Molly Moon & the Monster Music (10 page)

Ahead were red curtains that concealed the source of the clamor. Mr. Proila parted the drapes and went through, letting them swing back to block Molly's way. Miss Sny immediately leaped forward and opened them for her.

Beyond was a room about as wide and as long as three small trucks. In its center was a sunken square floor with platforms round it. These wide platforms went up for three steps on each side. Each had a rail along the front of it so that the people standing there didn't fall forward into the arena, which was strewn with sawdust—sawdust that had soaked up some sort
of dark liquid. The room had filthy walls and was lit by six bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. There must have been about a hundred and fifty people in the room, ranging from businessmen in shirtsleeves and loosened ties to brawny dockworkers in stained tank tops. There were a few women, too, all hard-looking with mean eyes.

An elderly man in a black shirt and wearing gray suspenders to hold up his trousers stood, feet apart, in the middle of the arena. He raised his voice to make an announcement to the crowd.

At the back of the room, along the walls, pairs of men in white shirts and blue trousers stood in front of boards with Japanese writing on them. One man in each of the pairs seemed to be in charge of changing the writing on the board, while the other wrote chits out for a line of frantic customers who waved money as though they needed to buy something that would save their lives.

They were betting, Molly realized, though on what, she didn't know. The lowered area was surely too small for boxers.

Mr. Proila led them to a high platform at the edge of the room.

“Up,” he said to Molly, and she climbed the narrow steps after him. Miss Sny, knowing her place,
stayed obediently at the bottom beside one of the bodyguards. She looked apprehensive, flattening herself against the back wall of the room as if she'd like to disappear.

The bodyguard stood aside to let a man come up the steps, and after a brief chat with Mr. Proila the man wrote a chit for him. Mr. Proila, in turn, passed him a thick wad of notes.

“What are you betting on?” Molly asked.

“Tell me first,” Mr. Proila said, watching Molly's lips to read them, “red or black?”

“Black,” Molly decided.

“OK.” Mr. Proila spoke to the man again. Another chit was written and more money changed hands. Mr. Proila passed Molly the piece of paper. “For you. I put down about sixty-six thousand yen for you. If black wins, you win two hundred thousand yen. Feeling lucky?”

Molly shrugged, and took the chit. She tried to calculate in her head. Sixty-six thousand yen was a lot of money. She was sure that two hundred thousand yen was more than a thousand pounds! Mr. Proila was obviously a keen gambler.

In front of them, the audience was starting to get impatient. People waved their betting slips and were beginning to stamp the ground.

“
TATAKAU! TATAKAU! TATAKAU!
” they shouted.

“What are they shouting?” Molly asked Mr. Proila.

“
Tatakau
means ‘fight,'” Mr. Proila replied.

Again the crowd clamored: “
TATAKAU! TATAKAU!
”

In the next moment there was a cheer. Two men climbed down ladders and placed metal cages on the floor in the center of the sawdust-strewn arena. Another man, a fierce-looking, bearded brute in a white tunic, came on. He held an orange flag above his head. When he brought this down, the handlers opened the cages.

Two roosters sprang out. One had a red ribbon around its neck, the other a black one.

“This is where the fun starts.. . . ” Mr. Proila chuckled.

Molly had heard about cockfighting. She knew it was illegal. Before she owned the gold coin she would have found even the idea of it horrific. But today she felt differently. Now bad things, evil things, fascinated her. She smiled in anticipation.

“Good. Glad to meet someone who has the same tastes as me!” Mr. Proila laughed, clocking Molly's
reaction.

Suddenly the birds flew at each other, pecking and clawing, shrieking and crowing.

It was a vicious spectacle but the crazed audience loved it. They took great pleasure from seeing the poor dumb roosters forced to fight. They cheered the bird they had bet on, and jeered whenever a bird showed signs of weakness.

To Molly's delight, it looked as though the bird with the black ribbon was winning. The other one was bleeding and its movements were slow. Her rooster made one final lunge for its opponent.

“YES!” Molly shouted, punching the air, her eyes glinting cruelly. The man with the orange flag waved it above his head and the two cage keepers stepped forward to retrieve the birds.

The losing bird looked half dead. The black-ribboned bird, still fired up with adrenaline and aggression, was difficult to catch.

“You win!” Mr. Proila laughed.

“I know!” Molly laughed back. “Is there another fight? Let's bet again.”

Mr. Proila watched Molly. He liked this Moon girl and had a very good feeling about her. He felt sure they would work well together.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

Molly hadn't even realized that she'd been gripping her gold coin. She saw his interest had been stirred. “Oh, in Ecuador. A woman gave it to me. It's just an old coin. It's a bit of old rubbish really.”

“Doesn't look like rubbish to me,” Mr. Proila said. He couldn't have the wool pulled over his eyes so easily. “It looks like solid gold.”

“You know, Mr. Proila, I'm tired,” Molly said, putting the coin away and changing the subject abruptly. “Do you mind if we go? This has been a brilliant evening, but I've got to hit the sack.”

Mr. Proila nodded.

As they moved through the crowd Molly felt sure she saw fear in some people's faces when they saw Mr. Proila. He led Molly toward a door at one side of the room where more bouncers stood guard. “We'll have a drink before we leave,” he announced.

Not wanting a scene, and curious to see more, Molly nodded. Beyond the door was a room dimly lit with plum-colored light shades. At the end of the room was a bar.

The bartender was pouring a drink for a man who stood with his back to the door.

The man was speaking loudly. His face and lips were visible in the reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

“Did you see him out there?” he was saying (though of course Molly didn't understand him at all). “Winning, winning, winning. The fights are rigged. He must bribe people to lose.”

The barkeeper raised his eyebrows to warn the customer that Mr. Proila had arrived, but the man was too drunk to notice.

“That's how Proila got so rich,” the man slurred. “By cheating. Cheating and conning. Tokyo was an easygoing place till he came along. My cousin runs a grocery store. Proila sends his heavies along every week. My cousin has to pay them not to burn his shop down.” He took a slug of his drink. “The guy's a monster. He's not even Japanese. What hole of a place did he climb out of?”

Mr. Proila watched the drunken man's lips in the mirror behind the bar. A sneer spread over his hard face. Then he strode toward the bar and hopped up onto a barstool.

The drunken man turned and suddenly saw who was next to him. “Ergh . . . argh . . . Mr. Proila!”

“Been in this town long? Maybe you speak English. Speak English so my young friend can understand.”

Mr. Proila picked up a cocktail swizzle stick and began inspecting it, his stumpy half finger twitching.
“So?”

The man nodded his head dumbly. “Yeah, m-my . . . my grandfather born here, my father, too, and so was I. My family's been in Tokyo for hundreds of years.”

“Well, I wasn't born here,” Mr. Proila replied, his voice icy. In a completely different tone he said to the bartender, “Gimme my usual.”

The bartender nodded, picked up the silver cocktail shaker and began preparing the drink.

Mr. Proila went on in a matter-of-fact voice. “I wasn't born here, but even so, this town is mine. Tomorrow, you are going to get out of my town. For good.” The man's mouth dropped open. “If you delay for even a day . . .” Mr. Proila insisted, watching the barman shake his drink, “things will get very ugly for you.”

“B-but, Mr. Proila, I didn't mean what I said. It was the drink talking. I got family here.”

The bartender passed Mr. Proila his drink. He took a sip. “I said, get out.”

The man practically tripped over his own legs as he turned. Miserable and terrified, he stumbled out of the bar.

He brushed past Molly. She saw the fear in his face, but felt no compassion for him. She was im
pressed that a man as small as Mr. Proila could be so feared. She stepped up to the bar and sat on the stool beside him.

“Do you have concentrated orange squash on the rocks? With a twist of Tabasco?” she asked the barman.

Mr. Proila laughed. He translated Molly's request for the bartender. Then he lit one of his huge cigars.

“So . . .” he began, smoke puffing out as though his heart were on fire. “So you want to work with me?”

Molly took a sip of her drink. “It depends.” She eyed Mr. Proila's hand, with its missing finger, and wondered whether she ought to hypnotize him now. It would make everything much easier, yet it would also make things too easy. She knew she could get what she wanted from Mr. Proila without hypnotizing him, and that would make her achievement all the more satisfying. Besides, hypnotized, Mr. Proila wouldn't behave harshly toward her, and she wanted to get the worst of him. She wanted his insults; she wanted to counter his rude comments. She wanted to hit back and show him that she could match his darkness. If she hypnotized him, all the sport would be gone.

“Whether or not I work with you depends on
what kind of deal you are prepared to give me,” she said.

Mr. Proila grimaced. Molly didn't give him a chance to reply.

“I want a good apartment up front, all expenses paid. And cash up front, too. Let's say five hundred thousand pounds—not yen. As soon as I start performing, I want half of all profits. And I want to see your accounts so I know you're being fair. If I make you three million pounds of profit within a month, then my percentage goes up to seventy-five percent. I'm not going to sign myself away like the boys did, Mr. Proila. That would be stupid of me. I'd rather make it alone than do that.” Molly leaned toward Mr. Proila. “And believe me, Mr. Proila, I really do have what it takes to make it alone.”

Mr. Proila couldn't help admiring Molly's chutzpah. “Oh yes? Then why do you need me at all?”

“Because of course it will be less effort for me if you are my manager. And that is why you are getting half of the money I make.”

Mr. Proila nodded. “You're a piece of work, ain'tcha?” He stirred his cocktail and took a sip. “An' I like that. But if you do manage the three million profit in a month, it's fairer if we split it seventy/thirty. I'll deserve that for the things I'm gonna
do to put you on the map. You should give me that extra five percent.”

“What for—protection money?” Molly said. “You think I'm scared of you, Mr. Proila?”

Mr. Proila studied the young girl beside him. He had never come across a child so calculating, so ambitious, so fearless, and so heartless. He liked her. If her talent was as truly special as the audience in the Tokyo Dome had thought, she was a genius product that was going to make him a fortune.

“So you're not afraid of me. You're hard as nails. No, Miss Moon, the extra five percent isn't protection money, it's just for goodwill.”

Molly nodded. “I see.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and stroked her coin. She didn't care what this silly little man was saying to her. He was as scary to her as a snake without venom. With one zap of her hypnotic eyes she could get him to do whatever she wanted anytime she pleased. In the grand scheme of things the five percent he wanted would be irrelevant. Anyway, eventually she'd send him packing. Mr. Proila had no idea what lay ahead, she thought. Once she had no more use for him, she'd probably hypnotize him so that he ended up playing the pen
nywhistle on the streets.

“OK,” Molly said. “When I hit the big time, seventy percent for me, thirty for you.”

Mr. Proila offered his hand to Molly. “Sounds like a deal.”

Molly took his hand and they shook. Then she raised her glass. “Here's to me!”

W
hen Rocky arrived in Tokyo, the others were still out at the concert. Miss Shonyo let him in.

He now sat on one of the pea beanbags, having a cup of tea with the old grandmother. Sobo had taken an immediate liking to her dark, good-looking guest.

When Rocky mentioned Molly's name, the old woman's expression grew stormy. She tutted and clicked her tongue. She shook her head at Rocky with such concern that Rocky wondered whether Molly was in the hospital or, worse still, dead.

“Molly OK?” Rocky asked.

“Molly blam, blam, blam,” replied the grandmother, miming playing a guitar. Then she shook her head again.

Rocky frowned. Molly was definitely in trouble of some sort.

Suddenly the apartment door burst open and Petula came running in, skidding across the floor to take a flying leap into Rocky's lap. She licked his face enthusiastically.

“Rocky, you're here!” Gerry rushed in and jumped onto Rocky as well. “Isn't Tokyo cool? Meet Chokichi and Toka and Hiroyuki. You're going to
really like them!”

Rocky smiled at the three brothers. “Thanks for having me to stay,” he said. He tried to judge the Japanese boys. Were they the reason Molly was in trouble? Rocky had met a few hypnotists. So, suspicious of the boys, he was on his guard.

“Where's Molly? And how is she? Is she OK, Gerry?”

“She's very good at music,” Gerry replied. “She's really got into her music.”

Rocky thought that this was an odd response, but before he could say anything, “She very well,” Hiroyuki elaborated. “She'll be back later, and you'll see. You're lucky to have her as a friend, Rocky. She's a genius.”