The Moving Blade

by Michael Pronko

  The thieves’ motorcycle gunned forward—straight at the bus. Seeing it too late, the motorcycle angled into a desperate right turn and Hiroshi heard the rip of the engine as the tires lost traction and the metal shredded and screeched along the pavement. An abrupt whomp signaled it was over.

  Hiroshi ran through the cars down the center line, from where he could see Mattson’s papers scattered across the road in all directions. The rider, back upright after the slide, yanked at the handlebar trying to dislodge the driver who was pinned under the motorcycle wedged under the truck. The rider pulled under the driver’s arms, but gave up, grabbed two of the bags and took off.

  The driver kept yanking at his trapped leg, scooting back and forth to get free, but one of the palace guards landed a solid crack of his keijo staff on his collar bone, then another on his wrist. The driver reeled from the blows. The guard pressed the keijo into his abdomen until the driver leaned his helmet back on the pavement in surrender.

  The right-wing fanatics, two grizzled old men, clambered out of the front seat of the gray bus to see what happened, their high-volume martial anthems rattling windows on the surrounding buildings. The guard turned his keijo poles towards them and ordered them not to move. They grunted and stopped in place.

  Hiroshi yelled, “Over there!”

  Hiroshi took off after the thief and the other guard followed, quickly passing Hiroshi and gaining on the thief with the bags. The thief was surprisingly quick, despite the heavy bags. Hiroshi could see him charging through a group of workers who leapt back against the wall clutching their cellphones, their workplace ID tags hanging from their necks.

  Hiroshi and the guard shot past them. They gained on the thief as he turned down a side street lined with small shops and metal dividers that marked off a walkway from the car lane. Hiroshi tried to get his legs to move faster as the guard pulled ahead and got close enough to push his keijo staff forward to try to trip the black-clad thief.

  But at the crucial moment, the guard was forced to swerve out of the way of a mother bicycling with two infants in child seats, front and back. He spun around just missing the mother, and the thief sprinted ahead throwing one of Mattson’s bags into the air. The papers opened up like white birds freed from a cage, flapping and flying over the small lane.

  The guard skidded to a stop before stepping nimbly over the scattered pages. On the other side of the mess, he dug his feet into the asphalt and started running again.

  When Hiroshi got to the slippery carpet of papers, his legs—already wobbly from running—shot out from under him and he slid into the outdoor display of a small drugstore. Shampoo bottles, detergent packs and bundles of toilet paper scattered across the small lane. Hiroshi shouted an apology to the store as he corkscrewed himself up and started running again.

  Hiroshi caught up with the guard at a turn into a tangle of smaller alleys. Standing in the center of the street spinning in all four directions, Hiroshi tried to see clearly but red and yellow spots floated across his eyes. The thief was nowhere to be seen. Hiroshi raised up and walked in a circle looking in all four directions down the small alleys, trying to catch his breath. Knowing he had to get back to Jamie right away, to see if Ueno had gotten to her, Hiroshi coughed and gasped, pulling out his cellphone and holding it in his fist, unable yet to speak.

  The guard called into his headphone for back up and said, “He won’t get far.”

  Hiroshi said, “He already has.”

  Chapter 18

  When Hiroshi got to the interrogation room, Sakaguchi was locked in a stare down with the motorcycle thief, seated at a thick, grey table. Hiroshi looked at the thief’s sullen face and his leg up horizontally across a chair, the pant leg cut back for a temporary splint. His black tracksuit was ripped and dirty from sliding under the truck, his hands cuffed to the table.

  Hiroshi’s hip throbbed where he landed on it and his leg muscles felt wobbly. The cortisone shot and painkillers from the station clinic had not kicked in yet. The doctor and nurse had made him put his feet up for a few minutes and get rehydrated, but they couldn’t do anything for what Hiroshi felt about losing Mattson’s documents.

  “Broken leg?” Hiroshi asked.

  Sakaguchi shrugged.

  “Don’t tell me,” Hiroshi said. “He doesn’t speak Japanese.”

  “He can speak, but he won’t.”

  The driver looked at the two detectives through thick-lidded eyes, waiting for whatever this was going to be to be over with.

  “It’s hard to say which way he wants to go from here,” Sakaguchi said. “Sometimes, people don’t realize what they’re stealing.”

  “Or don’t care.”

  “Other times, they know exactly what they’re stealing.”

  “And for whom and for what reason.” Hiroshi knew this was all on him. If only he had just left everything safely in the archives—or waited for Ueno to pick them up. He put Jamie in more danger and compromised everything. Whatever Mattson had so painstakingly constructed might be lost forever.

  Sakaguchi leaned over the table. “I guess you’re Chinese, am I right?”

  The guy said, “Korean.”

  “See? He can talk.” Hiroshi stepped to the side of the table.

  “North or South?” Sakaguchi asked.

  He nodded up.

  “Do you want to go to jail here or there?” Sakaguchi asked. “We can work it either way.”

  He shrugged.

  Hiroshi smacked him across the face, sending the thief reeling towards his splinted leg. The driver righted himself on the chair, dragged his cuff chains back in place and braced himself for the next blow.

  Hiroshi pulled his hand back but stopped it mid-air and instead kneed the man’s thigh just above the temporary splint.

  The driver jumped sideways, shivering until the pain subsided, his breathing hard and fast as he bent over as far as he could to protect his leg. The cuff chain rattled without letting him reach his leg.

  Hiroshi stared into his eyes, questioning.

  “Keitai,” the driver said in Japanese, opening his palm for his cellphone.

  Sakaguchi went out of the room to retrieve his cellphone.

  As soon as Sakaguchi shut the door, Hiroshi backhanded him across his face.

  The driver reeled halfway out of his chair and tottered upright, reseating himself with his arms up as far as he could on the chain, no longer proud, just self-protective, his splinted leg quivering until he could calm it.

  Hiroshi leaned across the table and said, “You better be glad it’s you that got hurt and not me or the girl. If I don’t get all those documents back, I’ll personally hand you over to the North Koreans.”

  Sakaguchi came back with the cellphone and handed it to the thief. He pulled his cuffs around with a clank, put in the password, which Hiroshi made him repeat out loud, and showed one of the numbers in his phone to the detectives.

  “No name?”

  The guy shook his head no.

  Sakaguchi motioned Hiroshi out into the hall. A uniformed policeman came inside the room and stood by the door.

  “We already ran the numbers from his phone, so it’ll just take a minute to check this,” Sakaguchi said as they walked back to the homicide office. A few detectives and staff were at their desks, but the room still crackled with restless energy. Ringing the walls were whiteboards loaded with scrawling and cork boards pinned full of notes on top of notes. Desks piled high with folders and out-of-date computers formed two long rows.

  Sakaguchi shuffled through a stack of folders and slid out the list of numbers from the cellphone, the printout teensy in his big hand. Sakaguchi dug through his desk for another folder, flipped through several pages and hummed. “It’s the number of the guy from the other night.”

  “What guy?”

  “Hideyasu Sato, the guy cut in two in Golden Gai.”

  “He gave us the one worthless number.”

  “His idea of a joke.”

  Sakaguchi waved
one of the office staff over and told him to find all the calls made to and from that number. The number would likely be burned and tossed already, but it was worth trying. Sakaguchi slumped down in his chair. “It’s going to take a while to break this guy down. Why don’t you get Jamie home? The schedule for the all-night guard is set up. She’s waiting in your office.”

  “My office?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Where should I have let her wait? In the lounge with the detectives?”

  “Is Akiko there?”

  “Didn’t she phone you?”

  Hiroshi walked off through the long, dimly lit underground corridor that led to the annex building where his office was. His feet, legs, and back ached and his hip throbbed. He had not eaten lunch and had only drunk water in the station clinic.

  In his office, Akiko and Jamie were deep in conversation, both of them sipping from small espresso cups.

  Jamie stood up from the futon bed-chair when she saw him. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” Hiroshi said.

  “How did those guys know where I was?” Jamie stepped towards Hiroshi, examining him.

  Hiroshi pretended he was fine. “They must have followed you. Or me.”

  “Are you really OK?” Jamie checked him over again.

  Hiroshi waved her off.

  “Why would they want my father’s notebooks?” Jamie asked.

  “Same reason they broke into the house,” Akiko said.

  “Which is what we don’t know,” Hiroshi said.

  Akiko stood up and spoke softly “Why don’t you take her home? It’ll be easier to look through all this after I’ve put it in order.”

  Hiroshi poked through the materials from the retrieved bag. The notes and papers were dirty and wrinkled from being tossed on the ground during the chase. “That’s less than half of what we took from the archives.”

  Jamie looked at the pile and shook her head.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Hiroshi said. “I’ve got to keep moving or my body will seize up. Are you hungry?”

  “I should be, but I don’t feel hungry,” Jamie said, touching her stomach. “Akiko, won’t you join us?”

  Akiko looked at Hiroshi, plucking at the handle to the one bag that survived intact. “I’m sorry. I, uh, need to get these in order.”

  “Are you sure?” Jamie asked her.

  “Next time.” Akiko bowed her head lightly and sat down in front of the papers poking out of the bags they had shoved everything in after gathering them from the street.

  “Best cure for anything is ramen.” Hiroshi pulled his coat on.

  Jamie pulled her backpack over her shoulder and stood ready.

  ***

  The ramen shop had seats at the counter, but Hiroshi steered Jamie to a small table by the window. He bought tickets at the small ticket machine on the wall and handed them to the chef behind the counter. Only one other customer huddled over a bowl.

  The prep chef brought Jamie a small bib and a hair tie. She leaned back smoothing her long hair before pulling it into a bundle and slipping the hair tie on. Jamie shook the bib out, circled it around her neck and then smoothed and tugged on the bib until it draped over the full curve of her breasts.

  Hiroshi tried not to watch. He closed his eyes and reached for chopsticks from the box on the table. He handed Jamie a pair, and took another for himself. They sipped water until two steaming bowls of noodles arrived.

  Jamie cracked open her chopsticks and surveyed the nori seaweed, chashu pork slices, green scallions and seasoned egg swimming in steaming broth. “I feel like a little girl again. My father always shared his ramen with me at a place around the corner from our house.”

  Hiroshi tried to think what to say. He could not stop looking at her, feeling she was even more beautiful than the first day, her face flushed from eating and softer than the other day. The food relaxed her, letting her just be there.

  Sweat broke out on their foreheads after the first spoonfuls of miso broth and chopsticks full of noodles. Jamie became more animated as she ate, purring and humming with pleasure. Both of them lost in restoring and refilling themselves, they ate straight through. Jamie finished first, setting her chopsticks across her bowl and staring out the window.

  Across the small lane, a flower box ran along a windowsill on the opposite building. Just above the window was an air conditioning unit on a wall bracket wrapped for winter in thick plastic and grey duct tape. Jamie looked back down at her bowl and took a sip of ice water. Her eyes wandered back to the grey strips of duct tape.

  “I think we should go,” she said, tucking her bib under the bowl. She tugged on her coat, grabbed her backpack and walked out.

  Hiroshi slurped the last two mouthfuls of soup, wondering what he had said or done—or not said or done. He hurried out after her to where she was waiting in the cold a few steps away towards the brightly lit main street. “What is it?”

  “I was just, well, I…Over there.” She pointed down the small lane. It looked like a typical Tokyo back lane. Small houses and low apartment buildings stretched to the end of the curving road in the dark. He looked at Jamie, confused.

  “On the wall there,” she said, looking away, her backpack slipping off her shoulder. Hiroshi looked at the ramen shop where they sat and followed a line to where her gaze would have fallen. It was the air conditioning unit wound with duct tape.

  Jamie started to cry.

  “It’s all right,” Hiroshi said, reaching for her.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks inside the curtain of her long, thick hair.

  Hiroshi put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. “It’s OK. You’re all right. It’s over.”

  “No, it’s not over. I still feel the tape all over me. I didn’t know where you went. I don’t know what I’m doing here. My father bled to death. His work is gone.”

  “You’re safe now.” Hiroshi wished saying made it true.

  Jamie wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Her backpack, one strap in hand, bounced against his legs as her body convulsed with sobs, distress and confusion streaming out in wet heaves.

  Hiroshi pulled her tight against him, turning her away from the duct tape and patting her back. He felt her body loosen and relax in the darkness of the back lane.

  “It’s all right,” he repeated until her crying slowed.

  “I can’t go back to my father’s tonight,” she said, clearing her throat, her face still plastered against his chest.

  “There will be two officers there.”

  “Can’t you take me somewhere else?”

  “Where?”

  “Any place.”

  “Okay.”

  “And stay with me?”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter 19

  In the taxi, Jamie fell asleep on Hiroshi’s shoulder. As they waited near the ramen shop for a taxi, she took a sleeping pill, swallowing it dry, and after a few minutes, he felt her head lolling on his shoulder, her hair spilling over the two of them. He unbuttoned his jacket, lifted his arm and let her burrow into him. When they got to his apartment building, Jamie was sleeping so soundly he had to lean her against the door and walk around the back of the taxi to lift her out from the other side.

  “Is she all right?” the taxi driver asked.

  “She’s fine.” Hiroshi held her upright.

  “Did she drink too much?” The driver leaned out his window.

  “We’re fine,” Hiroshi reached for his badge with one hand and kept Jamie upright with his other arm.

  The badge registered right away, but the driver asked, “This is where you live?” The driver peered up at the eight-story apartment building.

  Hiroshi didn’t answer, but put his arm under Jamie’s shoulder and walked her towards the door. He stuck his key into the elevator panel and pressed the button. Her head hung down, long hair over her face. He never imagined such a beautiful woman would be so heavy.

  A couple got off the ele
vator and pulled back surprised. They stepped around and walked off without a word. Hiroshi pressed the button for the seventh floor, and once there, maneuvered her along the open-air walkway to his apartment, ignoring the usually soothing view of Tokyo’s nightscape, the vast stretch of lights to the black horizon.

  After he clunked open the deadbolt on the thick metal door, his next-door neighbor, a busybody housewife who was always at home, stepped outside.

  “O-kaeri-nasai, welcome home,” she chirped. “I took a delivery for you, signed for it. I hope that’s OK?” Seeing Jamie, she fell silent, unlike every other time she cornered Hiroshi, when she rambled on about the other tenants or the latest TV crime show until he could get away.

  Hiroshi twisted Jamie around to take the cardboard envelope from her. Posted from Boston, it was from Sanae. “Thank you.” Hiroshi fumbled for his key and the door, straining under Jamie’s weight. The neighbor backpedaled to her apartment, closed the heavy metal door and, Hiroshi could hear, opened the kitchen window to listen.

  Inside the genkan entryway, he kicked aside the week’s unread newspapers and eased Jamie against the shoe rack, gently sitting her down. When he bent down to take off her shoes, he sighed at the dust, dirt and mold. He held her shoulder as he toed off his shoes and stepped onto the floor. In one pull, he hauled her up from behind.

  Jamie twisted around, her arms loosely around him. “I’m, just, need, sleep,” she mumbled as he slow danced her down the hall to his bedroom. He had not changed the sheets in a long time, but had hardly slept in the bed, sacking out in his office instead. He plopped Jamie down and peeled off her jacket and sweatshirt. After gently lowering her head onto the pillow and lifting her legs, she snuggled in, moaned and coughed and growled a little before falling more deeply asleep.

  Hiroshi knelt down beside her and looked at her face. She was just as stunning asleep. Awake, a succession of feelings and thoughts flitted across her features. Asleep, her deeper self—calm and serene—rose to the surface, like a bodhisattva statue hidden in the side shadows of a temple.