A Clean Kill in Tokyo

knew the voice, but it took me a minute to place it—I was used to hearing it in English.
    Benny.
    “What if he doesn’t want to talk?”
    “He’ll talk.”
    I was gripping the phone hard.
You piece of shit, Benny, how did you track me down?
    When did this message get recorded? What was that special functions button… goddamn it, I should have run through this a few more times for practice before it really mattered. I’d gotten complacent. I hit six. That speeded up the message. Shit. I tried five. The mechanical woman informed me this message was made by an outside caller at 2:00 P.M. That was California time, which meant they had entered my apartment at about seven o’clock this morning, maybe an hour ago.
    Okay, change of plan. I saved the message, hung up, and called Midori. I told her I had found out something important and would tell her about it when I got back, that she should wait for me even if I was late. Then I backtracked to Sugamo, once notorious as the site of a SCAP prison for Japanese war criminals, now better known for its red-light district and accompanying love hotels.
    I picked the hotel closest to Sengoku. The room they gave me was dank. I didn’t care. I just wanted a landline—so I wouldn’t have to worry about my mobile phone battery dying—and a place to wait.
    I dialed the phone in my apartment. It didn’t ring, but I could hear when the connection had gone through. I sat and waited, listening, but after a half hour there still wasn’t any sound and I started to wonder if they’d left. Then I heard a chair sliding against the wood floor, footsteps, and the unmistakable sound of a man urinating in the toilet. They were still there.
    I sat like that all day, listening in on nothing. The only consolation was that they must have been as bored as I was. I hoped they were as hungry.
    At around 6:30, while I was doing some judo stretches to keep limber, I heard a phone ring on the other end of the line. Benny answered, grunted a few times, then said, “I have something in Shibakoen—shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
    I heard his buddy answer,
“Hai,”
but I wasn’t really listening anymore. If Benny was going to Shibakoen, he’d take the Mita subway south from Sengoku Station. He wouldn’t have driven; public transportation is lower profile, and there’s nowhere for nonresidents to park in Sengoku anyway. From my apartment to the station, he could choose more or less randomly from a half-dozen parallel and perpendicular streets—one of the reasons I had originally chosen the place. The station was too crowded; I couldn’t intercept him there. Besides, I didn’t know what he looked like—I had to catch him leaving the apartment or I would lose him.
    I bolted out of the room and flew down the stairs. When I hit the sidewalk, I cut straight across Hakusan-dori, then made a left on the artery that would take me to my street. I was running as fast as I could while hugging the buildings I passed—if I timed this wrong and Benny emerged at the wrong moment, he was going to see me coming. He knew where I lived, and I couldn’t be certain any longer that he wouldn’t know my face.
    When I was about fifteen meters from my street I slowed to a walk, staying close to the exterior wall surrounding a house, controlling my breathing. At the corner I crouched low and eased my head out, looking to the right. No sign of Benny. No more than four minutes had passed since I’d hung up the phone. I was pretty sure I hadn’t missed him.
    There was a streetlight directly overhead, but I had to wait where I was. I didn’t know whether he’d make a right or left leaving the building, and I had to be able to see him when he exited. Once I’d gotten my hands on him I could drag him into the shadows.
    My breathing had slowed to normal when I heard the external door to the building slam shut. I smiled. The residents know the door slams and are careful to let it close slowly.
    I crouched down again and peered past the edge of the wall. A pudgy Japanese was walking briskly in my direction. The same guy I had seen with the attaché case in the subway station at Jinbocho. Benny. I should have known.
    I stood and waited, listening to his footsteps getting louder. When he sounded like he was about a meter away, I stepped out into the intersection.
    He pulled up short, his eyes bulging. He knew my face, all right. Before he could say anything, I stepped in close, pumping two uppercuts into