Part 2 (2/2)

”Yano-rin, where do they sell the Tokarevs?” n.o.bue said, ceasing for the moment to jump up and down. Yano too had been bouncing around and shouting, ”It's the country! Outside the station is a barbecue stand, not a Parco!” but now he stopped abruptly, extracted a notebook organizer from his briefcase, and opened it.

”Sources indicate that Tokarevs can be purchased at a hardware store near the border with Gunma Prefecture for between fifty and a hundred thousand yen.”

”That's the country for you!” n.o.bue said, and resumed jumping. ”Where else can you can buy a handgun at a hardware store?”

They climbed on a bus to take them to the border. Each time the name of a local bus stop was announced, they clamped hands over their mouths to stifle their mirth. Though the resulting, oddly metallic climbed on a bus to take them to the border. Each time the name of a local bus stop was announced, they clamped hands over their mouths to stifle their mirth. Though the resulting, oddly metallic ku, ku, ku, kutt! ku, ku, ku, kutt! sound they made was plainly audible, the other pa.s.sengers paid no attention whatsoever to the five of them. No matter how loudly they carried on, none of these young men ever stood out, imbued as they were with the aura of having been utterly ignored since childhood. sound they made was plainly audible, the other pa.s.sengers paid no attention whatsoever to the five of them. No matter how loudly they carried on, none of these young men ever stood out, imbued as they were with the aura of having been utterly ignored since childhood.

The border between Saitama and Gunma prefectures was an indescribably desolate and lonely place. Kato was reminded of a movie he'd watched with his father when he was a kid- border between Saitama and Gunma prefectures was an indescribably desolate and lonely place. Kato was reminded of a movie he'd watched with his father when he was a kid-The Last Picture Show. He felt like he was going to burst into tears, and then he actually did. Before them was a big river with wide banks where weeds rippled in the wind, and nearby were a large pac.h.i.n.ko emporium, a car dealers.h.i.+p, and a noodle shop, the signs of which were all written in English. But the shape of the English script, the languid manner in which the weeds rippled, and the colors and designs of the exteriors of the buildings-as well as the cars, the tables in the noodle shop, and the clothing people wore-were uniquely depressing. Can there really be such insidious colors in this world? Can there really be such insidious colors in this world? Kato asked himself in his inner newscaster voice as the tears flowed. Kato asked himself in his inner newscaster voice as the tears flowed. What paints would you have to mix to come up with colors like this, and why would you do it? Why go to such lengths to make colors that strip away everyone's courage and spirit? What paints would you have to mix to come up with colors like this, and why would you do it? Why go to such lengths to make colors that strip away everyone's courage and spirit?

They were all feeling it. n.o.bue clapped a sympathetic hand on Kato's shoulder. ”Let's go get that Tokarev,” he said, and then, choking back his own tears, began to hum the intro to ”Meet Me in Yurakucho.” The scenery they walked through was horrifying. There wasn't anything to rest your eyes on. It was the sort of scenery that seemed to rip all the beauty right out of the world, with shapes and colors that robbed you of the will and energy to act. Because they were all originally country boys, the scenery resonated with them and made them glumly pensive. How was the country different from Tokyo? they asked themselves. Well, Tokyo was so crammed with stuff that it was difficult to see the reality, and more care went into choosing building materials and English scripts on signs. That was about it, they realized, but still-it beat the country. For the briefest of moments they seemed to glimpse the truth of what had made them the sort of people they were. This was expressed well in Is.h.i.+hara's words as he set off walking toward a sign that read NOGAMI HARDWARE.

”It's not just that the country's boring or shabby. It's like it slowly sucks the life out of you from birth on, like mosquitoes draining your blood little by little. Heh, heh, heh, yeah.”

At the entrance to Nogami Hardware was a sign in the shape of a huge hammer, and a thick old wooden plaque below it COMMEMORATING 250 YEARS SINCE OUR FOUNDING. ”They've been selling hardware for two hundred and fifty years?” Yano said. He pictured people of the sort you see in period dramas on TV, men with topknots and women with blackened teeth and shaved eyebrows, rolling up to purchase sickles and spades, and he wondered how much things like that cost in those days and what sorts of coins they used and whether they got a receipt, and if they had something like the Ag Co-op to get discounts by buying things in bulk. With all these questions swirling through his mind, he led the way inside and strode toward the cash register. The storekeeper was sitting behind the counter and looked as if he might have been there for the entire two hundred and fifty years. He didn't have wrinkles on his face so much as a face hidden among the wrinkles, a face that not even Hollywood's most advanced special effects studio could have reproduced, with skin like a dust rag used for a century and then marinated in acid. He was reading a three-month-old issue of Central Review Central Review, and beside him was a portable TV tuned to CNN News.

”Excuse me,” Yano said to the old man. An impartial observer might have said that there was a certain resemblance between the two of them.

”Yes, what is it, the trivets are behind that shelf, the charcoal lighter fluid's right next to them,” the shopkeeper said in a smooth and surprising baritone. It was the sort of voice that gets scouted by choral groups.

”Eh?” Yano wavered at the subtle but intense power of the old man's speech. ”What's a trivet?”

”A trivet's something you have to have if you want to grill meat over charcoal. You boys must enjoy barbecue parties like all the other young folks, yes?”

Yano shook his head emphatically and said: ”Do you have any Tokarevs?”

II.

Central Review Review fell flapping from the storekeeper's lap. His small eyes peered at Yano from deep inside the wrinkles. Then, with something like a sob in his baritone voice, he said: fell flapping from the storekeeper's lap. His small eyes peered at Yano from deep inside the wrinkles. Then, with something like a sob in his baritone voice, he said: ”I have. What do you want one for?”

Yano's eyes widened with emotion. He opened them so wide, in fact, that some of the dried blood vessels burst with audible pops.

”You have?” he said, bending forward until his face was no more than five centimeters from the storekeeper's. It looked as if he were offering him a kiss.

”I said I did, didn't I?” The storekeeper raised his voice, spraying spittle and moving his own face two-point-five centimeters closer. ”And I asked you what you wanted it for.”

The tip of Yano's nose briefly came into contact with that of the storekeeper before he backed up, stood at attention, and saluted.

”We seek revenge,” he said.

”Revenge, you say?” The storekeeper fell back in his chair, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. The crease was particularly conspicuous owing to the fact that all the rest of his wrinkles were horizontal. ”Against whom and why? Speak!”

His voice was even louder now, and he seemed to be getting angry-all the wrinkles were s.h.i.+fting toward vertical.

”Our friend was murdered by a middle-aged Oba-san, and with an unprecedented weapon-a sas.h.i.+mi knife duct-taped to the end of a Duskin handle!”

”What kind of Oba-san?”

”What kind?”

”The type whose husband left her and who's hurting for money but can't work in a ma.s.sage parlor or soapland because she's getting too old, and-”

”According to our investigations, no. Not the type who buys her clothes at Ito Yokado bargain sales either, but rather at boutiques or specialty stores.”

”Ah. So, not the sort of Oba-san who sits behind the counter at a stand bar preparing little dishes of pickled daikon strips, but the sort who puts on a nice dress and sings fas.h.i.+onable pop songs by people like Frank Nagai in a karaoke club with chandeliers?”

”That's correct. Frank Nagai or Nis.h.i.+da Sachiko or Yumin.”

”And eats spaghetti with mushrooms in some restaurant with big gla.s.s windows that everybody on the street can look in through?”

”Yes, sir. Also doria and onion gratin soup and Indonesian-style pilaf and so forth.”

The storekeeper squeezed his hands into fists and clenched his jaw. He looked to be fighting back tears.

”And why,” he asked more quietly now and between gritted teeth, as his wrinkles ebbed and surged in complicated patterns, ”would an Oba-san like that want to murder your friend?”

”The reason isn't entirely clear. Apparently she was bored.”

”Gotcha,” the storekeeper said, and rose to his feet. ”Wait right there a minute.” He shuffled into the back and soon returned with something wrapped in oiled paper, which he placed on the counter in front of Yano.

”There are ten live rounds in the magazine. It's a hundred and thirty thousand yen, but since your motives are pure, I'm going to give you a discount. Make it a hundred and ten thousand.” Yano collected money from the others, counted out eleven ten-thousand-yen bills, handed the stack to the storekeeper, and asked one last question.

”Do you sell these to just, like, anybody?”

The storekeeper laughed, his wrinkles fanning out like rays of the sun.

<script>