As evening deepened into night, I decided I was wasting my time. Maybe I’d have better luck with Mori. Miyamoto’s hit hadn’t been as important to me because Mori wasn’t a threat, just a job. And maybe I had some vestigial concerns about the ethics of that. But I reminded myself that the guy was in the life. I thought of Kamioka, another big-shot politician, the one who’d crippled Sayaka. And of the corporate officers and corrupt politicians who had poisoned thousands of people and then conspired to deny them justice. I realized I didn’t have any pity for any of them. Was I rationalizing again? Maybe. But did that make my analysis inaccurate? Mori had made his own choices. Now he had to live with the consequences.
Or not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I stopped at a discount store and bought a suit, shirt, and tie; some hair gel; and a pair of reading glasses. Back at the hotel in Ueno, I showered, changed into the suit and tie, and slicked my hair. I popped the lenses out of the glasses and put them on. I looked in the mirror — nothing likely to fool anyone who knew me, but enough to throw off any witness descriptions. The suit alone made me look like someone else. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn one. My father’s funeral, maybe. At my mother’s, I’d been in my military dress uniform.
Not only did the outfit look strange, it also felt uncomfortable. When I’d tried it on in the store, beyond “a suit” I didn’t know what I was looking for, and I realized I was probably making a dozen mistakes in the way I was wearing it now. Was the tie knotted correctly? Should I button the jacket? For anyone with an eye for such things, subtle mistakes could be remembered or otherwise draw attention. It wasn’t good that I was only just realizing this. I was in trouble now, Mad Dog still out there, gunning for me, and I shouldn’t have been playing catch-up with my preparations. I’d been stupid and complacent, like a homeowner who never bothered to buy insurance because nothing bad had ever happened before.
I resolved to never again be unprepared for the shit hitting the fan. I would pay attention to small things — the way people dressed and spoke and walked. The things that made them part of a background environment, or made them stand out against it. I would watch them, try to consciously identify the signs and behaviors that made them who they were, and then imitate and adopt those things as my own. It would be like performing a role, with the preparation a kind of acting school. I’d make it a game, and play it every day.
But that was for later. Assuming I made it to later. For now, I had to work with what I had.
I thought about how I might get close to Mori, how I would do it, how I would get away, how I would try to create distractions. A plan cohered. It was crude, it was ugly, and it was improvised, but given the parameters, I thought it would work. This one didn’t have to look natural, after all. This one could look like anything.
I stopped at another discount store and bought a plain furoshiki—basically, a large bandana. You don’t often see them in Japan these days, as they’ve been largely replaced by plastic shopping bags, but at the time they were widely used to wrap and carry everything — groceries, packages, boxed lunches.
Or, in my case, just a rock.
I rode around until I spotted a road crew doing construction — not something that has ever taken long to find in Tokyo, where make-work collusion between the yakuza and the Construction Ministry has long been a national disease. I parked and hunted around at the edges of the site, away from the workmen, outside the range of the floodlights, until I found what I was looking for. Not a chunk of asphalt or concrete, which might crack under pressure, but a fist-sized stone. This one was just right — maybe twice the size of a billiard ball and considerably heavier. I wrapped it in the furoshiki and drove off to Akasaka.
I parked Thanatos in a crowded lot off Roppongi-dōri, then walked into Akasaka. The air was dense with humidity and the smells of fried soba and beer and yakitori, the hum of conversation and laughter and madcap beeping of pachinko machines and the horns of taxis fighting their way through knots of pedestrians. The buildings on either side were low, many of them still of wood, but I could see how rapidly the area was changing, with five-story structures replacing two-story, and ferroconcrete replacing wood. Each building had an illuminated sign running up its side, advertising clubs and bars and restaurants. The sidewalks were crowded with salarymen out for an evening’s entertainment, couples walking arm in arm on their way to dinner, a few foreign tourists gawking at the spectacle. Hostesses in kimonos and cocktail dresses hurried to work. Touts stood in front of entrances, handing out flyers, calling to passersby. Here and there, the sidewalk was blocked by an illegally parked sedan, the driver waiting for his designated passenger, yakuza or politician or some other VIP, and the crowd would flow around it.
After a few minutes of letting the crowd carry me along, I saw the sign for Higashi West. It was in one of the newer buildings, and on its fifth floor, the highest. The name was spelled out in English, no kanji, no kana — a nod, I supposed, to the cosmopolitan flavor it promised. There was a car at the curb, driver in front, curtained windows in back. Not necessarily Mori’s, of course, but it made me hopeful. If he was here, though, and if this was his car, there would be a very short window between when he left the building and when he entered the vehicle. Not a lot of time to get to him.
I dropped the furoshiki and the rock wrapped inside it in a garbage container, then headed into the building’s vestibule. Three inebriated salarymen got on the elevator with me. I kept my head down and my eyes averted until they exited on the third floor and left me to continue alone to the fifth.
The doors opened to reveal a somewhat gaudy interior — a lot of red velvet and curtains and lace, a caricatured Japanese take on European luxury. The air was heavy with tobacco and Scotch, and someone was crooning Don McLean’s “American Pie,” top of the charts that year, from somewhere within. The decor might not have been to my taste, but this was clearly a high-end club, the women certain to be attractive, charming, educated, and intelligent — and not at all for sale. Though westerners who find entirely natural the idea of paying for sex are simultaneously mystified at the notion of paying for conversation, is the divide really all that wide? It’s not as though a woman in the former circumstance actually wants to sleep with you, or enjoys doing it, any more than a woman in the latter situation relishes your conversation. If one is unnatural, then isn’t the other, as well? Which isn’t to say that sex with a hostess is an impossibility. It just isn’t something that can be purchased for cash. Instead, much as was the case in the geisha houses from which the modern hostess club is descended, a sexual relationship might develop over time, with the right customer, after much extracurricular wooing, and only if the girl wants it.
A Japanese hostess stepped forward to greet me. “Irasshaimase,” she said with a bow. Welcome. She produced an ice-cold oshibori, a damp washcloth, and I wiped my hands and face gratefully.
Before she could lead me to a table, I said, “I’m embarrassed to inform you, but I’m not here to stay. My boss has told me to find him a suitable place to entertain in Akasaka. I’ve heard favorable things about your establishment, but would it be all right if I just took a look for myself? He won’t be satisfied if I don’t.”