The next Sunday when I met Momo in Shibuya, she wanted to eat first. That worked for me. Dinner gave me a chance to ask a few questions about those things that didn’t quite add up.
Momo was waiting for me, but she wasn’t in the restaurant when I first caught sight of her. There was a bookstore next door. It was one of those holes in the wall with geraniums outside and narrow aisles and an eccentric owner who wears a scarf at the height of summer. Momo had her back to me, bent slightly over one of the bargain tables outside. I got close enough to see she was leafing through a knitting book. Sweaters, scarves, hats—she turned the pages too quickly for me to tell. But it touched my heart, on top of my horniness and confusion. Not a good mix.
Momo turned, replaced the book and slotted herself under my shoulder as if we’d been a couple for years. “Hungry?” she asked.
“You can’t imagine,” I said.
I let her do the ordering. Two beers and an unstable pile of empty bowls later, I decided we were both mellow enough for me to raise the subject of her brother and the mysterious account book. Fun later; get this out of the way first.
“About Goto-san’s ledger,” I said. But that was as far as I got. Momo put a finger against my lips and shook her head.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never should tell you about my brother. Not your problem.”
“Yeah, but…” Her finger tasted of soya and lemon. She shook her head slightly.
“I like you, Frank,” she said. “Please don’t worry about me. Okay?” She whispered the last word into my ear, then sat back and drained her glass. I decided to forget about the fish in my refrigerator. Fifteen Love, here we come.
It was even better than the first time. When Momo urged me to choose the same room we’d rented a week earlier, I wondered a bit, but the things she did once we got inside were all brand new. I prided myself on having a large repertoire of jazz tunes. Well, Momo seemed to have a pretty big repertoire in the lovemaking department. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Akiko had already cautioned me, and I wasn’t about to start now. The busy samurai and his long-suffering lady looked down from the walls, and Momo played her tunes on me.
Somewhere between our first and second hop into the hot tub, my Westernness got the better of me. I began to feel guilty. The woman’s brother was dead, but she was still treating me like royalty. Royalty felt good, but it had a way of making consequences melt away like the morning mist over Mount Fuji. I had to give her something.
“He always brings the same briefcase,” I said.
“Unh?”
“Goto. He’s always carrying that crocodile thing or whatever it is. Every time he comes to Akiko’s house.”
“Oh, Frank.” There was a pause while Momo poured frangipani oil on my head. Then there was a longer pause. Finally, she said, “Probably that’s money. Yakuza have a big problem with cash.”
“You mean they have too much of it?”
“Too much, yes. So they have to, what do you say, wash money?”
“Launder it.”
“Yes. But before laundry they have to hide. Goto must have safe.”
“In Akiko’s house? What if she opens it?”
Momo snorted. “Goto has safe in every girlfriend house. Of course, combination is secret.”
Every girlfriend? The guy was at the age when such things began to slow down a little, wasn’t he? I tried to imagine being one of his girlfriends. Accepting his gifts and knowing that somewhere, maybe even in your bedroom, there was a box of cash you could never open. It must be a constant reminder of who called the shots. For a man like Goto, money bought cars, sex, a new jazz pianist for one of your bars. Yet he still had to rub it in.
“Maybe the ledger is in the safe then.”
“I don’t think so. Many safes, only one book. If I am Goto-san, I keep this book with me always. Maybe even I sleep with it.” Momo stepped into the hot tub and held out a hand. “Frankie. Forget this book.”
I shook my head. What had Momo just said—keep this book with me always?
“That briefcase,” I said. “He never lets go of it.” I got back into the tub.
“Here is suggestion,” Momo said, selecting another fragrant oil. “Next time Goto comes, just touch this bag. Maybe offer to help him. Then watch his face. In Japan, face is more important than words.”
That sounded easy enough. Before Momo and I went back to creating a tsunami of our own in the Fifteen Love’s hot tub, I resolved to try. It seemed the least I could do.