"Sane, sane, they're all insane,
Fireman's blind, the conductor is lame.
A Cincinnati jacket and a sad luck dame
Hangin' out the window with a bottle full of rain."
- "Clap Hands" - Tom Waits
The Old Heirophant
April 9th, 4:26 PM
Cigarette smoke rolled off his lips like mist off the bow of a ghost ship, rising in wispy jet-engine contrails past his eyes and up toward the boundless blue sky above. It figured that a situation as absurd and agitating as this one would come about on such a lovely day. The sun shone bright and joyous in the sky, nary a cloud in sight to blight its light. The detective didn't smile at his own little poem; he just sighed, drew another lungful of impending lung cancer, and looked skyward.
The kid was late. Only by a few minutes, but time was time, and he'd run out six hundred and sixty seconds ago. That wouldn't fly twice. Part of him petitioned mercy; the kid was from a little town on the fringes of wider civilization. Chances were, kinder reason said, he'd just ended up lost in the winding streets of Tokyo. Then he took another draw of smoke and the cynical man who'd lost his wife to a moron with a bottle in one hand and the wheel of a car in the other rose back up to the surface. The kid was playing hooky, or had gotten tangled up in something he wasn't meant to already. Tokyo was brimming with opportunities for sin. The detective knew that better than just about anyone.
Ryotaro Dojima's cigarette burned down to a nub threatening the pads of his fingers, he stubbed it out in the old cement ashtray Sakura-san had installed outside Leblanc's front door some two years before. If only the man had remembered to clean the filthy thing out more than once since then… the detective sighed. He wanted another cigarette, but he'd promised his daughter he'd try to slow down. A pack a day was not healthy; if he could cut it down to half that, he'd be one step closer to quitting.
For her, he reminded himself. He was quitting for her. Nanako deserved a father who would live past sixty. Though if the cigarettes didn't get him, the stress would; where on earth was that criminal? Didn't he realize other people had business to get to, lives to carry on with? Damn kids…
Finally, Dojima saw someone round the corner of the alley; a tiny shape, hands in his pockets and head bowed, a mop of black hair hiding his face. He looked up when the detective cleared his throat, and the detective stared for a moment. Dry, chapped lips, pale skin drawn right over his skull, and of course that damned eye that was the cause of all this trouble. Or rather, the sterile white bandage poorly concealing the absence of one. The boy must have been hiding that from passers-by with his hair. He was tiny; much smaller than his forms and criminal record had suggested. He couldn't have been a hair taller than five-three, if Dojima was generous. He was practically swimming in the cheap black hoodie and grey sweatpants he was wearing, the sleeves ending several inches past his fingertips when he first withdrew his hands from his pockets until he slid them up awkwardly.
"You're late," the detective said, and then he blinked when the boy stumbled a little on his last step. Now that he'd come closer, Dojima could see he was obviously favouring his left leg, his right foot dragging ever so slightly. "What the hell… what happened to you?"
"Fell…" The detective barely heard the gentle murmur, still staring the criminal down with a scowl.
"Fell where?" he pressed.
"Steps… by the-the station square…" the criminal mumbled, somehow getting even more pale. "M-My fault… wasn't… paying attention…"
Ugh. Teenagers. He'd probably been staring at his phone or something. Dojima scowled again, before cocking his head toward the glass door to their right. Any view of the interior was currently blocked by the antique wooden blinds and large OPEN sign hanging in the centre of the top pane.
"This is Leblanc," he said. "Your guardian, Sojiro Sakura, owns it. You'll be staying with him under he and I's supervision. Curfew is eight PM, nine on Saturdays. Any questions?"
The boy blinked, before grabbing the black leather strap of his school bag with both hands and wringing it like a towel, unable to meet Dojima's eye. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, until the detective shrugged and pushed Leblanc's door open with a grunt.
"Come inside," he commanded, before leading the criminal into the warm and fragrant interior of Leblanc.
The old place was the same as always; stained glass light fixtures casting warm yellow-orange light onto the wooden fixtures, the rich scents of fresh brewed coffee and simmering curry filling the nose with each breath, and of course the five booths by the windows and six stools along the bar, all of them empty. The only other soul in the entire building stood behind the bar, nursing a small cup of steaming hot coffee and watching the criminal enter with a watchful eye.
Sojiro Sakura was not a large or particularly intimidating man. But the boy visibly stiffened under his gaze, head sinking down and hair falling back over his face. The detective hadn't known it was possible for someone that small to get even smaller, but the criminal seemed to shrink under Sojiro's eyes, as if trying to vanish inside his own oversized clothes. Sojiro, as per usual, wore a light pink dress shirt with the sleeves cuffed at his elbows, and khaki pants hemmed halfway up the calf. His black apron was striped five times with twin parallels white lines descending vertically, their contrast marred here and there by small coffee stains or curry detritus. He had a long goatee that curled forward off his chin, and black hair slicked back in a way that was, he had assured the detective, in no way a sign of a receding hairline.
The detective didn't have the heart to call him a liar.
"So… you decided to show after all." Sojiro grumbled the words, breaking up his sentences with a long sip of coffee. "I have to admit, I thought you might have ditched."
The criminal said something, in a voice quiet enough that neither the detective nor Sojiro could hear him. Then he seemed to realize that, and swallowed hard.
"Sorry…" he mumbled, and the detective sighed.
"You get in a fight or something?" Sojiro asked, glancing down at the criminal's limp.
"Fell… at-at the station…" the criminal repeated, and he sounded even less certain of his story the second time through. "My fault…"
All three men… Dojima almost scoffed at the idea of calling a criminal the size of a teenage girl a "man"… stood in an awkward silence for several long moments.
"Well, try to be more punctual next time," said Sojiro finally. "You're on thin ice here. Any trouble and you're out on your ass. And this probation is the only thing between you and-"
"Prison," the boy said suddenly, and the detective watched as his entire body tensed, hands gripping his bag's strap so tight his knuckles turned stark white. "I-I… I can't…"
Crap. The kid was shaking. The detective glanced up at Sojiro, who seemed to be having his own momentary flashback, before the detective gently pushed the boy back with one hand, letting him fall into one of the booths and sit, trembling like a leaf in the wind for a long ten seconds or so. Better to surrender willingly to gravity then succumb, he figured. The criminal's tiny fit stopped, and he swallowed heavily.
"I-I'll do better…" he mumbled, bowing his head. "Sorry…"
"You won't go back to prison," the detective spoke up, voice rough from the cigarette. "That was a mistake. But juvenile detention isn't much better."
"I won't trip again…" the boy said softly. "I-I'll be on time… sorry…"
"Ah jeez…" Sojiro frowned. "Look, kid, I don't like this any more than you do. This whole mess is your fault, but if you're willing to try and make this work, we'll try too. Right?"
He looked at Dojima, a non-verbal prod, and the older man sighed, cleared his throat, and finally nodded.
"This is an attempt at reformation," he said. "Just keep your nose clean, do as you're told and obey the rules, and you'll be alright. Sakura-san, you have his journal?"
Sojiro searched under the bar that was not, he'd emphatically declared at numerous points throughout their shared history, a bar. Several seconds of groping around without looking later, he handed the detective a small black book, with an unmarked faux-leather cover. Dojima placed it on the table next to the criminal, who stared at it unblinking for several seconds.
"You'll need to keep an accurate and consistent daily record of your comings and goings in there," Dojima declared. "As your case officer, I'll be reviewing it weekly, so make sure you write everything down. And don't try to lie; Sakura-san and I will be checking in with Shujin Academy to make sure your reports are accurate."
"Yes sir," the criminal mumbled, bowing his head again. "Um… w-when do I start at Shujin?"
"I'll be taking you there for an orientation tomorrow, and you start the day after." Sojiro grumbled. "It had better not take too long… I have a business to run."
The criminal took his new journal, having to wriggle his sleeve back up his arm to free his hand. He held it to his chest, and looked up at Sojiro.
"Um… am-am I staying with you?" His voice cracked slightly, and the detective winced when Sojiro chuckled.
"No way, kid." Sojiro walked around the counter, toward the stairs at the far end of the cafe's main floor. "Follow me. I've got you set up here. I don't have room for a criminal in my house."
Dojima followed behind the criminal, curious to see how well Sojiro had set up the attic as a bedroom. When they reached the top, the detective stopped. The attic was sparsely furnished; a futon on top of several large cardboard boxes constituted a bed, there was a desk in the corner opposite. But the garbage… multiple boxes and bags littered the floor in piles, a rusty old bike hung from a hook on the rafters, a half-dead potted plant wedged into a corner… the whole stank of dust and what the detective sorely hoped was not mildew.
He shot Sojiro a very annoyed glance as the criminal took a step forward. The detective wouldn't have blamed the kid for getting upset; this was far from what Sojiro should have done. Instead the kid quietly tiptoed between the boxes and bags, gently set his bag down on the floor next to the bed, and then sat down on it. Even the humble futon was big enough for him to look small, sitting there on its edge. The criminal stared at the floor, before suddenly inhaling and looking up when he realized neither man had left.
"Sorry…" he mumbled. "Um… thank you, Sakura-san."
He bowed his head again, and Dojima blinked. This wasn't… this kid couldn't be serious. He looked around the garbage dump of an attic, and then suddenly grabbed Sojiro by the wrist and pulled him towards the stairs again.
"Downstairs," he grumbled softly, when Sojiro let out a squawk of indignant surprise. "Now."
The criminal watched them silently as they marched down the steps, but it was only once the two of them were down at the bottom and standing in the middle of the cafe that the detective spoke his mind.
"You said you'd have a room ready." His voice was terse, so very near to angry. He could feel it simmering there in his gut, burning in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.
"What?" Sojiro looked legitimately confused. "He has a bed and a desk! What else does a high schooler need?"
"A dresser, maybe?" The detective started counting on his fingers. "A chair might be a good idea. Maybe some floor space that isn't full of garbage and old knick-knacks? This isn't acceptable, Sojiro. When you agreed to host him, you took responsibility for his well-being."
"Oh come on, I'm not planning to starve the kid!" Sojiro retorted, indignant again. "If he wants his room clean, he can clean it up himself! It'll teach him, uh, diligence, maybe a little responsibility!"
Before either man could continue, they heard a quiet thump from upstairs, followed by a quiet scritching sound. Sojiro looked up at the ceiling, blinking once. There was another quiet thud, then the soft sound of something being gently dragged. A few creaks. Then a louder thud, followed immediately by several moments of dead silence. The detective frowned before looking at Sojiro, who himself looked annoyed.
"He's been here for ten minutes and he's already making a mess," the younger man complained.
Dojima managed to stop himself from asking a sardonic question about how much more mess the boy could really make, before the two heard another, softer thud, and then the scritching sound again.
They stood in bemused silence, listening to this for several minutes. Finally, Sojiro looked at the detective, who shrugged.
"We should probably check on him," Sojiro said.
The two climbed the stairs again, and the detective paused in surprise when they reached the summit. Sojiro audibly grunted. The boy had his back to them, his hoodie's sleeves rolled up to his elbows and exposing pale forearms far too thin to be healthy. He was sweeping the floor with a battered old wicker broom he must have conjured from some far flung corner of the room. He had music softly playing, likely from his phone in his hoodie's pouch. Soft piano and trumpet, something vaguely jazzy, with a raspy man's voice singing in English. "Fall out of a window with confetti in my hair," was about all the detective could make out with his faltering, half forgotten high school English.
The boy had moved some of the boxes, pushing them away from the bed to the corner by the stairs. Most had been stacked into a small pile. He hadn't moved the bike from where it hung, but he ducked past it as he swept. The bags had been pushed and carried around, sitting around the base of the box pile. Sojiro and the detective both stood and watched, before the detective beckoned for Sojiro to follow him back downstairs.
They stood where they had a minute before, in the middle of the cafe, but now Sojiro looked slightly smug, his theory having been proven. The detective sighed deeply.
"Don't say it," he commanded. "And next time I come back here, he'd better have a chair, and that bike needs to be gone. Understood?"
Sojiro shrugged. The two listened to the quiet sounds of cleaning from above, before Sojiro rounded the corner of the not-bar and began brewing a fresh cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain for the detective, who sat down at the bar with a sigh.
"How's Nanako?" Sojiro asked, once the grinding was done and he was pressing the grounds. "Has school treated her well?"
"It was rough to start, but it's gotten better than it was in February," the detective replied. "I don't know what we'd do without Narukami."
"Is he upset about the extra year?" Sojiro asked, and the detective shook his head.
"It was the damnedest thing," he said. "I told him while he was in his room, reading one of those old stories about European heroes he likes so much. He looked me in the eye and told me 'I'm glad. I have a lot more to do before I leave.' Then he smiled and asked me if he could take Nanako to see some movie in Yongen."
He chuckled, in spite of himself, before thanking Sojiro when he laid a cup of fresh-brewed coffee in front of him. He took a long breath, enjoying the heady scent of fresh brewed Blue Mountain, before taking a sip.
"He scares me sometimes," the detective admitted. "It's like… it's like he has a mission to make Nanako the happiest little girl in Tokyo. Did I tell you about the Loveline thing he set up?"
Sojiro cocked a single eyebrow, and the detective frowned.
"She'd been watching this anime about a girl who's some sort of magical detective," he explained. "And I guess he noticed, because first he bought her this toy magnifying glass from the show. Then this little hat and coat, it must've cost him a week's wages. Then, a few weekends ago, he took her out to Inokashira. He'd spent the last week setting up a scavenger hunt-mystery for her. She came back with twigs in her hair, holding…"
The detective paused, suddenly overwhelmed by some strange sensation.
"She had two lockets," he said softly. "He'd dug up an old photo of Chisato I'd forgotten about, taken it to a store and had two little copies printed. He put them in lockets… so we could carry her with us, wherever we went, he said."
The detective thumbed the locket where it rested on his chest, dangling from his neck by a thin silver chain. He didn't like looking at it in public; it made him feel sappy, sentimental. But he kept it with him, everywhere he went. Nanako did the same, he knew; she only took it off in the bath, even wearing it when she slept.
"Sounds like he's done good by you," Sojiro said, wiping off the countertop. "I'm just hoping my stray doesn't burn the cafe down overnight."
"If you kept him in the house, you could keep an eye on him," Dojima replied, frowning, and Sojiro shook his head.
"And let him anywhere near Futaba?" the younger man scoffed. "Not happening. I've read his record. That boy is trouble."
"Then why take him in?" Dojima raised an eyebrow.
Sojiro looked genuinely lost for words, a first for the wry barista. He paused, cloth on the counter, eyes downcast a moment. Then he blinked, and then he sighed, and then he looked up at Dojima.
"I saw the medical reports as well," he said. "The ones your detective friend got the prison to release. The sprains, the bruises… his eye… I couldn't just let that happen. Not even to a criminal like him."
Dojima took a long sip of his coffee, maintaining a neutral expression. Then he stood up, placed the cup down on the saucer with a quiet clink, and headed for the stairs. Sojiro asked what he was doing, a question to which Dojima had no answer. Instead he left his blazer on the stool to keep his place (as if a horde of customers would rush in and take it otherwise, he reflected) and began rolling up his shirtsleeves.
Upstairs, the music had changed; the same gruff singer, but an electric guitar providing a strange and disonnant tone over the steady percussion. The singer was practically growling over the instruments, his words utterly incomprehensible to Dojima, but the boy seemed to enjoy them. He slowly swayed his whole body in tune with the beat, making his bed with the clean sheets that had been left a roughly folded pile at the foot of the futon.
Wordlessly, Dojima walked to the centre of the room, reached up and easily lifted the old bike from the hooks. The chain rattled and the boy turned quick as a flash, stumbling backward as if expecting Dojima to throw the bike at him or something. Instead, Dojima hefted the bike in both hands, and nodded.
"I'm going to take this out front," he said. "There's a second hand store opposite the door. If you like, you can sell it."
"Ah…" the boy blinked, still petrified. His hands were trembling slightly. "Isn't… isn't it Sakura-san's b-bike?"
"I've lived next door to Sojiro Sakura for five years now," Dojima replied. "I don't think he knows how to ride a bike."
"I-I don't want t-to cause trouble…" The boy's hands clasped tight together in front of his stomach, a nervous expression plain on his face. He looked almost terrified, in Dojima's eyes.
"Hey." Dojima didn't bark, he did not, he hadn't barked at anyone in several months. He just… spoke with aggression. "Kid. Calm down. Jeez, if it's that much of a concern, I'll sell it and give you the money later."
He started thinking about it for a minute.
"If you go the first week without causing any trouble, I'll give you the proceeds," he decided. "Sound fair? But you have to keep that journal up to date, and keep your nose clean. Got it?"
The boy stared at him for a moment. Was that disbelief in his eye? Why? Dojima had no reason to lie to him. Then, slowly, he nodded, though it was more of a frantic bobbing of his head.
"O-Okay…" he stammered. "Thank… thank you, sir…"
Dojima looked at his new probationer the way he'd examine a sheaf of papers explaining a new case. He really looked, and what he saw annoyed him, because he didn't see a violent thug like the paperwork had promised. How on earth could this kid, this shrimp, possibly knock teeth out of a man's head or "beat his companion severely"? The kid looked like a stiff breeze would throw him off his feet, and he was trembling under Dojima's investigative stare. His arms had several small bruises on them; splotchy, faded yellow impacts that looked like the results of blocking punches, largely healed. Several of his fingers, Dojima noted, were slightly crooked, as if they hadn't grown right… or had healed incorrectly.
The music faded out, before being replaced by the same singer again, counting down before a twanging guitar and what sounded like a triangle or bell slowly started to rattle away.
"What are you listening to?" Dojima asked, and the boy blushed bright red.
"Um… American music…" he mumbled.
Dojima didn't push his luck. It was the first straight and honest answer he'd received from the boy in the last half hour, and it was all he could hope for. He carried the bike downstairs, ignoring Sojiro's protests that it was his bike and his property, and carried it across the street to the second hand store. The old woman manning the counter looked the bike up and down, squatting down beside it and examining the frame and chain.
"It's in pretty good condition," she admitted. "I could give you… seven-thousand Yen for it."
Dojima didn't try to haggle. Seven-thousand was unusually generous for Yumenoshima; he'd once sold a box of Nanako's baby toys here and barely gotten eight-hundred Yen for the lot. He took the stack of bills and stowed it away in his wallet, making a mental note to put it somewhere safe later. In spite of his hesitancy towards the entire probation effort, he hoped the kid earned the money. Maybe he'd be able to buy himself a hoodie that fit better.
Wallet slightly heavier and business settled, Dojima returned to the cafe to find Sojiro serving a new customer; the doctor from the clinic down the street, whose ripped leggings, spiderweb-pattern blue dress and chunky-heeled black boots had never especially screamed "medical professional" to him. But her clinic had been investigated twice already, and apparently had been quite up to code both times, so it was far from his business how she adorned herself.
Had he been a younger, bolder man… no. He shook his head. He hadn't the time, the energy or the deliberate ignorance to do something that stupid. He sat down in his chair, slinging his blazer back over his shoulder and relaxing for a minute. Above them, the quiet scritching of the kid's broom started up again.
Then it stopped, and Dojima expectantly glanced over to the staircase. The kid poked his head around the stairway corner, but when his eyes settled on the doctor he shot back around and upstairs. Smart. Sojiro would likely be less than pleased to have to tell any of his consistent clientele about the probation case living directly above their preferred cafe.
The doctor was quiet, and Dojima respected that. The two drank their coffees in silence, Dojima getting a refill from Sojiro and sliding the Yen over the counter silently. Eventually the doctor stood up to leave, but right at the door she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
"If your new tenant needs a checkup, send him over," she said. "I need more customers."
Then she was gone with a quiet ringing of the bell, and Sojiro sighed deeply. Dojima chuckled in spite of himself.
"She's sharp," he observed.
Sojiro only slumped, and sighed again.
"Is there anything else we need to cover?" he asked. "I want to close up early tonight. I'm making a plate of takoyaki for Futaba tonight. She asked for it."
Dojima took a sip of his coffee, and then nearly spat it out when Sojiro continued.
"In person," Sojiro said, and then he looked at the detective as he spewed Blue Mountain across the bartop, staring at him wide eyed. "Oh, yeah… she's been… interacting lately. Won't say why. She asked me for new underwear the other day, through the door. I thought I was going crazy. Then this afternoon… right there in the living room, sitting on the couch, curled up in a ball."
"That's…" Dojima took a tissue out of his blazer pocket to mop up the spilled coffee apologetically. "That's good, isn't it?"
"She won't say what's changed," Sojiro continued, shrugging. "Just that she wanted to look out a window again. I'll talk to her about it tonight."
The scritching started up again, and Sojiro rubbed the back of his head when both men glanced up at the ceiling again. Dojima raised an eyebrow, and Sojiro shrugged.
"I should probably feed him too, huh…" Sojiro grunted. "Ugh… what a pain in the ass. I'll leave him some curry to heat up or something. He can use the microwave at least."
"Make sure he gets breakfast as well," Dojima instructed, standing up and slinging his blazer back over his shoulder. "His health is your direct responsibility."
Sojiro grumbled under his breath about that, but Dojima ignored him in favour of heading for the door. Right as the bell rang, he glanced back over his shoulder, meeting Sojiro's eye.
"The kid's had a rough winter," he said. "You said you read the reports? None of that should have happened. It's a disgrace to the justice system."
"I just wish the justice system agreed with you," Sojiro replied, shaking his head. "I'll keep him safe, don't worry. Just don't expect us to get along. I've already got one kid to take care of."
It was the best Dojima could expect. He stepped out of Leblanc, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. His mind raced with unwanted theories and ideas. The kid… baffled him. The previous conceptions were all broken into a hundred pieces and scattered to the wind. He had thought he'd be looking at a scrappy little thug, chomping at the bit to get back into the world. That boy up in the attic was the opposite of what he'd thought to see. Was it an act? A way to cope with his assault?
He lit up a cigarette. He'd have a quick one, then head home. Hug his daughter, call his boss, have dinner with his family. Narukami would be back from school by now, probably doing his homework at the kitchen table while Nanako watched a cartoon on TV. All would be well.
Yet still he felt the same tension in his stomach as when he saw dark clouds on the horizon. Why? Everything was fine. Things were better than fine. His relationship with Nanako, finally saying goodbye to Chisato, his promotion to the Special Investigations Department… there was no reason for him to worry.
And yet his stomach sank as he stubbed out his cigarette and made his way toward the alley entrance. Something was wrong. What it was, however, he couldn't say. Not until his phone rang.
"Dojima here," he said instinctively, at which point the last person he expected a call from today spoke.
"Dojima, I need you at the office," Sae Niijima said, her voice clipped and brimming with concern. "There's been an incident."
Dojima was already running for his car, throwing his blazer on with one arm while the other held his phone up to his ear. Niijima never called his personal number unless it was an emergency. Was this another of the public shutdowns? They hadn't had one since early January. If not that… then what?
"It's Adachi," she said, and a moment later the feeling in his stomach made much more sense. "He's been shot."