The Boy Who Glowed in the Dark

CHAPTER 3

Johnny landed at Tokyo’s Narita Airport at 9:05 p.m. on Saturday. He took the Narita Express to central Tokyo and caught a taxi to the Hotel Century Southern Tower in the Shibuya district. After checking into his room, he called Nadia to let her know he’d arrived, ate some sushi, and went to sleep.

On Sunday he enjoyed a breakfast of steamed rice, grilled fish, rolled omelet, seaweed, and pickled vegetables. Afterwards he spent the morning reacquainting himself with the city. Shibuya was the western hub of Central Tokyo. Young people partied in Shibuya. Older people tended to avoid this part of town. The roads were not as pristine, the storefronts not as elegant as in other parts of the city. Cheap restaurants, karaoke bars, and nightclubs crammed the streets. It was Johnny’s kind of place.

He’d studied at Tokyo’s Sophia University eighteen years ago as an exchange student from Seton Hall. His return was no different than his first visit. The crowds, noises, and smells overwhelmed his senses. The sheer mass of humanity moving along sidewalks and climbing onto subways made New York City seem small. The cacophony of sounds hurt his eardrums. Buses, cars, and trains. The ring of a thousand pinball machines hitting their targets simultaneously in Japan’s popular pachinko parlors. It was urban chaos and Johnny loved it.

The smell of fish mixed with exhaust to form a uniquely Tokyo scent. This smell, in turn, stirred memories. The stress of nightly language memorization. The rock star status that resulted from him being tall, young, and American. Cute college girls dying to practice their English with him at all hours of the night. And that little guy in pink tights who pressed his thigh against Johnny’s leg on a crowded subway bench. Eighteen years ago the experience had nauseated him. Now it made him laugh.

He visited the Shibuya train station twice. First in the morning, as soon as he left the hotel at 7:30 a.m. Genesis II had picked the perfect location to put them both at ease. On a weekday, two and a half million people used the station each day. Even on a Sunday morning, it was so crowded there was simply no way to create a trap. There were literally hundreds of witnesses walking by the mural every minute. The only people who weren’t moving were the cops watching the turnstiles and a gaunt man loitering by the side door of the main entrance. He was disheveled with flecks of gray in his shoulder-length hair, a lost look in his eyes, and a begging bowl in his hand. A homeless man was an embarrassment to himself and the community. Hence, everyone pretended he wasn’t there to save face.

Johnny returned to the station a second time at 11:45, fifteen minutes before the meet. He stood in the corner against the wall opposite the mural and waited. He tried to study the faces of the people walking by but there were too many of them. The exercise left him dizzy.

“Mr. Johnny Tanner?” A young man’s voice, Japanese accent, high-pitched.

Johnny turned. A boy had snuck up to his side. Carrot-colored hair with black roots covered his ears. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and leather jacket with designer jeans. He looked like a Japanese punk rock version of Bobby.

“Yeah. I’m Johnny Tanner. Who are you?”

“May I see identification, please?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your passport. To see your passport.” The boy blushed and bowed. “Please.”

Johnny looked around. No one was paying attention to them. He turned back. The kid stood with a stiff posture, hands thrust in his pants. He seemed too nervous to be a professional operator of any kind. Johnny pulled out his passport, opened to his picture, and extended his hand so the boy could see it.

The boy’s eyes widened. He studied the name, the photo, and Johnny. Tension eased from his face. He exhaled audibly — a uniquely Japanese expression of relief and gratitude — bowed again, and followed it up verbally. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

Johnny returned the bow. It was an instinctive thing. He didn’t bend his waist or dip his head as low as the boy did. He was acknowledging, not deferring.

“What’s your name?” Johnny said.

The boy didn’t answer. Instead he pointed to the mural. “You have seen painting?”

“Yes. I have seen the painting.”

“Taro Okamoto. Very famous Japanese painter. Painting is called Myth of Tomorrow.”

“I’m more focused on today. For instance, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“We must worry more about tomorrow and less about today.”

Great. Another philosopher. Like Victor Bodnar. He was always saying stuff like that. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

The boy smiled. “Answers. Yes. Outside.” He extended his arm toward the exit to the front of the station. “This way, please.”

“We don’t need to go outside. We can stay here. You have something you want me to take a look at?”

The boy ignored Johnny. Instead he widened his smile. “To follow, please.”

He turned his back and headed toward the exit.

Johnny let the boy lead the way. The kid had made a point of emphasizing the mural. The mural had a nuclear theme. That wasn’t by accident, Johnny thought. It had to be a reference to the formula.

The boy walked through the double door outside the station. Johnny followed.

A rowdy bunch of teenagers cut in front of him. They were hurrying into the station as though they were late for a train. They joked and jostled, elbowing the other pedestrians out of the way. Johnny peered over their heads. Saw the boy. A man wheeled a vending machine forward and obscured his view. Johnny pushed the last teen out of his way. The man with the vending machine moved further forward.

The boy was gone.

Johnny searched the perimeter of the station. He tried to hurry — even run — but it was impossible to take more than three steps without bumping into someone. A fleeting sense of desperation gripped him. Had someone lifted the boy? He’d confirmed Johnny’s identity. Why would he have vanished of his own accord?

What a disaster. He couldn’t have scripted it any worse unless the kid had been harmed. Which was not entirely out of the question, Johnny thought.

He returned to the front of the station. Commuters rushed past him in each direction. Johnny stood facing the front door. He studied the same exit the boy had used to leave the building. Looked around one more time.

Nothing.

His only course of action was to wait or return to the hotel. Then he saw that the homeless-looking man was staring at him. He widened his eyes slightly as though he was praying Johnny, the gaijin, would come over to help him. None of his own countrymen cared.

Johnny didn’t know the proper etiquette in Japan. He’d never seen a single homeless person during his previous stay in Tokyo. If he gave the old man a few yen, people might think he was encouraging the man to live in the street. But ignoring him felt even worse.

Johnny walked over and gave the man a five-hundred-yen note. The man’s eyes widened with glee. He took the bill and nodded. Then he hugged Johnny. A bow would have been customary. The hug was so unexpected, Johnny found himself patting the beggar on the back out of sheer instinct.

The beggar’s whisper sounded soft and steady in Johnny’s ear. “Where are you staying?”

The man’s English was impeccable. Johnny tried to pull back to look at the man’s face but he hung on tight. Refused to let Johnny move.

“Which hotel?”

Johnny hesitated, then let his instincts take over. “Hotel Century Southern Tower,” he said.

“I will call you.”

“Who are you?”

“Be careful. We can’t assume we’re alone.”

“What does that mean? You’re being followed?”

The man let go of Johnny and walked away. He slipped his bowl into his jacket pocket, righted his posture, and accelerated his pace.

Then he entered the station and vanished among the crowd.