A Lonely Resurrection

automobile overpasses, their concrete darkened by the accumulated years of diesel fumes, their bulk so densely woven against the dark sky that the earth beneath felt vaguely subterranean. A solitary vending machine sat slumped on a street corner, its fluorescent light guttering like a dying SOS.
    I spotted the Lady Crystal Yacht Club, probably an advertising euphemism for a restaurant that happened to be located on the water, and turned left. To my right was another overpass with warehouses beneath; opposite, a small parking lot, mostly empty. Beyond that, another Stygian canal.
    I found the warehouse door Murakami had described. It was flanked by a pair of concrete flowerpots choked with weeds. A metal sign to the left warned of fire danger. Rust ran down the wall from behind it like dried blood from a peeling bandage.
    I looked around. Across the water were brightly lit high-rise office buildings, apartments, and hotels, the names of their owners proudly glowing in red and blue neon: JAL, JTB, the Dai-ichi Seafort. It was as though the ground around me was poisoned and incapable of supporting the growth of such structures here.
    To my left was an indentation in the long line of warehouses. I stepped inside and spotted a door on the right, hidden from the street outside. There was a small peephole at eye level. I knocked and waited.
    I heard a bolt moving then the door opened. It was Washio. “You’re early,” he said.
    I shrugged. I rarely make appointments. You don’t want to give someone the opportunity to fix you in time and place. On those infrequent occasions where I have no choice, I like to show up early to scout around. If someone’s going to throw me a party, I’ll get there before the musicians set up.
    I glanced inside. I was looking at a cavernous room dotted with concrete pillars. Incandescent lights dangled from a ceiling eight meters up, their bulbs encased in wire. Cardboard boxes were stacked five meters high on all sides. Two forklifts rested against a wall, looking like toys in relation to the space around them. A couple of
chinpira
in black tee shirts were moving chairs to the edges of the room. Other than that we were alone.
    I looked at Washio. “Is it a problem?”
    He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. People will be here soon enough.”
    I stepped inside. “You work the door?”
    He nodded. “I don’t know your face, you don’t get in.”
    “Who’s fighting?”
    “Don’t know. I just run the fights, I don’t promote them.”
    I smiled at him. “You ever participate?”
    He laughed. “No. I’m a little old for this shit. Maybe I would have when I was younger. But these fights have only been going on for a year, year and a half, which is long after my prime.”
    I thought of the way I’d seen him talking to Murakami, as though he’d been delivering a briefing. “The people at the club,” I said, “you’re training them for these fights?”
    “Some of them.”
    “What about Murakami?” I asked.
    “What about him?”
    “What does he do?”
    He shrugged. “A lot of things. Some of the guys he trains. Sometimes he fights. We get a good turnout when he’s fighting.”
    “Why?”
    “Murakami always finishes his fights. People like that.”
    “‘Finishes’ them?”
    “You know what I mean. When Murakami fights, for sure one of the fighters is going to die. And Murakami has never lost.”
    I had no trouble believing that. “What makes him so good?” I asked.
    He looked at me. “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”
    “Is it true he fights dogs?”
    He paused. “Where did you hear that?”
    I shrugged. “Just talk.”
    Another pause. Then: “I don’t know whether it’s true. I know he goes to underground dog fights. He’s a breeder. Tosas and American Pit Bulls. His dogs are dead game, too. He feeds them gunpowder, pumps them full of steroids. They get irritated at the world and aggressive as hell. One dog, Murakami shoved a jalapeño pepper up its ass. Fought like a demon after that.”
    There was a knock at the door. Washio stood. I offered him a slight bow to acknowledge we were done.
    He reached out and took my arm. “Wait. I’ll need your mobile phone first.”
    I looked at his hand. “I’m not carrying one,” I said.
    He eyeballed me, his expression baleful. I stared back. What I had told him was true, though if I’d been lying it would take more than a scowl to make me admit it.
    His expression softened and he released my arm. “I’m not