The Man From Taured: A thrilling suspense novel by the new master of horror (World's Scariest Legends Book 3)

by Jeremy Bates

  I was put on hold for several long minutes before Matsuoka came on the line.

  “Yes? I am Matsuoka,” he said.

  “Matsuoka-san!” I said. “It is Gaston Green.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know me?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Who are you?”

  My alacrity flat-lined. “Gaston Green,” I repeated dully. “I am organizing a whisky dinner at your Tokyo restaurant on Thursday…?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not aware of this. I think you may have me confused for someone else. I’m sorry, I must return to work—”

  I was no longer listening.

  ∆∆∆

  Back in the communal kitchen, I tossed my empty Styrofoam cup into the trash. I purchased three full-strength Asahi beers from the vending machine. I chugged one on the spot and brought the other two to my room, where I spent the next half hour looking up erstwhile Japanese clients I had worked with and contacting them through their websites. Of the dozen or so I got in touch with, not a single one knew who I was.

  By that point I had a decent buzz going and wanted to keep it going. In fact, I had no better ambitions than drinking until I passed out.

  I locked my room, took the elevator to the first floor, and stopped in the Lawson’s convenience store next door to purchase a can of beer. Outside, I popped the tab and took a sip. While drinking alcohol in public might be considered bad form, it wasn’t illegal in Japan.

  I started down the busy street. A shopping district by day, Kabukicho turned into a red-light district at night. As a single male foreigner, I was a prime target for the hustlers and bar girls standing outside their questionable establishments. I politely deferred the first few propositions I received before eventually ignoring them altogether.

  I made my way through the seediness to a darkened corner of Shinjuku called Golden Gai. The twentieth century wasn’t kind to Tokyo’s architectural heritage. Whatever buildings hadn’t fallen down during the monster earthquake in 1923, or weren’t bombed during wartime air raids, were bulldozed into oblivion during the second half of the century when the city was reimagined in steel and concrete.

  Golden Gai had survived with its pre-war charm intact. Boxed in by high-rise developments, the area was composed of six intimate alleyways, each too narrow to drive a car down, and festooned with over two hundred mismatched bars and restaurants. Many of them were dirty and tumbledown with steep steps leading to second-story shops or flats. In some windows, signs boldly stated, “No foreigners” and “Regulars only.”

  I stopped halfway down one lantern-lit alleyway, looking up at a second-floor noodle restaurant. I’d gone there with a work associate during my last visit to Tokyo. We had ramen and beer, then spent the rest of the night getting drunk on plum tequila at a nearby Edwardian/Gothic bar decorated with gilded mirrors, chandeliers, stag heads, and the occasional disco ball.

  And look at you now, Gaston, a pauper on the outside looking in, with barely enough money to your name to afford the seating charge—

  I started as a thought struck me.

  With a renewed purpose to my step, I went looking for a payphone. Unlike many European cities, Tokyo still had a good number around, backup communication, I suppose, in case of cell phone reception failure during the overdue sequel to the 1923 earthquake.

  A couple of minutes later I stood before a lime-green phone in the back of a convenience store. A ten-yen coin got me one minute. I dug change from my pocket and dumped fifty yen into the slot and dialed Okubo’s number, which I’d committed to memory on Flight JL077.

  “Moshimoshi?” the flight attendant chirped.

  “Konbanwa, Okubo-san,” I said. “Gaston desu. Ogenki desu ka?”

  “Gaston! Good evening!” she said, switching to English. “I thought you forgot about me.”

  I had, in fact, utterly, until only a few minutes ago. By way of apology, I said, “It has been a hectic few days.”

  “Yes, work, I understand. I’ve just come back from Manila again earlier today.”

  “You said you would be in Tokyo for…?”

  “Until Friday. So I am still free for the dinner you mentioned on Thursday.”

  “Yes, that is right… But the reason I am calling… Would you like to join me for a drink tonight?”

  “Tonight?” she said, sounding surprised.

  “I know, you just returned from Manila, and it is last minute…”

  “No, I…yes, I can meet you.”

  “Fantastic!” I said, grinning. “Where do you live?”

  “Daikanyama. It’s near Ebisu station. Do you know Ebisu?”

  “Of course. Next to Shibuya on the Yamamoto line.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Not far—Shinjuku. So how about we rendezvous in Shibuya. I could use the change of scenery.”

  “I will need a little time to get ready. Is ten o’clock too late?”

  “It is perfect. Meet at Hachikō Statue?”

  “Okay, Hachikō Statue at ten o’clock. Thank you for calling me, Gaston! I’ll see you soon.”

  Chapter 27

  Stepping out of Hachikō Exit, I emerged smack-dab in the beating heart of Shibuya, a Blade Runner-like scene pulsating with lights and sounds and prodigious TV screens, all wrapped up in a frenetic, youthful energy.

  As I navigated the bustling crowd, the lights for Shibuya Crossing flashed green. A flood of humanity whooshed past me as thousands of pedestrians crossed the giant intersection all at once with a hive-like efficiency.

  I picked my way through the swarm until I reached the small bronze statue cast in the likeness of the Akita dog after which it was named. According to the lore, Tokyo’s most famous pooch, Hachikō, journeyed every afternoon to Shibuya station to meet his master, a university professor, upon his return from work. When the professor died in 1925 (he’d suffered a fatal cerebral hemorrhage in his classroom), Hachikō continued to visit this spot daily until his own death nearly ten years later.

  Due to his loyalty and fidelity, Hachikō had become a national hero to the Japanese, and his statue had become a universal meeting spot.

  Now a steady stream of fashion-obsessed Gen Ys and Zs were snapping selfies in front of it. I found a spot to wait for Okubo several meters away. Leaning against a tree, I watched the crowds cross the intersection every two minutes.

  I saw Okubo before she saw me, and I delighted in the way she moved and looked. She wore a beige trench coat over a white skirt and cornflower blue sequined top. The combo of heels and sporty striped socks gave the outfit that sartorial quirkiness often present in Japanese fashion.

  From her Gucci clutch, she withdrew her cell phone, perhaps to check if I had sent her a message.

  Smiling, I approached. Her eyes lit up when she saw me.

  “Hello!” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Hello,” I said, shaking. A kiss on the cheek seemed a little too intimate considering she had been nothing more than my flight attendant only a few days ago.

  “You look great,” I told her.

  “Thank you!” she said. “So do you!”

  “Don Quijote,” I said, indicating my clothes. “The airline lost my suitcase.”

  “They never found it? They usually do.”

  “Not this time, unfortunately.” I plucked off the sunglasses and indicated my black eye. “Hence the shades at night,” I said.

  “Oh, Gaston!” She made to touch my face before her hand shied away. “What happened?”

  “How about I explain later?” I stuck the sunglasses back on and rested my hand on the small of her back. “I know a place not far away. Hopefully it is still where it is supposed to be.”

  She looked at me quizzically. “Still where it’s supposed to be?”

  “I mean—” I cleared my throat. “It has been a couple of months since I was last in Shibuya. I hope it is still open.”

  I led Okubo across the chaotic crossing and down busy streets ablaze with brand-name shops and
eccentric boutiques before branching off into the lesser-known backstreets of Inokashira-dori. Most of the people we passed were young and decked out in the latest trends, which ran the gamut from clashing prints to oversized layering to pop culture references and rainbow-hued dos.

  Located between a busy record store and a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop was a little bar I had previously frequented on numerous occasions, as it served up some of the country’s best craft beer.

  The door was huge, unadorned, and rather intimidating. I held it open for Okubo and followed her down a tunnel-like set of stairs into a cavernous space lined with benches, which were mostly empty.

  “Lucky for us,” I said. “The place does not seem too busy.”

  We passed through a heavy purple curtain into the bar that belied its exterior appearance with clean lines and light wood furnishings. Behind the glossy black bar, eight beer taps protruded from a wall with a textured mud finish. A dozen tables filled the small space, half of them occupied.

  A bowing hostess, who seemed undecided as to whether to speak English or Japanese, made a few pleasantries in both languages before leading us to a free table.

  I browsed the beer menu while Okubo’s roaming eyes paused on the jazz band in the back corner. “This place is great!” she said. “How did you know about it?”

  “A client took me here…must have been more than five years ago now. I try to come back whenever I am in Japan. You know, I am surprised it is not busier with the Olympics being here and everything.”

  “The Olympics?” Okubo said, frowning.

  “The summer Olympics,” I said.

  “Have you been living under a rock, Gaston? The Olympics are in Turkey this year. Tokyo was the runner up.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t you watch the news?”

  A white-suited waiter with lacquered hair approached the table.

  “Toro!” I said, recognizing his quick smile.

  His smile faltered. “You know my name?”

  Unsurprised by his reaction, I said, “You served me before. It, uh, was a long time ago,” I added, so as not to embarrass him for forgetting a customer. “I am Gaston. This is my friend, Okubo. Do you still have that microbrew from Hokkaido on tap? I did not see it on the menu.”

  “A very good selection.” To Okubo, “Go-chuumon wa okimari desu ka?”

  “I’ll have the same,” she replied. When he left, she said to me, “They always do that.”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Speak to my foreign friends in English and me in Japanese.”

  “You are Japanese,” I pointed out.

  “But you were speaking English. I’m with you. He should have continued speaking English to me.”

  “Maybe he is not comfortable using English?”

  “He’s comfortable,” she assured me.

  “How many foreign friends do you have?” I asked cheekily.

  “Many. I’m a flight attendant, remember? I speak with foreigners all the time.”

  “On airplanes,” I said. “Do you hook up with many of them after you land?” I realized how that could be interpreted and shook my head. “I mean, as friends.”

  She was smiling. “I’ve been on a date with you—wait, is this a date?”

  “Seems like one to me.”

  “I’ve been on a date with you for all of twenty minutes, and you’re already jealous?”

  Toro returned with our beers.

  “Please enjoy,” he said, promptly taking his leave.

  “Hey, only English,” I said. “Maybe he overheard you criticizing his etiquette.”

  Okubo was staring at her beer. “It’s blue!” she exclaimed.

  “The brewery makes it with water from melted icebergs in the sea of Okhotsk,” I told her. “They add a blue pigment to represent this. Gimmicky, but it does not affect the taste.” I raised my frosted mug. “Kampai!”

  “Kampai!” she said, lifting her mug with two hands, clinking, and sipping. “Mmmm,” she said, fingering foam from her upper lip.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, aware I had to be careful not to go overboard with expenses so I could afford the bill. “They have authentic pulled pork.”

  “I have eaten, thank you. But you go ahead.”

  “I am fine,” I said, despite the fact I was ravenous. All I’d eaten today was the McDonald’s burgers and fries. I took another sip of beer.

  “You look like Stevie Wonder,” she said. “Can you take off those sunglasses, please?”

  I hesitated a moment, then took them off, setting them on the table. “You do not mind looking at me like this?”

  “You have very nice eyes. I like seeing them.”

  “I could say the same thing about you.”

  She smiled again. “I’ve been wondering, Gaston. Why would someone do that to your very nice eye? Or was it an accident?”

  “I was with my colleagues in Kabuchiko last night. A drunk spilled his drink all over one of them. I told him to apologize. He punched me.” I didn’t like lying to Okubo, but I couldn’t exactly tell her I’d elicited the black eye from overzealous guards in order to execute a brazen prison escape.

  “You have to be careful in Kabuchiko at nighttime,” she said. “There are some bad people there.”

  I wanted to move on from the topic and said, “So…Ebisu. Great location to live.”

  “It’s convenient,” she said. “I’ve only been there for a few months, but I like it.”

  “The last time I was in Ebisu I was with hard-drinking business associates plying me with whisky. I do not remember much, to be honest.” I held up my hands. “Do not get the wrong idea. Self-regulation is a big part of my job description. I am good at it. If someone in my position sat around drinking all the time, they would not be employed for long.”

  “Gala dinners, pub crawls, first-class flights…” Okubo folded her delicate French-tipped fingers together on the table and leaned forward. “What exactly do you do, Gaston? You’re a mystery to me.”

  “I am a whisky sommelier employed by a family-owned company. They send me around Southeast Asia to promote their brand.”

  “Ah, yes! I can see you doing that. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “I enjoy it.”

  “In the name of disclosure…I’m more of a vodka girl than a whisky girl.”

  “I assumed that much.”

  Her eyes flashed amusedly. “What? What does that mean?”

  “Vodka drinkers wear sequins.”

  Okubo glanced down at her top. “And what do whisky drinkers wear?”

  “Black.”

  “I wear black.”

  “There is nothing wrong with liking vodka, chérie.”

  “What’s another vodka-drinker stereotype?”

  “They turn into emotional messes after one too many.”

  “And whisky drinkers?”

  “Keep our shit together.”

  “Whatever! What else?” she demanded.

  “You guys are the life of the party.”

  “Of course. And whisky drinkers?”

  “Keep to ourselves.”

  “All right, two can play at this game,” she said, leaning forward, her perfume redolent of lemon cupcakes. “Vodka drinkers are…sweet.”

  “Whisky drinkers are bold.”

  “Vodka drinkers dance on tables.”

  “Whisky drinkers dance in the limelight.”

  “Touché. Vodka drinkers love to talk.”

  “Whisky drinkers love to think.”

  “Ooh…that one hurt. Vodka drinkers…take selfies.”

  “Whisky drinkers…take punches.”

  Okubo laughed. “Yes, you do indeed do that!” she said, referencing my black eye. “No argument there.” She sipped her beer. “So…that’s what you’re doing at Matsuoka on Thursday—promoting your whisky?”

  I nodded. “The head chef creates the dishes. I match them with whisky tastings. People usually enjoy themselves and learn something new a
bout our brand at the same time. Which is important with all the misinformation about whisky out there.”

  “Misinformation?”

  I nodded again. “It is especially bad in Japan. There are probably more fake whisky experts here than in any other country I have visited.”

  “Why would Japanese want to be fake whisky experts?”

  “They are not Japanese. They are Westerners. When they noticed the spike in the popularity of whisky in Japan, they came here to do pretty much what I do, only they do not have any real experience. Because Japan has a more introverted population, and individuals do not voice their own opinions very loudly, these fake whisky experts get a lot of attention.”

  “How complicated is whisky really?”

  “It can be very complicated with all the different brands and terminology. Most people think all rye is spicy, yes? Not true. It can be tamed to create a very nice mouthfeel by using port or sherry or other ingredients. A lot of people think all bourbon is sweet. Also not true. They think flavored whisky is just sugared swill, or anything labeled ‘single’ is better than anything labeled ‘blended.’ False and false. The list of misinformation goes on and on.”

  “So the fake whisky experts just…make stuff up?”

  “They post photographs of expensive bottles of whisky on Instagram, get a few thousand followers, and suddenly they think they are a bona fide whisky expert—and, yes, they talk out of their asses. But you want to know their worst offence? They propagate the myth that Scotch is snotty. They think you must have all this knowledge about Scotch before you can enjoy it. On Facebook, whisky groups light up every day. A happy drinker might post a picture in one of a whisky on the rocks, only for an ‘expert’ to come along and criticize the whisky they used, or the glass, or the garnish. Instead of helping to create a fun and welcoming environment for new drinkers, they push newcomers away. Me, on the other hand, yes, I will tell you how I think you should taste your whisky. I will tell you how you can maximize the flavor, what you should look for. But ultimately I am happy for you to drink it the way you want to drink it and enjoy it the way you want to enjoy it. Because, chérie, the best way to enjoy Scotch is however you please.”

  “Wow, you really are passionate about whisky, Gaston! Do you remember your first glass?”