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painting, from a small art dealer in Paris, in April 1987.”
    An incredulous Matt Lauer asks, “Are you saying you had van Goghs in your Tokyo office for decades ? In a box of old construction blueprints?”
    Kenji replies: “We didn’t know they were van Goghs until a few months ago. Back in 1987, appraisers told my brother that the unsigned drawings and painting were old, but imitations of van Gogh. Tomonori put them in storage—we didn’t know where—and when I found them a few months ago, I immediately had them reappraised.” A new panel, with Kenji’s voice floating above an appraiser with a magnifying glass. “Thanks to advanced technology and more knowledge of van Gogh’s style today, appraisers could now properly authenticate them and attribute them to the great Dutch master.”
    Matt Lauer leans forward. “And there’s a painting that goes with these studies? If it’s a van Gogh, too, and in reasonable condition, it must be worth millions more.”
    A close-up of Kenji, his eyes brimming with emotion. “Yes. My brother told me he had put the painting somewhere separate from the drawings, for safekeeping. I never had the chance to learn where. My brother took his own life just two weeks after returning from Paris in 1987.”
    Flashback panel. The back view of a man in a suit on a Tokyo subway platform, one foot dangling over the edge. A bare foot. I know from a manga series I read that Japanese people usually remove their shoes and socks before committing suicide.
    Last night, I also read an article that came out a few months before all this van Gogh business, about how the Yamada Corporation is in a ton of debt. And financial troubles aren’t the only thing that’s been plaguing them since February of this year. There’ve been accidents. Some real doozies. I turn to a fresh page and list them now:
     
1. Scaffolding collapsed on three building sites.
2. Equipment exploded in a tunnel.
3. A mini-excavator on an office park construction site went into reverse instead of forward, and the driver plunged into a ravine, narrowly escaping death.
4. Last month, a bridge the company is building in Kobe collapsed, killing two workers, injuring a dozen more.
     
    I stare at my sketches and my list. Images and words swirl together but don’t form a picture that makes sense. Tomonori hid a painting that wasn’t known to be valuable. He separated the painting from the drawings. He didn’t tell anyone where the art was, not even his own brother. And he committed suicide just two weeks after buying this amazing art. Why?
    I’m so lost in thought that I miss my bus stop and have to run back four blocks.
    By the time I get to work, I’m ten minutes late. Still, I dash into the 7-Eleven next to Jet City Comics, buy some yogurt and a bagel for breakfast, and pour myself a huge cup of coffee. I’m feeling a bit low on chikara today. It will take a major caffeine hit to give me the strength to tell Jerry, my boss, I’m quitting at the end of the week.
    Three girls come in, their flip-flops flapping. “Hey, isn’t that one of the Manga-loids?” one of them says, just loud enough so I can hear. Giggling ensues.
    Through the curved security mirror, I see them in more detail. There’s a beach club on Lake Washington that the rich kids belong to. That’s probably where they are heading, since it’s a rare Seattle day of milky sunlight. I see Kelly Morgan and Emily Woodside loading up on celebrity rags while the third girl makes a beeline for the candy aisle. Guess they’re planning some intellectual stimulation while they rot their teeth and get skin cancer. Good times.
    And who’s the girl in the candy aisle? She turns. It’s Mardi freaking Cooper.
    If I’m with my friends at school, lost in our fantasy worlds of comics and anime and role-playing games, we don’t have to deal with these idiots. But if I’m not with my friends, I’m visible. Someone to laugh at.
    “I don’t know.” Mardi sighs.