The fuck you do it for, Harry?
Harry Sweeney did not open his eyes, Harry Sweeney did not turn away from the wall. He lay on the cot in the cell and he waited for the voices to stop. For the cell door to close again, for the key to turn in the lock again. For the boots to march away again, away back down the corridor again, until the next time. Until the next time he heard the boots down the corridor, heard the key turn in the lock, the cell door open, and the voices start up again –
Come on, Harry, talk to us, tell us what happened.
Maybe the dumb fuck likes it in here.
The next time, the third time, with his eyes closed, his face to the wall, until the next time, the fourth time, he heard the boots, he heard the key, he heard the door, he heard the voices, the same fucking voices, the same fucking questions, over and over, and he opened his eyes, he turned his face from the wall, and he saw the two of them, standing over him, looking down on him. The Military Police. The one with the smile and the one with the scowl, always the same, the same fucking way, and Harry Sweeney said, Fuck you twice.
Hey, hey, don’t make it worse than it need be, Harry, said the one with the smile. Delinquency Report is all it is.
Harry Sweeney shook his head: A Delinquency Report, yeah? For not taking any crap from an insolent little Jap?
Hell, you’re just a regular patriot, is what you are, Sweeney, said the one with the scowl. Drink all day and fight all night, yeah? Fuck, way you beat that Jap kid up, they should be giving you a medal, that what you think?
I barely fucking touched the kid.
You even remember, Harry?
It was a slap on the cheek. It was nothing.
Not the goddamn way he looks, Sweeney, not the fucking way he tells it either. What’s left of his mouth.
Harry Sweeney shook his head again: That’s bullshit.
Look, Harry, said the one with the smile. Just give us your statement, you’re out of here. We file the report, it goes up the chain. Be a rap on the knuckles is all.
Yeah, just better pray your knuckles have healed by then, champ, said the one with the scowl.
Harry Sweeney looked down at his hands, looked down at his knuckles, black and purple, scabbed and swollen.
Yeah, said the scowl again. You take a good look at them knuckles of yours, Sweeney. Might want to think again about that slap on the cheek you was telling us about.
Harry Sweeney stared down at his knuckles and Harry Sweeney shook his head: I didn’t mean to …
We know, said the smile, crouching down beside Harry Sweeney. We know you didn’t, Harry.
In the cell, on the cot, Harry Sweeney raised his hands, he raised his knuckles, black and purple, bloody and swollen. He held them up to his face, held them up to his eyes, looking at them, staring at them, black and purple, bloody and swollen, turning them over, turning them back, then he buried his face in his hands, buried his eyes in his hands, rocking back and forward, on the cot, in the cell, the tears from his eyes falling into his hands, his tears falling through his knuckles, black and purple, bloody and swollen, rocking back and forward, saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …
Night turned to day, turned to night, turned to day, how many nights, how many days, he did not know, he could not tell. But with a copy of his statement and with the bandages around his knuckles, under the canopy, then through the doors, Harry Sweeney walked into the Yaesu Hotel and across the lobby. He saw Satō-san behind the front desk, saw him look away, and he saw all the other hotel staff, saw them all look away. Harry Sweeney almost stopped, he almost spoke. But Harry Sweeney did not stop, he did not speak. Harry Sweeney kept on walking through the lobby, toward the elevators. But Harry Sweeney did not take an elevator, he took the stairs instead. Four flights up to his floor, the fourth floor, then down the corridor, toward the elevators. Before the elevators on the fourth floor, Harry Sweeney stopped, and before the wall opposite the elevators, Harry Sweeney swallowed, then blinked. He saw the holes in the wall, he saw the stains down the wall, and swallowing again and blinking again, he reached out to the holes and the stains, and he touched the holes and the stains. His fingers in the holes, his fingers down the stains, the bandages around his knuckles, the bandages around his wrists, Harry Sweeney struggled to breathe, to hold back his tears, to turn away from the holes, away from the stains, and to walk down the corridor, down to his room. Before his room, before its door, Harry Sweeney took out his key, put the key in the lock, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door to his room. He stepped inside his room, picked up two letters from the floor. He closed the door, put the letters on the desk. He crossed the room and sat down on the bed. He took off his shoes, then stood back up. He took off his jacket, his shirt, and his pants. He walked over to the washstand and turned on the faucets. He took off his watch, with its cracked face, with its stopped hands, and placed it between the faucets. He unwound the bandage around his left knuckles, he unwound the bandage around his right knuckles. He dropped them on the floor. He unhooked the safety pin that secured the bandage on his left wrist, he unhooked the safety pin that secured the bandage on his right wrist. He dropped them on the floor. He unwound the bandage on his left wrist, he unwound the bandage from his right wrist. He dropped them on the floor and he turned off the faucets. He put his knuckles and his wrists into the basin and the water, he soaked his knuckles and his wrists in the water in the basin. He watched the water wash away the blood, he felt the water cleanse his wounds. He nudged out the stopper, he watched the water drain from the basin, from around his wrists, from between his knuckles. He lifted his hands from the basin, he picked up a towel from the floor. He dried his knuckles on the towel, he dried his wrists on the towel. He folded the towel, he hung it on the rail. He walked over to the desk, he sat down at the desk. He stared down at the two envelopes on the top of the desk: the one posted from America, with his name and the address of the hotel, the other hand-delivered, with just his name and his room number. He picked up the second envelope and he opened the second envelope. He took out a single folded piece of paper, he unfolded the single piece of paper. He read the single sentence on the single piece of paper: It’s closing time, but Zed Unit are not to be blamed for nothing. He screwed up the piece of paper, screwed up the single sentence. He threw it on the floor, he picked up the first envelope. He opened the envelope, he took out the many folded pieces of paper. He unfolded the many pieces of paper, he scanned the many pieces of paper. Their many sentences, their many words: Betrayal. Deceit. Judas. Lust. Marriage. My religion. You traitor. Will never give up. Give you a divorce. I know what you are like, I know who you are. I forgive you, Harry. Come home, Harry. Please just come home. He put down the many pages, with their many sentences, their many words, put them on the desk before him. Then Harry Sweeney sat forward with his elbows and his arms on the desk, and Harry Sweeney looked down at his wrists and his knuckles. The scars on his wrists, the scabs on his knuckles. Then Harry Sweeney raised his hands toward his face, and Harry Sweeney brought his palms together. And he bowed his head, and he closed his eyes, and he said, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner …
Breaks my heart, Harry, said Colonel Pullman. I can’t tell you how much it hurts me, son, to see you like this, in this kind of mess. Hell, you’re one of the best damned officers I’ve got.
Back on the fourth floor of the NYK building, back in the office of Colonel Pullman, stood before his desk, with his head bowed again, Harry Sweeney said, I’m sorry, sir.
You and me both, son, sighed Colonel Pullman. He put down the Letter of Resignation, then he picked up the Delinquency Report again. He sighed again, looked across his desk again, and said, It’s not just this then, Harry?
Harry Sweeney looked up at Colonel Pullman, at the Delinquency Report in his hands, and shook his head and said, Just think that’s a sign, sir, a sign it’s time.
Sign you been working too hard, son, is all I think it is, said Colonel Pullman, waving the Delinquency Report across his desk at Harry Sweeney. Hell, I’ve had Chief Evans, Bill Betz, even goddamn Toda in here, all telling me how you’ve not been sleeping, been pulling twenty-four-hour shifts …
Harry Sweeney looked down at his hands, at the scabs on his knuckles, and he shook his head again: Sir …
Now I know everybody’s got themselves all twisted up over this whole damned Shimoyama business, and I was there, don’t forget, I was in the room, son, when old General Willoughby tore you a new one. And I felt for you, Harry, I really did, son. Because I know you’re a conscientious officer, a diligent detective, Harry, and so I know you’re upset, you’re frustrated, you have a few too many drinks and …
Harry Sweeney shook his head: Sir …
Hold on there, son, said Colonel Pullman. Now I’m not saying it’s nothing. It’s not. And I know you know it’s not nothing, Harry, I can see that. But it’s a severe reprimand, is what it is, not a goddamn resignation, son.
Sir, please, I’ve thought …
Hear me out, Harry, said Colonel Pullman, putting down the Delinquency Report again. Because you leave now, leave like this, with this on your file, this on your record, then what you going to do, son, where you going to go? What police force back home is going to take you, Harry? Not a goddamn one is who, son, not with this on your record, you know that, Harry. But see, this Occupation’s already winding down. Two, three years tops, we’ll all be gone. And thank God, son. Leave them to get the hell on with it with themselves, is what I say, Harry, it’s their goddamn country. So all you need to do is sit tight, see out your time, son, stay out of trouble, away from the drink, Harry, then you’re leaving with a clean record of service and a glowing letter of commendation from me, that’s what I’ll be giving you, son, that’s what you’ll be leaving with, Harry. Then you’re walking into any goddamn force in the land, any goddamn force you choose, son. Maybe even being some sweet little sheriff in some sweet little town, Harry. Imagine that, son, how sweet would that be, right, Harry?
Harry Sweeney looked up from the scabs on his knuckles, and he stared across the desk at Colonel Pullman, and he shook his head again and said, I’m sorry, sir.
Look, son, said Colonel Pullman, picking up the Letter of Resignation again, holding it out across the desk toward Harry Sweeney. You’re upset, Harry, I know that, I can see that, son. But maybe you’re not thinking straight, or maybe you are. Either way, son, I can’t let you just walk out of here, resign with immediate effect. Don’t work like that, Harry, you know that. You got to give me notice so I can get you replaced, son. But here’s what I’ll do, Harry: I’ll note down what you said, and the date that you said it, then you take back this letter and you put it in your pocket. Then come the end of the month, you come back in here, you come back to me, then you tell me what you’re thinking, and if your thinking’s still the same, same as in that letter, son. You got that, got that straight, Harry?
And Harry Sweeney looked at Colonel Pullman, at the letter in his hands, and Harry Sweeney nodded.
Very good then. Dismissed.
Harry Sweeney closed the door behind him and started to walk away, down the corridor. He stopped, turned, and walked back toward the door. He stopped before the door to Colonel Pullman’s office, his right hand in a fist, his knuckles aching. He raised his fist, his knuckles to knock on the door again, but stopped again, lowered his knuckles, his fist, and his hand again, swallowed and turned away again, away from the door again, and he walked back down the corridor, back to Room 432 of the Public Safety Division. The office was quiet, the blackboards were gone, Betz and Toda, too; no sign of George or Dan; only Sonoko, at a desk, with her eyes down, her fingers moving, reading through reports, typing out translations. Harry Sweeney walked across the office, between the furniture, up to her desk, and said, Hey, where is everyone, Sonoko?
Oh, cried Sonoko, jumping back from the keys of her typewriter, her hand to her heart. I’m sorry, sir –
No, I’m sorry. I gave you a fright.
Excuse me, said Sonoko, flapping her hands, catching her breath. I wasn’t expecting you, sir. How are you, sir? I hope you are feeling better now, sir?
Harry Sweeney smiled: I hope so, too. Thank you.
I think there’s something going around, sir, said Sonoko. Mister Toda’s been ill, too, you know, sir.
Harry Sweeney nodded: He still ill?
No, no, sir. He should be back quite soon. I think he just went down to the canteen, sir.
And Chief Evans and Mister Betz?
Well, I believe Chief Evans is in a meeting with the Public Prosecutor, sir, said Sonoko. But I’m afraid I’m not sure where Mister Betz is, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Would you like me to try and find out, sir?
Harry Sweeney smiled again: No, don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure he’ll turn up.
Sonoko looked at Harry Sweeney and smiled and said, Is there anything I can do for you, sir? Can I get you something to drink, sir? Some water, sir, some coffee, sir?
That’s very kind of you, said Harry Sweeney. Some coffee would be good, thank you.
Very good, sir, said Sonoko, smiling broadly, springing up from her chair. Coffee coming right up, sir!
Thank you, sweetheart, said Harry Sweeney again, smiling back, then turning away, still smiling as he walked over to his own desk, still smiling as he sat down in his chair, smiling until he saw the police reports and the daily newspapers all piled up on his desk, until he saw the list of names and numbers, the telephone calls to be returned, if he returned, returned to his desk. Harry Sweeney put the list of names and numbers to one side. He stood back up, walked over to open the window, then back to his desk. He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, then sat back down at his desk. He picked up the pile of newspapers, turned them over to start from the bottom of the pile, then he began to flick through them, one by one, one after another, scanning the headlines: POLICE CONTINUE TO PROBE DEATH OF SHIMOYAMA / NO DIRECT CLUE FOUND BY POLICE / POLICE CHECKING MYSTERIOUS CALL RECEIVED BY NRWU / STOLEN CAR RECOVERED / SHIMOYAMA DEATH REMAINS A MYSTERY / WAS RAILWAYS GOVERNOR MURDERED OR DID HE DIE BY HIS OWN HANDS? – NO SUFFICIENT PROOF TO DECIDE EITHER WAY, SAYS CHIEF PROSECUTOR / SHIMOYAMA DEATH STILL A MYSTERY / MYSTERY WRITERS OF JAPAN MEET: ROMAN KURODA VOWS TO CRACK “JAPANESE LINDBERGH CASE” / NO DIRECT CLUE FOUND BY POLICE YET / TOOK OUT IMPORTANT PAPERS FROM CHIYODA BANK SAFE / EYEGLASSES, NECKTIE, CIGARETTE CASE STILL MISSING / AUTOPSY FINDINGS CALLED INTO QUESTION – TIME OF DEATH UNCERTAIN / PROBE INTO SHIMOYAMA CASE EXTENDED GEOGRAPHICALLY / MANY FACTORS TENDING TO SUPPORT SHIMOYAMA SUICIDE THEORY UNEARTHED / GOV’T MAY OFFER ONE MILLION YEN FOR SHIMOYAMA CASE CLUE / CHIEF KITA DECLARES MUD FOUND ON SHOES IMPORTANT CLUE: IDENTICAL TO SAMPLES FROM THE VICINITY / CHIEF CABINET SECRETARY REBUKES KITA: NO DEFINITE PROOF EARTH ON SHOES IDENTICAL TO PLACE OF TRAGEDY / CHIEF PROSECUTOR ASKS POLICE TO INVESTIGATE SHIMOYAMA CASE ON ASSUMPTION OF HOMICIDE / TEAHOUSE PROPRIETRESS COMES INTO LIMELIGHT …
Harry Sweeney leaned back in his chair, loosened his tie, undid his collar button, then sat forward at his desk again. He put the pile of newspapers to one side, picked up the pile of police reports, turned them over to start from the bottom, then began to flick through them, one by one, one after another, scanning the sentences: There have been no firm developments in the case / Investigations continue into clues reported earlier / Press reports of “Mysterious telephone calls” are to be regarded as journalistic license / Shimoyama was in the habit of smoking “Chikari” cigarettes and, on occasion, a briar pipe; none of these objects or his lighter were found at the scene / He did speak of needing to purchase a wedding present with an employee of the RR prior to his disappearance / Checks are ongoing as to whether Shimoyama had any insurance policy, amount involved, beneficiaries, and whether recently acquired / There have been no definite developments in the case at this time / Checks are being made on trains which passed over Shimoyama’s body in search for missing personal items such as cigarette lighter, Eversharp pen, necktie clip, and spectacles / Translation of letter received by Chief Inspector Kanehara of the MPD on 10 July 1949, mailed in plain envelope at the Tokyo Central Post Office, Marunouchi, on 7 July 1949, written on obsolete report form used by former Imperial Government offices: Mr. Shimoyama met Heaven’s Justice. Though he dismissed 150,000 employees, it appeared he had no pity for them. It was a brutal act conducted for the reconstruction of Japan. It is said that those who lost their jobs will be hired by civilian companies, but this is lies and propaganda. More than half of the employees of the Toshiba Company were already dismissed into poverty and starvation. Of course, this brutal act was not done by Mr. Shimoyama alone. There will be another Shimoyama, there will be more victims. But remember: Heaven sympathizes with the Poor. Accordingly, even MacArthur will be killed by those he abandoned to poverty and starvation. You may be one of the victims, too. So stop your investigation work. No, do your investigation work as it is your duty. But remember: the efforts of Mr. Kanehara will be for naught / Hairs found on pillow at Suehiro inn used by guest suspected to be Shimoyama are being checked / 11.30 pm, July 5th, a man was observed leaning against a telephone pole in front of Suehiro inn / In response to PSD query, a check showed that both the top two buttons on Shimoyama’s shirt and undershirt were still attached to the cloth, while the remaining buttons had been torn off. This indicates quite conclusively to MPD that Shimoyama was not wearing a necktie at the time of the train incident and that the two top buttons were open / Correction: Shimoyama had been in possession of a cigarette holder, not a pipe as previously reported; this holder is of wood, brown, with a black stem. This item has not been found to date / The stolen car, recovered in the vicinity of Fukagawa, has been checked for prints. One found on rear-vision mirror. This has not been checked with Shimoyama print or any suspect as yet / The search at the scene of the disaster has now been extended to nearby drains and fields / Checks continue on the railway stations at Ueno, Asakusa and Kita-Senju for trace of Shimoyama / Report on identification of handwriting on anonymous letter received by MPD: expert TAHARA believes handwriting is that of young man with average schooling and education. Attempt was made on first page to disguise handwriting but was discarded in latter parts. Ordinary writing ink was used with brush. Writing on envelope same as letter / In response to GHQ suggestion on investigation procedure, preliminary check made with all police boxes in the immediate vicinity as to union members residing in area revealed: 17 current members of the RR union, 2 formerly employed by RR, and 5 suspected Communists, 1 definitely. Area to be checked will be expanded as investigation continues / No new facts which would confirm murder theory have been uncovered / Reinvestigation of alibi of Mrs. Nobu MORISHITA in progress …
One by one, Harry Sweeney went through the reports, not noticing Sonoko put down the cup of coffee on his desk, one after another, not noticing the cup of coffee go cold, one by one, Harry Sweeney not noticing Susumu Toda come back into the office, one after another, not hearing Susumu Toda speak, one by one, one after another, not noticing anything, not hearing anything, until Harry Sweeney had finished going through the reports, until Harry Sweeney heard Susumu Toda click his fingers and say again, Hey! Harry –
Hey, said Harry Sweeney, looking up from the reports, leaning back in his chair again, stretching and yawning. Then he turned to look up at Susumu Toda and said, How you doing, Susumu? You feeling better?
I’m okay, said Susumu Toda. But how you doing?
Not bad. Better, thanks.
You seen the Chief yet?
No, not yet. Just Colonel Pullman.
How’d that go, asked Susumu Toda. Okay?
Harry Sweeney smiled: Here I am.
Right, said Susumu Toda, glancing at Harry Sweeney’s hands, looking away from Harry Sweeney’s knuckles. Right.
Harry Sweeney sat forward in his chair again, his hands in his lap, under his desk, and said, Where’s Bill?
Think he’s with the Second Investigative Division, said Susumu Toda. The Chief’s got him liaising with them.
Thought they were off the case?
For a day, laughed Toda. But I guess the General put some pressure on Chief Kita, so Kita sent them back up there, looking for union members and Reds in the area.
Harry Sweeney nodded: Yeah, I saw that in the reports. They found anything then, anything concrete?
Well, surprise, surprise, they’ve turned up some Railroad employees, all union members, couple of them possibly Commies, like you saw. But nothing to connect them to Shimoyama, not so far, last I heard.
But Bill’s up there now?
I guess so, nodded Toda. Least that’s where he told the Chief he was going. See, there’s these Koreans as well.
Harry Sweeney turned in his chair, turned to look up at Susumu Toda, to look up and ask, What Koreans?
Hang on, said Susumu Toda. He walked over to Sonoko’s desk, spoke with Sonoko, took a piece of paper from the top of the pile of papers on her desk, then he walked back over to Harry Sweeney and said, Here –
Harry Sweeney took the piece of paper from Susumu Toda. He looked down at the translation of the most recent police report and read: At approximately 2200 hours, 5 July 1949, five Koreans stopped at a Japanese barbecue stand at Ayase station on the Jōban train line (lower track, approximately 10 minutes’ walk to the scene where Shimoyama’s body was found), where they drank 15 glasses of Japanese liquor (similar to gin). According to information received, the Koreans remained there until 2345 hours, when they were observed taking the last train from the station at 2350 hours. Prior to the Koreans leaving, two of the Koreans had gone outside at approximately 2330 hours and were gone for what seemed to be a short while and then returned. This matter needs to be checked into more carefully as there may well be a discrepancy in the time when the two Koreans left the barbecue stand and when they returned.
It only came in last night, said Susumu Toda. But Bill seemed pretty keen to chase it up. The Chief, too.
Harry Sweeney nodded: I bet.
What do you think, said Susumu Toda, looking down at Harry Sweeney, at the piles of newspaper reports and police reports stacked up on his desk.
Harry Sweeney put the report on the five Koreans on top of the other police reports, looked down at all the reports, the piles of reports, police reports and newspaper reports, and shook his head, then sighed and said, Figures of eight …
Figures of eight, said Toda. What do –
Harry Sweeney waved his hand across his desk, across the reports: We’re all going round in figures of eight, Susumu. Chief Kita and the First Investigative Division pushing the suicide angle, the Public Prosecutor and the Second Investigative Division pushing for homicide, the doctors at Tōdai saying murder, Nakadate at Keiō saying suicide, the Mainichi backing the suicide theory, the Asahi going for murder, back and forth, murder then suicide, round and round, suicide then murder, in figures of fucking eight …
General Willoughby sure doesn’t see it that way. Chief Evans neither. They’re adamant it was murder.
Harry Sweeney looked down at his hands, looked down at his knuckles, at the scabs on his knuckles, and Harry Sweeney nodded, sighed, and said, I know.
I know you know, said Susumu Toda, his eyes on Harry Sweeney’s knuckles, on the scabs on his knuckles. But what are you going to do then?
Me?
Yeah, said Susumu Toda. You.
Harry Sweeney looked up from his knuckles, from the scabs on his knuckles, looked up at Susumu Toda, looked up into his eyes and said, So it’s “me” now, not “we,” yeah?
Look, I’m sorry, I don’t …
Harry Sweeney shook his head: No, don’t say sorry, Susumu. I’m the one who’s sorry, and I mean it, I am sorry, Susumu. I fucked up. End of the month, I’m gone –
Harry, don’t say that …
What else is there to say?
We all make mistakes, said Susumu Toda, shaking his head, smiling at Harry Sweeney. You said so yourself.
Harry Sweeney shook his head again, held up his knuckles, and said, Not mistakes like this.
I’m sorry, said Susumu Toda. I’ve just made you feel worse, was maybe trying to make you feel worse …
You’ve every right, Susumu –
No, no, said Susumu Toda. That don’t help me, that don’t help you – don’t help us. So come on then, Harry, come on, what we going to do?
They drove east up Avenue Y, through Kajibashi and Kyōbashi, through Sakurabashi and Hatchōbori. The young guy Shin at the wheel again, Harry Sweeney sat in the back with Susumu Toda. They crossed Takahashi Bridge, then turned left off Avenue Y and headed north along a straight narrow road, alleyways and houses off to the left and off to the right –
Shinkawa, sir, said Shin, slowing down.
Little further on, said Susumu Toda. The block at the end, where this road meets Eitai-dori, Avenue W.
Very good, sir, said Shin, going a little further on, then pulling in behind another large black car –
Shit, said Susumu Toda, looking at the car parked in front of them. You know whose car that is, Harry?
Harry Sweeney nodded: Yep.
You sure this is a good idea, said Susumu Toda. I mean, the Chief’s not going to like this …
Harry Sweeney shrugged: Someone has to check it out. Doesn’t mean we have to believe what we hear.
Just don’t like the guy, said Toda.
Harry Sweeney laughed: Doubt his own mother likes him. Let’s just get it done –
And Harry Sweeney and Susumu Toda got out of the car, closing the doors behind them, standing on the street, looking up and down the street, the alleyways and houses off to the left and off to the right, a thick, damp blanket of clouds overhead, the thick, rich stench of the river, the Sumida River in the air, part salt and part shit –
Jeez, said Susumu Toda. Not the place I’d come to forget my troubles, to get away from the world.
Depends on your troubles, depends on your world, I guess, said Harry Sweeney before the tiny, single-story wooden machiai with its shutters and its door, before another place of shabby, gloomy trysts and assignations, another place of secret rendezvous, this machiai known as the Narita-ya.
After you then, said Susumu Toda, gesturing toward the solid, wooden sliding door –
But the solid, wooden door was already sliding open, Detective Hattori stepping out of this machiai known as the Narita-ya, followed by a younger man, Detective Hattori jumping theatrically back, clutching his heart, blinking his eyes, and saying, What a fright!
And a very good afternoon to you, too, detective, said Harry Sweeney, with a short bow and thin smile.
Thought I’d seen a ghost, smiled Hattori. Heard you were no longer with us, detective.
Harry Sweeney smiled again: Shouldn’t believe all you hear, detective. Don’t need to tell you that.
Very true, said Detective Hattori. But how’s your hand, detective? Heard you hurt it, hurt them both, in fact.
Harry Sweeney held up his hands in front of Detective Hattori, turned them over, turned them back again, and made them into fists, then held up the fists and said, As you can see, they’re getting better, detective, thank you.
That’s good to hear, said Detective Hattori, looking from the knuckles, from the fists into the eyes of Harry Sweeney. But you just be careful where you stick them, yeah? Never know, next time that somewhere might hit back.
Harry Sweeney smiled at Detective Hattori and nodded: You’re right – you never know, detective.
Ah, excuse me for interrupting your conversation, said Susumu Toda. But we need to get back, so …
Of course, of course, said Detective Hattori, turning to Susumu Toda and smiling. I’m sorry, Mister Toda-san. Don’t want to keep the General waiting now, do we? But before you go in, in with your questions, can you spare me a few minutes more of your very precious time …?
In the street outside the Narita-ya, under the thick, damp blanket of clouds, amid the thick, rich stench of the river, the Sumida River, Harry Sweeney nodded and said, Go on –
See, I’m very pleased you’re here, detective, and Chief Inspector Kanehara will be, too, I know that. Pleased you’re obviously taking this lead so seriously. But I also know you’re going to be taking it even more seriously when I tell you what I’ve got to tell you, detective, I can tell you that …
Harry Sweeney glanced at his watch, its face cracked and its hands stopped, sighed, and said again, Go on –
Sorry, sorry, smiled Detective Hattori. I know you’re busy, detective, need to get back to the General and all that. But listen to this: minute we hear about this Missus Mori and her friendship with President Shimoyama, we get a couple of men over here, asking around, you know …
Is this with the Yomiuri reporters, asked Susumu Toda. Or was it separately, detective?
Mister Toda, smiled Detective Hattori. As I’m sure Detective Sweeney will agree, journalists, they have their uses. That is, if you know how to use them. Am I right, detective?
Harry Sweeney sighed: Just go on, please –
Of course, said Hattori, of course. So then, to cut a long story short, three years ago, after the surrender, this woman, this Missus Mori, this friend of President Shimoyama, she’s selling peanuts by the side of the road, that’s how she’s living. But look at her now, with her own place, and wait until you see inside. Don’t look much, right? But there’s a little detached back room, two separate telephone lines – I mean, how much does one telephone cost, right? So two? We’re talking big bucks, yeah? Someone’s paying for it, right? And it ain’t her husband, that’s for sure. So we start asking about, the Yomiuri, too, and we start to hear things, things like the minute President Shimoyama comes on the scene – and he’s on the scene almost every day, is what we hear – that’s exactly when her luck starts to change: this house gets built, the telephone lines …
Harry Sweeney shook his head: We have read the fucking papers, you know? That’s why we’re here.
Patience, detective, patience, said Hattori, smiling. Obviously, the question is: Who’s paying for all this? Like, Shimoyama’s got money – more money than me, that’s for sure – but that much money? That’s what I ask myself, right? So I start to sniff around his finances, that’s what I’ve been doing. And I tell you this, detective: they don’t smell too good –
Harry Sweeney took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, wiped his neck, and said, Bit like this place then.
Exactly, detective, said Hattori. Very much like this place, and because of this place, is what I reckon. See, we put the word out among the pawnbrokers and the like, to see if they had had any dealings with Shimoyama, and guess what? He’s been in and out of a place near here, owned by a feller name of Shōji Shioda, like it was the Bank of Japan. Antique vases, his wife’s kimonos, diamond rings, sapphire rings, you name it; he’s been trying to hock the fucking lot.
In the street outside the Narita-ya, under the thick, falling blanket of clouds, amid the thick, clinging stench of the river, the Sumida River, Harry Sweeney looked at Detective Hattori and said, Is that right?
You bet it is, detective, said Hattori, smiling, still smiling. But here’s the thing: stuff wasn’t selling. See, not being Japanese you wouldn’t know this, detective, but it’s a buyer’s market. You might want sixty, seventy thousand yen for your wife’s diamond ring, but you ain’t getting it, no, sir, no way. And so then you know what that means, detective? That means old President Shimoyama, he’s in trouble, big trouble, that’s what that means. The wife, the mistress; two households, no money. Enough to make any man think of –
You got any evidence for any of this, detective, said Susumu Toda. Any actual proof?
Yes, Mister Toda, I have, said Detective Hattori, not looking at Toda, still looking at Harry Sweeney, still smiling, smiling and saying, Aside from the books and ledgers that Shōji Shioda’s firm keeps, with the dates and the things that President Shimoyama brought in and tried and failed to sell, aside from that written evidence, the clerks also remember seeing President Shimoyama coming into the store, and remember him coming into the store with a woman – a very pale woman, a very thin woman, a woman with the very particular air of a geisha. Now you’ve met Missus Shimoyama, detective, and I’ve met Missus Shimoyama, and she is a madam, a lady of breeding and class, but I would not say, and with all due deference, that she is a very pale woman, or a very thin woman, and certainly not a woman with the very particular air of a geisha, would you, detective? What would you say?
In this street outside the Narita-ya, outside this place of secret rendezvous, Harry Sweeney stepped toward Detective Hattori, looked into the eyes of Detective Hattori, and Harry Sweeney said, I’d say you’ve spent a lot of man-hours, and used a lot of manpower, digging up dirt, digging up shit on a man who the respected doctors of forensic medicine at the University of Tokyo believe had been dead for three hours before that train ran over his body and severed his face from his skull, that’s what I’d say, detective, that’s what I’d say.
Well, the respected Doctor Nakadate of Keiō University begs to differ, as you know, said Detective Hattori, not smiling, just shrugging. But hey, look, I’m just telling you where the facts have led me, just telling you what I’ve found, that’s all I’m doing, detective. Because I just do what I’m told to do, go where I’m told to go. That’s me, detective.
Harry Sweeney looked Detective Hattori up and down, then Harry Sweeney nodded and said, Yep, that’s you, detective, that’s you. And in a nice new pair of shoes, too.
The fuck are you to speak to me like that, said Hattori, stepping up closer to Harry Sweeney, staring up at Harry Sweeney. Beating up elevator boys, sleeping in the drunk tank, then coming to me on the high horse, giving it to me with the high hat, the scabs still raw on your knuckles, the whisky still stale on your breath, while I been working the goddamn case, solving the fucking case. Fuck you and your fists –
Hey, hey, said Susumu Toda, the other, younger man, too, both stepping between Harry Sweeney and Detective Hattori, pushing apart Harry Sweeney and Detective Hattori. Come on, we’re all on the same side here –
Fuck you and your same fucking side, Toda, said Hattori, stepping back, walking away. Go talk to her or go the fuck home, what do I care? Politics and bullshit, is all this is.
Leave it, Harry, said Susumu Toda, his hands on the chest of Harry Sweeney, on the arms of Harry Sweeney, the fists of Harry Sweeney. Let him go –
Harry Sweeney watching Detective Hattori walk away, back to his car, hearing –
Man fucking killed himself, said Detective Hattori, getting into his car. Wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last – happens every day, detective, happens every day.
A streetcar stop, a sudden rainstorm, a gentle hand on a damp sleeve, a proffered umbrella, a shelter shared, with a kind word and a sad smile, said the pale, thin woman in the pale, thin yukata. That’s how I remember we met, Mister Sweeney.
Not selling peanuts by the roadside then, said Susumu Toda. Peanuts or maybe some other charms, no?
The neighbors, they do like to gossip, said Missus Nobu Morishita, on her cushion, on the mats, among the insect coils and the tobacco smoke, not looking at Susumu Toda, still staring at Harry Sweeney. And then the newspapers, they will insist on printing such gossip and rumors, the lies people tell. It ought to be a crime, don’t you think, Mister Sweeney?
Harry Sweeney smiled, then said, It is a crime, Missus Morishita, telling lies. In the papers or under oath.
You know, she said, when you smiled just then, just briefly then, you really looked like him.
Looked like who?
Well, like the President, of course, Mister Shimoyama, said Missus Nobu Morishita, lowering her eyes and her face, touching her hand to her cheek.
So it’s all just bullshit then, said Susumu Toda. All these things the neighbors are saying, all these stories the papers are printing about you and President Shimoyama?
In her single-story machiai, in this place of secret rendezvous, with its little detached back room, its two separate telephone lines, Missus Nobu Morishita placed her hand to her heart and looked back up, not at Susumu Toda, but at Harry Sweeney, and said, I just feel so sorry for Missus Shimoyama, the things people are saying, the stories the papers are printing, so very sorry for Missus Shimoyama, if she hears the things people are saying, reads the stories the papers are printing, the insinuations and the innuendo; how awful it must be for her, don’t you think, Mister Sweeney? I feel so sorry for her, Mister Sweeney.
Then you should speak out, said Harry Sweeney. Describe clearly the nature of your relationship?
The pale, thin woman clutched her pale, thin yukata, stared at Harry Sweeney, smiled at Harry Sweeney, and said, But how can I, Mister Sweeney? Could you, could anyone? Describe a relationship in words, use words to describe what was never said? What was never said, but only felt? Yes, I could say, “We were just friends, only friends,” but what do those words mean, what does “friends” mean, Mister Sweeney?
Well, you could try using facts, sighed Susumu Toda. You could start by telling us dates and times, how often you and your “friend” the President saw each other?
Harry Sweeney nodded, smiled at Missus Nobu Morishita: My friend is right, it would help us …
Then of course, said the pale, thin woman, nodding at Harry Sweeney, smiling at Harry Sweeney. I do believe, have believed for a long time, that my purpose on earth, the only reason I’m here, is to help people, help men, Mister Sweeney.
Harry Sweeney nodded and smiled again: Then you could help us, help me, by telling us how often you saw President Shimoyama. Once a week, once a month?
Of course, said Missus Nobu Morishita, not smiling now, but sighing now. So, as I’ve already said, already told the police, when he was a minister, I would see Mister Shimoyama almost every day. He’d come by car, just after noon, then stay all afternoon, stay until six, but no later than six.
Always by car and always alone?
Yes, said the pale, thin woman. Always by car, the same car, the black Buick; I can still remember its number, 41173, and the face of his chauffeur, Mister Ōnishi.
So the driver Ōnishi, said Susumu Toda, he’d be waiting outside in the car then, all afternoon?
Except on Sundays, whispered Missus Nobu Morishita, looking at Harry Sweeney, blinking back tears. On Sundays, Mister Shimoyama would come on foot.
In the small room, on the square cushion, Harry Sweeney put his hand in his pocket, took out his handkerchief, and offered it to the pale, thin woman: And why was that?
Thank you, she said, taking the handkerchief, clutching the handkerchief. But I’m sorry, I can’t tell you why.
Maybe he was worried the neighbors would start to talk, said Susumu Toda. Him coming every day …
This was when he’s a minister, cut in Harry Sweeney. But when he was appointed president –
Things changed, yes, nodded Missus Nobu Morishita. Like they always do, don’t you think, Mister Sweeney?
Harry Sweeney nodded and said, But how?
Well, he could not come so often, only once or twice a month, and he could not stay so long, only five or ten minutes, just a cup of tea, a sweet he often left, he did not touch.
Harry Sweeney nodded again: He’d changed, too?
Yes, nodded the pale, thin woman, staring at Harry Sweeney, blinking through her tears, clutching his handkerchief tighter, twisting it in her hands, and whispering, Like they always do, don’t they, Mister Sweeney?
Harry Sweeney nodded, glanced away, looked away as he asked, How had he changed, ma’am?
The job had changed him, the work he knew he had to do, she said. It had made him afraid, frightened for his life.
He told you that, did he?
Yes, said Missus Nobu Morishita, staring at Harry Sweeney. The last time …
Harry Sweeney looked back at Missus Nobu Morishita and said, I’m sorry, but when was this, ma’am?
Just two weeks ago, she said. Twenty-eighth of June, though it feels like a lifetime ago. But you know, Mister Sweeney, I just knew, knew then it would be the last time.
Harry Sweeney nodded, and waited –
You see, Mister Sweeney, he took me for lunch, like he used to do, to the place we used to go, an eel restaurant in Shibamata, a place called Kawajin; it was “our place,” as they say, the place we always used to go, used to go before, but had not been, we had not been for months, you see …
Harry Sweeney nodded again.
And that was when he said he feared for his life, when he told me he thought he’d be killed …
And what did you say?
I laughed, Mister Sweeney. I laughed and said, Such things don’t happen anymore, not in the “New Japan,” not like before the war, when there were assassinations, the murders of officials and ministers; I said that was in the “Old Japan,” and I laughed, Not in the “New Japan,” Mister Sweeney.
I’m sorry, whispered Harry Sweeney.
So you see, Mister Sweeney, I knew, knew it would be the last time, he told me so himself.
I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney again.
Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Mister Sweeney, said Missus Nobu Morishita. You’re the only person to come into my house, and to sit upon my mats, and to tell me that you’re sorry, only you have said you’re sorry, Mister Sweeney. But you’re not the one he told, you’re not the one who knew. You’re not the one who did not help your friend, you’re not the one who did not save your friend; that’s me, Mister Sweeney, me.
Please, said Harry Sweeney. You shouldn’t …
Shouldn’t what, Mister Sweeney? I am the one he told, I am the one who knew. I am the one who did not help my friend, the one who could not save my friend …
Please, said Harry Sweeney again, trying to smile, trying to say, I’m sure you helped him –
There, she said, the pale, thin woman in the pale, thin yukata said. You did it again, Mister Sweeney.
Did what again, ma’am?
You smiled again, the way he used to smile, so fleetingly, so briefly, as though you’d both forgotten.
Forgotten what?
Forgotten you were sad, Mister Sweeney, forgotten who you were, forgotten who you are.
They were riding the elevator back up to the fourth floor of the NYK building, Susumu Toda still going on about the lady at the Narita-ya, still saying, You believe a word of that shit? Old fucking geisha, giving us a performance, wringing her hands, dabbing her eyes, telling us how sorry she feels for Missus Shimoyama. Not sorry enough to stop her pawning the poor woman’s kimonos and rings, yeah? You know who she reminded me of? That woman at the Suehiro Ryokan, that’s who, like they were reading from a script, the pair of them. The same script.
Sorry, Susumu, said Harry Sweeney, stepping out of the elevator on the third floor. I’ll catch you up –
And Harry Sweeney walked away from the closing doors of the elevator, the muffled protestations of Susumu Toda, and along the corridors of the third floor of the NYK building, the corridors of the Historical Branch, FEC, SCAP, the whole of the third floor given over to this section, reading the numbers and the names on the signs on the doors as he went – American names and Japanese names – the doors all closed, the rooms all silent behind them, until he came to the sign on the door he’d been looking for, the number and the name which read: Room 330, Library. Harry Sweeney tapped softly on the wood, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The library of the Historical Branch was a large high-ceilinged room of three walls and many rows of bookshelves. In its middle were three long, high desks arranged in a U-shape to form a counter, in the center of which sat a middle-aged, aristocratic-looking Japanese lady talking quietly into a telephone. The lady looked up, saw Harry Sweeney walking toward the counter, hung up the receiver, and stared at Harry Sweeney: This is the library of the Historical Branch.
I had a hunch, said Harry Sweeney, smiling.
The lady did not smile back: So …?
So I was hoping to speak to Miss Wilson, said Harry Sweeney, still smiling. I believe she works here?
She did, but not anymore.
Oh, said Harry Sweeney. I see.
The lady gave a brief, closing bow: Good day.
Er, sorry, said Harry Sweeney. Do you know where Miss Wilson has gone? Where she’s been transferred?
The lady nodded: She left, she went home.
Home, said Harry Sweeney. America?
The lady nodded again: I believe so.
That was mighty sudden, said Harry Sweeney. I only saw her a few days ago. She never said anything …
The lady sighed: Family trouble, I think. But I don’t know anything more, so please don’t ask me anything more.
Hey there, said a tall, thin man dressed in a dark, well-cut civilian suit, stepping out from one of the alcoves with a book in his hands. It’s Sweeney, isn’t it?
Yes, said Harry Sweeney.
Dick Gutterman, said the man, walking toward Harry Sweeney with his right hand outstretched. We met last week, General Willoughby’s office?
I remember, said Harry Sweeney, shaking the man’s hand. Didn’t realize you were one of the History Boys?
Me, laughed the man. Hell, no. I just pop in every now and again, bother Miss Araki here, get her to lend me a book.
You planning on visiting Formosa, are you, said Harry Sweeney, nodding at the map book in the man’s left hand.
The man glanced down at the book in his hand, then back up at Harry Sweeney, and smiled: I’m impressed. Didn’t know you could read Japanese, Mister Sweeney.
Why would you, said Harry Sweeney.
You know what I mean …
Yeah, I know what you mean, said Harry Sweeney.
Sorry, said the man. Didn’t mean to offend you.
Don’t worry about it, said Harry Sweeney.
The man nodded, smiled again, and said, So how’s it going then? The Shimoyama Case? Any progress?
Reckon I should be asking you, said Harry Sweeney. That information of a somewhat confidential nature you were mentioning to the General last week?
Hell, said the man, you should be thanking me for that. Got the General off your ass for you, didn’t I?
Is that all that was about then, said Harry Sweeney, smiling. You trying to save my ass?
Hey, look, said the man. Hongō heard a whisper, I didn’t reckon it was worth much – turns out I was right – but I don’t like to sit there and watch the General dressing down a man like that, not unless it’s another general. I’d pay good money to see that any day of the week. But not a regular Joe like you, a civilian. You ain’t done nothing to deserve that, right? So I thought, Hell, I’ll cut in here.
Thank you, then, said Harry Sweeney.
Forget it, said the man. You’d have done the same. I can see how you are.
Well, thanks anyway, said Harry Sweeney again. Better get back to it, but good to meet you properly.
Likewise, said the man. But hey, what brought you down here anyway? The Shimoyama Case?
No, laughed Harry Sweeney. I was just looking for someone, someone who used to work here.
A friend, was it?
Don’t know, said Harry Sweeney, smiling at the man, then turning toward the door. Might have been, could have been. Not sure what “friend” means these days.
Well, hell, you gotta friend in me, said the man after him. Anything you need, Mister Sweeney, you just call Hongō House and ask for Dick Gutterman, yeah?
The call came, like he knew it would, like it always did, and so he went, like he knew he would, like he always did: in the big car, down the wide avenues, across the river, the Sumida River, to a warehouse he’d not seen before and would never see again, among low factories and barrack houses, in a place that could be here, there, or anywhere, a place that was nowhere today, today and evermore, forevermore this place was nowhere; and here in nowhere, before the warehouse, he got out of the back of the car, like he knew he would, like he always did, and he looked up at the warehouse, made of concrete, iron, and wood, grays and rusts and browns, stained black against the same grays and rusts and browns, and he breathed in the stench of the salt and the stench of the shit, and he breathed out the stench of cowardice, the stench of pride, then he walked toward the warehouse door, through the warehouse door, like he knew he would, like he always did, he walked between the metal drums, the iron pillars and the hanging chains, walked through the pools of oil, the discarded parts and broken glass, until he came to the back of the warehouse, until he came to the half-circle of men, in their shirtsleeves or their undershirts, with their tools or with their fists, until he came to the chair in their midst, until he saw the man on the chair, like he knew he would, like he knew he would, the man tied to the chair, stripped and naked, beaten and broken, like he knew they would, like they always did, like he knew Senju would, Senju always did, and Harry Sweeney stood there, in the back of the warehouse, in the middle of nowhere, among the men, before the man, and Harry Sweeney said nothing, like Harry Sweeney knew he would, Harry Sweeney always did, because Harry Sweeney always said nothing, Harry Sweeney always did nothing –
Took your time, said Akira Senju. But Akira Senju did not turn to look at Harry Sweeney, Akira Senju kept his eyes fixed on the man on the chair: Two, three more hours, not sure he would have been with us anymore. And that’d have been a shame, the things he’s been telling us …
Harry Sweeney stared at the man on the chair, the man tied to the chair, the cable round his chest and his arms and the back of the chair, the cable tight into his chest and arms, his naked chest and arms, his stripped and naked body, painted in the colors of bruises and wounds, the strokes of beatings and tortures, his head bowed and his face hidden, blood dripping onto his chest, blood upon blood, and Harry Sweeney swallowed and whispered, He’s no good to me dead.
That’s what I thought, said Akira Senju. Thought to myself, then said to the boys, I said, He’s no good to anyone dead, boys. Ease up, boys, ease up. But it’s like the war never ended, like they never heard the news. They were not defeated, not this lot, my lot; you know what I mean, Harry?
Harry Sweeney stepped inside the half-circle of men, stepped toward the man tied to the chair. Harry Sweeney crouched down beside the man tied to the chair, raised his hands toward the man tied to the chair. Harry Sweeney lifted up the face of the man tied to the chair, the swollen face of the man, wet with blood, and wet with tears, and wet with sweat. Harry Sweeney looked into the face of the man tied to the chair, the broken nose and cheeks, the eyes swollen and shut, the ears twisted and torn, saw the mouth of pulped lips and broken teeth, and Harry Sweeney saw the mouth, open in bubbles of blood and bits of teeth, and heard it whisper –
Help me, please.
Harry Sweeney let go of the face of the man, watched it fall forward again, then Harry Sweeney stood back up, turned around, looked at Akira Senju, swallowed again, and then said, Clean him up, then bring him out to the car, please.
You heard the man, boys, said Akira Senju, as Harry Sweeney walked through the circle of men, past Akira Senju, through the pools of oil, the discarded parts and the broken glass, between the metal drums, the iron pillars, and the hanging chains, past the stacked-up packing cases of God-knows-what – guns and bombs for someone, drugs and alcohol for everyone – and through the warehouse door, back outside to the grays and rusts and browns, the stench of salt and the stench of shit, back to stand and wait beside the car, to smoke one cigarette and then another, and another, like he always did, like he always did, until he heard the boots, he heard the voice –
Here you go, said Akira Senju. Meet Lee Jung-Hwan. He’s all yours, Harry-san, all yours …
No longer tied to a chair, no longer stripped and naked, Lee Jung-Hwan hung on the arms of two men, dressed in clothes torn and stained with blood and oil, his shoes barely on his feet, with his head still bowed and his face still hidden.
Harry Sweeney flicked his cigarette into the dirt, looked at Akira Senju, nodded, and said, Thank you.
My pleasure, Harry, said Akira Senju, smiling. Told you, I’m here to help. So what now, boss …?
Harry Sweeney opened the back door of the car: Put him in here. I want to talk to him. Alone.
Sure thing, boss, said Akira Senju, clicking his fingers, gesturing to the two men carrying Lee Jung-Hwan. And the two men dragged him through the dirt, half lifting, half pushing him into the car, propping him up on the back seat of the car.
Harry Sweeney closed the door, went round the back of the car, opened the door on the other side, then got into the back seat next to Lee Jung-Hwan and closed the door.
In the middle of nowhere, on the back seat of the parked car, Harry Sweeney stared out through the front windshield, out at the grays and the rusts and the browns, and waited.
Thank you, said Lee Jung-Hwan, not raising his head, not showing his face, his voice dry and cracking.
Harry Sweeney kept staring straight ahead, straight out and into the grays and the rusts and the browns, as he said, Save your thanks until we’re out of here –
Until we’re out of here …
The words hanging in the trapped, damp air of the car, hanging between them –
Where’s my little brother, asked Lee Jung-Hwan, the question choking in his throat.
Harry Sweeney looked away from the windshield, away from the grays and the rusts and the browns, looked away to stare at the beaten and bloody, bowed and broken man beside him, to stare and say, I don’t know.
Is he still alive?
As far as I know, but the only way to be sure, the only way to save him and to save yourself, is to tell me everything you know about the death of President Shimoyama.
It won’t save me, said Lee Jung-Hwan, raising his head, then showing his face, the remains of his face, to look at Harry Sweeney and say, And it won’t help you.
Might help your little brother.
Might, whispered Lee Jung-Hwan, turning his face away, lowering his head again.
Harry Sweeney turned, too, back to the windshield, back to the grays and the rusts and the browns, and waited.
Are you CIC, asked Lee Jung-Hwan, not raising his head again, not showing his face again.
Public Safety. Why?
CIC won’t like what I say.
He was staring into the grays and the rusts and the browns, losing himself in the grays and the rusts and the browns, as Harry Sweeney said, CIC don’t like a lot of things people say. That’s their job, not to like the things people say.
I know. But it’s my job to say them.
You a Communist, is that it?
I’m a code clerk at the Soviet Mission, said Lee Jung-Hwan, raising his head again, showing his face again.
In the middle of nowhere, on the back seat of the parked car, Harry Sweeney looked away from the windshield again, away from the grays and the rusts and the browns again, looked away to stare at the remains of the face of this man again, the broken nose and cheeks, the eyes swollen and shut, the ears twisted and torn, the blacks and the purples and the reds of the remains of the face of this man, so many shades of black and purple and red, and Harry Sweeney said, Can you prove it?
Not now, not here, said Lee Jung-Hwan, pulling at his clothes, torn and stained with blood and oil, their pockets empty. But if you take me to your office, if you make some calls, if you check, then you’ll have your proof.
First, tell me why I should, tell me what you know about the death of President Shimoyama.
Now, here?
Yes.
Okay then, sighed Lee Jung-Hwan. Okay. Well, as a code clerk I’ve seen the official communications between Moscow and Tokyo about Shimoyama …
Go on –
So in April, I think it was, when the retrenchment program was first announced, you know, the mass dismissals, that was when the order came from Moscow. It was sent to Lieutenant General Derevyanko himself, ordering the Mission to gain the confidence of Shimoyama, by any means possible. The suggestion from Moscow was that the best way to do this would be to supply Shimoyama with confidential information, thus gaining his trust …
On the back seat of the parked car, in the trapped, damp air of the car, Harry Sweeney reached inside his jacket, took out his notebook and pencil, opened his notebook, then, writing in his notebook, asked, You’re saying Derevyanko was in charge of this operation, in direct charge, personally?
No, said Lee Jung-Hwan. Not personally, no. There’s a man called Rosenoff, he’s in charge of all covert operations at the Soviet Mission in Tokyo. But, of course, he reports to Lieutenant General Derevyanko, as well as to Moscow.
So this man Rosenoff ran the operation?
Yes, said Lee Jung-Hwan. But soon after, Moscow sent a man named Ariyoshi for the specific purpose of handling Mister Shimoyama. He was in day-to-day charge of the operation, reporting to Rosenoff and Moscow.
You ever see this man?
Yes, said Lee Jung-Hwan.
Describe him –
About the same age as me, I guess, early thirties. His features might be mistaken for Chinese, but I think he’s Japanese. Long face, thick lips, fairly heavyset, about two hundred pounds, I suppose, about five and a half feet, maybe a bit taller.
Harry Sweeney turned the page of his notebook, still writing as he said, Go on –
So Ariyoshi had this guy inside the union, the National Railways Union. This guy is a Communist, but a secret one, and so Ariyoshi gets this guy to make contact with Shimoyama, to start feeding him confidential reports, some of them true but most of them not. Meanwhile – and this is the bit your CIC are not going to like …
Go on –
There’s this member of the Kudan CIC, he’s also a member of the Communist Party of America. Simultaneously, this guy also approaches Shimoyama, requests Shimoyama start supplying him with any confidential information he receives from inside the union – you get it?
Harry Sweeney stopped writing, looked up from the pages of his notebook, looked out through the windshield again, out into the grays and the rusts and the browns again, the grays and the rusts and the browns turning, turning and spinning, and Harry Sweeney nodded and said, Yep.
They got Shimoyama going in circles, said Lee Jung-Hwan. Thinking he’s passing on union plans, Communist secrets, passing them on to CIC, on to your lot, CIC supposedly checking them, your lot supposedly thanking him. But all the time, day by day, they’re setting him up.
In the trapped, damp air of the car, Harry Sweeney blinked and rubbed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, then looked back down at his notebook and began to write again, as he said, For the fifth of July –
Yes, said Lee Jung-Hwan, quietly, slowly. Late June, the order came from Moscow, the order to terminate Mister Shimoyama and, specifically, to terminate Mister Shimoyama in a manner that would cause the utmost confusion, creating huge problems for both the Japanese government and GHQ, anticipating an extreme reaction against the Japanese Communist Party and the trade union movement, which would, in turn, lead the Communists and the unions to finally embrace the necessity of violent struggle and revolution, fighting back as the vanguard of an uprising by the Japanese proletariat.
Harry Sweeney stopped writing, looked up from the pages of his notebook again, out into the grays and the rusts and the browns again, staring into the grays and the rusts and the browns again as he said, All beginning with the abduction and assassination of President Shimoyama.
Yep, said Lee Jung-Hwan.
In the middle of nowhere, on the back seat of the parked car, Harry Sweeney turned sharply, spun from the grays and the rusts and the browns to the blacks and the purples and the reds of the remains of the face of this man, turned to this beaten and bloody, bowed and broken man and said, An abduction and assassination you were a fucking part of –
No, said Lee Jung-Hwan. No, no! I just saw the communications, just encoding or decoding them.
Not what your brother says –
He’s got nothing to do with this, said Lee Jung-Hwan. Nothing to do with any of this –
So why’d you bring him into it then? Why’d you get him to steal that car for you?
I didn’t, he didn’t, said Lee Jung-Hwan, looking at Harry Sweeney, pleading with Harry Sweeney, then turning to the window of the door, looking out at Akira Senju and his men. I don’t know what car they’re talking about, what car you’re talking about, please –
Outside Mitsukoshi?
Please, said Lee Jung-Hwan, turning back to Harry Sweeney, shaking his head at Harry Sweeney, his beaten and bloody head. It’s all a mistake, he’s made a mistake. Please just let me see him, let me to talk to him …
Okay, calm down, said Harry Sweeney. You just calm down. I’ll be back in a minute –
And Harry Sweeney got out of the back of the car, walked round the back of the car, back toward the warehouse, the shadows of the warehouse, the smile of Akira Senju –
Quite a story, eh, Harry, said Akira Senju. Quite a story he tells, yeah? I trust you’re impressed, Harry-san?
Where you got his brother?
Impressed and grateful, I hope, Harry …
In the shadows of the warehouse, before its open doors, Harry Sweeney stared at Akira Senju and said, I asked you where the brother is? I need to talk to him.
Well now, Harry, that might be a little difficult.
You’re fucking joking?
That’s exactly what I said, Harry, said Akira Senju, when the boys told me what happened. I said, You’re fucking joking, boys? What kind of fool throws himself from the back of a moving truck into the river, the Sumida River, when his hands are tied? What kind of fool does that? I mean, I know the kid was a chonko, but you’re fucking joking, right?
In the shadows of the warehouse, before its open doors, among the grays and the rusts and the browns, all stained black against the same, Harry Sweeney turned to look back at the parked car, at the face at the side window of the parked car, the remains of a face staring up, out at Harry Sweeney –
You want to tell him, Harry, or shall I?
In this place that was nowhere, in the middle of this nowhere, with its stench of salt, with its stench of shit, Harry Sweeney turned back to Akira Senju, and Harry Sweeney looked at Akira Senju, and Harry Sweeney clenched his teeth, then said through his teeth, his clenched teeth, Harry Sweeney said, Nobody’s going to tell him anything. I’m going to take him back to Public Safety, and you’re going to drive us.
Sure thing, Harry. You’re the boss.
In the NYK building, on the fourth floor, in Room 402, the office of Colonel Pullman, before the Colonel seated behind his desk, sat beside Chief Evans, Bill Betz, and Susumu Toda, Harry Sweeney nodded, looked back down at the statement, and began to read aloud: On the morning of the fifth, President Shimoyama arrived in his car at the south entrance of the Mitsukoshi department store and then proceeded on foot to the north entrance, where Ariyoshi, Oyama, Kinoshita, and Chin were waiting in two black sedans. I think they were cars Nine and Ten – a black Chevrolet and a black Buick – belonging to the Soviet Mission. The plates had been made specially for this purpose, and one was 1A2637, but I do not recall the other. Ariyoshi and Oyama guided President Shimoyama into the first car, seating him between them. The cars proceeded through Ginza and Shimbashi to a property in the Azabu area, close to the Soviet Embassy, occupied by Russian personnel. Before approaching the property, Oyama struck President Shimoyama in the vital organs, using a karate technique, knocking him unconscious. Once inside the property, President Shimoyama was murdered through an injection in his right arm. Immediately following confirmation of his death, his body was stripped and placed in the bathtub, and a blood vessel on his right arm was cut to drain the blood. His body was then put in a rubber bag and placed in the garage to the side of the property. In order to confuse the investigating authorities, an individual with similar features to President Shimoyama was employed as a decoy. The man’s name is Nakamura, and he is approximately the same height as President Shimoyama. I do not know where this man lives, but I believe it is in the Kansai area. He comes to Tokyo at least once a week and meets with two men called Tokuda and Nosaka. At the property in Azabu, he was given the clothes which President Shimoyama had been wearing and was then sent to the area where the body was later found. About 9 p.m., the body of President Shimoyama was placed in the trunk of one of the original cars and then driven toward the scene of the incident, first stopping at an unknown location, but arriving at the scene of the incident at approximately 10:30 p.m. The car stopped under the railroad tracks of the Jōban line, near to Kosuge Prison. Here the man called Nakamura arrived in order to change clothes so that the body could be dressed. After this was done, Nakamura left the scene in the car. The body was then placed on a portable cart and taken to the place where it was to be found later. The body was positioned so that the arm which had had the injection was placed on the rail. As soon as this was done, three members left the scene with the cart. Three other members remained in the vicinity until they had seen the train run over President Shimoyama’s body. Those that were at the scene were Ariyoshi, Oyama, Kinoshita, Chin, a Russian, and a Ukrainian. Those that remained at the scene were Ariyoshi, the Russian, and the Ukrainian. In order that the car would not be stopped in transit, all those other than the Russian wore American uniforms and carried falsified CIC credentials. A car returned to pick up the last three at an agreed time and place, but I do not where and when that was. I have described the men I have named – ARIYOSHI, OYAMA, KINOSHITA, & CHIN – on the separate, attached page, and I have told you all I know. Signed, Andorushin, R.J.K.C. 125 (name and number used in Soviet Mission); real or birth name, Lee Jung-Hwan.
Harry Sweeney stopped reading, looked up from the statement, and waited, the sound of the clock ticking on the wall, and waited, the sound of minutes passing, until –
Well, that is some story, Harry, said Colonel Pullman. Quite the story. What d’you say, Chief?
I don’t know, sir, said Chief Evans, shaking his head. So I say we pass this up the chain, sir, to the General, sir.
Really, said the Colonel. To General Willoughby?
If you’re asking me, sir, yes, said the Chief. I mean, this isn’t a Public Safety matter, sir, this is CIC.
Really, said Colonel Pullman again, sitting forward at his desk, looking across the desk, first at Bill Betz, then at Susumu Toda, then at Harry Sweeney, asking, How about the rest of you? Any of you believe it?
Bill Betz nodded: I know it all sounds kind of far-fetched, sir – draining the blood, using a decoy – like something from the movies, sir, but it also kind of fits.
You think so, laughed Susumu Toda, turning to look at Bill Betz. Fits with no evidence, is the only way it fits.
Hey, you were the one going on about the stolen car, about all them sightings of big, black cars …
On different roads, said Toda. At different times.
Bill Betz shook his head: So what if some of the details don’t quite match up? Maybe a witness gets the wrong time, the wrong street – it happens, and you know it happens. Or maybe what these Commies wrote in their report to Moscow ain’t quite how it was, or maybe Mister Code-Clerk ain’t remembering it right? Got himself confused in the telling – so what?
So what, said Toda. He could be a compulsive liar, a complete fantasist, is what he could be.
Bill Betz shook his head: So like the Chief says, we let CIC work it out, what his story is. Not our problem.
Harry, said Colonel Pullman. He’s your baby, son. You brought him into the world. What do you say?
Harry Sweeney shrugged: I’m sorry, sir, but I agree with everyone, everything they’re saying. I mean, we got no real evidence, no proof, as Susumu says. But like Bill says, bits of it, they sound like they might make some sense. So I’m with the Chief, sir, I’d let the General and CIC sort it out, sir.
Really, said Colonel Pullman, getting up from his chair, coming round from behind his desk, taking the statement from Harry Sweeney, looking down at the statement by Lee Jung-Hwan, and shaking his head. Really …
Chief Evans, Bill Betz, Susumu Toda, and Harry Sweeney looking up at the Colonel, waiting, the sound of the clock ticking on the wall, waiting, the sound of minutes passing, more minutes passing, until –
See, the difference between you all and me, said the Colonel, is you all are civilians and I’m a soldier. An old soldier, but still a soldier. And see, I can’t decide if this story here is horseshit or gospel. I just can’t tell, I just don’t know. But what I do know, what I can tell you, is that if I pass this on up the chain, like you all are so keen I do, if I give this to General Willoughby, then we’ll be goddamned lucky if we all ain’t fighting World War fucking III by sundown.
Chief Evans started to stand up, to say, I’m sorry, sir. We can just set it to one side, forget we …
Hold on there, Chief, said the Colonel. That’s not what I’m saying, not saying that at all. I just want to be certain, when I do pass this on up the chain, when the General does start calling for Soviet heads, demanding Commie blood, I just want to be certain it ain’t horseshit we’re feeding him.
Chief Evans nodded: Of course, sir. Absolutely, sir. You want evidence, sir, of course, sir.
Evidence and discretion, said the Colonel. That’s what I want, Chief. So I’m going to hang on to this here statement, and I’m going to make some calls, some discreet calls, see if I can find any record of any of these here names. Meanwhile, you men are going to go back through the police reports, the witness statements, and see if you can find any descriptions which might match either the men or the cars mentioned in this statement.
Chief Evans nodded again: And if we do, sir?
Hell, then you go goddamn interview them, is what you do, Chief. Is that understood? Are we all clear?
Yes, sir, barked Chief Evans, Bill Betz, Susumu Toda, and Harry Sweeney. Understood and clear, sir.
Very good then, said the Colonel –
Harry Sweeney said, Sir …?
What is it, son, asked the Colonel.
Harry Sweeney asked, And if you don’t, if we don’t? Don’t find any record, don’t find any corroboration? Then what, sir? What we going to do with him?
Then he’s not our problem, son, said the Colonel. Then we let him go, or we turn him over to the Japanese police, let him take his chances with them. Either way, he’s not our problem. That clear, son? Understood?
Yes, sir, understood, sir.
Very good then, said the Colonel again. Dismissed!
I don’t know, said Kazuko Kawada, sat at the table by the door, in the empty Coffee Shop Hong Kong, the customers gone, the shop closed, the manager and the waiter and the cook at the next table, waiting to be allowed home, wanting to go home, glancing at Harry Sweeney and Kazu-chan, listening to Kazu-chan say again, But I don’t think so. I’m sorry.
Harry Sweeney looked down at the descriptions of the four men and the decoy which Lee Jung-Hwan had given in his statement, then Harry Sweeney looked back up at this pretty girl, still in her black dress and white apron, and Harry Sweeney said, But you still think the man you saw that morning, you still think that man could have been President Shimoyama?
I think so, yes, said Kazuko Kawada. Because of his Harold Lloyd-style glasses, because of the way his eyebrows sloped downwards. I think it might’ve been, yes.
Harry Sweeney nodded, tapped the paper on the table, the statement by Lee Jung-Hwan, and said again, But you really don’t think these descriptions match either the man who was sitting with President Shimoyama or any of the men who were sat at the table across the aisle that morning?
I’m sorry, said Kazuko Kawada again. The men you’ve described, they’re all much younger.
Harry Sweeney nodded again, then lowered his voice as he said, And the man who used the telephone that morning, you still can’t remember what –
No, said Kazuko Kawada, her head shaking, her eyes blinking. No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ve tried, but I can’t.
Harry Sweeney reached out across the table to touch her hand, to pat her hand: That’s okay, that’s okay.
I told you, said Kazuko Kawada, pulling her hand away, taking out a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron. He had his back to me, his face turned away …
Could he have been a foreigner?
A foreigner, like you …?
Maybe a Korean?
We get enough of them in here, these days, said the manager, Mister Niide, from across the aisle. Throwing their weight around, acting like they own the place.
Harry Sweeney turned to look across the aisle at Mister Niide and said, But you still take their money, yeah? Let them use the phone, do you?
Hey, said Mister Niide. As long they’ve got some, I’m happy to take it. Money’s money.
Harry Sweeney looked from the manager to the waiter to the cook, then back to the waitress, and said, So anyone wanting to use that phone, they have to ask one of you, yeah? And so that morning, the fifth of July, one of your customers, he asked to use the phone, he asked one of you.
Had to have done, said the manager, nodding, looking at the waiter and the cook. Must have done.
So which one of you was it, said Harry Sweeney, turning to look across the aisle again, to stare at the waiter –
The waiter – the nervous man, gaunt and tall – pulled at the collar of his shirt and said, Okay, okay, it was me.
You, said the manager. Why didn’t you –
Because you pay them fucking peanuts, said Harry Sweeney. So he pocketed the man’s change, that’s why.
Mister Kojima, the waiter, tore off his bow tie, threw it down on the table, put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a fistful of coins, and slapped them down on top of the table: There you go. Keep it all, I don’t care, he said, standing up –
Sit down, barked Harry Sweeney. Save your walk-out until after I’m gone, till after we’re done.
The man slumped back down at the table, scowling across the aisle at Harry Sweeney, not speaking, just waiting.
What did he look like?
Who, said the man.
The goddamn Emperor of Japan, hissed Harry Sweeney. Who d’you fucking think I mean?
Don’t know, said the man.
Harry Sweeney stared at the man as he said, That morning, the fifth of July, sometime after half past nine, but before ten o’clock, you were in the kitchen, and a man stuck his head inside, asked to use the telephone. I know he did, and how I know he did is because then that man called me, and so you’re going to tell me what he fucking looked like –
But I don’t know, said the man, glancing over at Kazuko Kawada, the waitress trying and failing not to cry. I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember …
Young, old – you must remember something?
Look, I was busy preparing the orders, said the man. The food, the drinks. I glanced over my shoulder, took his change, and then he was gone …
But he spoke to you, and so his voice –
Just a couple of words. Softly spoken, polite, I think. But that’s all I remember …
Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
I’m sorry, said the man.
Me, too, said Harry Sweeney, looking across the table at Kazuko Kawada, the waitress with her head bowed, her shoulders trembling, tears falling onto her apron and her dress. Harry Sweeney closed his notebook, put the notebook and his pencil back inside his jacket pocket. He picked up the statement by Lee Jung-Hwan from the table, folded it back up, and put it in another pocket of his jacket. He picked up his hat from the chair beside him and stood up. He stared down at the staff of the Coffee Shop Hong Kong, shook his head, then turned and walked out through the door, the door banging, slamming shut behind him.
Harry Sweeney walked down the underground passage to the ticket gate to the station. He showed his pass, went through the gate and down the steps, onto the platform. The trains for Asakusa to the left, the trains for Shibuya to the right, a blast of wind rushing out of the tunnel and along the platform, picking up the scraps of paper and the ends of cigarettes. Harry Sweeney gripped his hat, held it tight as a train for Asakusa pulled into the station, the screams of its wheels and brakes piercing his ears again. Harry Sweeney waited for the doors to open, for the people to get off, the people to get on, then Harry Sweeney stepped into the brightly lit carriage, the doors closing behind him, the train pulling out as Harry Sweeney walked through the carriage, then the next carriage, and the next, and the next, until he came to the front of the train, found a seat in the carriage at the front of the train, sat down, and took off his hat. He reached for his handkerchief to wipe his face and then his neck, but his handkerchief was gone, and so he used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe his forehead, to wipe his mouth, then he put his hat back on and looked up and down the carriage, then across the aisle, at the passengers. Men here, men there, some wearing hats, some carrying fans, some in jackets and some in ties, sleeping or reading, their book or their paper. Back pages and front pages, in their hands or left on a seat, an empty seat. Harry Sweeney picked up the discarded newspaper and began to read the headlines and the articles beneath: POLICE MEASURES TAKEN TO CHECK LAWBREAKERS: Not Aimed at Trade Unions, Says Hepler, Refuting Russian Allegations / SOVIETS WORKING FOR JAPAN CHAOS, U.S. COUNTERBLAST TO ACCUSATIONS AGAINST OCCUPATION POLICIES: Local Reds Instructed to Create Fear, Unrest, Confusion, Says McCoy / JAPANESE DUTY TO RESIST SOVIET OCCUPATION MOVE SAYS P.M. YOSHIDA / SHIMOYAMA WAS KILLED, ATT’Y GEN. PRONOUNCES: Mystery Death Caused by Foul Play –
Harry Sweeney stopped reading, looked up from the paper, its headline and its articles. The train had stopped, the carriage was empty. They had reached the Asakusa terminal, the end of the line. Harry Sweeney put the paper back down on the seat beside him, stood up, and got off the train, onto the platform. He walked up the steps to the ticket gate, showed his pass, and went on through the gate. He walked up the sloping passageway, past the basement entrance to the Matsuya department store, and up the steps to the Asakusa Tōbu line station. He walked up the second flight of stairs to the platforms and the trains. He showed his pass at the ticket gate and walked onto the platform. He went briskly down the platform, got onto a train to his left, a local train about to leave, but he did not look for a seat. He stood by the doors and watched them close, watched the train pull out of the station, on its elevated tracks, he stared out through the windows of the doors as the train crossed the bridge, crossed the river, the Sumida River, staring out at the river, the Sumida River, on this yellow train across this iron bridge, the river, the Sumida River, there down below him, stretched out before him, so still and so black, so soft and so warm, inviting and welcoming, tempting, so tempting, always tempting, so tempting, the river, the Sumida River, a man disappearing, a man vanishing, so tempting, very tempting, to disappear and to vanish, into the air, into the night, but then the river was gone, the Sumida gone, temptation gone, gone for now. Harry Sweeney blinked, blinked and wiped his eyes, the train going down the line, stopping at the stations, Narihirabashi then Hikifune, closing his eyes, opening his eyes, down the line, over the crossings, station after station, Tamanoi and on to Kita-Senju, then across another bridge, another iron bridge, across another river, the Arakawa River, closing his eyes, opening his eyes, the prison looming, Kosuge Prison, from out of the shadows, in the night, black on black, the tracks raised again, elevated again, on embankments and over girders, Harry Sweeney staring out through the windows of the doors, staring down at the other tracks to his right, crossing the Jōban line, they were crossing the Jōban line, crossing close to the scene, they were close to the scene, the scene of the death, the death of Shimoyama, Sadanori Shimoyama, down there, there on the tracks, there down below, stretched out before him, below and before him, stretched out and taunting him, Harry Sweeney blinking again, taunting and taunting him, Harry Sweeney wiping his eyes, again and again, Sadanori Shimoyama taunting him –
Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
Harry Sweeney got off the train at Gotanno station. He walked with the men and the women, with their briefcases and their handbags, down the platform to the ticket gate. He held up his pass and he passed through the gate. He turned left and walked south down the main street of Gotanno, passing wooden shacks offering cheap food and strong alcohol, their lanterns floating in the thick, black, insect air, then past a sweetshop and a hardware store, a tobacconist and a greengrocer, already closed for the night, closed to the world. He came to a crossroads, turned left to walk east, and found himself opposite the Suehiro Ryokan. He stood on the other side of the street, staring across the road at the tall wooden fence, the tops of the trees smudged gray in the dark, smudged and shielding the shabby, gloomy, two-storied inn, hiding and obscuring that place of shabby, gloomy trysts and assignations, this hidden and obscured place of deception and lies. Harry Sweeney coughed, banged his chest with his fist, cleared his throat, spat upon the ground, then walked on, down the road, under the metal girders of the bridge, under the tracks of the Tōbu line, until he came to the Gotanno Minami-machi police box.
The young uniformed police officer, sat alone behind the small counter in the police box, looked up from his hands, blinked nervously, and asked, Yes?
Public Safety, said Harry Sweeney, taking out his badge again, holding up his badge again.
Yes, yes, excuse me, said the young officer, standing up behind the counter, bowing, and nodding his head. I remember you, sir. What can I do for you, sir?
Harry Sweeney put away his badge, took out his notebook, flicked through the pages, then looked up and said, Missus Take Yamazaki? Can you give me directions, please?
Yes, yes, said the young officer, nodding. But it might be easier if I came with you, if I showed you, sir?
Harry Sweeney shook his head, smiled, and said, Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. Just the directions, please.
I see, said the young officer, nodding again, gesturing with his right hand, pointing out of the door of the police box. Well then, you need to head back under the tracks, then cross the road and follow the embankment south. You’ll see rows of houses beside the embankment. It’s a bit of a rabbit warren, so you’re probably best just to ask again when you get there.
Harry Sweeney nodded, thanked the young officer, and then stepped back out of the police box and back into the night, the black night and its thick, wet, insect air –
Hang on a moment, said the young officer, picking up a handheld paraffin police lamp, lighting the lamp, offering it to Harry Sweeney. Best to take this and all. You need to watch out for the ditches and the drains …
In the light from the police box and from the police lamp, in the thick, wet, insect air, Harry Sweeney looked at the young officer and he smiled and he said, Thank you.
You know, said the young officer, quietly, softly, handing the lamp to Harry Sweeney, then looking down at his empty hands, holding out his empty hands, rubbing the fingers and thumbs of his hands together. You know, I can still feel him on my hands. No matter how many times I wash them, I can still feel the pieces of him …
The pieces of him, asked Harry Sweeney.
The pieces of his skin, the pieces of his flesh, whispered the young officer, staring down at his hands, the ends of his fingers. In the rain, that morning, when they made me pick up his clothes, made me put them in that box, from along the tracks, all along the tracks, all covered in mud, all covered in blood, there were pieces of his skin, pieces of his flesh, still on his clothes, all over his clothes. I can still feel them, still feel them, on my hands, between my fingers, no matter how many times I wash my hands, I scrub my fingers, I can still feel him …
I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney, reaching out to put a hand on the shoulder of the young officer, to pat the shoulder of the young man, gently, softly. I’m sorry.
Will it ever stop, asked the young officer, looking up from his hands and his fingers, staring up at Harry Sweeney. You think it will ever go away, sir?
I hope so, said Harry Sweeney, quietly and softly, and then Harry Sweeney turned away from the young officer, walked away from the police box, carrying the lamp, holding up the lamp, heading back under the bridge and under the tracks, crossing the road, and then going south, following the embankment, through the night – things moving in the night, things crawling in the shadows, insects biting and dogs barking – until he came to the houses, the rows of houses, some with their lights on, some in darkness, darkness and silence.
Harry Sweeney stopped before one of these weather-beaten, moss-stained, barely-still-standing tenement houses, one with a light and a radio on, a thin, sad melody leaking into the night, mixing in the air with the smell of sweet potatoes and human excrement, and Harry Sweeney tapped on its lattice door, then slid open its wooden door: Excuse me …?
What a fright, cried an old skinny man, sprawled on the floor in his underwear, half under a battered, low table, half propped up on a stained, thin cushion. A foreigner!
I’m very sorry, said Harry Sweeney, glancing around the single room, seeing a woman rising from her bedding in the shadows, watching the man trying to get his feet out from under the table, knocking over the empty bottle and glass on the table. I’m looking for Missus Yamazaki’s house …?
Too late, said the old skinny man, coughing and wheezing. Too late then, aren’t you.
What do you mean?
They’ve gone, haven’t they, said the man, waving his right hand around. Her and her husband, they’ve flit.
Flit where?
Damned if I know, laughed the man. But bet it’s someplace nice. They come into money, didn’t they.
You shouldn’t say that, whispered the woman from the shadows. You don’t know that.
You can shut up, said the man, coughing again, wheezing again. Know more than you, is what I know. Know she was talking to all them newspapermen, all them interviews she was giving them, telling them anything they wanted her to tell them, long as they paid –
Stop it, said the woman. Shouldn’t say things like that. She’s never been well, has Take-chan, always had it hard.
And we fucking ain’t, said the man. Everybody’s had it hard, still got it hard. She ain’t doing so bad now …
You don’t know anything about her, said the woman. You never spoke to her. I did. She was afraid.
Afraid, asked Harry Sweeney.
From her bedding, from the shadows, the woman said, Yeah, afraid. Told me she wished she’d never opened her mouth, wished she’d never got involved. It was her husband who made her, made her say all that …
Good on him, laughed the old skinny man. Hasn’t worked out too bad for them, has it? Got them out of here.
In the doorway, on the threshold, holding up the lamp, looking at the woman, on her bedding, in the shadows, Harry Sweeney asked, But what was she afraid of, who was –
I don’t know, said the woman, lying back down on her bedding, turning her face back to the shadows.
Don’t know, my ass, said the man. The fucking cops is who she was afraid of, everybody knows that, and everybody knows why. Selling rice, wasn’t she –
Shut up, shouted the woman, turning back round, sitting back up. Shut up, you old git!
Why, laughed the old skinny man. Not a secret, is it? Everybody knows, the cops know. That’s how they got her to say what they wanted, do whatever they wanted, isn’t it? Because she was selling rice on the black market.
I can’t believe you’ve just said that, whispered the woman, shaking her head, looking at Harry Sweeney, shaking her head again, pointing at Harry Sweeney. You don’t know who he is, you’ve no idea who he is, you stupid old fool. You could have just signed her death warrant …
Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
So what, laughed the man, then coughing again, wheezing again. We’re all going to die, ain’t we.
On the threshold, in the doorway, Harry Sweeney turned and stepped out of this weather-beaten, moss-stained, barely-still-standing house, and slid the door shut, the thin, sad melodies of the radio drowned by shouting and screaming, the smell of sweet potatoes now gone, the stench of human excrement still strong, stronger than ever, the insects biting deeper, the dogs barking louder as Harry Sweeney walked away down the alley, along and beside the embankment again, heading south again, Harry Sweeney going south again, until he came to the place where the embankment met another embankment, where the tracks of the Tōbu line crossed over the tracks of the Jōban line –
In the thick, wet, insect air, the police lamp in one hand, Harry Sweeney clawed one-handed up the embankment of the Jōban line, up and onto the tracks of the Jōban line. Dripping with sweat, wiping a hand on his jacket, Harry Sweeney turned to the west and saw the lights across the river, the Arakawa River, the lights of Kita-Senju. Then, turning to the east and holding up the lantern, Harry Sweeney saw the metal bridge of the Tōbu line tracks overhead, saw the ballast, the sleepers, and the rails of the Jōban line tracks at his feet, saw them disappearing around the bend, vanishing under the bridge. Between the rails, over the sleepers, and through the ballast, Harry Sweeney followed the tracks around the bend and under the bridge, under its girders, under the tracks, under the bridge and along the tracks, walking along the tracks, pacing out the distance: one yard, two yards, three yards, four, until he came to the place, he came to the spot –
In the night, the thick, wet, insect night, on the tracks, between the rails and on the ballast, the chipped and broken, stained pieces of stone, someone had rested a bouquet of flowers, white chrysanthemums tied with black ribbon, on the tracks, in the night, left in this place to mark the spot. And in this night and on these tracks, between the rails, on the ballast, Harry Sweeney crouched down and set the lamp down, in this night and on these tracks, Harry Sweeney reached out to touch the petals, to hold the petals, and Harry Sweeney touched the petals, Harry Sweeney held the petals, he touched the petals and he held the petals, the night beginning to tremble, the tracks beginning to tremble, the rails humming and the ballast jumping, faster and faster, a train coming down the line, its wheels turning on the tracks, around the bend and under the bridge, closer –
Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost.
Harry, Harry! The fuck are you doing –
Holding the bouquet, picking up the lamp, Harry Sweeney stepped off the tracks, away from the tracks, stepped back from the train, out of its path, turning his face, turning his body away from the train and away from the tracks, Harry Sweeney seeing two lanterns, seeing two men clambering up the embankment, climbing up toward him, the young officer and Susumu Toda clambering and climbing, calling and shouting, through the noise of the train, the sound of its wheels, the young officer and Susumu Toda reaching the top of the embankment, running down the tracks, the train disappearing up the line, vanishing into the night, the young officer and Susumu Toda running toward Harry Sweeney, reaching Harry Sweeney, Susumu Toda grabbing Harry Sweeney, holding Harry Sweeney, whispering, Harry, the Colonel, the Chief …
They don’t believe you, said Harry Sweeney. We can find no record of you – of who you say you are, of what you say you are – no record whatsoever, and, of course, the Soviet Mission are denying any and all knowledge of you.
In the cramped basement storeroom of the NYK building, in a borrowed chair at a borrowed table, his face broken and swollen still, but stitched and bandaged now, Lee Jung-Hwan smiled and said, What did you expect them to say? What else could they say?
But there’s not a single shred of evidence, said Harry Sweeney, not one single scrap of proof to back up one single word you’ve said.
Lee Jung-Hwan smiled again and shook his head: Apart from the dead man on the railroad track.
The Metropolitan Police have been receiving confessions by the hour, said Harry Sweeney. They’re flooding in, now the government has offered a reward. The police are inundated, fucking drowning in them.
Lee Jung-Hwan shook his head again and pointed to his face, to the bruises and the cuts, the bandages and the stitches: I didn’t come to you, you came to me. Just look at me, look what they fucking did to me!
Tell the police, the Japanese police, said Harry Sweeney. You’re to be handed over to them later on today.
Why? What for?
So you can make a formal statement.
But I already have – to you!
Public Safety are not investigating this case, said Harry Sweeney. The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and the Public Prosecutor’s Office are in charge of the investigation. Tell them what you told us, told me; they may believe you.
Like fuck they will! You know they won’t …
I don’t know that, said Harry Sweeney.
Lee Jung-Hwan banged his hands down on the top of the table: Yes, you fucking do –
I don’t, said Harry Sweeney again. Ask to speak to the Second Investigative Division or to the Public Prosecutor’s Office. But when you do, make sure you have some fucking proof, yeah? Some evidence to back up your story.
Lee Jung-Hwan slumped forward in his chair, his arms on the table, and whispered, What’s the point …
Well, the point is, if you don’t, said Harry Sweeney, if you don’t come up with any proof, if they don’t believe your story, then my bet is you’ll be sent straight to Kosuge.
Lee Jung-Hwan looked up: For what? For getting beaten to within an inch of my life by the biggest gangster in Tokyo? For that I’ll be sent to fucking prison?
For being an undocumented and therefore illegal alien, said Harry Sweeney. And so then to await repatriation. That is, unless you come up with any proof.
This is all a mistake, said Lee Jung-Hwan, looking across the table at Harry Sweeney, shaking his head at Harry Sweeney. This isn’t what was supposed to happen …
Never is, said Harry Sweeney, pushing back his chair, standing up. Nothing ever is.
Wait, said Lee Jung-Hwan. What about my brother? You said you’d talk to him, said you’d let me see him …
I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney.
What? What do you mean, you’re sorry?
I mean, he’s dead. I’m sorry.
But how? When?
It appears he drowned, said Harry Sweeney, gripping the back of the chair, pain shooting through the knuckles of his hands. Probably trying to get away from …
Lee Jung-Hwan slumped forward again, his arms on the table, his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking, his body trembling, groaning and sobbing, then springing back, his body and his shoulders, his arms and his face to the ceiling, screaming, No, no, no …
I’m sorry, said Harry Sweeney again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. They killed him, the bastards. The fucking bastards, they killed him and they set me up.
Harry Sweeney pushed the chair under the table, turning away, saying again, I’m sorry.
Wait, said Lee Jung-Hwan. Wait …
But Harry Sweeney did not wait, he did not turn back. He walked toward the door and he –
Please. You’ve got to help me …
Turned the handle and –
Listen to me, please …
Opened the door –
Please, whispered Lee Jung-Hwan. I work for you, for Hongō House. I’m with Zed Unit.
Thanks, kid, said Harry Sweeney as he wound down the window in the back of the car, then sat back and closed his eyes to the strains of a sonata he just couldn’t place, the car driving through the morning, driving through the city, along Avenue A, then up Avenue W, under the railroad tracks, through the crossroads at Gofukubashi and on past the Yashima Hotel, turning left by the Shirokiya department store, then over the river at Nihonbashi, past the Mitsukoshi department store, its glass and gold doors just opening, its two bronze lions sat watching, their car going on along Ginza Street, heading on through Kanda, across Manseibashi, on through Suehirochō to the Matsuzakaya department store, turning left at Hirokōji, up Avenue N, then right down a side street, up a back road, a slight slope, the car slowing down, the car pulling up, Harry Sweeney suddenly opening his eyes, suddenly barking, Too late!
Excuse me, sir, said Shin. But we’re here.
Harry Sweeney wiped his mouth and chin, unstuck his shirt from his skin, and looked out of the windows of the car, saw the high walls and the tall trees, the red, English-brick walls and the dark, timeless trees, saw the gates and the sign, the closed gates and the sign which read: OFF LIMITS: STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE.
The second movement of the sonata ending, the third movement of the sonata beginning, from scherzo to lento, Harry Sweeney smiled, looked at his watch, its face still cracked, its hands still stopped, then blinked and smiled again, opened the passenger door, and said, I’ll be back in five minutes.