The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) (23 page)

I did sleep; but it was not enough. At ten to eight the next morning, I staged an internal battle to drag myself off the futon. To my surprise, Takeo and Natsumi were awake and eating croissants in the kitchen. Apparently Marcellus had not stayed the night, but left shortly after he’d told his story. Natsumi declared that this was the last time she’d allow us to speak to any of her boyfriends, because obviously we were saying bad things about her that made them want to run.

Takeo raked his hand through his hair and sighed; after a night without sleep, he looked like death warmed over.

I drank a small cup of strong coffee that Takeo had made, then left to take the bus to Zushi, since I insisted that Takeo was too tired to drive me. It was only a fifteen-minute ride to the shining Zushi Convention Center, which bore the engraved phrase Established For You in 1999. The center had a glossy edge, but the casually dressed crowd, in blue jeans, T-shirts or character costumes made the place seem considerably more casual. Entering the packed hall, I felt as if I were slightly drunk. The colorful, costumed conventioneers seemed to have come straight out of a Technicolor dream. I was waiting behind three people dressed up as hedgehogs—popular characters in some comic series, I guessed—and calculated it might take half an hour to reach the cashier, and then another hour to reach the registration desk.

A middle-aged man with a scowl who looked oddly familiar strolled past to the right. I saw him pass by my direction two minutes later with a program and registration packet. He’d gotten everything he needed without standing in line, and that was enough to set me off.

“Excuse me,” I called out to him. “Is there a reason you were able to receive your materials while the rest of us have to wait in line?”

“I’m with the press
.”
He tugged at a plastic identification card hanging on a chain around his neck.

“Oh.” I said, belatedly recognizing him from the tabloid TV program
News to You.
He was twenty feet past me by the time I’d finished speaking, during which time I reasoned that since I was on assignment for the
Gaijin Times,
I was every bit as much of a journalist as he was. I smoothed my jeans, as if that could make them look a bit more presentable, and headed off to the roped-off zone from where he’d appeared.

I had to show my Rei Shimura Antiques business card, accompanied by explanations about my moonlighting job, to a young Japanese man padded to look like a character in a sumo wrestling series. There were three other staffers behind him, similarly dressed in bizarre costumes, who seemed occupied with poring over the program, deciding which booth to hit first.

“Any cameras?” the sumo wrestler asked me. “Of course.”

“May I see?”

“Sure.” I pulled out my trusty Polaroid. The wrestler swept it out of my hands and into what looked like a small safe.

“Cameras are banned from this convention.” He gave me a plastic claim check that I stared at in disbelief. “You may retrieve your camera before going home, and please don’t forget about it! Any equipment left here after the convention closes will be given to charity.”

“But our magazine photographer is coming! Toshi Ueda is his name…”

“Oh, yes,” an extraterrestrial helper said. “He came, and when we offered to confiscate his camera, he decided to leave the convention.”

So I was all alone. This story was self-immolating. Feeling quite panicky, I said, “This convention is supposed to celebrate the visual arts. How can I do that without a camera?”

His voice turned chilly. “Have you ever attended one of our conventions before?”

“No, and I’m really hoping to bring it to the attention of our readers.”

“We don’t need publicity. If you had been here two years ago, you would have heard how some terrible people took photos of our innocent fans and used computer technology to combine those pictures with pornographic images. Since then, cameras have been forbidden.”

“If you care so much about your fans, you really shouldn’t let them wait in line,” I chided. “You could have a couple more of your workers taking admissions instead of reading catalogs.”

“Which publication did you say you worked for again?” The young man rose, and I realized that maybe it wasn’t padding underneath his kimono. He was as hefty as any American bar bouncer.

“Thank you very much.” I darted off with my program, leaving him to deal with a reporter for the
Hiragana Times.
Good God, I was behaving irrationally. I wasn’t sure whether to chalk it up to lack of sleep, or something more deviant within myself.

The convention hall was shaped like an L and filled with a jumble of brightly colored
manga
displays. Music blaring from speakers overhead sounded as if it came from the animated television shows that the amateur artists used as their inspiration. What a strange world, I marveled, where one could see a grown man dressed like a diapered baby bowing to a shiny silver robot! It was such a shame that no cameras were allowed. I dragged my eyes away from the distractions and began searching for the
Showa Story
table. It should be at the bend of the L, according to the number assigned in the program.

When I saw an attractive young woman in a blue leotard with a flowing silver cape decorated with the planet Mars, I decided it would be clever to tail her—perhaps she was headed for the
Showa Story
table. As I traveled deeper into the convention hall, the crowds grew so thick that I couldn’t even see the tables; all that was visible were flashes of colorful posters hanging behind their tables.

Mars Girl stopped frequently to look at the comic books on various tables. She was shopping around, when I had hoped she would make a beeline to the
Showa Story
table. I realized that we’d turned the corner in the L and completely missed the area where the
Showa Story
table was supposed to be.

Maybe she wasn’t stopping there because she had already seen it. I decided to make an overture. I approached her left ear, which was decorated with a delicate pearl stud earring. How funny: a conventional good-girl earring on an animation fan. Well, it did look as if many of the fans were middle-class young women. I spoke softly into her ear. “Excuse me, have you been to the
Showa Story
table yet?”

She jerked her head away and attempted to dive into the crowd. Normally I wouldn’t have gone after her, but I’d seen her face. Heavy makeup couldn’t disguise the fact that the Mars Girl I’d been chasing was Rika.

“Oh, great! You’re here, too!” Rika started to prattle but stopped when I grabbed her upper arm hard.

“This convention was my assignment. Why are you here? Is Alec here also?”

“No, he is not here. I’m sorry that you’re jealous of our love, Rei-san.”

“Jealous?” I caught my breath. “No. What I feel is embarrassment for you. Did he force you into it? You really could complain.”

“I started the thing,” Rika said coolly. “And he doesn’t know I’m here. I decided at the last minute to come and help you out.”

“At the last minute… dressed like that?” I gestured toward her regalia.

“Costumes are on sale in the next room. Do you want one? I’ve been here for two hours already, so I’ve gotten the layout. I’ve even done some interviews.” She briefly pulled her Palm Pilot out of a handbag she had strapped across her body underneath the cape.

“Did you know that Toshi had to leave because the Comiko organizers don’t allow photographers?”

“I didn’t know,” Rika said. “Oh, my goodness, now I remember something. Some people costumed like hedgehogs were trying to take a camera away from a young man in blue jeans. I didn’t look closely, but now I think about it, the boy had a ponytail, just like our Toshi.”

“This convention is turning out to be a real headache,” I grumbled. I knew that my headache was the result of my nighttime activities. I wasn’t going to tell Rika how poorly I felt. I didn’t believe that her appearance at the convention was spur-of-the-moment. The question was whether she just wanted to take over reporting the story, or if she had another, secret agenda.

“So you’ve been to the
Showa Story
table already?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve got plenty of stuff.”

“Where is it?”

“Right here.” She patted her Palm Pilot.

“Oh, you’re talking about where you’re storing your notes. I was asking about the location of the table.”

“Oh, I haven’t been there yet. It’s supposed to be somewhere in the middle.” She waved her hand vaguely.

“You didn’t try to find it?”

“I was on my way, actually. It’s just that my time has been taken up at the costume booth. I did a lot of interviews there with people who call themselves
cos-play.
Nicky was in
cos-play
when he died.”

Again I didn’t quite believe her. I nodded and said, “Well, I’ll look for the table. If I get close enough to the wall, I may get a glimpse.”  I plunged into the throng, Rika continuing to hover at my side.

“You must be careful, Rei-san. Careful for your health.”

“The poster ahead, six to the right—doesn’t that look like Mars Girl?”

“No, it’s from
Space Boy
. Another series, sorry.”

We probably walked only fifty feet, but because of the flurries of girls in our path, it seemed longer. I thought I blended well with the crowd, since more than half of the fans were high-school and college-age women. Then I remembered that I wasn’t that young anymore. Rika was the one who fit in.

I cast a resentful look over my shoulder, and she smiled back at me.

“We’ll find them, Rei-san. Don’t be nervous.”

I checked my program one final time. The
Showa Story
booth was supposed to be between the tables devoted to
Rainbow Moon
and
Hedgehog.
I knew I’d passed the hedgehogs. I told Rika, and we reversed direction and got back to the two tables in question. The table between them was filled with mounds of both comic books.

“Isn’t
Showa Story
supposed to be here?” I asked.

“Cancellation,” a hedgehog of ambiguous gender said cheerfully. “We’re using the space for extra storage. Kunio told us it was okay.”

“So you see, I didn’t need to find the table at all!” Rika sounded almost delighted. “We’ll go back to field reporting.”

“Good idea,” I said quickly. “Why don’t we meet up in an hour by the press table?”

I waved her off, and when she was out of earshot I leaned in toward the hedgehog.

“What’s Kunio doing at the convention if he isn’t going to have the table?”

“I didn’t ask that,” the hedgehog answered. “I must say, it was a nice surprise to get the extra space. Have you read
Hedgehog?
We’re spoofing
Doraemon.
Change of animal, but all the same fun.”

“How long ago did he talk to you?”

“Just half an hour ago. He said the tragedy with Nicky had led him to cancel the table, and he was pretty annoyed the convention organizers wouldn’t give him his money back.”

“Is he in a Mars Girl costume?”

“No, he is wearing an old Japanese Imperial Navy uniform.” I must have looked shocked, because Hedgehog added, “He said there’s a character in one of the stories… an officer who sends Mars Girl to a house of ill repute.”

“I know that story,” I said.

“If you need to speak to Kunio-san, you can surely ask Seiko Hattori where he is. She’s running around dressed up like a dog.”

“Excuse me, do you have any volume two for sale?” A customer cut into our conversation, and the hedgehog immediately turned away from me.

“We certainly do. Each copy is six hundred yen, but if you buy four, it goes down to five hundred yen apiece.”

I’d heard what I needed to know. I stumbled back into the maelstrom of animation fans. I wondered if any of the interviews Rika had done were with the Showa Story circle members. I doubted it. She had probably spent the time trying on costumes.

***

I checked my program to find the location of the costume shop, and made my way to it through the ninjas and rabbits and schoolgirls. A couple of clothing racks were crammed with costumes. A lot of them looked previously worn, especially the school uniforms, which had rather staggering prices. “Fetishists want those,” the costume shop’s manager told me. She wasn’t in costume, just black leggings and a T-shirt.

“Do you take credit cards?” I hoped that I would be able to charge whichever costume I chose to the
Gaijin Times.

“Cash only. Mmm, which series do you like?”

“I just want something to cover me up. The face, definitely,” I said.

The manager pursed her lips, “I’d prefer if you chose a costume for different reasons. Choose a series that you like. That’s what most people do.”

I pasted on a phony smile. “I like
Showa Story,
but there’s already a Mars Girl walking around and I don’t want to look the same.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, you sold her the costume.”

The manager shook her head. “No, that cannot be. I only brought one Mars Girl costume and it hasn’t sold yet.”

I looked at the costume: a scoop-necked blue unitard. Rika had been wearing a turtleneck costume in the same color. Both costumes had silver capes.

In a way, I was sorry to have discovered that Rika had lied to me about the level of planning that had gone into her appearance at the convention. I’d suspected her, sure. But now I knew for certain that she was deceptive.

“Well, what do you think?” the manager asked, waving the costume in my face.

“Is there a—a mask or something?” I was desperate for cover.

“The men who dress up as Mars Girl have to apply special makeup, sure, but since you are a lady, you don’t have a problem! There is no need for a mask,” the woman said cheerfully.

“I think I’d rather be a cat.” A fuzzy blue cat costume on the rack included a head.

The woman gave a long look at me and shook her head. At last she said, “You don’t really like cats.”

“How do you know that?” I was irate. What kind of a convention was this—animated psychics?

“There’s no crossover between
Kittie Pie
fans and
Showa Story. Showa Story
is a violent, kinky series.
Kittie Pie
is very sweet. You cannot enjoy both types of comic. In my experience with
doujinshi
people, I have never seen it.”

“Well,” I said, switching to English, “I’m a foreigner. We are open-minded.”

The woman looked at me hard as I examined the price tag for the Kittie Pie costume. It was about $150. It might not really be worth fighting to buy such an expensive piece of fluffy acrylic that I’d never wear again.

“Take the Mars Girl costume,” the woman repeated. “It’s half the price of the Kittie Pie outfit, and you’ll be safe in it.”

“What you mean, safe?” A chill ran down my back. Did she know my story?

“It’s a safe buy. It will fit you, and if you really want to change your look, I can give you a discount coupon for hair and makeup at Power Princess Spa. They’ve got a booth here, you know. How about it?” the woman coaxed. “You can try it on behind the curtain.”

“Okay.” I pushed my way behind a gaudy lame curtain. I didn’t have time to dither about. I wanted to get in drag as fast as possible—although would you call it drag if you were masquerading in the same gender?

The unitard was so tight you could practically see through to the rice balls I’d eaten for breakfast. The cape barely brushed over my unfortunately visible panty lines. I was a walking fashion violation, down to my grimy pair of Asics running shoes.

“Suteki!”
The costume saleswoman screeched a compliment that this outfit was cute. I shrugged, not believing her. The only thing I could hope for was salvation through makeup.

It was just my luck that of the two makeup and hair artists working, one was Miss Kumiko.

“Shimura-san, waxing is not possible today.” She looked disapproving when she saw me.

“Actually, I just need makeup.” Embarrassed that a roving group of Pocket Monsters had overheard, I handed her the discount coupon showing what I wanted.

“Oh. By the way, how was your last beauty treatment? Are you still free of excess hair?” Miss Kumiko said loudly.

“Fine. But I’m really in the market for artificial hair. Can we talk about that?”

Grudgingly Miss Kumiko rented me a lavender wig that swooshed all the way to my waist. She painted my face an unearthly shade of pink that camouflaged my bruise completely. When the garish eyeliner and a rosebud mouth were drawn on, I didn’t look like myself anymore. I looked like Mars Girl. No, I realized with a shudder, I looked a lot like dead Nicky dressed up as Mars Girl. My American nose and cheekbones were more akin to his than I’d thought.

I paid 2,500 yen to Miss Kumiko and made a second entrance into the main hall. Things seemed different now that I was in drag. Strangers smiled as if we were friends. One young man and two women friends in Mars Girl outfits stopped to chat. The man complimented me on my shoes, which made me laugh. I asked if they’d seen Seiko in her dog costume or Kunio in his vintage Japanese military costume.

“Well, there’s a guy dressed in a blue uniform in the next room,” the young man said. “I think I saw him examining the different
doujinshi
tables.”

“Was he very good-looking?” I asked.

The young man grinned. “I don’t know; he’s not my type. I guess you could say so.”

That was good enough for me. I wove my way back into the other room, searching desperately for a glimpse of a uniform that wasn’t schoolgirl or schoolboy

As I drew closer, it was clear that the uniformed man was chatting with a fan dressed in a Mars Girl uniform. I couldn’t make out the conversation, but waited for it to end, which it did with the man slipping the girl a business card.
Very smooth, Kunio,
I thought.

As he turned around, I saw in an instant that I’d been wrong. The man wasn’t Kunio. He was Lieutenant Hata, and the blue uniform that I’d assumed was military turned out to be police.