Chapter 6
EXPERIMENT
I
The television show Nighttime Hit Parade carried incredible influence. Artists who sang their new songs on the show saw a dramatic increase in CD sales the following week. On average, the program pulled in more than one in five households. Its continued success, despite the public’s generally flagging interest in music shows, was nothing short of a miracle.
Securing an appearance on Hit Parade would be absolutely critical for Kirigoe Mima’s new single to top the charts. For the best results, the performance had to come within the first three days of its release.
With those ends in mind, Tadokoro had personally visited the producer’s home so many times that he’d lost track of the exact number, but it was definitely more than ten. The manager had championed Mima’s star power to the producer, particularly stressing his desire to use the venue to unlock the singer’s hidden
potential.
The producer had thought of Mima as merely a run-of-the-mill idol, but Tadokoro’s passion began to soften the man’s opinion. Then, on one particular visit, the producer finally gave the okay. Tadokoro was so elated he nearly cried.
The show was scheduled for four days after Mima’s single hit the shelves, but the appearance could still provide the boost they needed to propel the song to the top of the charts. As he explained his success to Mima back at the office, he was again struck by his conviction that “Sexy Valley” would be a major hit.
Tadokoro said, “Mima, there’s no better venue to launch a new song. I need you to give it your all!”
Mima nodded deeply. “Thank you, Bon-chan. I never dreamed I’d be able to perform on Hit Parade. I’ll give them a real show. Everybody’s going to see the new me!”
II
The Roppongi sidewalks were as crowded as they were every other night. A fashionable woman walked arm-in-arm with a black man, stumbling occasionally as she went. A group of girls took in the nightlife, their caked-on makeup failing to hide the fact they were underaged. Young men put on their best Yakuza act, swaggering with puffed-out chests. There were heavy metal boys and punk girls alike. Most would probably still be present come morning, having tested their endurance through a sleepless night of revelry.
Cities have long been known as lonesome places. The more people get packed in together, the more individuals feel a paradoxical isolation. To distract themselves from loneliness, people seek each other out in bustling commercial districts like these.
In that sense, perhaps the gaudy neon lights, the towering cabinet signs, the marquee bulbs flashing in sequence—perhaps they all acted as a kind of bait to entice such lonely souls, much as carnivorous plants lure in insects with their brightly colored leaves and flowers.
But get away from Roppongi’s main streets, and the crowds fall off quickly. There, the sleepless district feels more like a ghost town.
Her face hidden behind large sunglasses, Ochiai Eri walked down a narrow back street. She nearly had the place to herself. Distant car horns echoed between the buildings, but the cars themselves stayed well away. Flanking the road were rowhouses whose façades had remained largely unchanged since postwar times. In their shadow, it was easy to forget one was in Roppongi.
At the end of the shabby street stood a small, two-story building with cracked and crumbling concrete walls—stores below, apartments above. Eri stopped in front of the building and looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching. Seeing no spying eyes, she hurried into the entrance, as if she’d been sucked inside.
The musty hallway within gave no suggestion of recent activity. But that was only natural, since out of the ten units, only one was a business—and that was an office on the second floor.
Eri ascended the staircase, the familiar sound of her footsteps echoing about her.
Murky light spilled out from a windowed door at the end of the second-floor walkway. A sign next to the door read SHINKO MUSIC PUBLISHING, INC. Officially, the company handled the publishing rights for Eri’s CDs, but in truth, the company only existed as a tax dodge. It had only one employee, a female phone receptionist.
Eri unlocked the door with a key and stepped inside. The office was outfitted with a small couch and coffee table set along with two office desks. A sink in the corner was filled with haphazard stacks of dirty coffee cups.
Eri sat on the sofa and removed her sunglasses. She reached down to a mini fridge tucked in beside the couch, retrieved a can of beer, and drank it with satisfaction.
When the beer was gone, she glanced at her watch. It was after nine. Aran Naoto would be arriving any moment.
The rocker was a complete junkie and a womanizer, but when it came to his looks and physique, he was a perfect ten. But the best thing about him was his dick. Not only was it huge, but—maybe on account of all the drugs—it possessed unrivaled stamina.
Eri’s thoughts wandered toward his muscular chest, and the warmth of anticipation spread below her waist. Hurry up, Naoto, she thought. I want you now. She pressed her hand between her legs, right as the door creaked open, and Naoto stepped inside.
“Eri,” he said, “for the last time, you’ve got to stop telling me to meet you with so little notice—”
Before he could finish complaining, her fingers were on his zipper.
Naoto got up from the sofa, stretched his arms, then reached over to put on his T-shirt. As he watched Eri, lingering on the couch in nothing but her slip, he put a light to a Caster Mild.
Somewhat exasperated, he said, “You’re as rough as always.”
Eri pouted like a spoiled child. “I can’t help it. I’m in love.”
“You’re in love with me?”
“No.”
“But you’re in love.”
“With sex!” Eri said, then she sprang to her feet. With her milky skin, ample breasts, narrowed waist, and plump, firm bottom, she made a near eye-dazzling picture.
Naoto said, “I still can’t believe you’re doing the idol thing. You know, some of your fans would kill themselves if they saw us like this.” He put on his leather jacket and turned to leave. “But what’s that matter to me, anyway? See you later, Eri.”
Eri shouted, “Wait!” She thrust out her hands and said, “Naoto, you promised.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He thrust a hand into his jacket pocket and retrieved a photograph.
“Don’t you go forgetting on me. I didn’t call you here for the sex, you know.”
She snatched the photograph and stared at it intensely.
In the photo, Naoto had an arm around a woman’s shoulders, holding two fingers up in the V-sign.
The woman was, without a shred of doubt, Kirigoe Mima.
Eri’s expression twisted. The edges of her mouth shot up as she laughed, the sound gleeful and ominous in equal measure. “This is it,” she said. “This is all I need.”
Her smile was not that of an idol, but of a wild beast that had caught sight of its prey. For a second, the sight gave Naoto a start. “What are you going to do with that? It’s from two years ago.”
Eri’s eyes snapped to him. Her voice was cold. “That’s none of your concern. All you need to know is it’s going to help me.” Once again, Eri flashed that feral smile.
III
At an intersection in Roppongi, Eri stood waiting for a taxi when someone called her name from behind.
Startled, she looked over her shoulder and saw a lone man standing there. With the neon lights at his back, she couldn’t make out the details of his face, but something about the man’s silhouette unsettled her.
A chill ran down her spine, but even if she felt creeped out, she felt more irritated than anything. Damn it! she thought. I even took the back streets so that no one would see me. Why now, of all times, did she have to get cornered by some weirdo fan?
She ignored him and returned her attention to the street. After a little time the man repeated, “Eri-san,” but this time, she didn’t turn around.
She needed that taxi to come before she’d be forced to deal with some miserable fan.
“Eri-san,” he said again, this time loud enough to startle her.
Eri turned around to face him. Behind her sunglasses, anger burned in her eyes.
“Listen, you,” she said. “Don’t talk to me. This is my private time. Can you get that through your head?”
Undaunted, the man stepped toward her.
On reflex, Eri took one step back.
The man was larger than he had seemed at first glance. Long, messy hair hung down in front of his face and cast a gloomy shade over his features. He wore an old, ratty T-shirt and dirty jeans.
“Eri-san!” the man shouted. Behind his dangling bangs glistened two tiny, gleaming eyes, staring at her.
Eri glared back with all the intensity she could muster. “You just don’t shut up, do you? What do you want with me? If it’s my autograph you’re after, then fine—you can have it—but then leave me alone!”
The man licked his dried lips and muttered, “E-Eri-san, I don’t need your autograph.” He held something out to Eri. It was a small disposable camera.
“You want a picture?” Eri asked. “All right. Just be quick about it.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t want your picture.”