“A drink for you, Mr. Yama?” Habu was carrying a small cup of hot tea, but his hands were visibly shaking.
Mr. Yama looked up at him with apparent annoyance. “Thank you, Habu,” he said, taking the drink. “How very thoughtful of you to serve me . . . whatever this piss is you call tea. But I won’t stay long. I’m only here to deliver a message. Nothing more.”
He put the drink down on the table and leaned forward. “There’s some bad weather coming our way, they said on the news this morning.”
“I hadn’t heard,” Johnny said. He kept himself still and unprovoked.
“Terrible thing, these January storms. Come in from out of nowhere. It’s best to stay inside during them.”
“And when they pass?”
“Then it’s best to follow them out.” Mr. Yama folded his gloved hands.
“I see.” Johnny leaned forward himself now, mirroring Yama’s posture. “Well that won’t do. I have errands to run, you see. But don’t you worry, I brought some protection from sudden downpours.”
“Did you now?” Mr. Yama sucked the air from his teeth before breaking eye contact and looking around the parlor. “You really should hire someone to spruce this place up a bit, Habu. It’s disgusting,” he said, rising to his feet. “Well, I’ve done what I came to do. Do enjoy the rest of your stay, Mr. Tokisaki.”
The men of the bar all watched as Yama left the way he came. Outside, he stepped inside a waiting black Bentley, and disappeared from their view.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tokisaki, was it?”
Johnny turned around to look at Habu, whose face had grown crestfallen. “It was a fine game. A fantastic game. These old fools have been playing the same moves of shogi for the past two decades. I don’t know how they stand it. But I’m afraid you’ve brought with you trouble that I don’t want. I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave.”
Johnny looked at the other men who kept their heads down and said nothing. In the corner, Masuda was still sitting as unflinching as a gargoyle over his table.
“Understandable,” Johnny said, opening his wallet. “Thank you for the drinks.” He picked out a twenty and left it on the table, then picked up the ryūma piece and stood to leave.
Johnny gave one last look at the cowering men before making his exit, then began walking back toward the main road. He hadn’t gone more than ten feet when he heard a voice call from behind him.
“Hāfu!” It was Nakahara. He looked around as if trying to decide what to do, then slowly approached Johnny.
“You forgot something,” he whispered, passing a heavy gold lighter over to him. Johnny took it in his hand, and immediately felt something taped to the back. He nodded and slipped it into his pocket.
“It was a good game. But some people in Sonnerie don’t play games.” His black eyes were bloodshot, and perspiration had soaked through his already-yellowed shirt.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Johnny said. “Thank you.”
Nakahara hemmed and hawed for a moment before nodding and turning back toward the shop. When he was out of sight, Johnny turned around and made his way back to the main road.
*
It was noon by the time he returned to his hotel room. Clouds had begun to form overhead, but there was no sign of rain. He took care to close his windows and shut the curtains before sitting at his desk and retrieving the lighter Nakahara had given him. To the back was taped a thin piece of paper, and on it was scribbled in nearly unintelligible black ink only one word.
Bracelet.
Fourteenth Movement
Brothel
“I met a friend of yours this morning.” Johnny’s voice was scratched and dehydrated. He had Mrs. Saito’s watch in one hand, and pressed the room phone against his ear with the other.
“Friend?” Saito’s tone was all business. He had called her as soon as he locked the door behind him at The Wheel Bridge. “I don’t recall sending anyone out to meet with you.”
“Slender fellow. Slicked black hair. Pin on his collar of watch hands in the one o’clock position. Said his name was Yama.”
“Did he say anything to you?” she asked.
“He interrupted a perfectly good game of shogi to tell me that I should stay inside or else he’d put me on the naughty list. Not very sporting of him.”
“How unfortunate,” she said. “I was hoping to resolve this issue without attracting their attention. Now we’ll have to tread even more carefully.”
Johnny sensed the trepidation in her voice. “I can take it, then, that it wasn’t a unanimous decision from the good folks upstairs to call for me. Is that right?”
“It doesn’t matter, and you don’t need to know,” Mrs. Saito cut in. “For now, avoid Mr. Yama, and anyone else that you identify wearing a pin like his.”
“And if they start trouble?” Johnny set her watch down gently upon the wooden desk.
“If they force the issue, then deal with them. Just remember, keep that pistol of yours secure inside its holster. If there’s a single dead body in my town by the end of this week, I’ll throw you over the cliff myself.”
“There’s something else,” Johnny said, ignoring the jab. “I suspect Mari was prostituting herself before she died.”
“Yes, I heard as much from Principal Itsuka. Supposing she was working in the red light district, finding her employer might prove difficult. There are more than two dozen brothels littered throughout The Lugs, and you’ll have to visit them one by one.”
“I’m sure I can find a way to narrow it down a bit.”
“You’re an investigator, Mr. Tokisaki. Not a customer.”
“So you’ve reminded me.” Johnny felt a surge of indigestion in his chest that he did his best to swallow down. Outside his window he heard the distant but distinct call of mockingbirds, though he could not see from where.
“Does the word ‘bracelet’ mean anything to you?” he asked suddenly.
“Bracelet?” Mrs. Saito paused. “I’m assuming you aren’t talking about the accessory.”
“I’m not sure yet.” Johnny tapped a finger on his knee. “Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Don’t expect to hear from me tonight. I’ll be out late.”
“Tomorrow morning then. Good luck, Mr. Tokisaki.”
Mrs. Saito ended the call first, leaving Johnny alone to collect his thoughts. He pulled the wooden ryūma piece from his pocket and set it beside her watch, then took out Nakahara’s golden lighter and the small note that had come attached to it. Whoever this Yama was, he clearly incited fear in the locals. Johnny took out his revolver and set it in between the ryūma piece and the lighter. He heard the clocktower strike twelve, and sank back in his chair.
When he had questions, he always tried to picture his wife, standing there before him as she always did. Waiting for him. Yearning for him. He conjured her image in his mind until her phantom was so real he could reach out and touch her, though he knew she was long gone.
“Dead girls don’t come back to life,” he said as if repeating a black ink fact in a textbook.
“No, they don’t,” the image of his wife responded.
“So she’s not dead,” Johnny said.
“You saw her body, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
The image of his wife started to blur and change. Keeping the details of her face clear now was a straining exercise, and one he had only gotten worse at as the years dragged on.
“What would you do?” he asked her, but her face evaporated as the words left his mouth, and he opened his eyes to an empty room.
The phone rang, and Johnny leaned forward to pick it up.
“Mr. Tokisaki?” a gruff male voice came through the line.
“Yes?”
“This is Pinion. The watchmaker.”
Johnny opened a half-empty bottle of water on his desk and t
ook a sip. “Hello, Pinion,” he said. “How’s my watch coming along?”
“I’ve been working on it since we parted yesterday. Quite a piece. We don’t see Swiss types much here in Sonnerie. Restoring it has been a pleasure.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Johnny said, not particularly glad. “What can I do for you?”
“Yes . . . it’s about the mechanism.” Pinion hesitated, but Johnny let him continue. “I know you said specifically not to touch the inside, but I had to open her up to remove the glass and give everything a nice oil bath.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to sell me something?” Johnny leaned back again and crossed one leg over the other.
“Perish the thought.” Pinion sounded almost offended. “It’s the escapement. The mechanism that translates the rotational energy of the spring into lateral impulses. The part that makes the watch tick, essentially. Seems like it took the brunt of the damage, and I just can’t rightly leave her in this state. It’s practically a crime.”
Johnny closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose, but instead of frustration, he saw the crystal-clear image of his wife once again. She whispered to him.
“They gave one an escapement, and let the other escape.”
She disappeared as quickly as she had come.
“Mr. Tokisaki? Are you still there?” Pinion asked.
“Ah. Yes, I’m sorry. You just reminded me of something that I had forgotten.” He paused to reach for his notepad that kept his record of Mei Goto’s mutterings. “Pinion, can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Those watches you make and keep in your store. What kind of escapement do they use?”
“Why, a lever escapement of course. It’s worked for a hundred years, though these days I’ve heard of an Englishman named Daniels who came out with a fascinating new design. A coaxial escapement. A truly amazing concept.” Johnny could hear the smile in Pinion’s voice as he spoke.
“I’ll have to look into that when my business here is done,” Johnny said. “But it’s interesting, I think. A town like Sonnerie, whose entire industry revolves around watchmaking and designs. You’d think that someone here would come up with something fancy, too.”
There was a moment of silence, then the sound of Pinion clearing his throat. “Yes,” he started. “I suppose to an outsider it might seem that way. Sonnerie has made its own strides in the field, but unfortunately we keep our secrets closely guarded.”
Johnny wanted to press him further on the subject, but there was a sense of sudden discomfort in the way he spoke.
“I see,” Johnny said instead. “Well, thank you for the information. As for my watch, do with it as you see fit, but make sure she’s set at the same time she was when I gave her to you. That’s her time.”
“I understand. It should be done by tomorrow. I will be in touch, Mr. Tokisaki. Have a nice day.”
“You as well.” Johnny returned the phone to the receiver. Outside, the distant calls of mockingbirds had ceased, and brief bursts of wind undulated the empty branches of trees.
*
It was well after ten o’clock when he phoned Mrs. Saito’s driver for a ride down to The Lugs. An unsettling cold front had moved in from the west, and there would be enough walking ahead of him tonight without the extra thirty-minute trek. He gave the cylinder of his revolver a spin before holstering it, then pocketed the items he had collected so far along with his notebook and pen.
He called the elevator to the fourth floor, and when he entered he took another look at the photograph along the back wall. There was over forty years between him and the people in this picture. Several of the figures standing before him were already quite worn and withered, with the exception of a handful of men, and one of the two women. The one standing most toward the center was bright faced and young, with an impish grin and hair straight back in a bun. Unlike the others, who all wore grim expressions, she alone was baring her teeth and looking straight into the camera lens.
“Our time will come,” Johnny whispered, reading the plaque at the bottom of the photograph. The elevator lurched as it reached the first floor, and the door opened. His chauffeur was awaiting him in the lobby, and they exited together into the cold darkness.
Riding down the main thoroughfare at night was like passing through the space between two worlds. In the morning, the amount of people he had seen as he had approached The Lugs had steadily decreased until it felt as if he were in a ghost town. But now, it was The Bezel that was empty. Every block they passed, an increasing number of almost exclusively men weaved through the streets toward the red light district. Drawn in like moths to a flame.
He asked that the driver let him out at the corner of Tinker. There was no need to drive farther in. Here, the concentration of men was at its peak. Old men. Young men. He saw faces that laughed and faces that grimaced in flashes of neon light as he made his way past the now closed shogi parlor, and into the underbelly of Sonnerie.
They traveled in packs. Johnny took notice after passing under a sign that clearly marked the boundaries of the red light district. Packs of no fewer than three and no greater than six. He was the only man walking alone among the apparent legion that had flocked to The Lugs. He could hear the voices of women now, though he could barely see them through the crowd. Their sirens’ calls to a sea of potential clients. Now and then he would see a group of men disappear into one of the buildings, but despite this, the density of the crowd never seemed to shrink.
After a few minutes of walking, he came across a lively establishment and pushed through the crowd to get to the front. Although the sheer amount of gentleman’s clubs was daunting, there was one thing he could count on to speed the process along. The brothels here were done exactly as he had seen in the seedier parts of Kyoto. At the door to each establishment was a menu with enlarged pictures of the girls working there, and each brothel carried with it a certain theme.
The particular brothel he had approached—with velvet curtains illuminated by red neon lights—featured an impressive menu of mostly college-aged girls wearing bunny suits in the style of a Playboy magazine. It was a snazzy, high-class place, and Johnny knew immediately he wouldn’t find what he was looking for here. Mari was a high school girl, and despite her youthful beauty, she still had a child’s face.
“See something you like, honey?” one of the bunny-suited girls at the front asked as Johnny stared at the menu. There was no hesitation or bashfulness in her voice. She was a consummate professional.
“No, my dear,” Johnny said. “But perhaps you can point me in the direction of something a little more in line with my tastes.” He flashed the pin on his collar.
“An honored guest!” she exclaimed. “But I’m sure whatever taste you have, you can find it inside. Or you can start with me, if you like.” She latched onto his arm, but he snatched it away. This was a familiar world. One in which dominance and intent had to be asserted quickly. Without it, a man could wake up with an empty wallet and be covered in piss and vomit in some back alley at dawn.
“I’m looking for a menu that features girls a bit . . . younger than what you have here.” He chose his words carefully. “You wouldn’t know where a man could find a kind of place like that, do you?”
“Oh, you can find anything here in The Lugs, sir. Keep on heading down the street. I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for. And if not, you can always come back here.” She stuck her chest out and tried one last time to entice him. Johnny let a faint smile escape his lips before turning away and heading back to the crowd.
He repeated this process three more times until he found himself at an intersection that split the crowd into three different, more manageable groups. There was a brothel on each corner here. One with a menu featuring Western-looking girls with dyed blonde hair and giant fake breasts. Another that featured women who looke
d to be in their mid-thirties to late forties. The last one featured a set of girls who had tanned bronze skin and long, fake nails and eyelashes. The door-girl at this one was much more insistent than the rest up to this point, and he nearly had to push her down to escape her grasp and move on.
After taking a moment to gather his bearings, he followed the smallest crowd south to an area of the district that seemed to play host more to bars and nightclubs than brothels. There was one clearly marked bordello at the end of the road, which he checked before turning around and making his way back to the intersection. This time, he turned east and continued along the path he had started on. More groups of men broke off from the crowd now, and before long there was enough space between packs that he could maneuver easily in and out. He visited another six brothels until he reached another dead end. In need of a drink, he squeezed into a corner bar with counter seating only and took the first stool he could find.
“Can I get you something?” a middle-aged bartender with a thinning mustache asked from behind the bar.
“Scotch highball and an ashtray,” Johnny said, taking a puff from a freshly lit cigarette. The barkeep nodded and set an ashtray in front of him before turning around to fix his drink. It was a stuffy, run-down bar with rust-covered faucets and cobwebs in the corners. The kind that had probably been here for forty years and would be here for forty more without ever changing.
“You’re an unfamiliar face,” the bartender said, coming back with his drink.
“Let’s hope it stays that way.” Johnny inhaled his drink in one sip and chased it with the fumes of his cigarette.
The bartender scrunched his mustache inward in displeasure, then turned to serve another customer at the far end of the bar.
There were at least a dozen patrons that Johnny could see, packed in tight like canned sardines. When they laughed, they choked on air thick with smoke. When they smiled, they smiled through brownish-yellow teeth. They were older men. Working men. And even in Sonnerie, hardworking men needed their hard-earned entertainment.
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