summer storm, on the day of my stake-out. I was such a holy fool. Morino was a wake-up bomb. What if my father really has no interest in even meeting me? What if he is a Yakuza man too? Sometimes the watercourses follow the one before, other times they split off. Then my father owes it to me to tell me himself. His job – his way of life even – is not the point. In the street outside, the cars of ordinary husbands swish by on their way to ordinary homes. A car cuts its engine outside, and my sense of peace drains away. I peer through the triangular window: Buntaro’s tired old Honda. Here comes my saviour, leaping over the flooding drain with a newspaper held over his head. His bald patch glistens in the rain.
I finish my noodles first so I broach the subject. ‘Buntaro, I need to talk about money.’ Buntaro fishes for tempura batter. ‘What money?’ Exactly. ‘Rent for next month. I dunno how to tell you this, but . . . I don’t have it. Not now the money from Ueno stopped. I know this is a hell of a lot to ask, but could you take it out of my deposit?’ Buntaro frowns – at me or the elusive tempura? I go on. ‘I am really ashamed, after everything you and Mrs Sasaki have done for me. But you should know now, so if, I dunno, if you wanted to give me my marching orders, I mean I would understand, really . . .’
‘Got you!’ Buntaro holds up the prawn between his chopsticks and delicately nibbles its head off. ‘The wife had a better idea, lad. She wants a holiday before she gets too pregnant for the airlines to let her on. You know, we got to thinking how long it’s been since we took a week off together. Guess how long? Never! Literally, never. Before I took over Shooting Star we were always too broke, and since then . . . well, a video shop can never sleep. When I work, she rests; when she works, I rest. Nine years have gone by like that. She phoned around a few hotels in Okinawa this morning – off-season, loads of cheap deals. So, our proposal is this: you look after the shop next week, and that can take care of the rent for October.’
‘All of October?’
‘The hours are piggish – ten a. m. to midnight, seven days. Added up, it comes to a pretty measly rate. But it would give you a breathing space to land another job.’
‘You would really leave me in charge of the shop?’
‘No Al Pacino look-alike has come around asking for you. Hiding here was wise, but you can come out now.’
‘No, I mean – would you trust me with your, uh, business?’
‘My wife does, so I do. And I got a glowing reference from your previous employer.’ Buntaro starts toothpicking. ‘Running the shop is a doddle – I can teach you everything in thirty minutes. And my mom will drop by every evening to pick up the cash and do the accounts. What do you say? Do I tell the wife to book our hotel in paradise?’
‘Of course. Sure. Thank you.’
‘No need to, lad. This is business. Let’s smoke a Marlboro on the step to seal a mutually beneficial package. But don’t tell the wife. I’m supposed to be quitting in time for Kodai’s grand opening.’ We go outside and get through most of a packet, listening to the frogs and the rain in the pond. The rain and smoke keep the mosquitoes away. ‘By the way,’ says Buntaro, ‘does the name Ai Imajo happen to mean anything to you?’
I scratch the back of my head and nod.
‘Friend or foe?’
‘Friend, I hope. Why?’
‘Apparently she appeared at Ueno lost property this morning to report a lost Eiji Miyake. My mother said you had left Tokyo unexpectedly for family reasons. The young lady made a “nice of him to let me know!” face, thanked my mother, and went away.’ I stay poker-faced. ‘Well’ – Buntaro gets to his feet – I’ll go and tell the wife our good news.’ I walk through with him to the entrance hall. Buntaro pretends to check for dust. ‘I must say, you keep this place neat as a palace. Neater than your luxury penthouse, anyway.’ He taps his shirt pocket. ‘Lad, I am a dolt! Clean forgot. This pictogram thing came for you today!