The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) (24 page)

“A real Japanese construction worker, with the split-toe boots and the baggy jodhpurs? Bring him, too!”

“Toshi will be off duty, so he’s going to be dressed normally. He texted that he’d be wearing a Yomiuri Giants baseball jacket. I guess he’s a fan.”

Richard snorted. “Why can’t you meet us after you’re done?”

“I’ve got to get back to my aunt’s in Yokohama. She’s expecting me.” I felt the phone vibrate in the pocket of my new jacket and reached in hopefully. Maybe it was Michael. But another text message had appeared. I read:

Stick to shopping if you know what’s best for you.

I bit my lip and shoved the phone back into my pocket.

“What was it?” Richard pounced. “Let me see.”

“I’ve been getting some strange texts today. This was another one.”

Richard reached his hand into my pocket and pulled out the phone. Instead of looking appalled, he giggled. “Does Mitsutan’s marketing department have your phone number?”

“It’s not a department store come-on. I think the message is from the same anonymous bastard who sent me another creepy message earlier today.” I went into the conversation’s history and showed the first message ordering me to stop my search.

After reading it, Richard gaped. “I take back what I said about marketing. I think you should skip traveling to meet the unknown construction worker. Just hang here with us.”

I shook my head. “My meeting with Toshi is a half hour from now. I’m sure he’s on his way already. How can I cancel?”

“I wish I could go with you, but I’ve got a customer coming.”

“Yes, you said that a few minutes ago, Mr. Popularity.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll send you a text after I’m done and maybe even a picture of the construction worker.”

Summer Grass, the bar Toshi had suggested, was tucked in one of the many small streets near Ueno Station. As I drew near, I heard Johnny Cash droning from speakers mounted over a faux-aged wooden door. It was five after six when I arrived; I was just a touch late. I surveyed the room for a young man in a Yomiuri Giants baseball jacket. Several men wearing jackets sat alone at tables against the wall, but it was hard to see exactly what these jackets looked like in the bar’s dim lighting.

Since there weren’t any likely prospects sitting at the tables, I went to the bar and ordered an Asahi Super Dry beer. It was 6:20 p.m. Like every other solo person in the place, I took out my cell phone for messages. Nothing from Toshi, but Akira had sent a text message.

Did you find the lacquer? If not yet, I have an idea! Call me, Akira.

Since nothing else was going on, I texted him back but got no response. I thought of phoning, but it was too big a risk to have our conversation overheard. And was Akira part of the game? What if he’d followed me back to Tokyo—perhaps a day later, by train or bus—and was interested in getting the missing lacquer for himself?

Putting the phone away, I turned my mind away from this jittery vision and back to the missing construction worker. John Denver’s “Country Roads” was playing, and I thought of all the broken roads in Tohoku, and the broken families I’d met. My beer glass was half-empty; I was not a half-full type of person. Now I was consumed with the thought Akira had set me up.

While I’d been pondering my silent cell phone—and the increasingly confused state of matters—a chunky man in his midthirties had casually settled himself onto the barstool next to me. He wore a bomber jacket, black jeans, and shiny Gucci loafers. He smiled as though he knew me.

Quickly, I put my phone away and said good evening.

He winked at me. “Hey, do you have a sister?”

What kind of line was this? I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t know who you’re looking for.”

“Are you American?”

My accent was not that obvious, so he probably had been given background on me but was hesitant to say my name. This oddity was Abe Toshi? Uncertainly, I said, “I’m so glad you found me.”

“But of course. I’ve been looking for you all my life.” He grinned, exposing a gold tooth.

“Are you Abe-san?” He looked a little bit heavier than I would have expected for a Japanese construction worker—older, too.

“Sure. You’re Rei-chan,
neh
?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you aren’t wearing the jacket—”

“You don’t like this jacket?” He pretended mock-offense.

I laughed politely. “No, no…”

But why hadn’t he worn the baseball jacket? Scrambling through my memory, I asked, “So, Abe-san, what’s your opinion on Okazaki Kaoru?”

“A good place to drink. By the way, this place isn’t my favorite. How about we take off somewhere quieter for dinner? My car’s in the alley.”

Alarm number two. If this man didn’t know who the Yomiuri Giants’s head coach was, he could not be a fan.

“Come on, let’s go,” he repeated.

“Um, I don’t go off with men I’ve just met.”

He looked pointedly at the rings on my left hand. “If a young married will play with one guy, why not another?”

This was most un-Japanese behavior. I said, “I think there’s been a mistake. I’m waiting for someone else.”

In the time we’d been talking, the real Toshi could have walked right by, thinking that I wasn’t the woman who wanted to speak with him, but some other guy’s girlfriend, or just a tourist looking for a one-night stand. Anxiously, I looked around one more time. No baseball jackets that I could see. I either was hanging with a really bumbling pick-up artist—or a very dangerous stalker.

“Think you’re too good for me?”

I wanted to snap at the stranger to leave me alone, but I didn’t want to let him know I was scared. By law, Summer Grass had to have an exit other than the door straight into the bar. But I couldn’t let him think I was going to split. Not if he had a car.

“Do you believe in birth control?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“I—” he blushed slightly. “It’s a thing for ladies to worry about, isn’t it?”

“Mmm,” I said, realizing just how creepy he was. “The thing is, my procedure is a little bit complicated. Would you excuse me?”

His skin flushed, but he no longer looked embarrassed. Just ridiculously pleased. “Take your time,
onee-chan
. I’ll have another drink.”

I slid off the stool and swaggered into the tiny back hall. When making my close survey of the bar’s population, I’d noticed that near the restroom doors was a narrow doorway that went to a kitchen—if you could call a place where chicken wings were microwaved by that name. Two workers looked at me in surprise as I whispered a
sumimasen
and fled through the open door to the alley past a windowless black van with mud on the license plates. Why didn’t this surprise me?

I wove a different path this time to the train station, knowing I probably didn’t need to run, but walking as fast as I could. I had no idea who the man had been. If he’d actually been Akira’s reference, I certainly wouldn’t have paid much heed to what he said. But I thought it was extremely unlikely. The faster I walked, the more suspicious the man’s approach seemed.

The phone buzzed in my pocket signaling a text. As I waited at an intersection for the light to change, I took out the phone. The sight of another anonymous message in
hiragana
made my stomach drop. But I felt too vulnerable to read it out in the street.

Slipping into a convenience shop, I sheltered myself from view behind a tall cardboard display of body shampoos and read:

You aren’t following my
directions, bitch.
Ueno has many trains. But wherever you go tonight, I’ll be following you.

I
began walking through the shop, seeing but not seeing the items on the shelves. And then I looked at the people. A few tired-looking older shoppers; some giggly, uniformed middle-school girls; and a male clerk covertly eying the girls. Excepting the clerk, nobody appeared creepy. I went to the back of the store, where nobody else was hanging, and phoned Richard.

“Texter knows I’m heading to Ueno,” I whispered in Pig Latin. “There’s a message just like the others about it.”

“Oh.” Richard paused. Pig Latin was harder for him to understand than Japanese. “I suppose you better come to the police station the safest way you can think of. You know, the station with the really big strong guys.”

This was code for Night Flower, I imagined. Richard was acting the way Michael had in the past when my phone had been tapped. Oh, God—maybe it was. Who else had access to my phone? The female volunteer who’d let me recharge it when we were in the volunteer dorm. Mr. Morioka: since the phone had been lost in his shop. And a very long time ago, Akira had carried the backpack with my phone in it upstairs to the volunteer dormitory.

After saying a muted goodbye, I turned off my phone entirely. How would I get to Richard? It seemed unwise to travel through Ueno Station again.

Feigning interest in a rack of gardening magazines, I kept an eye on the window until I noticed a cab slowing farther up the sidewalk. I sprinted out and slid in before a young couple heading toward it could reach it. The driver looked disapprovingly at me as I settled myself in.

“To Shinjuku, please. And put your foot on it.”

The man understood old movie lines, but there were limits to how fast a seventy-year-old man wearing white gloves would drive through Tokyo’s busy, nightlife-ridden streets. We pulled up to Night Flower thirty minutes later with the meter reading just over 8,000 yen. At least I didn’t have to worry about tipping, and it didn’t appear we’d been followed by another vehicle.

After passing muster with a black, leather-clad bouncer who checked my name off the guest list, I slipped inside the dark, techno-thumping lounge that smelled of various e-cigarette vapors. Richard and Yoshiko were huddled at a cozy table in the back that had a good view of the dance floor. But neither seemed interested in the gyrations of the thirty or so men dancing to Shakira. Richard was chatting on his mobile phone, and Yoshiko was filing her nails into pointy spears.

Richard saw me and waved. As I arrived, he said, “Laters, honey,” in a faux British accent and clicked off his phone.

“Was that Enrique?” I sat down.

“Yep. Something came up—he can’t join us. Were you followed?”

“I’m not sure. I turned off my phone, in case there’s something about my phone that’s leading my stalker along. But I don’t really want to sit out here in public; he could walk right in.”

“Not tonight. Did you notice you were on a guest list? It’s a special night for the Shakira Lovers Club. Nobody who isn’t a member of that Facebook group can walk in, unless someone put them on the list.”

“Richard, I’m starting to feel like my life’s paralleling Mayumi’s. Mr. Ishida said she acted as if she was being stalked by her old boyfriend, Akira. Now I’m being stalked, though I can’t be sure who’s doing it.”

“Now you’ve got more reasons than ever not to go to Yokohama tonight. I’m just saying.”

“I know. The path from the train station to my aunt’s house has plenty of isolated stretches. I almost got hurt walking around there a few years ago.”

“Don’t tempt fate again,” Richard crooned, causing Yoshiko to look up from her nails and nod in agreement.

“Aunt Norie won’t like it at all.” I sighed. “I don’t want to use my phone again tonight. May I borrow yours to call her and make an excuse?”

“That’s already done.” Richard’s voice was smug. “When I got your recent SOS, I called her. No, I didn’t say you were being followed. I made up some bullshit about a reunion with Michael tonight—that satisfied her.”

“You have my aunt’s phone number?”

“In my history.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry to be so distracted. It’s just so frustrating to have this going on. Anyone could be waiting outside the bar for me.”

“If so, that’s his or her mistake. This bar keeps surveillance on people outside.”

“Seriously?”

“You bet. Most patrons here are closeted—so window shoppers are not welcome. There’s a security camera running, and if someone does lurk, the bouncer takes his picture—with a really prominent flash. They tend to run away then.” Richard sighed. “Hark, the bar-boy is finally coming over. You want a glass of water?”

“I heard it’s full of radiation. Coffee would be better.” I couldn’t relax vigilance, even for a half hour. “So I guess I’ll be staying with you and Enrique tonight?”

“Are you nuts? I don’t want your phone ghost knowing where I live. You need to stay somewhere else that’s a little more secure.”

“Hmm. For me to go to Mr. Ishida is perhaps be what the stalker wants. But hotels aren’t secure at all.”

“What about a gay bathhouse?” Yoshiko said. “There’s a members-only one nearby. It’s even harder to get into than Night Flower.”

“That might work.” Richard turned to her, looking surprised. “Enrique and I have a membership to that very bathhouse you mention. We could probably squeeze Rei in.”

“What—a gay bathhouse membership? I thought you and Enrique were monogamous.”

“Oh, come on. There’s no reason not to enjoy the best bath in town with a couple’s discount.” He peered critically at me. “You go into baths with other women—why can’t we go into baths with men?”

Having bathed just a few days earlier in such a place, I couldn’t argue about that point. “I had a shower and a bath last night, and again this morning. My skin’s as dry as my hair’s become. Really, I’d much rather have a room with a bed.”

“Boys Bath is a full-service establishment. There are group and private bedrooms as well as the disco, karaoke room, and movie lounge.”

“We could consider it. If I can really get in—”

“You will, after your haircut.”

“How can you give me a haircut now?”

Richard patted his waist, which was still adorned by his cowhide stylist’s pouch with a couple of pairs of shear handles poking up.

Only short acts could be committed with those scissors—I knew from the gleam in his eyes. “Please don’t give me a man’s haircut.”

“Spare me the gender bias, okay? I’ll give you the Audrey, which is a far cry from a buzz cut. It was the best cut you ever had.”

“Audrey Hepburn died too young. I don’t know the karma’s right to replicate that hairstyle on me, given the circumstances—”

“I cut an Audrey for a client six months ago. She’s still alive.” Richard paused. “Yoshiko, there’s a photo collage of patrons near the bar. Be a honey and see if they’ll let you borrow it for a while.”

Yoshiko jumped up obediently. When she came back, she was holding a large framed picture filled with oddly cut photos of mostly male customers. The women had more of a variety of styles, including a short, cropped cut on the woman Richard said was his client.

“It’s too big a change,” I said, eyes sliding from the pretty twentysomething’s picture across to a shot of another female with short hair, and a friendly face made even rounder by her double-circle, wire-rimmed glasses.

“Glock,” I exclaimed. “The one with Lennon specs is Mayumi’s roommate—whom I just saw today. If she’s a regular here, she’s probably a lesbian. And she was very close to Mayumi. What if a shift in sexuality was the reason Mayumi dropped Akira?”

Richard yawned. “Sexuality doesn’t shift. What happens is that it becomes expressed.”

“Look at this.” I reached into the backpack and pulled out Mayumi’s design notebook. Both Yoshiko and Richard leaned in as I slowly leafed through. Pictures of flowers, cats, and traditional art motifs all shown in circles. Following these was the picture of the women’s faces pressed together. Another button design looked like a set of female lips. And then, without a doubt, a breast with a small, rosy nipple.

“The art’s not proof of anything—but to think of this all being done in traditional Japanese lacquer is pretty wild,” Richard said. “There are some blank pages at the end. I wonder how much farther she would have gone with her female-centric buttons.”

“Glock was very close to Mayumi. And she seemed positive that Mayumi had no involvement with any men,” I mused aloud. “I wonder about the situation with Eri. She seemed kind of anti-male, but she’s got that
enjo-kousai
racket going on—”

“Who cares? Let’s get going on your hair.”

Richard jumped up to capture a temporarily vacant barstool. Carrying it toward the restroom, he inclined his head toward me. I followed him, thinking that getting a free haircut in a mixed-gender restroom was just another adventure to add to my life story.

In the tiny restroom, which was decorated with multiple vending machines and safe-sex-instruction signs, Richard positioned me on the barstool so I faced away from the mirror over the sink. I felt water flicking all over my head and then steel on my neck.

I kept smiling at the men and women coming in and out the door, acting as if I was supposed to be there, getting the haircut. Most restroom users wanted to know whether Richard was going to turn me into a wavy blond like Shakira. When he shook his head, they lost interest.

“We can get you some clothes from the lost and found,” Richard said. “People get hot here, take their clothes off, and forget to put them back on. Yoshiko’s out looking.”

“A lot of Japanese men are the same size as me,” I said. So much hair was falling. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel my head becoming lighter. Freer. I hoped against hope that when I saw Michael again, he’d still like the way I looked.

Richard continued cutting, singing the Shakira song that was playing through the doorway, “Waka Waka, This Time for Africa.” Richard entreated me to join in, but my cooling cup of coffee wasn’t enough to put the same music in me.

Yoshiko hustled in after fifteen minutes with her arms full of clothes. She also apologized for not learning anything useful about Mayumi and Glock.

“So the staff is protecting the girls’ privacy,” Richard said. “It should make me feel safe, but at the moment it’s irritating.”

I suggested, “Maybe if I explained Mayumi is dead, it would be different—”

“Why would they believe you? Parents hire undercover detectives to find out what their unmarried adult children are doing. The staff here won’t let you stay on the premises if they think you’re asking too much. You haven’t been here in years, and you aren’t even a bona fide Shakira Club member.”

“It’s a bit hard because you are a double outsider here—not gay and not Japanese,” Yoshiko said. “But don’t feel bad—you look wonderful as a boy. I’ll draw a moustache on you with my eyebrow pencil.”

“Please, don’t. It’s not Halloween.”

“Hold the whiskers for sec. Audrey Hepburn has returned from her untimely demise and is ready for action,” Richard swiveled the stool so I was facing the mirror.

I opened the eyes I’d squeezed shut to view the side-swept bangs and a sleek brown-black cap of hair that was about two inches long. The hair was gone. I didn’t look like the thirty-year-old married woman who played mah-jongg with her senior citizen friends. I looked younger and more edgy.

Richard walked around the stool, scrutinizing. “I may have left you too feminine around the front—but that’ll be good later on. Yoshiko, see if there’s a hat we can put over my masterpiece. And let me use the eyebrow pencil to create some five o’clock shadow.”

A tweed newsboy cap soon arrived to top off the hair, thanks to a loan from Yoshiko’s friend on the dance floor. The cap coordinated nicely with a chamois shirt, denim jacket, and oversized jeans she’d brought out of the bar’s lost and found, along with a pair of typical male, brown loafers. Richard suggested that I put my wedding and engagement rings in my backpack, which Yoshiko would carry out when we all left.

When I stepped out of the restroom in the borrowed clothes, all the men and two women waiting in the long line gave me the once-over. So I really did look like a pretty boy, or perhaps a transgendered one.

Richard, Yoshiko, and I went the club’s back door, armed with sharp-tipped umbrellas liberated from the lost and found. I was tense, because we had to pass through two alleys to reach the fabled bathhouse. I remembered the black van parked behind Summer Grass.

But no cars or vans passed us in the narrow old lane. Richard whispered the plan to me: he would walk me in and introduce me as his special guest. I’d have to come up with the 3,000 yen for the price of a bath and a couple of drinks, because it was important that I appeared to be interested in recreation. A bit later I could act tired and pay the 6,000-yen fee for a private room.

“Sixty dollars is a pittance for a night’s stay,” I said after Yoshiko had said goodbye and split for the subway and the two of us continued. “But could the staff think you’re cheating on Enrique? Things could be awkward the next time he’s here.”

“I suppose wagging tongues would be a pain to deal with,” Richard admitted. “Okay, I won’t ask for the room key right away. You could get fake-drunk, and when I book a room for you later on, they would think I was behaving like a humanitarian friend. The main point is get you through the door and convince people you’re a gay man who doesn’t speak Japanese.”