IT WAS two a.m. Helen rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Instead of sheep, she counted the days left in her apartment. It brought her no pleasure. She didn’t want to move to Shinjuku or anywhere else. The idea of leaving was far more disturbing than she’d counted on. She told herself she would make new friends, that she could come back and visit anytime. But she didn’t want new friends, she liked the ones she had—May and Manny, and despite himself, Sam.
There was something else she hadn’t counted on—the desertion of her fantasies. No longer could she lie in bed and script conversations of chance meetings. It just didn’t work anymore, no matter how hard she tried. John’s voice, once a roaring in her heart, was gone. No more could she pray for his repentance, salvation and return. It was startling and a little disappointing to discover how quickly forever could pass.
Helen gave up on sleep and got out of bed. She pulled on jeans, T-shirt and desert boots, stepped out on the balcony and laughed at herself. What the hell am I supposed to think about now? Everyone needs a lullaby. What will mine be?
She’d held on far too long. It was understandable. Like drugs or alcohol, unrequited love had occupied a lot of space. However destructive her obsession might have been, it had been hers and hers alone. It was scary to look inside and see such emptiness now. Vacancy. Rooms for Rent. She felt panicky and alone. At four in the morning, of course, but even in sunlight.
The night was warm enough to go without a sweater. She left the building and walked toward Ueno Station. The streets were deserted beyond the borders of Asakusa and its bars. In an alley near the station, a dozen bums, men and women, were rolled up in futons gray with dirt and grease. Their shoes were placed neatly beside shopping bags containing their possessions.
One of the lumps in the middle of the row groaned and sat up. He shook his head to clear it of bad dreams. Helen leaned against the back wall of a tonkatsu restaurant. She watched as he pulled a bottle of sake from his bedding and drank. His hair was very long and streaked with gray. It was as filthy as his San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt.
Taro reached into the bag, retrieved a pair of glasses with black plastic frames and placed them on his face. It was a face of good bones and intelligence. He looked about fifty but alcoholics aged fast. He was probably closer to thirty-five. No one, least of all Taro, believed he was the victim of a disease. He was simply a failure and an embarrassment. It was his fault.
Helen approached, nodded at a pack of Mild Sevens and asked for a cigarette. She wasn’t afraid. The homeless were passive, they knew their place. And she remembered this one, she’d given him small change many times. Taro held out the pack, grinned, and made a show of lighting her cigarette.
In his world, constricted by disease and circumstance, there were two kinds of people—the dangerous and the indifferent. Helen was the exception. While it was too late for happiness or even hope, she provided a soft exotic distraction. Alcoholics literally died of fright. When she passed by, until her footsteps faded, he forgot to be afraid.
Even still, he became nervous when she gestured that she wanted to sit. He pushed out a corner of his futon uncertainly, embarrassed that she should sit on such a dirty thing. His agitation eased when she sat and began to talk to herself. Everybody he knew talked to the moon, garbage dumpsters, stray cats, to themselves. Her voice was soothing and he closed his eyes. She spoke English, words he’d never learned. But instructed daily in the dialogue of distress, he nodded his head and understood.
“I lied,” she said. “I lied when I told him I wasn’t attracted to him. It was his fault. He wasn’t listening. He should have heard the lie, he should have known I needed more time. What did he expect? That I was just going to toss myself into his arms and we’d lived happily ever after.”
Helen poked Taro in the side with her elbow. “And what’s wrong with friends? That’s a good place to start if you want my opinion.”
The blonde woman was looking straight at him. He heard anxiety in her voice, understood an answer was required. “Gambatte,” he shyly advised, and tried to pacify her with another cigarette.
Helen lit it herself and looked at him as if he was crazy. “Keep trying? Is that all you’ve got to say? What do you think I’ve been doing? And what about him? He’s the one with all the unreasonable expectations; he’s the one who said he doesn’t want to be my friend.”
A woman three bodies away cackled and Taro grunted.
Helen shook her head. “That’s not true. My expectations have been perfectly reasonable. All I wanted was a little time. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. All the homeless were awake now. They leaned on their elbows, their heads turned toward the center watching her intently.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” she complained. “I don’t know why I sat with those guys tonight. Maybe I just felt like it. It had nothing to do with Sam. If you or him or anybody else thinks it did, well it’s all in your imagination.”
Taro held out the sake. Helen made a face and pushed it away. “You’re just taking his side because you’re a man. All right, maybe, just for the sake of argument, let’s say I was trying to make him uncomfortable. Why shouldn’t I? When I told him I was going to move, he didn’t even blink. He could have at least refused and held me to my rental contract.”
“Gambatte,” Taro whispered again, and voices up and down the row echoed his sentiment. Helen ground out the cigarette and muttered, “OK, you win. I’ll try not to expect so much. But this is his last chance. If he doesn’t get with the program this time, I’m outta here.”
Jiro heard a woman’s voice as he strutted past the alley. He saw something impossible out of the corner of his eye and stopped. A gaijin, a good-looking blonde, and she was sitting in the middle of a group of bums talking to herself. He slipped behind a row of trash bins and moved in for a closer look.
Lit by a low-watt bulb hanging over the back door of the restaurant, her face was beautiful. Sitting by her side, so close their shoulders touched, was a ratty boozer with long dirty hair. Jiro watched in amazement as the drunk offered her a cigarette and the blonde actually put it between her lips.
He smiled. It was only to be expected. Everything was going his way. His televised escapade on the expressway had made him a star nationwide. In top form, he’d tied up traffic for six kilometers and kicked the crap out of the TV producer’s editorial assistant as planned. Yesterday, a senior member of the Sumiyoshi-kai, his arm around a well-known politician, had recognized him on the street. He’d hinted that Jiro would soon be inducted into the gang and the cabinet minister had smiled his congratulations.
Jiro struggled to read his watch. He was supposed to meet Nakazono at three a.m. at a construction site two blocks away. It was too dark to see the time but he knew if he didn’t get moving he was going to be late. A month ago the thought of keeping Nakazono waiting would have been terrifying. Tonight, he didn’t give a fuck. If rumors were true, the cop had gotten himself into some serious shit.
Jiro’s ship had finally come in and Nakazono’s was taking on water. He had no intention of letting the cop take him down with him. But Nakazono had promised a million yen for an hour’s work. It was easy money and he wouldn’t have to split it with his gang.
Helen sat quietly, listening to the passage of occasional taxis and the whisper of the homeless. A siren wailed nearby and then began to fade, skirting marshaling yards lined with silver trains silently waiting for morning. She heard the clickity-clack of a woman’s sandals enter the alley.
It wasn’t a woman, just another punk wearing his girlfriend’s house slippers. She didn’t have time to laugh. He stopped and crouched down, his face just three feet away. His trousers, of vinyl or leather, gleamed dully in the weak light. He wore a heavy chrome bracelet on his right wrist; his face was thin and shadowed.
Jiro grinned. Disturbed, dimwitted women excited him. Even more defenseless than most, they made perfect victims. You could do anything to them. Tokyo was a big city and many fell through the cracks. He’d had his share but this would be his first gaijin. She had to be nuts and loose. Nobody normal would sit and talk with these useless drunks.
“Get lost, asshole,” Helen said. There was little anger in her voice, she was tired and still thinking of Sam and May. The punk was typical of his breed, skinny and effeminate. He looked wired and twitchy, with a slight methedrine sheen to his skin. She smelled booze on his breath as Taro flinched by her side and leaned away from the intruder.
Jiro liked the gaijin’s voice. It was low and sexy, not at all coy or shrill like the girls he was accustomed to. Fucking her would be good. Right up against the wall. She would like it like that. All gaijin women were whores and whores weren’t choosy. He pulled out his wallet and flipped a couple of thousand yen into her lap. “Let’s go,” he demanded.
“Go fuck yourself,” Helen snapped, switching to English. She crumpled up the money and threw it at him.
Shock contorted Jiro’s face. “You dumb bitch,” he shouted, and tried to slap her. Helen ducked and jumped to her feet. She slammed her knee in his crotch as he tried to grab her by the throat. His fingers caught in her T-shirt and ripped it open as he fell away gasping.
No one was more surprised than Taro when he came to Helen’s defense. Still tangled in his futon, he stood up and screamed at Jiro. His knees were weak and his head hurt but he wasn’t afraid. He’d been beaten many times before. Physical pain was something he was used to.
The inside fear, the reasonless panic, was far more threatening. If Helen was hurt she might never come back. He would never hear her voice again, never feel safe, if only for a moment. He screamed at Jiro to leave and waved his sake bottle.
The pain in his groin nearly brought Jiro to his knees. He forgot Nakazono and the Sumiyoshi-kai, he forgot about sex. His head seemed to burst with humiliation, pain and rage. Hurt the bitch, hurt her bad. Leave her dead in this fucking alley. But first the wino, do him first. He yanked a metal pipe from his back pocket and brought it down on Taro’s head.
The homeless sounded like frightened angry children. They screamed and cried as Taro tried to ward off the blow. He brought his arms up to protect his head; the pipe shattered the bottle and crashed into his collarbone. He fell away, stunned by the pain.
Helen leaped on Jiro’s back and wrapped her arms around his throat. He yelled as her nails dug deep into his cheeks. She cried out as he tried to shake her off, bit him on the ear as he backed up and crushed her into the wall. She lost her grip and fell to the pavement, unable to scream, unable to breathe. Blood dripped from his torn face, it splattered her cheek. He leaned over with a knife in his hand.
Jiro screamed. His ankle burned. Pain raced up his leg and lodged in his stomach. He turned gray, then white; sweat poured off his face. He stumbled back, trying to face his attacker. Taro slashed at his other Achilles tendon with the broken bottle. Both tendons severed, Jiro’s feet felt like Jell-O. He was already going into shock as he fell forward and landed next to Helen. Blood splashed her face, hands, chest.
A quarter-moon rolled across the sky and stalled over the alley. The night noises faded, all Helen could hear was Jiro whimpering, pleading for help. The homeless, their futons draped over their shoulders like thick shawls, shuffled forward casting long moon-shadows. He cried out again and again as they poked and prodded his body with dirty fingers and toes.
An emaciated woman, young and light as silk, smiled angelically and stroked his forehead. He felt her touch and stopped threatening to return and kill them all. Helen turned away as the woman wrapped a purple cord around his neck. A cloud covered the moon, leaving Jiro to strangle in darkness and Helen to walk home alone, blood drying on her breasts.
The wind was wild and strong, twisting between peaks of buildings five hundred stories high. It forced Nakazono back on his heels, changed direction and tried to push him to his death.
Just as he was beginning to wonder what he was doing perched so dangerously high, a hand crept over his shoulder. He groaned as it stroked his chest. Blood dripped from porcelain fingers. A dark stain spread over his shirt front, ran down his stomach and disappeared into his trousers.
A voice whispered, “Jump.”
Dry cracked lips kissed his neck. A hand wrapped itself around his face and long nails punctured his cheek. The hand pushed his head around, forcing him to look. He screamed.
Elena’s face was gray and bloodless, her lips blue. She laughed as her hair, long and witchy white, tore at his eyes and left him blind. He begged for mercy; she granted his wish, gently shoving him off the ledge. He fell willingly, praying he would hit bottom soon.
Lt. Nakazono jerked awake. His hands were shaking, his face was drenched with sweat. He wiped it away but a sense of impending doom was harder to remove. Deep down and growing, it was out of reach. He groaned and checked his watch. It was nearly four. He’d slept for an hour. The cab of the dump truck was cramped. His back hurt and his legs were stiff. He swore softly. Jiro had stood him up. The punk would pay for it but that wouldn’t solve his immediate problem.
Nakazono was an urban creature and hadn’t driven in years. He wasn’t sure he remembered how. On the rare occasions a car was required, a uniformed patrolman served as chauffeur. Steering a tiny Honda through the narrow streets would be a challenge. Negotiating the same streets in a truck the size of a small house would be a miracle.
If he could get it started. A confusing array of levers and buttons mocked him. It took ten minutes of experimentation but Nakazono got the truck off the construction site with only minor damage. He was lucky it was early morning. If there had been any traffic at all he wouldn’t have made it half a block. As it was, he sideswiped three parked cars and flattened a row of bicycles before he got the hang of it.
One of the bikes was still caught under the frame and a bumper clipped from a luxury sedan dragged behind the truck. Nakazono swerved to miss a body in the middle of the street as he turned off Asakusadori. The drunk slept on, undisturbed by the scream of tearing metal and sparks exploding from the undercarriage.
The cop considered stopping and trying to free the bumper and the bike but was afraid he wouldn’t get the truck started again. He blundered ahead, praying he wouldn’t run into one of his own patrolmen. While stupid and lazy, even those fools might notice something was amiss. An explanation would be difficult.
He managed to stop the truck two blocks from the Crazy Noise without killing the engine. The club was dark. Karaoke music seeped out of a handful of upstairs bars but the street was empty. He fought with the shift lever. The gears screamed, a trio of temple cats wailed in sympathy and a light went on above the bicycle shop.
Nakazono grinned and pulled a ski mask over his head. If someone witnessed the attack so much the better. It would teach the neighborhood pricks a well-deserved lesson. He patted the revolver heavy in his jacket and grunted, almost sad there would be no chance to use it. No one would get in his way, there weren’t any heroes left these days.
The dump truck charged down the street spewing thick clouds of black exhaust. Leaning over the wheel, roaring over the engine, the cop cursed his enemies. He filled his head with images of yakuza torn and mutilated; he imagined Jiro begging for mercy. Anything to keep from thinking of Sam, May and their bitch of a mother. He wasn’t sure if she could read his thoughts but he didn’t want to take a chance. The witch was a tenacious defender of her brood and could pop up anywhere at any time.
With only a hundred yards to go, he remembered a crucial detail. Intimidation was an art. There was a right way and a wrong way to ram a shop or home with a dump truck. The pros backed into the target to avoid injury to themselves. The amateurs hit it head-on and were often found in the morning impaled on the steering column or lying slashed to ribbons on the hood of the truck.
Nakazono’s foot slipped from the accelerator and the truck began to slow. He moaned in frustration and pounded the dash. The truck rolled to a stop fifty yards from the front door of the club. He lowered his head onto the steering wheel and tried to compose himself. It’s OK. All I gotta do is turn this fucker around. It’ll only take a second. I just need to catch my breath.
“Hey, you!”
Nakazono jerked. Someone was running toward the truck. He cursed and fumbled for the door handle. A dog barked, the cats resumed their screeching and shades flapped up in the White Rose Hotel. A shadow ran out of the darkness and took shape under a street light.
His eyes went wide and locked open in terror. His heart froze and he pissed his pants. There was blood on her face and hands. Angry white hair streamed far behind. She grew larger and larger and raised her bloody hands. His foot slipped off the brake and hit the accelerator. The dump truck leaped forward. It swerved out of control, missed the front of the Crazy Noise and crashed into a corner of the building.
Nakazono’s face bounced off the steering wheel. He felt something wet run down the inside of his ski mask and shook his head, trying to clear a roaring in his ears.
The witch shouting, the witch running. Closer and closer. He grabbed the door handle again. It wouldn’t budge; the impact had jammed the door shut.
Nakazono was halfway out the window when she caught up with him.
“You bastard,” Helen screamed, her fingers flying at his face, trying to rip off the mask. He lashed out with a fist, driving her back, and tumbled out the window to the pavement six-feet below.
Helen should have ran for help or simply ran. Instead she leaped on top of the cop as he lay stunned face down in the gutter. Again, she grabbed for his mask. He screamed, bucked her off, and scrambled to his feet.
Nakazono was shaking with shock and terror as he tried to get away. Her screams were endless, like curses cast on the wind. Unable to think, barely able to walk, he staggered back and fell into the wall of the Crazy Noise.
The witch was on him in an instant, crawling across the pavement, clutching at his legs with bloody hands. He tried to run, to shake her off. Still she held on, still she wailed.
There was no more time. He pulled out his revolver and placed the muzzle against the top of her head. Could a police-issue bullet kill a witch? He didn’t think so but he had nothing to lose. If it didn’t kill her it might at least shut her up for awhile. He pulled the trigger and the gun jumped in his hand.
