Free Popular Hits of the Showa Era by Ryu Murakami

peered at Yano from deep inside the wrinkles. Then, with something like a sob in his baritone voice, he said:
    “I have. What do you want one for?”
    Yano’s eyes widened with emotion. He opened them so wide, in fact, that some of the dried blood vessels burst with audible pops.
    “You have?” he said, bending forward until his face was no more than five centimeters from the storekeeper’s. It looked as if he were offering him a kiss.
    “I said I did, didn’t I?” The storekeeper raised his voice, spraying spittle and moving his own face two-point-five centimeters closer. “And I asked you what you wanted it for.”
    The tip of Yano’s nose briefly came into contact with that of the storekeeper before he backed up, stood at attention, and saluted.
    “We seek revenge,” he said.
    “Revenge, you say?” The storekeeper fell back in his chair, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. The crease was particularly conspicuous owing to the fact that all the rest of his wrinkles were horizontal. “Against whom and why? Speak!”
    His voice was even louder now, and he seemed to be getting angry—all the wrinkles were shifting toward vertical.
    “Our friend was murdered by a middle-aged Oba-san, and with an unprecedented weapon—a sashimi knife duct-taped to the end of a Duskin handle!”
    “What kind of Oba-san?”
    “What kind?”
    “The type whose husband left her and who’s hurting for money but can’t work in a massage parlor or soapland because she’s getting too old, and—”
    “According to our investigations, no. Not the type who buys her clothes at Ito Yokado bargain sales either, but rather at boutiques or specialty stores.”
    “Ah. So, not the sort of Oba-san who sits behind the counter at a stand bar preparing little dishes of pickled daikon strips, but the sort who puts on a nice dress and sings fashionable pop songs by people like Frank Nagai in a karaoke club with chandeliers?”
    “That’s correct. Frank Nagai or Nishida Sachiko or Yumin.”
    “And eats spaghetti with mushrooms in some restaurant with big glass windows that everybody on the street can look in through?”
    “Yes, sir. Also doria and onion gratin soup and Indonesian-style pilaf and so forth.”
    The storekeeper squeezed his hands into fists and clenched his jaw. He looked to be fighting back tears.
    “And why,” he asked more quietly now and between gritted teeth, as his wrinkles ebbed and surged in complicated patterns, “would an Oba-san like that want to murder your friend?”
    “The reason isn’t entirely clear. Apparently she was bored.”
    “Gotcha,” the storekeeper said, and rose to his feet. “Wait right there a minute.” He shuffled into the back and soon returned with something wrapped in oiled paper, which he placed on the counter in front of Yano.
    “There are ten live rounds in the magazine. It’s a hundred and thirty thousand yen, but since your motives are pure, I’m going to give you a discount. Make it a hundred and ten thousand.” Yano collected money from the others, counted out eleven ten-thousand-yen bills, handed the stack to the storekeeper, and asked one last question.
    “Do you sell these to just, like, anybody?”
    The storekeeper laughed, his wrinkles fanning out like rays of the sun.
    “Hell, no. Only to people I feel good about. I like your spirit. They always say that when human beings are extinct, the only living thing left will be the cockroach, but that’s bullshit. It’s the Oba-san.”
     
     
    As she walked back to her apartment from the karaoke club, Iwata Midori was thinking about her sex drive, or, rather, wondering why she didn’t seem to have one. Tonight the Midori Society had met at the usual club with the silvery microphones, and a young sales rep type had flirted with her. She had visited the beauty salon that day and taken extra care with her makeup. All the Midoris prepared in a similar manner for karaoke nights, and they always wore suits or one-piece