'No,' said Jumonji, not sure what he was getting at. 'I don't read stuff like that.'
'You should.' Soga put out his cigarette and took a sip of his cocktail, an elaborate concoction in graduated shades of pink. 'That Murakami, he knows women.'
'I doubt I'd get it.'
'You'd get it. He's particularly into high-school girls, the kind that turn tricks for spending money.'
'That's what it's about?'
'That's what it's about,' he echoed, tapping his lips with a delicate finger.
'Then maybe I'll take a look. I'm into high-school girls myself.'
'It's not smut, you dope. He tells it like, from their side of things, really pulls you in.'
'Sounds interesting,' Jumonji muttered, looking down at the table and feeling utterly mystified by the course of the conversation. Just then, his gin and tonic arrived like a lifeboat drifting up to the table. Moving the sliver of lime to the coaster, he tipped his head back and took a long swallow.
'It is,' said Soga. 'You see, I got certain standards when I read a novel.'
'Such as?'
'I judge it by what it's got to do with my line of work.'
'And how's this one score?' Soga watched with some astonishment as Jumonji drained his glass.
'High marks. It's all about us, in a way.'
'In what way?'
'Murakami and these girls, they hate the old men, the ones who run this country. And you might say the kind of work we do starts from the same place - hating those old geezers. They're misfits, just like we're misfits. You see what I mean?'
'I suppose so,' said Jumonji.
'Misfits,' Soga repeated, almost shouting. 'You went to Adachi Middle School and joined a bike gang - that qualifies you right there. Now you're a loan shark and I'm yakuza. Still not exactly mainstream, not nice and proper, right? And it's all their fault, those old farts who call the shots, the ones who ruin everything. But we're all the same, you, me, Murakami, and those highschool girls - all completely cool. You see that, don't you?' Jumonj i stared at Soga's sallow face, which looked almost haggard in the dim light. It was fortunate that he seemed to be in such a good mood, but as Jumonji listened patiently to him go on about this wacky stuff, he began to have doubts about the scheme he'd though t up and to question the wisdom of broaching the subject with him. No, the whole thing seemed implausible, scary even.
'What was it you wanted to talk about?' Soga said suddenly, apparently sensing his hesitation. He was trapped now.
'Actually, it's a business proposal, but a strange one,' Jumonji said, almost in spite of himself.
'Strange but profitable?'
'Maybe, if we can pull it off. At least I thought it might be. But I don't really know if it'd work.'
'Why don't you just tell me what it is? It's safe with me.' Soga slipped his hand into the front of his shirt and began to rub his chest, a habit he had when the talk turned serious.
'Soga-san,' said Jumonji, screwing up his courage, 'I think I've got the perfect way to get rid of stiffs.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' he said, his voice cracking slightly. The bartender was concentrating on making perfect, paper-thin slices of lemon, as if his life depended on it. In the silence that followed, Jumonji realised for the first time that an old rhythm-and-blues tune was playing quietly in the background. He'd been too nervous to notice, he thought, wiping his forehead.
'What I mean is, if somebody's got a body he needs to get rid of, I'd like to do it.'
'You?'
'Yes.'
'How? It's gotta be done without leaving any evidence, you realise?' There was a hint of interest in his jaundiced-looking eyes.
'I got to thinking,' said Jumonji. 'If you bury them, there's always the chance somebody will dig them up later, and if you toss them in the sea, they might start dredging. So I'm going to cut them up and throw them out with the garbage.'
'Sounds good, but it's easier said than done. You know what happened with that Koganei Park thing?' His voice had dropped; he was no longer an adolescent talking about books and clothes. His thin face had grown hard.
'Sure,'Jumonji said.
'They managed to get it cut up and then slipped up throwing it out. But d'you know how hard it is just to get that far? Do you have any idea how tough it'd be to cut up a body? It's hard enough just cutting off one finger.'
'I know. But if we can do it, I've thought up a way to get rid of the pieces so nobody will ever find them, a way to leave no shred of evidence.'
'How?' Soga leaned forward, his cocktail forgotten.
'My family lives in Fukuoka, near a huge garbage dump. Not one of those landfill jobs out in the harbour; this place has a great big incinerator and they burn everything that comes in. And the best part is, people who miss the garbage pick-up can bring their bags any time they feel like it. If we took the stuff there, it'd vanish without a trace.'
'And how would you get them to Fukuoka?'
'Pack them in boxes and ship them. Since my dad died, my mom lives there by herself. I could fly down and meet the shipment and take it to the dump.'
'Sounds like a lot of work,' Soga murmured, thinking it over.
'The hardest part would be cutting up the body, but I've got that figured out as well.'
'Meaning what?'
'Meaning I've got somebody who can handle it, somebody we can trust.'
'Does this guy work for you?'
'You might say that - but it's not a guy.'
'Your girlfriend?'
'No, but somebody I trust,' said Jumonji, sounding as confident as he could. As he was talking, Soga had grown visibly more interested, perhaps because he knew there was a need for the service..
'There might be something in it,' he said. Pulling his hand from his shirt, he reached for his drink. 'There are people who do this kind of work, but I hear they're expensive. If you'd got something like that on your hands, though, you'd want them to be reliable, right?'
'You know what they charge?' Jumonji asked.
'It depends. But it's risky work, so you can bet it's plenty. How much are you thinking?'
'I'm not sure, but it would have to be enough to make it worth my while.'
'Now don't go getting greedy on me,' Soga said, glaring at him.
'I was thinking about nine million,' said Jumonj i with a sheepish smile.
'How about eight? You've got to undercut the competition.'
'I guess I could do it for that.'
'And since I'd be bringing you the business, I'd get half.'
'Isn't that a bit steep?' he said, frowning.
'Maybe it is,' Soga laughed. 'How about three mil?'
'You've got a deal.' Jumonji did a quick mental calculation as Soga nodded with satisfaction. If he got five million from the original eight, that would leave three for him and two for Masako. He would insist on their excluding Kuniko - she was far too big a risk. But he would give Masako and the other one, Yoshie, a share. Masako could figure out how to divide it up.
'Good,' said Soga. 'I get wind of this kind of thing from time to time, so when I hear of something, I'll let you know. But you've got to guarantee it's all handled right; if you mess up, it'll be my neck.'
'We'll be figuring it out as we go, but I think it should work.'
'Just one more question,' Soga said. 'Were you involved in the Koganei Park thing?'
'No, no,' said Jumonji, deflecting Soga's hunch with a shake of the head.
The wheels had been set in motion. All that he had to do now was convince Masako to go along with his plan.
3
Pink slices of ham. Red shoulder of beef shot through with whitish sinews. Pale pink pork. Fine-grained ground beef, red, pink and white. Dark red chicken gizzards outlined in yellowish fat.
Masako was pushing her shopping cart through the meat section at the supermarket. She felt distracted, unable to figure out what to buy, unsure even why she was here. She stopped and gazed at the stainless-steel frame holding
the blue plastic shopping basket, a basket that was, of course, empty. That was it: she'd come to get something for dinner. But lately the effort of coming up with a menu and putting food on the table just seemed too much of a bother to keep doing.
Dinner on the table was somehow proof that their family still existed. She doubted Yoshiki would be particularly upset if she gave up cooking, despite all the years she'd been at it, but he would expect her to explain why she'd stopped. Since she had no explanation to offer, he would probably just conclude that she was lazy. As for Nobuki, after his outburst in front of the detective, he'd shut up like a clam again and she'd heard nothing more from him. The only thing he did at home was eat.
The two of them kept their own schedules, never consulting her, but on this one point they were amazingly regular, as if it were an article of faith: they always made it home for dinner. This almost childlike faith in her cooking struck her as odd. Left to her own devices, she would have eaten anything or nothing, but knowing how they depended on this meal, she found herself worrying over their special likes and dislikes, preparing something that would appeal to both of them. But in return they seemed completely unresponsive. Whatever ties had once bound them were all but gone, and only her prescribed role remained to hold her down. It all seemed so futile, like pouring water into a pot with a gaping hole. How much had already run out of the bottom? Everything that had seemed so normal and natural yesterday now struck her as strange.
A cold mist was rising from the meat cases, like poison gas escaping into the store. Wafts of frigid air blew against her. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, trying not to overreact, and picked up a package of sliced beef. But, realising the flesh looked like Kenji's, she let it drop back into the case. It was all Kenji - the tendons, the bones, the fat - it all made her sick. She'd never felt like this before; she was getting soft. Disappointed in herself, she decided to give up on dinner. She would just leave for work without eating anything, and her empty stomach would be her punishment - though punishment for what, she wasn't quite sure.
-
The warm, still air that preceded a typhoon was oppressive. The storm, a fairly large one, was bearing down on them now, signalling an end to summer. Masako looked up at the sky, listening to the wind wailing in the upper atmosphere. As she reached her red Corolla, she saw a familiar bicycle coming toward her across the supermarket parking lot.
'Skipper!' she called, waving to Yoshie.
'Didn't find much, did you?' Yoshie said, stopping her bike next to the car and eyeing the empty bag in Masako's hand.
'I gave up.'
'Why?'
'I guess I just didn't feel like making dinner.'
'And that's okay?' said Yoshie, shaking her head. Masako noticed that her hair seemed greyer than it had only a few weeks ago. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothing. I guess I'm just tired.'
'You're lucky you can just decide not to cook. If I did that, Issey and Granny would starve to death.'
'Is he still there?' Masako asked.
'He is, and I've no idea where his mother's gone. The old lady isn't popping off any time soon, and now I've got that brat whining day and night. I guess you could say I'm stuck.'
Having nothing to say to this, Masako leaned against the car and looked up at the lowering sky. As she listened to Yoshie's litany of woes, she felt as though they were all stuck in a long tunnel with no sign of the exit in sight. She just wanted out, to be free of everything. None of it mattered any more. Anyone who couldn't get out was doomed to a life of endless bitching - the life they were leading now.
'Summer's just about over,' she said.
'What are you talking about? It's September already; it's long gone.'
'I suppose so.'
'Are you going to work tonight?' Yoshie asked, sounding anxious. Masako glanced at her. The question had raised the spectre of Masako's quitting and it floated between them. 'I was planning on it,' she said.
'Good. You seem kind of out of it. I thought you might be thinking of deserting us.'
'Deserting you? What do you mean?' Taking a cigarette from her bag, Masako stood looking at her. A gust of wind tugged at her lustreless hair and she reached up with both hands to hold it down.
'Kuniko said you used to work at a credit union. You're not cut out for the factory.'
'Kuniko?' She suddenly remembered that the due date on Kuniko's loan had come and gone. How had she managed to make the payment without any extra income? If she'd found out about that banking job of hers, it could only mean she'd had a visit from Jumonji. Under pressure, the woman was capable of almost anything, and Masako realised she'd left her to her own devices too long. What had she done? 'I'll be there. And I'm not thinking of quitting,' she said.
'I'm glad,' said Yoshie, beaming.
'Skipper, does something seem different to you nowadays?'
'Different? What?' Yoshie looked around as if they were being watched.
'No, not that. I think we've probably shaken the police. I mean something different in you.' Yoshie thought for a moment but then gave her a sheepish look.
'No, I don't think so. But it may be because I keep telling myself that I was only helping out.'
'The same way you help out your mother-in-law and your grandson?'
'No, not like that,' Yoshie said, frowning. 'I wouldn't want them lumped together with what we did to Kenji. Still, I suppose they do have something in common, in the sense that I always seem to be doing the jobs nobody else is willing to do.' She stood for a moment, lost in thought. Her wrinkled forehead and pale skin made her look far older than she was.
'I know what you mean,' Masako said, tossing her cigarette on the ground and crushing it underfoot. 'I'll see you later.'
'What about you, though, Masako?'
'Nothing's different for me either,' she said, opening the car door. Yoshie pulled her bicycle out of the way.
'See you this evening,' said Yoshie. Masako climbed behind the wheel and waved at her through the windshield. Yoshie smiled and then swung herself up on the bike with surprising agility and pedalled off toward the supermarket. As she watched her go, Masako thought about what was happening to them. Even if Yoshie hadn't noticed it yet, the money she was going to get from Yayoi would eventually begin to work on her, like a chemical reaction. There was no malice in this observation - but facts were facts.
-
The phone was ringing when she got home. She threw her bag on the shoe cupboard and ran to answer it. She hadn't heard from Yayoi in more than a week and it was about time she should be calling.
'Katori-san?' said a man's voice. 'My name is Jumonji. I used to be called Yamada when we worked together.'
'Oh, it's you,' said Masako, surprised to be hearing from him. She pulled a chair over to the phone and sat down. Her whole body was sweaty from the rush to get the phone.
'It's been a while,' Jumonji said.
'What do you mean? - I saw you just the other day.'
'By happy chance,' he laughed.
'What do you want?' Fumbling for a cigarette, she remembered she'd left her bag in the hall. 'If this is going to take any time, you'll have to hold on a minute.'
'I'll wait,' he said. Masako went out and chained the door. If someone came home, this would give her a few extra seconds. She picked up her bag and went back to the phone.
'Sorry,' she said. 'Now what is it you want?'
'It's a bit difficult to discuss over the phone. I'd like to get together, if you don't mind.'
'What can't you talk about over the phone?' Masako had imagined it had something to do with Kuniko's loan. But perhaps she'd underestimated this little loan shark.
'It's a bit complicated,' he said. 'To be honest, there's a business proposal I want to make to you.'
'Hold on,' said Masako. 'I've got something to ask you first. Did Kuniko Jonouchi make her payment?'
'She made it, right on time.'
'Using what for money?'
'You might say s
he paid with information.' Jumonji's tone was casual, but Masako realised her fears had been justified.
'What information?' she asked.
'That's what I want to talk about.'
'Okay. Where do we meet?'
'You're going to work this evening, aren't you? Could we have dinner somewhere before?' Masako gave him directions to a Royal Host restaurant near the factory and told him to meet her there at 9.00.
So they weren't going to get away with it after all. She'd suspected as much ever since her conversation with Yoshie, but it depressed her to think that it was her own negligence in handling Kuniko that had been their undoing.
She could hear the sound of the chain rattling as someone tried to open the door. The buzzer on the intercom echoed angrily through the house. When she went out to the hall and unlatched the door, Nobuki appeared on the other side, fixing her with a sulky look. His black knit cap was pulled down over his eyes, despite the heat. Faded black T-shirt, baggy pants draped around his hips, Nike shoes.
'Hi,' Masako said. Nobuki slipped past her without a word. His strong young body was surprisingly supple. If he were still talking to her, she was sure the first thing he would have done was'tell her not to put the chain on. He ran up to his room without so much as a glance in her direction. 'You're on your own for dinner tonight,' she called up the stairs after him. Her voice echoed through the empty rooms, as if her message were a rejection not just of the boy on the second floor but of the whole house.
-
Masako arrived at the Royal Host right at 9.00, but Jumonji was already there, standing by an inconspicuous table in the back. He held a wrinkled copy of the evening paper in his hand.
'Thanks for coming,' he said. Masako met his stare as she sat down across from him. He was casually dressed in a white polo shirt and a jacket. Masako wore what she always wore to work: jeans and one of Nobuki's old T-shirts.
'Good evening,' said a black-suited man who seemed to be the manager. He looked vaguely puzzled as he passed them their menus, probably wondering what they could possibly have in common. 'Enjoy your meal,' he said as he walked off.