Dazai seemed to have figured out what I was thinking from the quizzical look on my face.
“In any case, I’m in the middle of investigating the specifics,” he stated with a shrug. “But maybe we’ll find something out from the fact that they had a sniper aimed at Ango’s room.”
“They wanted to get this safe back,” I said while holding up the item in question. “I found it in Ango’s room, but I can’t open it without the key. We might be able to learn something if we could just open—”
“That’s it?” Dazai gave a disappointed smile. “Piece of cake. Here, let me see it.”
I handed him the safe, which he immediately shook, listening to the sound it made. Then he shuffled through the trash on the ground until he found a safety pin. After slightly bending the tip with his finger, he stuck it in the keyhole and wiggled it around. Not even a second went by before I heard the gear inside the safe click.
“Okay, it’s open.”
This man had a gift.
“Now, let’s see what’s inside.”
Dazai opened the lid and took a peek. I could also see it from where I was standing.
.
What did this mean?
I found this safe in Ango’s room. The wooden stool, the fact that this was hidden in the air vent—I think it’s fair to say Ango knew about it. If I was being honest with myself, I’d have said the contents probably belonged to Ango.
Deep down, I’d imagined that whatever was in the safe was something valuable. I thought it was something Ango had gotten his hands on, and the attackers in gray had tried to kill me in order to steal it.
But I was wrong.
Inside the safe was an old-fashioned gray gun.
“Why…?” The word just fell off my lips. “Dazai, you said this gun was like an emblem to them, right? Something that identifies them. So what’s the meaning of this?”
Dazai didn’t immediately answer. He simply narrowed his eyes and stared quietly off into space.
“It’s still too early to come to any conclusion.” Dazai chose his words carefully. “Ango might have stolen this gun from them. Or they might have even planted it in his room to frame him. This might not even be a gun but a sign. It—”
“I get it. You’re absolutely right,” I said, cutting him off. “There’s still not enough information to go by. I’ll look into the gun. Thanks again for coming all the way out here.”
“Odasaku—”
Dazai started to say something, but I cut him off again.
“I really appreciate your help, but I should look into things a bit more. I’ll contact you if I find out anything.”
Dazai stared at me in silence, his gaze tinged with discontent. I looked away. A grim feeling came over me, as if I were submerged up to my head in a jet-black, heavy liquid that would drown me if I got too involved in this case.
“Then let me tell you something I noticed,” Dazai said, stone-faced. “Yesterday, when we were drinking at the bar, Ango said he was on his way back from a business trip, right?”
“Yeah.”
I believe he said he was coming back from business in Tokyo where he bought a smuggled antique watch.
“That was probably a lie.”
—What?
“You saw his bag, right? Starting from the top, he had cigarettes, a mini umbrella, and that antique watch he’d brought back. The umbrella was wet because he’d used it, which was why it was wrapped in cloth. And his business trip had been to Tokyo, where it had been raining.”
“So what’s the problem?” I asked. “It rained, so the umbrella was wet. Seems logical to me.”
“If Ango were telling the truth, then he wouldn’t have used that umbrella.” Dazai squinted as he spoke.
I couldn’t sense any sort of emotion from his expression.
“Ango supposedly drove to the site of the deal, so when did he use that umbrella? It wasn’t before the negotiation, since the umbrella was on top of the wrapped-up watch. And it wasn’t after the fact, either.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Given how wet his umbrella was, he didn’t use it for just two or three minutes. It must’ve been in the rain for a good half an hour, and yet, his shoes and the hems of his pants were dry. The negotiation was at eight o’clock, and we met him at eleven. If he’d used his umbrella after finishing the deal, his clothes wouldn’t have dried in just those three hours.”
“Maybe he brought something to change into.”
“He didn’t have any spare clothes or shoes in his bag, and it didn’t even have enough space to fit anything like that.”
Maybe he just went home, changed, and left his wet clothes there—but right as I was about to say as much, I held myself back. If Ango had done that, he would have left the expensive watch at home before coming to the bar.
“He didn’t use the umbrella before the transaction or afterward. And he didn’t use it during the negotiation, either. The watch was wrapped in paper, and it wasn’t even the least bit wet. Plus, moisture is basically poison to antique watches. They had to have done business indoors.”
I ruminated over what Dazai said. He was right. What Ango told us didn’t explain why the umbrella was that wet.
“So what’s the truth, then?”
“My guess is that he didn’t purchase the watch in Tokyo; it was his all along. The reason why it was stuffed deep inside his bag was because he put it in there before leaving for business. But instead of going to the negotiation site, he met with someone in the rain and talked for thirty minutes before killing some time and coming back.”
“Why do you think he met with someone?”
“Spies like Ango frequently choose rainy streets for their secret meetings. If you talk with your umbrella open, then no one can see your face, so you don’t have to worry about surveillance cameras or people noticing you. Even if someone was eavesdropping or wiretapping him, the sound of the rain would drown out any voices. It’s much better suited for confidential talks compared with inside a car or a room.”
I already knew what Dazai was trying to say and what his intentions were, and yet, I had no choice but to scrutinize his every word to find some sort of silver lining.
“Maybe Ango really was lying, but he’s an informant who deals with top-secret information on the Mafia. It’s only natural he’d have a secret meeting or two. You can’t blame him for that.”
“Then he could’ve just told us he couldn’t talk about it. If he did that, neither of us would have even brought up his work, don’t you think?”
“…”
He was right.
“But Ango lied about the deal. He even went out of his way to show us the antique watch so he could have an alibi. Why would he go that far to hide it from us that he’d met with someone in secret?”
—Maybe because he predicted that things would turn out like this?
That was what Dazai’s cold, distant gaze was saying.
—What time did the deal end?
I suddenly remembered Dazai’s seemingly random question when he saw the paper wrapping. Now that I thought about it, he was able to deduce all of this with one mere glance. He’d even asked Ango that question just to make sure.
—Ango. Mimic. Surprise attack.
Something mysterious was slowly coming to light.
“Be careful, Odasaku. Your cup is close to overflowing,” Dazai said. “If just one more thing gets thrown in there, all the water will come spilling out the top, and you won’t be able to handle the situation alone. Anyway, we’ll take care of things here. You deal with Ango.”
“Thanks.”
After exchanging glances, I began to walk down the alley toward the back streets. That’s when I noticed…
…one of the attackers was getting back up.
“Dazai!”
The attacker drew his gun practically the moment I cried out. “Don’t move,” he threatened in a muffled voice.
The enemy was too close to Dazai for either m
e or one of Dazai’s subordinates to shoot. Furthermore, he had his weapon pointing at Dazai. His right hand gripped the gun while his left arm hung by his side as if he couldn’t move it. With apparently no strength left to stand on his own, the enemy leaned half of his weight against the wall.
Even then, Dazai was still within his range of fire. We couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
“Oh my.” Dazai stared at the pistol as if it were something unique and interesting. “You can still stand after so many bullets? Your mental fortitude is extraordinary.”
One of the attackers was completely unconscious, while the other was using his last bit of strength to stand so he could take Dazai with him to the grave.
“Dazai, keep still. I’ve got this.”
I stretched my fingers out to grab my gun. If the enemy got even a second to act, he was going to shoot. Since he was already aiming his old-fashioned pistol right at Dazai, even if I shot him right through the heart, the impact might cause him to pull the trigger. Timing was everything. I’m not a betting guy, but I didn’t have any other choice.
“Your organization’s called Mimic, right?” Dazai asked the man, but he didn’t reply. He didn’t even blink. “I’m not expecting an answer. To tell the truth, I admire you guys. No other organization has tried to take the Mafia head-on like this before. And nobody has ever successfully managed to point their gun at me like this with the intent to kill, either.”
Dazai faced the attacker, then began to walk toward him as if he were taking a stroll through his garden.
“Dazai, stop,” I begged in a hushed tone.
“I hope you can see the excitement in my eyes, too.” Dazai continued to address the enemy who was holding him at gunpoint. “If you just squeeze your finger ever so slightly, you can give me precisely what I crave most. The only thing I’m afraid of is that you’ll miss.”
His lips curled as he approached the man. The muzzle was now fewer than ten feet away.
“You need to aim for the heart or the head. I recommend the head. You only get one chance, though. My colleagues here won’t be kind enough to give you another.” Dazai tapped the middle of his forehead right over his eyebrows a few times. “But I know you can do it. You’re a sniper, aren’t you? I can still see the imprint from the sniper rifle on your cheek. You’re not the spotter.”
There was a slanted line traced across the attacker’s left cheek, the kind you get from peering through a scope for hours on end. Spotters just used binoculars; they wouldn’t have a mark like that.
The enemy’s fingers trembled as he pointed the gun. Just like Dazai said, he had only one shot. He couldn’t fire unless he was confident he could hit him. Dazai continued to approach the man, welcoming him to pull the trigger.
“Now shoot. Right here. You can’t miss from this close up.” Dazai grinned from ear to ear. “You’ll be killed whether or not you shoot, so just bury the enemy executive before you go.”
“Dazai!” I screamed. I felt as though we were thousands of miles apart.
“Please take me with you. Awaken me from this oxidizing world of a dream. Come, now. Shoot.”
Still pointing at his forehead, Dazai closed in on the enemy with a smile that could’ve even been described as peaceful.
The attacker bit his lip and tightened his finger around the trigger.
—He’s at his breaking point!
The sniper and I fired almost simultaneously.
Two flashes of light flooded the alley.
Shot in the arm, the man spun around.
Dazai violently bent backward after being shot point-blank.
A split second like a blue flash of lightning.
A never-ending instant.
Then time began to move again.
Immediately, Dazai’s men showered the enemy with bullets as he spun from the impact of my shot. Like a rag being pummeled by a waterfall, the man was thrown backward, scattering flesh and blood until he perished.
Leaning away, Dazai took two, three steps back before stopping.
“…………How unfortunate,” he lamented, still bent over. “Looks like I didn’t manage to die this time, either.”
Dazai lifted his head up. The skin on the side of his head, slightly above his right ear, was slit open and bleeding.
The bullet had just missed.
I looked at Dazai. There was something there invisible to the human eye. You could’ve called it demons of the mind—something that could never be seen—just something compelled to destroy all.
“Sorry to shock you like that.” Noticing my gaze, Dazai scratched the side of his head and grinned. “Pretty realistic acting, right? I knew from the start that he would miss. The imprint from the sniper rifle was on his left cheek, meaning that was the side he used to shoot. In other words, he’s left-handed, but he was holding the pistol in his right hand. So he was going to shoot with his nondominant hand, he could barely even stand on those wobbly legs, and to make matters worse, he was using that old-fashioned gun. The only way he would have hit me was if he pressed the muzzle against my body.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at Dazai as he explained with a smile.
“All I had to do was talk to him to buy some time until his arm got tired. If I slowly walked toward him, he wouldn’t be able to shoot straight away. The rest was in your hands, Odasaku. I knew you would do something. Pretty logical, right?”
“Yeah.”
That was all I said. I didn’t have anything else to add. Had our ranks or relations been any different, I probably would’ve punched him right then. However, I am me, and there was nothing I could do to him.
After returning my gun to its holster, I turned my back to Dazai and began walking away. With every step I took, I felt as if the ground were going to collapse, creating a bottomless hole that I would fall through for an eternity.
Dazai’s expression as he placed a finger on his forehead and approached the enemy—that of a child about to burst into tears—remained burned into my eyes.
CHAPTER II
The rain came and went after that. Dazai had been running around trying to get information on Mimic, while I wandered around the city in search of clues. I felt as though something important was slipping through my fingers with each passing moment, but I couldn’t see what that something was. The more important it was, the less visible it became to me—especially when I lost it.
I’d spent even more time wondering. Why did Ango go missing? There was no longer any doubt that he was somehow connected to Mimic, but what that connection was remained a mystery. I still hadn’t been able to figure out why he lied about buying that watch. Like a pale zombie wandering alone through a bright, immaculate graveyard, I continued to roam Yokohama in pursuit of a nonexistent hope.
I had reached just one conclusion but hadn’t told a soul. It didn’t feel right. I was sure Dazai had come to the same conclusion himself, but he probably wasn’t telling anyone, either.
Disappearing at almost the same time Mimic appeared, lying about a business trip to create an alibi, the gun in the safe and the Mimic sniper who tried desperately to get it back—Ango Sakaguchi was a Mimic spy.
It would all make sense, then.
Mimic bought Ango to get inside knowledge on the Mafia.
I shook my head. There was no way that was right. If that were the case, then that meant Ango was a capable enough spy to have deceived even the likes of Dazai and the boss. He would put a government agent to shame. What would Mimic gain from sending such a skilled spy to infiltrate the Mafia?
“You look glum, Odasaku. What’s wrong? Constipated?” the restaurant owner called out to me.
“I’m just thinking. I’d avoid eating spicy food like curry if I were actually constipated.”
I was indeed eating curry over rice at a diner.
“Oh… Yeah, I guess you’re right. Hey, Odasaku, you don’t get mad when people ask that kinda stuff when you’re eating curry?”
“I don’t k
now,” I answered. “Should I?”
“Uh… I dunno.”
“Seriously?” I responded with a straight face.
“Just don’t push yourself too hard, Odasaku.”
I knew the restaurant owner pretty well. He was in his fifties with a stomach protruding so far that he probably couldn’t see his own toes when he stood upright. Some of his hair had checked out, and he had crow’s-feet from smiling so much. He always wore a yellow apron that fit him so well that I sometimes wondered if he was born in it.
I ate curry here around three times a week out of pure habit. Habits are peculiar. If I didn’t eat this curry for a few days, my mouth would dry up strangely, and I couldn’t focus. I’d seen more than my share of drug addicts in the underworld, so I couldn’t help but think this was how they felt every time they went through withdrawals.
“How’s the curry?”
“Same as always.”
The curry here was simple: vegetables boiled down to a buttery consistency, beef tendon sautéed with garlic, a light dashi stock. The ingredients were then cooked with a complex blend of spices and dumped on top of a large helping of white rice before being all mixed together. Toss in an egg and some sauce, and it was ready to be eaten.
My hunger fully sated, I helped myself to a cup of coffee as I basked in my own personal bliss. That’s when I asked, “How are the kids?”
“Haven’t changed,” the owner replied while wiping a dinner plate with a cloth. “They’re practically a small gang. There’s only five of them, so they’re scraping by. But if there were five more, they’d probably be able to hold up the Japan Bank for International Cooperation. They’re on the second floor. Go say hello.”
I decided to go with his suggestion. The floor above the restaurant used to be an old conference space until it was remodeled for residential use. I climbed up the stairs. The concrete walls were pasted with stained wallpaper and had reinforcing rods sticking out here and there. When I reached the top, I saw two doors: one to the kids’ room and one to the stockroom. I chose the former.
Osamu Dazai and the Dark Era Page 5