This Ragged, Wastrel Thing

THREE

Jiko’s Ducati is red like her hair and if the body has ever been scratched or damaged, then the evidence is buried beneath untold layers of paint and polish. It’s a classic Bosozoku ride: the handlebars are pointed down for quick getaways through small spaces, a reminder of the days when cops only had biker gangs to worry about. There are stickers all over the fuel tank: a big Japanese flag in the centre, surrounded by the symbols of old gangs that disappeared long ago. When she revs, the motor purrs like a well-fed tiger, and we’re out of the pleasure quarter and into the belly of the Rivers before we hear the sirens.

‘It takes them a while,’ Jiko says. ‘The girls at the clubs hate the suits as much as I do. They just pretend they don’t see anything.’

It’s night and I’m free with nothing but wind in my face and endless open road. The lights of the Rivers blur into yellow and red and green, streaks that spit across the passing walls as we puncture clouds of stench-filled smoke. The night is waking up and Sonaya breathes again.

‘Nakata’s place still open?’ I ask Jiko. She nods and steers towards the Rivers’ scrawny northern veins. The roads are crocked and we slalom around a string of potholes; I get the feeling she’d sooner lose the flesh from her bones than scratch the paintwork on her bike. We pull over in a long corridor of fluorescent signs, a myriad of fire escapes feeding into one another, infinite wires and cables stringing the streets together. Jiko takes her time dismounting; her fingers gently caress the throttle, like a jockey sharing a tender moment with their horse after a race.

I lead Jiko through the unmarked door and down the stairs. The place hasn’t changed one bit. The old record player still sits behind the bar, black leather stretches across the furniture, and the air is thick with artificial smoke; like of those old speakeasies from back in the day when people knew what jazz was and cigarettes were legal. I can barely stand up straight without brushing my mane against a maze of shimmering orbs that hang from the ceiling. Two middle-aged women in modern hanbok are conspiring in one corner; in the other corner two boys are exploring each other’s necks.

‘You look terrible,’ Nakata says. She’s standing behind her marble bar, looking at me like I never left. Short black hair streaked with violet highlights and big black eyes like an owl wired on caffeine. She’s wearing a leather choker and a single earring that looks more like a wind chime. Her voice has a distinct flavour to it, like the kick of rich dark chocolate. ‘Where’s your ear?’

I lean against the bar and run a hand through my hair, which I’ve grown past my shoulders and left to matt and tangle. I shaved the side where I’m missing an ear; there’s no point losing your ear if no one can see it. ‘Must’ve misplaced it,’ I say. ‘How you been, Nakata?’

‘Better than you from the looks of it. I heard you were getting out. What are you drinking?’

‘I’ll take the house special.’ I glance at Jiko and she nods. ‘Two.’

We take the booth in the corner beneath a black-and-white photo of a man and his sax. The smoke machine is purring away and shooting misty clouds across the tables. Fats Domino is singing about a Blueberry Hill on Nakata’s old record player. She loves the old stuff that no one else remembers.

Nakata brings over two long glasses of muddy ale. I watch her as she places our drinks on the table, and as hard as she tries, she can’t keep those lips of hers straight, the corners sliding up before she turns away. Damn, I have been missed. Twenty-four hours ago I was still in The Heights, scratching a farewell into the wall of my cell, and now I’m in heaven. I raise my glass.

‘To Sonaya,’ I say.

‘To you,’ Jiko says.

Damn right. Me and Sonaya, the two most important things in my life. I’ll drink to that.

‘I didn’t think you’d actually try and find me,’ Jiko says.

‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

‘You think I was going to trust the word of a murderer?’

I raise my glass and let the foam caress my lips. ‘You shouldn’t have. It was stupid of you.’

Jiko shrugs. One of the boys in the corner squeals and we both look over, their fingers tightly interlocked and their beaming smiles oblivious to us strangers.

‘I’ve got good instincts,’ Jiko says. ‘I’ve thought about what happened a lot. Whether I did the right thing, and whether you’d pay me back. I guess I got my answers tonight. That pig could’ve killed me.’

‘It’s done now,’ I say. I don’t want things to get too mushy; I’ve got a reputation. ‘What were you doing in that place, anyway?’

‘We don’t make a lot of money in the bar.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’ve seen how those girls welcome customers. I went there looking for you and all I got was some bad lip and some even worse wine.’

Jiko smiles as though as I’ve given the bar a five-star review. ‘Ume said she met you in The Heights. She’s got some big things planned and she seems to think you’ll help us out. That’s why she sent me in there to do you a favour.’

‘Where is Ume? We’ve got a conversation to finish.’

Jiko shakes her head. ‘Busy. The Homework Clubs are just the start, full of the wrong kind of men, and the unfortunate kind of girls. We’re gonna get them girls out of those clubs one day. One day soon.’

I watch as she glugs her ale even faster than me. A cloud of smoke passes across her face.

‘What have you got against the Homework Clubs?’ I ask. ‘I can think of worse places.’

Out of nowhere several wrinkles appear on her forehead.

‘You were at the wine bar. What did you think of those girls?’

I shrug. ‘They looked angry. Same way all girls do when they wear too much eye shadow.’

‘All of those girls did time in the Homework Clubs, and some of us have done time in places even worse. We’re the ones who got out. The ones who are gonna change things.’

She doesn’t look at me as she gulps down more of her beer. She doesn’t care what I think, and she’s probably right not to. Nakata ventures out from behind the bar and tells the boys to keep things clean. The women in hanbok are staring into ancient compact mirrors and touching up their makeup for men who might never show up.

‘What happened to you?’ I ask.

Jiko shakes her head and pushes her chin out. ‘What do you care?’

‘Maybe I don’t, but if Ume thinks I can be of use, I’d better know who I’m working with.’

She gives me the once over, her eyes a burnt mahogany that fades into speckled walnut toward their centre, a stark contrast to the black of her pupils. When they finally stop scanning, they settle on a point three inches above my left shoulder.

‘When I was a kid, I used to wake up to the sound of my father beating my mother. Sometimes he beat me too. Then one day he got a gun and shot her dead. Blew his own brains out shortly after. If I was at home, he would’ve killed me too.’

She pauses to drink more of her beer, closing her eyes to savour the taste, or force her father out of her mind.

‘I was recruited by Fumiko, same as the other street girls. She taught me how to take care of myself, and a hell of a lot more. Not a lot of girls’ escape Fumiko’s hand, but I did, along with a few others. We’re gonna be the ones to break her fingers and make her pay.’

I finish my drink and signal Nakata for two more.

‘I need to speak to Ume,’ I say again.

Jiko nods me away like I’m her nagging mother. ‘Yeah yeah, just wait, all right? I told you she’s busy. You seen Fairchild since you got out?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You haven’t forgotten about—’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’

I’ve got a place in the Rivers. A gift from Kosuke til I get back on my feet. A small attic room above a boarding house that gets a lot of male visitors in the night. Dust throughout and a smeared window that looks out over crummy streets full of second-rate singing rooms. It’s a damn palace compared to my cell on the sixty-third, but I’m not sleeping there tonight. Jiko drinks well, but she also drinks fast. Once we’re done, she can barely get her key in the ignition. I’m not gonna let her kill herself so soon after I saved her life.

I grip the throttle and give it a sharp twist as Jiko rests her head on my back. It’s gone three a.m. and I’m no monk myself; we sucked Nakata’s barrels dry. I guide the Ducati through the back streets north of The Cross, the motor humming and forming off-key harmonies with the retching of sewer drunks and sudden bursts of synthetic music. Every rotten molecule of this city whispers a million memories into my lonely ear; I suck it up like a starved cat licking milk off a bottle cap.

I get Jiko back to her flat above the wine bar. The lights are off and none of the other girls are around, so I support her up the stairs. It’s not a bad little squat for one person; four solid walls to herself, which is already more than most people. She tells me to stay and I’m in no state to argue. She switches the lights off and falls asleep fully clothed on the futon.

I stand at the window and enjoy the blissful throb of ale as it washes away the cobwebs from the dormant ventricles of my brain. The leftover scraps of the downtown party score the streets; scooters burst towards home, dissonant surges of passion erupt and echo, drunken arguments crescendo and fade away. Through a crack between concrete blocks I watch the bent-backed figure of a man as he sways and stumbles along the street, turns his head dumbly and stares at something out of sight. Eventually he trundles off, searching for a way out of the maze.

I make a pillow out of my shirt and lie down a few feet away from Jiko. My eyes have adjusted to the dark; even with her vest on, I can see more of her Rising Sun tattoo than I’ve any right to. I throw a blanket over her and she squints at me through one eye.

‘One day soon,’ she mumbles.

I put my hands behind my head and look up into the darkness.