Clocktower

by C. A. Valentine

  She looked up at him and nodded, fresh tears had returned to her eyes. “I’m sorry, Dr. Tokisaki,” she said. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I didn’t think that . . .”

  “It’s not too late, Yui. You can still help us. Help Mari. Now tell me, where has she been working?”

  Yui cast her eyes down again. “She’s been working in The Lugs. But she wouldn’t tell me where. You have to believe me. I didn’t want her to go, but she said it was her only way out. That it was her only option.”

  “Thank you, Yui.” Johnny put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been a great help.”

  Gabriel unclenched his fist and recomposed himself. He tapped a few times on the desk before standing and taking his proper seat behind it.

  “Return to class, Miss Toyama. That will be all.”

  Thirteenth Movement

  Knight

  Johnny did not speak immediately after Yui left the room. He proceeded to the window, lighting a fresh cigarette as he did. Gabriel’s eyes were fixated on the door in front of him, but Johnny could see that his mind was somewhere else.

  After thirty seconds of silence, Gabriel snapped out of whatever trance had befallen him and began tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

  “Forgive me,” were the first words that came out of his mouth.

  “For what?” Johnny opened the window slightly and let out a full lungs’ worth of smoke.

  “I lost my temper. It was unsightly. I am the principal of this school. I do my best to help raise young minds to be honest, to espouse truth and reject deceit. But to see her so quickly resort to falsehoods . . .”

  “You’ve got it backwards.” Johnny flicked the ash of his cigarette out the window and watched it disappear into the morning wind. “We were the ones deceiving.”

  “Only to obtain the truth,” Gabriel rationalized. “We used it as a tool, not as a guiding principle. There’s a difference.”

  Johnny looked Gabriel over. He could hear the resolution in his words. He could see the conviction in his eyes. Whoever Gabriel Itsuka was before the killings, Johnny did not know. He could only see the man before him now, a man consumed by a desire to correct an injustice. Something he might be powerless to do.

  “Working in The Lugs at her age . . .’’ Gabriel regained his train of thought. “It will be difficult to find out where, but it could lead us to something. I cannot to pretend to know what revelations the girls discovered about one another that led them to murder, but you might be able to find answers there.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be too difficult,” Johnny said. “Young girl, pretty, desperate for money to skip town. There’s only one type of work that gets a pretty face some quick cash.”

  Johnny checked his pockets to make sure he had left nothing behind and headed for the door.

  “Where will you go now?” Gabriel stood. “Nothing in The Lugs will be open until well after nightfall.”

  Johnny opened the door and looked back at him. “I think I’ll try my luck at the shogi tables. Maybe make a friend or two. Give my lovely benefactor my regards—I’ll be out of touch for a while.”

  *

  It was just before 10:00 a.m. when he arrived in The Lugs. The change from The Bezel was both jarring and immediate. Lush green mixed in with sights typical of suburbia halted instantly in favor of stiff concrete and asphalt. The midnight ride he had taken through this thoroughfare had been a blur of fast-passing lights and sounds muffled from behind glass car windows. He could now see clearly a world split down the middle, hanging at either edge of Sonnerie. The Lugs was an apt name.

  To his left were tall factories and offices. He spied the occasional worker coming out of them only to see them disappear just as quickly back inside. There were no mothers walking their children down here. No hubbub and buzz that was so common in The Bezel. Everyone was, he assumed, hard at work.

  Johnny instinctively rubbed the area on his wrist where his Rolex had been. Mrs. Saito had told him that industry in Sonnerie was primarily dedicated to horological pursuits. Watchmaking, clockmaking, anything and everything to do with the keeping of time was done here. There was, if only just a little, a pique of curiosity that wanted to cross the street and enter one of the older factories. He wanted to see the process. The care given to each piece. But he stuffed away his more leisurely desires and turned his mind to the task at hand.

  The east side of The Lugs was a different entity than the west. There were shops, if they could be called that. Rundown-looking convenience stores and hardware shops that looked like they had been built in the fifties and hadn’t been touched since. When he got to Tinker, he made a right just as Gabriel had instructed him and found more of the same. Rust-colored buildings and rust-colored men coming in and out. A few of them glanced his way, but otherwise they paid him no mind.

  He walked only for a minute or so before witnessing a man nearly as tall as he was and twice as wide squeeze into an open door about thirty yards ahead. Not long after, the sound of shouting from the same direction caught his ear, and he reckoned he had found the right place.

  As Gabriel had described, there was no sign on or around the entry that marked the establishment. Just a rickety wooden door jammed open by a well-worn rubber doorstop. Even from the entrance, the smell of cigarettes and piss clouded the air around him. The ruckus from inside was loud and clear now as he took his first step through the threshold. He flipped up his collar, hiding his pin once again.

  “Kato!” a voice shouted. “You keep playing like that and they’ll throw you downstairs! Wa-ha-ha!”

  “You got a problem with the way I play, Nakahara? You can’t even beat old Masuda on the kiddy tables in the front!” the man apparently named Kato retorted.

  “Oh! Why don’t you come over here and say that again? Better yet, why don’t you hurry up and lose so a real man can play Kimura already?” The giant mass of flesh that was Nakahara spat as he spoke, and it was clear he had started his day with more than just a hot green tea.

  Johnny took stock of the other men in the room. A single gentleman standing behind a counter busied himself preparing drinks. The two men playing out their match—Kato and Kimura—were both in their seventies by Johnny’s guess. Kato wore a brown suit with a matching tie, and Kimura wore a blue suit and striped bow tie. He couldn’t quite see their positions on the table—that view was blocked by Nakahara, who hovered around with his arms folded. He was clearly younger than the others. Mid-fifties, with a yellow-stained wifebeater and a gray sweater tied around his waist.

  Johnny took another step forward before noticing a fifth man seated directly at a table to his left. He was still as stone, and his eyes gazed unblinking at the unstarted game in front of him. If it weren’t for the tiny twitches of his wrinkled hand upon the board, Johnny would have thought him a fresh corpse.

  “That’s your move?” Nakahara guffawed as Kato slapped down a piece on the board.

  Johnny passed their table and went straight for a stool at the front counter. As he sat, the gentleman working did a quick double-take before quickly putting aside a fresh drink he had just poured, and cleared his throat.

  “W—Welcome!” he said as if it were his first time ever welcoming a customer.

  Johnny took out a cigarette as he made himself comfortable and motioned for an ashtray. He didn’t speak, preferring instead to inhale hot smoke into his lungs and let it out slow. After a few puffs, he raised his eyes up at the shopkeep and tapped the ashes of his cigarette until they fell into the waiting receptacle.

  It was a familiar scene. His uncle, a dedicated scoundrel and shogi ruffian, had spent much time with Johnny in his youth taking him to different parlors around the Kansai area. They never went to the same one twice. He was a con man, and his con only kept one bullet in its chamber—a bullet that could only be fired if he had the first move.

  Apparently una
ble to bear another moment of silence, the shopkeep cleared his throat again and put his hands upon the counter.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he said timidly.

  Johnny took another puff and pointed at the beverage he had just poured. “That’ll do fine,” he said.

  The shopkeep looked down at the drink, then back up at Johnny. “This one is for the guest over there.” He motioned toward the fat man, Nakahara. “I can make you one like it—that is, if it pleases you.”

  “Habu!” Nakahara shouted. “Where’s my damn drink?”

  Habu briefly looked over Johnny’s shoulder, giving Johnny an opening to snatch the newly poured hot sake from under his nose and turn to the other three men.

  “Hey!” Habu protested meekly, but Johnny had already moved over to the game in progress and stood opposite of Nakahara.

  He looked down at the pieces on the board before speaking. It was a massacre of a match. Kimura, Kato’s silent opponent, had a clear and decisive advantage. Two promoted pawns deep in Kato’s territory. Kato’s bishop had been taken, and his king was surrounded by a meager fort of pawns and lances.

  Nakahara held out his hand, expecting to receive his drink, but Johnny left it there and instead began to sip on it himself.

  “It’s rude to speak during other people’s matches,” Johnny remarked.

  “Truly. It truly is.” Kato nodded his head before looking up together with Nakahara at Johnny.

  “Oh!” Kato exclaimed.

  “Who the hell are you?” Nakahara put his hand back down at his side and puffed out his already-engorged stomach.

  “Just a passerby,” Johnny took another sip of Nakahara’s drink and gave him half a smile.

  “The hell you know about shogi?” Nakahara said.

  “Oh, nothing much. I don’t really make time for children’s games.”

  “Child . . . children’s . . .” Nakahara’s offense was palpable. He sized Johnny up before continuing. “If it’s just a children’s game, why don’t you come over here and show us how to play?”

  “Oh, I only know the basics. I’m sure it wouldn’t be worth your time.” Johnny feigned his own disinterest and turned back toward the counter.

  “Ha!” Nakahara waddled his way over to the counter next to Johnny. “That’s about what I would expect to hear from a half-Japanese.” He looked Johnny up and down again. “Which brothel did your mom stumble out of to have you, boy?” His breath stank of chewing tobacco and cheap sake.

  “Nakahara,” Habu began, “why don’t you go back to your game? Take a look, they’re continuing on without you.”

  “That game’s already over!” he spat. “Kato’s dead meat. Just like this piece of shit right here.”

  Johnny sighed. “Fancy yourself a few rounds, then? You look like a regular master after all.” He smiled, and took another sip of Nakahara’s drink.

  Nakahara’s face turned beet red. For the briefest of moments, Johnny thought he might strike him, but instead he turned around and took a seat at the table beside Kato and Kimura. “Come on, then!” he belched. “Let me show you the half of your culture that’s missing, boy!”

  Johnny took a seat across from him. “Best of three?”

  “Hmph!” Nakahara scoffed. “I’m going to turn your king into a corpse so fast you won’t know which direction the clocktower stands!”

  Habu brought over a fresh drink for Nakahara, but chose not to return behind the counter. Kato and Kimura crowded around as well. Only old man Masuda in the corner sat staring at the pieces on his table.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Johnny asked, setting his pieces down on the board.

  “Masuda?” Nakahara laughed. “He plays against opponents no one can see these days. Right, Masuda?” he yelled. There was no response. “Why do you give a shit, hāfu? Your opponent is right here. Let’s go.”

  *

  Johnny played the first game as if he had never held a shogi piece in his life. His moves were clumsy, and with each lost piece Nakahara spat and laughed. Despite his constant blunders, Nakahara seemed incapable of putting Johnny’s king in check, and swept his pieces around the board with all the grace of a bear in ballerina shoes. Johnny let the facade continue for fifteen minutes before surrendering and moving on to the second round.

  “Wa-ha-ha!” Nakahara bellowed. “Masuda! I found a good opponent for you. Maybe for your granddaughter. She’s still sucking on her mama’s tits, isn’t she? Wa-ha-ha!”

  Johnny raised his empty glass and waited for Habu to bring him another. “A fine game,” he complimented, watching the rush of victory flood Nakahara’s brain.

  “Wa-ha-ha!” He could barely contain himself. “I wish I could say the same. You could turn tail and run now if you’d like.”

  “No, no.” Johnny stretched his neck out and accepted the drink Habu brought him. “I think I’ve got my bearings now. You ready, fat boy?”

  Nakahara’s smile vanished. “I’ll crush you, hāfu. Like the bug you are.”

  The next game started similar to the last. Johnny moved his seventh-file pawn out first, followed by a knight to the empty space created by the pawn—an apparent blunder from the very start.

  “Knight? Knight? Do you even know how to play this game?” Nakahara mocked as he slapped his eighth-file pawn down one space forward.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the old stiff Masuda move for the first time. He lifted a piece from his board and set it down in a different spot. Johnny watched him coolly for a moment before returning to his match with Nakahara.

  He moved his knight again, this time to the center of the board on the sixth file. Another apparent blunder.

  “You’re riding in on that horse and you’ll be riding out of here on it just as fast,” Nakahara slapped his silver general on the sixth file, counteracting the apparent danger from Johnny’s knight.

  Across the room, Masuda made another move, a flush of color coming over his ashen face as he did.

  After a turn of both players advancing pawns, Johnny made an exchange of bishops, prompting another loud laugh from Nakahara.

  “You’re done!” he cackled. “Just get up and go now. Don’t let the door hit you on the way—”

  But the slap of Johnny’s captured bishop hitting the empty space beside his knight interrupted him.

  Kato and Kimura both tilted their heads in confusion. Only Masuda in his corner began to laugh and smile. He slapped a piece forward, his whole body shaking with excitement.

  Nakahara, of course, was oblivious to the trap Johnny had set. What followed was an almost lightning-fast exchange of pieces, ending with Johnny’s promoted rook—the ryūō—deep in Nakahara’s territory, threatening his entire back line unopposed.

  “Amazing!” Kato exclaimed. “How did you do that?”

  “Onigoroshi!” Masuda was practically jumping up and down in his own seat. “Onigoroshi!” he said again. “Demon killer!”

  It was a strategy his uncle had shown him countless times before. A series of attacks that relied entirely upon the element of surprise. At all levels except the novice, it was considered more of a gimmick than a valid way to play.

  Gimmick or no, the game was all but over. Nakahara fought and struggled as much as he was able for another ten moves, but when his last general fell, he conceded, red with embarrassment. Kato and Kimura cheered in awe of what they had witnessed, and even Habu was scratching his head in wonder at what had just occurred.

  Johnny took another sip of his drink and put out a cigarette. “Care to make a wager on the next one?” he asked. Nakahara was too shaken to respond. His gusto had left him along with his masculinity.

  “Huh.” Nakahara went over the moves in his head, trying to figure out his mistake. “Huh . . . hm . . . haw.” Johnny watched as his face lit back up. “Haw, haw. Haw haw! Wa-ha-ha! A lucky game. I gues
s it’s true what they say, anyone can do it once.” He slapped a hand on his knee, but the sweat dripping down the side of his face was all Johnny needed to see to know his true feelings.

  “A bet! Fine, fine!” He ripped an old brown wallet from his pocket and tossed a few hundred-dollar bills on the table.

  “Not money,” Johnny said. He took out the ryūma piece he had found in Mari’s room and slapped it down on the table with such force that the other men jumped backward.

  “Information.” He scanned their eyes, but before he could glean whether or not the piece meant anything to them, a sixth man came through the door. Masuda, who only moments ago had been full of color and cheer, retreated back into his corner and turned to stone once again.

  “Losing as usual, Debuhara?” the man said in a small, weasel’s voice.

  “Don’t call me that.” Nakahara shrank back in his seat. The man who had entered wore an unsullied black suit, and had slicked-back black hair. On his lapel was a pin of gold in the shape of an hour and minute hand in the one o’clock position. He was cleanly shaven and his face was curved and thin, almost effeminately so, with eyes the color of honey.

  He shooed Nakahara away with a flick of his wrist and replaced him at his seat across from Johnny.

  “Mr. Tokisaki,” he said. “I see you’re making the most of your time here in Sonnerie. I hope it has met your expectations.”

  “Actually.” Johnny flicked on his lighter and lit another cigarette. “It’s a bit too stuffy for me.”

  “A shame. I’m sure some people would love you to stay longer and see more of the city,” the man said.

  “Indeed. I can’t wait to return home, though. If I had to stay here my whole life, I might commit murder.”

  “Commit suicide, Mr. Tokisaki. I believe you mean commit suicide.”

  Johnny took another inhale and blew the smoke directly at the man’s face, but the man only inhaled the secondhand smoke and rolled his eyes.