Clocktower Page 12

  Johnny scanned their faces one by one. He imagined them walking into the brothel where Mari worked. “That one!” one would yell, excited at the prospect of a new girl so ripe for the taking. He would reveal a thick, dirt-encrusted wad of cash and throw it on the table, then take her upstairs.

  “Were you afraid, Mari?” he asked as if she were sitting right there next to him. “How many men took you in how many ways every night?”

  He flicked the lighter that he had gotten from Nakahara open and shut, and waited for an answer he would never receive.

  At some point, though he couldn’t tell when, a young man with the look of a courier pushed the door open and flagged down the bartender. He wore a black leather jacket and ripped blue jeans that made him look like he had just crawled out of a fifties biker movie. The look might have suited him if it weren’t for his less flattering features. He was a short, pimple-ridden kid with overgrown and unkempt black hair.

  “Oyaji!” he yelled. “Time to pay up!”

  The other patrons were quick to look up at him, but they all kept their lips tight.

  “I told you not to come in here while I have clients,” the bartender said, coming to the other side of the counter.

  “And we told you to stop waiting till the last minute to cough up your monthly dues. Don’t start a pissing contest with me, oyaji—my dick’s longer and my faucet doesn’t dribble when I turn it off, got it?”

  “Ha!” the bartender chortled. “Here’s your cash, you little bastard. Take it and go tell the honorable lady that she’s welcome for a drink here anytime. It might do her some good to remember where she’s from!”

  “Watch your mouth, oyaji, lest you forget what happens when she decides to watch it for you,” the young man spat. He stuffed the cash into a messenger bag slung around his shoulder then turned around and slapped the door open.

  There was something about the courier that tugged on Johnny’s curiosity, an intuition he may well have ignored if it weren’t for one thing. As the boy put his hand upon the door, Johnny saw it in a moment so brief that it would have been imperceptible had his attention been anywhere else. A tattoo, spanning the length of the back of his hand. The black image of two clock hands; one at twelve, and the other at six.

  Johnny snapped the lighter shut again, and followed him into the neon night.

  Fifteenth Movement

  Stairwell

  The boy’s pace was quick. He bobbed and weaved his way through the crowd so deftly that on several occasions, Johnny thought he may have lost him. He stopped in nearly half the bars and brothels on the way back to the intersection, then made a left toward the dead end Johnny had already toured.

  He had done his fair share of tailing people from place to place through his own work investigating lecherous husbands or runaway children, but none of them ever moved with much purpose. They were all easy to find, and even easier to follow. As if they wanted to be found.

  But the courier boy was different. He had intent. Design. A mission. No one was going to get in the way of that. And though Johnny imagined that the mark on his hand offered him a shield from the less-than-reputable patrons of The Lugs, he could tell that the boy didn’t rely on that to protect him.

  After finishing the last of his visits at the dead-end road, he made a one-eighty back toward the intersection, continuing down the one road Johnny had left to visit. This road was longer, wider, and more heavily populated than the others.

  Scores upon scores of men lined the streets. A dozen brothels separated by a dozen clubs followed by a dozen hostess bars breathed customers in and out like the lungs of some great beast. Johnny chewed on the bottom of his lip, trying to keep focus.

  It was nearly impossible to follow the boy in these conditions. He had to stay close, so close that he was nearly breathing down his neck at times. Fortunately for Johnny, the boy’s focus was singular. He never checked behind him. He never expected to be followed.

  His pursuit lasted another thirty minutes, until finally the boy pushed his way into a dump of a brothel near the end of the road and refused to reemerge. On the door of the establishment painted in gold letters was a single word: Bracelet. This was the place. Johnny found an open spot against the outer wall, between two windows with scantily dressed dancers behind both. Every few minutes, he checked the time on his Casio. It was nearly midnight.

  After five repeated checks of the time in this way, Johnny concluded that the boy had no intention to return to the streets. He turned and did another survey of the brothel. Despite its dim lighting and almost-bleak decor, he spied several patrons enter and emerge that were a different breed than the rest of their crestfallen brethren. They wore smart suits and smarter watches, and unlike the other men of The Lugs who traveled and hunted in packs, the men here came and left alone.

  There was no menu on the wall here. No pushy door-girl hunting for prospects in the night. A glass portal was all that stood between him and the inside, and behind it was a female receptionist dressed in a long, shimmering gold kimono. She busied herself with a ledger between greeting clients as they came and went. Behind her was a hall partially obscured by jet-black curtains. Beyond that, he could not see.

  After brief consideration, he passed through the glass door and approached the receptionist.

  As soon as the door opened, she snapped her ledger shut and gave him a deep bow.

  “Good evening, sir. May I know your appointment number?”

  “Don’t have one,” Johnny said, coming to the desk. “Never heard of a whorehouse that worked by appointment only.”

  The welcoming smile she had on her face quickly faded. “I’m sorry, sir, but if your name isn’t on the list, we have nothing here for you.”

  “Really?” He flipped his collar back, revealing his pin. “Not even for someone here by invitation?”

  The woman cleared her throat. He watched her eyes, the weight of her discomfort pushing her gaze downward.

  “Forgive me.” She said it like she meant it. “But even esteemed guests are not permitted without a direct appointment.”

  “And how does one get such an appointment?”

  “Summons come from Mamasama herself. There is no other way.”

  “And what makes you think that it isn’t Mamasama who brought me to Sonnerie?” Johnny took the shot and waited to see where it would land.

  The girl’s hesitation turned to a growing uncertainty. She was caught between authority and unfamiliarity, but there was still doubt in her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Johnny said. “Why don’t you go tell the manager that Mr. Tokisaki is here to see Mamasama. I’ll wait right here while you do that.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said with unexpected gusto. “I am truly sorry, but there are some places in Sonnerie off limits to even esteemed guests. And if Mamasama had wanted to see you tonight . . .” She tapped the ledger in front of her. “I would know.”

  Johnny offered her a smile for her courage. “Very well,” he said. “I will endeavor to make an appointment for the future, then. Goodnight.”

  He left her and proceeded back outside, then crossed the street and found a spot to rest near a small sushi bar. As far as he could see, there were no other ways into or out of the building. It was flanked on either side by other clubs so close that they nearly touched. Too small a space to sneak through, and no guarantee of getting to the back even if he could. The brothel stood a tall three stories, and he questioned if he could get himself roof access to either building on the side.

  Johnny flicked the lighter Nakahara had given him open and closed a few times while he thought. If this were Los Angeles, he would walk straight in and ignore the complaints of the staff. But for now, he needed to keep a low profile.

  Without him realizing, another man who reeked of vodka and vomit had taken up residence directly to his left. He kept hi
s head between his legs and stumbled from left to right every few seconds, looking as if he was two ticks away from passing out right where he hunched.

  “Oh no,” he said. “No, no, no, no!” Johnny looked at him and gave him a light kick with his toe.

  “Hey. Buddy. You alright down there?” Johnny asked.

  “Huh?” Gurk. “Who said that?”

  “Right here, big boy. You look like you’re having a grand old time.”

  The drunkard managed to pull himself up and looked Johnny over for a while before his eyes finally fell on Johnny’s pin.

  “Oh.” Burp. “Look what we have here. A guest of the heavens themselves!” he said, giving a shaky bow. “To what do we humble Lugsians owe the pleasure?”

  “I was just looking for the person in charge,” Johnny said.

  “Well if you’re looking for the man upstairs, it’s the right and just Mr. Hanekawa himself. But down here in The Lugs, it’s Mamasama who runs the show. And a good show she runs, let me tell you!” He slapped Johnny on the shoulder and bellowed a laugh.

  Johnny said nothing.

  “Say, Mr. fancy-pin-on-his-collar, why don’t you come on inside and share a drink with the common man? How does that sound?”

  “Is that Mamasama’s office right over there?” he said, motioning across the street.

  “Huh?” The man looked up clearly faster than his drunken eyes could follow, and nearly fell over in the effort. “Yeah.” He spat on the cold pavement. “Never been in there myself. Only by invitation.” He looked over at one of the girls dancing in the window. “Boy, what I wouldn’t give to get a piece of the women in there, but Mamasama won’t let us common folk lay a hand on her merchandise.”

  There was a disdain in his tone. Bitter resentment, bottled in jealousy. Johnny sized the man up, then leaned down to his level.

  “You want to earn a quick buck? It’ll buy you a girl for the night.” Johnny smiled and took out his wallet, then removed a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “What’s this for?” The drunkard took the crisp bill in his hands, confused.

  “I say, piss on whatever you can’t have. Mamasama cutting out an upstanding citizen like yourself? Who is she to hoard the good pussy in this town?”

  “That’s right!” The man shot up. “And I won’t take it! Piss on her and piss on her girls!”

  “There’s one right there,” Johnny pointed at the window on the left, farthest from the door. “Why don’t you show her what she’s missing out on?”

  “Yeah . . . but—” he stammered and stared into the green face of Benjamin Franklin in his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Johnny leaned in, expecting to be rebutted.

  “The girl I like.” He looked like he was on the verge of sobbing.

  “What?” Johnny said.

  “She’s one-fifty.”

  It was all Johnny could do to keep himself from laughing. He slid another Benjamin from his wallet and pressed it into the man’s hand.

  “Here,” he said. “A little extra for the trouble. Now take out your pecker and get pissing.”

  “Yes!” The man’s fervor renewed. Hot blood flushed his face, and before Johnny even had a chance to goad him further, he was halfway across the street with his dick out and a stream of yellow already flying from it.

  The commotion was instantaneous. The dancer in the window recoiled in utter disgust and let out a scream, and within several seconds at least three men and the receptionist had run out to tackle the man down and restrain him.

  Johnny moved without a second thought. As soon as his path was clear, he walked straight inside and made his way through the black curtains and into the back hall.

  *

  Johnny had never fashioned himself a believer in destiny. Everything was a consequence of action. What could be considered fortunate for one was ultimately unfortunate for another. So when he found himself alone in the long back hall, he counted himself lucky and nothing else.

  The hallway he was in stretched itself much, much farther than he had imagined from the outside. At least thirty yards. Every ten or so feet there was a door on either side that led into extravagantly decorated rooms filled with well-dressed men. Entertaining the men were pairs of alluring young women, none of whom paid Johnny any heed as he passed by.

  When he had passed the fourth such room, a waitress carrying a large platter of sashimi and other delectables emerged from the end of the hall. She locked eyes with Johnny for the briefest of moments before quickly disappearing into a room another twenty feet ahead. Johnny breathed a sigh of relief. There was no reason for them to suspect he was anything other than an invited guest now.

  He made sure his collar was flipped down, and proceeded the rest of the way to a T-shaped intersection. In front of him was a door. Tall, but unremarkable. To his left was the kitchen, though it was mostly concealed from sight. Waitresses shouted orders to chefs, and the clatter of pots and pans was crystal clear from his position in the hall. To the right was a short corridor with a wooden sign labeled “Lavatory” hanging from the ceiling just in front of him.

  He looked back and forth until he was satisfied, then hastily turned the knob in front of him and stepped inside.

  Once again, he was met by nothing and no one. Just an empty room, no larger than a master bedroom, with no windows and no overhead lighting. It was a distinctly Japanese room. Tatami mats below and expertly painted fusuma lining the walls which looked to be older than antiquity.

  The room was lit by an ornate candelabra in each corner, and at the other end of it was a shogi board larger than the largest he had ever seen. Johnny took a moment to listen for anyone on the other side of the door, then stepped across the room and looked down upon what seemed to be a game in progress. He studied the positions of each side. White had taken most of the center, but black had several pieces deep in enemy territory, and threatened to subvert white’s seemingly dominant position. On the wall above the board was printed a single Japanese word: Tsumi. Checkmate.

  Johnny ran his fingers over the board, feeling the age and slight imperfections in the wood. It was a handmade set, that much was clear. But when he moved to pick up one of the pieces, he found it glued to the surface. This game had been frozen in time.

  As if remembering something long forgotten, Johnny pulled the ryūma piece from his jacket pocket and set it down next to one of the frozen pawns. He took a look over the game again and let the positions sink in. The more he watched, the more complexities revealed themselves. This was a difficult position to be in for either side. He tapped a patient finger against the edge of the board for a few minutes, then picked up the ryūma again and tapped it against the side instead.

  “So, where do you go?” he questioned the piece. His mind raced between answers until finally arriving at one conclusion. An empty space on the A rank, sitting right in the corner of the first file. It was not an immediate checkmate, but a venomous position for black to have, and would mate white in three moves without fail.

  He took the wooden ryūma and reached over to set it in its place, but as he hovered over its corner home, he felt something rip the piece from his fingers. It snapped itself against the table as if being stolen away by some immensely powerful force, and no sooner had it come to rest upon the board did one of the doors on the side of the room slide open, revealing a narrow passage and a stairwell leading into an abyssal darkness.

  He brought himself to the first step and peered into the umbra. There was no sound coming from below. As far as he knew, it could taper off into oblivion and he’d be cast inside limbo for an eternity. But there was no turning back now. He took the first step down, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood.

  “Be careful, Mr. Tokisaki.” He heard a whisper from behind him, but spun around to an empty room. His right hand had gripped the revolver in his shoulder holster, but he kept hi
mself from drawing it.

  “Mari?” he questioned the emptiness.

  “Nothing given by an Index comes without a price. Nothing taken from an Index comes without a penalty,” the voice echoed in his mind.

  He stood still and waited for her to continue, but her presence dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared. He was alone again.

  Johnny lifted his hand off the revolver and slowly exhaled. He returned to the stairwell and flicked on his lighter, then proceeded downward into the depths. A cold wind occasionally blew gently upward, forcing him to keep a hand in front of his tender flame.

  After the first few steps, the door behind him began to shut. He heard it, but didn’t bother to turn around. When it finally closed, he was enveloped in total darkness. The gusts from below grew weaker, and the world around him grew so dark and quiet he no longer knew if he was proceeding down or up.

  When he reached out, he could feel walls on either side. The steps of the staircase too were even and regular. But when he pushed his lighter up to the wall, he could make out no distinctly solid surface. The light reflected nothing, and for all he knew he was standing on the event horizon of a black hole, where time and reality bent and lensed into infinity. Only Johnny existed here, alone among the universe.

  After what felt like ten minutes of walking, he stumbled upon flat ground. The staircase had ended, and now he was walking forward—or at least as forward one could walk in an event horizon. The wind here picked up again, and he decided to flick the lighter off and return it to his pocket.

  Just as the distinct possibility that he had fallen out of reality began to seriously gnaw at his sanity, he saw something. Faint, barely visible rays of moonlight slicing through the umbra, giving life to the world around him once again. With each step, something new was created. A rock that his foot kicked against. A patch of muddied earth. Soft, velvet moss that caressed his hand as he moved it against the wall. It was as if each ray of moonlight had sparked the creation of something in the world around him, and before he knew it those rays had turned to beams, and then to an open sky above a short stretch of tree-lined earth that led to something more decidedly man-made.