Lady Joker, Volume 1, Kaoru Takamura [best affordable ebook reader TXT] 📗

was none other than Handa, the person who had asked Monoi to place a bet for him.

Handa was a detective at the precinct in Shinagawa or somewhere like that. Since his work schedule was irregular, these days he rarely showed up at the racecourse. Instead, he would come to Monoi’s drugstore late at night to purchase an energy drink, and while there he would also ask Monoi to place his bets. Monoi had no idea where the man lived, although he had known the guy for a good six or seven years now, just like Nunokawa.

“Thought you were on duty,” Monoi said.

Handa craned his neck to see the last of the horses warming up as he replied, still brusque, “I was in the neighborhood.” In business shoes and a duster coat, he looked clearly out of place in the stands on a Sunday, but Handa seemed to pay this no mind. Perhaps he had a made a big arrest or something at his job; his broad shoulders seem to be dancing a little. Like Nunokawa, Handa was also still a young man.

Monoi handed the tall man the single winning 1-5 ticket from the tenth race, and the three quinella bets for the eleventh race that was about to start. Handa said, “Thanks,” as he stuck out his hand to receive them, his eyes continuously scanning the racecourse now hazy with rain. It just now occurred to Monoi that Handa was also betting on Sweet Diana.

“How are they? That guy and his kid . . .”

As if he had suddenly remembered them, Handa gestured with his chin to the front-row bench where Nunokawa and his daughter had been sitting until about half an hour ago.

“The ex-army guy and his daughter? She became a lady today. They went home a while ago.”

“What do you mean by lady?”

“She got her first period.”

“Huh.”

The matter did not quite seem to register in the detective’s mind, as Handa nodded vacantly and took a sip from the oolong tea in his hand. The can bore Hinode’s trademark seal of a golden Chinese phoenix. Then, after tossing aside the can, Handa stared straight at the racecourse and nothing else.

The horses began to assemble at the starting gate on the south side across from the stands. Monoi craned his neck, gathering the collar of his jacket closer. The rain was relentless, blowing every which way in the wind that strengthened then slackened in turn, creating a leaden maelstrom over the large expanse of the racecourse.

While they waited the few seconds for the gate to open, the wind and rain blew the tickets littering the stands into the air until the white specks obscured the sky. Monoi stretched his neck even farther and looked out into the distance. For an instant, the pale green of the turf track morphed into grassland hazy with large flakes of snow, the tracks of the Hachinohe railway of his birthplace laid across it, a freight train carrying charcoal and lumber running over the tracks and leaving a rumbling sound in its wake. On either side of the railway tracks the grassland stretched out as far as the eye could see, and beyond it to the east was a black shoreline the color of iron sand—once the train disappeared from sight nothing was left but puffy flakes of snow. In the hazy port beyond the tracks, there was dust and soot rising from the tin roof of the foundry. The shipyard and the ironworks. The main roof of the fish market. The squid fishing boats. And farther offshore the freight vessels en route to Dalian. As he squinted, the snowscape from a half century earlier transformed once again to the turf track, and the fourteen horses were dashing into the spray of water.

“Here they come, here they come!”

Slapping Monoi’s knee, Handa leaped to his feet. A horse was driving in from the very back of the pack as they rounded into the fourth turn. Was that Ayano Roman? Monoi also rose from his seat. Sweet Diana was pulling away. Ayano Roman gave chase.

“Go—!”

Handa began to shout. A sound also escaped from Monoi’s lips. In that moment, both Monoi and Handa were one with the horde of a hundred thousand filling the stands.

2

Hiroyuki Hatano

Hiroyuki Hatano strained his ears. The phone was ringing. Sounds that he wouldn’t have noticed before while he was working now registered in his hearing often. The pitter-patter of a child’s feet in the waiting room. Then the sound of a man coughing.

Hatano was preparing a lower molar for a root canal procedure, trying to gain access into each curved canal of the molar’s roots. The sensation of the reamer blade striking the canal walls made his fingers jittery. Is that where it’s getting caught? He swapped the instrument for a K-type file—one with a differently shaped blade—inserted it into the canal and, using the superfine tip, began to file the canal into the proper shape. As he shaved away the dental pulp, the file began to glide smoothly up and down, all the way to the apex.

The phone rang again. The receptionist answered immediately, but the ringing was replaced by the sound of her low murmuring. Last month, he had taken a weeklong break after the sudden death of his son, who had been about to turn twenty-two. Although it had already been two weeks since Hatano reopened his office, there had been a backlog of over five hundred patients, and the phone still rang all day long with people calling to reschedule their appointments.

Holding the small file between his thumb and index finger, he pushed the blade further as he moved it up and down. Just as his fingertip sensed that he was only one or two tenths of a millimeter away from the apex, a dry snap sounded at the end of the file he held in his hand. The patient, her mouth held open, yelped.

Had he broken the file, or inadvertently pushed the sealer beyond the apex?