Hard Rain

others
    went to help him.
    I shrugged. "I would have. But he told me "no rules."
    "That's true. He'll probably be the last guy who suggests that to
    you."
    I looked at him. "I like this place. You guys seem serious."
    "We are."
    "It's all right for me to train here?"
    "Between four and eight every evening. Most mornings, too, you can
    work out from eight to noon. There are dues, but we can talk about
    that another time."
    "You manage the place?"
    He smiled. "Something like that."
    "I'm Arai," I said, with a slight bow.
    Someone brought a stretcher. The dark-complected guy was gritting his
    teeth and whimpering. Someone admonished him, "Urusei na! Gaman
    shiro!" Shut up! Take the pain!
    "Washio," he said, returning the bow. "And by the way, did you know
    that Ishihara-san died recently?"
    I looked at him. "No, I didn't."
    He nodded. "An accident at his gym."
    "I'm sorry to hear that. Is the gym still open?"
    "Some of his associates are running it now."
    "Good. Although I have a feeling that, from now on, I'll be spending
    more time here, anyway."
    He grinned. "Yoroshiku." Looking forward to it.
    "Yorosbiku."
    I stuck around for another two hours. Adonis glared at me from time to
    time but otherwise kept his distance. Murakami never showed.
    Washio's questions about Ishihara's death were neither surprising nor
    particularly unnerving. His death looked like an accident. Even if
    they wondered whether the truth might be otherwise, they had no more
    reason to suspect my involvement than they did anyone else who had
    worked out there.
    Of course, if I received further inquiries on that subject,
    particularly any pointed ones, I might change my assessment.
    I came the next day, and the day after that, but still no sign. That
    was fine with me. It felt good to be back in Tokyo and I thought I
    could afford a few days there if I continued to be careful. Besides,
    getting in a workout on the job is great. Not quite the wholesome life
    of an aerobics instructor, but it beats sitting in a van all night on
    surveillance, drinking cold coffee and pissing in a plastic jug.
    On the fourth day, I dropped by in the evening. Three sequential
    occasions in the same place at the same time was as much as my paranoid
    nervous system will allow. I was surprised to see many of the same
    faces. Some of these characters worked out twice a day. I wondered
    what they did for a living. Crime, probably. Be your own boss.
    Flexible hours.
    I exchanged greetings with Washio and some of the others whom I had
    gotten to know, then changed in the locker room. One of the heavy bags
    was open, and I started working it with knee and elbow combinations.
    Drills of one-minute attack, thirty-second rest. I used a small clock
    on the wall to time myself.
    My speed and strength were still good. Endurance likewise. Recovery
    times aren't what they once were, but a steady diet of liquid amino
    acids for the muscles, glu-cos amine for the joints, and Cognamine for
    the reflexes all seem to help.
    During one of the rest periods, I felt people pause in their workouts,
    felt their attention shift. The atmosphere in the room changed.
    I looked over and saw someone in a poorly fitting double-breasted navy
    suit. It had wide lapels and overly padded shoulders. The kind of
    suit that's supposed to impart a swagger even when you're standing
    still. He was flanked by two burly specimens, more casually dressed,
    with jakuza punch per ms From their size and deportment I assumed they
    were bodyguards.
    They must have just come in. The guy in the suit was talking to
    Washio, who was paying close and somehow uncomfortable attention.
    I watched, and noticed other people doing the same. The newcomer
    couldn't have been more than five-feet-eight, but his neck was massive
    and I put him at about eighty-five, ninety kilos. His ears were
    deformed masses of protruding scar tissue that would stand out even in
    Japan, where such scarification is not uncommon among judoka and
    kendoka.
    Washio was gesturing to various men who were training. The newcomer
    was nodding. It felt like a briefing.
    The thirty-second rest was up. I returned my attention to the bag.
    Left elbow. Right uppercut. Left knee. Again.
    When the one-minute sequence was done I looked over. Washio and the
    newcomer were walking toward me. The bodyguards remained by the
    door.
    "Oi, Arai," Washio called out when they were a couple meters away.
    "Chotto mate." Hold up for a minute.
    I picked up a towel from the floor and