“How many nights a week were you working at Marimba?” I asked.
“Six! It was exhausting.”
“What about New Year’s Eve?”
“That too. Why?” She stared at me, the reality slowly dawning. “You’re pathetic. You want to blame me for my aunt’s murder!”
“Was Kiki, the Mama-san, also working?”
She tossed her dreadlocks. “Of course! If you don’t believe me, ask one of the losers I had to entertain. I have their cards at the Marimba.”
“Rei’s not going to bother you anymore,” Richard promised her. “At least you know I’m here to protect you.”
Richard patted her dreadlocks, and Mariko snuggled into his chest. They seemed happy in their embrace. Too happy. When I got up and said good-bye, only the curry cook acknowledged me.
I was in Kawasaki forty minutes later. Armed with the address I’d found in Setsuko’s book, I went to a police box. The officer on duty located the address for me on an oversized map that decorated the wall.
“It’s best to take the bus, because a taxi will cost a lot,” he advised, deciding to treat me like a backpacker. “But you should go next week. It closed today at noon.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
“The post office.” He tapped significantly on the map. “You’re asking for directions to the Northern District post office.”
Damn them for building up the country so quickly, I thought as I rode the bus anyway, to make sure he was right. Whoever had lived on the property where the shiny white post office now stood was long gone. I went to the fruit vendor on the left and the stationer on the right but no one knew anything about a house that had once stood there and where its owners might have moved.
It took twelve minutes to get back to Tokyo, long enough for depression to roll over me like a heavy blanket. That’s what I needed, to curl up in bed and put everything away for the night. I’d ignore my worries that Mariko was about to rip off Richard’s bank account or had any knowledge of Setsuko’s death. I’d push aside my brutal mental picture of Mrs. Yogetsu falling to her death because of a secret I’d refused to hear. And I wouldn’t dare let myself think of Hugh.
I had intended to lie down for an hour, but when I awoke it was pitch black and freezing. I stuck an arm out from the futon and grabbed the last pair of jeans I’d worn. I pulled on one of Richard’s oxford shirts and my parka before looking around for something to cat. Nothing. The only solution was a snack from Family Mart. I hurried through the neighborhood thinking of my favorite onigiri, a seaweed-wrapped rice ball with a tangy pickled plum buried in the middle. I was deep enough into fantasy that I didn’t see a black sedan speeding around the corner, but jumped back just in time.
“What’s new?” Mr. Waka laid aside his tabloid when I entered his store.
“Not much. I’m alone tonight. Richard’s out having the time of his life with a girl who’s moved in and replaced me.”
“Here, have some of my oden. It’s good for the troubled heart.” Mr. Waka went to the counter and stirred a cauldron of golden-brown fluid, bringing a few odd pieces of sausage and fish cake bobbing to the surface.
“Mmm, I had something less rich in mind,” I demurred. “Just some rice. Any onigiri around?”
Mr. Waka shook his head, sorrowful. “None. Except for salmon, which you do not like.”
I poked around the refrigerator and freezer cases, eventually settling on a Sweet Sixteen ice cream cone. Bland and soothing, it would stay cold on the trip home.
As I walked back holding the ice cream in my gloved hand, my footsteps sounded loud, perhaps because the neighborhood was so quiet. Saturday night in one of the world’s most densely populated cities and not a soul around. I craved a sign of life, something to convince me I wasn’t Tokyo’s loneliest person.
I took back my wish the instant that I rounded the corner to my street. There, parked squarely in front of the door, was the black sedan that had clipped me, hazard lights flashing.
18
Looking up at my lit window, I could make out the shadows of two people. Were they Richard and Mariko, or Kiki’s mobsters? I tried to melt into the sandal factory doorway.
The car started, its headlights blazing on and temporarily blinding me. An electronic window whizzed down on the driver’s side.
“All alone on a Saturday night, Rei Shimura. You surprise me.”
I was shaken in a different way as Hugh Glendinning’s rounded vowels washed over me. He flipped on the interior light, and I got a good look at him. He was clean shaven and pale, wearing his shearling jacket and corduroy jeans. As he adjusted his position, I caught a glimpse of his bandaged ankle.