“Oh.” Danny Boy’s beard waggled happily. “Flower boy and cop enemy all over world. Japan, too.”
“I suppose,” Brook said. “Okay, I’m in your hands. Where do we go from here?”
“You no want go back hotel?”
“I don’t think so,” Brook said.
“Ah, so. You have big trouble with fuzz?”
“Pretty big.”
“Ah, so,” Danny Boy said again. He was silent for some time. Suddenly he said, “Okay. Where we go?”
“Just drive around a while. I have to do some thinking.”
“You like go firework festival? All night at Tama River tonight.”
“All right.” A crowd was just the thing.
Danny Boy concentrated on his driving. Soon he swung his cab onto a wider street with tram tracks and a spatter of traffic. He had turned his head to Brook several times, and now he said, “What happen apartment? What kind trouble?”
Brook did not hesitate. “It’ll be in all the papers in the morning,” he said heavily. “I’m in one beaut of a spot, Danny Boy, the kind you get nightmares about. I went to visit a girl and found her dead.”
“Ah!”
“Absolutely. What kind of town do you have here, anyway? Somebody strangled her. I might just as well be back in the States.”
“Who do this?”
“You’ve got me, pal.”
It seemed to him that Danny Boy’s happy voice hardened. “You kill girl?”
“Who, me? Why would I knock off a looker like that? Look, if that’s what you’re thinking—”
“No think. Just ask.”
“The only thing is, Danny Boy, your cops saw my face.”
“Ah,” Danny Boy said. He fell silent again.
“You can let me out. I don’t want to involve you.”
The big shoulders behind the wheel shrugged. “Who know? Maybe you give me big tip.”
Brook sank back.
The cab sped along in a southerly direction. Brook sorted out the probabilities. Item: it was possible that Kimiko had been murdered by an ordinary thug, or even some jilted lover from her past — that there was no connection between her death and “Han” the noodle man’s attack on him; or with the Krylov affair, for that matter. If, indeed, “Han” was connected with any of it, although it was highly probable that he was, and that Brook’s cover was blown. Benny Lopez had kept a check on the noodle man’s room since their interrupted search, and “Han” had not returned to it. If the man was mixed up in the Krylov affair, he would never return to it — his cover was blown.
Item: a Japanese policeman had enjoyed a good look at Brook’s face during his escape. This would probably lead to his identification. Together with his known connection with Kimiko — they had been seen together at The Golden Obi — it made for easy police work. Besides, they might connect him with the foreigner who had been attacked in the neighborhood of Kimiko’s apartment house a few nights before. So a return to his hotel was out of the question; he might find them waiting for him.
Item: Benny had to be warned. He might have to set up a plan to get Brook out of Japan in such a way that the immigration authorities would not spot him. The trouble was that getting in touch with Benny by their roundabout M.O. tonight would be time-consuming and risky. His hotel phone might be under surveillance.
It all added up to a badly bungled mission. Holloway wouldn’t like it. Brook could stand in the dock before Holloway and prove all day long that none of it had been his fault, Holloway still wouldn’t like it. Brook didn’t like it himself. The fact was, the only convincing reason he could give for going to Kimiko’s apartment tonight was the real one, itchy pants; it had been his fault. And having to drop a run with so many unanswered questions left hanging was the worst of it.
He thought and thought and could find no way out.
He heard some half-distant booms. Sonic? Brook looked up absently. Danny Boy was gesturing toward the skies ahead. Great blossoms of colored fire were blooming in the heavens and wilting just as fast.
“Pretty firework!” Danny Boy said, all smiles.
“Very pretty,” Brook said.
They turned onto a road that ran parallel with the Tama River. Soon they came to the sandflats along the shore. Hundreds of automobiles were parked here; beyond, a vast garden of carnival tents and shelters had been planted. Colored plastic lanterns bobbed everywhere. Exuberant crowds were shuffling about buying soft drinks and souvenirs at the makeshift stands. The river’s edge was black with people watching the explosions in the sky.
“Big contest every year,” Danny Boy was explaining. “Two great Japanese firework artist come Tama River. Everybody come see who make greatest firework. Like World Series.” He found a space in the parking lot and pulled in.
Brook glanced at the meter and peeled off the tab from his wad of thousand-yen notes. “That’s for your meter, Danny.” He added half his wad. “And that’s for never having seen me.”
Danny Boy’s mouth opened. “All this for Danny Boy?”
“All this. Thanks for everything. Maybe we’ll meet some time when the heat’s off.”
“Oh, we no speak sayonara now!” the bearded Japanese panted. “You make Danny Boy rich man. I stay with you, Auschwitz-san. We see firework together. After I take you where you want go, no charge.”
Might be safer at that, Brook thought. They’ll be looking for one man, not two. Certainly not a Japanese.
They wandered toward the stands, joining the crowds streaming along the alleys and walkways. Danny Boy proved a knowledgeable guide, explaining the traditional souvenirs on sale and the lore surrounding the fireworks festival.
“And here is Kappa!” The Japanese stopped at a stand, pointing out a doll with a humanoid body and a bird’s bill. “Kappa live in river. When pretty girl come river, he like steal them. See hole like little dish in top Kappa’s head? You spill water from hole, you catch him.”
“I’ve learned something,” Brook said. He was watching the crowds. Young men were tilting bottles of sake and Japanese whisky. Shrill music was tumbling out of loudspeakers. Among the swarms of Japanese enthusiasts were many foreigners; he noted them with pleasure.
They came to a platform festooned with red and white streamers. Men and women in yukata, the summer kimono, were moving in dance figures around the platform; to Brook it looked like a Japanese version of a square dance. Beyond the platform stood a portable shrine, a small structure on carrying poles; the forty or fifty young men who had been carrying it had paused to refresh themselves with rice balls and sake. Their only clothing was loincloths.
There were more booms over the river. This time a moan of appreciation came from the crowds as the explosions in the sky formed a hanging outline of Mount Fuji.
Brook stared with the others, conscious of the two policemen standing near a shelter fifty yards away. One was looking his way. Too fixedly. He turned to mutter in the other’s ear. Then both looked his way.
Brook said to Danny Boy, “Let’s go,” and drifted toward one of the alleys.
The policemen started toward him.
He moved with the crowd. The instant he passed out of sight of the policemen he stopped drifting and lengthened his stride.
“Where you go?” gasped Danny Boy, short legs pumping.
“The fuzz, Danny. They’ve spotted me. Better get lost.”
“Wait!” Danny Boy cried.
Brook left the bearded Japanese behind. There was a technique for escaping from this sort of situation; the trick was to make time without leaving a trail of provoked bystanders. You did it by moving fast, but not too fast, slipping through openings in the crowd when there were any, making openings when there weren’t by seeming to be interested in something up ahead, craning and elbowing. It was astonishing how much ground a hunted man in a crowd could cover in this way without arousing a posse. He headed for the outskirts of the festival site, away from the river, objective some residential section and a complex of narrow streets in which to lose himself.