Chapter
twenty-three
We slept late the next morning, having been up and active pretty much the entire night before, and also as sleeping in was Sayaka’s habit. When we woke, she had to get to class and I needed to go meet McGraw. But I told her I’d see her at the hotel that night.
“You know,” she said, “if you really need a place to stay, you could stay here.”
I couldn’t very well tell her that right then, money was the least of my problems. “I don’t know,” I said. “I feel like I’d be imposing.”
“You wouldn’t. Not if you’d be willing to stay up with me for a while when I get home from work.”
I laughed. “How about if tonight, I stay at the hotel, and I go home with you after? And then we’ll see.”
She smiled. “That sounds good.”
I stopped at a shoe store and bought new shoes and socks. The proprietor, a grizzled oyaji who looked liked he’d seen just about everything in his time, was either too polite or too jaded or both to ask why the ones I had on smelled like a urinal. I told him I’d just wear the new pair out of the store. He nodded and didn’t offer to dispose of the ones I was replacing, and I did him the courtesy of not asking, instead finding a trash can outside.
After I’d returned the van, I headed out to Inokashira, a heavily forested park in the west of the city and the place where McGraw had said he wanted to meet. Inokashira was a huge cherry blossom attraction in the spring, when people liked to take paddleboats up and down the eponymous pond at its center, to better delight in the blossoms extending on either shore all the way down to the waterline. The shrine, located in the northwest of the pond, was dedicated to Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of everything that flows—water, music, words, knowledge. For whatever reason, Saraswati was known as Benzaiten in Japanese, where she was revered as a Shinto deity, as well.
I crossed the bridge to the bright red shrine—a fusion of Chinese, Indian, and Japanese styles. A few tourists milled about, and I saw a couple of Japanese families enjoying a morning outing. McGraw was there already, predictably enough, taking pictures, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, looking like a birdwatcher or amateur photographer. He was carrying the usual shoulder bag—looked like it was time for another delivery to Miyamoto. He saw me and walked over.
“Son, you are a goddamn one-man slaughterhouse, did anyone ever tell you that?”
Seeing McGraw right after leaving Sayaka was surreal. Like two parallel dimensions suddenly brushing into contact with each other. “Not in those words, no.”
“Well, what words did they use?”
“Something about my having a temper.”
He laughed. “Is that what you call it? Four yakuza, shot to death in Fukumoto’s house. One of them one of his captains.”
“What do the police think?”
“From what I hear, the working theory is a Vietnamese gang and a dispute over drug trafficking. The Vietnamese gangs have a reputation for violence, and Christ almighty, whoever did this is about as violent as you could ask for.”
For whatever reason, I had the feeling he was baiting me. Surprisingly, I didn’t care. He had something I wanted. Beyond that, at the moment he didn’t matter.
“Say, I meant to ask you something,” he said, mopping his brow. “How did you know about Benzaiten? I make it my business to know these places, because they’re out of the way and good for meetings, but this is hardly Kaminarimon in Asakusa.”
“My mother was American.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning a lot of what the natives take for granted, a visitor treasures.”
“So it was your American mother who made you aware of your Japanese heritage?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Odd.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t you say we’re sometimes defined by our paradoxes?”
He nodded. “I did say that, didn’t I? Didn’t realize it was true.”
I didn’t care whether it was true or not. I just wanted to get down to business and get this thing finished and behind me. “So? Where’s the file?”
He set the bag on the ground. I would pick it up when we were done. “We’ll get to that,” he said. “First, Miyamoto will be waiting for you tomorrow at noon in the lobby of the New Otani Hotel.”
“Okay.”
He glanced at the shoulder bag I was carrying and frowned. “Two bags…looks a little odd.”
“It’s temporary.”
“So is life.”
There was an odd pause. I thought it was strange he wasn’t going on to micromanage me about how to do the exchange—follow Miyamoto into a restroom, slide the bags under the stalls, whatever. Or saying anything snide about my tradecraft or lack thereof. I’d gotten so used to his bullshit, its absence was mildly disconcerting.
After a moment, he said, “Can’t you see you’re too good to be just a goddamn bagman?”
I was surprised. “It’s honest work,” I said, not knowing where he was going.
He chuckled. “Look, I know I ride you hard—”
“Yeah. You do.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I? What are you? A glorified errand boy. You want me to respect the guy who shines my shoes, too?”
I said nothing.
“You want respect? Do something worthy of respect. Look, I’ll admit it, I was wrong about you. I didn’t think you could step up. But Jesus Christ almighty, was I wrong. I was a bad manager, I put you in the wrong role. Now I see where you belong, see what you were made for, and it’s impressing the hell out of me. In the right role, you’re exceptional. You move fast, you show good judgment, and damn but you’re f*cking deadly. I could use a man like you, I really could. Talent like yours is rare.”
I didn’t like the I, and I didn’t like the use. “Maybe I just got lucky.”
He snorted. “Luck is a skill, son. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Don’t call me son.”
“Don’t be just a bagman.”
I don’t know why I was so reluctant. Maybe some part of me sensed I was being manipulated. Maybe some part of me recognized that any further, and the water would be over my head. Maybe I just wanted time to think.
Or maybe it was the promise of what I might be able to have with Sayaka, if only I could get clear of this shit.
“Let me just say this,” he said. “This program you’ve been involved in. What you think you know is just the tip of the iceberg. It needs to be managed and I need good people to manage it.”
Again, that I. “I’ll think about it.”
“You should.”
“In the meantime, you owe me a file.”
“Look, forget about Mad Dog. I’ll find another way to take care of him. Maybe he can be bought off, let me look into it.”
“You’re saying a guy named Mad Dog can be bought off? You told me this is about honor.”
“Yeah, and some people’s honor is more expensive than others’. I don’t know Mad Dog’s price—do you?”
“No.”
“Besides, if the Gokumatsu-gumi thinks it’s under attack by some ultraviolent Vietnamese gang, Junior’s apt to be careful for a while.”
“You said he was a f*ck-up.”
“Jesus, you’re worse than my ex-wife. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it is to have to argue with things I’ve actually said?”
“Well, is he a f*ck-up or not?”
“He’s a f*ck-up. That doesn’t mean you’re going to find him sitting undefended in all the usual places at all the usual times.”
That sounded promising. I said, “Are there usual places and usual times?”
He sighed. “A few.”
“Where’s the file?”
He nodded for a long moment, as though confirming a thought. “You’re good,” he said. “No question. But you’ve got one obvious limitation, and I’ll tell you what it is.”
I said nothing.
“You’re a hammer. Or maybe a buzz saw would be the better analogy. Well, regardless. It’s what you do, it’s what you are. And if all you are is a hammer, you’re going to spend all your time trying to make things into nails.”
“Where’s the file?”
“Christ. Kabaya Coffee in Ueno. Sit at the counter—”
“I’ll know where to find it.”
“You will, huh?”
“Unless you’ve done something fundamentally different this time.”
He shook his head disgustedly. “I told you, not ineducable. More’s the pity.”
I left McGraw and rode Thanatos to Kabaya. It was in Yanaka, near Ueno, the northeast of the city, part of Shitamachi, all narrow streets and tiny wooden buildings. Kabaya turned out to be one of these: a two-story corner structure, once clearly a dwelling, with a traditional tile roof and wood walls so antique they had blackened from decades of storm and sun.
The inside was as tiny as that of Café de l’Ambre, and equally unpretentious. Wood floors, wood walls, wood ceiling; three tables and twelve chairs; a counter that could seat eight. A matronly woman standing behind a cash register greeted me with a bow and an irasshaimase when I came in. I returned the bow, then spent a moment scoping the room. It was half full, mostly neighborhood-looking people: housewives enjoying a coffee klatch, retirees doing something to offer a little structure to their days. The counter was empty. I sat in the seat second farthest from the door. The counterman, who I guessed was the hostess’s husband, presented me with a small menu. I told him I would try a cup of the house blend and a portion of buttered toast. While he prepared my order, I glanced around and, seeing that no one was paying me any attention, felt under the stool for the file. There it was, taped dead center, where it was least likely to be accidentally discovered. I pulled it free and pocketed it.
Someone had left a copy of the Asahi Shinbun newspaper on the counter. I glanced over. The front page had news about pollution-borne illnesses afflicting thousands of Japanese. Horrific neurological disease and birth defects in Minamata and Niigata, where Chisso Chemicals and Showa Electrical had released untreated mercury into the local waters. Asthma in Yokkaichi, caused by vast amounts of sulfurous oil burned at the Daiichi Petrochemical Complex. Itai-itai-byō—it hurts–it hurts disease, so named because of the agonies of its victims—caused by the cadmium Mitsui Mining had released into the rivers of Toyama Prefecture. The corporations were fighting the victims in court; their flunkies had attacked a photographer who had documented the horrors of Minamata; the government was helping cover things up. The same types who forced Sayaka’s parents to take the money and keep their mouths shut. I asked myself if there was a reason I should ever refrain from killing these people. I couldn’t think of one.
When I had finished my coffee, I rode over to Sumida Park, a narrow strip of green along the river of the same name alongside Asakusa. Among mothers pushing babies in strollers and toddlers playing on the swing sets, I went through the file. Its contents weren’t encouraging. The photos were redundant—I already knew what he looked like, from Ueno, and then from when I’d seen him staring down at me at the Kodokan while Pig Eyes tried to choke me to death. As for whereabouts, Junior kept two condominiums, one in Roppongi, the other in Aoyama. There were several nightclubs he was said to manage, but between the two residences and the three nightclubs, if not more, I was facing a shell-game dynamic. Absent some specific actionable intel or a very lucky break, finding Junior could take a while. And all that time, I’d be living like a fugitive, with a yakuza contract hanging over my head.
I thought about Sayaka. I wondered what she was doing right then. Studying English? Reading a book? I knew so little about her. But at the same time, I felt like I did know her. She’d let me in, literally and figuratively, and I was still awestruck by that, by everything that had happened. I had to force myself to stop thinking about it and get back to the file.
When I’d memorized the information, I burned the pages in a public ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, then headed over to a payphone and called McGraw. “Look,” I told him, “that file you gave me, it’s not enough. I need something more specific. I held up my end, now it’s time for you to hold up yours.”
There was a pause. I thought he was going to push back, so I was pleasantly surprised when he said, “I know, it wasn’t nearly as complete I was hoping. I have to tell you again, you work a lot faster than I’d been expecting. The kind of information you need takes time to put together. I’ll keep working on it. And if something comes up, if we catch a break, I’ll let you know right away.”
I didn’t like it, but didn’t see how I could ask for much more. I hung up.
I spent the rest of the day reconning Junior’s various haunts. If I had known for sure which one and at what time, there would have been a number of approaches. But five possibilities? The two residences were as close to a choke point as it looked like I was going to get. But I could wait all night outside either one of them, and I’d never know if he was just out late or if he’d turned in early at the other one. Or if he was spending the night shacked up with one of the girls from his clubs.
As evening deepened into night, I decided I was wasting my time. Maybe I’d have better luck with Mori. Miyamoto’s hit hadn’t been as important to me because Mori wasn’t a threat, just a job. And maybe I had some vestigial concerns about the ethics of that. But I reminded myself that the guy was in the life. I thought of Kamioka, another big-shot politician, the one who’d crippled Sayaka. And of the corporate officers and corrupt politicians who had poisoned thousands of people and then conspired to deny them justice. I realized I didn’t have any pity for any of them. Was I rationalizing again? Maybe. But did that make my analysis inaccurate? Mori had made his own choices. Now he had to live with the consequences.
Or not.