Dance Dance Dance

door.»

I was too tired to argue. I gave up. I stumbled in and fell onto the hard cot. Damp mattress, cheap blanket, smell of piss. Love it.

«It won't be locked,» Fisherman repeated as he shut the door with a cold, solid thunk.

I sighed and pulled the blanket over me. Someone some­where was snoring loudly. It seemed to come from far off, but it could've been in the next cell. Very disturbing.

But Mei, Mei! You were on my mind last night. I don't know if you were alive at the time, but you were on my mind. I was slowly taking off your clothes, and then we were making love. It was our little class reunion. I was so relaxed, I thought someone had loosened the main screw of this world. But now, Mei, there's nothing I can do for you. Not a damned thing. I'm sorry. We lead such tenuous lives. I don't want Gotanda to get caught up in a scandal. I don't want to ruin his image. He wouldn't get work after that. Trashy work in a trashy world of trashy images. But he trusted me, as a friend. So it's a matter of honor. But Mei, my little Goat Girl Mei, we did have a good time together. It was so won­derful. Like a fairy tale. It's no comfort to you, Mei, but I'll never forget you. Shoveling snow until dawn. Holding you tight in that world of images, making love on deductible expenses. Winnie the Pooh and Mei the Goat Girl. Stran­gling is a horrible way to die. And you didn't want to die, I know. But there's nothing I can do for you now. I don't know what's right or wrong. I'm doing all I can. This is how I live. It's the system. I bite my lip and do what I got to. Good night, Mei, my little Goat Girl. At least you'll never have to wake again. Never have to die again.

Good night, I voiced the words.

Good night, echoed my mind.

Cuck-koo, sang Mei.

22

The next day wasn't much different than the previous. In the morning the three of us reassembled in the interrogation room over a silent breakfast of coffee and bread. Then Bookish loaned me an electric razor, which was not exactly sharp. Since I hadn't planned ahead and brought my toothbrush, I gargled as best I could.

Then the questioning started. Stupid, petty legal torture. This went on at a snail's pace until noon.

«Well, I guess that about does it,» said Fisherman, lay­ing his pen down on the desk.

As if by prior agreement, the two detectives sighed simultaneously. So I sighed too. They were obviously stall­ing for time, but obviously they couldn't keep me here for­ever. One business card in a dead woman's wallet does not constitute sufficient cause for detention. Even if I didn't have an alibi. They'd have to strap me down—at least until the fingerprinting and autopsy yielded a more plausible suspect.

«Well,» said Fisherman, pounding the small of his back as he stretched. «About time for lunch.»

«As you seem to have finished your questions, I'll be going home,» I told them.

«I'm afraid that's not possible,» Fisherman said with fake hesitation.

«And why not?» I asked.

«We need to have you sign the statement you've made.»

«I'll sign, I'll sign.»

«But first, read over the document to verify that the con­tents are accurate. Word by word. It's extremely important you know what you're signing your name to.»

So I read those forty-odd sheets of official police tran­scriptions. Two hundred years from now, I couldn't help but think, they might be of some value in reconstructing our era. Pathologically detailed, faultlessly accurate. A real boon to research. The daily habits of an average, thirty-four-year-old, single male. A child of his times. The whole exercise of read­ing it through in this police interrogation room was depress­ing. But read it I did, from beginning to end. Now I could go home. I straightened the stack of papers and said that every­thing looked in order.

Playing with his pen, Fisherman glanced over at Bookish. Bookish pulled a single cigarette from his box of Hope Reg­ulars on top of the radiator, lit up and grimaced into the smoke. I had an awful feeling.

«It's not that simple,» Bookish spoke in that slow profes­sional tone reserved for elucidating matters to the unordained. «You see, the statement's got to be in your own hand.»

«In my own band?»

«Yes, you have to copy everything over. In your own handwriting. Otherwise, it's not legally valid.»

I looked at the stack of pages. I didn't have the strength to be angry. I wanted to be angry, I wanted to fly into a rage, I wanted to pound on the desk and scream, You jerks have no right to do this! I wanted to stand up and walk out of there. And strictly speaking, I knew they had no right to stop me. Yes, but I was too tired. Too tired to say a word, too tired to protest. If I wasn't going to protest, I'd be better off doing what I was told. Faster and easier. I'm wimping out, I confessed to myself. I'm worn out and I'm wimping out. Used to be, they'd have to tie me down. But then again, their junk food and cigarette smoke and razor that chewed up my face wouldn't have gotten to me either. I was getting weak in my old age.

«No way,» I surprised myself by saying. «I'm going home. I have the right to go home. You can't stop me.»

Bookish sputtered something indecipherable. Fisherman stared up at the ceiling and rapped his pen on the desk. Tap-tap-tap, tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap.

«You're making things difficult,» said Fisherman suc­cinctly. «But very well. If that's the way it's going to be, we'll get a summons. And we'll forcibly hold you here for investi­gation. Next time won't be such a picnic. We don't mind that, you know. It'll be easier for us to do our job that way too. Isn't that right?» he tossed the question over to Bookish.

«Yes sir, that's going to be even easier in the long run. That's what we should've done earlier. Let's get a sum­mons,» he declared.

«As you like,» I said. «But I'm free until the summons is issued. If and when the summons comes through, you know where to find me. Otherwise, I don't care. I'm outta here.»

«We can place a temporary hold on your person until the summons is issued.»

I almost asked them to show me where it said that in Statutes of Law, but now I really didn't have the energy. I knew they were bluffing, but it didn't matter.

«I give up. I'll write out my statement. But I need to make a phone call first.»

Fisherman passed me the telephone. I dialed Yuki's number.

«I'm still at the police station,» I said. «It looks like this'll take all night. So I guess I won't make it over today either. Sorry.»

«You're still in the clink?»

«A real drag.» This time I beat her to the punch.

«That's not fair,» she came back. There's a lot of descrip­tive terms out there.

«What have you been doing?»

«Nothing special,» she said. «Just lying around, listening to music, reading magazines, eating cake. You know.»

The two detectives tried to listen in again.

«I'll call you as soon as I get out of here.»

«If you get out of there,» said Yuki flatly.

«Well, okay then, lunchtime,» announced Fisherman, soon as I hung up.

Lunch was soba, cold buckwheat noodles. Overcooked and falling apart. Hospital food, practically a liquid diet. An aura of incurable illness hovered over it. Still, the two of them wolfed the stuff down, and I followed suit. To wash down the starch, Bookish brought in more of his famous lukewarm tea.

The afternoon passed as slowly as a silted-up river. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. A tele­phone rang in the next room. I did nothing but write and write and write and write. Meanwhile the two detectives took turns resting. Sometimes they'd go out into the corridor and whisper.

I kept the pen moving. At six-fifteen I decided to make dinner, first taking the yam cake out of