Caine watched as they walked past the redemption booth, where the manager of the parlor sat reading a manga. He put it down and bowed as the men walked past. They ignored him, disappearing through a red curtain hanging in the back of the room.
A loud, blaring buzzer and blast of Japanese pop music distracted Caine. One of his balls had hit a jackpot bar. A stream of winnings cascaded out of the machine. The LCD screen burst into white light, then faded to black. A computer-generated graphic of an anime girl stepped onto the screen.
Her hair was neon green and spiked into a mohawk down the center of her exaggerated head. Floor-length pigtails spun and twirled as she danced to an upbeat pop song. The character picked up a microphone, belting out the lyrics in chirping, high-pitched Japanese. A heavily accented announcer spoke over the singing: “Ladies and Gentlemen, Masuka Ongaku!”
The machine’s light show flashed in time to the music. Caine shook his head and stood up. Only in Japan.
Caine pushed the call button at the base of his pachinko machine. A few moments later, an attendant came out from behind the curtain, grabbed his winning bin, and escorted him to the manager’s booth. The young man dropped the bin on the counter, next to others Caine had accumulated throughout the day. The manager was once again buried in his manga. He looked up as a few errant balls rolled across the counter and fell to the floor.
He stared at Caine for a second, then dumped the balls into a funnel behind the counter. A computer counted the winnings and spat out a receipt from the cash register when it was finished. The man tore it off, read the number at the bottom, then handed it to Caine.
He turned and looked at the shelves behind him. Rows and rows of cheap electronics, random household items, and bizarre souvenirs stretched up to the ceiling. The mirrored wall behind multiplied them into a never-ending kaleidoscope of shoddy goods.
The manager stood on his tiptoes to reach a slim box on one of the higher shelves. Caine looked it over as the manager set it down. The writing on the box was in Japanese kanji, but the picture showed a DVD player of some kind. Caine placed his hands on the counter and stared the manager in the eye.
The manager squinted back, scratched behind his ear, then sighed. He produced several small, colorful plastic cards from a hidden spot under the counter and fanned them out on the glass countertop. He nodded his head towards the curtain in the back of the room.
Caine picked up the cards. “Arrigato gozimasu,” he said, dipping his head in a slight bow. At the back of the parlor, he parted the red curtain and stepped into a small concrete room.
Water dripped from a leak in the ceiling, creating a puddle on the floor. The attendant who had collected his winnings sat on a stool, slurping down some instant noodles from a styrofoam bowl. At the end of the room, a wooden jam propped open the metal fire door. The attendant didn’t even glance up from his meager meal as Caine walked past him and out into a long, narrow alley.
As he walked, Caine looked up at the edges of the buildings that towered over the narrow alley. His mental alarm bells were ringing. It felt like a good place for an ambush, but he saw no sign of any snipers above him.
He continued down the narrow passage. Ahead he could see flashes of green cabs and pedestrians, passing where the alley connected with the street. Just a few feet away was an entry to his right, a metal door painted over with several coats of thick, industrial grey paint. It was completely unmarked save for a small metal panel set in the center.
Perfect. The local tuck shop.
Gambling on pachinko was illegal in Japan, but the parlors, with a little help from the local yakuza, had found a way around that. Prizes could not be exchanged for cash in the pachinko parlors themselves, but winners could bring their tokens to hidden spots like this one. The yakuza bought back the prizes for cash and took a percentage of the winnings. They played the role of the “house” and, as usual, the house always won.
Caine stood to the side of the door, making sure it opened outwards and towards him. He knocked on the metal panel.
Nothing happened.
He knocked again. “Hey!” he shouted. “Anta nana?”
He heard the metallic fumbling of a latch on the other side of the door. The panel opened and a metal drawer slid out. Caine reached over and dropped his pachinko tokens in the drawer.
After collecting the winnings, the panel opened again, and the drawer slid back out. Caine grabbed a stack of yen from the drawer, slipping the thick wad of bills into the inner pocket of his blazer.
“Hey,” he shouted in Japanese. “That’s not enough. What are you trying to pull here?” It wasn’t true, but he knew he had to get their attention if he was going to move up the chain to Isato.
A deep voice shouted back, “Kiraina hito hanarete iku!”
Caine couldn’t help but smile. The voice had told him to go away, then called him an asshole.
“Give me the rest or I call the police!” Caine demanded.
He heard more fumbling behind the door, the sound of a latch turning. He pivoted his body towards the door as it swung open halfway. He used the momentum of his turn to launch a powerful kick at the door.
He heard a grunt of pain as the heavy metal door crashed into the person behind it. Caine immediately grabbed the edge of the money drawer, then yanked it backwards, ripping it from its socket.
The door bounced back open from the impact, and Caine stepped forward, kicking it open further. A man in a black suit staggered before him, blood gushing from his now-crushed nose.
Caine noticed two things right away. First, this man was not one the yakuza who had walked past him in the pachinko parlor. And second, whoever he was, he was reaching across his blood-spattered shirt and slipping his hand into his jacket.
Caine charged forward, swinging the metal drawer in a powerful arc. The drawer knocked the man’s hand away from the gun, then cracked into his chin. His head snapped back, blood spraying through the air.
He tried to take a step backwards, but Caine grabbed the man’s shirt collar and pulled him in close. He drove his knee into the man’s groin twice, while slamming the metal drawer into his left side, striking the solar plexus.
As the man crumpled, Caine heard a sharp crack.
Someone was shooting at him.
Using the incapacitated man to block the shots, Caine hunched low and surveyed the situation. At the far end of the room, another man in an identical black suit ducked behind a desk. Caine grabbed his hostage’s weapon as the other man popped up from behind his cover.
Crack! Crack! The other man fired again. The sound was loud but muffled, like someone clapping in a soundproofed room.
Caine felt the impact as the bullets slammed into the human shield he held in front of him. His hostage was dead weight now, and he couldn’t hold him up and still shoot. He let the body drop to the floor with a thud.
He was in fight mode now, his senses accelerated. Caine watched his assailant stand up from behind the desk in slow motion.
Caine hurled the drawer at him. The heavy chunk of metal flew through the air, smashing into the other man’s shoulder as he raised his gun to shoot. The impact threw off his aim, and Caine felt the bullets slice through the air next to his ear. He held his ground, raising his own pistol in front of him in a double-handed grip.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The pistol barked in his hands. Three crimson holes burst open in the man across the room.
And just like that, it was over.
The room was silent, save for the distant sounds of traffic and the creaking of the metal door. It swayed on its hinges, open then closed. Open then closed.
Caine was panting. For a few seconds, he just stood there, looking around the room, observing the details.
He was surprised to discover four dead bodies in the room. In addition to the two men he’d fought, the two thugs who had passed him in the parlor were also splayed across the floor. Their clothes were riddled with bullet holes. Blood was everywhere. On the desk, on the floor,
on the walls … everywhere.
Caine took another breath, then kneeled next to the first yakuza. He patted the body down and removed a small but heavy Kimber automatic pistol, a wallet, and a cellphone.
He did the same for the other bodies. The other yakuza carried a similar cellphone, but was armed with a Spyderco folding knife. The other two men carried no ID or cellphones of any kind, just identical Beretta pistols fitted with silencers.
As Caine searched the body behind the desk, he noticed some scarring peeking out from under the lapel of his white shirt. Caine ripped it open, revealing an ugly pink mass of tissue that extended across the man’s chest and up to his shoulder.
It looked like burn marks of some kind … chemical or acid, maybe.
As he stood up, Caine realized the scars were in the same position as where a yakuza tattoo would be.
On the floor next to the dead man was a blue satchel, filled with yen notes. The safe behind the desk was open. It looked like someone, either the yakuza or the black suits, had been cleaning it out when the other party surprised them. Caine thought for a second, then grabbed the satchel. Using a handkerchief from one of the dead yakuza, he wiped down the weapons and phones, and put them back on the bodies.
He kept the knife, one of the phones and one of the Beretta pistols for himself, stuffing them into the duffel bag. He opened the door a crack, looked left and right, then stepped out into the alley. He glanced back at the bloody scene behind him. Whoever came next to collect their winnings would receive quite a shock. Would they remember the tall Caucasian man who had gone before them?
Caine felt a tightening in his gut. Events were set in motion now…. The clock was speeding up.
As he stepped out into the street, he spied a dark grey sedan about a block away. Something about it set off his radar. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see who was inside.
He paused and turned to look into a shop window, pretending to peruse the goods. As he stared at the rows of Masanuga sunglasses, he watched the sedan’s reflection in the glass. Its engine was running. After a few seconds, it pulled away from the curb and joined the afternoon traffic.
Caine continued down the street, making a few random stops and turns along the way. The sedan did not reappear.
He pulled the yakuza’s cellphone out of the duffel bag, dialing the number he had been calling earlier. A gruff Japanese voice answered. “Hai?”
“It’s Waters. I need to speak to Yoshizawa-san. Immediately.”
“I told you, Mr. Yoshizawa is a busy. He does not want to speak with you. Do not call here again.”
“Check the number I’m calling you from. Trust me, Yoshizawa will want to speak with me.” Caine slung the heavy duffel bag full of cash and weapons over his shoulder as he crossed the road.
“Tell him I have something that belongs to him.”
He hung up, then dialed Rebecca’s secure line from the cellphone.
After the electronic beeps that signaled a secure connection, the call went to voicemail. He thought about leaving a message, but decided against it.
He hung up and pushed forward into the crowd of Japanese pedestrians.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Nagi Golden Gai ramen shop was small and cramped. Patrons had to wait outside until the chef called to them from a tube in the door. They were then directed to a vending machine to purchase tickets for the food they wished to order. Caine’s selection—made from soy sauce, pork and chicken stock, and an astounding quantity of boiled sardines—nearly scalded his tongue as he swallowed a spoonful of broth. He savored the taste of vinegar and fish, then grabbed a clump of thick noodles with his chopsticks.
He turned towards the curtain that covered the entrance. Two men without tickets entered the cramped dining area. He knew they weren’t here for the famous ramen. They were here for him.
One of the men looked like a J-pop idol. His hair, skin, and suit were all sleek and flawless. The other was older, his face like gnarled leather, his eyebrows white and bushy. The skin around his throat hung in folds. As they came closer, Caine recognized the world-weary face: Koichi Ogawa, one of Yoshizawa’s most trusted aides. He looked up from his bowl and smiled.
“Koichi? Is that you? God damn, you look like shit, man!”
Koichi gave a thin grin, but the smile didn’t travel to his eyes. The young man said nothing. He glanced at Caine with disinterest, then tapped the shoulder of the diner next to them. When the pudgy man saw who stood behind him, he mumbled, “Sumimasyn,” and scurried away, back up the stairs to the street. Steam rose from his unfinished bowl of ramen and wafted into the heavy air.
Caine gestured to the empty chair. “Please, have a seat. Best shoyu ramen in Tokyo.”
The young man laughed, but did not sit down. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks, plucked some noodles from the abandoned bowl, and swallowed them with a loud slurp.
Koichi grimaced and rested an arm on the back of the empty chair next to Caine. His hands were calloused and dry, and Caine noticed one other odd detail…. Koichi was missing a finger. His pinky had been lopped off at the second knuckle.
“You said you have something for us, Waters-san?”
Caine took a long sip from an ice cold bottle of Kirin beer. “I said I have something for Mr. Yoshizawa. I will give it to him.”
Koichi nodded and peered at the duffel bag next to Caine. Caine shifted his arm, moving his hand closer to the slit he had cut in the bag. Inside, his gun sat loaded and ready.
“Very well,” said the old man. “Follow me, please.”
Caine sipped one last spoonful of his ramen, then stood up with the bag at his side. He gestured to the exit with his free hand. “Please, after you.” They headed up the stairs, Caine sandwiched between the two yakuza men.
The late afternoon sun had taken on a hazy cast, slowly losing ground to the shadows that crept across the streets and buildings. Everything seemed tired and dreamlike in the receding light. The crowds had thinned out, and the streets were as close to empty as Tokyo got.
Koichi led the way to a maroon Toyota Crown sedan, a luxury vehicle that rivaled BMW and Audi imports. Caine whistled. “Very nice, Koichi! Coming up in the world, I see.”
“It’s not mine. Get in.”
Caine got in the passenger side of the Crown. He watched as the younger man walked to over a black Nissan GTR sports car, parked ahead of them in the street. Known as a Skyline in Japan, its low, athletic stance and aggressive, straight lines resembled a hungry, black animal, a predator waiting to pounce.
As Koichi slid into the driver’s seat, the GTR roared to life and tore off into the street, tires squealing. The smell of burnt rubber lingered behind. Caine moved the bag to his right side and slipped his hand into the slit. He felt the comforting weight of the Beretta in his fingers.
Koichi shifted the car into gear and pulled into traffic. Unlike the raw, menacing aggression of the GTR, the Crown’s engine was smooth and powerful. It navigated the shadowed streets like a cruise missile wrapped in a mink coat.
“Who’s the kid?” Caine asked.
Koichi looked over at Caine. “I’m surprised you don’t remember. I’m sure you still have the scar.”
“That was Kenji-kun?!” He shook his head. “I didn’t even recognize him!”
Koichi kept his eyes on the road as the sedan cruised through the streets. “It’s been years. He grew up. Things change.”
Caine looked out the window as they drove. Evening was settling in. He could just make out the flashing lights of the Shinjuku bars and clubs through atmospheric haze.
“Some things do, but some things feel exactly the same.”
He loosened his grip on the Beretta in the duffel bag. But he kept his hand close.
The drive through the city was uneventful. Once or twice, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled: he could have sworn they were being followed. But when he checked the rear-view mirror, he was never able to catch sight of any pursuers.
&nbs
p; He did spot a grey sedan, similar to the one he had seen outside the pachinko parlor. He saw it only once, and it was a common style of car, but it felt wrong … and he knew to listen to his instincts. It followed their path for a few blocks. Then Koichi made a right turn, and the sedan continued straight. Caine flicked his eyes up to the mirror several times, but it did not reappear.
Thirty minutes later, Koichi drove them through the Roppongi intersection, past the Almond Coffee Shop. Caine noted that its famous pink-and-white striped awning was now housed in a modern, renovated building rather than the old one he remembered.
Koichi guided the luxurious sedan off the main road, into a labyrinth of tiny side streets and alleys. The car’s tires rumbled over the uneven stone pavement. Finally, the car lurched to a stop, next to a red curb. Large signs stated “No Parking” in Japanese, but Koichi ignored them.
“Ikimashou,” he said. “He is waiting for you.”
Caine stepped out, looking up and down the alley. Loading docks and metal gates lined both sides of the dark, narrow street. A few small utility trucks and older cars were parked along the curb, but no one else stood outside. He spotted the black GTR parked ahead of them and smiled. The kid can drive.
As Koichi walked around the front of the car, Caine slipped the pistol out of the duffel bag and into his rear waistband. It was a calculated risk. They might search him, but he knew they would definitely look in the bag. Money was magnetic to these people.
Koichi stepped up to a large metal garage door, and rapped three times with his knuckles. The door lifted with a grinding squeal. Two heavyset, scowling men stood on the other side. They nodded their heads, and Koichi turned to his guest.
“After you, Waters-san.”
Caine stepped through the open gate into a large, bright room. It looked like a garage, but the concrete floor was covered with circular blue plastic pools, the kind suburban couples put in their yards for kids to splash in. The sound of running water echoed through the space.
[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black Page 7