The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) (14 page)

Before jumping on the bus, I had thought I could slip off when Seiko disembarked, follow her to where she lived, and approach her later for an interview. Now I realized that could be very, very far away. The bus’s destination, lit up in lights over the driver’s head, was Shinjuku Station.

I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me.”

Instead of Seiko, the old lady sitting next to her looked up at me. “Even if you are pregnant,” she said loudly, “I have as much right to this seat as you.”

There was a rustling sound as the other passengers craned their heads to get a look at us.

“I’m not hoping to sit in your seat, I just want to say hello to her—
“

“When I was pregnant, I kept myself clean,” the lady said. “No dirty kimono. Also, I kept clean when I had the babies.”

This must be a direct reference to my now very wrinkled knit dress. Now I was more angry than embarrassed.

“I’m not pregnant!” I whispered as loudly as I could. I wanted to call the old lady an
obatarian,
a nickname that combined the Japanese words for
grandmother
and
battalion
and meant a relentless, annoying type of senior citizen, but I didn’t dare.

Seiko glanced up at last, then reburied her nose in her magazine. The volume in her hands was a comic book with extremely graphic sex. It might have been
Showa Story,
but I wasn’t going to lean over and stare. “Hattori-san?” I whispered.

Seiko didn’t look up.

“I’m a friend of one of your friends.”

Still no response.

“Can’t she hear?” The
obatarian
clapped her hands loudly, causing everyone around us on the bus to glance over. We were becoming an odd situation, the kind of story passengers would recollect later at the dinner table for family amusement.

The sharp clap was just a few inches from Seiko’s ear. She finally broke her scrutiny of the magazine and looked at both of us with clear annoyance.

“Aren’t you Seiko Hattori?” I asked.

She nodded cautiously.

“I’m a great admirer of
Showa Story,
” I said. “I wonder if I can ask you something about it.”

“Who are you?” Her voice was husky, not the standard chirp that most girls of her generation had. To talk in a high-pitched voice was a symbol of friendliness, efficiency, and femininity. But Seiko’s voice was as sexy as a torch singer’s. Not what I’d expect from a round-faced girl wearing a striped pinafore over jeans.

“My name is Rei. I looked for you in the copy shop, but your father said you were out.” I reached into my backpack and handed her my business card.

“It’s rude to reach in front of others,” chided the
obatarian,
who was blocking my access to Seiko.

“Would you like me to help you move to a silver seat?” Seiko said to the old lady in her low, smoky-sounding voice. The bus had several special seats for seniors that were colored silver to match the color of their hair. Rules posted above the seats said they had to be given to senior citizens or handicapped persons. The seats were placed not in twos, but facing into the aisle so that no senior would have to crawl over anyone’s legs to get in or out.

“Ara!
So rude!” the
obatarian
exclaimed, staying firmly in her place.

Seiko mouthed at me,
“Chotto matte.”
Wait.

I moved back slightly in the aisle so that neither the old lady nor Seiko felt hemmed in. Seiko shut her magazine and tucked it away. After a couple of minutes, she rang the bell indicating that she planned to get off the bus. She nodded at me. Gratefully I realized she was allowing me to follow her off.

Seiko made a little pardon-me bow to the
obatarian
and got to her feet. I held my breath, waiting for abuse.

Instead of standing, the
obatarian
moved her knees to one side so that Seiko had to crawl over her to get off.

“‘Girls these days!” she grumbled.

Seiko paid her bus fare with a ticket she tore off from a little strip she was carrying in her wallet. Based on that information, I guessed that this bus stop was close to her family home.

We got out on a wide street that bordered the university where Takeo had gone. Like Showa College, it was on summer recess. The area was quiet, and more upscale than where I lived.

Seiko looked at me uncertainly. I imagined what was going through her head:
I’ve invited a stranger to get off. Now what do I do?

I spoke first. “Could I invite you for a cup of coffee?”

“I’d rather have a real drink,” she said.

“Sure.” Suddenly I was feeling that I was dealing not with a copy shop clerk anymore, but a femme fatale. Seiko led me into a side street that had a small plaza containing the kind of slick restaurants that were threatening to swallow traditional Tokyo. There was a Royal Host coffee shop, as well as Kentucky Fried Chicken. Seiko pointed toward Henry Africa, a mock Asian colonial tavern.

“They have a happy hour right now.”

I was glad I’d brought my backpack with a wallet. I’d need to use a credit card to handle Henry Africa. The last time I’d been inside one, I’d been stunned by the English-language menu and the high prices. I supposed Henry Africa was a thrilling international experience to someone who had never traveled abroad. After all, I spent many hours in Japanese restaurants, dreaming of my future life, when I was growing up in San Francisco.

The bar was aggressively air-conditioned and held just a few salarymen and foreign corporate types. An unsmiling young foreign man—a blue-eyed blond, just like Nicky—motioned to the bar. He probably expected we were there trying to meet men. I shook my head and said to him in English, “A quiet table in the back would be better.”

Upon hearing my English, he raised his eyebrows and said nothing, just showed us to a table. I thought of Show a Boy and its male foreign dancers who were there only to please the Japanese women. This fellow could have used a few tips.

I went to the bathroom to freshen up, and when I came back I saw that Seiko had ordered us both glasses of sherry. When it turned out that my sherry couldn’t be sent back, I handed it to her and asked the waiter for an iced coffee.

“You don’t drink?” Seiko asked when the waiter was gone.

“I’m, um, not feeling that well right now.” I wanted to keep my wits about me.

“Which American place is your homeland?” Seiko asked in a proper conversational tone.

“California.” Everyone in Japan knew it. Usually they would repeat the state’s name and then sigh in wistful appreciation.
Beverly Hills 90210
and
Baywatch
had done a lot to color impressions. Seiko didn’t make the sighing sound, I noticed. She stayed blank.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.” I figured that I’d better get things going. “I’m hoping to interview you for an article that will run in the
Gaijin Times.
Have you heard of it?”

She nodded. “Yes. My American friend, who was at Showa College with me, read that magazine sometimes. It reviews restaurants, right? Are you planning an article about photocopy shops?”

“No. Our management is planning a shift to a
manga
format. That’s the reason I want to speak to you about
Showa Story.
”

“How did you find me?” Seiko began fiddling with a silver hoop in her ear. I noticed that she had about five piercings in her left earlobe and three on the right.

“I was given some information at Showa College. But you’re not studying there anymore.”

“My father made me quit.” She said it without emotion.

She’d had to quit, just like Nicky. And Kunio had vacated his apartment. They were all running scared from something.

I asked, “Was he upset because you insisted on studying English?”

“No. When I started two years ago, my father had enough money, but now . . .”

“Sure. The economy’s tough. But it’s tough on you, to have to leave. I understand you were part of a circle of students who created
Showa Story
.”

“
Showa Story
‘s dead. I should have told you on the bus, but I didn’t know you wanted a story.”

“Can you tell me about the history of the group?” I asked, trying to stir her out of her flat, closed answers.

She sighed heavily. “Kunio-san started drawing the comic book two and a half years ago. I met him in the
manga
club. I helped with the printing. Nicky, who was our American member, had ideas for stories and wanted to make translations.”

“Where is Nicky these days?”

“He’s dead,” Seiko answered sharply. “Don’t you know that?”

“Um, I wasn’t sure if you knew the facts.
“

“How could I not know? It’s all over the news.” She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders rocked for a moment. Then she looked up again. “A couple of days ago, Nicky said something about a girl reporter wanting to interview us. I suppose that was you.”

“I really am an antiques dealer, but I sometimes write about antiques and art for the
Gaijin Times.
”

“Really? There are so many comics to choose from. Why ours?”

“I want to write about
Showa Story
because I am interested in Kunio Takahashi’s artwork. It’s really quite extraordinary. Then came Nicky’s death.” I paused, thinking about how she might interpret my role in the death. “If the attention I paid to the group somehow caused the tragedy, I’m very sorry. But if I go through with the story now, outlining the death, someone may read it and come forward with evidence to catch Nicky’s killer. We can’t bring him back, but we can make sure the killer is punished.”

“You’re right. I should be thinking of what’s best for him.” Seiko reached a finger under her glasses, and I guessed that she was wiping away a tear, or wanted me to think that.

“Let’s not talk about Nicky for a moment. I never met Kunio Takahashi. What is he like?” I asked.

“Well, everyone says he’s good to look at,” Seiko mumbled. “He’s not my type. I do think he’s a very smart, calculating boy.”

“How so?”

“Well, he always wanted the best deals on everything. I know now that he allowed me in the circle because he wanted free photocopying. Good paper, too.”

“Did you secretly photocopy the magazines at your dad’s shop, then?”

Seiko shook her head. “No. My father wanted to help. He produced the magazines for us, and in exchange, we gave him the profits we made from magazine sales.”

A cozy relationship, similar to that of Sanno Advertising and the
Gaijin Times.

“Could Kunio have killed Nicky? Was there rivalry, unhappiness, anything like that?”

Seiko shook her head. “No. We admired Kunio’s talent so much. I described to you already how Nicky and I were doing technical things, working on translations, distribution, printing. We really were there to help him. We both love
manga,
but we can’t draw them. We needed to work with someone who could draw. Plus he had this fantastic history background— he was a history major. That really helped with the illustrations.”

“Do you think Kunio’s dead?” It was an abrupt change of topic, but the way she was talking about Kunio in the past tense made me fear she thought the same thing that I did.

“I have not seen him in a while, but I’m sure he’s safe. He has a way of getting what he wants.”

She had mentioned safety. It reminded me of the fears that Marcellus had expressed to me.

“Do you know a man named Marcellus?” I asked.

“From Africa?” She sounded startled.

I nodded.

“He’s a dancer at the place where Nicky had a part-time job. They were friends, but I think that Marcellus was a bad influence. He was the one who told Nicky to leave college to work full time and make more money. It made me sick, because Nicky didn’t have to leave college. I did.”

“I’ve been to that club. The
mama-san
mentioned that she’d banned you from the premises.”

“She was horrible.” Seiko bit her lip. “She only likes girls coming in large groups. I came alone, and she was suspicious of me. So she made me leave.”

Something was missing from Seiko’s account, but I decided to get back to some other issues. “What about Dayo, the company that publishes
Mars Girl
?” I asked. “Were they pressuring you to stop producing your
doujinshi
?”

“Oh, you’re thinking about that because of what they said on television,” she said. “We never heard any complaint from them before. But I did hear of them. Kunio mentioned getting some correspondence from them. When Nicky asked to see the letter, though, Kunio wouldn’t show him. There were some things Kunio kept private from Nicky and me. Even though we worked well as a
manga
circle, we weren’t really close friends.”

“You’re very kind to be talking to me,” I said, noting the way she’d said
Nicky and me
. I was starting to suspect that Nicky might have been the one she loved. “There’s so much I want to ask, and now only you can speak for the group.”

Seiko’s expression froze at my words, and I wanted to kick myself. She muttered, “I should go back. I ran out of the shop because I had an argument with my father. I needed a drink. But I must return.”

“Do you live at home with him?” I asked.

Seiko nodded. “That’s why I’ve got to apologize. There’s nowhere else I can go.”

I felt a premonition of something bad. “Are you really safe there, Seiko? How did your left eye get hurt?”

“It’s not hurt. Why are you saying a crazy thing like that?”

“I saw you before you put on your sunglasses. I was hit in the eye like that once.” I chose my words carefully. I wanted her to understand that I was sympathetic.

“Please, let’s discuss something else,” Seiko said.

“Did your father hit you?” I asked softly. “Maybe he thought you weren’t doing your job right in the copy shop? Or because you were grieving for your
gaijin
boyfriend?”

“No! I don’t know what kind of journalist you are, but that certainly isn’t a question relating to art and
Showa Story
—”

“What about the
yakuza?”
I whispered the word, mindful of how paranoid it made people. “I brought in an article about Japanese gangs to be photocopied at your shop, and your father seemed shocked.”