“What about the bouncer?”
“He couldn’t see around the corner to where we were.”
Anticipating a bad answer, I asked, “What did the police say about it?”
“I didn’t call them. Kiki says the less we do with the police, the better. There was a problem some time back about the liquor license.”
“But someone’s after you. You can’t lose your life because your Mama-san has legal difficulties!”
“I’m not going back.” She was sobbing again. “Even though Kiki is probably going to send out some of her friends to find me.”
Given Kiki’s trade, her friends were likely to be gangsters. I could understand why Mariko didn’t want to be found.
“Leaving the bar tonight was very brave and intelligent of you,” I said, trying to convince myself. “I’ll pick you up as soon as the trains start running. And don’t worry, okay? We’re together from now on.”
Mariko reluctantly agreed to return to Tokyo and meet me the following morning outside Shibuya Station at the statue of Hachik, Tokyo’s most famous dog. Urban legend said that the male Akita breed had been the faithful companion to a professor, meeting his train every evening so they could walk home together. The owner died sometime during the twenties and the dog became a stray. Still, he returned to Shibuya every night for more than ten years in the hopes his master’s train would come in. The aged canine became a national symbol of loyalty; when he finally went to doggy heaven in 1935, a bronze replica went up. Hachik’s statue was so popular you had to designate his head or tail as a meeting point.
Pushing my way through hundreds of junior high school students assembling for a field trip, I wondered if, like Hachik, I’d be stood up. But after a minute there was a tug on my sleeve.
“Mariko?” I asked tentatively. The person standing before me wore blond dreadlocks and a black leather jacket, with bootleg jeans worn over platform-heeled boots. Faint bruises showed under a long chiffon scarf that had slipped sideways on her neck.
“Urusai wa yo.” You’re too loud, she whispered.
“Let’s go quickly, then.” I scanned the crowd and spotted Richard’s blond hair flip-flopping as he strode toward us. I’d told him to wait by the Williams-Sonoma window until I’d given him a signal, but as usual, he jumped the gun.
“Your dreads are to die for. Are you in a band or something?” Richard gushed in slangy Japanese.
Mariko shook her head and blushed. Richard’s blue-eyed blond magic seemed to be doing its usual trick.
“This is Richard,” I said. “He’s sort of like my brother. We share the apartment, I didn’t get the chance to tell you last night.”
“I’ll be your bodyguard, okay?” He moved his hands in a phony karate chop that made a cluster of junior high school girls giggle. “I’ve planned a return trip that’s rather indirect. We’ll switch back and forth between the Ginza and Hanzomon lines to throw off anyone who might be following us.”
“Don’t worry, you look nothing like yourself with that hair,” I told her. Frankly, it made me cringe.
“It’s a wig,” she said with pride. “I thought about bleaching, but there wasn’t time.”
“I know a girl who does it half-price. By the way, I love that jacket. I have a vest that would be amazing with it.”
“You like it? I bought it in Shinjuku at New Boys Look.”
“Tell me about it!” Richard crowed. To me, he mouthed, “Thank you, baby.”
As we traveled north on the subway, the two of them chatted about clothes, which I took as a sign she was beginning to feel safe. When we got out at Minami-Senju Station and started crossing the steel pedestrian bridge that led to the busy main road, Mariko wrinkled her nose at the ever-present stench of diesel fuel.
“This isn’t where I’d expect gaijin to live,” she said.
“It’s what we can afford,” I said, showing her into our building. She complained all the way up the three flights of stairs. When I opened the door to the apartment she brushed past me, treading straight over the linoleum I tried in vain to keep clean.
“Your boots!” I called out.
“I thought foreigners wore shoes inside their homes. What’s all this history stuff?” Mariko was gawking at my walls decorated with kimono and wood-block prints.
“It’s part of your heritage. Do you like it?” I hung her leather jacket on a lacquered Kimono rack.
“Aunt Setsuko liked antiques. I prefer the seventies, Pink Lady and all that stuff.”
It was clear to me that Mariko was a master at diversion; she probably was a great hostess. I cut off a stream of comments about the long-gone Pink Lady pop group and insisted she tell Richard and me about her assault.