The hostess smiled. “Of course. Are you sure we can’t get you anything to drink?”
I smiled back, thinking she was wise to try to earn my gratitude with such a small investment. “No, no, I really don’t want to put you to any trouble. Already from what I can see, I think your club looks most appropriate. Would it be all right though if I were to just…”
She bowed. “By all means, please, feel free.”
I thanked her and walked inside. If Mori wasn’t here, I didn’t know what I would do next time — the “I’m just here for my boss” routine would last only so long.
The place was shaped like an L, with the long end going left from the entrance. I turned into it. There was a short bar and four tables, all occupied. At one of the tables stood the guy who was singing, the microphone partly obscuring his face. Mori? I thought so. Two western hostesses and three Japanese tablemates were laughing and applauding. I moved to the side and looked more closely, matching the face to what I had seen in the file photographs. No question now, it was him. His English was as impressive as his voice, and I was struck by a moment of private irony, the notion that he was singing a song about the plane crash that had killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper—“the day the music died.”
There was a bottle of Suntory whisky on their table, mostly empty. That might have meant they’d been there for a while. On the other hand, a guy like Mori would almost certainly have a bottle-keep — his own paid-for bottle, which the club would store and take out for him. No way to know. I’d just have to wait for as long as it took. The main thing was, he was here. I was never going to get a better chance.
I used the bathroom and headed out, thanking the hostess on the way. She escorted me to the landing and pressed the button for the elevator, waiting for it to arrive and then bowing low until the doors had closed.
I headed back out to the street, searching for the right venue. I had initially assumed I’d just ride the elevator up and down until Mori emerged, but the way the hostess had waited with me suggested this would be a no-go. Weird behavior, and therefore both suspicious and memorable. Not to mention the many opportunities it would give multiple people to see my face.
I looked around. Most of the buildings had exterior stairwells that were used primarily for storage in violation of local fire ordinances, and the Higashi West building was no exception. I supposed I could hang back inside the entrance to the stairwell and maintain a good view of the elevator. But then his back would be to me. I’d have to do something to confirm it was him. Well, I didn’t see a better way.
I retrieved the rock and the furoshiki, rewrapping the cloth so that it only covered half the rock — the half I was holding. I didn’t think the porous stone would take a fingerprint, but I didn’t want to take a chance, either. I ghosted back to the stairway and waited in the shadows. I felt nervous and out of control. Was I really doing this again, so soon after Ozawa and Fukumoto and the other three? But what difference did proximity make? The opportunity was what mattered, and the opportunity was now. I’d lain more ambushes in the jungle than I could count, and reminded myself the only meaningful difference between then and now was the venue. And why shouldn’t I do it? Mori meant nothing to me. Would I pay ten thousand dollars to save his life? Because that’s what I’d be doing, if I walked away now.
Several dozen people came and went while I waited, and each time a group emerged from the elevator, I’d get a pointless adrenaline dump while I tried to assess from behind whether one of them was Mori. I stretched and did light calisthenics to stay limber, switching the cloth-covered rock from one hand to the other, breathing deeply in and out. I reminded myself repeatedly of who I was supposed to be tonight, how I would act, how I wanted this to look to any witnesses and to the police. I was starting to feel exhausted, and had endured so many false alarms, that when a group of three men in identical dark suits emerged from the elevator, it took me a moment to realize from the build and posture of the one in the middle that this was probably him. Shit.
I eased out from the stairwell, getting closer, afraid to commit in case I was mistaken. What light there was came in a pall of yellow from a few inadequate sodium vapor lamps, and the men were mostly in shadow. Good concealment for me, but it made positive ID a bitch, too.
The men had paused in front of the sedan. They were chuckling about something — what, I couldn’t make out. I wanted to circle around the car and come at them from the front so I could get a clear look at his face before I committed. But I was afraid if the timing were bad, he might get into the car before I could close with him.
I was already in character. My heart was pounding and I was juiced with adrenaline. Fuck it. I paused and said in Japanese, “Mori-san? Is that you?”
All three turned, the one in the center slightly more quickly. I saw his face. It was him.
“Yes, I’m Mori,” he said, annoyance in his tone. “Who’s that?”
My heart was slamming harder. I tightened my hand around the cloth-covered rock. I was only three meters away.
I thought I was going to be able to get closer before he would react. But something in my demeanor cued him. He flinched and turned to the rear car door. Grabbed the handle. Started to open it. Everything happening now in slow motion through my adrenalized vision.
“You like fucking my wife?” I shouted. “You like fucking my wife?”
He yanked the door open and started to pull himself inside. I grabbed him by the collar with my free hand, hauled him back, and straight-armed the rock into the back of his head. It connected with a satisfying crunch and I felt the rigidity flow out of his body. His companions jumped back, one of them crying out, “Oi!” I barely heard him.
Mori slumped over the trunk. I still had my hold on his collar and used it to drag him face down to the pavement. “You like fucking my wife?” I screamed again, sounding as hysterical as I felt. I reared up and smashed the rock into the back of his head again. This time, there was nowhere for him to float with the blow, and I heard the crack of his skull opening. I hit him a third time, still screaming. And then again.
I let the rock fall from the furoshiki and took off in the direction I had come from. The whole thing had taken maybe ten seconds. I’d given no one time to react. Maybe the driver would think to try to chase me, but it was a one-way street and he was pointed in the wrong direction. And I thought it would be some time before his companions recovered from their shock, and even then I doubted they’d have the stomach to come after someone who had just done what they’d witnessed. Still, I cut through the first alley I came to, and then a parking lot, and a minute later I was out of Akasaka proper, on quiet, deserted neighborhood streets. I stopped running and made myself walk at a normal pace, my breath heaving in and out of my chest. Relax, I told myself. Relax. You’re a civilian again. Just a normal salaryman. Relax.
I ducked into an alley and let the shakes pass through me. Killing with electricity was better than killing with a gun, and killing with a gun was better than killing with a rock. It was a matter of proximity, and therefore of intimacy. It wasn’t logical — dead was dead, whether brained with a rock or bombed from thirty thousand feet — but it was true. I’d killed at close range in Vietnam and Cambodia, and I reminded myself this was no different — ethically, morally, whatever. I reminded myself that Mori was in the life and knew he was taking his chances, or should have known. But even so, the shakes were bad this time.