Hard Rain

always in different locations. That
    the police were breaking up the fights at all meant they weren't being
    paid not to. Meaning in turn that the organizers were willing to
    purchase overall secrecy at the price of a few random interruptions.
    Which showed good judgment, and perhaps some greed.
    Too bad, from my perspective. If there had been payoffs, there would
    have been leaks, leaks that Tatsu would have uncovered.
    Stay with the fights, I thought, trying to get a visual. The fights.
    Not work for this guy. He's a killer. For him, it's fun.
    What would the purses be? How much do you have to pay two men to step
    into the ring when each knows that only one might walk away
    afterward?
    How many spectators? How much would they pay to see two men fight to
    the death? How much would they bet? How much would the house
    collect?
    They'd have to keep the crowds small. Otherwise word gets out and the
    police intrude.
    Enthusiasts. Devotees. Maybe fifty men. Charge them a hundred, two
    hundred thousand yen each for admission. Betting is free. A lot of
    money would change hands.
    I leaned back in the Aeron chair, my fingers laced behind my head, my
    eyes closed. Pay the winner the yen equivalent of twenty thousand
    dollars. The loser gets a couple thousand for his efforts, if he
    lives. The couple thousand goes to the crew that disposes of the body
    if he doesn't. Minimal overhead. The house pockets close to eighty
    grand. Not bad for an evening.
    Murakami liked to fight. Hell, Pride wasn't enough for him. He needed
    more. And it wasn't the money. Pride, with promotions and
    pay-per-view, would pay a lot more, to the winners and losers.
    No. It wasn't the money for this guy. It was the excitement. The
    proximity to death. The high you can only get from killing a man who's
    simultaneously doing everything in his power to kill you.
    I know the sensation. It both fascinates and repulses me. And, in a
    very few men, most of whom can live out their lives and be true to
    their natures only as the hardest of hard-core mercenaries, it becomes
    an addiction.
    These men live to kill. Killing is the only thing for them that's
    real.
    I had known one of them. My blood brother, Crazy Jake.
    I remembered how Jake would cut loose after returning from a mission.
    He'd be flushed, not just his mood but his whole metabolism jacked up
    and humming. You could see heat shimmers coming off his body. Those
    were the only times he would be talkative. He'd relate how the mission
    had gone, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth working a maniac grin.
    He would show trophies. Scalps and ears. The trophies said: They're
    dead! I'm alive!
    In Saigon, he'd buy everyone's beer. He'd buy whores. He threw
    parties. He needed a group to celebrate with him. I'm alive! They're
    dead and I'm fucking alive!
    I sat forward in the seat and pressed my palms on the surface of the
    desk. I opened my eyes.
    The bar tabs.
    You've just killed and survived. You want to celebrate. They paid you
    in cash. Celebrate you can.
    It felt right. The first glimmers of knowing this guy from afar, of
    beginning to grasp the threads of what I'd need to get close to him.
    He loved the fights. He was addicted to the high. But a serious man.
    A professional.
    Work backward. He would train. And not at some monthly dues
    neighborhood dojo alongside the weekend warriors. Not even at one of
    the more serious places, like the Kodokan, where the police judoka kept
    their skills sharp. He'd need something, he'd find something, more
    intense.
    Find that place, and you find him.
    I took a walk along the Okawa River. Hulking garbage scows slumbered
    senseless and stagnant on the green water. Bats dive-bombed me,
    chasing insects. A couple of kids dangled fishing poles from a
    concrete retaining wall, hoping to pull God knows what from the murky
    liquid below.
    I came to a pay phone and used the number Tatsu had given me.
    He picked up on the first ring. "Okay to talk?" I asked him.
    "Yes."
    "Our man trains for his fights. Not at a regular dojo."
    "I expect that is correct."
    "Do you have information about where?"
    "Nothing beyond what is in the envelope."
    "Okay. Here's what we're looking for. A small place. Five hundred
    square meters, something like that. Not in an upscale neighborhood,
    but not too far down scale either. Discreet. No advertising. Tough
    clientele. Organized crime, biker types, enforcers. People with
    police records. Histories of violence. You ever hear of a place like
    that?"
    "I