Hard Rain

by Barry Eisler

  “But goddamn it,” I mused aloud, “is it moral to kill someone you don’t even know, a grunt probably just like yourself, just because the government says you can? Or you drop a bomb from thirty thousand feet to kill the bad guys, you bury women and children under the rubble of their own homes in the process, but you’re not bothered because you didn’t actually have to see the damage, that’s moral? I don’t hide behind mortar range, or behind the cartoon image in the thermal scope of a sniper’s rifle, or behind the medals they give you afterward to reassure you that the slaughter was just. All that shit is an illusion, a soporific fed to killers to anesthetize them after they’ve killed. What I do is no worse than what goes on all over the world, what has always gone on. The difference is that I’m honest about it.”

  I was quiet for a while, thinking.

  “And how about a little slack?” I said. “Her old man was set to check out from lung cancer anyway, in a lot more pain than what I caused him. Whatever happened to ‘no harm, no foul’? I mean, I practically did him a favor. Hell, in some cultures what I did wouldn’t be looked at as much more than euthanasia. She almost ought to thank me for it.”

  Things had been okay for me in Osaka, reasonably okay. Looking back, I felt like it had all been falling apart since Tatsu had showed up.

  I thought about taking him out. There were a dozen reasons why I didn’t want to. The problem was, he was beginning to act like he knew I didn’t want to, and that wasn’t good.

  I needed to get back to Osaka, finish my preparations as quickly as I could, and go. Tatsu could handle himself. Harry was hopeless. Midori knew what she’d come here to learn. Naomi was sweet, but she’d served her purpose.

  I stood. My legs had stiffened on the cool ground and I massaged some blood back into them. I bowed to my father’s grave, then stood looking at it for a long time.

  “Jaa,” I said finally. Then: “Arigatou.”

  I turned and walked out.

  15

  THE NEXT MORNING, I went out to a pay phone and called Harry. He’d done a lot for me over the years and I felt bad about the way we’d parted. I knew he’d be bothered by it, and that bothered me.

  An unfamiliar male voice answered his phone. “Moshi moshi?”

  “Moshi moshi,” I said, my brow furrowing. “Haruyoshi-san irasshaimasu ka?” Is Haruyoshi there?

  There was a pause. “Are you a friend of Haruyoshi’s?” the voice asked me in Japanese.

  “I am. Is everything all right?”

  “This is Haruyoshi’s uncle. I regret to inform you that he passed away last night.”

  I gripped the phone tightly and closed my eyes. I thought of the last thing he’d said to me: Look, I’m going to see her tonight. I’ll watch more closely. I’ll keep in mind what you’ve said.

  He’d gone to see her, all right. But he hadn’t kept anything in mind.

  “Forgive me for asking,” I said, my eyes still closed, “but can you tell me how Haruyoshi passed away?”

  There was another pause. “It seems that Haruyoshi had drunk a bit too much, and had gone up to the roof of his building for a walk. Apparently he came too close to the edge and lost his balance.”

  I gripped the phone harder. I’d never known Harry to drink. Certainly not excessively. Although I knew he might try all sorts of new things if Yukiko were there to urge him on.

  “Thank you for informing me,” I said to the voice. “Please accept my deepest condolences on this sad occasion. Please convey these sentiments to Harry’s parents. I will say a prayer for his spirit.”

  “Thank you,” the voice said.

  I put the phone back in its cradle.

  My gut told me that what I’d just heard had been legitimate. Still, I called the police box in his neighborhood to make sure. I told the cop who answered that I was a friend of Haruyoshi Fukasawa, that I’d heard there had been bad news. The cop confirmed that Harry was dead. A fall. Apparently an accident. He told me he was sorry. I thanked him and hung up.

  I stood there for a moment, feeling miserable and strangely alone.

  They’d gotten what they wanted from him. They were tying up loose ends.

  Well, there was nothing I could do for him now. I’d tried to help him when it mattered. Now it was too late.

  In some ways it was my fault. I’d known Yukiko was dangerous to him, but all I did was tell him about my suspicions. What I should have done was said nothing to him, and just made her have a little accident. Harry would have grieved, but he’d still be alive.

  I realized I was grinding my teeth and made myself stop.

  I thought of how happy he’d been when he’d first told me about her, how shy and sappy and obviously in love.

  I remembered the way the ice bitch had alternately teased, then soothed, Murakami. How Naomi had said, She’s comfortable doing things I’m not.

  I imagined her pumping him with drinks, his body unaccustomed to the alcohol. I imagined him doing it to please her. I imagined her suggesting a walk on the roof, Murakami waiting there.

  Or maybe she did it herself. It wouldn’t be hard. She’d spent time in the building, she knew its rhythms, its routines, the layout of its security cameras. And he trusted her. Even with what I’d told him, if he were drunk enough, he wouldn’t have hesitated to walk to the edge. Maybe for a laugh. Maybe on a dare.

  Without thinking, I snatched the receiver from its cradle and raised it overhead to smash down onto the phone. I stood there for a long moment, my arm cocked, my body trembling, willing myself not to make a scene, not to draw attention.

  Finally, I set the receiver back in its cradle. I closed my eyes and breathed in, then let it all the way out. Once more. And again.

  I went to a different phone and called Tatsu. I told him to check our bulletin board because I wanted to see him. Then I went to an Internet café to tell him when and where.

  We met at Café Peshaworl, a coffeehouse and bar in the Nihonbashi business district, and another place I had liked during the years I was in Tokyo.

  I got there early, as usual, and took the steps down from Sakura-dori to the subdued interior below. Peshaworl is shaped like an I-beam, and I took a seat in the corner of one of the short ends of the I. I was hidden from the entrance, but I could just see the bar, with its red steel scale for measuring precise quantities of beans; its battered pots for steeping coffee, their dents, like those in fine single malt stills, probably credited with producing the unique taste of Peshaworl’s brews; and its curious implements, intimidating in their specificity, no doubt designed exclusively for the concoction of the most exalted blends, their correct use unknown except to craft initiates.

  I ordered the house Roa blend and listened to Monica Borrfors singing “August Wishing” while I waited for Tatsu to show. At just after twelve, I heard the door open and close, followed by Tatsu’s familiar shuffling gait. A moment later he poked his head around the corner and saw me. He came over and sat so that we were at ninety degrees to each other and could converse with maximum privacy. He grunted a greeting, then said, “Based on your recent meeting with Kawamura-san, I can only assume that you brought me here either to thank me or to kill me.”

  “I’m not here about that,” I replied.

  He looked at me for a moment, silent.

  The waitress came over and asked him what he would like. He ordered a milk tea, more, I thought, as a concession to his surroundings than out of any real desire.

  While we waited for his tea, he said, “I hope you understand why I did what I did.”

  “Sure. You’re a manipulative, fanatical bastard who believes the end always justifies the means.”

  “Now you sound like my wife.”

  I didn’t laugh. “You shouldn’t have dragged Midori back into this.”

  “I didn’t. I had hoped that she would want to believe you were dead. If she had wanted to believe, she would have. If she did not want to believe, she would investigate. She is quite tenacious.”

  “Sh
e told me she threatened you with a scandal.”

  “Probably a bluff.”

  “She doesn’t bluff, Tatsu.”

  “Regardless. I told her where to find you because it was no longer useful to try to deceive her. In fact, she was not deceived. Also, I thought you might benefit from that encounter.”

  I shook my head. “Did you really think she could convince me to help you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “Don’t lead me, Tatsu.”

  “All right. Consciously or unconsciously, you want to be worthy of her. I respect you for that sentiment because there is much about Kawamura-san to admire. But you may be going about it in the wrong way, and I wanted to give you the opportunity to see that.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said.

  “Then why are you here?”

  I looked at him. “I’m going to help you on this. It has nothing to do with Midori.” I pictured Harry for a second, then said, “No, you’re going to help me.”

  The waitress set down his tea and moved on.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  My reflex was to not tell him, to protect Harry, like I’d always tried to do before. But it didn’t matter anymore.

  “Murakami killed a friend of mine,” I said. “A kid named Haruyoshi. Yamaoto was using him, I think to find me. When they thought they’d gotten what they wanted, they got rid of him.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I shrugged. “It works out well for you. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I might have been suspicious.”

  I regretted saying it as soon as it was out. Tatsu had too much dignity to respond.

  “Anyway, I want you to look into something for me,” I said.

  “All right.”

  I told him about how Kanezaki had been following Harry, how Midori’s letter had been the start of it, how Yukiko and Damask Rose were involved.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your friend was . . . young?” he asked.

  I looked at him. “Young enough.”

  He nodded, his eyes sad.

  I thought of how he had first briefed me on Murakami, how his jaw had clenched and unclenched when he told me that he believed Murakami had been involved in the murder of a child. I had to ask. “Tatsu, was there . . . did you have a son?”

  There was a long silence, during which he must have been digesting the realization that I knew something of his personal life, and deciding on how he wanted to respond.

  “Yes,” he said after a while, nodding. “He would have turned thirty-two this past February.”

  He seemed to be carefully weighing, even carefully pronouncing, the words. I wondered when he had last spoken of this.

  “He was eight months old, just weaned,” he went on. “My wife and I had not been out together in some time, and we hired a baby-sitter. When we came home, the sitter was distraught. She had dropped the little boy and he had a bruise on his head. He had cried, she told us, but now he seemed all right. He was sleeping.

  “My wife wanted to take him to the doctor right away, but we checked on him and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. ‘Why trouble the little one’s sleep unnecessarily?’ I said. ‘If there were a problem, we would know it by now.’ My wife wanted to believe everything was all right, and so I was able to persuade her.”

  He took a sip of tea. “In the morning the baby was dead. The doctor told us it was a subdural hematoma. He told us that it would have made no difference if we had sought immediate medical attention. But of course I will always wonder. Because I had a choice, you see? It may be terrible for me to say it, but it would have been easier if my son had died instantly. Or if the sitter had been less decent, and had mentioned nothing to us. The same outcome, and yet completely different.”

  I looked at him. “How old were your girls, Tatsu?” I asked.

  “Two and four.”

  “Christ,” I muttered.

  He nodded, not bothering to make a show of stoicism by arguing with me. “Losing a child is the worst thing,” he said. “There is no greater grief. For a long time I wanted to take my own life. Partly on the chance that by doing so I might be reunited with my son, that I might be able to comfort him and protect him. Partly to atone for how I had wronged him. And partly simply to end my pain. But my duty to my wife and daughters was greater than these irrational and selfish impulses. And I came to view my pain as a just punishment, as my karma. But still, every day I think of my little son. Every day I wonder if I will have a chance to see him again.”

  We were silent for a moment. From behind the counter came the sound of beans being ground.

  “We’re going to take this guy out,” I told him. “I can’t do it alone, and neither can you, but maybe we can do it together.”

  “Tell me what you propose.”

  “Murakami shows up at the dojo from time to time, but you can’t stake the place out. It’s on a quiet street with minimal automobile or pedestrian traffic, so not much cover. Plus I spotted at least two sentries on my way in.”

  He nodded. “I know. I had a man make a casual pass.”

  “I figured you would. But we might not need a stakeout. If I show up, someone is likely to call Murakami. That’s when we nail him.”

  He looked at me. “If Murakami killed your friend because they decided they didn’t need him anymore to get to you, they probably know who you are.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I know that, when I show up, someone will call him. And even if I’m wrong, and they don’t know who I am, Murakami said he wanted to talk to me at the dojo. Sooner or later he’ll show up there. And when he shows up, I’ll call you. You come with picked men, arrest him, and take him into custody.”

  “He might attempt to resist arrest,” he said dryly.

  “Oh yeah. A guy like that might resist fiercely. I’m sure lethal force would be justified in subduing him.”

  “Indeed.”

  “In fact, it’s even possible that, after you have him handcuffed, someone who might be described afterward as ‘one of his cohorts who got away’ might appear and break his neck.”

  He nodded. “I can see where something like that could occur.”

  “I’ll go for two hours at a time,” I said. “During those two-hour periods you have men mobile and nearby, ready to pounce on my signal.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I hesitate to suggest it, but it’s possible that Murakami will not show. He may simply subcontract the work to someone else. In which case you would be walking into extreme danger for nothing.”

  “He’ll show,” I said. “I know this guy. If he knows who I am, he’s going to want a piece of me. And I’m going to give it to him.”

  16

  THAT NIGHT I stayed at a small business hotel in Nishi-Nippori. It was spare enough to make me miss the New Otani and the Imperial, but it was a quiet place in a lonely part of the city and I felt reasonably safe there for the night.

  The next morning, I worked out at Murakami’s dojo in Asakusa. When I arrived, the men who were already training paused and gave me a low collective bow—a sign of their respect for the way I had dispatched Adonis. After that, I was treated in a dozen subtle ways with deference that bordered on awe. Even Washio, older than I and with a much longer and deeper association with the dojo, was using different verb forms to indicate that he now considered me his superior. My sense was that, whatever Yamaoto and Murakami might have discovered about me, the knowledge had not been shared with the lower echelon.

  Tatsu had given me a Glock 26, the shortest-barreled pistol in Glock’s excellent 9-millimeter line. Definitely not standard Keisatsucho issue. I didn’t know how Tatsu had acquired it in tightly gun-controlled Japan, and I didn’t ask. Despite its relatively low profile, I couldn’t keep it concealed on my person while I was working out. Instead I left it in my gym bag. I stayed close to the b
ag.

  Tatsu had also given me a cell phone with which I would alert him when Murakami showed. I had created a speed dial entry so that all I had to do was hit one of the keys, let the call go through, and hang up. When Tatsu saw that a call had come from this number, he’d scramble his nearby men to the dojo.

  But Murakami didn’t show. Not that day, not the next.

  I was getting antsy. Too much living out of hotels, a different one every night. Too much worrying about security cameras. Too much thinking about Harry, about the useless way he’d died, about how hard I’d been on him that very night.

  And too much thinking about Midori, wondering whether she’d get in touch again, and what she would want if she did.

  I went to the dojo for a third day. I was doing long workouts, trying to give Murakami the widest possible window in which to appear, but there was still no sign of him. I was starting to think he just wasn’t going to show.

  But he did. I was on the floor, stretching, when I heard the door buzzer. I looked up to see Murakami, wearing a black leather jacket and head-hugging shades, and his two bodyguards, similarly dressed, enter the room. As usual, the atmosphere in the dojo changed when he entered, his presence aggravating everyone’s vestigial fight-or-flight radar like a mild electric current.

  “Oi, Arai-san, yo,” he said, walking over. “Let’s talk.”

  I stood up. “Okay.”

  One of the bodyguards approached. I started toward my bag, but he got there ahead of me. He picked it up and slid it over his shoulder. “I’ll take this,” he said.

  I gave no sign that this was a problem for me. The cell phone, at least, much smaller than the gun, was in my pocket. I shrugged and said, “Thanks.”

  Murakami motioned toward the door with a tilt of his head. “Outside.”

  My heart rate had doubled but my voice was cool. “Sure,” I called to him. “Just going to take a leak first.”