The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4)

by Sujata Massey

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Where were you last Saturday?” I addressed my question to Natsumi, but to my surprise, Marcellus answered.

  “I was dancing at the club. It’s my usual Saturday night plan. I’m here tonight only because I have one evening per week free.”

  “That’s when we met. Last Saturday night.” Natsumi’s eyes glittered.

  So Marcellus and Natsumi had a new, but preexisting relationship. They’d probably made plans for a weekend beach rendezvous, and Takeo’s showing up with me had almost foiled their plan. This was interesting information on its own, but I had other business to straighten out first.

  “Natsumi, last Saturday were you visiting here in Hayama? Did you see any men in black leather?”

  Natsumi answered, “No. As I said earlier, this is my first trip to the country in ages, and black leather boys are more likely in the city, aren’t they? I’m going to my room now. It’s very late.”

  “I can’t speak for Rei, but I’m not going to bed,” Takeo said coldly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, our property was invaded. It’s my duty to stay awake and see nobody comes back.”

  “I’ll stay up with you,” I said.

  “How paranoid you are!” Natsumi rolled her eyes. “Now they’ve delivered their envelope, they’re done. Isn’t that what you told me, Marcellus-chan?”

  I stared at Marcellus, who was looking uncomfortable in his tiny robe. He said quietly, “I don’t know about these men in particular, but I think that’s how gangsters work. I have witnessed some rather dramatic deliveries of letters and such in my work.”

  “I’d like to hear about that,” Takeo said. “Could you sit down for just a second and tell us about it?”

  Marcellus looked even more nervous. “Will you tell me what was in the envelope first?”

  “I’m afraid it’s confidential,” Takeo said.

  “My address book,” I said at the same time.

  Takeo sighed heavily.

  I said to him, “Marcellus was brave enough to pick up the package. He deserves to know what’s in it.”

  “Are you saying that the motorcycle gang delivered something that belongs to you, Rei?” Marcellus looked shocked.

  “Aren’t you coming with me to the room?” Natsumi asked him pointedly.

  “Later, cherie. I want to learn the reason for this trouble.”

  “Well, I’m too tired for all this! I’m going to relax in the bedroom,” Natsumi announced.

  When Marcellus didn’t respond, she made an elaborate sighing sound almost identical to Takeo’s before slamming out of the room. You could tell, for once, that they were twins.

  Takeo opened the doors of an antique paulownia cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of sake and three small glasses.

  “No alcohol for me.” Marcellus screwed up his handsome, beaky nose. “Alcohol dehydrates. It is terrible for my skin.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said. I needed something to aid me in unwinding after the fright of the motorcycle gangsters. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of mineral water for Marcellus and ice cubes for Takeo’s and my glasses. Sake was usually served warm, but I’d developed a taste for it over ice, especially in the summer heat.

  Sipping the powerful, cool fluid, I asked Marcellus, “Would you tell me about the gangsters you’ve seen at the bar? Did they look like everyday toughs, or were they more… regular?” I asked, thinking of the Fish.

  “The tough-looking ones come by to collect money every month, but it was not that way in the beginning. A middle-aged gentleman in a suit was the first one to come.”

  “What time of day? Were the dancers around?” I asked.

  “Nicky wasn’t there, if that’s what you are thinking. It was early one afternoon. I had duty at the door that day, so I saw him go in. I was curious what business a straight-looking salaryman would have with the place; actually, I suspected that he might be a husband of one of our patrons. An angry husband.” Marcellus smiled ruefully. “I was wrong. What I overheard was just business talk.”

  “Can you remember the conversation?” Takeo asked.

  “Just what I heard, and to be honest, understanding men’s Japanese is more difficult for me than women’s.”

  “What do you mean?” Takeo said. “You seem to understand me.”

  “Regular Japanese men, in everyday conversation, speak more roughly,” I explained to Takeo. “They use verb forms that foreigners don’t learn right away in language classes.”

  “I agree, Rei-san. And for me, it is very difficult because while we are in the bar, we are encouraged to speak very politely to women, and that becomes our standard form of Japanese. Anyway, I was listening as carefully as I could, and what I believe the man was talking about was taxes. He said that Chiyo’s business made money that she didn’t report to the government.”

  “Is that true?” I asked.

  “Well, we boys are allowed to keep the tips the ladies give us. And there’s a back room where, well, sometimes very private things happen. We give Chiyo half of what the girls give us. I don’t think she’d declare that money to the government… how would she explain it?”

  “I see the problem.” I paused. “Nicky liked working in the back room, didn’t he?”

  Marcellus raised his eyebrows. “Very much so. He was very happy that he could get paid for pleasure. I refused to do it. Chiyo said that was okay with her. She understood.”

  “Let’s get back to the gangsters,” Takeo said tersely. The conversation’s abrupt veering into matters of male sexuality was probably too much for him.

  “What more can I say?” Marcellus sighed heavily. “Chiyo made an agreement to pay him. I think that many people in the floating world pay these fees.”

  The floating world. I hadn’t heard that expression in a while. It was a historic term used to talk about the business of courtesans, their customers, and the middlemen who put them together. I supposed that Marcellus and other hosts and hostesses were the closest thing left to courtesans.

  “Lots of people in Japan have had problems with yakuza,” Takeo said. “We’ve had to turn them away from the Kayama School.”

  “Are you talking about the school where your sister will become the chief executive officer?” Marcellus asked.

  “You haven’t wasted time finding out what she’s worth, have you?” Takeo sounded as if his worst fears had come to bear fruit.

  “She told me right away,” Marcellus said. “In fact, it was a group of lady teachers from your family’s flower school who came for a celebration last Saturday.”

  “What trouble have the Kayamas had with organized crime?” I asked, trying to get back on track.

  “During my grandfather’s and father’s time, the yakuza bosses have come calling, trying to start a ‘partnership,’ as they called it, infusing money into the school in exchange for a share of the profits. Even when times were very hard, right after the Second World War, my family refused the help. As punishment, they kidnapped one of my great-aunts.”

  “How terrible,” I said.

  “My grandfather refused to pay the ransom. He would have paid if the ransom had been just cash. But the yakuza asked again for status as a business partner. So he couldn’t. And my great- aunt suffered.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask Takeo what happened. He took a sip of sake and said, “The family arranged for her to take a cure in Switzerland, but there was a problem with her transit there during wartime, and she died during the trip. Some of my relatives say it was an accident, but my father thinks she committed suicide.”

  “Revenge,” Marcellus murmured. “Perhaps our Nicky was killed in retaliation for something Chiyo-san did?”

  “Yes, maybe she stopped paying them protection money, and the yakuza sent her a message by killing a dancer!” I was so excited that I knocked my sake glass sideways.

  Takeo caught it and said, “Hold on. You’ve always had the theory that the killing was related to the comic book group. If you lose
that, you’ve lost your story.”

  I thought that Takeo had a point. If there was no comic connection, there was no money coming in for me from the Gaijin Times. Did that matter, though, in the context of the terrible things that had happened? The sinister motorcyclists might have been given the simple job of delivering photos, but by coming onto Kayama land, they had invaded a place I thought would be safe. Similarly, the story Takeo had told about his great-aunt had also stolen something precious from me. For so long, I’d studied Japanese antiques and old-fashioned culture; this was the reason that I’d admired the Showa Story series. Now the comic book was illustrating rape in graphic detail, and I’d learned that Takeo’s grandfather had kept his school pure at a terrible human cost.

  “It is the truth that matters,” Marcellus said softly. “Not any story.”

  “You’re right,” Takeo and I both said in unison, but the damage had been done. I’d selfishly voiced my desire to write something that would earn me money, and that had scared Marcellus into standing up, belting his yukata a little tighter, and storming off down the hall to Natsumi’s room.

  I ran after him and grabbed the sleeve of his robe. He stopped.

  “What?” He sounded exasperated.

  “Why are you sleeping with Natsumi?” I asked.

  “You’ll put it in your article.” Marcellus pulled away.

  ”No, I promise I won’t. I just need to know, as your friend.”

  “The same reason you’re with the brother, cherie. Economic survival.”

  I flushed. “That’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it?” Marcellus sighed. “Well, how lucky you are. The fact is, if I make dates with women, my salary doubles. But after a night like this one, I may just stick to my regular profession.”

  “Good night,” I said softly, and he walked off. I’d thought he had gone in to sleep with her, but a few minutes later, there was a gliding sound. I figured out he’d made good on his word about returning to his regular profession.

  “There’s something you left out,” Takeo said as we settled down on his futon. It was 6 a.m., and we both doubted the bousouzoku would come back at such an early hour.

  “I can barely think at this point. Can we talk about it tomorrow?” I asked, yawning.

  “It is tomorrow. I want to know more about the gangster who spoke to you. The one who said he wasn’t involved in Nicky’s death.”

  “They say they aren’t involved, but with the performance we witnessed tonight, who knows?”

  “Now you say they, but before you said he. I’m confused. You see, you were talking earlier to two men in the bar, two men who I assumed were the gangsters who provided this information. Now you’re talking about one man. Was he even at that table?”

  “I was told not to say anything to you directly right now.”

  “You are keeping something from me!” Takeo exclaimed.

  “I think… the idea was that you would get hotheaded and seek revenge. I was in a semidangerous situation, you see.”

  Takeo stared at me. “You mean to say that when you were struggling in the water, it had something to do with the yakuza?”

  “Yes,” I confessed. “A gangster pulled me underwater, but that was just to get my attention. After he stood me up, we talked for a few minutes. It ended with him saying that he’d return my address book, which he’d taken from the bar. I had no idea he’d send it to your house with bousouzoku.”

  “I looked through my binoculars.” Takeo sounded frustrated. “All I saw was you having a conversation with a completely ordinary-looking man. I mean, I thought he might be trying to make a date with you, but I didn’t suspect him of anything else.”

  “He’s a family man. He was strictly business. He knew what information I was after, and he wanted to make clear that he had nothing to do with Nicky’s death. He even said I could quote him in the article.”

  “But not to tell me?”

  “No. I guess he didn’t want a scene on the beach.”

  “How sensitive,” Takeo said, grimacing. “And why don’t you think he killed Nicky? He sounds like the most qualified person to do it, if you ask me.”

  I shook my head. “I believe him. He told me he was disgusted with the lack of professionalism in that execution. He would have done it differently.”

  “This is getting scary, Rei.”

  “I agree.” I paused. “So does this mean we stay up longer?”

  “You sleep,” Takeo said. “You’ve got to be at the convention in a few hours. I don’t.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I did sleep; but it was not enough. At ten to eight the next morning, I staged an internal battle to drag myself off the futon. To my surprise, Takeo and Natsumi were awake and eating croissants in the kitchen. Apparently Marcellus had not stayed the night, but left shortly after he’d told his story. Natsumi declared that this was the last time she’d allow us to speak to any of her boyfriends, because obviously we were saying bad things about her that made them want to run.

  Takeo raked his hand through his hair and sighed; after a night without sleep, he looked like death warmed over.

  I drank a small cup of strong coffee that Takeo had made, then left to take the bus to Zushi, since I insisted that Takeo was too tired to drive me. It was only a fifteen-minute ride to the shining Zushi Convention Center, which bore the engraved phrase Established For You in 1999. The center had a glossy edge, but the casually dressed crowd, in blue jeans, T-shirts or character costumes made the place seem considerably more casual. Entering the packed hall, I felt as if I were slightly drunk. The colorful, costumed conventioneers seemed to have come straight out of a Technicolor dream. I was waiting behind three people dressed up as hedgehogs—popular characters in some comic series, I guessed—and calculated it might take half an hour to reach the cashier, and then another hour to reach the registration desk.

  A middle-aged man with a scowl who looked oddly familiar strolled past to the right. I saw him pass by my direction two minutes later with a program and registration packet. He’d gotten everything he needed without standing in line, and that was enough to set me off.

  “Excuse me,” I called out to him. “Is there a reason you were able to receive your materials while the rest of us have to wait in line?”

  “I’m with the press.” He tugged at a plastic identification card hanging on a chain around his neck.

  “Oh.” I said, belatedly recognizing him from the tabloid TV program News to You. He was twenty feet past me by the time I’d finished speaking, during which time I reasoned that since I was on assignment for the Gaijin Times, I was every bit as much of a journalist as he was. I smoothed my jeans, as if that could make them look a bit more presentable, and headed off to the roped-off zone from where he’d appeared.

  I had to show my Rei Shimura Antiques business card, accompanied by explanations about my moonlighting job, to a young Japanese man padded to look like a character in a sumo wrestling series. There were three other staffers behind him, similarly dressed in bizarre costumes, who seemed occupied with poring over the program, deciding which booth to hit first.

  “Any cameras?” the sumo wrestler asked me. “Of course.”

  “May I see?”

  “Sure.” I pulled out my trusty Polaroid. The wrestler swept it out of my hands and into what looked like a small safe.

  “Cameras are banned from this convention.” He gave me a plastic claim check that I stared at in disbelief. “You may retrieve your camera before going home, and please don’t forget about it! Any equipment left here after the convention closes will be given to charity.”

  “But our magazine photographer is coming! Toshi Ueda is his name…”

  “Oh, yes,” an extraterrestrial helper said. “He came, and when we offered to confiscate his camera, he decided to leave the convention.”

  So I was all alone. This story was self-immolating. Feeling quite panicky, I said, “This convention is supposed to celebrate the visual arts. How
can I do that without a camera?”

  His voice turned chilly. “Have you ever attended one of our conventions before?”

  “No, and I’m really hoping to bring it to the attention of our readers.”

  “We don’t need publicity. If you had been here two years ago, you would have heard how some terrible people took photos of our innocent fans and used computer technology to combine those pictures with pornographic images. Since then, cameras have been forbidden.”

  “If you care so much about your fans, you really shouldn’t let them wait in line,” I chided. “You could have a couple more of your workers taking admissions instead of reading catalogs.”

  “Which publication did you say you worked for again?” The young man rose, and I realized that maybe it wasn’t padding underneath his kimono. He was as hefty as any American bar bouncer.

  “Thank you very much.” I darted off with my program, leaving him to deal with a reporter for the Hiragana Times. Good God, I was behaving irrationally. I wasn’t sure whether to chalk it up to lack of sleep, or something more deviant within myself.

  The convention hall was shaped like an L and filled with a jumble of brightly colored manga displays. Music blaring from speakers overhead sounded as if it came from the animated television shows that the amateur artists used as their inspiration. What a strange world, I marveled, where one could see a grown man dressed like a diapered baby bowing to a shiny silver robot! It was such a shame that no cameras were allowed. I dragged my eyes away from the distractions and began searching for the Showa Story table. It should be at the bend of the L, according to the number assigned in the program.

  When I saw an attractive young woman in a blue leotard with a flowing silver cape decorated with the planet Mars, I decided it would be clever to tail her—perhaps she was headed for the Showa Story table. As I traveled deeper into the convention hall, the crowds grew so thick that I couldn’t even see the tables; all that was visible were flashes of colorful posters hanging behind their tables.