Fuminori Nakamura - The Thief

Just as I was leaving the stall I felt something strange in one of the hidden pockets inside my coat. Alarmed, I went back into the toilet. A Bulgari wallet, made of stiff leather. Inside was 200,000 yen in new bills. Also several gold cards, Visa and others, and the business cards of the president of a securities firm. I’d never seen the wallet or the name on the cards before.

Not again, I thought. I had no recollection of taking it. But of all the wallets I’d acquired that day it was definitely the most valuable.

Feeling a slight headache, I gave myself up to the rocking of the train. It was bound for Haneda Airport, but it was terribly crowded. Between the heating and the warmth of other people’s bodies, I was sweating. I stared out the window, moving my fingers in my pockets. Clusters of dingy houses passed at regular intervals, like some kind of code. Suddenly I remembered the last wallet I took yesterday. I blinked and an enormous iron tower flashed by me with a loud roar. It was over in an instant but my body stiffened. The tower was tall and I felt like it had glanced casually at me standing tensely in the middle of that crowded train.

When I looked around the carriage I saw a man who seemed to be totally absorbed by something. Not so much concentrating as in a trance, eyes half closed, as he groped a woman’s body. I think that men like that fall into two types — ordinary people who have perverted tendencies, and people who are swallowed up by their perversion so that the boundary between fantasy and reality becomes blurred and then disappears completely. I suspected he belonged to the second group. Then I realized that the victim was a junior high school student, and I wove my way through a gap in the crowd. Apart from me and him and the girl, no one had noticed anything.

From behind, I deliberately grabbed the man’s left wrist with my left hand. All his muscles suddenly jerked into life and then I felt him go limp, as though after a severe shock. Keeping hold of his wrist, I steadied his watch with my forefinger, undid the clasp on the strap with my thumb and slid it into my sleeve. Then I pinched his wallet from the right inside pocket of his suit with my right fingers. Realizing there was a risk of touching his body, I changed my movement, dropped the wallet in the space between his jacket and shirt and caught it with my left hand underneath. A company employee in his late thirties, and judging from his ring he was married. I grasped his arm again, this time with my right hand. The color had drained from his face and he was struggling to turn towards me, twisting his neck while rocking with the motion of the train. Sensing the change behind her, the girl moved her head, unsure whether to turn around or not. The carriage was quiet. The man was trying to open his mouth to speak, as if he wanted to justify himself to me or to the world. It seemed like some malevolent spotlight was calling attention to his presence. His throat quivered as though he was getting ready to scream. Sweat was running down his cheeks and forehead and his eyes were wide but unfocused. Perhaps I would wear the same expression when I got caught. I released the pressure on his arm and mouthed, “Go!” Face contorted, he couldn’t make up his mind. I jerked my head towards the door. Arms trembling, he turned to the front again, as if he’d realized that I’d been looking at his face. The door opened and he ran. He thrust his way into the throng, wriggling and shoving people out of the way.

Inside the carriage the schoolgirl was staring at me. I turned away, trying to suppress my revulsion. I’d taken a watch I didn’t want, a wallet I didn’t want, and both the man and the girl had seen what I looked like. At least there was no way he could report me.

My heart was no longer in it so I got off at the next stop. On the escalator I spotted the slack, wealthy face of a middle-aged man, but I went outside and rested against the dirty wall. The tension was gradually leaving my body. I warmed my fingers in my pockets, thinking about catching a taxi.

I felt someone’s presence and when I looked around a skinny guy was just leaning on the wall beside me. A black suit, a brand I didn’t recognize, black shoes I didn’t recognize. It’s Tachibana , I thought. Caught off guard, I started to panic and fought to control myself. His hair, which had been blond, was now dyed brown. Staring fixedly at me through narrowed eyes, he curled his thick lips. It might have been a smile, but I wasn’t sure.

“I thought you only targeted rich people?”

As he said this he turned his whole body to face me. Tachibana might not have been his real name, but I was pretty sure he knew mine. I thought I’d meet him somewhere, but I expected that when I did I’d be the one to spot him. All my memories came flooding back and I took a deep breath.

“Yeah, I do.”

I wanted to say something else, but this inane reply was all I could come up with.

“That’s boring. Besides, do really rich people ride trains? You’re a crook, so act like one.”

“I just go with the flow. So, you’re still alive.”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’ve been watching you.”

“Since when?”

“The whole time. Since you took that pervert’s wallet. I’m a bit surprised you didn’t realize I was following you.”

I started to walk and he walked with me. We went under the railway bridge and I stopped.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

For some reason he was looking at me seriously.

“Not long. After all, there’s easy pickings in Tokyo. This and that.”

“But it must be hard on your own. I’m free. Why don’t we team up?”

“I’m fine. I don’t trust your skills and I don’t trust you to share either.”

He laughed loudly and started walking again. Deliberately loud laughter makes people uncomfortable, and although Tachibana must have known that he didn’t stop. When we came out on the other side of the railway bridge I felt as though the massive structures, the department stores and buildings, were glaring down at me from behind. A shiver ran down my spine and I found myself staring at the wilted grass poking up through the concrete. Tachibana stopped, leaned against a wire mesh fence and lit a cigarette.

“Sure, I’m not that good. I was originally a shoplifter, back in junior high school. Picking pockets was just an extension of that, just for fun. I can’t do it like you or Ishikawa. You doing the lift, passing the wallet to him, he takes out what’s inside and then you put it back in the owner’s pocket. And then he’d only take two thirds. The mark wouldn’t realize what had happened, and even if he did he couldn’t report it. And the way you guys shared the roles, changing positions and taking turns. Signaling just with your eyes. All I could do was watch in awe. But there are hardly any Japanese pickpockets these days. Are you still changing jobs all the time? If you need a sideline, why not join another pro burglary ring, like you did before, or deal, or something? Has pickpocketing turned into your main job?”

Because of the nature of our conversation I had to move closer to him.

“I used to sell fakes. What’s good now?”

“Loan-sharking’s gone out of fashion, and I was using some young guys for bank transfer scams. Now it’s stocks. Of course, I’m just a go-between.”

“Stocks?”

“I’m not a nobody any more. The yakuza give me money, which I pass on to someone else to invest. Their information is amazing. Insider trading, that’s what I’m talking about. Everyone’s doing it these days.”

He tossed away his cigarette butt.

“I’m making heaps more than you. I could put some work your way. All you’d have to do is just give some filthy rooms to a bunch of homeless people. In return, you get them to set up bank accounts, which we can use for a whole range of scams without there being any connection to us.”