Serial killer tales are a dime a dozen, but Murakami (not Haruki) writes insidiously well. His spare approach makes horror breathtaking by keeping it simple and unemotional.
Kenji does Tokyo sex tours to supplement his income. He’s jaded.
Then, before New Year’s, comes Frank, a bloated American who for starters appears innocuous and naïve. He’s also a liar. Further plot is a dead give-away. Puns aside, Frank is a shocking character in a Freudian potpourri as mesmerizing as it is unpredictable.