Chapter 59
Before Tamako could catch her breath, the entire corridor exploded in noise. Doors and windows flew open as tenants leaned out to shout curses, and even the opposite building joined the chorus.
"Yasukawa, if you sing that rotten opera one more ti I'll rip your mouth off!"
"You lousy freak, disturbing the peace every night! All you do is pluck that shamisen!"
"Pluck, pluck, pluck your—"
The door that had been leaking Noh wails slamd shut; the eerie falsetto cut off mid-phrase. From the opposite flat stomped a man swinging a pipe wrench, pounding on the door so hard the fra rattled. "Get out here! I've had it—if you don't open up I'll smash the lock!"
Fushimi whistled, arms folded, a lazy smirk on his face. He leaned against the stair rail, one foot propped back, enjoying every second. If soone actually died, he could just call the detectives and let them handle the paperwork.
"Stop fighting, please!" Tamako darted forward and grabbed the wrench-wielder. "Sir, please calm down—"
"Calm? You want calm? Look in the eye—do you know how long I've been awake?"
His eyes were bloodshot. Grease streaked his coveralls—clearly a repairman. Without waiting for an answer, he hamred the lock again; the tal dented, the door buckled. This was no bluff.
Cold sweat trickled down Tamako's spine, her knees knocking like maracas. Still, she forced herself to speak. "P-please, sir, go get so sleep. I—I promise I'll negotiate with the tenant to stop the disturbance—"
"Who the hell are you? Think that black uniform makes you special?" Another swing of the wrench. He stooped, eyes raking over her with a nasty gleam. "Well now, you're cute. How 'bout coming to my place for a cup of tea—"
He never finished. His head cracked against the door as a large hand flattened his cheek. Fushimi twisted the man's arm behind his back, snatched the wrench, and slamd it down an inch from his nose.
"I'm pretty cute too," Fushimi said, thumb pressing against the man's eye socket. The repairman shrieked. "Why not invite over?"
The wrench blocked Tamako's view; all she heard was the scream. Assuming Fushimi had only squeezed too hard, she rushed to stop police brutality.
Fushimi snorted, yanked the man around by his hair, and booted him into his own apartnt. The wrench clattered after him.
The man clutched his right eye, panting, then glared back with pure venom.
—Cri Index: 36%
Felony level. Drop him and no one would bat an eye.
Fushimi rested a hand on his holster. One glance and the repairman scrambled inside and kicked the door shut.
The corridor fell silent. Fushimi swept a cold stare across the remaining doors; every one clicked shut.
"Still yelling? You all in a hurry to reincarnate?"
Tamako's head buzzed. In her fantasies, patrol officers were beloved by the neighborhood. She'd pictured herself standing tall outside the police box at dusk while kids in yellow caps shouted, "Tamako sis, you're the best! I wanna be a cop like you!"
Reality apparently had other plans. The man hadn't feared her at all.
She glanced down: badge perfectly straight, baton and cuffs gleaming, revolver loaded with two blanks and three live rounds—everything looked official. So what was missing?
Am... am I just too scrawny?
Tamako had finished dead last in every physical exam since grade school. The realization hit like a hamr; her knees buckled and she dropped to the floor in full shōnen-defeat pose.
Ever since childhood she'd been treated like a pudding. Now, after clawing her way onto the force, she'd thought the uniform would finally make her intimidating—a sleek, gun-toting scourge of cri. Instead, she still didn't rate a single scallion.
Was Mom right after all? Only naturally tough people should be cops? Unfair—so unfair!
"Can't stand up?" Fushimi figured anyone who'd seen corpses shouldn't be this pathetic. Then again, Tamako had also trembled like a leaf when they'd snuck into the academy to steal that anonymous letter. Who knew what set her off.
Why even join the force with nerves like that?
"I—I'm fine." Tamako pushed herself upright. "Do I really look that... un-authoritative? Don't laugh! I'm serious!"
"..."
Fushimi let the silence stretch, then changed the subject. "We still have a noise complaint to handle."
Right—work first. Tamako chanted the mantra under her breath.
Face tight, she rapped on the now-dented door. "Mr. Yasukawa? Officer Minamoto Tamako from Sugamo Station Police Box. May I have a word?"
Earlier she'd heard neighbors curse "that bastard Yasukawa," so she assud the surna was correct. Even if soone was obviously inside, protocol demanded the question.
Rustling ca from within. The door opened a crack, and a murky eye peered out. "Police?"
"Yes." Tamako straightened, trying to project authority despite her flat winter jacket. "Several residents have filed noise complaints. We've noticed you perform Noh during rest hours..."
"I'm not disturbing anyone," the voice cut in—thin, androgynous. "I'm saving them."
Tamako whipped out her little notebook and pen. "Could you explain? Did soone receive death threats? Or are you experiencing ntal distress?"
No answer. Instead: "Did you see the porcelain bowls on the floor?"
"I did. Every flat has a bowl of salt outside the door," Tamako pressed. "What does that have to do with Noh?"
"A woman jumped from the roof weeks ago. Since then, ghostly figures haunt the corridors... people say she's back for revenge.
"I sing the ghost play to pacify her. Otherwise she'll kill us all."
Tamako humd and scribbled: Seems ntally unwell—recomnd public psych services—
She never finished. Fushimi interrupted. "That ghost you ntioned... is it the thing at the end of the hall?"
A chill crawled up her spine. She followed his gaze. Far down the corridor, dim in the gloom, stood a hazy silhouette—hair disheveled, posture wrong, balanced on tiptoes—watching them.
Not alive.
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