“I’m sure you were,” Elton said.
“Can I ask you something, Doc?” Howard kept his face toward the window, keeping the pressure off a scabby red boil behind his right ear.
“Sure.”
“I heard some of the CDC guys talking. They said that this stuff was one hundred percent fatal in Japan. Is that right?”
Elton made a mental note to talk to the lab rats about their bedside manner and patient outlook. Still, as a physician, he’d made it a policy to be direct and honest when someone asked him a question.
“I heard the same thing about the cases in Japan,” he said. “But I will tell you what I do know. Whatever this is, you and Bedford have had it longer than anyone here.”
“Hey,” Howard interrupted, licking his lips again. “How is Rick doing?”
“We’ve had to put him on a heart-lung bypass — but that’s keeping him alive. Your body is doing a much better job of fighting it than some people who have had it for less time.”
“I feel sorry for them, then, because this stuff is kicking my ass—” Howard broke into a violent coughing fit, his face dark as it struggled to get his breath before finally calming back down. He started to finish his thought, but Elton held up a hand to stop him.
“I get the picture, R.J.,” he said. “You just rest. I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”
Elton forced a smile as he turned to leave. R. J. Howard was getting worse before his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before he’d need ECMO treatment just like Rick Bedford. And it was a sure bet the townspeople would revolt if he put the people who made them sick on the only two units available that had any chance of saving their lives.
CHAPTER 43
Quinn bought a ticket to the fights six rows from ringside for ten thousand yen — roughly the equivalent of a hundred dollars. He followed the flow of the crowd into the squat tan building known as the Kyuden Memorial Gymnasium. Aging posters from previous boxing matches, WWF wrestling, and long-ago concerts by Journey and Queen hung framed on corridor walls.
Tables set up just inside the lobby sold programs as well as bouquets of flowers fans could give the fighters. Vending machines along the wall sold Pocari Sweat and vitamin drinks. Beer, assorted brands of sake, hot dogs, and rice balls were available outside the door to the main hall.
Apart from the slight odor of seaweed from the rice balls, the smell was much like the fights Quinn went to in the States. The difference being that when he attended fights, he was usually the one wearing trunks and gloves. He had the crooked nose to prove it.
Inside the main hall, the buzz of the crowd and sight of the canvas itself flooded Quinn with a sense of nostalgia. There was a particular energy in a group that came to watch people hit each other that wasn’t found anywhere else. Boxing had a referee, judges, and plenty of rules — but it was a fight, and those who came to watch were not truly happy until they saw blood.
Quinn couldn’t blame them. He felt the same but was happiest when he was the one in the ring, drawing the blood and doing the bleeding. Still, it was a young man’s game. Every fight, in or out of the ring, took something from him — maybe not years, but definitely something. He wondered if he would have chosen to be a fighter if he had it to do over again — or if there had ever really been a choice at all. Maybe his life had chosen him.
Ayako was already in place. She ignored him when he walked by, looking for his seat number. She had gone in first and sat at the end of the bleachers, three rows up from where the scantily clad Filipina ring girls waited with their cards to number the individual rounds. The main event on this evening was an All-Asia lightweight title between a local favorite named Uta and a thick-necked boxer from the Philippines named Ortega. A sizable number of fans from the Philippines crowded the floor seating around their champion’s corner.
Ayako sat directly above them with a clear view of the ringside seating where Sato would sit. One of Uta’s major sponsors, the yakuza underboss of Taniguchi clan would get the best seats in the house, right beside the judges.
Quinn had just taken his seat beside an older Japanese man when Sato walked in surrounded by a cadre of younger subordinates. A stout man, he wore a camelhair sport coat over a black turtleneck and black slacks. His black hair was neatly trimmed and combed back to reveal a prominent widow’s peak. Wire-frame glasses gave him a studious look for a gangster.
When he reached his seat, Sato handed his overcoat to a skinny subordinate with wavy hair and a black turtleneck that matched his boss’s. From Ayako’s description, this one was likely Watanabe.
The younger man took the coat while another held the chair for Sato as he sat down. The crowd around him, including the judges already at ringside, gave the yakuza underboss deferential nods when he looked at them. He folded his arms across his belly and waited for the fight to start, apparently tired from his flight in from Guam.
Quinn studied the four subordinate gangsters. None of them was very tall, with Watanabe the tallest if not the biggest, at about five-nine. What they lacked in height, they all made up for in intensity. Each man scanned the crowd for signs of threat against their boss. All four carried themselves like bullies, men used to forcing their way in the world. They were all too happy to do the dirty work so Sato could keep his hands relatively clean.
The heaviest one — Quinn thought of him as Pig Face because of his wide, flat mug — was the apparent second in command. He stayed within arm’s reach of Sato and the others deferred to him when he spoke or even looked in their direction — especially Watanabe, who looked several times like he might wet himself when the bigger man said something to him. Pig Face weighed in at around 220, heavy for a man just over five and a half feet tall. The size of his belly caused him to have to hitch up his slacks every few seconds, exposing the slight bulge of a handgun against his black leather jacket each time.
The other two looked enough alike they could have been brothers. Both were in their mid-twenties, and while followers, had no problem staring down anyone who got near their boss. All of them, including — no, especially — Watanabe, would be armed. He didn’t look the type to do much fighting unless he had what he thought was a clear advantage.
When confronting multiple opponents, Quinn preferred to take on the toughest one first. Pig Face would earn that honor. The twins would be next. If they were brothers, they would fight for each other as much as for Sato. That would make them dangerous. Watanabe, last on the list, was not quite a pushover but definitely someone Quinn could handle — as long as he made it through all the others. One good pop in the nose would likely render the man inoperable.
Of course, there would be others where they were holding Miyu prisoner, but Quinn supposed Sato would want his best men with him and leave underlings to guard a mere girl.
A shout went up as the announcer introduced Ortega, a 134-pound bruiser at the heavy end of lightweight class. A crowd of women, some older grandma types and others busty, dark-complexioned women in tight jeans and T-shirts, shouted “Viva Philippines!” over and over as their favorite son climbed into the ring. He wore black shorts with a bright orange belt and matching boots.
A commotion arose on the near side of the ring. Drowning Pool’s “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” began to build over the overhead loudspeaker, buzzing the cardboard program in Quinn’s hand. A small army of high school boys, still in their black uniforms, marched in from the dressing room carrying tall purple banners, like those a samurai army might have carried into battle. Each wore a white headband with the Japanese characters for Hisshou emblazoned on the front on either side of a rising sun—Must Win.