A Clean Kill in Tokyo

the wind whipping away their cries.
    I stretched in the center of the room, the
judogi
uniform wet against my skin. I came to the Kodokan because it’s the premiere spot to study judo, but, like my neighborhood in Sengoku, the place has become much more to me than it was at first. I’ve seen things here: a grizzled old veteran who’s been doing judo every day for half a century, patiently showing a child in an oversized
gi
that the proper placement of the hooking leg in
sankakujime
is at a slight angle to, not straight behind, one’s opponent; a young
sandan,
third-degree black belt, who left his native Iran to practice at the Kodokan four years ago, hardly missing a day of practice since, drilling his
osoto-gari
in such precise and powerful repetitions that his movements come to resemble some vast natural force, the movement of tides, perhaps, the dancer becoming the dance; a college kid quietly crying after being choked out in a match, the crowd cheering for his victorious opponent and taking no heed of his dignified tears.
    The roller coaster was making its familiar ratcheting sound, the last of the light fading from the sky above it. It was past seven, too late for me to get to the Blue Note. Just as well.

CHAPTER 9
    I had no special plans the next day, so I decided to stop at an antiquarian bookstore I like in Jinbocho, a part of the city best known for its warren of densely packed bookshops, some specializing in Eastern fare, others in Western. I had checked in a few days earlier with the shop’s proprietor, who told me he had located and was holding for me an old tome on
shimewaza
—strangles—that I had been trying to find for a long while, to add to my modest collection on
bugei,
the warrior arts.
    I picked up the Mita subway line at Sengoku Station. Sometimes I use the subway; other times I take the JR from Sugamo. It’s good to be random. There was a priest in Shinto garb collecting donations outside the station. It seemed these guys were everywhere lately, not just in front of parliament anymore. I took the train in the direction of Onarimon and got off at Jinbocho. I meant to leave the station at the exit nearest the Isseido Bookstore, but, distracted by thoughts of Midori and Kawamura, I wound up taking the wrong corridor. After turning a corner and coming upon a sign for the Hanzoman line, I realized my error, turned, and rounded the corner again.
    A pudgy Japanese was moving quickly down the corridor, about ten meters away. I flashed his eyes as he approached but he ignored me, looking straight ahead. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a striped shirt. Must have heard somewhere that stripes make you look taller.
    I glanced down and saw why I hadn’t heard him coming: cheap shoes with rubber soles. But he was carrying an expensive-looking black attaché case, a lid-over model, maybe an old Swaine Adeney. A businessman who knew good attachés but assumed no one would notice his shoes? Maybe. But this wasn’t really the place for business—Kasumigaseki or Akasaka would be more likely. I knew the shoes would make for comfortable attire on a long walk—if following someone were part of the likely itinerary, for example.
    Aside from the attaché, his hands were empty, but I tensed anyway as we passed each other. Something about him bothered me. I slowed down a little as we passed each other, looked over my shoulder, marked the way he walked. Faces are easy to disguise, clothes you can change in a minute, but not too many people can conceal their gait. It’s something I look for. I watched this guy’s walk—short stride, bit of an exaggerated, self-important arm swing, slight side-to-side swaying action of the head—until he turned the corner.
    I cut back the other way, checking behind me before I left the station. Probably it was nothing, but I’d remember his face and gait, watch my back as always, see if he showed up again.
    Principles of Strangles
was in excellent condition, as promised, with a price to match, but I knew I would greatly enjoy the slim volume. Although I was eager to depart, I waited patiently while the proprietor carefully, almost ceremoniously, wrapped the book in heavy brown paper and string. He knew it wasn’t a gift, but this was his way of showing his appreciation for the sale, and it would have been rude to hurry him. Finally, he proffered the package with extended arms and a deep bow, and I accepted it from a similar posture, bowing again as I left.
    I headed