When Iwata came to, he was being dragged. His blindfold had come loose. With one bewildered eye, he saw a white mansion in the night like a mass of chalk swept off a blackboard. Far below and all around there was only dark, rocky desert.
He heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. Then he was being lifted up on quivering legs and marched towards the mansion. Flaming torches led the way into gardens of ice sculptures and tiered fountains. Everywhere there were men in body armour carrying automatic rifles, scanning the distance. The mansion was surrounded by surveillance masts, infrared cameras, laser rangefinders.
Iwata was led to the side of the building, down an elevator and through two reinforced security doors. They clunked shut behind him and he was standing in some kind of bunker, music blaring. It was as if a large panic room had been dressed up as a karaoke booth. There were a dozen trans women in skimpy outfits and heavy make-up surrounding a table of champagne coolers and a sandcastle of cocaine.
On the stage Bebé Rivera was wearing a gold silk shirt, cowboy boots and a perm. He was singing ‘Touch Me’ by Samantha Fox, swinging the mic from his crotch as the women whooped. He caressed imaginary breasts, his forehead shiny with sweat, his diamond rings and hair sparkling in the disco lights.
The song finished to rapturous applause and Bebé returned triumphantly from the stage. As he took his seat a flute of champagne was poured for him, two raspberries dropped in. He sipped it and considered his new arrival at last. ‘Girls, go stretch your legs.’
Pouting, the women shuffled out of the room.
‘Except for you, Nayeli. You dance.’ Automatically the lights dimmed and slow music began. She started to circle the pole on the stage. Except for her, Iwata was alone with Bebé.
‘So,’ he said, playing with one of his rings, ‘here you are.’
Iwata didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
‘Sit.’ The man patted the space next to him. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Bebé Rivera.’
‘Then let’s switch to English.’ Bebé poured Iwata champagne. ‘What do you think of Nayeli? She’s an angel, isn’t she?’
Iwata looked at the dancing woman on the pole, her muscles clearly defined in the purple.
‘So strong.’ Bebé grinned, his eyes glazing over.
‘Why am I here?’
‘Drink up.’
Iwata swallowed with difficulty, his head swimming with exhaustion. He presumed it was good champagne but his mouth registered only wetness.
The music finished and Bebé applauded. Nayeli smiled, then excused herself. As she left Bebé kissed her on the mouth. Dropping back into his seat, Iwata caught a snatch of cologne. The man smelled good, somewhere between citrus and leather seats – the interior of a rental car.
‘You’re here because you’re looking for missing women.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe if you had come to me as a friend, I could have helped you.’ Bebé shrugged jovially. ‘Then again, life isn’t all about making friends. I mean, take your actions at my housing complex.’
Iwata put down his glass. ‘I saw a young girl in that place. She was strapped to a bed.’
‘We’re discussing your business here, not mine.’ He snorted a line then massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘At first, nobody could figure you out. My people thought maybe you were CIA. Or you belonged to one of my competitors and you’d tricked the good Detective Valentín with a silly story. But you were looked into and it’s as you say. Your business is the girls. And you’ve come a long way, you’ve taken risks. So, Mr Iwata, my only question is: why?’
‘They’re being killed.’
‘So it’s that simple, then. You think you’re a hero and you thought you would find your dragon here.’ Bebé snorted another line, leaned back and closed his eyes, his face pink. ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, friend. There’s nobody like that on the loose in my city.’
‘No? What about you? What about that little girl in the complex? What happens to her after the procedure?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘And what about the missing women? You paid for Meredith. You paid for Geneviève. Benedict Novacek arranged the meetings. You paid for their surgeries. Then you flew them out here. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘Benedict has a good eye. What can I say? Existence is longing, every man has his needs.’
‘What did you do with them? Are they in the desert?’
‘You think I killed them?’ Laughing, he toasted the quality of the joke. ‘Mr Iwata, the zookeeper that loves his animals doesn’t have specimens flown in just to see them die.’ Bebé waved at the door. ‘But this is all getting very serious.’
Immediately the women crowded back in. A white weasel loped into the room after them, snapping its small head around. It was so fast it seemed to undulate, letting out high-pitched chirps.
Bebé screeched with delight. ‘He’s free! He’s free! Nobody touch him!’
‘Aw, he’s scared,’ one of the women said.
‘Diablo isn’t scared of anything, he’s a warrior. You know he has a war dance? It confuses prey. You’ll see him do little backflips, frizz up his tail. Shit, I could watch him all day.’ The weasel scurried under the booth and Bebé slapped the tabletop. ‘Time for another song.’ He turned to Iwata. ‘Okay, Confucius, what’s your favourite?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bullshit, everybody has a favourite song.’ He winked at the woman next to him. ‘Anabel, my plum. Give us something with attitude.’
As she stood and headed towards the stage Iwata saw a bulge in the gusset of her tights. Bebé smiled at him wolfishly. ‘You like what you see, don’t you? Don’t tell me you’re not curious. Look at her, look at how perfect she is. I’ve been promising her money for the procedure for months but I just can’t bring myself to lose it, you know what I mean? She’s hung like a fucking donkey, after all!’ Bebé slapped Iwata on the thigh and leaned in close. ‘Not always, you understand, I’m no fucking maricón. But sometimes it just really gets me going. I don’t know why. Best of both worlds, maybe. I like that I can see when she’s turned on, you know? Anabel can’t hide it from me. Not with the size of her fucking turnip.’
The woman on the stage started to sing Madonna’s ‘Lucky Star’ in passable English. Bebé swigged his champagne, bopping his head, unable to take his eyes from the stage. ‘She hates it, of course. Says having a cock disgusts her. She calls it it.’ He sighed. ‘I guess in the end I’ll have to give in and make her happy.’
The room was clapping along. Bebé kissed the girl next to him on the shoulder and she scooped up a small mound of cocaine under her long pink nail. He devoured it then turned to Iwata, blinking. ‘I was curious about you, Mr Iwata. You caused a bit of a stir in my town. But I see now you’re nothing more than a Don Quixote with too many questions. Questions questions questions. My grandmother used to say, “The mouth is the gateway to catastrophe.” ’ He laughed. ‘Then again, so is shooting my men.’
Iwata felt a deep futility, a floating plastic bottle trying to reason with the tide itself. The weasel popped its head out from under the table now, then scurried into the corner of the room, baring its teeth.
Bebé beamed. ‘Do you know what an obligate carnivore is? Diablo is one of those, you see. Another phrase I like is “true carnivore”. But “obligate carnivore” has such a ring to it. If I ever write an autobiography, that’s my title. Obligate Carnivore by Edgardo Rivera. Anyway’ – he plucked out a raspberry and popped it in his mouth – ‘I like to leave things on a high note. Heard this one the other day – see what you think. So. The world ends and all the people gather before God. The Russians speak first. They say, “God, we can only thank you. You gave us majestic mountains, you gave us oil, you gave us great literature, we were truly blessed by your gifts.” And God says, “Well, yes, that’s true. But I also gave you cold.” The Americans are next up. They say, “God, we can only thank you. Not only did you give us incredible natural beauty and tremendous wealth, but you also gave us our precious freedom, the greatest gift of all.” And God says, “Yes, that’s all technically true. But I also gave you terrible inequality and discord.” The Mexicans are last. When it’s their turn, they kneel before God and say, “Dear God, of all the peoples that have come before you today, we can honestly say that we, the Mexicans, are the most blessed of all. Our lands have everything we need. We have natural resources, we have jungles, we have flowers. Our crops grow, our beaches sparkle, our animals are plentiful. All throughout the world, our food is treasured and our people are loved.” God shrugs and says, “Yeah, but I also gave you Mexicans.” ’
Bebé laughed raucously and slapped the table. His women joined in on cue.
Iwata looked around the murky neon, the smoke, the sweat. It was as if the depth of the room were no longer a fixed concept, the confines of this space suddenly interchangeable with the black desert outside, the smiles surrounding him like coyotes’.
‘Bebé.’ The girl next to him nuzzled into his chest with a dreamy smile. ‘It’s unfair that your friend just gets to watch us without singing himself.’
‘A wonderful idea! Choose something for him. Something oriental.’
She went up to the stage and programmed the song. ‘Ready!’
Bebé turned to Iwata. ‘Get up there and sing for us.’
‘No.’
His jaw stiffened. ‘Say no to me again in front of my friends, you chink fuck, and I will become unreasonable.’
On unsteady legs, Iwata drifted up to the stage. The music began, a jaunty eighties bass-line. He choked on the lyrics, a little yellow ball on the screen skipping across words like a happy frog.
‘Fucking sing!’ Bebé roared.
Iwata began to sing Aneka’s ‘Japanese Boy’.
‘Yes! Louder!’ Bebé started to dance, urging everyone to their feet. Surrounded by his women, he cycled his fists and moved his hips, a fat, permed Travolta. Panicking, the weasel ran from one corner of the room to the other. Iwata sang the song with his eyes closed, trying to grasp at memory instead of reality. He imagined he were somewhere else, somewhere safe. He imagined himself in the aisles of Mitsuwa, the music gentle in the background, the words not his own but those of Akiko Nakamura. He tried to imagine Cleo singing to the crying baby. He tried to imagine Callie humming to herself as she chopped garlic. He tried to imagine Van Morrison on his mother’s porch. Anything to drown out his own voice in this room.
When the song ended the door opened and Valentín entered the room.
‘Hello again, Detective,’ Bebé said.
‘Edgardo.’ She nodded.
‘It’s like I say to my little boy. Make all the mess you want. So long as you do the tidying afterwards.’ Bebé pointed at Iwata. ‘That’s your mess, Valentín.’