Smoke Out

Shion. シー。音. Yes, stylized with the obnoxious stop in the middle. In Japanese, the katakana characters for "she" and the kanji for "sound." A play on language—"her music"—Shion's music. Music that rested comfortably in a bubblegum metal ballad category that packed small indie live house and bars in Paris to Tokyo. Including this one.

A pair of housewives, if their matching hairstyles were any indication, pushed their way toward the stage where a great undulating mass of fans headbanged and vibro-moshed. The women's flushed faces lowered as they exchanged whispers, unable to meet even their own gazes. A pact formed, they grasped hands, and on a three-count, simultaneously pressed the small studs at their temples and fell backward into the welcoming, consenting bodies of overworked salarymen, mind-numbed housewives, and flustered college virgins. Their expressions went slack and one woman's legs began to quiver almost immediately. The mob absorbed the pair, bonding with them in the cerebral orgasms.

Volchords—cybernetic enhancers—gave Shion the power to connect to her fans in a unique virtual concert she layered with sound effects and specialized lyrics. Anyone, modded or not, could enjoy the music like any other concert, but true fans, sexperienced it, giving new meaning to the term "dry hump." This wasn't about shame or testing taboos.

I kept my mod off. I had to keep my head clear. The Paranormal Rebalancing head office out of Los Angles had called me in to investigate the singer. I understood why immediately. She was smoking. Unfortunately, not in a socially acceptable way. The PR suspected she was "blowing smoke"—using an arcane and dangerous form of occult magic, aura manipulation, or some other frowned-upon technique to veil, manipulate, create, or... and, this is the one I loathed the most, call something.

Attending live house concerts from the discomfort of hard barstools and pricy drinks that were half glass, full rock, and questionable alcohol content, I was trying to ascertain what that was. At this point though, the only thing I was certain of was that it wasn't manipulation of any of the following: fans (they were in relative good health), time (my ass could verify that), or space (no portals or ugly dimensions), nor was she linking life essences to herself, or even draining anyone's bank accounts. In those regards, every one of her concerts were perfectly mundane. Not a violation of anything the PR was interested in as far as I could tell.

From the raised stage, Shion bellowed into the mic, her band shredding through her last song of the set. Last song of her contract from what I understood. After tonight, the artist was moving on. I wondered how her father felt about that. He was her manager and producer, after all.

#

The green room in this dive was a curtained store room just off the narrow hall to the toilets and an emergency exit. I politely called through the curtain. Shion tore it aside. Lithe, ropey, pixie cut, smoldering black eyes that ate your soul, and smelling of burning incense so strongly it tickled my nasal passages.

"Good evening, I'm sorry to disturb you." I bowed and offered my business card embossed with a virtual link to my private investigator license. I wanted to her know who I was, give her a head's up on what was to come. Oh, not that I thought she would tell me why she was blowing smoke—I expected her to lie about that if confronted directly—but when someone hints at investigating the use of forces or mediums shunned by polite society, folks can be guilted or frightened into stopping. It's a good thing. I still get paid.

Water. Wave after wave. Consuming me, pulling me down, filling my lungs, smothering me... Mother… I struggled against her strong arms…

I made to clutch my throat, desperate for air, but her hands got there before mine. The wall behind me groaned in protest as she first slammed me against it, then pushed me up it. My feet left the floor, kicking in a most unflattering way. Bile and stomach acid churned and rose, but found themselves cut off from escape. My vision danced and blurred, and Shion's face transformed to mud and singeing heat. The taste of ash coated my tongue and the sound of the ocean deafened me. The door at the far end opened and a sea of flesh rushed in, sweeping me up as Shion slipped out the emergency exit.

When the manager of the joint was finally able to extract me from beneath the mob of fans, he handed me a hot towel customarily used for wiping hands. The single flimsy disposable sheet was of little help against the torrent of sweat and drool of the mad fans that had rushed to Shion's aid. I put out my hand for another. He looked hurt but reluctantly handed me a second, and this time indicated my throat. I excused myself. In the lavatory mirror, my throat and the collar of my shirt were covered in a gray powder. Foundation? On her hands? I ran it between my fingers.

Smoke? No, smoke wasn't a substance that left residue. It didn't linger or dirty one's clothing. It was power, wishful thinking, extraterrestrial, and childhood dreams rolled into one. It wasn't real.

I sniffed at it, and the vision of drowning took my breath away once more. THE loud bang of me falling back into the door had the manager running into the closet space.

The manager grabbed at me. "You need an ambulance?" But his expression asked if I wanted a trip to the hospital.

I shook my head and he disappeared with a scowl to see the rest of the audience out the door.

On a whim, I tasted it off my fingertips.

Ash.

#

Two days and nights I waited outside the claustrophobic rabbit hutch of an apartment Shion called home hoping she would return. Not the kind of impression I wanted to make, but the kind of impression I was stuck with if I wanted to get to the bottom of this case.

I was surprised no one called the police. Then again, there was no one around to call the police. Semi-industrial, the street was more of an anonymous back alley than anything else. Two large warehouses on either side created a path to the building, one High Heights. It was a six-unit, two-story affair that I believe was once used for housing the warehouse managers. Four of the units were empty. The whole area was dark and completely off any normal beaten path, nearly a 30-minute walk from the station.

With her popularity, Shion could have lived it up in The Hills of Roppongi or at home—she was making a living with them, after all. The whole of the area was humble to a fault. So humble, I didn't even need to break into the place. I walked in like one walked into a coffee shop. There was nothing but the eerie quiet. No furniture. Not that there was any room for it. No kitchen. No appliances. No plates or cups. Not even chopsticks. That nagged me. Maybe she ate out all the time. But no chopsticks? It was too "off." Even my homeless sources in the parks had their own chopsticks. No bed. And the real disturbing part… no recording devices or even paper notepads with scribbled lyrics. The kinds of things you expect to find in the home of an artist. But nothing here was going to lead me to her.

Only the toilet-shower combo gave me anything. More ashes. Ashes and mud.

#

Knowing she wasn't the homebody type, I fell back on one of the "tricks" of investigating socialites and celebrities—lurking social media for sightings. It worked like a charm. Sort of. It took a week. Heading over to Minato Ward where she had been seen on the streets, I picked up on her smoke.

Depending on the weather or the inexperience of the user, black smoke can take up to a week to dissipate. The average person ignores it, dismissing it as pollution or phantom sensations—like smelling campfire smoke when one is clearly indoors and a fire of any kind would be absolutely absurd in that setting.

I plunked myself down at a counter next to Shion at an izakaya pub.

Writhing black smoke coiled around her like a live thing.

"That was pretty clever... with the fans." I smiled. Tried for something genuine. Probably failed in some small regard.

She ignored me. Looking down at the untouched cocktail before her, moving the ice around with a stir straw. The smoke mimicked her. Or was she mimicking the smoke?

I hoped she wasn't conjuring something, or thinking me into a pet rock. That would suck.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot, Ms. Kanimoto," I continued, trying to disrupt any incantations that might leave me harder than her fans.

In silent grace, as if it were time to go, she stood, and walked toward the door. The flood of patrons rose in her wake, spilling from their booths and private rooms like air leaking into a vacuum.

Fortunately, I had come prepared. Fingertip stunners delivered a sensation similar to slamming one's fingers in a door. Immediately painful, but nothing permanent. Many of my attackers spun or jerked away, surprised yelps on their lips as I touched an arm or shoulder. The sudden introduction of pain disrupted the thrall of the mod and they shrunk back to politely-worded apologies as if they were poisonous snakes. However, the stunners were only good for a couple of minutes, before they "dried up" and I had to employ fists to stomachs. Not pretty. Did my best not to bring up too many dinners. I was looking to drop them just long enough to get out the door, nothing more.

Straightening my attire as I came out into the steady evening stream of the city crowds, I thanked my lucky stars—if I have any—that she was hailing a taxi and not dimension hopping. I joke, and yet, I don't. Stranger things have happened. Some I cannot explain.

She was about to jump into a black cab that pulled up when a well-dressed thug from the crowds put his hand none too politely on her arm.

I moved to intercept, hoping to break his grip and push her into the open door of the cab before he could react, but someone intercepted my jaw. With their fist. Very unpleasant.

This case was beginning to become a pain in the ass, and other locations.

Following the momentum of the blow, I crouched, spun and kicked the legs out from under my assailant. A second man I had failed to spot. He thumped to the sidewalk like a bag of rice, and I returned the shot to the jaw. With the reinforced heel of my shoe.

So much violence. Why did this have to be?

Busy with Shion—who shot him dirty looks and feral curses—the second thug didn't see me come up behind him. Grabbing him by the back of his collar, I kicked his left knee out and stomped on it the moment it came into contact with the concrete. There was a satisfying crack and his scream left no doubt in my mind that I would be able to finish my conversation with Shion.

If she had been there. No trail of smoke to follow this time. Damnit. Most folks usually didn't run until after I hinted at something that could get them into trouble.

This woman hadn't even said a single word to me yet—though, she'd had some choice words for the thug. Why was that? She wasn't notoriously rude or mean to guests. By all accounts, she was a crowd pleaser. In more ways than one. So why the smoke? Why the thugs?

Perhaps a different approach was in order.

#

Shion's management company—her father's—was located in Den-en-chōfu, an idyllic, posh ward of the moneyed and celebrities. 20 minutes through the mazes of densely packed private homes and bakeries leaned over me as I traversed the narrow streets, silently accusing me of not belonging. They scrutinized every move of The Stranger, ready to collapse upon me with the crushing force of their disdain should I prove to mean any harm to the residents. I was finally delivered to a partial dead-end with a gated door guarded by an intercom set into cream-colored high walls topped with towering trees. The nameplate read: Kanimoto. A smaller one under that in English: Crabby Productions.

I pressed the call button.

"You're expected." A man's voice, impatient, even through the tinny reverb of the intercom.

"My name is—" The gate swung inward, open. I considered not entering.

"Production office to the right." The voice instructed. And so it was.

Three paths lay before me, each one constructed of a series of cut stones buried into a blunt, grassy lawn at a height of two centimeters, no more, no less. Sweeping off into the walled compound, the paths offered distinct destinations—a modest two-story home, a smaller office, and, far in the back, a generational family grave. The land alone was worth more than I'd ever make in a fifty lifetimes.

I was halfway down the right-hand path, when I noticed a lone figure, swallowed in a blue haze of incense and prayer, at the graves. I recognized his profile from holoposters and television appearances—Tetsuya Kanimoto, former member of boy band, Spooner Crooner, and father to Shion.

I diverted and the middle path led me deep into the compound, around arrangements of large decorative bonsai trees, clumped boulders of varying sizes, and shrubbery. I stopped a good ten meters from three headstone monuments on stepped daises. Each towered over the man's modest height, reflecting his image in triplicate from the smooth black polished sides of Buddhist inscription and the names of the interred. All very regal with the exception of the shattered corner along the lower right side of the center headstone, destroying the name of one of the occupants.

I bowed and introduced myself as Mr. Kanimoto finished his prayers and approached me. He walked past as if he hadn't heard, so I followed him to the office.

It was a small affair with all the trappings of production offices—celebrity signatures, photos of golf trips with politicians, framed gold records, concert posters from both the past and recent history—and it took everything in my power not to turn and walk right back out. The crushing sensation of warped and misused power made my eyes water and heart palpitate. The culprit was a massive Persian rug at the entrance. At a glance, it seemed nothing special. In this line of work though, one learns not to make assumptions. Take in the facts. And the fact was, someone had tried to... corrupt its influence, was the only way I could put it. From the lingering presence of black smoke in the room, I could guess who. Maybe this split wasn't amicable.

Mr. Kanimoto sat at a low table with two small leather sofas facing each other, but didn't offer me a seat. His speech pattern was blunt. "You've been following Shion."

"Ah, those were your gentlemen in Minato Ward." I smiled politely. "My apologies."

"Yes." The reply was tinged with anger, but not directed at me.

I couldn't help myself. "Give me the name of the hospital. I'll send flowers."

Mr. Kanimoto smirked and tossed an envelope he pulled from his pocket onto the table.

"What's this?" I feigned innocence.

"I know who you are and what you do."

I nodded, hoping he would go on. He did not disappoint.

"Consider it a case-closing fee."

"Mr. Kanimoto, I can assure you, I mean Shion no harm." Would it continue to be true when I discovered the reason she was leaving a trail of smoke across the city? I hoped so. Violence wasn't my forte.

"Mr. Hama will show you off the property." Mr. Kanimoto stood and moved to a large desk at the opposite end of the room, pretending to immerse himself in something important.

The tough I'd kicked in the jaw the other night entered the room. His face was black, blue, and swollen. I was surprised it wasn't broken. We exchanged unpleasantries.

"He's leaving, Mr. Hama. Just show him out."

I was nearly out the door before turning back. "Mr. Kanimoto?"

"Yes?" It was an exhausted reply.

"Do you mind if I offer a prayer?"

His eyes betrayed confusion, but he shrugged. "A minute, no more."

I walked up to the headstone, putting my hands together and head down as if in prayer while I studied the damage. Only a date remained above it. There was no indication of who it might have been and I thought it a lost cause until I noticed a shard at the foot of the base crypt where the ashes were communally stored.

From behind me, "Time up."

"Damnit. Forgot the money." I shrugged sheepishly.

Hama frowned. "Stay." It was a promise of violence if I didn't.

"Woof." I wisecracked. But he was the one who trotted off to the office to retrieve the cash.

Stooping, I pretended to clean the grave, palmed the shard and headed out the gate before the thug returned.

#

In the front counter information access booth at Public Records, I put my hands together in a plea as Jinnai, a friend and source, swiveled in his chair beneath the telecam above his workstation.

"Just a date?" He sounded skeptical, his face bulging slightly under the influence of the fisheye lens. "You never want just a date."

"Guilty." I laughed. "But seriously, how many deaths registered on that date?" I didn't want to give him too many details yet. I wanted as broad spectrum of information before I started narrowing it.

"In all of Greater Tokyo?"

"That's why I came to you."

"I'm the only one you can come to." He sighed, then got busy, his fingers tapping over his logogram radical keyboard of his. It encircled his chair, forcing him to swing back and forth like a claw in a crane game. Searching, searching, tapping, tapping...

"Over three hundred names." He whined, chewing on a nail. I could practically taste it myself. But he had a point.

"Narrow it down to Den-en-chōfu."

"Why didn't we just start there?" Then, "Better. Three... Chiha Iwano, 98."

No.

"Stephan Shimizu, 65."

No.

"Asuka Tanihama, nine."

"No Kanimotos?" I asked.

"Sorry."

That went downhill fast. I really only had piece of information left to try. "What information can you give me about Shion Kanimoto?"

More tapping. "There's no Shion Kanimoto registered in Greater Tokyo."

I figured that wasn't her real name, but I had to try. "How many children in the Tetsuya Kanimoto's registry."

"None."

"Wait, what? Tetsuya Kanimoto in Den-en-chōfu? The superstar."

"The very same." More tapping. "Wait a minute…" He groaned. "What a mess."

His fingers were a storm across the circular keyboard. "Well, well, looks like someone tried to divert Asuka to another family tree. Her mother's."

"Who?"

"Asuka Tanihama. The 9-year-old."

"Why?"

He scoffed. "We see it all the time. Illegitimate children, social benefits fraud. Sometimes there are legal reasons. Divorce, adoption... Asuka drowned with her mother. Maybe they were—"

"That's not what I meant."

But he was either ignoring or hadn't heard me. "Neither of those cases apply here, it seems."

"Jinnai!" I interrupted. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Whomever tried to divert the name, did it post-death. In life, Asuka's family name was Kanimoto."

#

On the train home, I pulled the shard from my pocket. The top left was broken away by whatever had been used to destroy the headstone, but the simple character radical was easy enough to read.

日—hi.

I frowned.

It could have been part of a hundred other names or combinations thereof. Or that of an ancestor. But my gut told me I was a fool to believe otherwise.

In this profession, lying was both a necessity and the absolute one thing you could not risk doing to yourself. Do that, and it's all over.

That radical was the kanji character for "day" or "sun." One of the kanji radicals used in Asuka. Also one of the radicals used in "sound."

That shard was a cracked portion of one of the kanji in Asuka's name.

Asuka Tanihama... Asuka Kanimoto... Shion.

There was no doubt in my mind. Except Asuka was dead and Shion was not. I couldn't explain why, but an awful thought formed in my brain—the black smoke; the ashes on my neck at the club; the vision, no, the transference of drowning; the shard, the wonky rug; the patrons of the izakaya, who certainly hadn't Shion consent...

I burst into the production office, face ugly, ready to give Kanimoto a verbal thrashing, at the very least. The rug was gone, revealing a throbbing circled pentagram of power. And Kanimoto's attire sowed every last stitch of this mad patchwork situation together. Dressed head to foot in loose-fitting robes in contrasting colors, a belt, a ceremonial gourd, and a variety of coins, small bells, and charms, he was an onmyoji practitioner.

"You mad son of a bitch. Your own daughter."

Kanimoto's face reddened and he stood within the occult symbol, his turn to turn ugly. "My wife walked into the ocean with her! That bitch had no right! And neither do you." He turned and grabbed the envelope of money from the table on which I'd left it and whipped a wad of it at me.

It smacked me on the cheek and shoulder.

A second time. "She had such potential. A natural!" And a third. "Get out! Get out!"

"So you hid her death and golemized her. Stole ashes. Mixed them with mud and blood, and made her your slave. She hasn't been trying to smoke the city, you've been trapping her here with it! She just wants to be free of you."

"I made her what she is!"

I wanted to spit in his face, dispute the ugliness in those words.

A window on the left exploded in glass and Hara's limp, broken corpse.

Behind it, darkness itself. A form not quite human, skin charred and cracked, pulsating heat and light from deep within—embers at her core. Eyes gone, the sockets inflamed red like orbs of rage.

"Asuka, no!" I threw myself between her and her father, grabbing hold of her arm as firmly as possible. It burned like the fires of hell.

With a simple sweeping flick of her arm, she sent me flying back against the door. I watched as she took her own father and did things that would most people puke. That was one pissed off 9-year-old.

#

I did the only thing I could—I went to the police. And spent the next 23 days in interrogation under suspicion of murder for my trouble. When my PR-appointed lawyer finally arrived, he informed me they were planning on arresting me. Again. To make me crack. Make me confess. Common Greater Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department tactic. Not unexpected. Since I hadn't confessed in the first 23 days, I was obviously the culprit. Or lying. They were right about me lying. I hadn't said a thing about what or who I had seen that night. I simply told them I had more questions for Mr. Kanimoto and returned to find him... in a most unfortunate way.

So I was good and cooked for the next month.

Until Shion walked in. Became my alibi. When asked why she hadn't stepped forth sooner, she claimed she only just heard. That she'd been on tour in Hong Kong. Had the passport stamps to prove it. I wanted to know why, but she never gave me the chance. She disappeared into the crowded night before they finished processing me out.

I made my report to the PR and they filed it. Case closed.

It's been two years. Shion is still out there. Still making music. Still getting her fans off. The property's been abandoned, but the taxes are still paid, so every year, I pay to have the gravestones properly taken care of, and personally offer incense and flowers on the anniversary of her death.

END