Tokyo Heist (12 page)

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5

W
ith two metal paint boxes banging against my legs, I hurry after my dad. We’re walking from the Grand Prince Hotel to the Yamadas’ West Shinjuku office, through a canyon of silver skyscrapers. “Hey, wait up!” I call. But he doesn’t slow down.

If my life were a painting right now, it would be by Salvador Dalí, with everyday objects warped and weird. It’s my fourth day in Japan, but I’m still in a jet-lagged daze, my days and nights upside down. I’m hungry at the wrong times. And I’m dripping like a Dalí clock. It’s a billion degrees in Tokyo. Walking in the humid air feels like pushing through heavy curtains. I smell different scents with every step: rice, teriyaki sauce, fish, and perfume. They intrigue me until they all mix together, and then it’s like breathing a thick, weird soup.

The asphalt everywhere traps the heat. I envy the Japanese girls in their gauzy skirts and camisole tops. They carry lacy parasols to ward off the sun. They slice the thick air with paddle fans. It’s like I’m in a dream, dressed in all the wrong things—jeans and T-shirts. I bump into people and trip over my feet. I thought I’d fit right in here, but I’m constantly aware of my difference.

On top of jet lag and heat exhaustion, I’m freaking out about the FBI sting. It’s scheduled for seven Monday evening, Seattle time, which is eleven tomorrow morning, Tokyo time. And this undercover operation has to work. Now we know exactly what kind of people the Yamadas are dealing with.

We found out on Saturday. On our first full day in Tokyo, Kenji and Mitsue showed up at our hotel, in a car with a personal driver, to take us sightseeing. At Sens
o
-ji Temple, they seemed to feel relaxed enough on sacred ground to bring us up to speed. Outside the towering red-and-gold pagoda, with incense swirling around us, they told us about their most recent phone conversation with Agent Chang.

“The FBI tracked down the Avis rental car to a Mr. Uchida and Mr. Nishio, both of Osaka, Japan,” Mitsue said. “Agent Chang turned the names over to her associates in the CIB, the Criminal Investigation Bureau, as well as the Organized Crime Bureau. Criminal record databases in Japan are not kept and available the same way they are in your country. However, Uchida and Nishio both turned up in Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department files.”

“They are no strangers to law enforcement,” Kenji added as temple pilgrims dressed in white filed past us, holding candles. “They’ve served jail time in Japan for assault and robbery. They have ties to Fujikawa’s gang.”

“But if Agent Chang traced the guys back to Avis, couldn’t the FBI just nab them that way? I mean, the car rental agency would know where they’re staying.” I couldn’t resist asking this, even as my dad frowned at me. Before we left Seattle, I had promised my dad that I wouldn’t get involved in the case in any way or pester the Yamadas with questions.

“I wish it were so simple,” Kenji said. “The men returned the car the same day that Julian Fleury was assaulted, and checked out of their hotel. Agent Chang presumes that they’ve now rented a car with a different agency, under different names, and changed their accommodations. She has people checking on that. Meanwhile, we must hope they follow their boss’s instructions and appear at the appointed time at
Hammering Man
.”

My dad sighed and shook his head. “I sure I hope the Feds know what they’re doing.”

“Let us turn to happier topics,” Mitsue said quickly. “Violet, would you like to purchase a fortune?” She steered me over to a wall of wooden drawers by the shrine to the bodhisattva Kannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. She showed me how to insert coins into a box, get a numbered bamboo stick, and find the matching number on a wooden drawer. My fortune came out of that drawer. “If it is a bad fortune, you can tie it to a tree outside, and the wind will take it away,” Mitsue told me as I unwrapped it. “Oh, it’s good,” she said, reading over my shoulder.

The fortune was in many languages. Mitsue was right; in the English section, it did say
NO. 83. EXCELLENT FORTUNE.
Beneath that, it said:
TROUBLE AND DISASTER ARE GETTING OFF AS TIME PASSES BY, SIGN OF THE FORTUNE IS OPENING UP TO US. GETTING SUCCESS IN LIFE, YOU ARE REAL BUSY. THE LOST ARTICLE WILL BE FOUND. YOU ARE SOON TO CROSS DARK WATERS, BUT PERSON WITH OPEN HEART AWAIT ON OTHER SIDE.

I wasn’t sure how excellent this fortune was.
Trouble and disaster are getting off
—did that mean I’d have to experience those things first before they went away?
The lost article will be found
—maybe that was the van Gogh portfolio. But the fortune shed no light on who might find it or where. A
person with open heart
waiting sounded pretty good. But
soon to cross dark waters
? Not so much.

Around us, the Buddhist pilgrims began to chant prayers. I hoped some energy from those prayers to the bodhisattva might drift in our direction. I folded the fortune up neatly and placed it in an outer of pocket of my pack. Given the news about those
yakuza
, I figured it would be a good thing to have Kannon watching our backs.

Now, as we walk to the Yamadas’ office building, I catch up with my dad at a crosswalk, panting. “Hey, slow down. These boxes are heavy.”

“Sorry. Hideki is checking in first thing, and I don’t want to be late,” my dad says.

I raise an eyebrow. My dad has never met me on time for anything in his life.

I turn to see if Yoshi’s keeping up, too. Sure enough, he’s there, watching my back in case Kannon, the goddess of mercy, gets lazy. My personal bodyguard has been consistently five feet behind me ever since we arrived at Narita Airport. The moment I leave my hotel room, he pops out of his room across the hall. I don’t even think he takes bathroom breaks. The guy has a bladder of steel. Maybe that’s his superpower.

Other than that, I know almost nothing about Yoshi. He speaks “no Engrish,” as he’s always reminding me, wringing his hands and stepping backward, when I try to strike up conversation. He seems to be in his late twenties. Originally from Hokkaido, in northern Japan. Heavyset, broad-shouldered. Dressed in a suit, hair neatly combed. Pleasant enough to look at. If I drew him as a shape-shifter character, he’d be a man that turns into an ox. Strong and loyal.

His one distinctive quality is that he’s a huge fan of
besu-boru
. On our sightseeing excursions this weekend, he stopped a lot to check ticker signs and newspapers for the latest scores on the baseball teams he follows, both Japanese and American. And he looked thrilled when I presented him with his
omiyage
: a Seattle Mariners cap and a pack of Mariners trading cards. (“Ichiro!” he said with a grin, donning the cap and swinging an imaginary bat.)

Maybe I can teach him some English and draw him out in conversation. As someone in the Yamadas’ inner circle, maybe he knows something about the investigation.

“Hey, Yoshi,” I say, as we cross the street, “what are all these buildings here?”

“Ah, sorry?” He smiles, embarrassed, and waves his hands. “No Engrish.”

I point to a skyscraper across the street. “This. Building. Name?”

He nods. “
Hai.
Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office.” With growing confidence, Yoshi goes on to name other buildings we pass. “Sumitomo Building, very famous. Sompo Japan Building, very famous.” He pauses before a tall building with a dome on top. The glass windows gleam brilliant blue, as if the building had been lifted from the sea and plunked down in West Shinjuku. “Yamada Building.”

“Let me guess. Very famous?”

“Hai!”
Looking pleased, he motions for us to go in.

The revolving door sucks us in
,
whirls us around, and spits us out again
.
Suddenly, we’re standing on a white marble floor studded with marble pillars, in a paradise of air-conditioning. Security guards and receptionists in navy blue suits bow as Yoshi leads us through the lobby, which still smells of recent construction from the building renovation. A tall, white wall rises before us. Two bright lamps hang from each end, like spotlights. A stepladder leans against it.

My dad studies the wall as if it’s a mural that was already painted. Then he presses his hands on the wall. Then his cheek. He closes his eyes.

“Uh, Dad, what are you doing?” A small crowd of office workers forms around us.

“Reading the wall,” he replies, eyes still closed. He moves down the length of it, caressing the surface. Then he opens his eyes. “Someone did a crap job on the primer.”

I am suddenly aware of another silent presence behind me. I turn to find a handsome man in a crisp gray suit standing with arms folded and a trace of a smile. He’s like a younger Kenji—maybe not much younger than my dad. A tall, trim man, with just a couple of silver threads in his styled hair. I clear my throat to alert my dad, who thankfully stops becoming One with the wall.

“Marklund-san?”

“What?” My dad looks startled and stares at the Japanese man. “Oh. Right. That’s me.”

“Welcome. I am Hideki Yamada. It is a great pleasure to meet you.”

So this is Kenji’s nephew, the guy who’s caused my dad so much stress this past week. Hideki’s such a handsome man, it’s actually painful to look directly at him. It’s kind of like looking at the sun. Which is embarrassing to admit, since he’s obviously way too old for me. But he’s the first guy I’ve looked at twice since Edge.

“It is an honor to have you here, Glenn-san,” Hideki says to my dad. His accent is heavier than Kenji’s, but his English just as precise. I think of a beautiful dragon emblazoned on silk, his words curling outward like swirls of smoke. “I am an admirer of your work. I feel confident that your mural will impress our visitors.”

“Right,” says my dad. “Please, call me Glenn. I’m not that big on formality.”

“Certainly. Glenn. As you know, Japan has experienced difficulties in recent times,” Hideki goes on. “The earthquake and tsunami. The economic situation. But Japan is building. Japan will hold a strong position in the world again. The bridge is a powerful symbol of this endeavor.”

“That’s all great. But, about that bridge idea. I was thinking, it’s kind of difficult, design-wise, to—”

“And, excuse me, there is one more thing I must mention. My father, Tomonori Yamada, would have been delighted to know that your painting would transform our lobby. He loved art and greatly admired artists, both high-ranking ones and emerging ones, such as yourself.”

“Right.” My dad smiles back. “Emerging. Well, thank you, I guess.”

I try to figure out how I’d draw Hideki. Frame Game
.
I zoom in while he and my dad talk art. Hideki’s arms are folded tight. The fingers on his left hand twitch. Twice he glances at his Rolex. Unlike Kenji, he’s impatient. Tense and intense.

My dad looks at the gathering crowd. “Just one thing. I can’t work with an audience.”

Hideki blinks rapidly, though does not break his smile. “Oh? What do you mean?”

“Yeah. It makes me nervous. All these people. And distractions can impair my process. Do you think we could get a curtain or a screen or something to put up while I work?”

Hideki nods, still smiling. “Yes, I understand. This can be arranged.” He acts polite, but I get a sense of a cool breeze surrounding him. Or maybe it’s the air-conditioning.

“And the air-conditioning—do you think it could be turned down, or, I don’t know, off?”

Hideki makes a sucking sound through his teeth. “The air-conditioning affects many people, in many offices,” he says. “Actually, I think changing the air may be kind of impossible.”

“Right. But, see, the paints won’t really cooperate in this air. Acrylics can be temperamental.”

I try mental telepathy on my dad.
Stop!
You’re blowing it!
I know from all the manga I’ve read how important hierarchy is in Japan. My dad is violating a social code, asking the second-most powerful man in the company for these personal accommodations.

“I see,” Hideki says through a tightening smile. “I apologize for the space not matching your specifications. I will remedy the situation immediately.”

But now Hideki’s gaze has drifted, past my dad, past me, to something by the door. His face softens. A corner of his mouth turns up.

I turn to follow his gaze. A girl with long, dark brown hair saunters toward us. She wears platform sandals, a tight skirt with black leggings, a green bolero jacket, a plaid newsboy cap, and dangling gold hoop earrings. She swings a yellow patent leather tote bag and chomps a wad of gum. She’s a jarring contrast to the office ladies who are now watching her in wonder.

And she’s the best thing I’ve seen in Japan.

She waves and comes running, a huge grin on her face. “Violet!”

“Reika!” I brush past my dad and an astonished-looking Hideki and throw my arms around the one person in this country who knows me. I’m scared she’ll dissolve like a dream.

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“I
was going to call you today,” I tell her. “I don’t have to start work till tomorrow. How’d you find me here?”