I said nothing.
“You want respect? Do something worthy of respect. Look, I’ll admit it, I was wrong about you. I didn’t think you could step up. But Jesus Christ almighty, was I wrong. I was a bad manager, I put you in the wrong role. Now I see where you belong, see what you were made for, and it’s impressing the hell out of me. In the right role, you’re exceptional. You move fast, you show good judgment, and damn but you’re fucking deadly. I could use a man like you, I really could. Talent like yours is rare.”
I didn’t like the I, and I didn’t like the use. “Maybe I just got lucky.”
He snorted. “Luck is a skill, son. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Don’t call me son.”
“Don’t be just a bagman.”
I don’t know why I was so reluctant. Maybe some part of me sensed I was being manipulated. Maybe some part of me recognized that any further, and the water would be over my head. Maybe I just wanted time to think.
Or maybe it was the promise of what I might be able to have with Sayaka, if only I could get clear of this shit.
“Let me just say this,” he said. “This program you’ve been involved in. What you think you know is just the tip of the iceberg. It needs to be managed and I need good people to manage it.”
Again, that I. “I’ll think about it.”
“You should.”
“In the meantime, you owe me a file.”
“Look, forget about Mad Dog. I’ll find another way to take care of him. Maybe he can be bought off, let me look into it.”
“You’re saying a guy named Mad Dog can be bought off? You told me this is about honor.”
“Yeah, and some people’s honor is more expensive than others’. I don’t know Mad Dog’s price — do you?”
“No.”
“Besides, if the Gokumatsu-gumi thinks it’s under attack by some ultraviolent Vietnamese gang, Junior’s apt to be careful for a while.”
“You said he was a fuck-up.”
“Jesus, you’re worse than my ex-wife. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it is to have to argue with things I’ve actually said?”
“Well, is he a fuck-up or not?”
“He’s a fuck-up. That doesn’t mean you’re going to find him sitting undefended in all the usual places at all the usual times.”
That sounded promising. I said, “Are there usual places and usual times?”
He sighed. “A few.”
“Where’s the file?”
He nodded for a long moment, as though confirming a thought. “You’re good,” he said. “No question. But you’ve got one obvious limitation, and I’ll tell you what it is.”
I said nothing.
“You’re a hammer. Or maybe a buzz saw would be the better analogy. Well, regardless. It’s what you do, it’s what you are. And if all you are is a hammer, you’re going to spend all your time trying to make things into nails.”
“Where’s the file?”
“Christ. Kabaya Coffee in Ueno. Sit at the counter—”
“I’ll know where to find it.”
“You will, huh?”
“Unless you’ve done something fundamentally different this time.”
He shook his head disgustedly. “I told you, not ineducable. More’s the pity.”
I left McGraw and rode Thanatos to Kabaya. It was in Yanaka, near Ueno, the northeast of the city, part of Shitamachi, all narrow streets and tiny wooden buildings. Kabaya turned out to be one of these: a two-story corner structure, once clearly a dwelling, with a traditional tile roof and wood walls so antique they had blackened from decades of storm and sun.
The inside was as tiny as that of Café de l’Ambre, and equally unpretentious. Wood floors, wood walls, wood ceiling; three tables and twelve chairs; a counter that could seat eight. A matronly woman standing behind a cash register greeted me with a bow and an irasshaimase when I came in. I returned the bow, then spent a moment scoping the room. It was half full, mostly neighborhood-looking people: housewives enjoying a coffee klatch, retirees doing something to offer a little structure to their days. The counter was empty. I sat in the seat second farthest from the door. The counterman, who I guessed was the hostess’s husband, presented me with a small menu. I told him I would try a cup of the house blend and a portion of buttered toast. While he prepared my order, I glanced around and, seeing that no one was paying me any attention, felt under the stool for the file. There it was, taped dead center, where it was least likely to be accidentally discovered. I pulled it free and pocketed it.
Someone had left a copy of the Asahi Shinbun newspaper on the counter. I glanced over. The front page had news about pollution-borne illnesses afflicting thousands of Japanese. Horrific neurological disease and birth defects in Minamata and Niigata, where Chisso Chemicals and Showa Electrical had released untreated mercury into the local waters. Asthma in Yokkaichi, caused by vast amounts of sulfurous oil burned at the Daiichi Petrochemical Complex. Itai-itai-byō—it hurts — it hurts disease, so named because of the agonies of its victims — caused by the cadmium Mitsui Mining had released into the rivers of Toyama Prefecture. The corporations were fighting the victims in court; their flunkies had attacked a photographer who had documented the horrors of Minamata; the government was helping cover things up. The same types who forced Sayaka’s parents to take the money and keep their mouths shut. I asked myself if there was a reason I should ever refrain from killing these people. I couldn’t think of one.
When I had finished my coffee, I rode over to Sumida Park, a narrow strip of green along the river of the same name alongside Asakusa. Among mothers pushing babies in strollers and toddlers playing on the swing sets, I went through the file. Its contents weren’t encouraging. The photos were redundant — I already knew what he looked like, from Ueno, and then from when I’d seen him staring down at me at the Kodokan while Pig Eyes tried to choke me to death. As for whereabouts, Junior kept two condominiums, one in Roppongi, the other in Aoyama. There were several nightclubs he was said to manage, but between the two residences and the three nightclubs, if not more, I was facing a shell-game dynamic. Absent some specific actionable intel or a very lucky break, finding Junior could take a while. And all that time, I’d be living like a fugitive, with a yakuza contract hanging over my head.
I thought about Sayaka. I wondered what she was doing right then. Studying English? Reading a book? I knew so little about her. But at the same time, I felt like I did know her. She’d let me in, literally and figuratively, and I was still awestruck by that, by everything that had happened. I had to force myself to stop thinking about it and get back to the file.
When I’d memorized the information, I burned the pages in a public ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, then headed over to a payphone and called McGraw. “Look,” I told him, “that file you gave me, it’s not enough. I need something more specific. I held up my end, now it’s time for you to hold up yours.”
There was a pause. I thought he was going to push back, so I was pleasantly surprised when he said, “I know, it wasn’t nearly as complete I was hoping. I have to tell you again, you work a lot faster than I’d been expecting. The kind of information you need takes time to put together. I’ll keep working on it. And if something comes up, if we catch a break, I’ll let you know right away.”
I didn’t like it, but didn’t see how I could ask for much more. I hung up.
I spent the rest of the day reconning Junior’s various haunts. If I had known for sure which one and at what time, there would have been a number of approaches. But five possibilities? The two residences were as close to a choke point as it looked like I was going to get. But I could wait all night outside either one of them, and I’d never know if he was just out late or if he’d turned in early at the other one. Or if he was spending the night shacked up with one of the girls from his clubs.