THE BELLS were ringing, the July sun lingered, over Asakusa heated breathless. In deep shadow, one million, two million—more—faces in street. Cops everywhere, shouted, directed, sweated, manned the barricades. The crowd shuffled, not enough room to lift its feet.
Casual—jeans and T-shirts, shorts. Girly-men (salaryboys) in suits here and there, and there—yukata tarts in blue and white. Tottering on wooden geta, sipping beer from cans. Wet lipstick laughs tagged after perty breasts pushing rude against the flow.
Across the street, a gaijin, dressed the same, no lipstick. Clackety-clack awkward on geta and a look-at-me grin. Head above the crowd—a fresh-off-the-boat sucker with a paper fan stuck in his obi.
Islands in the sea. Mothers held children’s hands on blankets laid down hours before. They ordered men off to buy yakitori and Cokes from vendors. Past dusk now, almost dark. They sighed as the first rocket exploded overhead—a slash and a clap. The kids wiggled their fingers at the purple sky. Delighted, the sky grew expansive, blushing gold, faster than light. The kids squealed as their fathers returned, grins on their faces, beers in their hands.
On the river, stout hawsers tied barges to banks. On board, venerated wizards eyed shifty-looking apprentices. The wizards sniffed approvingly, cordite and smoke; they glared at the apprentices racing to reload big-mouth mortars.
Helen waited at the top of the steps leading to the temple’s main hall. It bulked large behind her, rising in sharp outline under cold spotlight. Full dark now, she watched rockets light the sky. On the edges, where the spots could not reach, the temple was blood-red and black. To her right, the five-story pagoda loomed above an unruly mass of temple-goers. They lapped over the steps, pushed past Helen and grabbed at the bell rope.
She held her ground with difficulty, growing angry at the pushing and at herself. Crazy to agree, to meet the cop—what cop? She’d never heard of him. And tonight of all nights. A waste of time, nothing good would come of this. Sam and May had been out shopping—she’d left a note. They would worry. Stupid idea, stupid, stupid.
A college boy banged her, an old woman stepped on her toes. She shoved them away and started down the steps. Supposed to meet Sam. If she hurried there might be time.
A hand on her shoulder, urged her around, not gently. She flinched from the craziest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Well, what are you two waiting for? I thought you wanted to watch the fireworks by yourselves,” Sam asked.
Kiyomi and May stood half-in, half-out the door. “But what about Helen?” May asked.
“I already told you. I’m going to meet her right now.”
“Why do look so worried?”
“I’m not worried. Everything’s fine. Go have fun.”
Kiyomi crossed her arms over her chest and May shook her head. “No, something’s wrong and we’re going with you.”
Sam had to get to the temple and he didn’t have time to argue. He nodded to Manny sitting, listening, in a booth. “Keep and eye on these two. Make sure they don’t follow me.”
Despite his reassurances, Sam was worried. Somebody had to be, she wasn’t afraid of anything. The note, cryptic, just a few words—the temple, a cop, his mother. He moved slowly through the crowd, pushing when pushed, shoving when shoved.
The sky was crashing, the temple crowd thinning, drawn to the river for the fireworks. He checked the front, the back, the sides. No Helen. Retracing his steps, to Mr. Donuts, her meeting place. Back in the crowd, crushed front and back.
A fist in the spine—impatient knuckles, sharp, designed to hurt. Sam turned and dropped a middle-aged man where he stood. Matsuya department store. Across the street, the donut shop. Again no Helen, not inside, not on the sidewalk. He wedged himself into a slice of space and leaned against the wall. Kids laughing...a noisy sky...too humid...sweat slid down his face...where the hell is she?
A little resistance. He stuck the gun in her back; she stared at his eyes, and then again. Nakazono and not, whoever. He promised to shoot and would. No doubt, no resistance.
“Witch, witch,” he whispered. She was wearing jeans. Convenient for him. Just grab the belt, push and pull. Helen went this way, Helen went that way. Too hot, sweat, with Nakazono holding on, dragging him through the crowd like a caboose. The sky looked cool blue and black, willows weeping silver. She wanted reach out, to fly.
A flash, A-bomb bright, lit the crowd. Her face grim, locked up tight. Only the eyes moved, seeking, begging. And the gun, visible. A man saw her plea, a woman the gun—and looked away. Didn’t see, didn’t want to see. Too dark, again, to see.
Clearly mad, mad as a hatter. Whispering whispering—witch bitch. Gonna fuck ya, gona kill ya. And on and on and on. The words hurt her ears, made her knees weak. What he was going to do—to her, to Sam, to people she’d never heard of.
She looked around. Two million witnesses. Nakazono read her mind. “Go ahead, scream.” His gun pressed hard into her kidneys. “What are ya waiting for? Go ahead, you bitch. Shit, there ain’t even enough room to fall. I’ll be gone before you hit the ground.”
“Over there,” he nodded at a subway entrance. “Get going.”
Steps leading to the underground were jammed up. Arriving trains dumped thousands of passengers into the crowd. They poured out the exit, shouting and pushing. Helen hesitated, Nakazono shoved. She tried to buck the tide and was pushed back. Just yards away, a cop’s whistle. He waved her off—no departing trains, not for hours. Nakazono stabbed the gun into her back, yanked her into the center of the street. Bodies bounced off, swirled past. A rooftop drum boomed as a wavering sheet, magenta and smoke-gray, tumbled down and curtained the night. Star shells pierced the curtain and burst silver-blue.
Helen glared at Nakazono. “Now what, asshole?”
“It was your idea,” he growled, looking at her. No, through her.
Her idea? What the fuck? His eerie little eyes bounced around in his head. No, not her idea, somebody else’s. He let go of the belt and pulled her closer, an arm wrapped around her waist. In the other hand, the gun, still in her back.
She held her breath. It was all coming down, right now, right here in the middle of the street. She could feel his panic, his muscles jumping in his chest, his thighs twitching. He whispered and talked and argued and moaned. Yeah, shit, he was going to do it, right now, shoot and run. His fear, it stank; it fell on her neck like acid rain.
Back against the wall, Sam scanned the faces. He drank a beer, wanted another. Nervous. Not like Helen, not at all. Dependable. A cop? Cops. Nakazono unaccounted for, still out there.
On the river, on the barges, the wizards warmed to their task. Waving their arms, casting their spells. A rocket, larger than the rest, streaked from a barge. A wizard shrieked in anger, an apprentice cringed. The rocket twisted out of control. The sky recoiled, trying to get out of the way; the crowd held its breath. Trailing sparks yards wide, it fell past a block of buildings and exploded over the street. Heads thrown back, mouths agape, the crowd stared into a metal-white flash.
And there she was, her face pale in rocket relief. And fuck, Nakazono, too. Pushing her down a side street leading to the river. Sam jumped forward, banged into a group of kids and screamed.
Sam! Helen turned, trying to spot him in the crowd. Impossible, just a mass of faces, smiling, laughing, having fun.
“Move, witch!” Nakazono hit her in the side of the head with the gun. She screamed Sam’s name and dug in her heels. If he was going to shoot, let him, she was going no further. He hit her again, harder. She sagged in his arms, unconscious.
The plan was unraveling. Nakazono hit her again in frustration. Obscenities, objections, complaints poured from his mouth. The crowd fell away. He ran down the street, dragging Helen until he was blocked by the river.
Looking left, looking right. People shouting for help, gawking, pointing; their faces reflected the fiery sky. He heard a siren; it was loud red and painful.
Sam shouted and ran, knocking people to the ground. He closed the distance to twenty yards. Helen’s blonde hair flickered in the darkness. He burst through the crowd at the base of Azumabashi bridge. Helen and Nakazono were gone.
“Where?” he screamed into the face of teenage boy. The kid pointed under the bridge. “Down there.”
Nakazono shoved Helen through a gate and dragged her down a steep flight of stairs leading to the water. Under the bridge, tied to steel camels, floated Edo-style excursion boats. Too big, too slow. Nakazono heard powerful engines rumble, smelled diesel. He looked again. Nested outboard, a pair of red and white fireboats, engines running. Helen groaned as he crossed the last excursion boat. The firemen looked up with smiles on their faces and beers in their hands. Nakazono fired over their heads and the firemen went over the side, swimming for their lives.
Gunshots, mere pops, beneath rockets thundering. Sam skidded through the gate and took the stairs three at a time. In the water—heads bobbing, voices shouting, telling him to stop. He let go the bow and stern lines and jumped into the second fireboat. Twin screws, very fast. The boat leaped from under the bridge. Nakazono was three hundred yards ahead, no running lights, charging up river. Sam cursed and slammed the throttles forward.
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