by KJ Charles
They found details from America twice—what looked like a family home plus a military base from a couple of years ago—and Taka had been about to yell for me to get on the phone and start blagging when Yoshi tried an auction site and a Tokyo address came up.
“Can we be sure it’s the right man?” I asked, leaning over Yoshi’s shoulder.
Taka grinned. “We’ll ask him when we visit.”
Hearn had stuff delivered to an address in Setagaya, west of Shibuya. Taka called up the list of things he’d bought and what items he was watching as they came up. It was an uninspiring selection: military history videos and war films, a lot of old Steven Seagal and Chuck Norris movies, and a couple of pieces of something called survivalist literature.
“It’s about how the United Nations and the Catholic Church and the international Jewish conspiracy are going to attack the United States,” Chanko explained. “The United Nations’ll nuke us before the Vatican army invasion. Then all good Americans will take to the woods like guerrillas to defend freedom.”
“The United Nations is going to do that? Really?”
“Jesus, Taka, shut up.”
“It’s got to be him,” I said. “Right name, right area, right interests, and a right arsehole.”
Under instructions, I kitted myself out as a very demure young woman: crisp white blouse, navy skirt, low-heeled shoes, brown eyes. I was going with Taka and Chanko; Yoshi was staying behind.
“Are you going to be okay on your own?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’ll see what I can do here. You know, look stuff up, maybe get some sleep.” He swallowed. “Be careful, Kechan.”
“I will.”
“Look after her, won’t you?” He directed the words at Taka, but with a nervous reflex bow towards Chanko. “And…well, be careful.”
Hearn lived in a lump of a building, grey concrete and brown tile, one of many high-rise housing blocks that will be concrete graveyards when the overdue Big One finally hits Tokyo. I don’t like to think about earthquakes at all, but I particularly don’t like thinking about them in cheap, shoddy buildings. And this place was grim, unkempt and dangerous-feeling, with bags of unsorted garbage left outside doors, graffiti on the walls, and a few withered plants lying on their sides in broken pots. A lot of the corridor lights were off, probably permanently, and small groups of young men gathered in the streets outside. Under other circumstances, I’d have felt intimidated.
“This is really nasty,” I muttered.
“Illegal sublet, you take what you can get. Guy must be broke.”
The outside door was wood, reinforced with steel plating and wire mesh in the glass pane, and boasted two good locks and a code pad for tenant access. It would have been a serious security measure if it hadn’t been propped open by a toy robot in cracked green and orange plastic.
The lift was more or less working, but we heard the clanking, wheezing machinery, and we saw the flickering light, and we looked at Chanko, and we took the stairs.
Hearn’s address was on the eighth floor, and by the time I’d got up there my foot was starting to hurt again. It felt like the cut had reopened, and I was glad I wasn’t wearing heels. I got my breath back, smoothed my hair and rang the doorbell while the others lurked.
I rang twice, and he didn’t answer, and I was just beckoning to Chanko when I heard footsteps approaching the door and had to frantically wave him away.
Hearn peered through the spyhole and took a chain off before the door opened.
“The fuck you want?” he demanded in American English.
It was the man we were after, no question. That dramatically angled widow’s peak was very clear now since his hair hadn’t been clippered for a couple of weeks. A tall, well-built man, thickly veined muscles bulging out from under a limp grey sleeveless top. I’d have been more impressed if I hadn’t known Chanko, and if his unshaven chin and slight belly hadn’t betrayed the signs of a man going to seed. He had smoker’s breath and smelled like he drank more than he washed, his eyes were bleary, and there was a mean, desperate, sleepless look to him that made me realise the last few days probably hadn’t been much fun for him either. A deep, nasty, half-healed cut ran under his eye and down the side of his face to the corner of his mouth. It didn’t look accidental.
“Said, what the fuck you want?” he growled.
I gave him a mildly terrified, determinedly happy smile and held out the religious magazine I’d bought at a newsstand on the way over, explaining how I wanted to talk to him about Jesus. I used the most basic vocabulary and made it as clear and slow as I could, but he evidently didn’t follow a word. Instead he gave me his opinion of motherfucking slant-eyed door-to-door salesmen and slammed the door.
“You’ll like him,” I told the men. “No Japanese, and paranoid.”
Chanko and Taka took up positions on either side of the door. I rang the doorbell again, and he peered through the spyhole and walked away. I rang for a second time, then a third, and he rattled the chain furiously in his haste to take it off and shout at me properly. He swung the door wide with a fist raised, and I stepped back as Chanko let himself in without waiting for an invitation and Taka followed.
There was a certain amount of scuffling. I shut the door but stayed on the genkan area, out of the way of things.
Chanko had Hearn in an armlock from behind, but he was kicking out ferociously. Taka landed a fast kick of his own on the side of the man’s kneecap, moved in the moment of incapacitating pain and grasped both Hearn’s calves, so they had him lifted off the ground and thrashing uselessly. It looked like something they’d practised. Or done before.
Hearn didn’t seem used to losing fights this quickly. He was cursing like a trooper and alternating southern-tinged American English with awful Japanese. “Who the hell are you? Are you from Higuchi? Doko desu ka? Doko desu ka, goddammit!”
We all looked around. He’d shouted what could have been “Where are you?” or “Where is it?” (or even “Where am I?”, come to that), but there was nobody else in the tiny one-room flat, and he was clearly talking to Taka.
“Quiet,” said Taka. “Ssh.”
“What is this? Get off me, you Jap bastard. Doko desu ka?”
“Nobody here, okay? Shut up now.”
“The fuck are you talking about? Speakee English! Doko the fuck desu ka?”
“Doko means ‘where’, assclown, not ‘who’,” said Chanko. “And he told you to shut up.”
“What the—you’re American? I’m American! Hey, c’mon, you gotta help me out. I’m American.”
“You said. So?”
Hearn gave a bellow and kicked out hard, freeing one foot from Taka’s grip and bringing the heel down on his knuckles. There was a flurry of activity as he thrashed and fought, one foot on the ground for balance, trying to wrench himself free of the armlock.
Chanko was humming “Oh, say can you see”. It seemed to get on Hearn’s nerves.
It ended inevitably with Hearn on his knees and in what looked like an uncomfortable and unbreakable hold. Behind him, Chanko had one arm round the man’s neck, another securing his arms, and was kneeling with one leg weighing down Hearn’s calves, which really had to hurt. Hearn wasn’t showing pain, though. His jaw was set and he had adopted a staring-straight-ahead posture.
“Okay,” Chanko said. “We got a few questions for you.”
“I don’t have to tell you nothing but my name—”
“—rank and serial number. Don’t be a jerk. Michael Wallace Hearn, right?”
“If you’re from Higuchi, you’re making a mistake,” said Hearn throatily. “I told him—he said I could have more time.”
Taka had seated himself on the dirty floor, opposite Hearn, cross-legged. He had a black knitted cap pulled down over his giveaway hair, and only the white ends poked out around his neck. Now he leaned forward and smiled unnervingly at the American.
“Hearn-san kill old man,” he said softly.
Hearn blenched. His whole face gave it away in a hot second, the attempt at impassivity blown, but he tried to brazen it out. “What? You want me to kill someone? I don’t kill old men.”
“Nice try, jerkoff,” Chanko said. “The love hotel had CCTV.”
“You on camera. Next time say cheezu!”
“Who the hell are you? What are you talking about?” he added, almost perfunctorily. “Did Higuchi send you?”
“For Hearn-san, Higuchi-san is problem,” said Taka. “But Mitsuyoshi-san…big problem.”
“I don’t—” Hearn began, and then his voice failed him as Taka took out a knife from under his coat. I felt my stomach lurch.
It looked like the sashimi knife that he’d used in the karaoke box. The blade was ten inches long and razor-sharp, and he shot Hearn an untrustworthy grin and casually started to pare his nails. Sashimi knives are to manicures what guillotines are to haircuts, and I found I had my fist stuffed in my mouth in case he sliced something off. Hearn’s eyes were bugging too, and I looked again at the cut on his face.
“Old man dead.” Taka was apparently concentrating on his fingernails. “Hearn-san girlfriend dead too, maybe?”
Hearn made a strangled noise and tried to break free, then a more literally strangled noise as Chanko tightened his grip. Taka didn’t look up.
“Stupid,” he said. “Kill yakuza, steal yakuza money—better run away. By the way, where is case?”
“What case?” Hearn choked.
“Mmm. I think Hearn-san very stupid.” Taka lifted the knife so its point trembled very close to Hearn’s eye. He had the shakes, and I saw Hearn wince as the quivering point nicked skin before Taka leant back again. “Where—is—case?”
“Tell him,” Chanko said.
“Help me,” Hearn demanded. “Let me go!”
“I’m not on your side, pal.”
“You’re supposed to be American, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean anything to you people?”
“Don’t give me that shit.” Chanko’s voice was implacable. “I know what you did.”
Hearn’s face contorted. “Island nigger.”
“The fuck you just say to me?”
Taka slapped a hand on the floor, making me jump. “My friend very patient,” he said in the teeth of the evidence. “Me, not so patient. Where is case? You take from old man. I want. Now.”
Hearn’s face closed in thought. Then he said, “Where’s my girlfriend?”
“Yakuza.” Taka gave an uninterested shrug. “Maybe dead.”
“I need to get her back,” Hearn said. “You help me. And I’ll give you the briefcase, okay?”
Taka and Chanko exchanged glances. Chanko shrugged. Taka tipped his head, considering the offer. Then he hit Hearn across the face with a slap that echoed round the room.
“Baka,” he snarled.
“That means no deal,” said Chanko. “Christ. You want to look after your girlfriend, where’d you go on Saturday night?”
“Go love hotel, ne? Wait in room. Kill old man.” Taka mimed a hard blow. Hearn jerked back. “Hearn-san go with case. Kelly-san go. Kelly-san home, wait, wait, wait for Hearn-san. But Hearn-san don’t come. Yakuza come.”
Hearn’s face had crumpled. He tried to say something, his mouth working, shaking his head in denial, but no words emerged.
“You killed an old man,” said Chanko. “You set up another girl to take the fall for you. The yakuza couldn’t get her, so they took her roommate. Raped her. Beat her. Put her in a coma.”
The room rang with silence.
“Dead guy. Half-dead girl. And if your girlfriend’s not dead right now, I figure she’s wishing she was. So tell us, Mike. Where’d you go?”
Hearn was trying to keep his face rigid, but we could all see the tremor now.
“Higuchi-san,” said Taka. “Gambling, ne? Hearn-san lose money, Higuchi-san cut Hearn-san face, isn’t it? So Hearn-san go Higuchi-san, pay…” He cocked his head to one side. “And play?”
“Oh, you got to be kidding me,” said Chanko.
“It wasn’t my fault, okay?” Hearn shouted. “I just lost track of time! Jesus, it was one lousy game. I just wanted— I had to look natural, and the luck was running my way. Christ, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to—to—”
“To leave your girlfriend to the yakuza? To kill the old man? To fuck over a bunch of girls you’d never met and not even get anything out of it?”
“I just stopped for a hand!” Hearn almost screamed the words, as if saying it loud enough would make it all there was to say.
“You sorry son of a bitch.” Chanko’s nostrils were flaring dangerously. “What was in the case?”
“Fifty thousand dollars. That was what the old Jap promised Kelly. He tried to buy her.”
“So you went to pay off Higuchi? Why the hell’d you bother?”
“He had my passport,” Hearn said, defensive now. “I owed him, I had to pay him off to get it back. I needed it. Hell, how was I going to take Kelly home without it?”
“But you didn’t take her home,” Chanko pointed out. “He didn’t give it back?”
Hearn mumbled something, looking at the floor.
“Again.”
“I lost the money, okay?” Hearn yelled, tendons standing out on his neck. “I paid him off, and I played with what I had left, and I lost it all and a shitload more! Is that what you want? And he kept my passport, and he said I could have a month to come up with more, and I went and—the apartment—she didn’t answer her phone—hasn’t answered it this whole week, she’s not there, and the fucking slopes took her, and…and…”
His mouth was distorted with anguish. Under other circumstances, I could almost have felt sorry for him.
“You useless redneck clown,” Chanko said with slow, savage contempt. “Lemme get this straight. You left a yakuza boss bleeding to death in a love hotel. You sent your girlfriend back to her apartment instead of straight to the airport. And instead of paying up and getting out, with your girlfriend waiting where the yakuza knew to find her, you had to play cards. What, you figured you hadn’t screwed your life up enough already?” He let go his grip on Hearn’s neck and arms, shoved him forward before he could react, and swung a hand, smacking the back of the guy’s head so his face hit the dirty lino, grabbing his scalp. “You stupid—sorry—worthless—fuck.” He slammed Hearn’s head on the floor, hard, with each word.
“It’s not my fault! I’ve got a problem.”
Chanko jerked Hearn’s head up again, then exhaled hard through his nose and let go. “You’re telling me. Jesus. I could beat your brains out and you wouldn’t notice, would you?”
“It’s a disease,” said Hearn urgently. His nose looked dented, making his voice clogged and nasal. “Gambling’s a disease. I can’t help being addicted. It’s not my fault.”
“Not your fault? Not your fault? You ruined my friend’s life, you nearly got me killed, and it’s not your fault?” I hadn’t meant to say anything, just stand quietly, out of the way, unnoticed. But suddenly the rage was carbonating my blood, shaking my whole body, and I was in front of him with my fingers curving into claws, and yelling into his face. “Just tell me. What did I ever do to you to deserve this? What?”
“Shut up and get back,” Chanko snapped.
“Who the hell are you?” Hearn sounded honestly confused.
I wanted to hit him. “I’m Kerry, you moron,” I shouted over Chanko’s angry command. “The girl you and your bitch girlfriend set up, remember? You sold me to the yakuza so you could get away, and then didn’t even bother to try!”
“Hang on,” he said, brow furrowed. “You ain’t blonde.”
“I want to kill him,” said Taka in Japanese. “I really want to. Can we?”
“Just goddamn get rid of her,” Chanko told him.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” I demanded, staring incredulously at Hearn, shaking off Taka’s hand as he tried to pull me back. “How about I’m sorry I got an innoce
nt girl raped and beaten? How about I’m sorry I set you up to be murdered by yakuza? How about saying you’re sorry you were ever born, because I am!”
“You know what?” Hearn said. “Screw your friend. Those bastards took my Kelly. I could give a shit about you.”
“Fuck you too. I hope she’s dead. I hope they did everything they did to Noriko—”
Then Hearn was yelling and thrashing, and I was screaming back at him, landing an open-handed blow to his face before Taka dragged me away, not gently. Chanko jerked Hearn back and slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up. You too, Kerry. Shut the hell up or get out. Get rid of her if she says anything,” he told Taka. “Mike, you start shouting again, I’m gonna stop you for good. Okay?” He released his grip. Hearn sucked in a strident breath.
“Kelly—” he began.
“Nobody cares if she lives or dies.” Chanko’s tone made it a self-evident truth. “Now, you want us to give you to the yakuza, tell them it was you did the old man? You want to think what they’ll do to you then?”
The grey of Hearn’s skin told us all he’d already thought about it.
“I’m gonna ask you a question just once,” Chanko went on. “You don’t give me the answer, I’m handing you over to the yakuza. Understand? Because I don’t like you, and I’d goddamn love to see you get what’s coming, so don’t push your luck, because you got none at all. Where’s the case?”
Hearn opened his mouth and then just gave up, sagging in Chanko’s grip, deflated and suddenly older. “Higuchi has it.”
“Bullshit.” Chanko started dragging him to his feet.
“He does. It ain’t here, look all you like. Higuchi’s guys took it. They took fucking everything, okay? My wallet—they left me one card and a thousand-yen note. The case, my signet ring, my watch, goddammit. They cleaned me out.”
Chanko glanced at Taka, who nodded slightly. I agreed. Hearn’s whole frame had slumped, and there was nothing about him that suggested the intelligence to lie. And I’d already noticed the white ring-line on his tanned finger. Professional habit.
Taka exhaled heavily. “Jerk,” he said in Japanese. “Okay, I’m asking the million-dollar question.” He switched back to English. “So. What in case?”