(2005) In the Miso Soup Read Online Free PDF Page B

dinner or karaoke, for which she’d get from five to twenty thousand yen. We don’t talk about that very much.
    “I’m still working.”
    “Poor thing, it’s cold out there! I made some risotto. It’s in the pot.”
    “Thanks, Jun. You know, this client of mine is kind of weird.”
    “Weird how?”
    “I don’t know, he . . . He’s a liar.”
    “You mean he won’t pay what he promised?”
    “No, it’s not that. He just seems suspicious.”
    I gave her the basic facts about the bloodstained bill and the Toyota thing.
    “So you think he’s a killer?” she said. “Just because of that?”
    “I’m crazy, right?”
    “Well, I haven’t seen him, but . . .”
    “What?”
    “I think I know what you mean.”
    “About what?”
    “Well, the way that girl was murdered—it was pretty over the top, right? I was thinking it didn’t seem like the way a Japanese would kill somebody. What’s he doing right now?”
    My eyes had been on Frank the whole time. He’d watched me for a while, then got bored and wandered over to the game center across the street and stood loitering in front of it.
    “He’s checking out a Print Club booth.”
    “A what?”
    “You know, that machine that takes photos of you and then prints them out on cute little stickers. I don’t think he knows how it works. He’s watching a group of girls posing for a picture.”
    “I think you’re probably all right, then, Kenji. I can’t imagine a murderermaking Print Club photos of himself.”
    I’m not sure why, but that seemed to make sense.
    “Kenji,” she said, “take some photos with the guy. I want to see what he looks like.”
    I said I would and hung up.
    “What is this thing, Kenji? Those girls sure seemed to be enjoying themselves. I think it took their picture. Is it one of those passport photo machines?”
    I started to explain, but a drunken office worker was standing behind us with his girlfriend, whose face could have stopped a train, urging us to hurry up. Normally I would have made some snappy reply, but I was preoccupied with Frank and it was cold and all I said was: “All right, just give us a minute here.” I decided to skip the explanation and just take a picture. Frank said he didn’t have any change, so I paid. I stood him in front of the machine and was selecting the background he’d chosen—the Japanesy one, a
yakitori
stand—when he insisted we pose for it together.
    “Those girls all took pictures together, I want one with you and me.”
    To take a Print Club two-shot, you need to put your faces right next to each other. I’m not saying Frank revolted me, but I wasn’t about to press my cheek against his. Just the fact that he was a man made it bad enough, but Frank also had that weird skin. No wrinkles, though he was supposedly in his mid-thirties, but his face wasn’t what you’d call smooth, either—it was shiny and flabby and artificial-looking. At any rate, it wasn’t a face I wanted touching mine, but Frank put his arm around my shoulder, pulled me close, spun toward the screen and said: “Okay, Kenji, shoot!”
    Frank’s cheek was cold and felt like the silicone they use in diving masks.
    “Hey, man, I heard this gaijin of yours is a real scream.”
    Passing the lingerie pub, I ran into Satoshi again. “At this time of night it’s only ¥7000 apiece, absolutely no extra charges!” he was bellowing to the drunks stumbling by. Watching him, I felt I understood what he meant aboutKabuki-cho being “easy.” There’s an anything-goes feeling to the place, no “normal” standard of behavior to live up to and no illusions of glory or shame. You either get your money or you get fired and move on. Frank had stopped walking a few paces back and was studying the photo strips.
    “Did the waiter say anything about him?” I asked Satoshi. “Like, about the money he paid with?”
    “No, why?”
    Apparently I was the only one getting stressed over the stain on that bill. I decided to forget