A Clean Kill in Tokyo

The stranger walked in the proffered direction and found a place to stand.
    What could he have used to trump Mama? ID from Tokyo’s liquor-licensing authority? A police badge? I watched him throughout the second set, but he gave no indication, leaning expressionless against the wall.
    When the set ended, I had a decision to make. On the one hand, I assumed he was here for Midori, and wanted to watch him to confirm and to see what else I could learn. On the other hand, if he was connected with Kawamura, he might know the heart attack had been induced, and he might recognize me from the train, where we had spoken briefly over Kawamura’s prone form. The risk was small, but, as Crazy Jake once liked to put it, the penalty for missing was high. Someone could learn of my current appearance, and the cocoon of anonymity I had been so careful to build would begin to unravel.
    Also, if I did stay to watch his interaction with Midori, I wouldn’t be able to follow him when he left. Either I’d have to share Alfie’s five-person elevator with him, in which case he’d make me, or I’d have to beat him using the stairs, which was uncertain. And if he got to the street first, by the time I caught up, he might already have been carried off by the tides of pedestrians sweeping across Roppongi-dori.
    Although it was frustrating, I had to leave first. When the applause for the second set ended, I watched the stranger heading toward the stage. Several patrons stood and began milling about, and I kept them between us as I headed for the exit.
    Keeping my back to the stage, I stopped to return the remnants of my Caol Ila. I thanked Mama again for letting me in without a reservation.
    “I saw you talk to Kawamura-san,” she said. “Was that so hard?”
    I smiled. “No, Mama, it was fine.
    “Why are you leaving so early? You don’t come by nearly enough.”
    “I’ll have to remedy that. But tonight I have other plans.”
    She shrugged, perhaps disappointed her machinations had come to so little.
    “By the way,” I said to her, “who was that
gaijin
who came in during the second set? I saw you arguing with him.”
    “He’s a reporter,” she said, wiping a glass. “He’s writing an article on Kawamura-san, so I let him stay.”
    “A reporter? That’s great. With what publication?”
    “Some Western magazine. I don’t remember.”
    “Good for Kawamura-san. She really is going to be a star.” I patted her on the hand. “Good night, Mama. See you again.”
    I took the stairs down to the street, then crossed Roppongi-dori and waited in the Meidi-ya supermarket across the street, pretending to examine their champagne selection. Ah, an ‘88 Moët—good, but hardly a bargain at 35,000 yen. I examined the label and watched the elevator to Alfie through the window.
    Out of habit I scanned the other spots that could serve as setup points if you were waiting for someone to emerge from Alfie. Cars parked along the street, maybe, but you could never count on getting a space, so low probability there. The phone booth just down from the Meidi-ya, where a crew-cut Japanese in a black leather jacket and wraparound shades had been on the phone as I emerged from the stairwell. He was still there, I could see, facing the entrance to Alfie.
    The stranger emerged after about fifteen minutes and made a right on Roppongi-dori. I stayed put for a moment, waiting for Telephone Man’s reaction, and sure enough he hung up and started down the street in the same direction.
    I left the Meidi-ya and turned left onto the sidewalk. Telephone Man was already crossing to the stranger’s side, not even waiting until he got to the crosswalk. His surveillance moves were blatant: hanging up the phone the instant the stranger had emerged, the constant visual contact with the exit before that, the sudden move across the street. He was following too closely, too, a mistake because it allowed me to fall in behind him. For a second I wondered if he might be working with the stranger, maybe as a bodyguard or something, but he wasn’t close enough to have been effective in that capacity.
    They turned right onto Gaienhigashi-dori at the Almond Cafe, Telephone Man following by fewer than ten paces. I crossed the street to follow, hurrying because the light was changing.
    This is stupid,
I thought.
You are in the middle of someone else’s surveillance. If there’s more than one and they’re using cameras you could get your picture taken.
    I imagined