Out Read online

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  At a pachinko parlour by the station, Satake hit the jackpot three times with the same machine, which was the maximum allowed by the rules. Before leaving, he kicked the thing hard, and an attendant came running after him to complain.

  'Sir!' the man called.

  'What?' he said, turning to face him. The menace in his look made the man stop short. Satake took three ¥10,000 bills out of his pocket and threw them down on the sidewalk, then watched, scowling, as he picked them up. There was enough of Yayoi's money to allow this sort of gesture. He wasn't playing pachinko for the money anyway.

  A head of violence was building in him. It seemed strange that you could kill someone and then become more violent still, but in the past few days he had been so full of impatient rage he felt it was about to spill out of him. At the same time, there was another part of him that was coolly observing his own progress toward eruption.

  He walked through a deserted shopping arcade, his shoulders hunched, his mood sullen. The new storefronts were flimsy and artificial, while the older ones seemed dark and depressing. He was hungry, but he didn't feel like eating. Tonight, again, he had nothing to do but leave the Golf in the lot and wait for Masako. He went back to the supermarket and found the car. Opening the door, he looked in at the jumble of cassette tapes and shoes; he had left Kuniko's mess just as he'd found it. A ruined pair of shoes discarded on the floor on the passenger side reminded him particularly of her, and he stared at them with loathing. The ashtray bore the only evidence that the car had a new driver: the butts were Satake's brand now, and he emptied the m out regularly.

  If he drove around these neighbourhoods long enough, he was bound to run into Masako sooner or later. He would like to see her face when he did. If she'd really quit the factory, he had little choice but to trawl for her like this, though it was a dangerous, obsessive business. He remembered how she'd looked when she pulled into the parking lot and found Kuniko's car there. For just a moment, her face had frozen, and then gone blank, as if nothing had happened, but the tightened lips betrayed her. He'd seen the reaction, even from the guardhouse. When she got out of the car and walked around the Golf, she'd been even more shocked to see the way it was parked, just as Kuniko used to leave it. He knew because she hadn't been able to hide the tremor in her voice when she'd come to ask him about the car. Just the right note of fear. He laughed quietly, remembering. But fear alone wasn't enough. Or, rather, fear was fine as long as it didn't lead to cringing and pleading. He thought of the dogs at the pet shop, and the ugly way Kuniko had begged for her life. Suddenly repelled, he threw her shoes out of the car, sending them bouncing off the stained concrete.

  -

  He pulled into Kuniko's parking space at the apartment building and was just locking the door when a young woman, who had apparently been waiting for him, came trotting over. He didn't recognise her, but from the apron and sandals he could tell she must be one of the housewives there. She had no make-up on her face, but her hair was pushed up and damp with mousse, like a wig put on in a hurry. Satake thought she looked awful.

  'Do you know the lady who owns this car?' she said. 'Jonouchisan?'

  'Of course I know her. I'm borrowing her car, aren't I?' He knew that the longer he used the Golf, the more likely he was to get questions like this.

  'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to suggest . . .' She blushed, having apparently drawn her own conclusions about his relationship with Kuniko already. 'It's just that I haven't seen her around lately.'

  'I'm not sure where she's gone myself,' he said.

  'But you're using her car?' the woman said, looking at him curiously.

  'I got a job as a guard at the factory where she worked. When we realised we were living in the same building, she asked me to look after the car while she was away. It's not like I asked her.' He dangled the keys in her face, making sure she could see the initial K on the key holder.

  'I see,' the woman said. 'But I wonder where she's gone.'

  'I suppose she's just off on a little trip. I doubt it's anything to worry about.'

  'But she hasn't been home in days, and I couldn't get in touch with her about her turn cleaning up the garbage cans. Her answering machine is on all the time, and no one's seen her husband either.'

  'She quit at the factory,' Satake said. 'Maybe she went home to her family.'

  'And you're using her car while she's gone?' the woman said, a note of suspicion again in the question.

  'I'm paying her for it,' he said.

  'Oh, I see,' she said, stiffening slightly at the mention of money. Satake found this amusing. She lived off her husband's salary, but she didn't like anything as tacky as money coming up in the conversation.

  'Sorry,' he said, pushing past her. 'I'm in a hurry.' He decided that from now on he would have to stop using the car except when he was going to work. As he came toward the building, he noticed a middle-aged man in a new raincoat standing next to the mailboxes. His first thought was that he might be a cop, but after studying him out of the corner of his eye as he walked by, he decided he didn't have a cop's eyes. A salesman, he guessed, as he watched him checking the names on the mailboxes; but when he saw him stop at the box for number 412, Satake stepped into the elevator.

  After he got out, he checked to make sure the elevator didn't go back to the first floor, then walked slowly along the passageway, ducking his head into a cold north wind. But as he approached the apartment and was taking out his key, he looked up to see a young man standing in front of his door. The man was dressed in a short white down jacket and purple pants, and his hair was dyed orange-brown. Satake saw him shoving something into his pocket

  - a cell phone, probably. He didn't like the look of this one bit.

  'Are you Sato?' the man said, apparently sure of the answer to his own question. This obviously was not a cop. There was no mistaking the look of a yakuza. Satake ignored the question and moved forward to open the door, wondering how this one was connected to the guy downstairs. But as he reached for the doorknob, he found that it was covered by some kind of black fabric. The man watched in silence, suppressing a laugh.

  'What the fuck?' Satake muttered.

  'Take a good look,' his visitor said. The blood rushed to Satake's head when he realised the black material was Kuniko's panties, the ones he'd used as a gag on her.

  'Did you do this?' he said, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. But the man seemed unimpressed, and just chuckled softly, his hands still in his pockets.

  'Not me. They were there when I got here.'

  Then it had to be Masako. Releasing him, he pulled the thing off the doorknob and stuffed it in his pocket. The fabric was cold from hanging in the wind.

  'It wasn't me,' the guy repeated, prodding Satake in the side. 'And where d'you get off shoving me around?'

  'What do you. want?' Satake said, pushing him back.

  'To show you this.' He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and stuck it in his face. It was a promissory note from a place called Midori Credit for a loan of two million yen to Kuniko Jonouchi.

  'What's this got to do with me?'

  'You're down as co-signatory, and this Jonouch i woman skipped town.'

  'I don't know anything about it,' he lied - but he knew he'd been outmanoeuvred. There was no way that a loan shark would lend that much to Kuniko, so the whole thing must have been cooked up to get back at him. These punks would now be on his case, prowling around the building, drawing attention to him.

  In a suddenly much louder voice, the man said, 'What d'you mean, you don't know anything about it?' A door opened just down the passage and a woman poked her head out. She watched them nervously, which was obviously the effect his visitor had wanted. 'Then what's this?' he said, holding out the paper again and pointing at the space for co-signatories. 'Yoshio Sato' was neatly stamped in it. Satake smiled.

  'That's not me.'

  'Then who is it?'

  'How should I know?' Just then, the elevator