“You know that guys from bad families usually have hidden issues.” Miki clicked her tongue for dramatic effect. “Lots of emotional baggage.”
“Seriously? Did you just quote that from a magazine?”
“It’s true! You need to be careful that he doesn’t become another one of your ‘I can fix him’ projects. You remember how the last three guys turned out.”
“This is different. He’s different.”
“If you say so.” They both took a little step to the right as Miki nudged her friend gently with her hip and changed the subject. So what’s it like to have sex with a Gaijin? You know what they say about a guy with a big nose!” Miki mockingly licked her lips.
The two stopped next to an ornate dry fountain, and Tomoko turned to confront her friend. “I can’t believe you!” Attempting to appear angry, she couldn’t help but grin a little at the same time.
“Oh, don’t be a prude. Here’s the deal. You tell me about the sex, and I’ll give you the information you asked me to find.”
“No.”
Miki put a finger to her bottom lip and rolled her eyes upward. “Okay, but some of the material is quite . . . mmmm . . . interesting.”
Tomoko folded her arms across her chest. “This is not fair.”
“No, turning twenty-six and being called ‘Christmas cake’ to your face because nobody wants you after the twenty-fifth—now that’s not fair.” Miki patted her purse with her free hand. “This is just called creative negotiating.”
“Fine.” Tomoko held out a half-thawed hand, and they shook on it. “But can’t we go inside somewhere?”
“Sure.” Miki pointed back the way they had come. “There’s a breakfast place—Rope 101—just on the other side of the fountain. We can go . . .”
Tomoko was already on the run, moving before Miki could finish speaking, and as she charged around the corner and across the street, she could hear her friend laughing while jogging to catch up.
Gripping the cup of hot tea with both hands, Tomoko felt the tingle of blood finally reaching her fingertips. She blew on the steaming liquid. “So what did you find?”
“Well, there’s plenty of information about Mr. Murayama. He was a public servant in the diplomatic corps, so there’s a bunch of boring stuff. Postings to embassies and things like that. I’ll give you the folder later.”
“Thanks.” Tomoko sipped her tea while Miki picked at a croissant.
“However . . . there were a couple of interesting things that stuck out.”
“Like what?”
“Well, there was information about his daughter, Yoko Murayama, but only back to 1985.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found some post-1985 newspaper articles about a Tokyo art showing, but nothing before 1985. It’s like she just didn’t exist before then.”
Tomoko wrinkled her forehead and frowned. “But how is that possible?”
“I don’t know.” Miki adjusted one of her feather earrings. “I’ll keep looking, but I’m telling you, if there was something to find, I would have found it by now. Plus, everything is digitized these days. There should be records,” she said, shrugging, “but there simply aren’t.”
“Was there anything else?”
Miki appeared slightly uneasy as she looked around the empty, rundown café. The owner, perched next to a ceramic good-luck kitty, was hidden behind a newspaper. “There was one other thing.” She motioned for them to move closer together and her voice became a whisper. “According to diplomatic records, Mr. Murayama never had any children.”
DUTY-BOUND, HIRO sat on the hard-padded bench that ran the inside length of the Toyota Dyna van’s windowless cargo area. The gray vehicle was parked in a string of bumper-to-bumper cars lining the street opposite Mr. Murayama’s office. Late-afternoon traffic was sporadic, but apartment dwellers out for a Saturday stroll flowed by in an unending chain.
He adjusted the padded headphones that sealed his ears, pressing down his permed, curly black hair. Beside him, Jun was shifting ceaselessly. Squeezed elbow to elbow with his partner, Hiro was growing increasingly annoyed at the younger man’s inability to remain still. The nearby police box concerned him. Jun’s massive size and constant movements shook the van and threatened to expose their listening post. The last thing they needed was for a concerned citizen to alert the police to the strange rocking vehicle down the block.
Hiro pulled the left earpiece away from his head and whispered through thin lips. “Little brother, could you please stop moving?” The traditional Sempai-Kohai relationship of mentorship, reciprocated with respect and obedience, had never gelled between the two men. Forced together only through circumstance, they labored on common tasks, but would never truly mix.
Jun’s grunt barely acknowledged the request; his eyes remained glued to the pages of the phonebook-sized Manga he was holding. What garbage, thought Hiro. The comic was disgustingly low-life, but he knew the young thug eagerly awaited new issues of Berserk. The violent fantasies centered on the life of an orphaned warrior named Guts, who led The Band of Hawks mercenary group. Every tale spun a bizarre story of heroism and glory, a life for which Jun clearly longed.
Hiro glanced at the detailed bloodshed depicted on the Manga cover. He felt a look of disdain creep across his slender, hawkish face. He would never relate to Jun’s propensity for violence, but then their childhood experiences were so different. Jun had been orphaned in the late 1980s—raised on the streets, while Hiro had grown up with four older sisters. His mother would tell him how she had prayed to the kami spirits to send her a son. She knew his father wouldn’t rest until he had a boy to carry on the Yakuza traditions.
Feedback from a transmitter in the office squealed as Hiro snapped forward to adjust the controls on the sound console running the length of the van’s opposite wall.
The first hour-long shift had gone to Jun. It was now hour number eight, and there wasn’t much going on inside Mr. Murayama’s office. Two radio microphones had been planted by a night cleaning crew. Hiro could hear the sound of sliding drawers accompanied by the shuffling of feet. The old man was likely moving things around, but little else appeared to be happening.
Hiro slid the pile of Coke cans and empty Styrofoam ramen bowls to Jun’s end of the counter where they belonged. The cleared space exposed several translated novels. He reviewed the stack, trying to decide which one to read once it was Jun’s turn to listen again. A classic, like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, wasn’t the kind of story that could be read while crammed into the back of a van with a two-hundred pound gorilla. He fingered the outside of his dog-eared edition of the classic American tale, On the Road. It was a possibility, but his interest in it had waned for the moment. So the choice was between Cry Freedom and Che Guevara’s Motorcycle Diaries.
Abruptly, the office telephone rang, and Hiro listened closely as Mr. Murayama answered.
“Moshi-moshi?”
“Hello, Murayama-san. It’s Rikyu, from the Mizuho bank. I’m very sorry for my slow response to your message. I was at the park with my family.”
“No need to explain. I wish to move some things to my safety deposit box. It’s quite urgent, and I would like you to send a truck on Monday morning.”
The line crackled with static as Rikyu sucked in air between his closed teeth. “Is that so?” The snakelike noise continued. “I’d like to but the trucks require advance notice of one business day, which means Tuesday at the earliest. If it’s urgent, I could drive over myself on Monday.”
“The items are very valuable. Do your best to send a truck, otherwise come yourself with a security guard at 8 a.m.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Murayama, and thank you for your business.”
Hiro pulled off the headset and tossed it on the console. “That’s it. We’re done here.” He interlaced his fingers and reversed his hands over his head, leaning forward to stretch his lithe, but muscular, five-foot-six frame in the cramped space.
Jun remained e
ngrossed in the pages of a raging life-and-death cartoon battle.
Impatiently, Hiro kicked him sharply in the shin. The blow caused the big man to spring up, striking his head on the low metal ceiling. He unleashed a blistering yelp and dropped the Manga on the floor. The sound was much louder than necessary, in Hiro’s opinion. For a comic book warrior, he could be such a baby at times.
Jun glowered as he rubbed his bald head, his eyes flooding with loathing.
Ignoring the reaction, Hiro slid open the van’s front curtain. “I said, let’s go!”
In the twilight of evening, the van’s front tire rammed the curb while attempting to park near a FamilyMart convenience store.
“Watch your driving!” Hiro snarled, slamming the passenger’s door before heading to a nearby pay phone. He unfolded a scrap of paper in his nicotine-stained fingers and inserted a stolen calling card. Cradling the receiver against his ear, he dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of Marlboros.
On the third ring, Oto’s gruff voice answered. “Is there a problem?”
“No, Master, but Jun should take driving lessons . . . and to learn to sit still for five minutes.”
“He’s your apprentice. It’s your responsibility to teach him.” Oto paused. “And remember, even you have been known to make mistakes sometimes.”
Hiro ignored the dig and took a drag on the freshly lit cigarette. He blew a smoke ring into the Plexiglas NTT phone casing. “The old man called Mizuho Bank to come retrieve some items for his safety deposit box. He didn’t indicate what he’s moving, but the appointment is for Monday morning.”
“Are you prepared to carry out the break-in, then?”
“Yes. We’ll go to the office tomorrow night. It should be quieter then. But I don’t know exactly where the leather satchel is. From the plans I saw, there are dozens of filing cabinets.”
“So open them all! You’ve got the equipment.” Oto’s deep voice rattled with impatience.
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you expect difficulty from the building owner?”
“No. He’s a drunk.” Hiro took another drag of his cigarette.
“Well, that’s good for you, then.”
“But I want to do the job without Jun,” Hiro blurted. “He’s too unpredictable.”
“Out of the question!” Oto barked. “And don’t even think about leaving with my satchel.”
The verbal blow was direct, and Hiro’s posture snapped rigid. It didn’t seem fair that he should continue to pay for an attempted escape, especially one that happened so long ago, but he swallowed his thoughts, forcing dutiful words from his clenching throat. “I understand, Master.”
“And make sure that your Kohai doesn’t kill anyone else. At least not right now, anyway.” A harsh click on the line ended the call.
Slamming the green receiver into place, Hiro snatched the phone card from its slot.
I better not forget this. There are a lot of thieves out here.
MAX STOOD in the dim evening light below the pink-and-white candy-striped awning of the Almond Café. The busy corner on Roppongi Street was the most popular meeting spot for nightclub revelers to gather, and on a Saturday night, the rendezvous point was swarming with life.
The once-quiet Six Trees district had sprung to life in the late nineteenth century when Japanese soldiers were housed in the area. Young men with a combination of testosterone and money spawned the growth of cabarets and nightlife. Post-World War Two American troops fueled the party tradition, and the district now teemed with Western shops, restaurants, and nightclubs. Roppongi Street’s eight lanes were lined with traffic, while overhead the roar of vehicles on the multistory Shuto Expressway intensified the congested feeling of the overpopulated area.
The distraction of the swirling circus helped Max drown out his growing feelings of unease. How much longer could he keep chasing after Yoko for his passport, and now that he had resigned, would she ever give it back? Soon enough, he was going to have to consider more drastic measures.
Max’s pulse quickened as two hands covered his eyes from behind. “Finally! The Geisha I ordered. It’s about time.” Reaching back, he grabbed the wrists pressed against his ears and spun around to see Tomoko’s lovely face. She laughed while they wrapped their arms around each other, melting together. It was at just such moments, when he was warmed by her glow, that Japan felt the most like home.
He whispered, so only she could hear. “Is this like ordering a pizza? More than twenty minutes late and the next Geisha’s free?”
Tomoko pulled back, smiling. “Speaking of pizza, I’m so hungry. They didn’t give us anything on the plane. Come on.” She grabbed his hand, dragging him around the corner and down the street. Directly ahead, the glowing figure of Tokyo’s “Eiffel Tower” soared into the night sky. The ambient noise changed as they fought their way through clusters of barking salesmen balanced on the sidewalk, pressing on past the folding tables covered in a smorgasbord of cheap clothing and silver jewelry.
“I have so much to tell,” Tomoko shouted.
A hawker waved a reggae T-shirt as they made a sharp right turn into a quieter side street. “Let me guess.” He pulled back against her arm and rolled his eyes. “Tony Roma’s again? How about sushi instead? Or even shabu-shabu? Heck, I’d settle for Okonomiyaki.”
Tomoko tugged him forward. “I’m the one who hasn’t eaten today. I should get to choose.”
“Kenji got time off from the school and we’re supposed to meet him and his friends for drinks in an hour.” He watched her mouth shape itself into a little frown and he found himself grinning defeat. “Okay. If it’s what you want. But you need to get us past that lineup.”
“Not a problem.” She squirmed her way to the front of the dozen waiting people. The flash of her business card and a brief dialogue with the hostess had them moving inside within moments. The place was packed, so they sat in the back under a sign blaring BEST RIBS IN AMERICA.
Onion rings, ribs, and beers arrived while Tomoko described the Sapporo television shoot in detail. Max licked sweet barbecue sauce from his fingers while listening intently. He loved to hear her talk, especially about work. Her eyes would grow fiery with passion while her cheeks would flush, and although it seemed impossible, she was even more radiant than usual.
Finally full, Tomoko stopped and took a deep breath. “I have to explain . . . there’s something I need to tell you.” She bit at her lip.
Max pushed away his now decimated plate. “What do you mean?” He hated confessions―they usually meant bad news.
Unsure of his reaction, she began cautiously. “I have a university friend who works for the government in Sapporo, and she did some research for me. Well, I mean that . . . I asked her to investigate Mr. Murayama and Yoko.”
Stunned, Max gaped at her for a moment before speaking. “Are you kidding? If she works in government, that’s a massive invasion of privacy.” He fought to temper the agitation he felt flaring up. “And why would you do that without talking to me?”
“I know, I should have, but Miki found out some very interesting things.”
“Such as?” His chair squeaked as he sat back.
“There is no information about Yoko before 1985. It’s like she didn’t exist at all.”
Max thought back to the little history he knew about Yoko. “Well, did you know she lived in Dallas and New York? Maybe she was there until ’85.” He wiped his fingers before tossing the napkin to the table, just a little too hard. “I can’t believe you’d do that without discussing it first. I never would have agreed.”
“I want to help you. I know I’ve only met Yoko a couple times but there’s something strange about her. And the feeling is getting stronger based on your missing passport, and the money she’s getting the parents to give her. Something isn’t right.” Tomoko reached across the table and clasped his hand. “There’s more and it gets worse. According to Miki, Mr. Murayama never had any children.”
“Okay, that’s just crazy.”
“It’s not a mistake,” Tomoko said emphatically. “Something’s wrong, and this proves it.”
Downing the last of his beer, he paused before replying. “Mr. M is a good friend. Why would he need to lie to me? He wouldn’t do that. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know. He seems like a nice old man, but it could still be true.”
“So, if he isn’t Yoko’s father, then who is he? And why would they both lie?” Max shifted irritably in his seat, his voice rising. “We should leave.”
The waitress appeared at the table, popping the balloon of escalating tension. She handed over the bill before hurriedly gathering the dishes. Tomoko took the opportunity to head for the door. “I’ll meet you outside.”
“Yeah, fine.” Max walked slowly to the till, paid, then forced his way through the ever-present crowd huddled at the doorway. Standing in the fresh night air, it dawned on him that maybe he needed to take a break and get out of the country for a while. Away from all the weirdness—from the Dragon Lady, the unrelenting city, and the drug-addicted roommates. Tomoko was standing at the curb with her back to him as he approached and spoke abruptly from behind. “I need to go traveling for a while.”
“What?” Eyebrows raised, she turned to stare at him.
He could read the shock on her face, and his mind raced to explain what could only appear to be an irrational outburst. “It’s not what it sounds like. I quit my job yesterday.”
She threw a hand to cover her mouth, but said nothing.
“Let me explain. My work visa is tied to the job, and Zoe told me I’d have to leave the country to get a new one. ” He struggled to choose the right words. “I’m not sure if that’s true, but why not use it as an opportunity?” He tried to move closer. “I just thought of it now. We could travel together for a few months. Maybe backpack around for a while.”
Tomoko stepped back, out of reach. “That’s crazy―I can’t take off months to travel.”
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