by Barry Eisler
The sun was down, but the air was still radiant with the residual heat of the buildings, streets, and sidewalks. I smelled skewered chicken and onion roasting over briquettes at a street stall yakitoriya on the corner next to us, dripping fat sizzling on the fire. From somewhere down the street, a man was karaoke-crooning to accompanying cries of approval and delight—the signature sounds of a sunaku, a tiny neighborhood bar. From the second floor of the tiny wooden house across from us came the distinctive crack! of a dozen shinai, the bamboo practice swords used in kendo, accompanied by as many war cries, the house practically shaking with the simultaneous violence of the kendōka’s distinctive stomping attack. An old man in a blue yukata shuffled past us, probably on his way to the neighborhood sentō, his wooden geta clop-clopping on the pavement. The Yamanote train’s arrival bells pealed from nearby Ueno Station, like an aria underpinning it all. Tokyo nocturnes, I thought, and couldn’t help but smile at this city I loved no matter how I tried not to.
Tatsu stretched, then patted his belly. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”
“My pleasure.” He still hadn’t given me the information about the girl. What was he waiting for? Had I missed some cue?
There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “May I say something I’m sure is unnecessary?”
So I had missed something. “It would be unlike you, but sure.”
“The girl. I hope your plan is simply to follow her, or at worst to brace her.”
“What else would it be?”
He sighed. “As I said, I’m sure that’s all it could be. Still, so many people have died violently in the last few days. And while I wouldn’t be so foolish as to suggest that violence solves nothing, it has also been my observation that violence can also be a kind of…contagion. Often it begins with difficulty, but then gets progressively easier. It starts with limits, and those limits then begin to dissolve.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“Whoever killed those yakuza is likely guilty of manslaughter, if not murder, yes? Legally speaking.”
I looked at him, wary. He was warning me. But of what?
“I’d say that’s true.”
“And yet, morally, guilty of little if anything. After all, legalities aside, is the world not a better place with fewer gangsters in it?”
“I think you could make that case, sure.”
“But a woman…or a child…that would be different. There would be nothing moral about that. Nothing redeeming.”
I nodded, trying with only partial success to push away memories from the war. “I agree.”
“I knew you would. Among people who use violence, there’s only one real dividing line. Either you have limits. Or you don’t.”
“Well, the reasons are important, too.”
“Up to a point. But everyone believes his own reasons are good ones. In the end, it’s the limits that separate men from monsters.”
Finally, I saw it. As always, he was being courteous enough to express his concern exclusively in terms of what would be best for me. But unspoken was an admonition: If I give you the information about that girl and you hurt her, her blood would be on my hands. And I would make you pay for that.
“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “Regardless of what might have happened to those other people, I’m sure the girl will be fine.”
He nodded, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed me a folded piece of paper. “If you need help with anything else, I hope you’ll ask. I’m concerned this won’t be enough.”
Coming from Tatsu, that was practically sentimental. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, and instantly remembered Sayaka’s response: How many people do you think have been in over their heads, and said that right before they drowned?
Tatsu headed to the train station; I went back to the shrine. It would be a good place to read whatever he’d gotten me about the girl. And I thought another prayer for success in the test I was about to face couldn’t hurt, either.
chapter
thirty-one
Tatsu’s information on the girl was a spymaster’s fantasy—home address; work address; employment records; bank records; names and addresses of relatives; detailed information about known associates based on phone records. Either McGraw was incompetent in the files he’d put together on Mad Dog, or he’d been sandbagging, as I’d suspected. And I knew McGraw was anything but incompetent.
Her name was Rei Takizawa. She worked as a hostess in a club in Roppongi, one of the ones managed by Mad Dog. Based on phone records and street scuttlebutt, she’d been involved with him personally for the last three years. So what had she been doing at Fukumoto’s house that day?
Maybe…three years is long enough for her to know the father well, maybe even to have privileges about entering the house. Maybe Mad Dog took her there that morning on a pretext, a business discussion with the old man, whatever, then went out while she cooled her heels in the kitchen. The old man doesn’t mind…she’s gorgeous, maybe he enjoys her company. Maybe she flirts with him a little. Maybe he even has hopes. Whatever. The point is, she sticks around. Mad Dog hasn’t really left; he’s parked on the street, waiting to spot me. When he does, he tells her to leave, reminds her to make sure I get a good look at her pressing the button on that garage door opener.
It felt plausible. It felt right. I doubted she would know everything. But she would know something. Maybe even a lot.
I stowed my bag in a locker at Tokyo Station—holding on to one of the Hi Powers and to the ten thousand I’d earned from Miyamoto’s job, feeling superstitious about both—and checked in with my answering service from a payphone. There was a message from Miyamoto, saying it was urgent. That was odd. And another from McGraw, telling me to call him, there was more he wanted to tell me that I needed to consider. Right, I thought. But it was good he was still trying. I knew I hadn’t handled it well earlier, popping my cork, threatening him, and maybe now I’d have the opportunity to lull him into thinking I was willing to cooperate rather than intent on taking his life.
Before calling Miyamoto, I also checked with the service I’d established for my John Smith alter ego—the person Miyamoto had thought he was hiring to take out Mori. Miyamoto had already contacted me at my own service, so I wasn’t expecting to hear from him at the other number, too. So I wasn’t really sure why I was checking in. Maybe because it just felt thorough. Regardless, I was stunned when the person on the other end told me a Sean McGraw had called. McGraw, calling Miyamoto’s contract killer?
It could only mean one thing: McGraw was trying to take out a contract on me. I almost laughed at the thought of it. The idiot was trying to hire me to kill myself. And I was glad at the thought that he was so low on resources that he had to resort to this kind of desperate outsourcing. It could only be good news for me.
Was Miyamoto in on it, though? Well, there was one way to find out. I called him.
“I got your message,” I said.
“Ah, I’m so glad you called me, my friend. I’ve been terribly worried. Are you free to meet?”
Alarm bells went off in my mind. “I’m not, actually. Can you tell me over the phone?”
There was a pause. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to. I feel awful about this, but…my superiors insisted I provide them with the contact information for the gentleman you introduced me to recently, who helped me out with my problem. And…the problem they want his help with now is you.”
I had a lot of shit going on, and maybe I wasn’t going to survive it. But damn if it didn’t feel good to know I could trust this guy.
“Did you give them the information?”
“Yes. Under duress. But I didn’t tell them who had provided the introduction. And I want you to know, I wouldn’t have told them anything at all if I weren’t reasonably sure of one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Let us just say…I don’t believe the man you introduced me to could ever hurt you. My sense is that you are too close.�
��
For the second time in the last five minutes, I was stunned. Miyamoto…he knew? Or at least suspected?
“You needn’t say anything,” he went on. “And of course I’m not sure. If I were, I wouldn’t be so concerned to warn you. But…when you said to me, ‘Don’t tell them it was you,’ it made me wonder after.”
I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “You’re a good friend, Miyamoto-san.”
“You did me a great service,” he said. “You’ve always treated me well.”
I thought of an expression my father had once told me: Be good to people on your way up. You may meet them again on your way down.
“No more so than you’ve treated me.”
“But how have I repaid you?”
“You warned me, at considerable risk to yourself. If you were ever in my debt, it is I who am now in yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just grateful you called. I must confess, I’ve been a bit of a wreck.”
“You have nothing to worry about. I’ll handle it. And I’ll find a way to repay you.”
“You owe me nothing. I’m the one who remains in your debt. But regardless, if you continue to properly enjoy tea, that will be repayment enough.”
I took this to mean two things. First, that he appreciated the way I responded to his tutelage. Second, that he wanted me to live a long and uneventful life.
I promised him I would keep him posted, then rode off, still chuckling about McGraw. Maybe I’d even call him back, use my disguised voice, tell him I’d do it for some outrageous sum, and bilk him. It would make killing him afterward feel even better.
I rolled into Hirō and found Takizawa’s apartment. It was a new building, five stories, with a gated underground parking garage. I parked Thanatos nearby, and didn’t have to lurk in the dark for long before a car went out. I rolled under the door. Tatsu’s file included the number of her assigned parking spot. It was empty. To make sure, I walked the perimeter of the garage. Lots of high-end cars, but no yellow Porsche.
Okay, maybe she’s at work.
I headed to Roppongi, and this time, I hit pay dirt. The club was called Prelude. It was on a quiet spiderweb of backstreets off Roppongi-dōri, a part of the district whose establishments relied on long-term relationships rather than deploying touts to suck in street traffic, whose patrons valued discretion over neon and conversation over kinks. There was a parking lot across from the club. Lots of fancy foreign cars—Mercedes, Alfa Romeos, a Maserati. And one yellow Porsche 911 Targa, license plate Shinagawa 1972.
Hello, Takizawa-san. So good to make your acquaintance again.
The lot was surrounded on three sides by a cinderblock wall about five feet high. On the other side of the far wall was an old wooden house, the lights all off. I parked Thanatos in an alley next to the house, then stood behind the wall, pooled in darkness. I could see both the entrance to the club and Takizawa’s car. I doubted anyone would notice me. If they did, I’d just mumble something about having had too much to drink, feeling I might vomit, needing a quiet place to do it, and play the rest by ear.
I thought of McGraw. He would have supported the story by gargling with gin and probably spilling some on his shirt and hair so he would reek of it. He probably would have pissed himself, too, the better to disgust anyone who engaged him, and motivate them to realize they had better things to do than question a drunk.
Well, maybe next time. I didn’t have any booze with me, and having pissed myself once recently, I had no desire to repeat the experience. Anyway, it was sufficiently dark behind the wall that I didn’t think there would be a need.
It occurred to me that I might have a shot at Mad Dog. I’d been focused on Takizawa, but there was as good a chance Mad Dog might show up here as anywhere. And maybe better than most, if this was where his girlfriend worked. With the Hi Power, I wouldn’t need a lot of time. My biggest problem would be taking out whatever security contingent I expected he’d be traveling with.
But probably the opportunity wouldn’t present itself. I’d be happy if I could just get a few moments alone with Takizawa.
Several patrons came and went. I realized I should have brought something to eat—these clubs could sometimes go until three or four in the morning.
A sedan pulled up and a man got out. It took me a second to recognize him.
Kawasaki. The guy I’d seen on TV—Ozawa’s replacement after the sentō hit, the LDP’s new sōmukaicho.
What the hell?
I was so surprised to see him that I was slow to react. But then I realized, if there was some connection between Kawasaki and Mad Dog, Kawasaki was the one I needed to be talking to more than Mad Dog’s girlfriend. But how? Killing him was one thing. Controlling the environment long enough to interrogate him was another matter. And it was already too late. A hostess opened the door, and Kawasaki went into the club. The door closed and he was gone.
I eased back into the shadows, my head spinning.
A coincidence?
No. I was beginning to believe in coincidences the way I believed in unicorns. What was obvious, what mattered, was that there was some kind of connection between the new LDP sōmukaicho and the new head of the Gokumatsu-gumi. And between each of them and McGraw, who had wanted both their predecessors eliminated.
And…Jesus. If there was a connection between the two new guys—and how could there not be?—then Kawasaki’s presence here indicated Mad Dog was probably here, too, or soon would be. Gaining sufficient control of Kawasaki, or even of Takizawa, for an interrogation would be difficult. But popping out of the shadows and dropping Mad Dog and a couple of guards with the Hi Power struck me as eminently doable.
Are you sure about the connection? Think about it. Whatever it is, it’s got to be sub rosa. Why would they do something as open and notorious as meeting at Mad Dog’s own club?
Who could say? Maybe they were celebrating, toasting their respective elevations and the glorious future they would usher in now that the old guard was gone. And why not meet openly? Yes, Mad Dog’s father had died violently, but at the hands of some Vietnamese gangsters. And Kawasaki’s predecessor hadn’t died violently at all. He’d suffered some sort of cardiac event, and slipped peacefully beneath the waters at Daikoku-yu. Just a coincidence. All the hostess clubs in Tokyo were mobbed up, and prominent politicians were some of their best customers. No one was going to look askance if Kawasaki were seen at Mad Dog’s place.
I tried to fit the pieces together. McGraw wanted both Ozawa and Fukumoto dead. He manipulated me into killing them. Why?
So Kawasaki and Mad Dog could take over their respective operations. Something to do with the CIA’s financial assistance program, presumably.
Yes, that seemed reasonably clear. But again: why? McGraw had told me Ozawa had been keeping too much of Uncle Sam’s money for himself, that his failure to spread the wealth was causing resentment and risking the program overall. Was he running a similar program through the yakuza, with a similar problem to be solved in a similar fashion? Maybe. But if he’d leveled with me about the LDP side of the program, why not level with me about the yakuza side of it, as well?
Because he wasn’t leveling with you at all.
All right. I unscrewed the license plate from Thanatos, then screwed it on again backward. I could have hidden it as I had earlier, but if I had to move quickly, I might not have time to retrieve it. In the dark, I doubted anyone would notice. After that, there was nothing to do but wait. It could have been worse—the night was warm; my position was comfortable; I was even able to move around and stretch to stay limber.
The hours went by. More people came and went. At midnight, a sedan pulled up. I saw the driver—Kawasaki’s. I didn’t have a good move. Shoot the driver, and make Kawasaki drive away with me at gunpoint? Maybe, but there were a dozen problems with that scenario, including getting Kawasaki in the car, keeping him in the car, hoping police didn’t respond to the sound of gunfire and that no one from the club would see o
r hear what was going on. Worse, focusing on Kawasaki might blow my chance of getting to Mad Dog. Between satisfying my curiosity by questioning Kawasaki on the one hand, and ending the threat to myself by killing Mad Dog on the other, the correct course was obvious.
Are you even sure Mad Dog is a real threat?
I chewed on that. I had to remember to discount anything McGraw had told me. Still, I’d seen Mad Dog leaning over the railing at the Kodokan while Pig Eyes tried to strangle me. And he’d been at Yanaka Cemetery, too. Yeah, I didn’t need McGraw’s say-so to know Mad Dog was really after me.
The door to the club opened. Kawasaki, with one of the hostesses. Not saying goodnight—leaving together.
Okay, looks like your “they’re celebrating their success” hypothesis was largely accurate.
Did this mean Mad Dog was inside? My guess was yes.
Kawasaki and the hostess got into the sedan. I had no way to get to him cleanly even if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to. Not if I had a shot at Mad Dog instead.
I waited. At one point, I considered going into the club, but then rejected it. Too many witnesses. No way to know the layout or the level of opposition. No way even to be sure Mad Dog was inside.
I stretched, staying limber, ready to leap the wall and charge in with the Hi Power the moment I saw any sign of him. I could have shot from behind the wall, but if I missed I didn’t want him to have a chance to get to cover or drive off. I wanted to drop him point-blank.
At close to two-thirty, another sedan pulled up. It remained there, engine idling. A burly yakuza in a tracksuit got out of the back. He left the door open and scanned the area for a moment. He looked like security, there to usher someone safely into the back of the car. Mad Dog’s men? This could be my chance. My heart started beating faster, and I breathed slowly in and out, relaxing myself. The bodyguard turned his attention to the entrance and I eased over the wall, crouching in the shadows.
I waited like that for ten minutes. The door of the club opened. I tensed to spring forward, but it wasn’t Mad Dog. It was Takizawa, the girlfriend. Okay, maybe this meant Mad Dog was coming shortly, too. I kept perfectly still, breathing slowly in and out, watching.
