Yohji was both hungover and asleep when Crawford entered the unlocked office. He wasn’t surprised it was unlocked. Not even the most desperate thief could find anything to steal here, unless it was Kudoh himself, who might be worth a pretty penny as a prostitute.
The shards of light bulb crackled underfoot and Yohji opened an eye.
“So you’re the bodyguard?” he grunted.
“Yes,” Crawford said shortly.
Yohji’s eye trailed down his body, pausing just below Crawford’s waist. “Big,” he said in muted admiration.
Crawford glanced down. “I’m licensed to carry it,” he said, fingering the revolver tucked into his belt. He was rarely so overt, but he’d known that Kudoh would be the type to respond to a big weapon.
Crawford watched the smirk develop with dismay. So he was that kind of guy. Kudoh tilted his hat back and met his eye.
“Doesn’t even need saying,” he chuckled.
“You don’t seem to be putting a lot of effort in to this case just now,” Crawford said, stepping up to the desk.
“Sure I am,” Yohji slurred slightly. “Sleeping on it.”
The metal of the revolver left a cold circle on the underside of his chin.
“If only I could find an alarm clock that worked so good,” Yohji commented as he sat up. “Or a hangover cure. Might have to keep you around.” Crawford put the revolver in his shoulder holster and Yohji watched it disappear smoothly, without even ruining the line of the specially tailored jacket. “Got the cash?” Crawford dropped an envelope on his desk. “Got a name?”
“Mr Crawford,” Yohji was told. He gestured to a seat and the stranger sat down.
“Well, as you probably know, I’m Kudoh Yohji.” He counted the wad of bills in dismay. Not nearly enough. Still, the man sitting next to him seemed competent. He’d understand the need for more money. He looked like the kind of guy who really understood the lure cold hard cash could have on a certain class of men. “Haven’t worked with a partner for a while,” Yohji went on, mentally going over his list of contacts. “It’s easier with two, though. My last partner ran off with an ex J-leaguer.” It had been almost ten years since the kid had gone missing. “Guy’s involved in some business that makes a mint.” He was perched on some kind of moped with a company logo on the side, but the angle was such that Yohji hadn’t been able to make it out from the picture. “Some women are just about the money, you know? Still, never figured her for one of them.” Hopefully this Mister Crawford would have a bit more information for him to go on. He still had the pictures, provided he hadn’t left them in the bar. Damn, he hadn’t, had he? “Broke my heart, that girl, but that’s life, I guess. Broke the bank, that’s for sure.”
“Do you have anything relevant to say?” Crawford asked coldly.
“Yeah. Got anything else for me to go on? So far I’ve got a single photo.” Yohji dug in the drawer and, thank god, produced the picture.
“It was towards the north,” Crawford told him. “Two weeks ago today.”
“Not enough,” Yohji said bluntly.
“This isn’t supposed to be easy,” Crawford sneered. “I thought you were supposed to be good.”
“I thought Mamoru was supposed to be dead,” Yohji countered. “Trail’s gone a little cold, you know?”
Crawford sighed. Wonderful, an amateur. He’d tried to tell Hirofumi that he’d got more chance of finding his brother on his own, but Hirofumi had insisted on sticking him with this clown. It was insane. Schuldig and Nagi had the abilities between them to find the kid in less than a day. This way was going to take months.
On the other hand, Hirofumi had been quite enthusiastic about the idea of killing the PI if he failed. Kudoh had probably pissed him off in the past, Crawford decided, and this was Hirofumi’s twisted way of getting his own back. Send him on a wild goose chase then have Crawford shoot him. But then, why was Crawford being forced to go on the goose chase too?
He stared around the office in distaste. Broken light, peeling wallpaper, scratched desk, rusting typewriter. He hadn’t even known typewriters could rust. Oh, and the suitcase tucked behind the dying pot plant implied the sap actually lived here. God only knew where he slept. Probably in the chair Crawford had found him in on entry. Only someone so young could get away with that without having to employ a chiropractor on site.
Kudoh was going through the money again. Maybe he was trying to work out if he could buy a bottle of bourbon with it, Crawford amused himself. Maybe he was trying to calculate how much a hotel would charge him just to use their showers. Maybe if Schuldig was here this would be more entertaining.
“We can wander around where he was last sighted and pray,” Yohji said finally, “or we can do this properly. Mamoru was kidnapped for the ransom, which his father never paid. I need the ransom tape, for a start, and more money. I know someone who knows someone, but he doesn’t come cheap.”
“Life is cheap,” Crawford shrugged.
“Dead people don’t talk much, and these are the kind of guys who know that,” Yohji said tiredly. “More money.”
“You won’t get any,” Crawford told him.
“Oh, I’m sure you can put in a kind word for me,” Yohji laughed.
“Your services are already redundant,” Crawford said brusquely. “My team could have done this in a matter of hours.”
“So you’ll do it for me? How kind,” Yohji smirked broadly, pulled his hat back over his eyes, tilted his seat back and to all appearances went back to sleep.
Crawford frowned at him. “Stop it,” he snarled. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”
He got snored at for his troubles.
He lifted up the hat. Yohji’s eyes were closed. When Crawford waved his hands in front of the blonde’s face not a muscle twitched. The breathing was heavy and regular.
“No one falls asleep that quickly,” Crawford grumbled to himself. He shook Yohji’s shoulder. His body was completely relaxed, and the eyelids didn’t so much as flicker. He drew his gun again and traced the muzzle along Yohji’s jaw line. Yohji’s head moved away from it, but it wasn’t enough to prove he was awake. He started to snore again. They were not the kind of snores people would make up. Buzz saws were more delicate.
Crawford closed his eyes and thought forwards. The evidence that unfolded before him seemed to suggest the young man really was asleep. Still, he poked him anyway. It was amusing.
The phone rang. Crawford hadn’t even
noticed it before, dirty, dusty, fraying wires and numberless dialling ring. It
was an old fashioned phone. It was a phone bought because someone, as a child,
had read too many detective stories and thought it was the kind of phone a PI
ought to have. It was like the typewriter in that respect. Crawford found it
hard to believe it was even possibly to get a phone like that in such a modern
environment as
He slipped into the place in his brain where he could remember the future. “Mr Takatori,” he answered the phone, holding it gingerly.
“The phone is only bugged at your end,” Hirofumi told him.
“Mr Hirofumi, let me kill this man,” Brad said frankly. “He’s incompetent. Please say you hired him so I could kill him.”
“He’s good at what he does,” Hirofumi said, voice tinged with amusement.
“I could do it for you. Schwarz can find your brother,” Brad persisted.
“I don’t trust your team not to go to my father,” Hirofumi said crossly. “I only trust you.”
“They do what I say,” Brad said shortly, but he was still pleased by Hirofumi’s words.
“Nagi has been seeing my brother’s brat again,” Hirofumi insisted. Brad smiled.
There was a definite sibling rivalry between the Takatori brothers, though their conflicting personalities would have made it hard for them to get on anyway. Masafumi felt Hirofumi was the favourite because he spent more time with their father due to his interest in politics. Hirofumi felt his younger brother was spoilt, because their father had paid for his laboratory and allowed him to have his own harem of bodyguards. Both of them ignored the existence of Ouka as far as they could.
“I will speak to him tonight,” Brad said firmly.
“You won’t see him tonight,” Hirofumi told him. “You have to stay with this detective all of the time. He does his best work at night.”
Brad glanced across as the sleeping PI. He reached out and poked the man.
“He’s asleep,” Brad said dryly. “I’m sure even you can hear him snoring.”
He reached out again, but Yohji shifted in his sleep and there was an ominous creak. Brad pulled his hand back as the overstressed back legs of the cheap chair gave up hope. With a splintering crash Yohji was on the floor.
“Where am I supposed to stay? He sleeps in his office,” Brad complained.
“You’re an intelligent man.”
“He wants more money. I tell you, the man’s an imbecile,” Brad went on.
“Oi!” Yohji objected, trying to extract himself from the kindling he had previously been sitting on.
“He’s good at what he does,” Hirofumi repeated. “The reason he’s been out of work is because he once came too close to one of my father’s less than legal businesses. His partner was bought off and now works with us under a new name. Unfortunately, money isn’t a draw for Kudoh.”
“Hah.” There was no one for whom money wasn’t a draw, in Brad’s experience.
“The man’s a sentimentalist,” Hirofumi laughed.
“I see. That would explain why he subjected me to a load of drivel about his ex-partner.”
“No one forced you to listen,” Yohji complained from the floor. He struggled to his feet. “Who are you talking to?”
“I suppose I should go,” Brad said reluctantly. “Oh, he wanted me to tell you it wasn’t enough money.”
“Do I hear an ‘I told you so’ in there?” Hirofumi asked. “No more money. My father might get suspicious. The man is resourceful. He’s still in business, isn’t he?”
“Is he?” Brad snorted. Glancing at the Japanese man he switched in English. “I don’t like this arrangement,” he said in the same tone of voice. “I would rather be beside you.”
“Mutual,” Hirofumi said calmly. “But you’re the one I trust.”
Yohji watched Brad put the phone down, face blank and mind whirling.
* * *
“First, we go scouting around near
where the kid was seen,” Yohji said as he drove through the
“If you had a computer...” Crawford trailed off irritably.
Yohji shot him a narrow-eyed look. “If I had a bit of money...” he said pointedly.
Crawford sighed and settled back in the worn seat. He wondered vaguely if he’d angered Hirofumi somehow to deserve this prat. No, probably not. He still lived, and rather more tellingly, he hadn’t had to kill anyone to continue that state of being. Perhaps he’d angered some god or other. Atheism could do that, he’d heard.
“It would have helped if someone had offered me something, anything, in the way of directions,” Yohji grumbled. “Is there any particular reason boy Takatori was so reticent about giving out what street he was on?”
“If the boy was delivering something an exact location isn’t going to be of much help,” Crawford pointed out testily.
“Well, if you happen to figure out what building he was next to, that would help,” Yohji told him.
“How would it help?” Crawford snapped. “We can’t check their records because you don’t have a computer. We can’t find out who they have dealings with, because you don’t have the internet. We can’t-”
“Are you a hacker?” Yohji interrupted.
“No,” Crawford said scornfully.
“Funny, neither am I. Explain again how having a computer would help?”
“At least we’d be able to increase the resolution on the picture, maybe zoom in?” Crawford snarked back.
“If I had some way of getting this picture on to the fictional computer, and happened to own fictional image software,” Yohji smirked triumphantly.
“Hirofumi should have let me kill you,” Crawford muttered under his breath.
They seemed to have reached a stalemate. As Yohji ground his teeth and battled the morning rush hour traffic in what Crawford thought of as a souped-up go-kart, the American found himself staring at the picture again. A general sense of foreboding had settled on him the moment Hirofumi had casually mentioned his plans, and he was left trying to rationalise the distinctly irrational sensation.
“If it’s the same kid, he’s got to have a real good reason for not running home,” Yohji voiced their thoughts allowed.
“Most people would pay to get out of that family,” Crawford said dismissively. He caught the curious look Yohji gave him out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t look up. “You need ambition to have any motivation to stick around.”
“So you think maybe he’s hiding on purpose?” Yohji asked.
Crawford looked at him. “No. He was a child. They were his family. He was too young to understand what kind of people they were. Hell, maybe they weren’t back then.”
“Why do you work for them?” Yohji asked curiously.
Crawford gave him a superior look. “You’re so naïve it’s amusing,” he said calmly.
“Money,” Yohji snorted derisively.
“Power,” Crawford corrected him.
“So what’s the actual deal? Cruelty? Madness? Megalomania?”
Crawford laughed. “All three and then some. Of course, should you ask any more questions I will feel required to shoot you to protect their security.”
“Of course,” Yohji said. “So, any other theories on why the boy never went home?”
“Amnesia, possibly. Or his kidnappers still have some hold over him.”
“Threatening him?”
“Maybe, but I was thinking along a more psychological bent. It’s not unknown for the kidnapped to come to depend on the kidnapper, often in an emotional context.”
“Like those dames falling in love with the kidnapper?”
“Mr Kudoh, perhaps it has escaped your noticed, but you are not, in fact, Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe or the Continental Op or any other of the hundreds of detectives from the era and country you so obviously idolise. Words like ‘dames’, ‘broads’ and ‘frails’ went out of fashion decades before either of us were born. They make you sound like a sexist idiot, not the glamorously noir detective you seem to suppose they do” Crawford finished smugly.
“You’re just jealous,” Yohji laughed, “’cause I got to live my childhood fantasy.”
“I’d only be jealous if I wasn’t living mine,” Crawford folded his arms. Was the boy so stupid he wasn’t even offended? Was that even possible?
“What, playing tag-a-long to a smarter, cooler, infinitely more attractive dashing young private eye?” Yohji wiggled his eyebrows.
“I’m wealthy, healthy and in a position to affect state policies without ever getting dirty in the political pool,” Crawford said smarmily.
“Are you happy?” Yohji asked.
“Yes,” Crawford said shortly. “And that kind of question is best reserved for clichéd romance novels and their feisty young heroines.”
Yohji conceded the point. “Are you single?” he asked.
This did bring Crawford up short. To say yes would probably bring on some remark about how he had to have a partner to be fulfilled or some such bullshit, but to say no would provoke questions about the nature of his relationship. They weren’t questions he could answer, or refuse to answer.
“Only when it’s convenient,” he said.
Yohji laughed warmly. “Now that’s the way to do it,” he grinned.
Crawford blinked. They’d spent the entire journey so far exchanging insults and barbs, but the Japanese man had just said that as though he liked him. Crawford shook his head wryly. Some people were fools. What kind of idiot let someone insult them for hours and then forgive them, just on the basis of one mildly amusing retort? Crawford wallowed in cheerful contempt of the smoking, drinking, idealistic sentimentalist.
“Can you tell if the place in the picture is residential or a business?” Yohji asked after a short silence.
Crawford squinted down at the fingerprinted and greasy photo. One night in that man’s desk. One night and it looked like it had been passed around the workers at a lard factory.
“Can’t tell,” he sighed eventually, not liking to admit defeat.
“The building’s style is from about two decades ago, certain area of the city,” Yohji looked over the photo again while they waited at a set of traffic lights. “A lot of that stuff got torn down, you know, but there are a few pockets left. Not far from the sea front.”
Despite himself, Crawford was impressed.
“The pink motor’s got to be quite distinctive too,” Yohji went on. “Not many teenaged boys would ride a thing like that. We’ll ask a few questions, keep an eye out, have a proper walk around. Unless, of course, you happen to know a better way to do it, using my fictional computer?” Yohji let the corner of his mouth curl up.
“That joke is old now,” Crawford sighed in exasperation. “We’ll do it your way. It’s your job, after all. Mine’s to kill you when you fail to do it.”
“You know, I’m sure we could go, oh, maybe a whole hour without bringing that up, surely?” Yohji muttered.
“Oh, but I’m so looking forwards to it, I just can’t contain my excitement,” Crawford snarled sarcastically.
“You’re pretty sick, you know that?” Yohji shook his head.
“No, Farfarello is pretty sick. Schuldig is pretty and sick. Masafumi is very sick,” Crawford laughed quietly. “I’m the sane one.”
“People who get a kick out of killing aren’t sane,” Yohji offered his opinion.
“I didn’t say I got a kick out of killing. I just really, really want you dead so I never have to deal with you again,” Crawford smirked.
“That proves you’re insane. No one in their right mind would take this body from the world’s ladies,” Yohji leant back, tank top sliding up to display taught stomach muscles.
“I hadn’t realised you were delusional as well as stupid,” Crawford told him. “It would explain why you could only afford half a shirt.”
“You’re a nice guy,” Yohji rolled his eyes, that amused look back. It baffled Crawford. Everything was telling him the blond didn’t hate him, despite his anger during their mudslinging match. But that anger was gone, and the easy-going charm rolled back over to hide any evidence that it had ever existed.
As they climbed out of the car Crawford allowed himself a moment to grimace at his own thoughts. He was finding it damn hard to hate a man who refused to hate him. He could kill strangers, slaughter both friend and foe, do anything to get his own way and put himself first, but surely it was Schuldig who ought to be having this kind of problem? Crawford didn’t need hate to hate. Right?
“You going to stand in the road all day?” Yohji chuckled.
“Maybe,” Crawford snapped before he could help himself.
Yohji crossed the road and leant on the railing, staring at the sea vacantly. Crawford followed. Yohji was smoking again. Crawford took advantage of the opportunity to take another look at the young man. He was wearing that stupid hat again and a long trenchcoat, cigarette clamped between his lips. Crawford sighed. He’d never seen someone go so far out of his or her way to live their childhood fantasy, as Yohji had put it. It was like seeing a grown man dressed as Superman. But the Japanese man came close to pulling it off. He wouldn’t make a bad actor, Crawford decided.
“Want one?” Yohji held out the rumpled pack.
Crawford considered for a second. “Why not?” he shrugged. “Though I’d like to point out that yet again we’re not getting anything done in regards to finding the kid.”
“And you’re going to kill me,” Yohji finished.
“If these cheap sticks of shit don’t beat me to it,” Crawford flicked the half smoked cigarette into the sea. Yohji gave him a dirty look. “You can get nice cigarettes on a budget as well.”
“They’re cigarettes,” Yohji pointed out. “Not meant to be nice.”
“Oh, I see. You smoke to be cool. My mistake,” Crawford laughed softly. “You’re a strange person.”
“I’m a person you haven’t quite got your head around yet,” Yohji told him. “We’re all strange people.”
“That a motto?”
“Might as well be,” Yohji shrugged. “You think you’ve got a person figured out and they turn around and become someone else overnight.”
Crawford wasn’t sure if Yohji wanted him to push for more information or back off. He told himself he didn’t care.
“What’s the plan?” Crawford asked. “I suppose you have contacts or something.”
“What, prostitutes and barmen?” Yohji snorted. “I’m not that advanced yet. Staying in the small scale, with waitresses and... No, that’s not true. I have several contacts I’d happily put in prison if they weren’t keeping me in business.”
“Pull the other one,” Crawford shook his head.
“You’ll meet them later,” Yohji sighed. “I did some reading up on the kidnapping, and I know a guy who runs a racket. Prostitutes. Slaves, really. He’s got contacts though, so the world is stuck with the likes of him.”
“We’re going to talk to a slaver?” Crawford frowned.
“This evening. If Hirofumi is so keen to keep to himself where he saw his brother, it has to be somewhere he shouldn’t have been.”
“You think the boy is hanging around a red light district?” Crawford asked sceptically.
Yohji sighed. “Welcome to my world.” He sighed again and took another drag on the glowing stub of his cigarette, smoking more filter than anything else. “However, that picture was taken in daylight, and the moped looks like it belongs to a legit business. You know your boss. Where else shouldn’t he be?”
“Maybe it’s not a matter of where, but when.”
“Interesting. Escaping meetings?”
Crawford grimaced. He wanted this whole thing over and done with. Since he couldn’t shoot the boy in broad daylight, he had to play along.
“He likes a lot of the clubs. The good ones,” Crawford added. “He buys shares in some of them.”
“That sounds legal,” Yohji said carefully.
“It is,” Crawford lied. “But being the son of a leading politician, it might not look so good.”
“What, branching out and running his own life? Yes, Crawford-san. Again, please?”
Crawford shook his head.
“Employee loyalty keeping that trap shut?”
“Same as yours,” Crawford sighed.
“I see. So, I’m left to my own devices to find out where Takatori Hirofumi is not meant to be during the day. It’s somewhere around here. Funny, because this isn’t a particularly sleazy place, not somewhere you’d be ashamed to be. A lot of schools, sure, but that’s all that’s going to keep the property prices down. You’d think an aspiring politician would want the publicity around here.”
“Well, you know what the media is like,” Crawford shrugged awkwardly.
“Sure,” Yohji groaned.
“So, we start walking and talking?” Crawford asked as Yohji abandoned the remains of his cigarette, which must have been burning his fingers for quite a while, into the sea.
“I guess so,” Yohji sighed heavily, shooting one last wistful look at the ocean.
“Go on, tell me whatever it is that’s making you show the sea puppy dog eyes,” Crawford sighed. “I don’t want people looking at us thinking I just killed your grandmother.”
“It’s the sea,” Yohji shrugged. “Big. Wet. Salty.”
“And its special significance to you is...” Crawford prompted.
“It’s an alternative to all this legwork?”
He did have very long legs to work with.
Crawford contemplated that thought for a second, and pointedly turned his attention back to the sea. Long legs, taut abdomens, rakish smiles; he didn’t much care for those thoughts. He thought about the stupid hat instead. Yes, that made him feel better.