McGraw frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Why do you want him dead?”
“Listen, son, don’t forget your pay grade. You don’t need to know why. All you need to know is who. That’s all.”
Maybe I sensed this new thing he wanted gave me leverage I hadn’t had earlier. Maybe I just couldn’t tamp down the anger anymore regardless. I said, “Like hell I do. You want to keep me in the dark about a bunch of cash in a briefcase? Fine, I don’t give a shit. You ask me to grease the fucking Executive Council chairman of the LDP? I want to know what I’m getting into.”
He smiled slightly, as though impressed by my gumption. “All right. Suppose the U.S. government supported elements of the Japanese government. In exchange for the continuation of policies the U.S. government finds desirable. Maintenance of the mutual security and cooperation treaty. Keeping the Seventh Fleet at Yokosuka. The Marines on Okinawa. Purchase of aircraft from U.S. defense contractors. That kind of thing.”
“The U.S. government bribes Japanese politicians?”
“Capitalism at work, son, how many times do I have to tell you? Each side has something the other needs.”
“You mean, one has policies to sell and the other has cash to pay.”
“Like I said, you’re not as dumb as you act. Keep this up and you might start to understand the way the world really works.”
I wondered for a moment if McGraw’s insults might really be intended as terms of endearment. I thought it would be helpful if I could look at it that way. Otherwise, at some point I might lose my temper, as he liked to put it.
“So what’s the problem with Ozawa? He’s asking too much?”
“He’s giving out too little. He seems to have developed the idea that the program is a private annuity. It isn’t. And the people he’s freezing out are beginning to squawk. As in, ‘If we don’t get dealt in properly, we go to the press.’ They’ll nuke the financial gatekeepers and the whole program along with it. We need someone who’ll spread the wealth more equitably. Someone with a diplomat’s touch, not a selfish entitled prick like Ozawa. Got the picture now?”
“I think so. How do I get to him?”
“I’ll get you his particulars. He’s no hard target. Should be a piece of cake for a SOG hard case like you. How it happens is your call. Within certain parameters.”
“Which are?”
There was a pause, then, “Make it look natural.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“What, now you’re asking me to micromanage you? You’ll figure something out. What we don’t want is for the LDP Executive Council chairman to eat a bullet, not unless the coroner would prove it came from his own gun and by his own hand. He’s not the prime minister, not even close, but a straight-up assassination of a prominent political figure would bring down way more heat than anyone is willing to accept. Do this well, and you’ll be in a position to call in a lot of favors. But don’t fuck it up. You’ll find yourself in a very uncomfortable position if you do.”
“Give me the information on the two yakuza first.”
He laughed. “Do you know something called the ‘call-girl principle,’ son?”
“Not exactly.”
“It means the value of services rendered plummets immediately after the rendering. Right now, you need me, so you like my price, or at least you’re willing to pay it. Once I give you the two yakuza, all you’ll want to know is what I’ve done for you lately.”
“If I do Ozawa first, how do I know you’ll follow through with the information I need?”
“If I don’t, will you kill me?”
I looked at him, and a strange chill settled inside me. “I think I’d have to, yeah.”
He laughed. “I told you. You’re not as dumb as you act.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Back on Thanatos, bombing through night Tokyo, I was roiled with conflicting emotions. Relief that I had a potential solution to my yakuza problem. Fear at how extreme and unlikely the solution was. Anxiety at the implications of what I had just agreed to do — those I could imagine, and even more, those I was probably missing. But for now, there was nothing I could do but wait for McGraw’s intel and continue to avoid places like the Kodokan, where Mad Dog and his friends would be looking for me.
I shoved it all aside and thought about the girl at the hotel, instead. I liked how unruffled she’d been in the face of that drunken guy’s bullshit. And how tough she’d been with me after. And the wheelchair…why? Something congenital? An accident? The reason the sight of it had surprised me so much was that she had struck me as so competent, confident, in control. I realized these weren’t qualities I associated with someone needing a wheelchair, and that my unconscious expectations were simply assumptions based primarily on foolish prejudice, itself likely the product of a lack of thought and experience. Was it weird I found her attractive? I decided I didn’t care. I didn’t even know if she could have sex. But…I wondered. Anyway, thinking about her was much more enjoyable than pondering the guerrilla war I was about to wage against mobsters determined to kill me.
I knew I shouldn’t go back to the same hotel, especially not twice in a row. But I told myself there would be no harm. It wasn’t like the girl knew my name, or even the first thing about me. There was no way anybody could trace me there. One night, two nights, it wasn’t going to make any difference. I needed a place to stay. And someplace familiar wouldn’t be the worst thing.
It didn’t take long to get back to Uguisudani, park the bike, and run the gauntlet of streetwalkers again. As I walked through the front entrance of the hotel, I was suddenly gripped by doubt. Maybe I was being stupid. Maybe she would think I was a creep for coming back. Maybe she wouldn’t even be there.
But she was. A different sweatshirt this time — gray, and no lettering. Other than that, she looked just the same. Just as good.
She glanced up and saw me. There was a pause, then she said, “I didn’t expect to see you back here.” There was a slight emphasis on the “you.” Other than that, her tone was as neutral as her expression.
She was listening to jazz again. I wondered who, and why she seemed to like it so much.
“Yeah, well, the Imperial was full.”
I thought that was reasonably funny, but she acknowledged it with only the barest hint of a smile. “Let me guess. A stay?”
“How’d you know?”
“Intuition.”
Her expression was still so neutral, I had no idea what she was thinking. I said, “What are you…doing here? This job, I mean.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean…you’re young. You know, mostly it’s an oba-san.”
“You stay at love hotels often?”
I felt myself blush. “No. Everyone knows that.”
She shrugged. “If you say so.”
Man, I was really striking out. “So really, why?”
“The interesting people I meet.”
The robot-neutral affect was killing me. Laughing to conceal my embarrassment at what I thought was a dismissal, I pulled out a five-thousand-yen note and slid it under the glass. “I guess it would work for that.”
She slid the bill into a drawer and came out with a thousand-yen note. She held it, not yet pushing it under the glass, and looked at me as though trying to decide something. “A job where I can sit is good. One where I can sit and study is even better.”
I grabbed onto the reprieve. “What are you studying?”
“English.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” This time her tone wasn’t neutral. It was vaguely irritated.
Jesus, I couldn’t seem to say anything right. “I mean, what do you want to do with it?”
I thought I detected something in her eyes — amusement, maybe? As though I was a well-meaning pet that was maybe just cute enough to deserve a little patience. But overall, other than the fact that she was talking, there was no evidence that she was the least bit interested in me. It was disconcerting.