10
THE NEXT NIGHT I ran an SDR as usual on my way to the fight. When I was confident I was clean, I caught a cab to the Tennozu monorail station. From there I walked.
It was cooler here by the water. A sidewalk was being repaired, and a cluster of temporary signs advising anzen daiichi!-Safety First!-swayed stiffly in the wind, squealing like lunatic chimes. I moved across the rust-colored bulk of the Higashi Shinagawa Bridge. Around me was a network of massive train and automobile overpasses, their concrete darkened by the accumulated years of diesel fumes, their bulk so densely woven against the dark sky that the earth beneath felt vaguely subterranean. A solitary vending machine sat slumped on a street corner, its fluorescent light guttering like a dying SOS.
I spotted the Lady Crystal Yacht Club, probably an advertising euphemism for a restaurant that happened to be located on the water, and turned left. To my right was another overpass with warehouses beneath; opposite, a small parking lot, mostly empty. Beyond that, another Stygian canal.
I found the warehouse door Murakami had described. It was flanked by a pair of concrete flowerpots choked with weeds. A metal sign to the left warned of fire danger. Rust ran down the wall from behind it like dried blood from a peeling bandage.
I looked around. Across the water were brightly lit high-rise office buildings, apartments, and hotels, the names of their owners proudly glowing in red and blue neon: JAL, JTB, the Dai-ichi Seafort. It was as though the ground around me was poisoned and incapable of supporting the growth of such structures here.
To my left was an indentation in the long line of warehouses. I stepped inside and spotted a door on the right, hidden from the street outside. There was a small peephole at eye level. I knocked and waited.
I heard a bolt being moved back, then the door opened. It was Washio. “You’re early,” he said.
I shrugged. I rarely make appointments. You don’t want to give someone the opportunity to fix you in time and place. On those infrequent occasions where I have no choice, I like to show up early to scout around. If someone’s going to throw me a party, I’ll get there before the musicians set up.
I glanced inside. I was looking at a cavernous room dotted with concrete pillars. Incandescent lights dangled from a ceiling eight meters up, their bulbs encased in wire. Cardboard boxes were stacked five meters high on all sides. Two forklifts rested against a wall, looking like toys in relation to the space around them. A couple of chinpira in black T-shirts were moving chairs to the edges of the room. Other than that we were alone.
I looked at Washio. “Is it a problem?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. People will be here soon enough.”
I stepped inside. “You work the door?”
He nodded. “I don’t know your face, you don’t get in.”
“Who’s fighting?”
“Don’t know. I just run the fights, I don’t promote them.”
I smiled at him. “You ever participate?”
He laughed. “No. I’m a little old for this shit. Maybe I would have when I was younger. But these fights have only been going on for a year, year and a half, which is long after my prime.”
I thought of the way I’d seen him talking to Murakami, as though he’d been delivering a briefing. “The people at the club,” I said, “you’re training them for these fights?”
“Some of them.”
“What about Murakami?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“What does he do?”
He shrugged. “A lot of things. Some of the guys he trains. Sometimes he fights. We get a good turnout when he’s fighting.”
“Why?”
“Murakami always finishes his fights. People like that.”
“ ‘Finishes’ them?”
“You know what I mean. When Murakami fights, for sure one of the fighters is going to die. And Murakami has never lost.”
I had no trouble believing that. “What makes him so good?” I asked.
He looked at me. “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”
“Is it true he fights dogs?”
He paused. “Where did you hear that?”
I shrugged. “Just talk.”
Another pause. Then: “I don’t know whether it’s true. I know he goes to underground dogfights. He’s a breeder. Tosas and American pit bulls. His dogs are dead game, too. He feeds them gunpowder, pumps them full of steroids. They get irritated at the world and aggressive as hell. One dog, Murakami shoved a jalapeño pepper up its ass. Fought like a demon after that.”
There was a knock at the door. Washio stood. I offered him a slight bow to acknowledge that we were done.
He reached out and took my arm. “Wait. I’ll need your cell phone first.”
I looked at his hand. “I’m not carrying one,” I said.
He eyeballed me, his expression baleful. I stared back. What I had told him was true, although if I’d been lying it would take more than a scowl to make me admit it.
His expression softened and he released my arm. “I’m not going to search you,” he said. “But no one’s allowed in here with a cell phone or pager. Too many people like to call a friend, tell ’em what they’re seeing. It’s insecure.”
I nodded. “That seems sensible.”
“If one of the bouncers sees you with one, they’ll work you over good. Just so you know.”
I nodded to show I understood, then moved off to one of the corners and watched as people began to arrive. Some I recognized from the club. Adonis was wearing sweatpants. I wondered if he was fighting.
I stood in the corner and watched the place gradually fill up. After about an hour, I saw Murakami come in, flanked by two bodyguards, a different pair than I had seen in the dojo. He exchanged a few words with Washio, who looked around and then pointed at me.
I had the sudden sense that this was more attention from Murakami than I really wanted.
I watched him nudge his two men. The three of them started moving toward me.
Adrenaline dumped into my veins. I felt the surge. I looked around casually, searching for a weapon of convenience. There was nothing handy.
They walked up and stood in front of me, three abreast, Murakami slightly in front of the other two.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” he said. “Glad to see you did.”
“It’s good to be here,” I said, rubbing my palms in front of me as though in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment. In fact it was an expedient defensive stance.
“We do three fights or thirty minutes, whichever comes first. That way everyone gets his money’s worth. I’ll explain the rules.”
I didn’t understand why he was telling me this. “Who’s fighting?” I asked.
He smiled. The bridged teeth were white. Predatory.
“You are,” he said.
Oh shit.
I looked at him and said, “I don’t think so.”
The smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to waste time fucking around with you. Washio says you’re good. Says you broke a guy’s ankle inside thirty seconds. Now that guy’s friend wants payback. You’re going to fight him.”
Adonis. Should have known.
“Or…”
“Or you can fight three people that I pick. You’re so good, I’ll make sure they have police batons. The crowd will like that, too. It’s all the same to me.”
I was in a box. I picked the easiest way out.
“I’ll fight,” I told him.
His eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth. “Yes, you will.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
He shrugged. “No shirts, no shoes, no weapons. Other than that, anything goes. There’s no ring. If you get too close to the edge of the crowd, they’ll shove you back to the center. If they think you’re running from the other guy, you’ll take a few punches, too. Good news is, the winner gets two million yen.”
“What does the loser get?”
He smiled again. “We take care of the funeral expenses.”