Kill a woman and back she'll come To haunt you—just you see. She really is a fearful thing. But supposing there were none Now what a problem that would be. Everybody watch out—ha ha! Woman is a fearful thing, Such a fearful thing. Hebiyama (Snake Mountain) — An old Geisha song

Ueno Park—Tokyo City, Japan, March, 2003
The gleaming bronze statue of a samurai stood alongside the granite stairwell at the south entrance to Ueno Park, towering over Jake as he cut through the mass of people congregating on the stairs. Interspersed among the gathering of Japanese faces he passed were dark-skinned Iranians, huddled together in small groups. Although visibility was poor in the shadowy twilight air, he dodged a puddle of vomit at the top of the stairwell.

In the grounds of the park, a bustling marketplace had formed. Illuminated by kerosene lamps, Middle Eastern vendors sat on rugs strewn over the grass, piled high with their goods. The droning noise of a sitar emanated from a vendor's portable tape deck. Jake smelled the odor of grilled meat—wafting up from makeshift stalls manned by Iranians selling kebabs. As he joined the crowd of people milling past the vendors, he could see some were selling pirated goods. Copies of the latest software, DVDs, CDs and brand-name clothes were being sold for a fraction of the real goods' price. He watched as a longhaired Japanese biker approached a group of Iranians and, after exchanging a few words, traded commodities. The biker counted out some notes into an Iranian's hands, receiving in return a small package wrapped in newspaper. There, Jake thought, was the transaction signifying the main reason why the outdoors market place had formed—drugs.

In recent years, the stairs at the southern end of Ueno Park had become a well-known place to score from the Iranians. Speaking both Farsi and Japanese, they had managed to break down the communication barrier that, in decades past, had limited such trade to the big yakuza crime syndicates. He wasn't sure how the situation had evolved, but the Iranians, many of them reputed to be in Japan illegally, now openly traded narcotics even though the local Koban, police station, sat only a couple of blocks away.

He looked around at the variety of buyers in the market. Twenty-something Tokyoites, middle class in appearance, rubbed shoulders with gangs of nervous high school kids still in uniform. Leather clad bikers stood in clusters talking to the Iranians. A few people appeared to be legitimate business-men, captains of industry, but the fact they stood around furtively trading money and small packages with the Iranians suggested they had some habits in common with their younger peers. Heavier hooked users and darker elements in the crowd were easier to pick; glassy-eyed junkies resembling walking clotheslines. Directly ahead of him a woman rushed past wearing a red mini and fishnet stockings, loud gold jewelry and make-up as thickly applied as a Kabuki performer's, loudly haranguing her heavily tattooed male companion.

Stepping out of the lengthening twilight shadows, an Iranian with a thick mustache suddenly appeared by his side. "Hey, you need some shabu? Grass?" the Iranian asked, a small conspiratorial smile curling the corners of his lips.
Jake shook his head silently in reply.
"Teriyaki?" persisted the man, pulling his mobile out of his pocket as it trilled the theme from Star Wars.

The Iranian wasn't dealing in stir-fry. Jake knew teriyaki was Japanese street slang for heroin. Waiting while the dealer took his call, he glanced up, catching the imposing sight of the samurai statue, modeled upon Saigo Takamori who had supported the emperor during the Meiji restoration. Rewarded for his loyalty by having his likeness immortalized in bronze, Saigo's face and upper body were now covered in long flecks of pigeon shit. Seeing the statue made him think of the park's bloody origin. In 1868 it had served as the battleground upon which the Meiji Emperor's army had inflicted a crushing blow against the forces in opposition to his rule. To celebrate the victory the emperor decreed the area became a public space to be used by the people for their recreation, thus Ueno Park was created. Doubtless, Jake thought, the Emperor would be turning in his grave if he knew the kind of recreational activities now brazenly being played out beneath Saigo's white-speckled gaze.

"Okay what you want? You need something, I get it for you," the Iranian said impatiently, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
Jake pulled out the photo, a dirty-edged Polaroid snap showing a beautiful blue-eyed girl with long blonde hair smiling innocently at the camera. "You seen her?"
The Iranian shook his head, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Her name is Jessica Beaumont. She bought a lot of teriyaki here. If you can find someone who knew her, I'll give you 20,000 yen."
"You not police, right?"
"No, I'm just getting paid by her family to find her."

The dealer looked at him, nodding, weighing the risks and rewards in an instant. Then he lifted his hands up in the air above the crowd, performing a couple of intricate hand signals, looking for all the world like a Wall Street trader frantically putting his deal through on the floor. A tall, broad-shouldered Iranian popped up almost instantly at the dealer's side. Jake watched as the men conferred in their harsh sounding Farsi dialect. The dealer jammed his finger repeatedly at the photo then the taller man disappeared into the crowd, holding onto the Polaroid.

"Just give me couple of minutes. Hadi will find the person you looking for. Why you want to find this girl?"
"She's been listed with the police as a missing person for the last two weeks. Her family is very concerned."
"Ah, that too bad," the dealer replied flatly, sounding like he couldn't even pretend to give a shit.
Soon Hadi and an Iranian guy wearing a red baseball cap backwards appeared at Jake's shoulder. "He knows the woman," Hadi said excitedly, pointing at his companion.
"What's your name?" Jake asked.
"Shayan, I used to meet Jessica here every day. I was her dealer. She from Australia, right?"

Nodding, Jake handed the dealer his money. The tip-off he had received about Jessica's dealer from an associate of hers, a fellow user, had been that she always bought off an Iranian named something like Shazam.

Obviously a firm believer in his own products, Shayan's dark, long-jawed face was handsome in a wasted way. Younger than his fellow country-men, he looked like a successful player on the scene, sporting a chunky gold ring through his ear, decked out in expensive Nike runners, baggy low-strung jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger jacket.

While the two Iranians started haggling with each other over their rightful cut of the money, Jake grabbed Jessica's photo back and stuck it inside his jacket pocket. It was the only recent one he had, supplied by her father who had hired him to find his missing daughter. Although Jake had no direct experience in the missing persons department, it hadn't stopped him from taking the money to give it a shot. Before chancing upon Shayan the odds of accomplishing such a feat had seemed virtually insurmountable. He wasn't even sure if Jessica wanted to be found. For all he knew she could have paid a yonigeya, one of a peculiar brand of Japanese professionals who help people to virtually disappear overnight. Better known as fly-by-night arrangers, the yonigeya's services were in big demand, hired by people being stalked, or stuck with an abusive husband. For a price they would help anyone.

"Let's talk over there," Jake said to Shayan, pointing at a quiet space on the stairs. "I'll pay well if you'll give me some good information."

* * *

"She's dead," Shayan said coolly, smoke rising in tendrils from the cigarette jutting out between his long bony fingers.
"Really."
"I only guess because she need me for her gear. She couldn't go half day without shooting up. She's messed up that bad and I haven't seen her for almost a month."
"Maybe she's just found a better dealer."
Shayan shook his head resignedly, scratching the stubble on his chin. "No way. Sometime she couldn't even make it to park. I had to go to her room to give her the stuff, she was so gone."
"Home delivery. It must have been costing her a fortune. Did she always pay up?"
Shayan nodded rapidly. "Said she was working in some hostess club, ah... Something cat. Black Cat," he said, snapping his fingers. "That's last one I know she work for. She work in many clubs. So you and this girl both Australian?"
"Yep."
"Well it don't matter where you from. If you not Japanese, you get treated like gaijin here, you know, foreigner like me."
Jake nodded.

"Mmm..." Shayan said, eyes opening wide as he sucked back on his cigarette. "I just remember someone who might help you find her. One night I went to her room there was this beautiful Jap girl there with her, real pretty face. She look like one of those little dolls you buy, y'know? I think they both worked at that club, Black Cat."
"She a user?"
"Don't know. Didn't buy nothing off me. Just sat there while I drop off Jessica's teriyaki."
"Do you remember the woman's name?"
Shayan squinted up at the air, "I hear Jessica say it once. Mu, Maya I think... yeah that's it." The muffled trilling of a mobile started to emit from inside Shayan's jacket. Holding his hand up for Jake to pause, Shayan took the call, speaking in what sounded like a hybrid of Farsi and Japanese. Seconds later he pocketed the mobile and stood up, "I've got to go, I told you everything I know. Good enough?"
"Sure." Jake counted out some scrunched up yen notes. "I'll give you my number too. Call me if you remember anything else that you think might help."
Smirking, Shayan took the money and phone number and started to walk away, calling back over his shoulder, "I think you find her no problem gaijin, I just don't know if you like what you find."