Their table was blanketed by a stunning number of saké and beer bottles. The faces of both rickshaw drivers were beet-red. Mukohata leaned forward and muttered something incoherent. Kitagaichi frowned, dropping his chin into his hands.
“Come on,” Mukohata said to Kitagaichi. “It’s me you’re talking to. Just 30 yen. I’ll pay you back in a month.”
“Leave off,” said Kitagaichi, not even bothering to make eye contact. “I’ve lent you 300 yen already as it is.”
“Come on, 287 yen!” Mukohata slapped Kitagaichi on the shoulder. “You can’t count what we spent together on the blink!”
“Careful! You’ll spill the drink!”
“Stop being stingy. You’ve got plenty of cash left.”
“Not after I bought that land in Ishikawa. I can’t get my hands on most of it, now.”
Inoue leaned over and whispered to Ito. “Shall we?”
Ito nodded slightly. “Yes, let’s get this over with.”
He hadn’t drunk a single drop, but Inoue suddenly began stumbling about in an imitation of drunkenness. He ingratiated himself in between the two rickshaw drivers. “Ahh! The good sirs Mukohata and Kitagaichi! Just the men I hoped to see. You’ll spare a fellow a drink, I’m sure!”
Kitagaichi squinted at them. “What crew are you two geezers with? I don’t know you.”
Inoue forced himself down into an open seat at their table. “Who’s a geezer? I’m only 55. And my friend here is a strapping 50!”
It was too late to turn back now. Ito joined them, sitting down next to Inoue and fixing a smile on his face. “The great, decorated rickshaw drivers, in the flesh. It is an honor.”
Inoue followed Ito’s lead. “In the flesh! I bet before long they’ll be replacing Sugawara no Michizane’s face with yours on the five-yen note.”
Mukohata snorted, and took a sip from his saké cup. He stared at Ito over the rim and spoke condescendingly from beneath hooded eyes. “That right, old man? They wouldn’t put a face as old and ugly as yours on it, now would they?”
Ito’s temper flared. Inoue kicked him in the leg before he had a chance to respond and continued speaking, his expression innocent. “So you got that pension for life? Do you have to meet with the Russians? How does that work?”
Kitagaichi looked annoyed. “What’s it to you?”
The corner of Mukohata’s lip curled. “They’re probably jealous. If you geezers want a pension, find a big-shot yourselves and risk your own lives.”
The proprietor made his way toward them, glancing over for their order. “A beer,” said Inoue. “And another for my friend!”
“Hoy.” Mukohata glared. “We’re not paying for that.”
Inoue turned back to him with a smile. “Don’t be a curmudgeon. Tell me about when you got the medal. Was Nicholas there? Was it all big shots?”
Kitagaichi brought his cup to his lips. “What’s to tell? It was on the deck of the ship. Tsarevich Nicholas and a bunch of other fancy folk were there. The rest were all sailors.”
Mukohata didn’t seem to mind bragging. Once his tongue had loosened he grew quite loquacious. “You chaff probably can’t even picture it! There was a gorgeous sunset as they presented us the medals. Nicholas pinned the Order of the White Eagle to our chests with his own two hands. Then they filled our bamboo hats with money, 2,500 yen each, and promised us a lifelong pension to boot. We were drunk on vodka, and the sailors carried us on their shoulders. We were blessed—even Mt. Fuji appeared all clear and sharp that day, a deep, rich red. After the ceremony, we were all partying and drinking on ship late into the night.”
Something wasn’t right. “Mt. Fuji, you said?” Ito asked.
“Eh?” Mukohata thrust his jaw forward scornfully. “What are you, deaf, old man? Don’t question me. If I say Mt. Fuji, I mean Mt. Fuji.”
“Mt. Fuji was clearly visible, and it looked red?”
“What are you prattling on about!”
Ito stared. “The Russian ship had its anchor down and never left the pier. There were two other armored cruisers behind the Pamiat Azova. You shouldn’t have been able to see Mt. Fuji from its deck.”
“Eh…?” The rickshaw driver’s eyes flashed with anger. “What is this nonsense?”
“It’s not nonsense. Major General Soroku Kawakami was watching from the shore. He suggested advising the Russians that they would have a view of Mt. Fuji if they moved the two ships in the back.”
“Major General Kawakami? Stop making up stories.”
“No, I heard it from the man himself.”
“Perhaps we are remembering wrong,” Kitagaichi interrupted, his voice faltering. “It must have been after the ceremony that we saw Mt. Fuji. Isn’t that right, Mukohata? It was after, wasn’t it?”
Ito seized on his words, too. “I thought that you were celebrating on board after you got medals? It was late at night by the time you left the ship.”
Kitagaichi’s eyes darted back and forth. He was clearly uncomfortable.
“You keep messing with us, old man, and we’ll toss you in a ditch,” Mukohata growled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you… I must be a little deaf.”
“I’ll kill you!” Mukohata grabbed a beer bottle and staggered to his feet.
Ito didn’t hesitate to grab Mukohata by his lapels. He lifted his hips, pivoted his body and swung his arms upward. He extended a knee and threw the rickshaw driver backward, over his shoulder. Mukohata traced a parabola in the air before crashing bottom-first against the next table. The table fell over. His body rolled across the floor like an empty bottle.
Ito had released his grip on the driver at the last possible moment, so as to soften the landing. There would be no bruising, but the mental shock would likely last some time.
The entire room instantly fell quiet. Kitagaichi stood up, panic coloring his face. Inoue, however, had already unsheathed the sword hidden in his cane in a swift horizontal slash. The blade touched the other man’s throat. Kitagaichi froze in fear.
The sound of police whistles reached their ears. There was a loud clamor from outside. The public house’s proprietor was nowhere to be seen. He must have run off to call the police.
Inoue sheathed the blade back in his cane. “Shake your rag!” he shouted at his friend, and with a deft turn of his heel, raced out of the shop.
Ito scrambled after him. A mob had already begun to collect at the door. He shoved his way through and burst onto the street.
The two ran as fast as they could along the Sumida River. Though lightfooted in their workmen’s trousers and tabi, they quickly grew winded. Ito developed a stitch in his side.
But his friend’s face betrayed evident enjoyment. “That was something!” he shouted, the smile on his face bigger than any Ito had seen for some time. “Wasn’t it, Shunsuke? Just like when we were young!”
Inoue’s smile was infectious. Ito couldn’t help but return it. “Without a doubt, Monta!” His voice was hearty and hale. “Just like when we were young!”
20
That evening it began to rain. But with no wind, even with the sliding doors to Ito’s estate open, not a drop fell inside. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the tatami, staring out at the veranda and into the misty garden beyond. It was a sublime evening, wet and twilit.
Ito had changed into a yukata and was sitting near the low table, but his expression was far more troubled. Inoue, also in yukata, sat against one of the outdoors pillars, his knees drawn up to his chest.
After listening to their report, the detective had involuntarily snorted. “A smashing show.”