by Barry Eisler
There was a knock at the door. Washio stood. I offered him a slight bow to acknowledge that we were done.
He reached out and took my arm. “Wait. I’ll need your cell phone first.”
I looked at his hand. “I’m not carrying one,” I said.
He eyeballed me, his expression baleful. I stared back. What I had told him was true, although if I’d been lying it would take more than a scowl to make me admit it.
His expression softened and he released my arm. “I’m not going to search you,” he said. “But no one’s allowed in here with a cell phone or pager. Too many people like to call a friend, tell ’em what they’re seeing. It’s insecure.”
I nodded. “That seems sensible.”
“If one of the bouncers sees you with one, they’ll work you over good. Just so you know.”
I nodded to show I understood, then moved off to one of the corners and watched as people began to arrive. Some I recognized from the club. Adonis was wearing sweatpants. I wondered if he was fighting.
I stood in the corner and watched the place gradually fill up. After about an hour, I saw Murakami come in, flanked by two bodyguards, a different pair than I had seen in the dojo. He exchanged a few words with Washio, who looked around and then pointed at me.
I had the sudden sense that this was more attention from Murakami than I really wanted.
I watched him nudge his two men. The three of them started moving toward me.
Adrenaline dumped into my veins. I felt the surge. I looked around casually, searching for a weapon of convenience. There was nothing handy.
They walked up and stood in front of me, three abreast, Murakami slightly in front of the other two.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” he said. “Glad to see you did.”
“It’s good to be here,” I said, rubbing my palms in front of me as though in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment. In fact it was an expedient defensive stance.
“We do three fights or thirty minutes, whichever comes first. That way everyone gets his money’s worth. I’ll explain the rules.”
I didn’t understand why he was telling me this. “Who’s fighting?” I asked.
He smiled. The bridged teeth were white. Predatory.
“You are,” he said.
Oh shit.
I looked at him and said, “I don’t think so.”
The smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to waste time fucking around with you. Washio says you’re good. Says you broke a guy’s ankle inside thirty seconds. Now that guy’s friend wants payback. You’re going to fight him.”
Adonis. Should have known.
“Or . . .”
“Or you can fight three people that I pick. You’re so good, I’ll make sure they have police batons. The crowd will like that, too. It’s all the same to me.”
I was in a box. I picked the easiest way out.
“I’ll fight,” I told him.
His eyes crinkled with suppressed mirth. “Yes, you will.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
He shrugged. “No shirts, no shoes, no weapons. Other than that, anything goes. There’s no ring. If you get too close to the edge of the crowd, they’ll shove you back to the center. If they think you’re running from the other guy, you’ll take a few punches, too. Good news is, the winner gets two million yen.”
“What does the loser get?”
He smiled again. “We take care of the funeral expenses.”
I looked at him. “I’ll take the money.”
He laughed. “We’ll see. Now pay attention. You’re up first. That gives you fifteen minutes. These guys will stay with you to help you get ready.” He turned and walked away.
I looked up at the two goons. They kept a respectful distance, reducing my chances of making a sudden move and getting past them. Even if I could, though, there were men working the door. Several of them were watching. My chances would be better with Adonis.
I wondered about the number of fights. Multiple payouts would reduce, maybe even eliminate, the house’s take.
I pushed the thought aside and slipped off the navy blazer I was wearing, then my shirt and shoes. I looked over and saw that Adonis was doing the same.
Some vicious thing inside me stirred. I felt it in my gut, the back of my neck, my hands.
I thought of Musashi, the master swordsman, who wrote, You must think of neither victory nor of defeat, but only of cutting and killing your enemy.
I stretched and shadowboxed. I let my focus narrow. It didn’t matter where I was.
Murakami walked over. He said, “Let’s go.”
I moved to the center of the room. Adonis was waiting there.
His pupils were dilated and his hands were shaking. He looked juiced, maybe kakuseizai. Speed would give him a short-term energy boost, help him focus his attention.
I decided to give him something to focus on.
I approached him, not slowing until I was in his face. “How’s your buddy’s ankle?” I asked. “Sounded like it hurt.”
He stared at me. His respiration was rapid. Pupils, black basketballs. Definitely kakuseizai.
“Try that on me,” he said around clenched teeth.
“Oh no,” I said. “I’m not going to break your ankle. I’m going to break your knee.” I took a half-step back and pointed. “That one right there.”
The idiot actually let his glance follow my outstretched finger. I tensed to launch an uppercut to his gut, but Washio, wise to such things, had seen it coming and jumped in between us.
“You don’t start until I say start,” he growled, looking at me.
I shrugged. Can’t blame a guy for trying.
“They’ll be taking you out of here in a bag, fucker,” Adonis said. “That’s a promise.”
Washio shoved us apart. The crowd tightened like a noose.
“Are you ready?” Washio asked Adonis, who was bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive boxer.
Adonis nodded, glaring at me.
Washio turned to me. “Are you ready?”
I nodded, watching Adonis.
“Hajime!” Washio cried, and a collective shout went up around us.
Adonis immediately feinted with a kick and took a side step back. Then again. We started to move in small, migrating circles.
I saw what he was up to. For him this was effectively a hometown crowd. He would have friends in the audience. The movement of our circles would gradually take us closer to them and give them access to me.
But the presence of those friends would also engage his ego. “Doko ni ikunda?” I taunted him, moving to the center. “Koko da.” Where are you going? I’m right here.
He took a step forward, but not enough to close the distance. My earlier taunts had focused him on his knees. He was afraid I would shoot in on him the way I had on his friend, and thought that keeping his distance would prevent me.
I dropped my arms a few centimeters and kept my head and torso slightly forward. He steadied himself on his feet and I could feel him thinking Kick. His kicks were good, too. I’d seen him practicing. If I were him, I’d try to wear me down from extended range, try to keep me away with those long legs.
He planted his left foot forward and whipped in a right roundhouse kick. His foot smacked into my left thigh, then snapped back to the ground. I felt a bolt of pain and there was a shout of approval from the crowd. Adonis bounced on his toes again.
He was quick. Didn’t give me a chance to grab the leg.
I’d have to let him feel that the kicks were working for him, so he’d try to land them with a little more authority. The extra couple of milliseconds of contact would make the difference.
He snapped the kick out again. It hit my thigh like a baseball bat and shot back to the floor. The crowd shouted again. There was a roaring in my ears.
The impact hurt worse this time. A few more like that and I’d start to lose the full use of the leg. I knew he was thinking the same thing.
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I shifted back a half-step and crouched, giving him more of my right side as though to protect my forward leg. I watched him in adrenalized slow-motion.
His nostrils were flaring in and out, his eyes drilling into me. He shuffled forward, his feet staying close to the floor.
In my peripheral vision I was aware of his right foot taking the ground a little more firmly. His weight began to shift to his forward left. His hips cocked for the kick.
I reined in my urge to act, forcing myself to wait the extra half-second I knew I needed.
The kick started to come off the ground and I shot forward, shortening the distance by half. He saw his error and tried to correct, but I was already too close. I jammed the kick with my left hip and swept my left arm out and around his extended right knee.
The crowd breathed, “Ahhh.”
He improvised quickly, encircling my left triceps with his right hand and thrusting his free hand at my face, the fingers forward, going for my eyes. I tightened the grip on his knee and took a drop-step forward with my left leg, levering him down toward the floor. He hopped backward on his left leg to try to recover his balance and I popped a sharp right uppercut into his exposed balls.
He grunted and tried to pull away. I took a long step forward with my right leg, ducking under his left arm and simultaneously releasing his knee. I swept behind him, clasped my hands around his waist, dropped my hips, and arched sharply backward. Adonis arced over me like the last car on a roller coaster, his arms and legs splayed at demented angles. His neck and shoulders took the impact and his legs rocketed over his head to the floor from the momentum the throw had generated.
Had I elected to release my grip around his waist, he would have done a complete somersault. I maintained the grip instead, and his feet flopped back to the floor, putting him on his back. I grabbed his face with my left hand and used it to simultaneously shove his head back and scramble from behind him. I rose up on my right knee, tensed my hips, and smashed down on his exposed throat with my right forearm, getting my weight behind the blow. I felt the crunch of systemic breakage—the thyroid and cricoid cartilage, probably the spinous process, as well. His hands flew to his throat and his body convulsed.
I stood up and stepped away from him. The crowd was now silent.
I saw his neck beginning to swell from a hematoma induced by the fractures. His legs kicked and scrabbled and he rolled from side to side. His face blued and contorted above his frantic fingers. Nobody made any move to help him. Not that they could have. After a few seconds his body started to shudder in odd spasms, as though he was being shocked. A few seconds after that, the shuddering stopped.
Someone cried out, “Yatta!” I won!, and the room reverberated with a chorus of cheers. The crowd converged on me. People slapped my back and grabbed my hands to shake them. I was uncomfortably aware that one of Adonis’s friends might use the moment to try to put a knife in me, but there was nothing I could do.
I heard Washio’s voice: “Hora, sagatte, sagatte. Ikisasete yare!” C’mon now, c’mon now, let him breathe! He and a few of the bouncers moved close to me and started to push the crowd back.
Someone handed me a towel and I wiped my face. The crowd eased away. I looked around and saw stacks of ten-thousand-yen notes changing hands.
Murakami stepped inside the circle. He was smiling.
“Yokuyatta zo,” he said. Good job.
I dropped the towel. “Where’s my money?”
He reached into his breast pocket and took out a thick envelope. He opened it so I could see that it was stuffed with ten-thousand-yen notes, then closed it and returned it to his pocket.
“It’s yours,” he said. “I’ll give it to you later.” He looked around. “Some of these people, they might try to rob you for it.”
“Give it to me now,” I said.
“Later.”
Fuck the money, I thought. I was glad just to be alive.
I started moving toward where I had left my jacket, shirt, and shoes. The crowd parted respectfully before me. A few random hands slapped my shoulders.
Murakami followed. “The money is yours. I want one more thing before I give it to you.”
“Fuck you.” I pulled on my shirt and started buttoning it.
He laughed. “Okay, okay.” He took out the envelope and tossed it to me.
I caught it two-handed and glanced inside. It looked about right. I shoved it in a pants pocket and continued buttoning my shirt.
“The extra thing I wanted,” he said, “was to tell you how you can make ten, twenty times what’s in that envelope.”
I looked at him.
“You interested?”
“I’m listening.”
He shook his head. “Not here. Let’s go somewhere where we can celebrate.” He smiled. “My treat.”
I stepped into my shoes and knelt to lace them. “What did you have in mind?”
“A little place I own. You’ll enjoy it.”
I considered. A “celebration” with Murakami would afford me the opportunity to collect additional intel for Tatsu. I didn’t see any real downside.
“All right,” I said.
Murakami smiled.
I saw two guys zipping Adonis into a body bag. Christ, I thought, they really come prepared. They loaded him onto a gurney and wheeled him toward the door. On the underside of the gurney was a stack of metal plates. One of the guys was carrying a length of chain, and I realized they were going to weight the body and dump it in one of the surrounding canals.
The next fight went for a long time. The fighters were conservative and seemed to have implicitly agreed not to employ potentially lethal or disfiguring techniques. After about ten minutes, Murakami said to me, “This isn’t worth watching. Let’s go.”
He motioned to his bodyguards, and the four of us walked outside. Washio saw us leaving and bowed.
A black Mercedes S600 with darkened windows was parked at the curb. One of the guards opened the rear door for us. A dog was curled up on the backseat. A white pit bull, its ears clipped short, its body roped with thick muscle. It had been fitted with a heavy leather muzzle, beyond the edges of which were fissures and scars that told me I was looking at one of Murakami’s fighting animals. The beast looked at me as though sighting down the barrel of its own muzzled snout, and I thought I saw the canine equivalent of insanity in its slightly bloodshot eyes. Well, they say dogs come to resemble their masters.
Murakami motioned for me to get in. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s okay as long as he’s muzzled.”
“Why don’t you go first, just the same,” I said.
He laughed and slid in. The dog moved to make way for him. I got in and the guard closed the door. He and the other guy took the front. We rode north on Kaigan-dori, to Sakura-dori, and then to Gaienhigashi-dori in Roppongi. No one spoke. The dog eyeballed me ceaselessly during the ride.
When we crossed Roppongi-dori I started to wonder. As we neared Aoyama-dori I knew.
We were going to Damask Rose.
11
ANY LINGERING ATTEMPTS to rationalize that Harry had just gotten lucky with a hostess disappeared. The air-conditioned interior of the Benz felt suddenly warm.
But I had a more immediate problem than Harry. The last time I’d been to Damask Rose, I’d been using English, posing as an American citizen who spoke secondhand Japanese. I’d also been using a different name. I needed to decide how to handle this.
As the Benz pulled up to the club, I said, “Ah, good place.”
“You’ve been here?” Murakami asked.
“Just once. The girls are beautiful.”
His lips parted in a smile and the overly white bridge appeared between them. “They should be. I select them.”
The driver opened the passenger-side door and we got out. The dog stayed, watching me with its hungry, demon eyes until the driver had closed the door and the dark glass separated us.
The Nigerians were gauntleting the entranceway. T
hey bowed obsequiously low for Murakami and breathed “Irasshaimase” in unison. The one on the right spoke into his lapel mike.
We walked down the steps. The ruddy-faced man I had seen there last time looked up. He saw Murakami and swallowed.
“Ah, Murakami-san, good evening,” he said in Japanese with a low bow. “It is always a pleasure to have you here. Is there anyone special you would like to see tonight?”
A thin band of sweat had broken out on his brow. His full attention was on Murakami and he had taken no notice of me.
Murakami looked around the room. Several of the girls smiled at him. I gathered that they were already acquainted. “Yukiko,” he said.
Harry, I thought.
Mr. Ruddy nodded and turned to me. “Okyakusama?” he asked. And you? That he used Japanese indicated that he hadn’t remembered me from the last time, when our exchange had been in English.
“Is Naomi here tonight?” I asked, also in Japanese. If she were here, I wanted to see her right away, when I would have a marginally better chance of taking control of the conversation. If things went badly, at least it wouldn’t look as though I’d been trying to avoid her.
Mr. Ruddy’s eyes might have narrowed slightly in recollection of someone who had asked for Naomi some weeks earlier. I wasn’t sure.
He bowed his head. “I will bring her to you.”
I had already decided on a cover story, should Naomi comment on my name change or other inconsistencies: I was married, and didn’t want to take any chances on this sort of nocturnal foray getting back to my wife. My use of cash rather than credit cards would be consistent with such a story. Not the world’s best explanation, but I had to have something to say if she noticed the disparities.
Mr. Ruddy took two menus and escorted us into the main room, pausing first to whisper to a girl I recognized as Elsa from the last time I’d been there. I saw Elsa touch another girl, Emi, on the arm.
He walked us over to a corner table. Murakami and I took adjacent seats, both facing the entrance. I watched Emi walk over to another table, where Yukiko was entertaining another customer. Emi sat and spoke into Yukiko’s ear. A moment later Yukiko stood and excused herself. Elsa was repeating the scene at the table Naomi was working. Very smooth.