Lady Joker, Volume 1 Kaoru Takamura (ereader ebook .TXT) 📖

Otani bluntly inquired about what the rest of the executives—save for Shirai before the meeting—had been too discreet to ask. “Shiroyama-san. Is the target of the crime group’s threat truly Hinode Beer?”

“Yes,” Shiroyama answered tersely. “If you have any other questions, please speak up. If not, that’s all from me. Once again, I’m grateful for your continued understanding and cooperation.”

Following Shiroyama’s concluding remarks, Shirai reiterated, “Well then, gentlemen, please keep what was discussed here tonight confidential.” By the time the group dispersed it was quarter past eight in the evening.

When Shiroyama returned to his office, the plate of leftover food and beer glass had been cleared away, and there was a note that Ms. Nozaki had left for him under the light of his desk lamp. I hope you will be able to get some rest today. Before you leave, please dial 2102 and, for caution’s sake, someone from the corporate secretariat will accompany you out.

Shiroyama sat down in his chair and stared at the light from the lamp that fell upon the documents and notes arranged on his desk. He felt out of sorts with himself, in a daze caused by his unsettled mood and an excess of futile thoughts that whirred through his mind and made his head feel like it would burst. The fact that he had been kidnapped, out of the blue, and the enormous sum of two billion demanded of him. The question of whether it was right or wrong to bend to such an unreasonable demand and hide the truth from his company and the public. The uncertainty of his own grasp of everything that had happened to lead up to this point.

He had nowhere for such thoughts to reside. Although the room he sat in was familiar, the air around him seemed to percolate with energy, and as he was struck by a sense of impending doom, without realizing it Shiroyama had reached for the phone and began dialing numbers randomly. The first call he made was to the office of the general manager of the beer division on the twenty-ninth floor.

“Kurata-san? This is Shiroyama. I am so sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you these last three days. Please know that I deeply appreciate all of your efforts. I apologize for not being able to take the time to sit down and talk with you today.”

“No, I should be the one to apologize. I made such a careless remark when I was in your office today.”

“I hope we can continue to work together going forward. I urge you not to shoulder all these burdens on your own. If there’s anything going on make sure you talk to me. Please.”

“You needn’t worry so much about me, Shiroyama-san. I’m sure you’re exhausted so please get some rest tonight.”

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“I appreciate the call.”

This exchange of banal pleasantries took up barely a minute of their time before Shiroyama put down the receiver. Shiroyama felt a guarded sense of hesitation in Kurata’s response, just as he had sensed two hours earlier. Perhaps the man really could have had some kind of recalibration during the last three days.

Shiroyama wondered what he had been expecting anyway—from people. From society. From a corporation.

With these questions echoing in his head, Shiroyama turned to look at the nightscape outside his window and recalled that he had taken in a similar view the night he first spoke to his niece about her classmate Takayuki Hatano. The uncertainty of life that had plagued him then had now been transformed into a pitch-dark hollow that yawned at his feet. The black void was indicative of how, in the seventy-two hours spanning from Friday evening, when a large black shape surged in front of him as he approached his front door, until now, there was nothing concrete or tangible save for a single photo of a member of his family. The photograph had split his life cleanly in two, and it seemed to him that the version of himself who sat here now would have been unimaginable to him just three days ago—a gutless fool who had lost the coherence of his life. Suddenly it occurred to him that the dentist must have felt like this when he had learned of his son’s death in a car accident, but that event from the fall of 1990, having already drifted to the far side of the void, caused him no real pangs of regret.

This time, the call Shiroyama placed was to an outside number.

“Yamazaki-san? It’s Shiroyama.”

On the other end of the line, his driver, Tatsuo Yamazaki, was unable to put his emotions into words, only muttering, “I’m sorry . . . so sorry . . .”

“So much has happened, I know, but as you can tell I have returned safely, so don’t worry yourself too much. I will look forward to seeing you again, once we’re through with the police questioning,” Shiroyama said, taking care of one call he needed to make to someone who had been on his mind.

Next he called home. His son, Mitsuaki, answered, exclaiming, “Oh, Dad!” He then shouted, “Mom! It’s Dad!” and Shiroyama heard the pitter-patter of footsteps echo through the hall.

In a tiny voice, Reiko barely managed to utter the words, “Thank goodness you’re safe—to think of everything you’ve been through!” before she was overcome by tears and fell silent. That put Shiroyama at a loss for words himself, though finally he managed to say, “It must have been terrible for you, too. How are you? Everyone all right? I should be home around ten,” sounding more agitated than he would have liked.

“Yes, we’re all just fine here. I’ve prepared a bath for you. Shoko will arrive home tomorrow. Mitsuaki says he’ll stay the night here too. Oh, and Yoshiko and her husband called and said they just want to hear your voice, so they asked for you to call once you’re home.”

“All right. I’ll be there in a little while.”

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