Tokyo Jazz and Other Stories

Tokyo Jazz-2

“Do you have a f*****g clue what happened to her?”

“We have no solid leads.”

“Then, excuse me, but I’ll stick to how I do things, right? Now, I need to see that card. I need to see the passport that was scanned. Can you help me or not?”

He simply nods, ignoring my bluster, and says, “I can help you. Please wait here. I will be back shortly.”

I’m on the express train to Narita. There is an office there where the cards are kept. Another where I can see the scanned passport. For unknown reasons, they couldn’t email it to me but I want to see it. See the time and date. I also contacted Philippine Airlines but they haven’t got back to me, yet. The train arrives on the platform. This is the legwork I don’t care for but it has to be done. Dotting and f*****g crossing. I ask at the information counter for directions to the office. It’s kind of amazing, with all the technology everywhere, that it comes down to this card Lily filled out with a black biro or pencil.

I find the office, open the door. A girl in what looks like a customs uniform sits at a desk. I take a deep breath. Think, be polite. I tell her why I’m here.

She nods. “The police said you would be coming, please take a seat.”

I turn around and spot a small row of blue plastic chairs behind me. I sit. She smiles. Picks up the phone. I understand “Moshi Moshi”, nothing else.

I wait.

I think about going to an electrical store and buying a translator thing. That’s the technical term. The Uber driver to Shinjuku used one to communicate with me and it worked beautifully. But I haven’t found a language barrier so far, so decide to hold off.

A small guy, dressed in the same style uniform as the girl, comes out from behind a frosted glass door. Looks at the girl, at me. The girl nods. He comes over to me, bows. I’m expecting the business card but it doesn’t get produced.

He says, “Mr Jenson.”

“Yes.”

“Please follow me.”

I get up and follow him through the frosted glass door. Down a hallway with offices on each side. He stops and opens the door of an office on his right.

“Please come in,” he says.

“Thanks, mate,” I say and follow him in. It’s quite a large office, a white desk in front of rows of filing cabinets. He goes behind the desk, sits in a comfortable-looking black chair with rollers on it. Points to a chair in front of the desk, says, “Please.”

I sit.

He opens a desk drawer, takes out a disembarkation arrival card, puts it on the desk, pushes it across to me. “Please.”

I pick up the card. Lily Henderson. I take out my mobile camera, indicate to the guy I want to take a photo. He nods. I put the card on the desk, take a photo. I pick it up, turn it over, take another photo. Pick it up again, go to the section about where she would be staying. She has written in black pen, not pencil, so it hasn’t been erased or anything: APA Hotel Shibuya-Dogenzaka-Ue. Not only APA Hotel but the full title and location. I shake my head. Why? But it doesn’t matter. I have, I hope, a solid lead unless she was, in rugby league terms, selling a dummy, but I think she did that with Airbnb. Why lie to her parents about it? She tells them she’s working as a hostess in a Japanese club, which probably didn’t make Mum and Dad back home in Terrigal all that proud, but makes up stories about where she is living. Nothing makes sense.

She was here; she then vanishes.

I look at the guy and say, “Did the police ask for this card?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I was told you could help me with seeing a scan of her passport?”

“Yes, that is in a different office. You will be able to see the time and date of the scan. Also, a photo of the girl at the customs arrival counter at the same time and date.”

“Arigato.” Just thought I’d try it out.

He nods and smiles.

OK. Things are moving forward at last.

“Please follow me.” He opens the door.

I say, “What’s your name, mate?”

“Kei.”

“I’m Lee, nice to meet you.”

He smiles.

I put out my hand.

He shakes it. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

I follow him down the hallway. We get into a lift, go up a few floors. I follow him out, down another long corridor. He opens a door on the left-hand side. I follow him in. In this office, there is only a desk with one chair behind it. One computer on the desk, a mouse and mouse pad.

“Please sit down, Lee,” he says.

I sit down. He leans over next to me, plays with the mouse, the screen comes alive, he clicks on an app, finds what he’s looking for, double clicks on the name Lily Henderson and her passport comes up on the screen. The date is June 1st. Three months ago, and the time is 8.15 pm. It coincides with the arrival time of the Philippines Airlines flight. I nod, he clicks on something else. A photo of Lily with her short blonde hair at the customs arrival check-in with the same date and time.

I nod.

She was here.

I stare at her photo. She is wearing a green t-shirt, has white buds in her ears, a suitcase on wheels, a laptop bag strapped across her chest. She is smiling at the male customs officer, he is smiling back at her. I don’t say anything, but Kei volunteers.

“We have a video of her leaving the terminal and getting on the Narita Express.”

“Thank you.”

“The police didn’t ask for this information, either.”

I nod. “I appreciate that.”

He says, “What happened to her?”

“She’s missing. Three weeks now, her parents are worried about her.”

“I am a father, too,” he says. “My daughter is eighteen, she wants to go to America, to Memphis, to see where Elvis lived.”

I laugh out loud. It makes me feel wonderful. Like a human being again, not a machine trying to track down the girl.

“If you need help with anything, you can call me,” he says and puts down his little white card with his name and mobile on it.

“Thanks a lot. You’ve been a big help.”

Back at Shibuya Station, I’m still not sure about how to get to the crossing exit without following the signs. My headphones are in my laptop bag. I enjoy all the sounds, voices, hints of music from other headphones around me. I make it to exit eight and smile to myself, spirits lifted by my visit to Narita Airport. When I get to the Airbnb I’ll call Lily’s parents.

It’s dark now. I merge into the streams of people, look up at the screens high on the buildings. It’s so much more beautiful at night. There is a video of a trailer of a film called Black Hat starring Australian Chris Hemsworth. I can hear him speaking over the crowd like a beautiful Big Brother. It’s a little weird and scary, but fun. This place is a bit like magic land, with the video screens, posters, neon lights, beautifully dressed young and old Japanese people, the tourists looking all around them, taking it in. I cross the road and begin walking up the hill. I don’t need Google now.

I enter the code into the front door of the apartment. Push it open, see it has been trashed. My gear is all over the floor, bed and black leather couch. I’m angry. I want to f**k the place up. I don’t. I slowly pick everything thing up. Nothing is missing. I had my laptop and phone and my USBs with me. They have gained no information. I think for a second about what the Chief Inspector told me. I take his card from my wallet, call him.

“Moshi Moshi.”

“Chief Inspector, this is Lee Jenson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have the books she left behind?”

‘They are in an investigation bag, yes.”

“Can I have them?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Also, my apartment has been trashed. Nothing is missing but maybe you could have a look.”

“Maybe, we check for fingerprints, some DNA, yes. I’ll send a team but it won’t be for a while, maybe not even tonight but tomorrow.”

“Right, thanks.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“I don’t know,” I say, lying to him.

“Thank you, Mr Jenson.”

“Arigato, Chief Inspector.”

I don’t why I want the books. I’m still not one hundred percent sure she didn’t stay in this building. Maybe she stayed at the APA, then moved here. But I think, I’m the only one who knows she stayed at the hotel. I call and book a room there.

I gather my backpack, phone and camera, sling my laptop bag across my shoulder, put my headphones on, then walk to the hotel with the help of Google.

I show the girl at the reception desk the photo of Lily. She looks closely but doesn’t know her. I am on the tenth floor in 1007. It is a lovely, clean, compact room, with a view of the city at night. More lights that dazzle in the biggest metropolis in the world. Thirty-eight million people. I take a few bottles of vodka from the mini-bar, a small bottle of lemonade, take a few sips, make another and another. Drink some local Asahi beers. Open my Uber app. It will be interesting to drive around the city at night.

I arrive at the Shinjuku Club at eight PM. There is a small queue. I wait politely. Pay the cover charge. f**k. I forgot to call Lily’s parents. s**t. Anyhow, maybe I’ll find out some more now. I am shown to a small table. I look around the room for the tall Japanese man from this morning, but the lights are subdued, muted. I can’t see him. A beautiful Japanese girl in a cocktail dress approaches my table. I watch her come to me. She has her black hair tied up in a bun, dark skin, a bit like the tennis player Naomi Osaka but, in contrast to her, she is slim and small, not strong and athletic.

She bows in front of me, saying, “Would you like some company?”

“Yeah, I would, thanks.”

“You’re Australian?”

“Yes.”

“What would you like to drink?”

For some crazy reason I order two Mai Tais, not even sure they’ll make them.

“Thank you, but I can’t drink at work.”

“They’re both for me.”

“Oh, I’ll go and get the drinks.”

I think I scared her and it’s only the first order.

I watch her walk to the bar. The little black dress is a backless cocktail number showing off her slim legs. She has a small bum, elegant back, that hair piled high.

She comes back and places the drinks down on Shinjuku Club coasters that are already on the table. I make a mental note to grab a couple for souvenirs but it’s work time now.

I take the photo of Lily out of my pocket and show it to her. “Do you know her? She used to work here.”

“Oh, let me see the photo,” she says, taking it from my hand. She gives it a decent look then hands it back, saying, “No, sorry.”

“She worked here. Her hair might have been black.”

“No.”

“Do you know the tall man that was working here this morning? He had jet black hair, slicked down and parted clearly on the right hand side. Tall guy.”

“The manager is tall, has hair like that.”

“Is he here?”