Hard Rain

under
    my eyes the size of Sado Island. Besides, he can have all the motive
    he wants. I'm not going to give him the opportunity."
    He nodded. "I'm certain that you wouldn't. At least not deliberately.
    But, as I have mentioned, I am not the only one with access to Juki
    Net."
    I looked at him, wondering whether there was a threat hidden in there.
    Tatsu is always subtle.
    "What are you saying, Tatsu?"
    "Only that if I could find you, Yamaoto will be able to, also. And he
    is not alone in his efforts. The CIA, as you know, is also eager to
    make your reacquaintance."
    He took a sip of his tea. "Putting myself in your shoes, I see two
    possible courses. One is that you stay in Japan, but not in Tokyo, and
    try to return to your old ways. This is perhaps the easier course, but
    the less safe one."
    He sipped again. "Two is that you leave the country and start over
    somewhere. This is the harder course, but would perhaps afford you
    greater security. The problem, in either case, is that you will have
    left things unfinished with certain parties who wish you ill, parties
    with global reach and long memories, and that you will have no allies
    against them."
    "I don't need allies," I said, but the rejoinder sounded weak even to
    me.
    "If you plan to leave Japan, we can part as friends," he said. "But if
    I cannot count on your help today, it will be difficult for me to help
    you tomorrow, when you may need that help."
    That was about as direct as Tatsu ever got. I thought about it,
    wondering what to do. Drop everything and disappear for Brazil, even
    though my preparations weren't complete? Maybe. But I hated the
    thought of leaving a loose end, something someone could grab onto and
    use to track me. Because, despite his obvious self-interest in
    emphasizing the dangers of Yamaoto and the CIA, Tatsu's assessment was
    not so far off from my own.
    The other possibility would be to do this last job and keep him off my
    back, keep him off balance while I finished my preparations. What he
    was offering me in return wasn't trivial, either. Tatsu has access to
    people and places that even Harry can't hack. No matter what I did
    next, he would be a damn useful contact.
    I thought it through for another minute. Then I said, "Something tells
    me you're carrying an envelope."
    He nodded.
    "Give it to me," I said.
    Eight.
    I took the envelope to my apartment and perused it there. I sat at my
    desk and spread out the papers. I highlighted passages. I scribbled
    thoughts in the margins. Parts I read in order. Other times I skipped
    around. I tried to get the pattern, the gist.
    The subject's name was Murakami Ryu. The dossier was impressive on
    background, on much of which Tatsu had already briefed me, but light on
    the sorts of current detail that I need to get close to a subject.
    Where did he live? Where did he work? What were his habits, his
    haunts, his routines? With whom did he associate? All blanks, or too
    vague to be immediately useful.
    He wasn't a ghost, but he was no civilian, either. Civilians have
    addresses, places of employment, tax records, registered cars, medical
    files. The lack of such details surrounding Murakami was itself a form
    of information. Which provided a frame, but I still didn't have a
    picture.
    That's okay. Start with the frame.
    No information meant a careful man. Serious. A realist. A man who
    didn't take chances, who was careful in his movements, who could be
    expected to make few mistakes.
    I shuffled papers. Even his known organized crime associates were from
    multiple families. He didn't exclusively patronize any of the
    knownjakuza gumi. He was a freelancer, a straddler, connected to many
    worlds but a part of none.
    Like me.
    He liked hostess bars, it seemed. He had been spotted in several,
    typically high-end, where he would spend the yen equivalent of twenty
    thousand dollars in a night.
    Not like me.
    High rollers get remembered. In my business, careful means not being
    remembered. Evidence of impulsiveness? Lack of discipline? Maybe.
    Still, there was no pattern to the behavior, only its existence. No
    trail for me to follow.
    But there was something there, something in those periodic splurges. I
    tagged that thought for reexamination, then closed my eyes and tried to
    let the bigger picture cohere.
    The fighting. That was a common theme. But Tatsu's information on
    where the underground bouts occurred, when, and under whose auspices,
    was sketchy.
    The police had broken up several,