No. 22 Pleasure City

by Mark Fishman

  Her pose was a kind of provocation. Burnett wanted to say something. A throbbing urge blasted at him from the whisky in his stomach and the bare legs and lithe hips of the woman in front of him. He could smell what he couldn’t see between her legs. She blushed slightly. He put his drink down, the ice clinked against the glass. She seemed to know what he was thinking and shook her head. It wasn’t an invitation.

  So Burnett left the apartment frustrated, walking with a slavish posture. He moved slowly along the sidewalk to Birch Street, and then kept on going to Second. The branches of trees reached out above his head and pressed down on him. He grew shorter and shorter until he was only a couple of inches tall. He lit a cigarette, turned around, walked back to Birch. The color of the satin robe came flaring up in his eyes and he winced and bit hard at his lip. The cigarette tasted bitter. He threw it away. That was when he unlocked the car door and got in.

  [ 13 ]

  Shimura took off his glasses and set them down on his desk at the Kawamura Agency. His eyes were tired. He gathered the papers in front of him and arranged them in a folder and put the folder in the open file drawer of the cabinet behind him to his left. He swiveled his chair and looked at the clutter on his desk. Shimura scratched absently at his chin. He didn’t want the cigarette he was thinking about right now. There wasn’t anything to motivate him to straighten up his desk. He was waiting for eight o’clock. There was an hour to kill.

  He got up from his desk, left the office, and walked down the hallway past several empty offices until he got to the room that he liked most at the agency, a storage room with a futon and a refrigerator. He heard Kawamura’s personal secretary, Asami, at her desk in front of Kawamura’s office. Shimura turned the handle of the storage room door and went in. He switched on the overhead light.

  It was a small, six-tatami-mat room crowded with filing cabinets and individual heavy-duty cardboard boxes holding alphabetically arranged files and photographs. Metal Venetian blinds covered the two windows. The futon was in a corner of the room. He dragged it out and put it down on the floor in the remaining, empty space, found a linen sheet and threw it over the futon and stretched out on it, lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, then drifted off to sleep.

  He woke up a half-hour later grateful to have had some rest. He looked at his watch. It was almost time to go. He put the futon back in the corner and folded the linen sheet. In his office he put his reading glasses on and picked up a spiral-bound notebook. He opened the notebook to the page where he’d written down a car registration number. He copied the number on a separate piece of paper. The car belonged to someone involved in one of Shimura’s investigations.

  Asami wasn’t only Kawamura’s personal secretary, she did the research for all the investigators at the Kawamura Agency. She looked up from her desk when Shimura came in wearing his lightweight jacket and a serious expression on his face. She liked Shimura in a friendly way, but she wasn’t on anything but working terms with the rest of the investigators at the Kawamura Agency except Kawamura himself, a man on the order of something special because she was in love with him.

  Shimura handed her the piece of paper with the registration number on it, grinning with only one side of his mouth. He didn’t say anything.

  She gave it a once-over, then frowned and gave it back to him. “I can’t read it,” she said. “Your handwriting’s a mess.”

  “I’ll write it again.”

  He bent over the desk and carefully wrote the number on a sheet of paper lying next to a road atlas and a three-ring binder three inches thick. He stood up straight, drew a long, brave breath. Asami looked down at the registration number.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “As quick as you can,” he said. “Please.”

  Asami tilted her head. “Shimura-san, when did I ever hold you back in your work? You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll have it for you right away.” She let her breath out with what was almost a laugh.

  Her words acted on his ears like needles, his eyes narrowed.

  “I guess I’m just a little bit on edge,” he explained. “Tomiko’s on a layover—out of town.”

  She studied him. “And you look tired.”

  “I do?”

  “Working too much, I suppose?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And it’s far too late for you to be going home.”

  “You’re right, and I’d like to wring your neck for it, but you work here,” he said, smiling at her.

  “Just take care of yourself — ” and her voice was down close to a whisper.

  Shimura nodded his head.

  She blushed, then very slowly looked into his eyes. Her face broke into a sunny smile.

  Shimura almost collided with Kawamura, who was busy looking down at his leather-soled shoes that needed polish and not paying attention to where he was walking. They bowed silently and grinned at each other.

  “Well, Kawamura-san,” Shimura said politely.

  “I just arrived,” Kawamura replied. “I’ll take the responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?”

  “For my clumsiness.”

  Shimura adopted a placating tone. “Kawamura-san, I understand how you feel.” He was thinking of his exchange with Asami. “I’ll be going.” He bowed hurriedly and started to walk away.

  “Can’t you stay?” Kawamura asked without wanting him to say yes.

  “No, I have an appointment.”

  “Well, tomorrow then.”

  “Tomorrow, Kawamura-san.” He bowed again, then left Kawamura for the elevator.

  Kawamura swung open the agency door and shut it quickly behind him. He passed Asami and nodded in her direction, went directly to his office and shut the door. He took a small box out of his trousers pocket and opened it, looking at the ring and the stone in it that sparkled with the light of the desk lamp. He snapped the box shut and put it on the desk. Kawamura stared blankly at the stack of unopened mail. He sat in his chair and hauled his legs up, resting the heels of his shoes on the edge of the desk. He shut his eyes, rubbed his forehead with his hand. He heard Aoyama and Eto talking to each other on their way out of the agency.

  Kawamura heard the outer door close. No one was left in the agency that could get in the way of what he wanted to do. Small circles of perspiration grew into large patches of moisture under his arms, staining the crisp, pressed shirt. Now, he told himself.

  Asami sat at her desk, her slender fingers holding an open file and her thin lips silently shaping the words she read. Kawamura stood a couple of feet away from her, his eyes full of admiration. It was eight o’clock. She should’ve gone home by now. He took a step forward, leaned against the door frame. Asami turned her head away from the file and looked at him. Kawamura stood up straight, his hands folded behind his back, holding the small box, and his fingers caressed the smooth imitation leather that covered it. He took a faltering step forward. It was almost too much for him.

  Kawamura went to the desk. Without saying a word, he gave her the box. He was blushing.

  “What is it?”

  “For you.” Kawamura bowed slightly.

  She pushed her chair back away from the desk, turned the box over in her hands. At last she flipped it open with her fingertips. A ring with an amethyst stared back at her. She smiled, then bit her lower lip.

  “You love me, don’t you?” Kawamura asked politely.

  “You know how I feel, Kawamura-san.”

  “It’s really true? There’s no mistake?”

  She lowered her head and fidgeted.

  He focused on the black hair of her downcast forehead.

  “Yes.” Asami looked up at him, her cheeks were bright red.

  “Maybe, if you do this, you’ll regret it. I’m a lot older than you are.”

  “No, I never will,” she said. “That won’t happen.”

  Kawamura reached out and swiftly took the box from her
. He hadn’t felt so impatient about reaching a destination for a long time. He put the ring on her finger.

  “Now, we’re engaged,” Asami said, smiling.

  Kawamura bent over and kissed her on the mouth. Asami sucked long and hard on his tongue like a vacuum cleaner.

  [ 14 ]

  Angela tossed the robe on the bed. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. She slipped on a pair of panties and sat down on the edge of the bed to examine her toes. She rubbed her feet stimulating the blood flow before putting on a pair of thin gray socks. She chose a lightweight short-waisted sweater and pulled it over her head. A pair of loose-fitting lint-white trousers was draped over the back of a chair. She put them on and buttoned them up. She looked at herself in a full-length mirror. She had a small, dangling silver ring in place of the diamond she wore in her navel.

  She flicked the ring with her finger, then pulled it down and outward. She sat on the edge of the bed again and brushed her hair. She pinched her cheeks, got up and went to the mirror and put on lipstick. She put her feet into a pair of high tops and loosely tied the laces. On her way out she picked up the map and sheets of paper Burnett had brought with him.

  The streets were busy with people and traffic. She hailed a taxi at the corner of Edgewater and Prospect. They drove off in a direction away from the lake. She got out of the taxi in midtown, walked two blocks, turned the corner, and hailed another taxi on State Street. She tilted her head back and stared at the roof of the taxi. There were several scratches that might’ve been from a pair of high heels. She smiled, playing with the ring in her navel. They were heading northwest toward the river and a neighborhood with its industrial buildings converted to condominiums and lofts.

  Angela leaned out the open window and took a breath of polluted air. The night sky hung low over the city. The air was humid and cool and a soft wind moved the pollution around without getting rid of it. When they got to Pleasant Street they crossed the river and turned right onto Third Street going north. It wasn’t the right place. There were a lot of people walking down the sidewalks, some of them carried groceries, paper bags with bottles in them, flowers wrapped in newspaper, plastic containers of takeout meals.

  She told the driver to continue north and they went on until the neighborhood changed to a part of the city she didn’t know. The taxi slowed down, edging forward in traffic past the flashing neon of a couple of bars and a striptease club with a big, greasy-looking man at the door. The faces of passersby were green, red, yellow and blue. The taxi jerked forward and Angela sat back in the seat, shut her eyes a minute, and when she opened them the driver was still on Third heading toward Beverly Avenue, but he turned short of it on Orchard Street. They slowed down in front of the address she’d given him and she knew right away that she didn’t like it. She told the driver to move on, traffic thinned out, and they were driving through dimly lighted streets.

  Man-made colors jumped out of currents of electricity again as the taxi made a turn onto Harding Street into the glare of a half-dozen neon signs. The driver asked her if he could stop for cigarettes and because she’d hired him for at least a couple of hours it didn’t matter to her if he bought a pack of cigarettes or called his wife or girlfriend to say he’d be coming home late or if he’d wanted a glass of beer. He pulled over to the curb in front of an all-night grocery. A bus made its way clumsily around the taxi.

  The driver lit a cigarette and they pulled away from the curb, heading south. It took them more than twenty minutes to get to the Southside, and the taxi turned on Euclid Avenue, at the nineteenthcentury church, continued along Euclid until it turned left on Sunset Avenue and right on West Mineral Street, then slowed down in the middle of it surrounded by wood frame houses with wooden porches anchored by stone pillars, and descending stone stairs to flats below street level. Angela rolled down the window to get a better look at the houses on the street. Here and there the sidewalk was buckled by the shallow spreading roots of an oak tree. A couple walked their dog down the sidewalk beneath the glow of streetlights.

  Angela shook her head, she wasn’t interested in this address either, and the driver continued on West Mineral, turned left at Booth Street, left on Drake Avenue, left on Sunset and back to Euclid. The sky was painted with stars that weren’t lost in the overall glow of the city’s lights, and they blinked knowingly at her as she stared up at them through the open window. The taxi was going to Pigsville.

  When they got there she asked the driver to stop on a deserted street. Cars hummed and rumbled past them. The taxi engine idled, and she looked out at the sort of neighborhood she’d been looking for all night. She gave the driver an address taken from her sheets of paper. They turned right at the next block and came to a halt in front of one of the many one-story four-room wooden houses lined up on each side of Nightingale Lane. This was it. She thought for an instant about what she’d done in order to get to this address in Pigsville. She had played the game with the vibrator, and then fucked Burnett so he’d do what she asked him to do, and she’d liked it up to a point, and that’s what had got her here. Angela’s eyes were fixed on a yellowish light shining dully through a window shade.

  Angela gave the taxi driver an address not far from her own, around the corner on Second and Lafayette, because she didn’t want him leaving her at an address he’d write down in a logbook that could later be traced to her. She got out at the corner beneath a streetlight, paid the driver what she owed him and gave him a generous tip and put his business card in her wallet. There might be a next time and she liked the way he knew the city.

  Alone in the apartment, she undressed and put on her satin robe and tied the belt around her narrow waist before setting the water to boil for instant noodle soup.

  [ 15 ]

  Pohl finished his first drink less than a minute after the bartender set it down. He got to the Casino Club a good half-hour before the time he’d arranged to meet Shimura, and he was sure that his friend knew it because he’d been doing the same thing, arriving early for every appointment for pleasure or business, since they were in high school together.

  He repeatedly picked up and put down the empty glass, made intersecting rings on the bar counter, and stared at the gold letters that spelled out the name Casino Club on the rim of the smoky glass ashtray with a burning cigarette and two extinguished butts of the same brand. He swiveled on the bar stool to get a better look at the club. The booths and tables were packed with customers. He was satisfied that he didn’t know anyone in the club tonight. He called the bartender over and ordered another drink, then finished his cigarette, happily flicking ashes in the ashtray.

  Pohl was thirsty and hungry. He asked the bartender for a glass of water and a snack to tide him over until dinner. The bartender returned with a pitcher of ice water and a bowl of fresh fish eyes in some sort of spicy sauce. Pohl popped one in his mouth and chewed it slowly, savoring it. Juice dribbled down his chin. He dabbed at the juice with a paper napkin. Pouring himself a glass of ice water, he drank it down in one gulp.

  Shimura arrived on time. He went straight to the bar. There was a lot of noise in the restaurant adjacent to the bar. Shimura’s eyes went from table to table, booth to booth, looking at the faces of the customers. A young woman licking an ice cream bar caught his eye. He smiled at her pixie-ish face. He sat down next to Pohl, folded his hands on the bar, ordered an aniseed vodka on the rocks. Then he looked at the bowl of fish eyes.

  “How can you eat that?” Shimura’s face twisted with disgust.

  “I like them.”

  Pohl picked up a couple of moist fish eyes and rolled them around between his fingers before dropping them into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, wiping away the spicy juice and smacking his lips. Another glass of water, then he ran his tongue across his upper front teeth.

  “All right, you don’t have to make a show of it,” Shimura said, taking a sip from his glass.

  “They’re better in pairs,” Pohl confided.

  “I�
��m sure they are.”

  Pohl pushed the bowl of fish eyes away, looking intently at Shimura. His face was drawn into a frown. “I want to forget about it. Maybe if I forget about it, it’ll just be wind or dust.”

  “Poetic. Angela?” Shimura asked.

  “Angela.” Pohl finished his whisky, put the glass down and picked it up and put it down, making more intersecting rings on the bar. He was far away.

  “What is it?”

  Without answering, Pohl smiled bitterly, waved at the bartender and ordered another drink. Shimura nursed his. Pohl looked at Shimura and said: “I wish I could forget it. It doesn’t do me any good to remember.”

  “Remember what? Will you please tell me what’s going on.”

  Shimura was losing his patience. His feet were hot and the heat rose slowly to his head. It was a ball of heat like a peach pit and when it rose it scratched the lining of his stomach and throat and nose. He pinched his nose shut to keep the peach pit from coming out.

  “I haven’t slept a wink,” Pohl said. His body jerked slightly.

  “You’ve been awake all this time?”

  “I’m the one to blame. It’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “No uninvited guests! That’s my motto from now on. And don’t go poking your nose into what’s none of your business.”

  “Two mottos.”

  “That’s right.” Pohl sipped from his glass of whisky. “Maybe if I’d pay less attention to her she’d pay more attention to me. That’s the way it works with women.”

  Pohl laughed at his own words.

  A strangely perverse laugh, it chilled his friend, who picked up his aniseed vodka, drank it down, and waved at the bartender for another.

  “Let’s have it,” Shimura said, looking at Pohl’s steady hands. “What’s worrying you?”