Tokyo Heist (22 page)

“Are you sure? She doesn’t look very welcoming.”

The stone-faced
okami-san
leads Reika and me down a long corridor. She shows us the room we will share. As soon as she leaves, I start sneezing, probably from the dust or the grassy smell of the
tatami
mats that line the floor. Mitsue said the place is supposed to be over a hundred years old. It sure smells like it.

My dad knocks on the door a few minutes later. “I’m just across the hall,” he says. “They only had three rooms left—it’s all booked for something called the Gion Festival that’s going on in Kyoto this week. So I’m rooming with my man Hideki.”

“Is he stressing you out?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. I thought he’d be on my case about the mural, but he’s already busy. Off with Kenji, talking to the
okami-san
.”

“Can we start looking for the painting?” I ask. “I saw a bunch of art in the lobby.”

“Not yet,” my dad says. “Kenji said to hold off for now. There are too many guests around. There’s some kind of business retreat going on here, and the place is full of office types. Kenji says we need to lay low while they have the
okami-san
check the inn’s records of art acquisitions. Apparently, a number of grateful guests have given art to the inn over the years, and inn has lots of art in storage, too. If they can’t find a record of a gift from Tomonori in 1987, as soon as the guests clear out of the halls, we’ll all start looking at the paintings to see if Tomonori hid the van Gogh behind one.”

“
Yukata
!” Reika sings out after my dad leaves. She holds out a box of two cotton robes. They’re both deep indigo and white with a pretty bamboo pattern.

Changing into a
yukata
makes me think of Kimono Girl, as well as the young woman in Tomonori’s sketches, with those detailed embedded sketches in her robe. I want to start looking for the painting right now. We could be sitting on top of a van Gogh painting! But the room doesn’t exactly look full of hiding places. There’s no art except a hanging scroll with calligraphy in one corner. And there’s hardly any furniture at all—only a low table with two square, red pillows on either side of it, placed on the
tatami
. Reika tells me chambermaids will unroll our futons after dinner.

I go out to a small screened-in porch overlooking the Katsura-gawa and sink into a wicker chair. It’s raining steadily now. I watch the drops pelt the river. It’s a different rain from Seattle rain. Quieter, softer, like an unseen hand is scattering uncooked rice. It would be downright relaxing if we were actually here as tourists.

Reika joins me, a stack of manga in hand. She sits down and sighs, flipping through the latest issue of
Naruto
without really looking at it. “I don’t think he’s into me.”

“Who?”

“Hideki. Have you noticed he barely looks at me now?”

“He has a lot on his mind. He’s about to find out where his dad put this art. Plus, he’s, like, twice your age! Of course he’s not interested in you!”

“And he’s moody, isn’t he?” Reika goes on, ignoring my last comment. “Mitsue mentioned he’s thirty-two and already divorced. No kids or anything. Sad, isn’t it? I bet he’s lonely. All this family drama with the art heist, and no one to comfort him.”

“What’s that?” I point to a brochure sticking out of a copy of
Naruto
.

“Oh, I snagged it at the reception desk.” She hands me a brochure for the inn. “It has a floor map. Check it out. This place is pretty big. Two stories, and an east and west wing on either side of the lobby. That’s eight corridors in each wing, and they all look to be full of artwork. And then there’s the
onsen
, behind the guest rooms.”

I study the map. “Great. We can note the location of anything suspicious. Then we can tell Kenji and Hideki where to go for a closer look.”

“What exactly are we looking for, anyway? A painting that’s sticking out in some way?”

“Maybe. If it’s attached to another painting or hidden behind another frame. But I have a new idea about how it might be concealed.” I show Reika the photo of Tomonori’s sketch journal from our day at the photo booth, pointing out the man carrying a package and a stick. “Look closely. It’s not a walking staff. It’s a big paintbrush. It’s out of sequence, but maybe he drew the brush here to suggest what was really going on with the painting cover-up in the earlier picture. Maybe Tomonori painted right over the van Gogh.”

“Wouldn’t that wreck the original painting?”

“Not necessarily. My art teacher once showed us how some paints, like acrylics, dissolve with certain solvents. We tried removing a layer of paint in class, and it worked pretty well.”

“But how would you know something was painted over? Don’t you need some kind of fancy camera to detect that?”

“Yeah, infrared. But to the naked eye, the paint might look different. Heavier. Or you might see some original color bleed through.”

“It’s a plan, then. We’ll look at all the art on the walls for anything suspicious.”

“And keep our eyes peeled for any signs from Tomonori, like cormorants.”

“And
ayu
.”

2

7

W
e search for the painting in fits and starts because of that business retreat. The businessmen go from their rooms to a meeting room to lunch. We watch from cracked-open doors. When the halls clear, we all dart out and inspect the art. We run our fingers all around the frames, looking for signs of tampering. We lift paintings off the hooks to look behind them. We look at the walls in case plaster might have been cut away to create a hiding place for a painting. Reika and I look closely at the canvases for especially thick paint or any visual clues. We don’t find anything suspicious, and there’s so much art on the walls, our progress is slow.

At five, Mitsue tells us it’s time go to the
onsen
and bathe before dinner. “We must keep up appearances,” she reminds us when Reika and I protest.

The
onsen
is in a separate section of the inn, behind the two guest wings, connected to the lobby by a long, narrow corridor with squeaky floorboards. The hall smells like mineral water tinged with soap. These walls are strangely bare, except for one dark painting hanging near the door. It shows a river scene at night. My eyes linger on it. But Mitsue is ushering us through the door to the spa so I don’t have time to inspect it. I make a mental note to return.

In a communal changing room, naked women are hanging up their clothes, brushing their hair, shaking out towels. The big wooden bathtub is communal, too. Five women are already soaking in it, steam swirling up around them.

Mitsue shows us wooden lockers where we can leave our house slippers and hang our
yukata
. She points out a wall lined with stools, buckets, and shower nozzles, for shampooing and rinsing off before going into the bath. She reads us a list of rules posted on the changing-room wall. “Do not go into the bath without rinsing. Do not bring the washcloth into the water. Do not wear toilet slippers into the changing area or the bathing area.” I’m feeling more and more boxed in. I thought I’d find freedom in Japan, but there are so many rules. That creepy fortune was right. Wherever I go, I’m the nail sticking up.

“No way am I walking around naked in front of all these people,” I mutter to Reika.

“It’s no big deal. This is a traditional Japanese bath. Come on, this will be relaxing.”

“Relaxing! Uh, hello, we’re not really here to relax, are we?”

“Hideki told us act like tourists to keep their cover, right? We’re actually helping.”

With a sigh, I untie the canvas belt and peel off the
yukata
, one sleeve at a time. I feel enormous, exposed, sitting on the tiny bucket and soaping off with a shower nozzle.

As I walk toward the bath, I’m grateful for the thick mist in the air. It acts like glassine over a print, creating a screen, concealing bodies.

Mitsue and Reika are already up to their necks in the bath. “This is so much better than the public
sento
my aunt and uncle take me to,” Reika says. “It’s a natural hot spring.”

I sit on the edge of the tub and dunk both feet in the water. It’s unbearably hot. And something just feels so wrong about this. My dad’s safety—his life—is at stake. We should be spending every moment looking for the painting that could keep us all safe.

I kick at the water, staring at my reddened feet. Kimono Girl wouldn’t chill out in a spa when there was a mystery to solve. You don’t see Superman stopping off for a haircut or a massage before flying to the toppling building.

I stand up and run to my locker, past the “no running” sign. I yank on my
yukata
and flee out of the
onsen
and into the west wing of the inn.

I find myself in a corridor similar to the one we’re staying in, on the east side, and lined with woodblock prints. I doubt they’re concealing a van Gogh. Even though they’re framed, they’re probably not big enough to disguise a painting behind them, and a print couldn’t cover up a painting. Still, I walk the length of the hall, hoping I’ll see something important.

At the end, a
shin hanga
woodblock print catches my eye. It shows a solitary bather in an outdoor bathhouse, in the evening. A warm yellow lamp illuminates her contented smile. Outside, rain falls, but the bather appears at peace.

This print hangs next to a door that’s cracked open. Room nine. I push on the door and peer inside.

Inside is a cedar box—a private bath—with so much steam rising up from it, it’s as if a cloud is bathing there. Then a man slowly rises from the steam cloud, reaching for a washcloth on a ledge. His back is to me, and I see it is covered with an elaborate tattoo: a
samurai
warrior brandishing a sword. An orange dragon swooping down from one shoulder. It’s as vivid and bright and detailed as any
ukiyo-e
print. Every inch of the skin on his back is colored.

I know, from manga I’ve read, that in Japan, where regular people don’t get tattoos—especially as detailed as this one—that means only one thing.

The bather is a
yakuza
.

I should run, but my feet are rooted as the man reaches to open a nearby window to let in fresh air. He puts his washcloth on top of his head and sinks back into the steam.

Thought bubble:
GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!

My legs move. I run back to the
onsen
, pausing to look at the painting by the women’s entrance, that scene of boats on a river at night. Even in my freaked-out state, its beauty demands my attention. It’s a dark painting, but I notice dazzling flashes of light: in hanging lanterns, in fireworks, in stars lighting up the night sky.

In the changing room, I ditch the
yukata
—no time for modesty now—and find Reika in the women’s outdoor spring. Thankfully, she’s alone there, a Seattle girl undaunted by drizzle. Mitsue must have gone back to her room. Steam swirls up around Reika, and she leans her head against one of the boulders lining the pool.

“Glad you could relax,” I say, wincing as I slide into the scalding water. “I’m about to wreck your moment.” I tell her about the bather in room nine. “He’s got to be a yahoo.”

“Could he be one of Fujikawa’s henchmen? Could he have figured out we’re here?”

“This guy had gray hair, so I don’t think it was Kazuo Uchida or Shinobu Nishio. I guess it could be another guy who works for him.” I shiver despite the scalding water. “Oh my God. Do you think it could it be Fujikawa himself? Keeping a close eye on our progress and waiting for this painting in person?”

Reika draws her knees up to her chin. “The only way he’d know we’re here is if Yoshi heard us talking about the clues, made the connection to this inn, and told him that we’d come here. It’s a long shot.”

“Then the bathing yahoo is not Fujikawa. He’s just some random gangster.”

“Or we still have an informant.”

2

8

W
e all eat dinner together in a private dining room, sitting on flat cushions on the floor. It’s a traditional
kaiseki
meal that seems to go on forever. There’s no chance to ask Kenji and Hideki how the search is going. The
okami-san
and the chambermaids keep sliding open the
fusama
door, dropping to their knees, and shuffling in to deliver and clear trays and to top off our cups of warm
sake
—rice wine—which, thankfully, my dad doesn’t seem to notice Reika and I are drinking, too. We eat grilled meat, yellowtail fish, tofu as creamy as crème brûlée, miso soup, sticky rice, and magenta pickles called
shibazuke
that curl my tongue. I keep waiting for a lull in the courses or conversation so I can bring up the bathing
yakuza
I saw. Reika and I agreed before dinner that the Yamadas need to know about this guy. But it seems there is always at least one chambermaid in the dining room with us. Now I think everyone secretly speaks fluent English, and I don’t dare talk in front of any of these women.

“
Kaiseki
should be six to nine courses. We are up to fifteen,” Hideki grumbles. He glowers at the
fusama
sliding open, as the
okami-san
brings in another tray, the tiny, lacquered bowls clattering slightly as she drops to her knees, her eyes downcast.

Everyone sits back on their cushions, looking slightly ill. Finally, there is silence, and finally all the chambermaids and the
okami-san
are gone.

Reika glances at me. “Now,” she mouths.

“Something weird happened before dinner,” I announce. “I opened the wrong door by mistake and saw this guy with a huge tattoo all over his back.” I describe it.

Kenji and Mitsue exchange a worried look.

“What’s that look about?” my dad asks, watching them carefully.

“Yakuza,”
Kenji says quietly. He glances toward the door.