Hard Rain

wiped my face. They came closer
    and Washio gestured to the man next to him. "I want to introduce you
    to someone," he said. "One of the backers of this dojo?
    I already knew who he was. Per Tatsu's briefing, the left cheek was
    flattened, with the opposite side exhibiting what looked like a
    golf-ball-sized fissure pocked with jagged edges. I imagined a dog
    getting hold of him there and hanging on even as he shoved the animal
    away.
    Something told me the dog had come out the worse.
    I felt the hairs on the back of my neck pop up, a fresh surge of
    adrenaline dump into my veins. My fight or flight reaction is finely
    honed, and this guy's presence was making it sing.
    "Arai desu," I said, bowing slightly.
    "Murakami da," he said with a nod, his voice not much more than a
    growl. "Washio tells me you're good." He looked doubtful.
    I shrugged.
    "There's a fight tomorrow night," he went on. "We put them on from
    time to time. Most people pay a hundred thousand yen to attend, but
    members of the dojo get in free. You interested?"
    A hundred thousand yen I'd been in the right neighborhood about the
    economics of these things. And if this guy was comfortable issuing the
    invitation, someone must have checked me out. I was glad that I'd had
    Tatsu backstop the Arai identity.
    I shrugged again and said, "Sure."
    He looked at me, his eyes flat, as though focused somewhere behind and
    through me. "The fight starts at ten o'clock sharp. People get there
    a little early for betting. We're doing this one in Higashi Shinagawa,
    five-chome. Just across the canal from Tennozu Island."
    "The harbor district?" I asked. The area is part of Tokyo but wasn't
    a place I ever frequented while living in the city. It's in Tokyo's
    southeast, the home of meat processing plants and sewage disposal, of
    steam power facilities and wholesale warehouses, all of it fed and
    fattened by Tokyo's great port. I supposed the attraction was that it
    would be deserted at night.
    "That's right. The address is Eight-Twenty-five. A warehouse with the
    character for "transport" painted in a big circle on the door. Across
    from the Lady Crystal Yacht Club. On your right as you walk from the
    monorail. Should be easy to find."
    "It's important that you not tell anyone about this," Washio added.
    "Only people who are invited get in anyway, and we don't want trouble
    from the police."
    Murakami nodded once, acknowledging Washio's point as though it had
    been barely worth mentioning. I gathered that Murakami didn't
    particularly care who showed up at these things, as long as there was a
    fight. Washio, on the other hand, was probably responsible for
    logistics and would be accountable if there were problems.
    "Are you fighting?" I asked, looking at Murakami.
    For the first time he smiled. The front teeth were over-large and too
    even, and I realized he was wearing a cheap dental bridge.
    "Sometimes I fight. But not tomorrow," he said.
    I waited to see whether there would be more. There wasn't.
    I briefly considered whether it could be a setup. If they were on to
    me, though, this was already a pretty perfect venue. They didn't have
    to convince me to go somewhere else.
    "I'll be there," I told him.
    Murakami looked at me for a moment longer, the smile lingering, the
    eyes still flat, then walked away. Washio followed.
    I let out a long breath and looked at the clock. When the second hand
    was at the twelve I attacked the bag again, working off the excess
    adrenaline Murakami's presence had provoked.
    He was a scary one, no doubt about it. And not just the ruined face.
    Even without the scarring, I would have recognized him. He exuded the
    same deadly air I had known, and respected, in Crazy Jake. The
    external scars were the least of what marked him for what he was.
    I wouldn't want to try to take this guy out with anything less than a
    scoped rifle. Which is something that's hard to confuse with
    expiration by natural causes.
    The hell with it, I thought. Risks are one thing. This looks like
    suicide. If Tatsu wanted him dead that much, I'd recommend a six-man
    squad and firearms. Much as I would have liked to do something to buy
    Tatsu's continued goodwill, this one wasn't worth it.
    I wondered if my old friend would threaten me. I didn't think so. And
    if he did, I'd just step up my Rio plans. The preparations weren't
    entirely complete, but moving hastily wasn't a bad option if I found
    myself caught between a likely suicide mission on the one hand