A Clean Kill in Tokyo

he’s caught with it. In less than an hour he’ll meet Bulfinch and unload the damn thing, and thank God for that.
    What if I’m being followed right now?
he would think.
What if they find me with the disk?
He starts looking over his shoulder. Stops to light a cigarette, turns and scans the street.
    Someone behind him looks suspicious. Why not? When you’re hopped up on fear, the whole world is transformed. A tree looks like an NVA regular down to the details—the dark uniform, the Kalashnikov. Every guy in a suit looks like the government assassin who’s going to reach into your pocket, take out the disk, and smile as he raises the pistol to your forehead.
    Get rid of the damn thing,
you might decide in a near panic,
and let Bulfinch retrieve it himself. Anywhere, anywhere at all… there, the Higashimura fruit store, that’ll do.
    It wouldn’t have been a bad idea. In fact, they should have used a dead drop instead of a handoff to begin with. But these guys were amateurs, not pros.
    I stopped outside the store’s small door and looked at the sign. This was where he had ducked into that morning. If it wasn’t here it could be anywhere. But if he had unloaded it on his way to see Bulfinch, this was the place.
    I walked in. The proprietor, a short man with defeated-looking eyes and skin the hue of a lifetime of tobacco, looked up and acknowledged me with a tired
“irrashaimase,”
then went back to reading his manga. The store was small and rectangular, and the proprietor had a view of the whole place. Kawamura would have been able to hide the disk only in places where a patron could acceptably put his hands. He would be moving quickly, too. As far as he was concerned, it would only need to stay hidden for an hour or so, anyway, so he didn’t have to find an incredibly secure spot.
    Which meant it was probably already gone, I realized. It wouldn’t still be here. But I had nothing else to go on. It was worth a try.
    Apples. I had seen an apple rolling out of the train car as the doors had closed.
    There was a selection of Fujis, polished and beautiful in their netted Styrofoam blankets, at the farthest corner of the store. I imagined Kawamura strolling over, examining the apples, slipping the disk under them as he did so.
    I walked over and looked. The bin was only a few apples deep, and it was easy for me to search for the disk simply by moving around the apples, as though I was trying to select just the right one.
    No disk. Shit.
    I repeated the drill with the adjacent pears, then the tangerines. Nothing.
    Damn it. It had felt right. I had been so sure.
    I was going to have to buy something to complete the charade. I was obviously a discriminating buyer, looking for something special.
    “Could you put together a small selection as a gift?” I asked the owner. “Maybe a half-dozen pieces of fruit, including a small musk melon.”
    “Kashikomarimashita,”
he answered with a wan attempt at a smile. Right away.
    As he went about carefully assembling the gift, I continued my search. In the five minutes during which the proprietor was preoccupied with my request, I was able to check every place to which Kawamura would have had access that morning. It was useless.
    The proprietor was just about finished. He pulled out a green moiré ribbon and wrapped it twice around the box he had used, finishing it in a simple bow. It was actually a nice gift. Maybe Midori would enjoy it.
    I took out some bills and handed them over.
What were you hoping for, anyway,
I thought.
Kawamura wouldn’t have had time to hide it well. Even if he tried to ditch it in here, someone would have found it by now.
    Someone would have found it.
    He was counting out my change with the same slow approach he had employed in creating the fruit basket. Definitely a careful man. Methodical.
    I waited for him to finish, then said, “Excuse me. I know it’s not likely, but a friend of mine lost a CD in here a week or so ago and asked me to check to see if anyone had found it. It’s so unlikely that I hesitated to bring it up, but…”
    “Un,”
he grunted, squatting behind the counter. A moment later he stood, a generic plastic jewel box in his hand. “I wondered whether anyone would claim this.” He wiped it with a few listless strokes of his apron and handed it to me.
    “Thank you,” I said, vaguely surprised. “My friend will be happy.”
    “Good for him,” he said, and his eyes filmed over again.

CHAPTER 15
    A t first light