“And what’s this guy done to deserve me?”
“Nothing.” He points to the screen. “He is client.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know I don’t like knowing who’s hiring me, Ichi. All I care about is who they send me after.”
“I know, but client wants to give you job in person. Insisted I arrange meeting.”
That’s weird. Usually, the people who hire me prefer to distance themselves from the transaction. To minimize exposure and liability. Same reason I distance myself from them.
I can’t think of many reasons why anyone wouldn’t take that precaution.
“Who is he?”
“He is Santo, a kyodai for the Oji-gumi family.”
My Pilot translated the information in my ear, but it didn’t need to. I have a basic understanding of how the Yakuza works. A kyodai is a mid-level member of a family. He outranks the foot soldiers on the streets but answers to the lieutenants and advisors, who themselves speak directly to the head of the family.
That explains why he’s not interested in distancing himself from the contract. He’s high enough up the food chain that he’s practically untouchable. He simply doesn’t care.
“I’m not familiar with the Oji-gumi,” I say.
He chuckles. “They are biggest Yakuza family in all the wards. Nothing happens they don’t know about.”
I look away.
Wonderful. That’s what I was afraid of.
I’ve always turned down anything that might involve me with or obligate me to Yakuza business. Hard to avoid completely, but if necessary, I only take low-level work. Nothing with any potential implications. I’m not here for riches or glory. I’m here to keep busy. I want things nice and simple.
I look back at Ichiro. “Not interested, sorry. You got anything else?”
His expression hardens. “Adrian-san, it would cause great offense to turn down a request from someone like Santo. It would not look good on you.”
I shrug. “My reputation will survive, I’m sure.”
He shakes his head. “Not your reputation I’m concerned with.”
“Yeah…” I take another deep breath. “But still, I don’t want to get involved in anything too high-profile. You know I don’t take jobs from known Yakuza. Just say I’m not available or something. It’ll be fine.”
Ichiro thinks for a moment before nodding. “Okay, Adrian-san. I will handle it.”
“Appreciated.”
“I… heh… I do have one other job, if you interested? It’s from independent source. Local. As low-level as it gets.”
I nod. “That sounds better. What is it?”
“A young man fell in with bad people. He turned up dead.” He places two fingers to the side of his head and taps his temple. “Executed. The parents want justice, but police do nothing. The father now seeking revenge instead.”
A sadly familiar story. Like I said, Tokyo can be a dark place. If you’re not careful, it will eat you alive.
“How much are they offering?” I ask.
Ichiro checks his screen. “Three million yen.”
“Which is…?”
He checks again. “A little over twenty-six thousand, U.S.”
“That is low-level…” I think for a moment. “But if I’m honest, I’m a little bored, so what the hell. Who’s the target?”
A wide, almost maniacal grin creeps across Ichiro’s face. His eyes come to life with excitement.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“Oh, you gonna like this, Adrian-san.” He starts chuckling to himself as he spins the laptop around for me to see.
I stare at the screen for a moment before frowning. “I don’t understand. That’s the guy who wants to meet me about the Yakuza job I just turned down. You’re supposed to be showing me the target for this new job. Seriously, Ichi, I keep telling you to lay off the sake before lunch, man.”
His chuckle becomes a laugh, deep and loud, from the gut. “Shinigami … it is same man! Potential client is also someone’s target!”
I lean forward in my chair. “You’re kidding?”
“No! Crazy, right?”
“Well, you would know…” I mutter with a smile before sitting back and folding my arms across my chest. The cogs inside my head are turning, suddenly alive with dreadful purpose.
“What I say, Adrian-san? You got to love this, no?”
He starts laughing to himself.
I run a palm over the stubble covering my jaw and throat, lost in thought as my mind analyzes a million different outcomes.
“Okay,” I say after a few moments. “The set-up is obvious, right? My concern is, can I take out this Santo prick without screwing myself over and becoming a target for his family?”
Ichiro’s chuckling subsides. He strokes his long beard thoughtfully.
“It is valid concern, yes, Adrian-san. There is always risk.”
I nod. “Big risk for that level of payday…”
He nods back. “Yes. But I know you. You will take job.”
My brow arches as I smile. “Oh, will I now?”
“Of course!” He leans back and starts laughing again. “You know how I know?”
I shrug. “Enlighten me.”
“Two reasons. First, it is stupid idea. Most people… logical. Say no. But you crazy… see that as challenge.”
I scoff and look away, silently cursing to myself at how accurate that statement was.
“And second,” he continues, “you see struggle of family who lost son. You do what is right.” He taps his own chest, then points at mine. “You are burdened with heart, Shinigami . You are master of this world. Yet, you do not belong in it. You are better than it.”
I hold his gaze as his words sink in.
That’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. And probably the most serious thing Ichi’s ever said to me.
Finally, I get to my feet. “Okay, accept the father’s job, then confirm the meeting with Santo.”
Ichiro stands and nods. “Consider it done, Adrian-san. Tell me… how will you ensure Santo is removed without retribution?”
I shrug. “Not sure yet. That’s the fun part.”
He chuckles as he hands me a piece of paper with an address and time written on it. I take it from him, then shake his hand. I leave his office. Make my way through the back, out into the serving area. The line of people is still taking up most of the space inside. As I lift the counter, I feel a hand on my arm. I look around and see one of the chefs standing there, smiling broadly. He’s holding out a box of food with a plastic fork sticking out of it.
I nod a thank you, take the box from him, and head outside. The temperature is a shock to the system after the heat of the noodle bar. I set off walking back down the street, heading for the bridge. I tuck into the food as I navigate the steady stream of people flowing both ways around me. It’s tasty and does a good job of warming me up.
For a brief moment, I wonder if I’ve just made a colossal mistake. But then I think about what that father must be going through, wanting justice for his son. Sure, his son made some bad choices. But haven’t we all? His decisions shouldn’t have been punishable by death. The way I see it, I get to do right by a family that deserves it, and I get to make a dent in a Yakuza family without getting directly involved with them.
I just need to figure out how to take Santo out at this meeting without leaving a trail that leads his friends back to me.
I smile to myself.
Easy.
4
10:42 JST
I toss the empty food container in a trash can and check my watch. I’m not meeting Santo until twelve, so I may as well grab a coffee. No sense in heading all the way back to the apartment only to come right back out again.
The effects of the hot noodles have worn off, and I’m becoming more aware of the low temperature with each step. I cross the bridge, back over into Chiyoda, and the wind’s stronger over the water, adding to the chill.
&
nbsp; The noise of the city ahead rises slowly, as if someone’s turning the volume up a notch every couple of seconds. It’s welcoming. Helps me feel anonymous. Invisible to the world. My very heartbeat is drowned out in a sea of humanity and machines.
When I first moved out here, with little more to my name than my ill-gotten gains and my newly acquired freedom, I felt self-conscious. Like a celebrity. A spotlight constantly shining on me. Not in a vain or egotistical way, of course. But after everything this world had endured, coupled with some unfortunate and completely fictional PR, my face had become somewhat synonymous with bad news. Even President Schultz publicly clearing my name did little to change that. If anything, it made me even more recognizable.
But as with most things, the spotlight soon moved on. Fame, if you can call it that, is a notoriously fickle thing, and once the global dust had settled, I quickly became yesterday’s news. Ruby had asked how I felt about that, suggesting I liked the attention.
No idea what could’ve made her think that…
But I answered honestly and said I was glad to be just another face in the crowd again. In my line of work, it’s how things should be.
It takes me almost fifteen minutes to reach the coffee place. In much the same way that western civilization is fascinated by its eastern counterpart, the culture over here also pays tribute where it can to the westernized approach to things.
Take this café, for example. It looks like the type of place you would expect to see in a cultural U.S. city. Somewhere like San Francisco or New Orleans or Seattle. It has beads hanging just inside the door. The aroma of ground, roasted coffee beans greets me like an old friend as I step inside. Posters cover the walls, advertising music and events. A huge, complicated-looking machine sits behind the counter that, by some miracle, actually produces coffee—which isn’t half bad, if I’m honest.
Of course, it’s not perfect. After all, this is only Japan’s interpretation of a trendy café. Where you would expect to hear the acoustic guitar and dulcet tones of an aspiring singer, or the spoken angst of a troubled young poet coming from the corner, here you have giggling teenage girls screeching into a karaoke machine. As a professional killer, I can confidently say I have never witnessed anything be murdered quite so completely as Don McLean is being right now.
I come here often, and while I’m not on speaking terms with the staff beyond a polite greeting, they recognize me and wave as I enter. With the aid of my Pilot and Ili, I order a large black coffee, which they kindly offer to bring over to me when it’s ready. I nod a thank you and head over to a round table in the corner, next to the window. I sit with my back to the wall, which gives me a full view of the place, as well as the street outside, with the added bonus of being able to see anyone who approaches me.
Old habits.
A waitress brings my drink over after a few minutes. I take a grateful sip. The three girls committing verbal homicide in the corner finally relinquish the microphone and move over to a table on the opposite side of the café, where they each poke a straw into a large iced coffee and begin chatting animatedly.
The rest of the patrons are mostly individuals minding their own business. One elderly couple are reading newspapers. A handful of people call in for a coffee to go, but otherwise it’s a calm, subdued atmosphere.
I check my watch.
Just under an hour until my meeting.
I’m worried I’m over-complicating the situation. I’m a firm believer that if something seems too good to be true, it usually is, but is this meeting with Santo really so difficult? He thinks I’m coming to see him to discuss the contract he has to offer. And I think it’s safe to assume that from his point of view, my acceptance of this offer is a foregone conclusion. A mid-level Yakuza boss like him would only get directly involved with a hit if the target was important. He’ll be desperate to impress those above him in his family’s hierarchy, which is likely why he asked for me personally. So, he has no reason to suspect I’m there for anything else.
Which means I’ll have the element of surprise.
I reckon he’ll still have some protection. He’ll bring muscle—maybe two or three guys, as a way of emphasizing his reputation and asserting his overall dominance of the meeting. That’s fine by me. Let him have his fun. It won’t change anything.
The only thing I need to worry about is taking him out without making it look like a hit. It needs to be scrappy, messy, rushed. It needs to look as amateurish as possible.
I’ll be fine.
Ichiro was right—this isn’t the kind of job I could just pass up. Getting to someone like Santo would’ve been borderline impossible, but the fact he offered himself up on a plate is a stroke of good fortune rarely seen in my line of work. I get to take out a high-ranking piece of shit, remove the main obstacle of such a job while retaining the challenge, and do right by a struggling family. So long as I keep my name away from any of it, this should be a good day at the office.
I take another sip of my coffee.
I have a good feeling about this.
11:23 JST
Second cup of coffee finished. Time to go to work.
As I get to my feet, the door opens. The swish and the clack of the beads rises and settles as a young woman steps through. Her dark hair is tied up in a bun. Her clothes are casual and loose. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder. A student, maybe? As she turns to walk toward the counter, I catch a brief look at her face. Her skin is tanned, olive. She’s walking as if she’s on edge. Hunched, protected, but her eyes remain alert. She looks familiar, but I can’t immediately recall from where.
I head for the door. She snaps her gaze to me as I near her. I see her double-take. She steps toward the counter but hesitates, turning to look at me once more. As I draw level, she reaches out with her hand to stop me.
“Ah… hey. Hi.” She smiles. “Sorry, you… you probably don’t remember me.”
The moment she said that, I remembered where I knew her from. She’s the girl I helped in the bar last night. She looks very different without her make-up and party outfit on.
I hold up my hand. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was a subconscious gesture to keep her at bay. Maybe it was an attempt to shake her hand as a greeting. Whatever it was intended to be, it ended up being a weird, awkward wave.
“Hey. Yeah, of course I remember you. How are you?”
Her smile broadens. “I’m fine, thanks to you. I… I was hoping I would see you again. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for what you did.”
I shake my head. “No need to thank me. I’m just glad I was there to intervene. Looked to me like your night wasn’t about to get any better.”
She looks away, as if she’s ashamed. “Yeah, those guys were jerks. They bought me a couple of drinks, and they both seemed nice enough, y’know? Then they wanted me to leave with them, go back to their place. I said no. That’s when one of them got aggressive.”
“I saw. I wasn’t going to sit there and let some punk treat a woman like that.”
Her cheeks flush. “I’m really grateful. Could I… ah… maybe buy you a coffee?”
I’m pretty sure my cheeks just flushed too.
I smile as I take a small, involuntary step back. “That’s kind of you to offer, but I gotta be somewhere. Sorry. Maybe another time?”
She nods. “Sure. You come here often?” She bites her lip and looks away momentarily. “Oh my God, that sounded like such a bad line! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
I chuckle. “I know what you meant. It’s okay. And yeah, almost every day.”
“Okay. Okay, well, maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Bye… ah… sorry, I don’t even know your name…”
“Adrian.”
She extends her hand. “Mia.”
I shake it gently. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
I leave without looking back and find myself hoping it didn’t appear I was running away fr
om her. Seriously, what the hell was that ? Why was I acting like some pubescent teenager?
Maybe because you just got hit on by one?
What? No, I didn’t!
Hey, listen to your old pal, Satan, all right? That chick was totally into you. She offered to buy you coffee, for Christ’s sake!
We were in a café…
So? She was flirting with you.
She’s a kid!
She’s old enough to be in a club…
And young enough to be my daughter.
Whatever, man. Your loss.
Hey, you’re here to help me kill people, not give me advice on the opposite sex, all right? Shut it.
…
…
…
I hate myself sometimes.
I turn the collar of my jacket up and hunch against the cold as I take in a deep breath. A faint plume of air forms in front of my face as I exhale.
So, I handled that badly. But what was I supposed to do? She’s more than half my age, easily. I can’t have a coffee with her… jeez.
Anyway, right now I have more important things to worry about. I check my watch and set off walking.
Showtime.
5
11:57 JST
The building in front of me stretches up to the gray clouds, holding its own against the towering skyline of Chiyoda. Across the street, behind me, is a park. Beyond that is the expressway. The street itself runs right through the heart of the financial sector. The buildings on either side of the one I’m looking at are both reputable banking firms.
It’s not uncommon for Yakuza families to hide their criminal activities behind the doors of legitimate ones. It used to be that only the richest and most powerful families did this, simply because they were the only ones who could afford to. Nowadays, I think most outfits do it. It’s the new normal.
I walk toward the revolving doors, which are turning slowly in the cylindrical, metallic frame, wedged between panes of tinted glass. I shuffle through and step out inside a spacious lobby. It’s just like every other I’ve seen before—a desk over to the right with women sitting behind it, tapping away on keyboards and talking animatedly into headsets; chairs and sofas to the left, with a scattered collection of people in business dress, presumably waiting for an appointment; a strip of waist-high security gates running the width of the space between, with two desks, one either side, each manned with security personnel…
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