Without a word of introduction, Bookish flashed his police ID. Just like in the movies. I'd never actually seen a police ID before, but one look convinced me it was the real thing. It fit with the worn-out shoes. Something in the way he pulled it out of his pocket, he could have been selling his literary journal door-to-door.
«Akasaka precinct,» Bookish announced, and asked if I was who I was.
Uh-huh.
Fisherman stood by silently, both hands in the pockets of his overcoat, nonchalantly propping the door open with his foot. Just like in the movies. Great!
Bookish filed away his ID, then gave me the once-over. Me in bathrobe and wet hair.
«We need you to come down to headquarters for questioning,» said Bookish.
«Questioning? About what?»
«Everything in due time,» he said. «We have formal procedures to follow for this sort of thing, so why don't we get going right away.»
«Huh? Okay, but mind if I get into some clothes?»
«Certainly,» said Bookish flatly, without the slightest change of expression. If Gotanda played a cop, he'd do a better job. That's reality for you.
The fellas waited in the doorway while I got some clothes on and turned off switches. Then I stepped into my blue top-siders, which the two cops stared at as if they were the trendiest thing on the market.
A patrol car was parked near the entrance to my building, a uniformed cop behind the wheel. Fisherman got into the backseat, then me, then Bookish. Again, like in the movies. Bookish pulled the door shut and the car took off.
The streets were congested, but did they turn on the siren? No, they made like we were going for a ride in a taxi. Sans meter. We spent more time stopped in traffic than moving, which gave everybody in all the cars and on the street plenty of opportunity to stare at me. No one uttered a word. Fisherman looked straight ahead, arms folded. Bookish looked out the window, grimacing like he was laboring over a literary exercise. The school of dark- and-stormy metaphors.
I wanted to erase the whole passage from my head. What the hell was «spring as concept»? Just where were these «quicksands of futility»? I was sorry I started the whole dumb train of thought.
Shibuya was full of mindless junior high students dressed like clowns, same as ever. No passions, no quicksand.
At police headquarters, I was taken to an interrogation room upstairs. Barely three meters square with one tiny window. Table, two steel office chairs, two vinyl-covered stools, clock on the wall. That was it. On the table, a telephone, a pen, ashtray, stack of folders. No vase with flowers. The gumshoes entered the room and offered me one of the steel office chairs. Fisherman sat down opposite me, Bookish stood off to the side, notepad open. Lots of silent communication.
«So what'd you do last night?» Fisherman finally got going after a lengthy wait. Those were the first words I'd heard out of his mouth.
Last night? What was I doing? I could hardly think last night was any different from any other night. Sad but true. I told them I'd have to think about it.
«Listen,» Fisherman said, coughing, «legal rigmarole takes a long time to spit out. We're asking you a simple question: From last evening until this morning what did you do? Not so hard, is it? No harm in answering, is there?»
«I told you, I have to think about it,» I said.
«You can't remember without thinking? This was yesterday. We're not asking about last August, which maybe you don't remember either,» Fisherman sneered.
Like I told you before, I was about to say, then I reconsidered. I doubted they would understand a temporary memory loss. They'd probably think I had some screws loose.
«We'll wait,» said Fisherman. «Take all the time you need.» He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit up with a Bic. «Smoke?»
«No thanks,» I said. According to
«We'll give you five minutes,» said Bookish, very deadpan. «After that you will tell us something simple, such as, where you were last night and what you were doing there.»
«Don't rush the guy. He's an intellectual,» Fisherman said to Bookish. «According to his file here, this isn't his first time talking to the law. University activist, obstruction of public offices. We have his prints. Files sent to the prosecutor's office. He's used to our gentle questioning. Steel-reinforced will, it says here. He doesn't seem to like the police very well. You know, I bet he knows all about his rights, as provided for in the constitution. You think he'll be calling for his lawyer next?»
«But he came downtown with us of his own volition and we merely asked him a simple question,» Bookish said to Fisherman. «I haven't heard any talk of arrest, have you? I don't think there's any reason for him to call his lawyer, do you? Wouldn't make sense.»
«Well, if you ask me, I think it's more than an open-and-shut case of hating cops. The gentleman has a negative psychological reaction to anything that resembles authority. He'd rather suffer than cooperate,» Fisherman went on.
«But if he doesn't answer our questions, what can we do but wait until he answers? As soon as he answers, he can go home. No lawyer's going to come running down here just because we asked him what he was doing last night. Lawyers are busy people. An intellectual understands that.»
«Well, I suppose,» said Fisherman. «If the gentleman can grasp that principle, then we can save each other a lot of time. We're busy, he's busy. No point in wasting valuable time when we could be thinking deep thoughts. It gets tiresome. We don't want to wear ourselves out unnecessarily.»
The duo kept up their comic routine for the allotted five minutes.
«Well, it looks like time's up,» Fisherman smiled. «How about it? Did you remember anything?»
I hadn't. True, I hadn't been trying very hard. Current situation aside, the fact was, I couldn't remember a thing. The block wouldn't budge. «First of all, I'd like to know what's going on,» I spoke up. «Unless you tell me what's going on, I'm not saying a thing. I don't want to say anything that may prove inopportune. Besides, it's common courtesy to explain the circumstances before asking questions. It's a breach of good manners.»
«He doesn't want to say anything that may prove
«I told you the gentleman was an intellectual,» said Fisherman. «He looks at everything slanted. He hates cops. He subscribes to
«I do not subscribe to newspapers and I do not read
The two detectives looked at each other.
Fisherman: «Are you telling us that if we're polite and explain these circumstances to you, you'll cooperate and give us some answers?»
Me: «Probably.»
Bookish, folding his arms and glancing high up the wall: «The guy's got a sense of humor.»
Fisherman rubbed the horizontal scar on his nose. Probably a knife gash, and fairly deep, judging from how it tugged at the surrounding flesh. «Listen,» he got serious. «We're busy, and this isn't a game. We all want to finish up and go home in time to eat dinner with the family. We don't have anything against you, and we got no axes to grind. So if you'll just tell us what you did last night, there'll be no more demands. If you got a clear conscience, what's the grief in telling us? Or is it you got guilty feelings about something?»
I stared at the ashtray.
