Hiro asked Tomiko, “Did your father go downstairs again that night?”
Ginjiro’s daughter didn’t answer.
“I need the truth,” he said.
Tomiko nodded. “I woke and heard his footsteps on the stairs.”
“Did you follow?” Hiro asked.
“Why would I?” Tomiko shifted her broom from one hand to the other. “Father often had trouble sleeping. When he did, he went downstairs to keep from waking Mother. I didn’t follow, but I wish I had. I might have saved him.”
“Saved your father or Chikao?” the Jesuit asked.
“Maybe both.” Tomiko shook her head. “I mean, if I had followed, perhaps I could prove my father didn’t do this.”
Hiro and Father Mateo said farewell to Tomiko and headed for Pontocho. As they approached the narrow alley, Hiro considered how different the pleasure district looked in daylight hours. At night the district blazed with colored lights and shimmering silk, a vibrant dream made touchable and real. In the morning, passion faded into scents of human waste and old perfume.
A block down the alley, Hiro saw a tiny, handmade sign beside a doorway. Smoky grime obscured the writing, but the faded letters read THE GOLDEN BUDDHA.
A portly, smiling statue sat cross-legged on the stones beneath the sign. The hands of countless visitors had worn away the bronze atop the figure’s rounded head, leaving Buddha with a crown of brownish-gray.
“This doesn’t look much like a teahouse.” Father Mateo gestured toward the Buddha.
“Not much of a teahouse, anyway,” Hiro agreed.
The businesses of Pontocho displayed as much variety in wealth and reputation as the men who frequented the pleasure district. High-end houses catered to samurai and wealthy merchants. Places like the Golden Buddha served a poorer class.
Hiro stepped to the teahouse door and knocked.
The door swung open immediately, revealing a girl of eight or nine. She wore a blue kimono with a red and white striped obi. Her hair fell down her back in a long, thin braid.
Her eyes grew wide at the sight of Hiro’s swords. Without a word, she dropped to her knees and bowed her forehead to the ground.
“We wish to see your mistress,” Hiro said.
The girl stood up, bowed, and disappeared into the house without a word.
She left the door ajar.
Hiro thought about entering, but changed his mind when he caught a whiff of the air inside. It reeked of male sweat and stale sake, with an undercurrent of greasy food that hadn’t been good when warm.
He took a step backward, seeking the slightly fresher air of the street.
Footsteps approached, and a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway. The tired wrinkles around her eyes suggested a life of hardship that her callused hands confirmed. She wore her graying hair pulled back in a tidy bun, and her blue kimono showed faded spots where cleaning removed the dye along with the stains.
She bowed to the samurai and the priest. “Good morning. My name is Eba. I own this establishment. How may I help you?”
Hiro noted her lack of surprise at the sight of a foreigner on her doorstep. Then again, in a place like this, she’d probably seen quite few surprising things.
“Good morning,” Hiro said. “We have come on official business.”
“At this hour? I’d imagine so.” Eba didn’t sound hostile, but she didn’t seem curious either.
“Two nights ago, a murder happened several blocks from here.” Hiro made a gesture that indicated no real direction. “We believe the killer came to your establishment that night.”
“Before or after he took a life?” Eba sounded strangely calm, considering the news.
“Before,” Hiro said, noting the woman’s use of the masculine pronoun.
Eba nodded once. “You want Kaoru.”
“How did you know that?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro wished the Jesuit hadn’t revealed the answer, though he couldn’t fault the reaction. Eba’s words surprised the shinobi too.
She shrugged. “He has a temper and won’t control it. That kind always comes to no good. Also, he owes everyone money, and trouble finds a man when his debts grow high.”
“Did you see Kaoru that night?” Hiro asked.
“Sure.” Eba nodded. “He was here. He drank too much, stayed too late, and didn’t pay for his sake. Who did he kill?”
Hiro ignored her question. “Did he drink alone that night, or did he have companions?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Eba said. “On busy nights, I don’t have enough tables to go around. The patrons sit together, whether or not they arrived that way. I never know who’s who unless I happen to see who pays, and, as I mentioned, Kaoru didn’t pay at all.
“I can tell you, though, that he’s not a regular patron. He drinks here only when everyone else has cut him off, and then only until his father pays his bills.”
“Why would you serve him under those circumstances?” Father Mateo asked.
“Because his father always pays the bills,” Eba said. “Sometimes cash, other times in kind, and though his sake’s mediocre, most of my customers don’t know good from bad.”
“Did you notice a female samurai here that evening?” Hiro asked.
“Akechi Yoshiko?” Eba laughed without humor. “She won’t show her face here again. Not after the last time.”
“What happened?” Hiro asked.
“She came in here a few weeks back, trying to collect a debt from one of my regular customers. And no, before you ask, it wasn’t Kaoru.” Eba shook her head. “Most samurai aren’t welcome here, and Akechi Yoshiko made it worse by breaking every rule of polite behavior. She confronted the man at his table and threatened him loudly enough to silence the room. When he told her he didn’t have the money, she threw his flask to the floor and pulled him right up out of his chair. I think she would have beaten him on the spot, but other patrons intervened.”
“They had a fight? Inside the teahouse?” Father Mateo asked.
“No.” Eba laughed. “I wish they had. Basho would have taught that uppity samurai a thing or two.” She glanced at Hiro. “I’m sorry if that offends.”
“Just tell us what happened,” Hiro said. “By Basho, do you mean the rice merchant?”
“You know him?” Eba asked. “He can throw a punch.”
Hiro found it interesting that Basho drank sake at the Golden Buddha. A man of Basho’s standing could afford a nicer place.
“Three men escorted Yoshiko out,” Eba continued. “I followed them into the street. I told her if she returned to my house, for debt collection or otherwise, I’d have her arrested and dragged before the magistrate. I won’t have samurai threatening my patrons and starting fights in my shop without a cause.”
Hiro found the woman’s confidence impressive. Few commoners would dare to confront a samurai in anger, and fewer still would admit it without remorse.
“Did she agree to stay away?” Hiro doubted Akechi Yoshiko would hear such words without a fight.
“No, but she didn’t argue either.” Eba smiled. “The men who escorted her out were off-duty dōshin. I give them free tea on rounds and complimentary sake when not on duty. My establishment isn’t large, or fine, but it’s one of the safest in Pontocho.”
So much for samurai not being welcome, Hiro thought. Apparently Eba only objected to the wealthy kind.
“Then you didn’t see Akechi Yoshiko two nights ago,” the Jesuit said.
“Better than that,” the shopkeeper said, “I can say with certainty that woman wasn’t here.”