5.01 Member’s Only

One o’clock sharp Monday afternoon. The Narcotics Crime Squad’s office was abuzz with activity. It’s filled with at least two dozen agents, men and women, working away at the desks that were empty the day before. As I entered the office an agent raised his hand and made an “X” with his forearms.

An order was barked and the other agents all closed their notebook computers or turned the monitors away from me, then stood at attention before their desks.

If they hadn’t all been glowering at me, I might have taken the rising to their feet as a courtesy rather than an insult.

Terahara, Ozawa’s lackey, came around, gave me a slight nod, and told me to follow him. Yesterday’s warm smile was gone and he was all business. He showed me to the small interrogation room in the back where a frumpy middle-aged man in a Members Only and a shabby little pocket dictionary in his hands was sitting.

He stood up and introduced himself as Kojima from the Japanese Customs Office. The man’s halitosis was like a punch in the nose.

“We’ve met before,” I said, shaking his hand and averting my face

“Oh, you remember?” he said sunnily.

How could I not remember a man with such impeccable taste in fashion?

*

He had been wearing the same Members Only jacket, with one of the shoulder passants missing, the morning of the raid.

He had had a journal of mine. Running his finger down the page with one hand and thumbing through an old tattered pocket dictionary with the other, he pretended to read the journal. Pretended, I say, because I can barely read my own handwriting.

I’ve long been in the habit of jotting down notes wherever I am, on the bus, standing on the train, even while walking. There must be a name for people like that, people who fear losing grip of every novel thought that pops into their head.

Kojima had come into the room, where I’d been sitting between Ozawa and another cop, and in heavily accented English said everything I had written was all rather disturbed. This man, who couldn’t have told his arse from his elbow, had been doing is hopeless best to appear relevant during the raid.

“Is this your diary,” he had asked.

“Diary? No, just some memos and notes.”

“Do you keep a diary?”

“A diary? No.”

*

“Yes, yes, I remember you. You were there on the morning of the raid. It’s nice to meet you,” I said, taking a seat in front of the desk.

A moment later Ozawa came into the room, asked how I’m doing, then took the seat opposite me.

“We need you to sign some papers for us today,” he said.

___________________________________________________________________

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved.

~ by Aonghas Crowe on January 24, 2010.