There was a Starbucks three doors down. Manning went inside and ordered a tall latte, and then sat in one of two available chairs. He sipped the latte and waited.
At just a few minutes before midnight, his phone trilled. Manning read the display; in hiragana was the message:
coming out now make me wet
Manning pocketed the phone and hurried outside. He entered the alley just as the first man, the fat one Chisako had told him about, stepped out. Loud, raucous music followed him, echoing in the alleyway. Their eyes met, and Manning was overtaken by a sinking feeling.
It was the Fujianese he’d taken out in the men’s room earlier in the day.
He heard Chen Gui’s voice in his head: “Why didn’t you kill him?”
Because my dream of becoming a wealthy fortune teller is officially on the rocks, he thought as the Fujianese facing him drew short. Recognition flashed across his face.
Manning went on automatic. He whipped the suppressed Ruger KMKIII pistol from its shoulder holster. Thumbed off the safety and fired two rounds-clack-clack! — into the man’s face. He collapsed into the arms of the man behind him, who hadn’t seen Manning yet. It wasn’t the mark, Yang; even though Chisako had said he would be between the first and third man, they hadn’t synchronized their formation yet. Manning fired another two shots, and charged toward the door as the two bodies collapsed.
Manning stepped into the doorway and came face-to-face with Chisako, her eyes wide and bright, her face flushing with unmistakable ardor at what she had just witnessed. Behind her, the older Fujianese, Yang, backpedaled right into his third and last remaining bodyguard.
Manning fired right over Chisako’s head. She squealed in delight as the.22 clicked and spat its small gout of fire from the end of the suppressor. Yang took both rounds in the right eye, and he crumpled against the man behind him. Manning glimpsed a stainless steel-plated Browning Pro-9 as the guard frantically tried to shrug off his boss’s body, now concerned only for his own safety. It was too late for him. Manning advanced and snapped off another two rounds. One bullet caught the man in the left eye, while second plowed through the bridge of his nose.
There was more movement behind the last man, and Manning caught a glimpse of bright, shiny blond hair. One of the club’s hostesses stared at Manning through the pale light of the hallway. Light that was too bright for him to trust his identity was known only to the dead.
“Gomen nasai,” he said, his voice barely audible above the karaoke music. The hostess started to scream, but had barely drawn enough air into her lungs when Manning’s last two rounds penetrated her skull and broke apart, turning her brain into something more akin to lifeless oatmeal than a sophisticated bundle of nerves, neurons, chemicals, and pathways that together served as the human brain.
“Oh yes,” Chisako murmured from behind him. “Oh, so unexpected, so beautiful!”
Manning turned and headed for the door behind her. “Get out of here,” he hissed.
Chisako grabbed his hand and shoved it between her legs. He momentarily felt the wet heat of her sex, his fingertips grazing her swollen vaginal lips, the palm of his hand brushing the silkiness of her shaven mound.
“I’m so wet, look what you’ve done to me!” she gasped. “Take me with you-take me with you and fuck me!”
“Get the hell out of here!” Manning snatched his hand out from between her thighs and shoved her against the wall. “Go on!”
Chisako only smiled slavishly, head lolling, eyes on the corpse of her Fujianese benefactor, blood pooling on the rubber matting on the floor, leaking from the wounds in his head. Her right hand darted between her thighs, raising her plaid skirt; she cried out as she immediately broke out in a shuddering climax.
Manning fled, replacing his gun in its holster. So far, his actions had attracted no interest; no one even turned toward the alleyway. Keeping his head down, Manning stepped out into the pedestrian traffic. After a block, he hailed a taxi and gave him the address of a small coffee shop on a narrow street a mile away. From there, he would walk a circuitous route to the parking garage in Shibuya where he had left the Friendee.
Chen Gui had his revenge, and his territory returned to him.
Jerome Manning would soon have two hundred thousand dollars to play with.
But it would be years until he forgot the hostess. If ever.
“Moshi-moshi.” Ryoko’s voice was smoky and subdued, even though Manning knew she hadn’t gotten out of bed until at least three o’clock that afternoon. She hadn’t even been awake for ten hours.
“Ryoko-chan. Are you alone?”
“Hai. I didn’t go out tonight. Where are you?”
“Downstairs.”
“A few moments, please.”
The line went dead. Manning flipped his phone closed and plugged it into the charger in the Friendee’s console. He sat in the idling van and listened to Kaori Natori’s KaoRhythmixx program on 76.1 FM. Overhead, the night skies grew cloudy; rain was in forecast, and the clouds consumed the stars before Manning’s eyes. It was fitting, a perfect mirror of his mood. Both the night and his frame of mind were one: dark, brooding, relentless, and seething.
A car trundled past, rap music blaring-Japanese rap music, which almost always made Manning crack up. Tonight it did nothing for him, couldn’t even begin to chip away at the mantle of depression and self-loathing that encased his soul. For the thousandth time, he wondered how he had wound up so far off course, his morality compass spinning like a runaway gyro. He feared for his humanity; at times like this, the reasons he did what he did seemed distant and cold and small, like the love of the dispassionate God he had once prayed to. If there was a road to salvation, he was certain he would be forbidden to travel it. It did not sadden him, but knowing this was what was allotted for him occasionally made him angry. And as time wore on, he found he merely existed on two emotions: anger and depression. No, that wasn’t entirely right; most of the time he was just as hollow as an empty bottle of beer forgotten on a shelf, doing nothing more than gathering dust.
The dome lights snapped on as the passenger door opened, and Manning stirred from his dark reverie, watching as Ryoko Mitake climbed into the Friendee, her face composed, her lovely features accentuated by only the slightest touches of makeup. She was dressed in a black skirt, broad white belt, and a black sweater over a thin white T-shirt that exposed her taut midriff. She took Manning’s hand as she claimed the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. She smiled at him wanly, and it was a beautiful sight. The dome lights dimmed out, leaving them in darkness save for the glow of the dashboard lights and the actinic glare of the nearby streetlight.
“You look stressed,” she said in her near-perfect English. “You were working tonight, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“The karaoke club? It’s on the news.”
Manning hesitated. “Yes.”
Ryoko nodded after a moment and looked out the windshield. Her profile was visible in the soft green light coming from the Friendee’s dash.
“I’ll make you whole again,” she said.
Their relationship was both simple and complex. Simple in that Ryoko was a girl Manning had met in Shibuya almost two years ago while shopping for a new laptop. She had been working in the store in which he was shopping, and her excellent English trumped his then-faltering Japanese, and a sale was made. While no stranger to Japan even then, Manning had very few personal contacts; he had managed to capture her interest, even though she was a kogaryu, or kogal, that particular subculture in Japan consisting of young women who are predisposed to incessant consumerism. Manning nevertheless found her to be fetching enough to ask her to join him for a cup of coffee. So they met the next day at the famed Hachiko statue in Shibuya, and had a coffee at the Starbucks near the Shibuya train station. They discussed the various facets of American and Japanese lifestyles while watching the sukuranburu kMsaten, or “pedestrian scramble” play out across the intersection below, long regarded as the world’s busiest. Counter to kogal stereotype, Manning found that Ryoko was well-educated and quite intelligent, and had no problems working for her money. But she sensed the loneliness in Manning; while she wasn’t averse to working, nor was she averse to accepting handouts. Manning obliged, and he found he had inadvertently stepped into a grown-up version of enjo kMsai, the only exception being that Ryoko was already 22 years old. He made it plain to her that he would consider the arrangement on a trial basis, and provided her with a little over $1,000 in spending money.