers.”
“The tall one, yours, was not unlike the video clip.”
“Like I said, a million women look like the video clip.”
“We’re checking all the clubs in his wallet. That’s
logical, isn’t it?”
“In a way.”
“In a drunken way,” Takamatsu laughed.
“The whiskey is strong.”
“Washes the American-ness out of you. Makes you a real Japanese again.”
Barkers and doormen stepped halfway in front of Hiroshi and Takamatsu, trying to corral them and get them to come inside, which meant that at least Hiroshi and Takamatsu knew their disguises as non-detectives were working. From one club to the next, came price lists, discount coupons, photos of women, and lists of options.
“You should have left it as a suicide,” Hiroshi said.
“And miss all this fun?” Takamatsu laughed.
The streets had become clogged with middle-aged men in wobbling groups deciding where to go, like it was their rightful purpose in life to get drunk with young women whose companionship drew exorbitant prices. Touts from nearby clubs circled them with discount offers and enticing patter.
“I forgot to tell you,” Takamatsu said. “The American ambassador made an unofficial inquiry this morning.”
“Really? Do they always inquire about dead citizens?”
“No. That’s the problem.”
“Was Deveaux important?”
Takamatsu stopped to read his leather-covered notepad. “Where’s the David Lounge?”
“What’s the David Lounge is the question.”
“The Tulip is close by here. Let’s try that first.”
They walked down a small, connecting lane that led back to the main street, toward Azabu. The club was two blocks down in a large building covered with brown tile. A long list of drinking spots, clubs and bars were listed on the building’s front directory. The Tulip was on the twelfth floor. The clean, well-kept elevator had a security camera and a tidy atmosphere. Such an efficient, organized building in Roppongi meant yakuza ownership.
They got off on the twelfth floor and entered a darkened hallway with the entrance to the Tulip on the left. Hiroshi and Takamatsu both stopped still. On the right, a small brass plaque on the wall had “David Lounge” inscribed in small, tight alphabet script. The name hadn’t been on the signboard downstairs.
They couldn’t get into the David Lounge if the hostesses took their dates there, and anyway, the lounge wouldn’t be open until later, after the hostess bars closed—so they decided to try The Tulip.
The bartender looked up as they entered, but said nothing. Instead, he went back to chipping at a palm-sized ball of ice he rotated in his left hand.
The bar had one black marble bar top with a half-dozen low stools. The end of the bar curved to the right around toward the front wall, with space for two more stools. Floor-to-ceiling doors, for storage most likely, took up the left wall. The back shelves were lined with immaculate rows of select, expensive liquors and a green-glowing stereo system.
The silent bartender wore a tieless tuxedo vest with a fresh purple tulip pinned to the lapel. His face was pale, with cheeks sunk in dark ravines down each side. The light from below the bar shone upwards, highlighting his skeletal features and casting a shadow of his lanky body on the glass shelves behind.
Hiroshi put on the drunk act. “So, this is the place Suzuki’s always raving about?” he said a little too loudly, nodding in approval to the bartender, who kept working silently, tossing the ice ball in his hand to find the next spot to flake off.
They sat down and Hiroshi ordered two single malt whiskies, neat.
The bartender put the ice ball in the freezer and moved off to retrieve the drinks. He placed the two whiskey glasses and a small glass bowl of peanuts on the counter in front of them before retrieving his ice ball and pick.
Takamatsu looked around for a hook to hang his jacket, but seeing none, folded it and set it on the stool next to him. He rolled up his sleeves in three crisp folds while Hiroshi tried to get comfortable on the cushioned stool.
Takamatsu started to talk about his past lovers. At first, Hiroshi thought Takamatsu was making up the stories, but gradually he realized they were probably real. True or not, Takamatsu was a great storyteller, and Hiroshi was a natural listener. Takamatsu detailed the women, though edited the most intimate details: this girl from a club last year, another from when he was training but met again by accident, one he met on a case last year. Hiroshi never asked about Takamatsu’s wife and kids, and Takamatsu never mentioned them.
Meanwhile, the tall, pale bartender kept up the constant rhythmic sculpting of the ice ball. After checking to see if it fit in a highball glass, he placed it in the freezer, pulled out a fresh rectangle of ice, and started chipping a new ball.
A muted buzzer sounded, and the bartender pulled open a small window on the back wall and retrieved an order. He turned away as he hunched over to mix the drinks, and then set them on a rolling tray that disappeared inside the wall.
“What’s that? Giving the wall a drink?” joked Takamatsu.
The bartender glanced at him and went back to the ice ball, chipping with irritating regularity.
Takamatsu gossiped about department people, being careful not to say anything that would flag them as detectives, but the quiet jazz and cold, watery whiskey was making Hiroshi sleepy. Takamatsu never seemed to get drunk or tired. Hiroshi was both.
“Not busy tonight,” Takamatsu shouted to the bartender, who paused for a second to shrug.
“Never any women in here?” The bartender shrugged again, not missing a beat on the now-rounder ball.
Takamatsu put out his cigarette and nodded at the bartender, who put away his half-finished ice ball in the freezer and got their bill. Hiroshi paid and they left. In the hallway, they both looked at the elevator camera without a word.
At the building entrance, they stopped short. A heavy rain had started while they were inside. Neither of them had brought umbrellas. They waited at the door to see if the rain would lighten.
“Those two whiskies at The Tulip were more than the whole tab at the Venus de Milo,” said Hiroshi. “I should have paid for the first one.”
“I’ll see if I can get some more funds.”
“We didn’t find much, did we?” Hiroshi said.
“If we find his route, we’ll find whoever killed him.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We keep coming back until we do,” Takamatsu added. “I have to give the chief something to tell the embassy soon.”
“It’d be nice to see that elevator tape,” Hiroshi said.
“And get inside the David Lounge.”
“That ice pick was driving me crazy.”
“I wanted to snatch it out of his hand.”
Takamatsu looked around the entrance area for an umbrella stand from which to “borrow” an umbrella, but he couldn’t find one. When they gave up on the rain slowing, they pinched their collars around their necks and quit talking as they ran through the rain toward the nearest subway station.
Chapter 12
Michiko had a key to Takayuki Shibuya’s place, and let herself in silently. She set her umbrella in the stand, shaking off the rain. It was pouring outside. In the genkan, several pairs of men’s designer running shoes surrounded a single pair of women’s leather pumps.
The apartment was disordered, the designer furniture misaligned and littered with convenience store and shopping bags, jackets, and a rack of video cameras, monitors, LED lights, reflectors, and tripods. A row of DVD players lined up next to stacks of homemade DVDs.
She walked in her socks through the living room past the small kitchen area to the door of the bedroom and pushed it open. Shibuya was sprawled across the double bed. She could not see his face, only the dark-tanned flesh on his back and his spiky, dyed blond-brown hair. Two bright gold chains snaked across the tan flesh of his shoulder blades.
Shibuya’s inability to get beyond holding court in a game center and living like a twenty-year-old infuriated her even more than his inability to manage money. She had been carrying him for years, and it was time to stop. She knew what she had to do and
knew where Shibuya kept the money.
Beneath his smoker’s snore and the cyclic hum-rattle-hum of the air conditioner, she heard another light breathing rhythm. Beside him in bed she saw the curved outline of a thin girl under the sheets.
She was as darkly tanned as Shibuya and one small breast with a tiny nipple poked out from under a sleeveless T-shirt. Her thin hip stretched into a thinner waist, and her long leg hung over the edge of the bed.
The plain white shirt, blue tie, white socks and plaid skirt folded neatly on the chair beside the bed indicated the girl was still in high school—or pretended to be. Or maybe the folded outfit was just a prop for a video shoot.
Michiko leaned back, thinking. She had expected Shibuya to be alone. A dozen years ago, it had been Michiko there in bed.
***
Her best friend Reiko met Shibuya first. Reiko’s father used to work at Michiko’s father’s factory, but he drank too much and disappeared. Reiko’s mother watched TV all day, pouring out glass after glass of shochu from a big plastic container. When she was sober enough to walk, she played pachinko, losing what little money the family had.
Reiko started coming home with Michiko after school to eat and do homework, and then, she just moved in. It was okay with Michiko’s father, who worked overtime and felt guilty not spending more time with Michiko. The apartment above the metal workshop her father owned had room for another bed, and the workers made a bed frame from leftover metal for her.
Reiko met Shibuya one day when she skipped class and went downtown by herself. She was always ahead, socially and sexually, of Michiko. She had a way with boys that drew them to her, at school and on the street. Her sassy manner, full-body curves, and self-possession were hard not to notice. When she started using make-up, she looked ten years older. Michiko soon followed.
When Michiko’s father found out they were running off to young people’s hangouts in the teen worlds of Harajuku and Shibuya, he was furious. He started popping upstairs from the workshop—his clothing, hair, face and hands covered in metal dust—to be sure they were doing their homework. They found ways to sneak out anyway. So, he brought in one of Michiko’s cousins, Natsumi, an older girl from their ancestral hometown, to keep an eye on them.
The Last Train (Detective Hiroshi Series Book 1) Page 6