Hard Rain

haven't. But I know where to check."
    "How long?"
    "A day. Maybe less."
    "Put whatever you find on the bulletin board. Page me when it's
    done."
    "I will."
    I hung up.
    The page came the next morning. I went to an Internet cafe in Umeda to
    check the bulletin board. Tatsu's message consisted of three pieces of
    information. The first was an address: Asakusa 2-chome, number 14. The
    second was that a man matching Murakami's memorable description had
    been spotted there. The third was that the weightlifter had been one
    of the backers of whatever dojo was being run there. The first piece
    of information told me where to go. The second told me it would be
    worthwhile to do so. The third gave me an idea of how I could get
    inside.
    I composed a message to Harry, asking whether he could check to see if
    my former weightlifting partner had ever made or received calls on his
    cell phone that were handled by the tower closest to the Asakusa
    address. Based on Tatsu's information, I expected that the answer
    would be yes. If so, it would confirm that the weightlifter had spent
    time at the dojo and would be known there, in which case I would use
    his name as an introduction. I also asked if Harry had heard from any
    U.S. government employees of late. I uploaded the message to our
    bulletin board, then paged him to let him know it was there.
    An hour later he paged me back. I checked the bulletin board and got
    his message. No visits from the IRS, with a little smiley face next to
    the news. And a record of calls the weightlifter had made that were
    handled by the Asakusa 2-chome tower. We were in business.
    I uploaded a message to Tatsu telling him that I was going to check the
    place out and would let him know what I found. I told him I needed him
    to backstop Arai Katsuhiko, the identity I'd been using at the
    weightlifter's club. Arai-san would have to be from the provinces,
    thus explaining his lack of local contacts. Some prison time in said
    provinces for, say, assault, would be a plus. Employment records with
    a local company something menial, but not directly under mob control
    would be ideal. Anyone who decided to check me out, and I was
    confident that, if things went as I hoped, someone would, would find
    the simple story of a man looking to leave behind a failed past,
    someone who had come to the big city to escape painful memories,
    perhaps to try for a fresh start.
    I caught a late bullet train and arrived at Tokyo station near
    midnight. This time I stayed at the Imperial Hotel in Hibiya, another
    centrally located place that lacks the amenities and flair of, say, the
    Seiyu Ginza or the Chinzansol or Marunouchi Four Seasons, but that
    compensates with size, anonymity, and multiple entrances and exits. The
    Imperial was also the last place I had been with Midori, but I chose it
    for security, not for sentiment.
    The next morning I checked the bulletin board. Tatsu had given me the
    identity I wanted, along with the location of a bank of coin lockers in
    Tokyo station, from under one of which I could retrieve the relevant
    ID. I read the electronic message until it was memorized, then deleted
    it.
    I did an SDR that encompassed Tokyo station, where I retrieved the
    papers I might need, and that ended at Toranomon station on the Ginza
    line, the oldest subway line in the city. From there I caught a train
    to Asakusa. Asakusa, in the northeast of the city, is part of what's
    left of shitamachi, the downtown, the low city of old Tokyo.
    Asakusa 2-chome was northwest of the station, so I approached it
    through the Sensoji, the Asakusa Temple complex. I entered through
    Kaminarimon, the Thunder Gate, said to protect Kannon, the goddess of
    mercy, to whose worship the temple complex is dedicated. My parents
    had taken me here when I was five, and the site of the gate's ten-foot
    red paper lantern is one of my earliest memories. My mother insisted
    on waiting in line to buy kaminari okoshi, Asakusa's signature snack,
    at the Tokiwado shop, whose crackers are reputed to be the best. My
    father complained at having to wait for such touristy nonsense but she
    ignored him. The crackers seemed wonderful to me crunchy and sweet and
    my mother laughed as we ate them, urging me, "Oichi, ne} Okhi, ne?"
    Aren't they yummy? Aren't they yummy?" until my father broke down and
    partook.
    I paused before the Sensoji Temple and looked back at the compound.
    Around me whirled the general din of excited tourists, of hawkers
    exhorting