I bowed my head, acknowledging his point and the conviction behind it. “Those men are finished, then?” I asked.
He nodded. “I have to assume that Yamaoto owns them now, and warn the others.”
“What about Kanezaki?”
“I’ll brief him on our meetings with Biddle and Tanaka.”
“Tell him his boss tried to put a contract out on him?”
He shrugged. “Why not? The young man already feels indebted to me. This sentiment might prove useful in the future. No harm in reinforcing it now.”
“What about Murakami?”
“As I said, we will continue to question the man we took in. He may provide us with something useful.”
“Contact me as soon as you have something. I want to be there when it happens.”
“So do I,” he said.
20
I CHECKED THE Imperial voice mail account from a pay phone. A mechanical female voice told me that I had one message.
I tried not to hope, but the attempt felt pretty thin. The female voice instructed me to press the “one” key if I wanted to hear the message. I did.
“Hi, Jun, it’s me,” I heard Midori say. There was a pause, then, “I don’t know if you’re still really staying at the hotel, so I don’t know if you’ll even get this message.” Another pause. “I’d like to see you tonight. I’ll be at Body and Soul at eight o’clock. I hope you’ll come. Bye.”
The female voice told me the message had been left at 2:28 P.M., that I should press the “one” key if I wanted to repeat it. I pressed it. And again.
There was something so disarmingly natural about the way she called me Jun, short for Junichi. No one calls me Jun anymore. No one knows the name. I had been using Junichi, my real name, selectively even before leaving Tokyo, and had discarded it entirely afterward.
Hi, Jun, it’s me. Such an ordinary message. Most people probably get ones like it all the time.
It felt as though the ground beneath me had borrowed some extra gravity from somewhere.
The part of my brain that has served me well for so long spoke up: Place and time. Could be a setup.
Not from her. I didn’t buy that.
Who else might have heard that message, though?
I considered. To intercept the message, someone would have to know where I was staying and under what fictitious name, and they’d have to be able to hack the hotel voice mail system. Outside of Tatsu, who wasn’t a current threat, there wasn’t much chance of that.
A chance, though.
My response to that was, The hell with it.
I went to see her.
I took a long, meandering route, moving mostly on foot, watching as the city gradually grew dark around me. There’s something so alive about Tokyo at night, something so imbued with possibilities. Certainly the daytime, with its zigzagging schools of pedestrians and thundering trains and hustle and noise and traffic, is the more upbeat of the city’s melodies. But the city also seems burdened by the quotidian clamor, and almost relieved, every evening, to be able to ease out into the twilight and set aside the weight of the day. Night strips away the superfluity and the distractions. You move through Tokyo at night and you feel that you’re on the verge of that thing you’ve always longed for. At night, you can hear the city breathe.
I stopped at an Internet café to check the Body & Soul website and see who was playing. It was Toku, a young vocalist and flugelhorn player who had already developed a reputation for a soulful sound that belied his twenty-nine years. I had two of his CDs but hadn’t seen him perform.
It was possible that Yamaoto had learned that Midori was in Tokyo from the investigative firm she had retained. If so, there was a chance she was being watched, perhaps by Murakami himself. I did a thorough check of the likely spots around the club. They were all clear.
I went in at about eight thirty. The place was full, but the doorman let me in when I told him I was a friend of Kawamura Midori, who was here for Toku’s performance. “Oh yes,” he told me. “Kawamura-san mentioned that someone might come. Please.”
She was sitting at the end of one of the two long tables that parallel Body & Soul’s walls and overlook the floor, where the musicians were set up. I scanned the room but didn’t spot any likely threats. In fact, the evening’s demographic was young, female, and obviously there to see Toku, who, with his quintet, was now captivating them with his elegiac “Autumn Winds.”
I smiled at what the band was wearing: T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. They all had long hair, died chapatsu brown. Their contemporaries would think it was cool. To me they looked young.
I made my way to where Midori was sitting. She watched my approach but made no move to greet me.
She was wearing a black, form-fitting sleeveless turtleneck that looked like lightweight cashmere, her face and her arms luminous in contrast. She leaned back in her chair, and I saw a pair of leather pants, soft with age and use, and high-heeled boots. Other than a pair of diamond stud earrings, she’d left things unadorned. I’d always liked that she didn’t overdo the jewelry or makeup. She didn’t need to.
“I didn’t really expect you,” she said.
I leaned in so she could hear me over the music. “You didn’t think I’d get your message?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you’d show up if I proposed the time and place.”
She caught on fast. I shrugged. “Here I am.”
There were no seats open, so she got up and we leaned against the wall, our shoulders not quite touching. She took her drink with her.
“What’s that you’re having?” I asked.
“Ardbeg. You introduced me to it, remember? It tastes like you now.”
“I’m surprised you enjoy it, then.”
She glanced at me, sidelong. “It’s a bittersweet flavor,” she said.
A waitress came by and I ordered an Ardbeg. We listened to Toku sing about sorrow and loneliness and regret. The crowd loved him.
When the set was over and the noise of the ensuing applause had died down, Midori turned to me. I was surprised to see concern on her face, even sympathy. Then I realized why.
“Did you… you must have heard about Harry,” she said.
I nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
I waited a second, then said, “He was killed, you know. Those PIs you put on him got word to the wrong people.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You know… they told me it was an accident.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“How do you know?”
“Circumstances. At one point they thought they had me, so they figured they didn’t need him. Besides, his stomach was full of alcohol. But Harry didn’t drink.”
“Oh my God,” she said, her hand over her mouth.
I looked at her. “Next time, hire a firm that takes its confidentiality obligations a little more seriously.”
She shook her head, her hand still over her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking down. “That wasn’t fair. This was nobody’s fault but the people who did it. And Harry’s, for not having known better.” I told her a sanitized version of how they had set him up, and how he had refused to listen to me.
“I liked him,” she said when I was done. “I wondered whether he was lying to me when he told me you were dead. That’s why I hired those people to watch him. But he seemed like a good person. He was cute and shy and I could tell he looked up to you.”
I smiled wanly. Harry’s eulogy.
“If I were you,” I said, “I’d be careful in Tokyo. They lost me, but they’ll be looking for me again. If they know you’re here, they might take an interest. Like they did with Harry.”
There was a long pause. Then she said, “I’m going back to New York tomorrow anyway.”