Chapter 58

Thursday, December 26

1:00 P.M.

Yumi

The rockabilly taxi driver stood over a head taller than the elderly men and women who were waiting patiently with their teacups as Yumi ran back and forth to the kitchen of the nearest Oedo Onsen restaurant, refilling the collection of assorted hot-water pots that stood on the tea table like a platoon of volunteer soldiers. She topped up the last one, settling it back in the lineup. Whipping off the apron and headscarf that were required serving wear, even in conditions of emergency, she handed them to the motherly woman who had volunteered to replace her, bowing and thanking her for stepping in before Yumi’s shift was over.

Asking Ace’s driver to wait while she fetched her phone, Yumi ran to the tangle of power strips that had been set up for refugees. Good, it was back to 100 percent. This morning it had died as soon as she took advantage of the Wi-Fi bars at the refugee center to send a reply to Ichiro’s mother and a text to Kenji, apologizing for peeking at the evidence bag in his Inbox, but telling him she’d found the place where that Polaroid of the half-naked girl was taken.

When she emerged, Stranger was leaning against his cab in his sunglasses, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick. He boosted himself off the car and got in the driver’s seat to operate the lever that would open the door for her.

“Ace-san is going to be mighty happy to see you,” he confided as she scooted into the backseat. “This morning nobody knew what he was going on about, until somebody finally figured out he wanted sugar for his green tea—” The taxi driver shuddered. “—and eggs for breakfast, cooked until they were hard.” He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and turned the key.

“He eventually got fed without me, though, right?” Yumi asked. “Why did Harajuku-san ask you to fetch me from the refugee center?”

“Dunno. I expect he’ll tell you when we get there.” Stranger swung the car onto the deserted boulevard. They drove in companionable silence, and few minutes later bumped into the semicircular drive in front of Jimmy’s building.

After spending the morning at a place where everybody was acutely aware of the need to conserve power and behave with utmost courtesy to their fellow suffering human beings, she wasn’t prepared for the scene at Jimmy’s penthouse. In her absence, the VuDu Dolls had arrived.

She walked in on a blaze of lights, speakers blasting competing tunes from different rooms, and a heated fight between Shiro and Nana.

“I’m keeping it,” Nana said. “And nothing you can say will change my mind.”

She turned away from the pamphlet the image consultant was showing her, on which was printed before and after pictures of laser tattoo removal. Catching a glimpse of Yumi, the vocalist’s face brightened and she said, “Hey, let’s ask her. You’re a fan, right? What do you think? Is this cool with you?”

She pulled up her T-shirt to reveal fresh ink on her lower back, still slightly puffy and red around the edges. It was a black rose entwined with barbed wire. Encircling it were the words, “Only One Life To Live.”

Yumi hesitated, then said, “It’s very . . . edgy.”

“See?” Nana said, turning to Shiro, triumphant. “Edgy. I like that.” She shot a look of appreciation and a thumbs-up in Yumi’s direction.

Shiro rolled his eyes and said, “Nana. Sweetheart. Edgy is not one of VuDu Dolls’ keywords. We do ‘thrilling.’ We do ‘cool.’ We don’t do ‘edgy.’ Not right now. Think of your fans. They’re already reeling from Flame passing away—may the poor girl rest in peace. Right now you need to reassure them, remind them that the rest of you are still alive and making the music they adore. Really, Nana, darling, I’m shocked you don’t have more respect for Flame’s memory.”

Nana rounded on him, furious. “Don’t tell me how to respect Flame’s memory. I got this in memory of Flame. Flame’s the one who—”

She shoved aside the magazines on the top of the coffee table, blinking back tears, searching for a lighter. She found one and flicked it, igniting the end of the cigarette she’d fitted between her babydoll lips. She took in a deep lungful of smoke, then exhaled, calming herself. A few puffs later, she turned to Shiro and said, “I’m still there for the fans, I’m just there for them with a tattoo, that’s all. What does it matter, anyway? They’re never going to see it. It’s on my back, not my arm. It’s the music that’s important.”

“It is, I know it is, but babycakes, it’s not just the music, it’s the look, it’s the feel, it’s the package. Of course your music is important, sweetie, but—”

“But nothing.” Nana pulled an ashtray closer and tapped her ash. “Look,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “If nobody takes any pictures of me in the bathtub, the fans will never know.” She scooped up her cigarettes and lighter, and walked out.

The bathtub. Jolted by the reminder, she looked at Shiro, but he just sighed, gave her an I tried look, and tossed the tattoo removal brochure at the wastebasket.

In the next room, Jimmy Harajuku ended the call he was on, saying he didn’t care how tapped out they were because of emergency earthquake demand, he needed four generators delivered immediately to where his studio had stood before the tsunami had washed six stories out from under it. He strode into the room, dialing his next call.

Spotting Yumi, he said, “Ah, Miss Hata, there you are. Please don’t run off again—we need you here to help Mr. Blade work with the band this afternoon. Hello? Is this the Pro Camera rental department? Hang on a sec.” He covered the mouthpiece and finished saying, “Before I go out to make sure these idiots don’t set things up wrong at tomorrow’s shoot location, can you help me explain the schedule to Ace-san?”

“Hai,” Yumi agreed, following him back to the kitchen as he badgered the person on the other end of the line to find a truck—he didn’t care how—and drive a load of lighting equipment to the video shoot site immediately if not sooner.

“Yo,” said Blade, shooting her a mock salute from behind his guitar and a cup of coffee, sitting at a table with the remains of breakfast still stuck to plates that had been stacked but not cleared.

“Good morning,” Yumi said, bowing to the guitarist and his manager, who looked up from checking his phone messages and grinned with relief.

“Miss Hata! Am I ever happy to see you! Can you explain to these nice people that Blade needs to start checking out the equipment and tuning up and having a go with the band before they even think of videoing anything? I can’t seem to . . .”

Yumi smiled and held up a hand. “Don’t worry Ace-san, you’re all on the same page. Mr. Harajuku has asked me to help Blade work with the band this afternoon. And I think he wants Blade to talk to the stylist about his costume for the music video.”

“Costume?” Blade frowned and looked down at the faded Sex Pistols T-shirt he was wearing and said, “This in’t good enough?”

“Uh . . .” Yumi looked to Jimmy for help.

The promoter punched a new number into his phone and barked at it, “Chiho! Kitchen.” A minute later, the stylist appeared.

“I was just down the hall,” she said, annoyed. “You didn’t have to phone me on speaker.”

Jimmy ignored her complaint and donned a fresh set of white gloves, directing her to use Yumi to talk to Blade about his costume, clear up the breakfast dishes, and be sure to have all the props ready for review by the time he returned from the shooting location at four.

The stylist muttered, “Your wish is my command,” and made an ironic namaste at Jimmy’s receding back.

He strode to the front door, cocking a gun-finger at Shiro by way of farewell and yelling down the hall for Ninjaboy on his way out.

When he’d gone, Blade and Yumi helped Chiho clear up the dishes. After they’d wiped the counters and helped themselves to fresh cups of coffee, Chiho beckoned them down the hall to a bedroom with a mountain of wardrobe heaped on the bed. Wedged into the corner, a silent girl in huge black glasses sat before a desktop computer, her hair pulled into a single spiky fountain atop her head and her fingers flying over the keyboard as screens of code scrolled past. Chiho introduced her to Blade as Eva—short for Evangelion, her favorite anime—the video artist who was throwing together the promo video that would play behind the VuDu Dolls and Blade when they were on stage at what had turned into Jimmy’s Top Talent Tsunami Benefit Concert at Zepp Tokyo.

“Benefit concert?” Yumi said.

“Hasn’t Jimmy told you about it?” Chiho began sorting through the tattered black and silver clothing on the bed, frowning as she considered this item or that. “Originally, it was scheduled as a Jimmy’s Top Talent Showcase, but it got postponed by the tsunami. Then they announced that the Rinkai Line will be back in service by tomorrow and people will be able to come and go from Odaiba as usual. So it’s back on again. And Jimmy’s turning it into a sort of memorial for Flame. It’s sold out, and scalped tickets are going for over twenty thousand yen.”

Suddenly, in the corner, the computer screen burst into flames as Eva played back a piece she’d just composed, dancing fire morphing into a stream of hearts that took over the screen, then formed themselves into silhouettes of the VuDu Dolls. After scrutinizing the effect, she hit a key and went back to her screens of scrolling code.

“Now,” Chiho said, turning her attention to Blade and holding up a fistful of tattered garments. “About your costume . . .”