Chapter 67

Friday, December 27

4:00 P.M.

Yumi

“Kiss me. Or kill me. Without you, I’m better off dead,” sang Nana, pulling a black gun. The holster was strapped over her artfully slashed black leather pants, and featured an unnecessary number of silver buckles. Straight-arming it with a twist she’d learned from watching American hip-hop videos, she pointed it at the audience.

“Cut, cut, cut!” the director cried. “Nana, that was chō-primo. But Blade, man, how many times do I have to tell you? Can’t you play without making that face?” He turned to Yumi, exasperated. “Didn’t you explain it to him last time I asked? Every time he gets to that part, he looks like he’s about to howl at the moon.”

“I tried!” Yumi shot back. “He can’t help it. He said he gets lost in the music, stops thinking about what he looks like and just plays.”

“Yeah, well, tell him to just fake the guitar shit on this next take and think about looking like Nana’s hotshot backup posse instead. We can put the guitar track back in later.”

Yumi picked her way through the pile of rubble the band was standing on. It was all that was left of Jimmy’s studio. Chiho and her assistants had scoured the wreckage, picking up mangled mike stands, disemboweled speakers, a twisted sound board with wires hanging out, and other muddy, smashed equipment that had once been state of the art. They’d half buried the junk in an artful postapocalyptic way among the band members, who’d been furnished with instruments that worked just fine but had been “distressed” to match the artifacts that been rescued from the wreckage.

“I know, I know, my face,” Blade grimaced as Yumi approached.

“Can you fake the guitar on this next take?” Yumi asked. “The director says he can lay the music back in later.”

Blade shook his head. “The fingering won’t match. I play it a little different each time.”

Yumi returned to the director and explained. He cursed under his breath, and shouted for Blade and the bass player to switch places, so the guitarist would be less distracting during Nana’s big gun finale.

“I want your best ‘don’t eff with me’ face,” he directed the bass player. “Let’s get it right in one.” She nodded and tugged some slack cord over to her new position.

“Okay, one more time, from the top,” the director called. He bent over the cameraman’s shoulder, peering into the digital display. Then he straightened and called to a tech guy on the sidelines. “Hey, fix the corner of the damn blue screen, will you?”

The tech scurried on set and retied the corner of the special blue tarp that had been stretched between supports behind the band. Chiho took advantage of the break to flit between the musicians, touching up the powder on their shiny noses and tweaking Nana’s hair, fixing it with a mist of superhard hairspray.

When she returned to the sidelines, Yumi asked why they’d blocked the destruction behind the band for this take and Chiho explained that Eva would use this one to make the video that would play behind the band on stage tomorrow night. She’d lay in the digital effects she’d been working on yesterday over the blue screen, so it looked like the band playing in the video was backed by a wall of flames. When Nana pulled the trigger, fire would explode from the gun on screen and morph into hearts that would fly toward the audience.

“That should be memorable,” Yumi said.

“Yeah, well, it better be, for all the trouble it’s caused me. Jimmy liked Eva’s demo so much yesterday, it gave him an idea for a crazy stunt to pull at the concert tomorrow night. I owe favors all over Tokyo now, trying to get my hands on four snow-white suits, including one that will fit a foreigner. Jimmy is in the process of bullying the concert producer into installing a bank of pyrotechnics. He wants to shoot a wall of flames in front of the band as they play the final chord. While they’re hidden behind the fire, they’ll rip off their ‘refugee’ duds and be standing there dressed in pure white when the pyro shuts off for the curtain call. Poor Shiro has been working his fingers to the bone, altering all the costumes so they have tearaway backs.”

The director shouted, “Okay, everybody ready now? Let’s try this one more time.”

Nana tucked the gun back into her holster and the VuDu Dolls launched into their latest hit single.

“Is that a real gun?” Yumi asked.

“Are you kidding? It’s an air gun. I bought it at a toy store in Ueno. But it looks real, doesn’t it?”

“Fooled me. Of course, I’ve never seen a real one.”

“Yeah, well, neither have the fans. But that didn’t keep Jimmy from being a real asshole about it. He tore me a new one because the store didn’t have the brand he asked for, so even though I brought back three others for him to choose from, he made me call the store and do a special rush order. I have to be waiting at the front door when they open tomorrow, then hand carry it back here so Nana can use it at the concert.”

In front of the blue tarp, Nana raised one of the rejected air guns as she sang the last lines of “Kiss Me, Kill Me.” The last chord faded and the director yelled, “Cut, cut, cut!” but Jimmy was already climbing the rubble toward Nana, telling her she needed to pull up after firing so it looked real. He took the gun from her and pointed it at the audience, showing her how to fake a recoil. He made her do it a few times until she got it right, then rejoined the director behind the cameraman.

The band began to play “Kiss Me, Kill Me” one more time, and Yumi felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She snatched it out to look at the caller ID, thinking it might be Kenji. But it wasn’t. The call was from the Mitsuyama house in Hiroo. She’d have to call back later when she had more privacy.

This time Nana pulled the gun like a pro, the final chord faded, and Jimmy smiled when he watched the replay. He straightened and clapped his hands.

“Okay! Everybody! This time you nailed it. That’s it for this afternoon. O-tsukare-sama deshita. Dinner at my place on the tenth floor at seven.”

Everybody relaxed, high-fived, and began to pack up.

Yumi walked away to listen to Mrs. Mitsuyama’s voicemail.

“I hope this call finds you well, Yumi-san. It’s so kind of you to help the suffering people in the tsunami zone. Speaking of the tsunami zone, I heard this morning that the Rinkai Line is running again, and I was wondering when you might be returning from Odaiba? My husband and son and I would like to sit down with you and your family for an important discussion. Please call me when you have a chance.”

Yumi slowly lowered the phone. This could only mean one thing—the wheels were in motion. She was about to become officially unengaged.

She’d been so caught up in the hunt for Flame, she hadn’t had time to think about Ichiro or her own future very much in the past few days. She knew she’d be happier after it was all over, but getting through the actual breakup was going to be painful. Would Ichiro take responsibility and apologize for ending their relationship, or would he say, “It is regrettable that . . .”? Would Mr. Mitsuyama fund her father’s history chair until he found another sponsor, or would he try to walk away the minute Ichiro’s connection to Yumi was broken?

“Hey, Yumi, there’s room for one more in the van!” Chiho called.

“Coming.”

Squeezing into the white van between Chiho and Shiro, she sent e-mail to Mrs. Mitsuyama, promising to call when she returned from Odaiba the day after tomorrow.