“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.