Lady Joker, Volume 1 by Kaoru Takamura (lightest ebook reader .txt) 📕

snapshots that had been tucked into the notebook in his breast pocket into Monoi’s hand. Monoi held the photo fifty centimeters away from his right eye and stared at the image of his late grandson’s girlfriend and her newborn child. His only comment was, “She reminds me of Princess Michiko when she was young.” Their features were different, but in terms of their refined, well-bred manner and calm expression, they could be said to resemble each other.

The next thing Handa handed him was a clipping from a magazine. Monoi once again held it in front of his right eye and squinted. The article was from a financial magazine, a short, serialized column called Managers Up Close, cut out from this month’s issue and featuring Kyosuke Shiroyama, the president of Hinode Beer. Handa had been collecting as many articles on Shiroyama as he could find, but the subject was apparently a simple man both at work and at home, for his name appeared mostly in hard financial articles, making it difficult to deduce anything about his private life. This article, however, was a rare find that offered a glimpse into Shiroyama’s personal life.

“Huh. In order to sustain long, hard workdays he takes great care of his health above all . . . After a simple dinner, he enjoys a bit of beer or whisky . . . Attends social events one night a week at most. Makes sure to be in bed by midnight and rises early to do his reading . . .”

“If he’s in bed by midnight, that must mean he gets home no later than 11 every night. Of the ten times I’ve trailed him now, he’s returned home roughly around ten each time. In a black Nissan President driven by his chauffeur.”

“So you think this is our man?”

“Looks that way.”

Handa put the photo and clipping back inside his notebook and added, “So far, so good.”

Monoi had no further questions. “I’m sure you all could use some money. One of the old man’s time deposits has reached maturity, so split this among everyone as you see fit.” Monoi handed Handa a manila envelope he had taken from his jacket pocket.

Handa tucked the package in his own pocket. From the feel of it, he guessed it was around five hundred thousand yen. “The return on it will be eight-hundred-fold, just you wait. For now, I’ll use this to pay Nunokawa back for the car rental. Then, little by little, I’ll start buying the props we need.”

“You and Nunokawa should be careful around your wives. Women have sharp instincts.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Not one of us—Yo-chan and Koh included—are the type to get excited. We sure are a motley crew.”

The horses were already leaving the paddock for the racetrack, and the spectators had dispersed as well. The sunlight had waned, deepening the gray scene.

“I myself feel a little excited, to be honest . . . Sure, my life hasn’t changed, but little by little I can feel my spirits swelling. Well, I knew all along I’d be bidding farewell to my peaceful life when I decided to do this, so I suppose it’s all going as I expected.”

Monoi’s voice, almost more of an interior monologue, reached Handa like a distant echo, its source buried under a thick layer of dust that had accumulated over sixty-nine years. His profile, as he gazed down at the paddock, appeared leathery, hardened and worn-out from a life that had lasted roughly twice as long as Handa’s own.

“By the way, Handa-san. Let’s give our group a name,” Monoi said. “What do you think of ‘Lady Joker’?”

“What is that? English?”

“The other day, Nunokawa called his daughter the joker that he had drawn. That’s when it occurred to me. If a joker is something that nobody wants, then what better name to describe the lot of us?”

“So Hinode Beer is the one that draws the joker?”

“That’s right. Besides, if it weren’t for Lady, we’d never have had the chance to know one another like this.”

Hearing Monoi put it that way, Handa felt deeply moved. Recalling the image of Lady, who very recently had been wobbling her head joyfully in the grandstand on Sundays, Handa nodded. “All right. I like it. Lady Joker it is.”

After parting with Monoi, Handa took the train, transferring from the Keio Line to the JR Line, arriving at Kamata Station a little before six. His wife had the early shift that day at the Ito-Yokado supermarket where she worked, so for the first time in a while they had agreed to meet up at the pachinko parlor in front of the west exit of the station. As he left the station building and stepped into the pedestrian crossing at the traffic circle, a bicycle burst out from the side alley beside the pachinko parlor directly in front of him.

Handa stopped in his tracks, as did the sneakers pedaling the bicycle. The truth was, it was those sneakers more than anything else that caught his eye. He stared at them, then took in the faded jeans, dark sweater, and finally the face that appeared above all these.

The man was also regarding Handa, staring at him in a similar manner, but in the next instant, both sides of his mouth spread wide, like the surface of frozen water cleaving apart, and he flashed his white teeth.

“Handa-san, right?” The quality of the man’s voice was as stiff as ever, but unlike the last time Handa had heard it, there was a bracing and clear ring to it. No, it was more of an artificial sound, as if his voice had been carved out with a high-performance lathe.

“Oh, Inspector Goda . . .”

“Just Goda. I haven’t seen you since we were on that case in Shinagawa. Which department are you working from now, Handa-san?”

“Kamata.”

“I see. I was transferred to Omori in February. We’re neighbors.”

As he said the word “neighbors,” his lips drew a fine arc once more.

Handa remembered him clearly now. He was that assistant