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 or 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.
Takizawa looked at the yakuza without recognition, and started to go around the car. “Hey,” the yakuza said in Japanese. “You’re supposed to come with us.”
Takizawa looked at him, plainly discomfited. “What?”
The driver, another tough-looking guy in a tracksuit, got out. The engine was still idling. “Yeah,” he said. “Come with us. Too dangerous to be alone.”
It felt all wrong. It felt like a hit. And she sensed it, too, even if she couldn’t articulate it. Her gut was sounding a klaxon like, Why wouldn’t Mad Dog have told me I was going to have an escort? Why is the driver getting out, as though to intimidate or encircle me? Why do these men feel like a threat rather than protection?
She took a step back. The closer yakuza grabbed her by the arm. She tried to pull away and opened her mouth to scream. He popped an uppercut into her belly. She doubled over with a muted cry, and he picked her up and threw her in the backseat. He got in and pulled the door closed. The driver glanced around, got in, and they drove off. No one else had seen anything. I was the only one.
My gut told me Mad Dog was in there. He was the primary. I might never get a better chance.
I thought of Tatsu, about what separates men from monsters.
For one second, I was paralyzed between competing imperatives. Then, F*ck! I jumped back over the wall and onto Thanatos, and roared off after them.
They’d been heading toward Roppongi-dōri, where, because of the divider in the road under the overhead Metropolitan Highway, they’d have to turn left. But once they were on Roppongi-dōri, they could go anywhere, and if I weren’t close I’d almost certainly lose them. I didn’t think they would kill her in the car—it was risky enough to drive someplace with a kidnapped girl in back, but a body would be worse. Probably the plan was to take her someplace quiet and do it there. Still, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe she would try to scream again. Maybe someone would miscalculate. Maybe they didn’t give a shit about risks and just wanted to silence her as soon as they had the chance.
I turned onto the street just in time to see them making the left onto Roppongi-dōri. I hit the throttle and Thanatos rocketed forward. I slowed just enough to make sure I wasn’t going to be mowed down by an oncoming vehicle, then turned left behind them onto the street. It was late enough that there wasn’t much traffic. With a little luck, the light at the Akasaka intersection would be red. When they stopped, I’d pull up alongside them and start shooting. They’d never know what hit them. I hung back, two lanes to the right, waiting for my chance.
But someone must have checked the rearview and recognized me. I was looking ahead to see if luck was going to be with me at the traffic light, then glanced over barely in time to see the yakuza in back climbing halfway out the passenger-side window and training a pistol at me over the roof. Shit! I swerved just as the gun kicked and I heard the report of the bullet. He shot again and missed again. He was firing backward from the opposite side of a moving vehicle, and probably had scant training in any kind of marksmanship, let alone combat shooting, but somehow I didn’t find any of that particularly comforting. He fired again. The elevated Metropolitan Highway ran parallel to Roppongi-dōri here, right up the center of the multilane street. I cut through a break in the metal guardrail and roared up along the median, feeling naked on Thanatos, praying the concrete pillars and the guardrail would offer at least a little protection from a lucky shot.
He kept shooting. I counted six shots, seven, eight. An automatic, then, not a revolver. But how many rounds in the magazine? I swerved, barely avoiding a pylon, watching for obstructions, glancing at the car, looking for an opportunity, my throat tight, my heart hammering. The Akasaka intersection was just ahead, the median enclosed there in a metal fence. I was running out of room. A ninth shot. I heard it ricochet off the metal divider, and then the sound was behind me. A tenth shot tore a chunk of concrete out of one of the giant pillars just to my left. I waited. Was he reloading? Did he even have a reload?
I glanced over and didn’t see him—he’d disappeared back into the car. The end of the median was just ahead. The light at the intersection was red. I saw another break in the guardrail and cut left through it. I leaned forward, twisted back the accelerator, and rocketed up alongside them, the Hi Power out and ready. We blew through the red light. The driver cut right and tried to force me into the divider but I was ready for the move and had room to maneuver in the intersection. I cut in the same direction he had, firing into the driver-side window. The glass blew out. He swerved hard left. I didn’t think I’d hit him; he had just panicked from being shot at from close range. Yeah, see how you like it, motherf*cker.
The other yakuza popped out the back passenger side again, probably with a fresh load or his partner’s pistol. I pulled up alongside the driver. He glanced at me, panic in his eyes. I held the Hi Power steady and pressed the trigger. His head exploded and the car swerved into me. I hauled the handlebars right and nearly lost control of the bike, but held on. The car swerved the other way, out of control now. I hit the brakes so it would go past me. I saw the guy poking out the back window trying to pull himself in, his face a mask of pure terror. The car jumped the curb and sideswiped a riser of metal stairs leading to a pedestrian overpass, took out a row of parked bicycles, and stopped. I cut left, pulled up onto the sidewalk, and rolled forward cautiously from behind, the Hi Power at the ready.
There was no need for the gun. The yakuza who’d been shooting was dead, no more than a mass of mangled meat hanging from the back passenger-side window. I circled onto the street, dismounted, and leaned Thanatos against a pedestrian guardrail. I shoved the Hi Power into my pants and tried the back driver-side door. It was locked. Takizawa was inside, huddled and shaking—alive.
“Takizawa-san!” I shouted. “Open the door!”
She glanced at me and recoiled, plainly terrified.
I looked around. There weren’t many cars out, but the few I saw were slowing for a better look. One of them pulled over ahead of us.
“I’m trying to help you!” I shouted.
All she did was cringe.
The driver who had pulled over got out and started running toward us. “Can I help?”
“Yes,” I said. “Get to a phone, call an ambulance. I’ll stay here. There’s someone hurt in the backseat—I’ll stay with them.”
Nothing like giving someone firm, clear instructions in an emergency to get action. The guy took off. Thank God for Good Samaritans.
I reached around through the broken front driver-side window, popped the back door lock, and opened the door.
“Takizawa-san,” I said, “are you hurt?” I was trying to create the right first impression. She was terrified, confused, possibly hurt. I had to establish myself as someone who cared about her before I could hope to get any compliance.
“I…I don’t know.”
“Those men were going to kill you. Mad Dog sent them. More are going to come. If you want to live, we have to get you out of here. Right now.”
She glanced left. If the yakuza’s mangled body hadn’t been in the way, I thought she might have tried escaping out the passenger-side door. As it was, she was trapped. “Who…who are you?”
She didn’t recognize me from the brief look outside Fukumoto’s house in Denenchofu. I would have handled it if she had, but this way was better. “I’m the guy who can tell you what’s been going on. And keep you safe. But we have to go right now, before more of those men get here. Come on. Give me your hand. Let’s get you out of that car.”
There was an instant of hesitation, then she reached out with a shaking hand and took mine. I pulled her toward me, gently grasped her elbow, and started leading her to Thanatos. Then I realized—Christ, I’d been so focused on so many other things, I’d almost forgotten.
“Wait,” I said. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped down the door lock and handle. Then I took her by the arm again, and helped her onto the back of Thanatos. I jumped in front of her and revved the engine. “Put your arms around my waist,” I said. “Come on, do it. We’ll get you someplace safe.”
She did. I pulled slowly away from the curb. There were more cars slowing down and probably some of them would report seeing a man and woman leaving on a motorcycle. But it wouldn’t be much for anyone to go on. The license plate was reversed and I doubted anyone would be able to describe either of us with much accuracy.
I drove to Shiba Kōen, a park in the incongruous dual shadow of the ancient Zōjō-ji Temple and the considerably less ancient Tokyo Tower. I parked Thanatos amid some dark trees, and we sat on a park bench. The trains had stopped running for the night; there were no sounds of traffic; even the insects were silent. The center of the park was completely still.
“Are you all right?” I asked again, trying to show some empathy. And though I was aware of the tactical uses, I wasn’t faking it. Her makeup was smeared and she was confused and terrified, but she was as stunningly beautiful as I remembered from outside Fukumoto’s house—more so, even, without the sunglasses and the hauteur I’d sensed that day. Whoever she was, she clearly was out of her element and in a mild state of shock.
“I just…don’t know what’s going on. Who are you? Why are we here? I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you home if that’s what you want. But I’m afraid that for now, that’s the first place Mad Dog would look for you.” Again, I was hoping that an expression of concern plus my willingness to do whatever she wanted would get her to relax, to trust me.
“I just don’t understand. There must have been some mistake. Why would he…how could he…” She covered her mouth and started crying.
I handed her my handkerchief. “I think it’s because you know he had his father killed. That’s not something he wants anyone else ever to know. You helped him, didn’t you?”
“No!” she said, still crying. “I didn’t know about any of that. He told me he needed me to stay at the house. He gave me a walkie-talkie. He told me to wait in my car in the garage and leave when he told me to. And to make sure whoever was outside the house right then saw me pressing the garage door opener. I asked him why, and he told me to just trust him, it was important. I thought it was just some kind of game, so I did it. And he told me to drive somewhere close by and leave the car afterward. I didn’t understand why, but I did it, I did it for him. And then…on the news that night…” Her voice cracked and she sobbed.
Was it the truth? My gut told me yes. Certainly it tracked with everything I suspected. But maybe she was just a good liar. I had no way to know.
“He had his father killed,” I said. “I think so he could take over the business, but I’m not sure. Do you know any more than that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t even know him anymore. He’s crazy. He snorts shabu all the time. He’s been hitting me. Why didn’t I just run away? I’ve been so afraid. I don’t know what to do.”
Shabu was Japanese slang for amphetamines, a popular drug in Japan since pretty much the Meiji Restoration. As a yakuza prince—and now as king, I supposed—Mad Dog would have plenty of access.
“All right. You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay. I have a friend who can help you. A cop.”
“A cop? No! I don’t want to talk to the police. Don’t you know, Mad Dog owns half of them?”
“Not this one. Nobody owns this one.”
“They’re all corrupt.”
“Not this one. He’ll protect you.”
“Nobody can protect me from him. He’s evil, he’s lost his mind. He’s high all the time, he rants about all these things that don’t make any sense, oh my God, why didn’t I just run when I could?”
“What? What does he say that doesn’t make sense?”
“I don’t know. Since…since his father, he’s paranoid. Why wouldn’t he be, can you imagine his conscience? His father was such a kind man, the newspapers have it all wrong, when I read it I want to scream—”
“But what is Mad Dog saying? Why do you say he’s paranoid?”
“It’s always something about an assassin. An assassin stalking him, he has to be careful. I think it’s just his guilty conscience. He’s losing his mind from what he did, and the drugs—”
“What else about the assassin? How’s he protecting himself?”
“I don’t know. He says…he says he knows how to get to him. A girl in a wheelchair, something like that.”
My heart stopped. The world grayed out. An adrenaline bomb mushroomed inside me.
“What? What about a girl in a wheelchair?”
“Just that. The assassin…Mad Dog knows how to get to him. The girl in the wheelchair. I don’t know, I’m telling you, he’s insane!”
“How? How could he know about that?”
“Know about what?”
“The girl in the wheelchair!”
“He says…the girls tell him. The streetwalkers. He has all these informants.”
God, I’d been stupid. So stupid. The same place, night after night, the same collection of prostitutes, seeing my face, seeing the license plate on Thanatos, seeing Sayaka and me getting into the van in front of the station, coming back late together, leaving her apartment together. Maybe correlating sightings in Uguisudani with other reports, maybe even reports from Kabukichō, where I’d known there would be yakuza and stupidly told myself that even if someone saw me, I wouldn’t be recognized. So stupid. No, they hadn’t recognized me at the time, but how hard would it be to put the pieces together after the fact, in response to Anyone seen a guy pushing a girl in a wheelchair…?
I pulled out a pen. “Call this guy,” I said, writing Tatsu’s number on her palm. I had to draw huge numerals, my hands were shaking so badly. “Ishikura Tatsuhiko. He’ll help you. He’ll protect you. Call him.”
I sprang from the bench and leaped onto Thanatos.
She ran to me. “Wait! I don’t know what to do—”
“Call Ishikura!” I shouted over the whine of the engine. “And don’t go back to your apartment!”
I roared off, my mouth desert-dry, my heart pounding like a war drum, my eyes brimming with tears. Please, was all I could think. Please, please, please.