“But how does this relate to Setsuko?” I asked, struggling to be serious.
“She was one of my sources.” As he spoke, I felt like he’d punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t look at him anymore, just stared down at my mineral water, watching the bubbles pop. “Do you remember how you attacked me for buying her gifts? It wasn’t me, really. It was a multinational government group.”
“Oh, that makes it better! You come to this country and stretch out your right hand to be paid. All the while you’re stealing with your left!”
“I don’t believe what I’m doing is so wrong.” He raised his eyebrow, a gesture I would never again consider cute. “Do you have any idea of what the annual trade imbalance is with your own country? Over fifty billion a year. My work is simply greasing the wheels for free trade.”
“The trade imbalance is rising not because the Japanese are nefarious, but because the U.S. dollar is strengthening! Face it, what you’re doing isn’t honest.”
“You and your honesty. The way you rushed to ring up Okuhara without talking to me first!” Hugh’s rage was finally out in the open.
“I have a problem with the partial truth. I telephoned Okuhara because I was trying to put together the pieces. When things are held back, you can’t.”
“If only Setsuko had held back.” Hugh stared into the golden depths of his beer. “She had no problem listening in to her husband’s telephone conversations, thought it a lark because she hated him.”
“And because she wanted you,” I said, having become painfully aware of how desire could make one do very stupid things.
“She did fancy me a bit. I suppose that I played it to my advantage.”
“Like you do with all of us, I suppose.”
“You want me to have my heart carved up and served along with the drinks? I’m through with flirtations with you.” Hugh made a move to leave his seat, but I wanted out before him.
“Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be going, then.” I motioned for Kozo to bring the check. I would put both drinks on my credit card as my parting shot.
“You going to end it like this?” Hugh winced when his left foot touched the floor.
“End what?”
“You’re driving me home,” he said. “It’s the least you can do. I’m lame and under the influence and Roppongi Hills is only five minutes away.”
“Haven’t you heard of taxis? I’m sure your friend Kozo can hail one for you, and if you’re broke, I’ll lend you the money.”
“I’m illegally parked. If I leave the car overnight, it will be gone tomorrow.”
“I can’t drive in Japan!” Although I had an international driver’s license, it had expired and I’d never driven on the left, let alone in Tokyo. I explained this all to Hugh and he waved it away.
“You’re sober, the right color, and they won’t stop you in a hundred years! Come on, Rei, if it’s the last thing you do for me, I want you to take me home.”
All I had to do was stay on the left, I repeated to myself like a mantra. I drove like a terrified zombie down Roppongi Dori, but once we got onto a quieter side street I started to unclench. The car wasn’t that hard to drive. In fact, it had a whimsical sensor that chimed when you approached objects too closely. I couldn’t hit anything with a system like this.
By the time I’d started fantasizing about what it would be like to drive the Windom on the freeway, the twin towers of Hugh’s building had risen up like a sterile monster colony. At Hugh’s direction, I passed the main entrance to Roppongi Hills and swung around a corner to enter an underground garage. I pulled into a spot marked with his name. A classy touch, along with the Acuras and Mercedes that filled the neighboring parking places.
“Aren’t we locking the doors?” I asked after I’d lifted his garment bag and laptop out of the back seat.
“This is one of the cheaper cars in the garage. No one with half a brain would think of touching it.” Hugh limped off toward the elevator, and feeling like his mule, I picked up the luggage and followed.
The elevator doors opened with an electronic chirp on the twenty-second floor to a hall carpeted in cream wool. I glanced in the mirrored wall and frowned at my windblown, exhausted appearance.
“I know it’s ridiculously seventies,” Hugh said, as if my unhappy face was a reaction to the decor. “Inside the flat it’s the same. Almost everything’s rented, so don’t slag me off.”
That relaxed me enough to anticipate something truly wretched. The door opened to a tiled entryway hung with a large, expensively framed print of rugby players locked in a mud-covered embrace.
“You’re such a guy!” I was blown away.
“I thought I turned the lights off when I went off for the holiday. My electric bill’s going to be a nightmare,” Hugh moaned as I slipped off my shoes and followed beige wall-to-wall carpeting into a giant living room where a solid glass wall revealed Tokyo Tower and Hotel Okura lit up gorgeously against the dark sky.
The view was the best thing in the huge room furnished with sterile leather furniture in a shade that matched the carpet. The dining room was hardly better, dominated by a glossy rosewood table and six rigid-looking chairs. One wall was mirrored and the other held a pair of reproduction screens depicting a flowing river banked by plum trees. I’d studied it as an undergraduate, so the identification came easily: Red and White Plum Blossoms by Ogata Krin, an early eighteenth-century artist.
“Setsuko chose that.” Hugh sensed my unasked question about the only Japanese thing in sight.
“No wonder. From you, I would have expected Sumo wrestlers or something more akin to your rugby players.”
“The wrestlers are in the bedroom,” he said with a ghost of his old smile.
“You have more room than you need, don’t you?” I was trying hard to keep my cool. In the two rooms I’d seen so far, I could fit my apartment five times over. I had a fleeting thought of how my art and textile collections could warm the environment but pushed it away.
“Excuse me,” I said, noticing a half-opened door to what looked like a powder room. Walking in, I caught a quick movement in the mirror. I yelped and started to step back, but my hand had already hit the light switch. In a millisecond, track lights shone down on the man slammed up against the linen closet: Kenji Yamamoto, looking frightened but very much alive.
19
“The exterminators were here scarcely a month ago, so please don’t tell me—” Hugh stopped short.
“Sumimasen, I’m so sorry!” Yamamoto, wearing what looked like one of Hugh’s expensive Scottish sweaters over his ski pants, dropped to the ground and began the kind of bowing appropriate for temples.
“Sorry? I damn near broke my ankle because of you!” Hugh waved a crutch at him.
“Please forgive me. Please understand!” Yamamoto cried.
“Do you mind?” I looked at the two of them significantly. Yamamoto got to his feet and Hugh limped out after him.
When I emerged a few minutes later, the two were sitting at the dining table with a bottle of Scotch between them.
“This is Cadenhead’s, one of my favorite single malt whiskeys. You haven’t tried it yet.” Hugh held out a glass to me.
“You’re drinking with someone who might have killed Setsuko and was willing to let you take the fall. Why not lie down and hand him a knife to finish you off!” I stormed away from them and into the kitchen, where I was hit with multiple shocks at the sight of the full-sized stove and oven, the dishwasher, the small center island with a butcher-block top. It was unbelievable. I hadn’t seen a kitchen this luxurious since I’d left America.
“While you’re in there, could you pull some shepherd’s pies from the freezer? I think everyone could use a bite,” Hugh called after me.
What did he think this was, a dinner party? I rummaged around the freezer, setting aside packages of ice cream, fish fingers, and lamb curry until I came up with a two-pack of shepherd’s pie. I slid it into a spotless microwave mounted on the
wall and began looking for something for myself. I wound up with French crackers—it seemed none of his food was Japanese—spread with Patak’s Original Lime Pickle and some thin slices of a wan tomato.
“Do you have place mats?” I asked when I came out.
“Second drawer in the sideboard. Thanks. But you’re not eating a pie?”
“You know I don’t touch meat.” I watched him cut through mashed potatoes to dead-looking green peas and oily ground meat before turning my attention to Yamamoto. “So, how did you break in?”
“A long time ago Hugh-san gave me a key. He said when I needed some privacy, I could come.”
“That was to be negotiated beforehand—remember?” Hugh said.
“There was no time. I had to leave Shiroyama. I couldn’t continue with Sendai, so the practical thing was to disappear.”
“What about resigning?” I asked.
“You cannot resign from the yakuza.”
I felt like my stomach was falling out of me, straight down to the soft Chinese rug under the table. I stared at Hugh. “You’re part of the Japanese mob? I didn’t know they took…foreigners.”
“I wish I had a camera to freeze the greatest look of indignation yet.” Hugh was laughing outright.
“So you could send our snapshots around the country and put a contract out on us?” I stretched out a hand to his colleague. “Yamamoto-san, if you’re telling the truth, you shouldn’t have come to him.”
“But this yakuza business does not concern Hugh-san! It is about Nakamura-san and the Eterna.” Yamamoto shrunk from me.
“The Eterna?” I was confused.
“The long-life battery we’re developing for our laptops. I told you about it,” Hugh said.
“It was my special project. The week before we went to Shiroyama, I worked late every night—later than you and Nakamura-san,” Yamamoto said pointedly. “I went into his office to drop off the plans for expansion into Singapore. On his desk, I saw a floppy disc labeled Taipei.”
“Taipei? We’re not doing anything there.” Hugh stopped eating.
“Exactly! I was curious, so I read the disc. I am not an engineer, but I noticed that it mentioned lithium ion, an important element in the battery design.”
“The formula’s still classified because the patents aren’t in order yet. Why would Nakamura have it?” Hugh asked.
“He intends to sell the plans outside the company through the yakuza, like I have been saying.”
“I’d have to see a copy of the disc to believe it,” Hugh said.
“I made one and brought it to give you at the minshuku.” It disappeared from my suitcase. I noticed on New Year’s Day.”
“I suppose you left a hard copy on your computer at work?” Hugh asked.
“If I did that, I could be accused! I could not risk leaving it anywhere.”
“I want to hear more about the yakuza.” I interrupted.
“There is a man Mr. Nakamura sometimes has drinks with on Thursday afternoons at the café across the street.” Yamamoto paused. “Ichiro Fukujima, who is said to be a member of the Saito family.”
“Nakamura may have a gangster pal, but Sendai is not a yakuza company. Masuhiro Sendai would never tolerate anything that might bring a whiff of scandal. Look at how quickly I was suspended from work!” Hugh said.
“Gangsters make many secret movements,” Yamamoto insisted. “At the minshuku on January third, someone entered my room again, leaving some very expensive jewelry. Pearls I recognized from Mrs. Nakamura’s neck.”
I gasped as Hugh asked calmly, “So, what did you do with the jewelry?”
“I threw it in the back of my closet. I meant to talk to you that night, but you went to dinner with Rei. When you came back you stayed together.” He gave me a resentful look. “All night long, I think, because it was not quiet.”
“Tea, anyone?” I scooted into the kitchen. As I searched for a kettle, I thought about how the jewelry had been hidden. Yamamoto and Hugh had side-by-side rooms. The closet in the middle could be accessed by either man. I’d misjudged the situation, and so had the police.
I emerged with a tray bearing a teapot, sugar, and a small pitcher of soured milk I found in the fridge. As I poured for the two of them, I asked Yamamoto the question that still burned for me—why he believed the necklace had been placed in his suitcase.
“I thought if Mr. Nakamura was a yakuza member, maybe he was not afraid to kill. When I found the necklace, I thought he was giving me a warning,” Yamamoto said.
“So that’s why you ran,” Hugh said, grimacing when he tasted his milky tea.
“I didn’t know what trouble it would cause,” Yamamoto sounded tearful. “When I finished the first ski run ahead of you, I dropped my skis in a ravine and caught a taxi back into Shiroyama. I traveled by train to Yokohama and stayed for a few days with an old friend. But his parents were coming back from their New Year’s holiday, so I had to leave.”
“Why didn’t you stay with your parents?” Hugh pushed his tea cup aside and poured himself more whiskey. “They could have helped you come up with a more realistic exit.”
“They know nothing. How could I say I was running from Sendai? Such a famous, excellent employer? They would never understand!”
“Do you realize they’re probably in the process of planning your funeral? You must ring them,” Hugh insisted.
“But Sendai can’t find out—I could die!”
“Could you call the National Police Agency?” I asked. “They oversee all of Japan’s police departments and are trying hard to make inroads against organized crime.”
Hugh creaked to his feet. “In exchange for another night here, will you please telephone home?”
“I’d like to, but Yokohama is long distance.”
“Call them now! Please!” Hugh barked.
“You should call the National Police Agency yourself,” I muttered when Yamamoto had gone into Hugh’s study to use the telephone. “I don’t trust him. Besides, the police need to know the truth about the pearls.”
“I’m not calling anybody,” Hugh said. “The pearls are no worry—I’m out of prison, aren’t I? And I’d like to figure out this mess regarding the Eterna battery.”
“Why, so you can get your job back? Forget Sendai. You could work anywhere else in the world. I thought you were a man on the move, a new job every eighteen months—”
“I want to stay here.” His voice was obstinate.
I looked at the brass captain’s clock on the sideboard. It was after midnight, which meant the subway had stopped running. I would have to find a taxi.
“I’m out of here.” I carried the plates and glasses into the kitchen, noticing Yamamoto hadn’t touched his Scotch. I deliberated whether to load the dishwasher but decided against it, in the interest of giving them something to do.
Hugh swung up behind me on his crutches as I was gathering together my parka and shoes.
“I’ll give you a run back in the car. Your lousy tea sobered me up.”
“No chance. You need to keep an eye on Yamamoto, and it’s easier for me to take a taxi.”
“It’s just a few hours until the morning trains start up. Don’t go.” Hugh was studying me in a way that reminded me of the last night we’d spent together, the night before everything went to hell.
“I’ve had enough. Good-bye, Shug.” I peeked over my shoulder to catch his reaction and was annoyed to see he wasn’t even watching. He was talking into his hallway intercom, already with something new.
Outside the building, a taxi had just pulled up. Lucky for me. I smiled gratefully at the Roppongi Hills doorman who handed me in, but did a double-take when he gave the driver my address and a crisp 5,000 yen note.
“Glendinning-san requested,” the doorman said to me in explanation.
Hugh must have organized this subversive act of charity using the intercom.
I should have been humiliated, but the hard fact was that a crosstown taxi ride would have b
een catastrophic for my personal finances. So as dirty as Hugh Glendinning’s money might be, I’d take it.
20
I dressed in the bathroom the next morning to avoid waking Mariko snoring gently on the spare futon. I would have also liked to sleep in, but Sunday was the busiest shopping day of the week. It would be an advantage to show up at Mitsutan before Setsuko’s favorite salesclerk, the one Mariko had told me about, got too busy.
As I rode the subway to Shinjuku, I pictured the mysterious Miss Yokoyama folding Chanel scarves or arranging Prada handbags in glass display cases. I was pretty disappointed when the information desk clerk sent me to the children’s department. What interest did Setsuko have in children’s clothes, besides the occasional present for her friends’ offspring? Maybe it had something to do with her secret baby. Wondering, I rode the escalator up to the land of infant Moschino and headed to a pair of female salesclerks folding the smallest sweaters I had ever seen.
“Does a Miss Yokoyama work here?” I looked at them without hope.
“I am Yokoyama. How can I help you?” The smaller one wearing her hair in a neat braid smiled at me with slightly buck teeth, wholly too unglamorous to be a friend of Setsuko’s.
“I’m looking for something…a nice sweatshirt,” I said, hoping to draw her away from her colleague to the other side of the department. “Something for an older girl.”
“Do you know her size?” Miss Yokoyama began leading me deep into racks of pink and red outfits.
“Actually, I came to ask you about Setsuko Nakamura. I’m not sure if you know she passed away?”
“Oh, yes. It was tragic.” Miss Yokoyama looked over her shoulder at the other salesclerk, then back at me. “Did you go to the tsuya? What was she wearing?”
“The casket was closed because of the autopsy.” I was surprised at her question before remembering she was in the business of selling clothes. “I’m here because I had a few questions about her shopping. I’m putting the family finances in order.”
“Oh?” Miss Yokoyama sucked air between her teeth. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The Salaryman's Wife Page 19