A campus map mounted outside the museum showed tiny photographs of the various buildings corresponding to the various academic departments. I couldn’t see the word ‘art’ anywhere. I wondered if art was housed in another building, such as communications. I would check with the administration. Scanning the building names printed in kanji characters, I triumphantly recognized the symbol for ‘admissions office’ and set off on a smooth cement path toward it.
As Rika’s friend had mentioned, the regular school year was over, so things were quiet. There were no bicycles leaning in the bike racks, and no students sitting on the steps. Still wearing my shorts and tank top, I was the only person walking around who looked remotely collegiate. A few grown-ups in business suits walked by with briefcases; professors, I imagined, doing summer research. It was past 9 a.m., so I figured the offices had to be open.
I entered the mauve-and-white room that was the admissions office, and before I could speak, I was handed a form written in Japanese. It appeared to be some sort of preliminary application. The receptionist, a kind-looking middle-aged woman who wore glasses on a necklace chain, waved to me, indicating that I should sit down on one of the plush chairs.
I remained standing, and told her, “I’m trying to get some basic information about students… and the art department.”
“There is no art department here,” the receptionist told me. “Some of the students enjoy art as a hobby, and there are clubs for it, of course. You may indicate your interest in the application.”
“Where are the art hobby clubs located?” I asked.
“The second floor of the student union. But I’m very sorry that it’s closed for the summer. Can you come back in late August?”
“Um, actually, I’m visiting from America,” I said semi-truthfully. I was sure the Japanese government would like to think of me as a visitor and not a permanent resident.
“Ah so desu ka! We have programs for foreign students. Your Japanese was so good that I did not realize. I gave you the wrong application.”
She began frantically rummaging through a series of folders.
“Please don’t go to any trouble,” I apologized. “It would be a great help to me, though, if I could meet a particular student I heard about who is interested in the same things as I am.”
“Well, it is a bit irregular for me to do this, but seeing as you’ve traveled so far, I will ask the registrar if he can help.” The woman seemed relieved to be able to pass the buck. “What is this student’s name?”
“Seiko Hattori.”
“All you know is her name? Not her major?”
“Well, I have heard that she is in the manga club.”
The receptionist frowned. “The Japanese immersion program here is very rigorous. Those who come to Japan seeking only to play at manga can be disappointed in the college experience. We had an American like that, and the dean does not want the experience repeated.”
“Oh, I agree. Are you talking about that boy who was in the news: Nicky Larsen?”
“He was so consumed with manga that he dropped out. And then look at what happened!” She shook her head. “I’m going to telephone the registrar right now. While you wait, you can look at our student publications in the reception area,
I located the Showa College yearbook on a rack, and since I wasn’t sweaty anymore, I sat down on a small mauve-and-cream print chair. The chair reminded me of the kind of customer seats one encountered in banks, sized at an elementary-school-student scale. They were seats that made you feel small in the face of the authority.
I paged through the yearbook; fortunately the manga group was called Comic Club, so I was able to easily identify the picture. Two rows of students were mugging for the camera, some wearing costumes, some holding their fingers like rabbit ears over the head of the person in front of them. Before looking at the faces too closely, I checked the text for names: Nicky Larsen, Kunio Takahashi, Seiko Hattori.
Nicky was easy to spot: his blond head was higher than everyone else’s. He was wearing a long leather coat and looked pretty glamorous. I could see why Chiyo had hired him for the host bar. Kunio Takahashi, standing to his right, was dressed in what looked like a vintage tuxedo complete with wing-tip shoes and gloves. He was wearing sunglasses, so I didn’t get much of an impression of his face, except that he had a pointed chin, giving a rather pixielike character to his face. He looked almost like an animation character. I considered whether he could be Sunglass Man who had watched me in the anime coffee shop a few days earlier. The picture was too small for me to decide, and the sunglasses were a different style, but I did think that Kunio was probably close in height to Sunglass Man.
Why did Kunio have to wear sunglasses in the picture? I groused to myself. It was so unfair. Seiko Hattori was on the other side of Kunio. I’d been thinking to myself that since Kunio was supposed to be so hot, she might have been a girlfriend. Nicky had called her a bitch. It sounded like they had some past bad history.
In this picture, Seiko was standing with her hands flat against her thighs, smiling into the camera as if she owned it. I had an impression of long straight black hair and a round, softly pretty face. In other words, she looked like half the Japanese college students or office ladies that I saw on the street. I couldn’t pick her out of the crowd.
I went through the back of the book, looking for an index to see if there were more photos of Seiko and Kunio. There was no index. Instead, there was page after page of advertisements, in English or Japanese, congratulating graduates and the various extracurricular organizations. There were a number of pages showing support for the volleyball team, and one especially showy page congratulating members of the journalism club, which included Rika Fuchida. Reading the fine print at the bottom of the page, I saw that her parents had paid for the advertisement. Well, that was normal for American high school and college yearbooks, too.
An ad with a smiling Mars Girl holding a diploma conveyed congratulations to the whole animation club, courtesy of Hattori Copy Shop. The advertisement listed the participating students’ names. Kunio, Nicky, and Seiko were listed along with twenty others. There was one name I’d expected to see there but didn’t: Rika’s.
Looking at the ad, two questions cropped up. First, I wondered if the people running Hattori Copy Shop had any connection to Seiko Hattori. Second, I was curious why Rika hadn’t been featured in the manga club photo or named in the advertisement. Rika had told Mr. Sanno she was active in the Showa College manga club, but she was turning out to have been less of a player than I thought. Maybe, like her friends had suggested, she was a non-player.
“Not available,” the receptionist said suddenly.
“Hmmm?” I’d been so lost in Rika’s absence from the animation club that I hadn’t heard the full sentence the receptionist uttered. With Japanese, I always had to listen very carefully to a whole sentence to understand it.
“It seems that Seiko Hattori used to study here as an English major. She is no longer enrolled.”
“Did she graduate?” I asked.
“No, the last year she completed was her third. We have a four-year program.” She sighed. “This is a private college, and scholarships are unfortunately few. Perhaps, with the economic crisis, her parents couldn’t afford it any longer.”
Three members of a doujinshi circle, all missing from college. I doubted it had anything to do with the current economic crisis.
“Nicky left after his third year as well, didn’t he?”
“Technically he was enrolled as a senior this year,” the receptionist said. “It’s just that he didn’t come to class.”
“You know a lot about Nicky Larsen,” I said, hoping to tease out more.
“Oh, as you can imagine, the staff was very concerned after he died. We heard just a few days ago. He’s on people’s minds.”
“Did you know him personally?”
She shook her head. “He started the application process while he was a student in the United St
ates. Therefore he didn’t have any reason to enter the admissions office. The foreign-students’ office dealt with him, but because it is summer, it’s closed.”
“I hear that he had a Japanese friend called Kunio Takahashi who recently graduated.”
“You are so interested in particular students who are not enrolled here any longer, neh?”
Oops. I’d crossed a line, and I was in danger of being found out.
“Um, well, these were the names I was told,” I said. “I’d like to take this application and be on my way, but I really am impressed with this yearbook. Is there any way that I can buy my own copy?”
“The student union sells copies, but since that is closed, you could try to find a copy at the shop that printed it. Hattori Copy Shop is very close by, just outside Takadanobaba Station.”
Hattori Copy Shop was the same company that had placed the advertisement congratulating the animation club. Excellent. I smiled my thanks and was on my way to the station. The copy shop was easy to locate; it was a typical mom-and-pop store with a big sign in the window reading copy now! only 5 yen. I thought of dashing in, but I realized it was only twenty minutes till my lunch date with Rika. The perils of rising late, I thought sourly. Rika was on a tight schedule at the magazine, so I owed it to her to be punctual. I checked the hours of the copy shop, which were posted on the door, and hurried to my meeting.
Rika arrived at the restaurant at nearly the same moment as I did, and we found seats together just before the noon rush hour. As always, the service was like lightning. The goal of the place seemed to be feeding people and releasing them as quickly as possible. Some restaurants had no conversation allowed, in an attempt to speed things up even more. The fact that we were talking was arousing a few evil stares from people standing in the doorway waiting for tables.
“I went to your school today,” I said between bites of tofu. I didn’t want to eat the same thing I’d had the day before, so I was picking at a cold plate of the delicious soybean curd generously slathered with soy sauce.
“How did you have time to visit my college? I thought you were concentrating on writing our story.” Rika’s voice sounded critical.
“Nicky and Kunio went to Showa College. Don’t you think that makes the campus a good place to do research?”
She waved her hand airily. “But school’s not in session.”
“The admissions office is open. I saw a yearbook.”
Rika’s eyes flickered. “Were you able to get a photo of Kunio and Nicky?”
“I couldn’t remove the book, but I saw that the manga club photo included them as well as Seiko Hattori. But you weren’t in the picture.”
“I was more active in the journalism club. Didn’t you see my photo there?” Rika sounded casual.
How was I going to get her to confess? I eyed her warily and said, “Did you even belong to the manga club?”
Rika coughed. “Not exactly, but I am a fan. I went to their parties.”
Now I understood. When Rika’s friends at the beach said that she didn’t know much about manga, they’d been telling the truth.
I didn’t reply, waiting to see what would come.
After thirty seconds, the words came out of Rika in a rush.
“At our staff meeting, I mentioned being part of the club because I certainly know people in it. I’m practically a member.”
“I see.” I was learning a lot about the little intern who could. I looked at her for a moment, knowing that she was feeling uncomfortable, and I realized that we wouldn’t get very far if I turned into an accusing force.
“Let’s talk about another thing I’m interested in—the gang connection. My friend Takeo thinks the beach bar where I met you has many gangsters drinking there. Is that true?”
“Don’t say that word!” Rika whispered.
I always forgot that one wasn’t supposed to utter the word yakuza in public, lest one of the gangsters themselves overhear and become angry. But I was speaking English. The term had probably floated by most people.
Rika took a deep swallow of water and then said, “I’m not one of them. I’m just a normal Japanese girl!”
Rika’s fear was ludicrous enough to make me laugh, but I knew she was in a delicate emotional state, so I didn’t. “I know you’re not involved in that. Most people drinking in those places aren’t involved. But there were a few male customers with tattoos and sunglasses. I didn’t get close enough to look at their hands.”
Hands could be a giveaway for a gangster who’d slipped up once or twice. The traditional penalty for misdeeds within the Japanese underworld was said to be a severed finger.
“I’m giving my best to this article,” Rika said. “I have already examined a naked murdered man. I made many notes in my Palm Pilot for you. However, I will not walk up to one of these men to do an interview. There is no connection between the Bojo Bar and this article, other than the fact that you and I talked about our plans there!”
I sat back in my chair, thinking that it would be a lot easier to skip interviewing a gang member. Why did I feel that we had to?
“Rika, as you know, I can barely read Japanese,” I began. ”Nevertheless, when I buy wood-block prints, I look for the artist’s seal in the lower right corner. Because I’ve studied for so long, I know the seals better than a lot of people, but not as well as a veteran. On the TV news, the reporter suggested that the sign on Nicky’s forehead was a gang marking. I would never have thought of that before, but you know, it really makes sense. Nicky worked at Show a Boy, a strip club run by a very tough mama-san. There is a possibility that she hired gangsters to kill him—or that gangsters with an interest in the business killed him to send her a message.”
“So why is the answer to interview strange men at the beach?” Rika’s words came out in a passionate rush. “Why not go back and speak to that mama-san?”
“I might do it,” I said. “There are actually a lot of things we both could do. Since you have the connections, you could find Seiko Hattori while I pursue the gang aspect.”
“Before we begin making such interviews, we must check with the magazine. Mr. Sanno might not like the angle. The Gaijin Times is all about selling things, not digging up knives hidden in the beach sand!”
“Mmm, that’s a nice metaphor,” I said. “May I use it for the article?”
“Not until we speak to Mr. Sanno!”
“But that’s jumping the chain of command over Alec Tampole,” I pointed out.
“I shall talk to Alec first. Then I’ll wait until Mr. Sanno is in a good mood.”
I lost my temper then. “Rika-san, it sounds like you don’t want to report this story with me.”
“Please give me time, Rei-san. I would like to present Mr. Sanno with my impressions of the corpse, including my diagram of the design on the forehead. Only then can he understand your desire to interview criminals.”
I shivered, thinking about how grisly the article was going to be. And also, without doubt, how people would enjoy it. In Japan, there were so few murders per capita that they all received plenty of attention. I’d seen the excitement on television about the strangely dressed foreign body that had washed up on the riverbank.
“Very well. While I wait for you to get me an answer, I’ll do some more background work. But one last thing. Are you really sure that the body you saw was Nicky’s?” I had a flicker of uncertainty about launching into a series of potentially dangerous interviews based on an identification made by Rika. I wished I could check out Rika’s story about Nicky’s body characteristics with Lieutenant Hata, but I couldn’t reveal to him that I’d sent her there, could I?
“I’m sure that it was Nicky,” Rika said, giving my hand a reassuring pat. “Don’t you trust me?”
Chapter Seventeen
After Rika and I parted, I still had two items on my agenda: visiting the Hattori Copy Shop, which was probably open through early evening, and talking to Marcellus. He’d leave home to work at the club by
mid-afternoon, so I made him my top priority. I ducked into an NTT phone booth and pulled out from my bag the leaflet on which Marcellus had written his home number.
“Have you had your coffee yet?” I asked when Marcellus answered the phone with a sleepy hai. Or hi. It was hard to tell which language he used for his telephone greeting, because the English and Japanese words sounded the same.
“Who is this?” Marcellus demanded.
“Rei. Remember, the one you told to walk your way? We’ve got to talk about Nicky. Are you alone?”
“Oui. I’m glad that you called. I could not talk the other day because of the mama-san. She has been jumping out the door to spy on me. She’s nervous.”
Now I knew I had to see Chiyo again. Lovely. “Do you think she might have had something to do with Nicky’s death? And what about Kunio?”
“I thought that you did not know whether Nicky died. Is there some news?”
I told him about Rika’s evaluation. “Of course, there are other men with that physical description in Tokyo, but the clothing, good teeth, and the blond hair made it sound like Nicky,” I said, finishing up my description.
“I believe you,” Marcellus whispered. “Oh, the sorrow of it. He was like my brother. My American brother. He taught me about rap music and break dancing. I owe my act to him.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
“I do not want to hear what Chiyo thinks when she learns the truth,” Marcellus said. “She has no heart. In the time that Nicky has been missing, she has cursed him. She believed he moved to a bar in Roppongi that copied our dance show. Chiyo said that Nicky has no loyalty to the group, that he was an example of the worst possible gaijin character.”
The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) Page 12