Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

“I’m sorry you see it that way.”

“There’s no other way to see it. Oh, Daddy. You’re too old. You’re slow, you’re old, it’s over. You were a great man; you can be a great old man. But don’t be the man about whom they say, No fool like an old fool.”

“Sweetie…let’s go get some dinner or something, okay?”

“Yes, in Idaho.”

“No, here. We’ll get sushi.”

“Ugh. Raw fish. Please, anything but that.”

“I have to tell you this. There are obligations here you don’t know anything about. Deep, family obligations. Long story, no one would care, except me. But…obligations. This goes a long way back, and my father in the war, and the Japanese he fought.”

“I wish your father had never won that medal. It has haunted you your whole life. You don’t owe the Japanese he killed a thing. It wasn’t your war.”

“Honey, it was.”

“You’ve seen too many of these silly movies where guys in bathrobes, flip-flops, and ponytails cut each other’s heads off.”

“Maybe so. But to me, it feels like I’m going home.”

“Just promise me one thing: you won’t grow a ponytail.”

After that, it was pleasant, but Nikki felt her father’s need to return to his obsessive course, and so after dinner-she got through the sushi, somehow-she left, leaving him to his self-decreed mission.

His days were the same. The next development was the arrival of a package with a blue label, marked SAL, from Japan, wrapped in that perfect Japanese way.

Had he ordered something? Some book, some pamphlet? He’d bought a lot of weird stuff off the Internet, out-of-print books, Japanese sword exhibition catalogues, guides to sword fighting. But no: it was a thin package of copied documents, official in nature, no source given; they were typed in kanji with utmost precision, and included hand-drawn diagrams, badly Xeroxed and difficult to read. The whole thing had a spy quality to it; it seemed somehow illicit, the product of a penetration.

He’d have to have someone read it to him but he knew well enough what his anonymous donor from a Tokyo post office had sent him: it was the Yanos’ autopsy report.

Nii handled the negotiations because, even among the most trusted, most senior of the 8-9-3 Brotherhood, Kondo Isami would not show his face.

Nii met with Boss Otani in the latter’s office suite, a corner of a tall building in West Shinjuku, the fifty-fifth floor. The office was luxuriously appointed as befitted a man of Boss Otani’s accomplishment: he controlled much of the action in Kabukicho, more than a hundred clubs. He employed in his main group and in several subgroups one hundred of the fiercest yaks in all of Tokyo, men who would die for him instantly. He owned a controlling interest in three gambling syndicates, the north and west sides of the Tokyo amphetamine franchise, and more than a thousand prostitutes. He himself had killed many times on the way to his current lofty position.

It helped, of course, that at one time his ascent had been blocked by a certain ambitious boss in another organization, who could not be reached and who waged a terrifying war on Boss Otani. This man’s gang of killers had left Boss with the hundred-stitch scar that ran from his nipple to his hip. It was then that the boss made the acquaintance, anonymously, of Kondo Isami of Shinsengumi. In a week, the boss’s rival dropped by for a tête-à-tête. Boss Otani did most of the talking, for of the two têtes, his was the one still attached to a neck.

In black suit and somber mien, young Nii tried not to pay attention to the Tokyo skyline, which stretched to the horizon outside the fifty-fifth-floor window. It was, nevertheless, truly magnificent, the double towers of the Tokyo municipal government buildings, the fabled Hyatt hotel made famous in a movie, the cheesy Washington Hotel, which Boss Otani partially owned.

“Man or woman?” said the boss.

“It doesn’t matter, Oyabun,” said Nii, careful to use the term of respect.

“What does matter?”

“Corpulence. He wants a tubby one. He likes a certain density of flesh.”

“What happened to your head, young man?”

Nii’s left eye was still swollen shut. It looked like someone had puttied a large grapefruit to the left side of his face and the grapefruit had begun to rot and turn weird tones of purple that were shot with veins of red and smears of green-blue.

“It was unfortunate,” said Nii. “I forgot to duck.”

“I hope whoever had the temerity to strike such an important man paid for it.”

“He did. Most quickly, Oyabun.”

“Were you the author of this justice?”

“No sir. Kondo-san himself was. It was magnificent. I have never seen such speed.”

“Did you learn from Kondo-san?”

“I believe so.”

“You are quite lucky to have encountered such a wakagashira, a young boss, so early in your life. Study hard, kobun. Acquire knowledge and experience and give yourself over. You will prosper, or die gloriously.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anyway, a fat one?”

“A jelly-belly. You can see why.”

“Yes, of course.”

The older man, whose face looked like a Kabuki mask shaped to express decadent rage, punched an intercom button, and another man in an exquisitely tailored black silk suit, came in. He wore horn-rims and had neat hair. He bowed deeply before his employer and spiritual leader.

“Yes, Otani-san?”

“I require a woman.”

“Certainly, Otani-san.”

“She needn’t be a beauty. She needn’t be a top producer. In fact, it’s probably best if she’s not. She should, of course, be a guest worker. She should have no family in this country. She should have no reputation, no charisma, so that when her circumstances alter, her absence does not cause comment. She must live alone, she must work a very late shift. She must have no bad habits or infections of any kind.”

“There are dozens of such candidates. Alas, none of them live alone. At the rate they are paid, none can afford to live alone. Plus, one of every group, sometimes two, must report secretly to their bosses.”

“I understand. So be it,” said Nii. “He would consider it an acceptable risk.”

“Yes, and if there’s fuss, the remaining hens can be plucked too.”

“At the Club Marvelous, the guest workers are Korean ladies. They tend to corpulence and keep to themselves when not in the club. One of them should suffice. What is the timing to be, sir?”

“Nii?”

“Oh, sooner rather than later. He wants this cutting test done, and then the restoration must begin and that will take some time. We must be ready by December.”

“Did you hear?”

“I did,” said the factotum. “I will supply name, time, route home. I assume Kondo-san prefers his pleasure at night? Things are much easier to arrange at night. We own the night.”

“He would prefer daylight, of course,” said Nii, “for more exact details are revealed. But he understands the impossible cannot be done. Night is acceptable.”

“Who disposes?” said Boss Otani.

“It’s certain to be unpleasant. Perhaps the testers should provide disposal,” said the factotum.

“Nii?”

“Yes. We’ll dispose.”

“Good. Then it is settled.” He addressed Nii. “Tomorrow you call the Club Marvelous and the manager will supply you with the details.”

“Kondo-san thanks his friend and mentor,” said Nii.

“I would do any favor for Kondo Isami,” said Boss Otani.

The Korean woman left much later than her sisters. They got off at five and walked, en masse, to the subway station at Shinjuku. It wasn’t the danger, for Kabukicho was patrolled by police and yaks, both intent on crushing disturbances, who kept the crime rate to almost nil. However, unpleasantness could occur if a single woman met a group of men. Westerners were the worst, especially the Canadians and the Texans, though Germans occasionally acted out as well, and some nasty Iranians might be encountered. If the men were drunk and horny and angry, and had received the age-old message “For Japanese men only” in many bars, it could be awkward for everybody and end with teeth knocked out, eyes blackened, feelings ruffled.