The entire gymnasium broke into raucous cheering as Uta strutted out with his entourage packed around him. He wore black shorts embroidered with a line of pink cherry blossoms.
Only in Japan, Quinn thought, would a boxer allow pink flowers on his trunks.
The crowd went wild after one of the high school boys stepped to the microphone and sang Kimigayo, Japan’s national anthem.
After a quick introduction of all the judges, the announcer stepped from the ring with his microphone, giving the exaggerated signal for the start as his feet hit ground level.
“Roundo One!”
The first four rounds of the eight-round fight easily went to Ortega. Uta, though a talented enough boxer, was badly outgunned by the taller Filipino and did a mighty job just not falling down.
Quinn let his eyes play around the crowd during the early rounds — scouting, planning. He paid special attention to Sato and the way he worked. A flick of the yakuza boss’s wrist sent Watanabe scuttling to a man who sat with his back to the wall, high in the bleachers. He was obviously a bookie. The skinny soldier handed over a long envelope, listened for a moment, then bowed deeply before scuttling back down the bleachers to whisper something to Pig Nose, who in turn whispered the information to Sato.
Up in the bleachers beside the bookie, an attractive middle-aged woman in designer jeans and a fuzzy white angora sweater leaned in to listen for instructions before standing to move ringside. She sat in a vacant seat behind the three judges. She waited for the bell, then leaned forward to whisper something to the man in the middle.
Though the yakuza underboss sat only three chairs away from the cooperative judge, by using a cutout, he was able to communicate his wishes — and thus control the outcome of the fight — without speaking to anyone directly.
By the eighth round Uta had landed some decent body blows, but all the smart money was on Ortega. Sato’s smile flickered only briefly during the last ninety seconds of the fight when Uta went down and it looked like he might have a hard time getting up. At the screaming insistence of his coach, the boy crawled to his feet and held up his gloves, nodding to the referee that he was okay to continue.
Sato’s smile returned. A minute and a half later, the fight was judged a draw. Even the Filipinos seemed resigned to the decision.
Sato and his men filed out with Watanabe bringing up the rear to collect Sato’s winnings from the bookie.
Ayako moved up beside Quinn as soon as they’d gone.
“A draw?” Quinn said, chuckling. “Does anyone really believe that?”
“Uta is Japanese.” She shrugged. “And we are in Japan. Come, they’re getting away.”
A heavy rain fell outside Kyuden Gymnasium. Car lights bounced off wet pavement, turning the streets into shining rivers of red and white light. Umbrellas blossomed everywhere like black flowers in the night.
Traffic was heavy, and it was a fairly easy task for Ayako’s Honda Super Cub to keep up with the two black yakuza Toyota sedans. At first, she insisted that she be the one to drive. It was her bike. Quinn suspected it was because she liked him grabbing her around the waist. The wet roads and Quinn’s added weight finally convinced her that she could have just as much fun holding on behind him.
Quinn stayed at least two cars back as the sedans cut through the narrow streets of a residential area, presumably watching for a tail. Looking for other yakuza families after revenge, they didn’t appear to notice the angry little prostitute and the American agent looking for answers on the yellow motorbike.
Or, Quinn thought, the yakuza underboss was drawing him into a trap.
“They’re going to Nakasu,” Ayako shouted over his shoulder, loud so he could hear her above the hissing spray of rain and din of traffic.
“Nakasu?” Quinn repeated. The word meant nothing to him.
“Have you been to Kabukicho?”
“I have,” Quinn said. Her helmet bumped against his as he stopped abruptly for traffic. “Crazy place.”
Kabukicho was the world-famous red light district of Tokyo, crammed full of hostess bars, massage parlors, prostitutes — and the criminal gangs that ran them. It was not an uncommon occurrence for a drunk salaryman to wake up without his wallet — or worse — after his drink had been spiked.
“Nakasu is like Kabukicho,” Ayako said, scrunching in close. “Only more dangerous…”
Ten minutes later, Quinn followed the black sedans across the Naka River and onto the island known as Nakasu. Pay-by-the-hour love hotels, clamoring Pachinko parlors, and brightly lit soap-bath establishments lined the twisting streets. Set apart from the rest of Fukuoka, Nakasu was exactly what its name implied, an island in the middle of two rivers.
Men in white tuxedo shirts and snappy black ties stood outside curtained storefronts, hawking the young and tender merchandise they had inside. Girls dressed in abbreviated schoolgirl uniforms stood under umbrellas. Petite costumed maids stood in open overcoats exposing short skirts and laced bustier tops while they handed out brochures among crowds of pedestrians. Flashing neon reflected off their smiling faces and heaving chests, giving the place the frenetic, strobe-light feeling of an entire neighborhood caught in a rave.
“You see something you like?” Ayako chuckled. Her chest bounced against his back as he maneuvered the little bike through the crowds.
“I guess maids are a big deal here in Nakasu,” Quinn said, shaking his head.
“Most of those girls will not actually touch you,” Ayako said. “Oh, they will call you master and charge you a great deal of money to serve you drinks. I, on the other hand, will touch all you want for a price, but I refuse to call anyone master.”
Quinn stopped suddenly, planting both feet to keep the bike upright. He watched as the sedans slowed, then turned to park in an alley behind a two-story wooden structure jammed in among a Lawson convenience store and a shop that sold graphic novels. Rainwater poured off the tile roof, splashing the grimy pavement. The sign out front said the place was a buckwheat noodle shop.
“Of course,” Ayoko said, her voice tense. “They would keep her here.”
“What is this place?” Quinn asked. He was pretty sure “noodle shop” only scratched the surface.
“If Sato catches any of his men using drugs he requires them to cut off a finger as penance,” Ayoko said. “But he has no problem selling such poison to make a profit. I have heard Watanabe talk of shipments from Korea — most likely things like yao tou.”
Chinese for “head shaking,” yao tou was the street name for Ecstasy in many parts of Asia.
Down the block, two yakuza wannabes wearing dark tracksuits hustled out with umbrellas to meet their boss and senior leaders in the arriving sedans. Both were boys, Quinn suspected high school dropouts in their late teens.
“This is sort of a middle place for the drugs,” Ayako said. “Sato will hold them here before they go out to the dealers.” Her eyes narrowed behind the round goggles. “We must be careful. If he keeps his drugs here, he will also have weapons.”
“That’s a good thing,” Quinn said. “I was starting to feel naked.”
CHAPTER 44
Five minutes later saw Quinn and Ayako standing beside the sliding wooden door in the alley alongside Sato’s noodle shop. The bike was parked safely behind a broken vending machine three buildings away.