I monitored them with peripheral vision until they were each about twenty-five meters away. Then I raised the gun, pointed it just past the yakuza’s unrecognizable head and out into the lotuses, and held it there for a long, theatrical moment. I fired. The sound was huge and unmistakable in the early morning quiet surrounding the pond. I let go of the yakuza’s wrist and the body tumbled backward into the water with a splash. Several ducks took off from around him, quacking. I kept the gun out for just a moment longer, making sure everyone had time to confirm what they thought they had just heard and seen. Then I glanced furtively left and right, tucked the gun back into my pants, and walked off the path through the bushes and trees, keeping my head down as I moved, trying to look like a criminal.
I had no doubt the pensioners who had been walking toward me, stunned and in disbelief, would hurry over and check the water. They would see a body in it. They would call the police and describe what they had just witnessed: a man, shooting another man point-blank in the face and then fleeing on foot. Tatsu was waiting for that call, and knew roughly when to expect it. He would be the first to arrive. The water and muck would somewhat conceal the discrepancies I was worried about, at least to any casual observers, and Tatsu would have to handle the rest. The victim, he would discover, had no next of kin, and even if he did, the injuries to his face would make identification difficult. His identity would have to be confirmed by what was found in his pockets, and in the bag around his shoulder, and by the motorcycle key he was carrying and the motorcycle itself, registered in Tokyo, parked close by. The dead man was named John Rain, and the only clue to what happened to him would be a phone number in his pocket. A phone number Tatsu, as lead investigator, would naturally call, so that he could question the person on the other end of it. Did you know the victim? What was your relationship? Why was he carrying your phone number? Where were you when he was gunned down?
Of course, McGraw would claim to have no knowledge of me, and insist he had no idea why I would be carrying his phone number. No one would be able to prove otherwise, or even be much inclined to try, given his diplomatic immunity and likely connections. On top of which, I knew he’d have an alibi. After all, he had known there was going to be a murder in Ueno early this morning, and he was a careful man, a thorough man. Still, the pucker factor he would feel under Tatsu’s penetrating cop gaze and pointed questioning would help blind him to the real reason he was being interviewed: to provide unimpeachable, official police confirmation that I was dead. After which, he could rest easy. He would have no way of knowing news of my death had been greatly exaggerated.
Not until I told him myself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I called McGraw and told him it was done.
“You’re sure?”
“Entirely sure.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. I’ll just need independent confirmation. I’m sure you understand.”
“Confirmation wasn’t part of our bargain.”
He cleared his throat. “It was an implicit part. Look, I’m talking about just a few hours, I don’t think it’ll take me longer than that. And then we can meet and I’ll pay you what you’re owed.”
I smiled. I knew he would come back to insisting we meet. Wanting his own killer for hire was the motivation. The leverage he had as the party holding the money was the opportunity.
“A meeting was also not part of our bargain.”
There was a pause. It was fascinating to see a slightly different aspect of his persona in play. He’d always treated me like a punk. This new guy, he respected. Maybe even feared.
“Then we’ll change our bargain, all right? Listen, I could use someone like you. You have nothing to worry about from me. It sounds like you did a good job and I’ve got others like it if you’re interested. This could be a lucrative relationship. But I’m not going to do that with someone who’s no more than a faceless voice on the other end of a telephone.”
I waited a long moment, as though struggling with my doubts. Then I said, “Where?”
“Zōshigaya Cemetery. Do you know it?”
I smiled again. “Can you spell that?”
He did. And told me to meet him there in the northwest corner at four o’clock that afternoon. It was enough to give me déjà vu.
“Let me say this,” I told him. “I don’t like the way you have modified our agreement but I have acceded to your wishes. If after my accommodation, you fail to show up with my money at the appointed place and at the appointed time, you won’t hear from me again. Do you understand what that means?”
There was a pause. “I understand fully.”
I hung up, smiling grimly. I thought of the monk I had seen at Zenpuku-ji Temple. It had never occurred to me before, but I wondered where they bought their robes. Well, a logical place would be Nakamise-dōri, the dense shopping arcade leading to Sensō-ji, Tokyo’s largest Buddhist temple.
I rode the subway to Asakusa, feeling hobbled, trying not to miss Thanatos. I had no trouble finding what I needed — in fact, there were dozens of stores selling more than I reasonably could have hoped for. I thought I could probably get away with no more than the kesa robe, which would conceal whatever I was wearing underneath. But I sensed that if I did so, I wouldn’t feel the part, I would still carry myself as a civilian. So I bought everything — not just the outer garments, but the special underclothes, too, and the slippers and split-toe socks. I would have preferred footwear better suited to pursuit and evasion, but reasoned that part of what made Buddhist monks move like Buddhist monks was what they were wearing on their feet.
I stopped at an electronics shop and bought a barber’s electric clipper. Then I went to a love hotel, shaved my head, changed into my Buddhist garb, and looked at myself in the mirror. I was pleased — it looked pretty genuine. The shaved head and the robe were so associated with monks, I thought the combination would work almost as a trigger, temporarily overriding any discrepancies. When I left, I sensed a few raised eyebrows at my monkish passage from such a den of earthly pleasures, but Japan is nothing if not a polite society, and no one said a word.
I took the Ginza line back to Ueno, changed to the Yamanote, then rode to Ikebukuro, where I stashed my bag in a coin locker, keeping only the Hi Power. If Buddhist monks had designed their kesa robes specifically for concealed carry, they couldn’t have done any better. I could have been hiding a bazooka under the excess material, and I doubted anyone would have noticed so much as a bulge.
I didn’t think McGraw was going to arrive quite as early as usual, knowing as I did that he would first be spending a few uncomfortable hours being interviewed by some of Tokyo’s finest. Still, I wanted to be there first. I walked from Ikebukuro, came in at the northwest entrance, and headed southeast, insects buzzing, crows calling raucously from the trees, the sun beating down on my freshly shaved scalp. I was surprised at how much the genuine clothes made me feel like a monk. I would remember that — that the details mattered, not just in how you looked, but in how you felt, in the kind of unconscious vibe you emanated and that people might key on one way or the other. The only reminder that I was here for something other than the lighting of incense and prayers for the dead was the Hi Power tucked into my waistband and concealed beneath the robes. There was another monk in the cemetery, along with a few other visitors, but thankfully he seemed as happy to avoid me as I was him. It was one thing to look like a monk to a casual observer. It would be quite another to sound like one to someone who knew better.