A Lonely Resurrection

from the momentum the throw had generated.
    Had I elected to release my grip around his waist, he would have done a complete somersault. I maintained the grip instead, and his feet flopped back to the floor, putting him on his back. I grabbed his face with my left hand and used it to simultaneously shove his head back and scramble from behind him. I rose up on my right knee, tensed my hips, and smashed down on his exposed throat with my right forearm, getting my weight behind the blow. I felt the crunch of systemic breakage—the thyroid and cricoid cartilage, probably the spinous process, as well. His hands flew to his throat and his body convulsed.
    I stood and stepped away from him. The crowd was now silent.
    His neck began to swell from a hematoma induced by the fractures. His legs kicked and scrabbled and he rolled from side to side. His face blued and contorted above his frantic fingers. Nobody made any move to help him. Not that they could have. After a few seconds his body started to shudder in odd spasms, as though he was being shocked. A few seconds later, the shuddering stopped.
    Someone cried out,
“Yatta!”
I won!, and the room reverberated with a chorus of cheers. The crowd converged on me. People slapped my back and grabbed my hands to shake them. I was uncomfortably aware that one of Adonis’s friends might use the moment to try to put a knife in me, but there was nothing I could do.
    I heard Washio’s voice:
“Hora, sagatte, sagatte. Ikisasete yare!”
Come on now, come on now, let him breathe! He and a few of the bouncers moved close to me and started to push the crowd back.
    Someone handed me a towel and I wiped my face. The crowd eased away. I looked around and saw stacks of ten-thousand-yen notes changing hands.
    Murakami stepped into the circle. He was smiling.
    “Yokuyatta zo,”
he said. Good job.
    I dropped the towel. “Where’s my money?”
    He reached into his breast pocket and took out a thick envelope. He opened it so I could see that it was stuffed with ten-thousand-yen notes, then closed it and returned it to his pocket.
    “It’s yours,” he said. “I’ll give it to you later.” He looked around. “Some of these people, they might try to rob you for it.”
    “Give it to me now,” I said.
    “Later.”
    Fuck the money,
I thought. I was glad just to be alive.
    I started moving toward where I had left my jacket, shirt, and shoes. The crowd parted respectfully before me. A few random hands slapped my shoulders.
    Murakami followed. “The money is yours. I want one more thing before I give it to you.”
    “Fuck you.” I pulled on my shirt and started buttoning it.
    He laughed. “Okay, okay.” He took out the envelope and tossed it to me.
    I caught it two-handed and glanced inside. It looked about right. I shoved it in a pants pocket and continued buttoning my shirt.
    “The extra thing I wanted,” he said, “was to tell you how you can make ten, twenty times what’s in that envelope.”
    I looked at him.
    “You interested?”
    “I’m listening.”
    He shook his head. “Not here. Let’s go somewhere we can celebrate.” He smiled. “My treat.”
    I stepped into my shoes and knelt to lace them. “What did you have in mind?”
    “A little place I own. You’ll enjoy it.”
    I considered. A “celebration” with Murakami would afford me the opportunity to collect additional intel for Tatsu. I didn’t see any real downside.
    “All right,” I said.
    Murakami smiled.
    Two guys were zipping Adonis into a body bag.
Christ,
I thought,
they really come prepared.
They loaded him onto a gurney and wheeled him toward the door. On the underside of the gurney was a stack of metal plates. One of the guys was carrying a length of chain, and I realized they were going to weight the body and dump it in one of the surrounding canals.
    The next fight went for a long time. The fighters were conservative and seemed to have implicitly agreed not to employ potentially lethal or disfiguring techniques. After about ten minutes, Murakami said to me, “This isn’t worth watching. Let’s go.”
    He motioned to his bodyguards, and the four of us walked outside. Washio saw us leaving and bowed.
    A black Mercedes S-Class with darkened windows was parked at the curb. One of the guards opened the rear door for us. A dog was curled up on the back seat. A white pit bull, its ears clipped short, its body roped with thick muscle. It had been fitted with a heavy leather muzzle, beyond the