Hard Rain

their bulbs encased in wire. Cardboard boxes were stacked
    five meters high on all sides. Two forklifts rested against a wall,
    looking like toys in relation to the space around them. A couple of
    chinpira in black tee-shirts were moving chairs to the edges of the
    room. Other than that we were alone.
    I looked at Washio. "Is it a problem?"
    He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. People will be here soon enough."
    I stepped inside. "You work the door?"
    He nodded. "I don't know your face, you don't get in."
    "Who's fighting?"
    "Don't know. I just run the fights, I don't promote them."
    I smiled at him. "You ever participate?"
    He laughed. "No. I'm a little old for this shit. Maybe I would have
    when I was younger. But these fights have only been going on for a
    year, year and a half, which is long after my prime."
    I thought of the way I'd seen him talking to Murakami, as though he'd
    been delivering a briefing. "The people at the club," I said, 'you're
    training them for these fights?"
    "Some of them."
    "What about Murakami?" I asked.
    "What about him?"
    "What does he do?"
    He shrugged. "A lot of things. Some of the guys he trains. Sometimes
    he fights. We get a good turnout when he's fighting."
    "Why?"
    "Murakami always finishes his fights. People like that."
    '"Finishes" them?"
    "You know what I mean. When Murakami fights, for sure one of the
    fighters is going to die. And Murakami has never lost."
    I had no trouble believing that. "What makes him so good?" I asked.
    He looked at me. "Let's hope you never have to find out."
    "Is it true he fights dogs?"
    He paused. "Where did you hear that?"
    I shrugged. "Just talk."
    Another pause. Then: "I don't know whether it's true. I know he goes
    to underground dogfights. He's a breeder. Tosas and American pit
    bulls. His dogs are dead game, too. He feeds them gunpowder, pumps
    them full of steroids. They get irritated at the world and aggressive
    as hell. One dog, Murakami shoved a jalapeno pepper up its ass. Fought
    like a demon after that."
    There was a knock at the door. Washio stood. I offered him a slight
    bow to acknowledge that we were done.
    He reached out and took my arm. Wait. I'll need your cell phone
    first."
    I looked at his hand. "I'm not carrying one," I said.
    He eyeballed me, his expression baleful. I stared back. What I had
    told him was true, although if I'd been lying it would take more than a
    scowl to make me admit it.
    His expression softened and he released my arm. "I'm not going to
    search you," he said. "But no one's allowed in here with a cell phone
    or pager. Too many people like to call a friend, tell 'em what they're
    seeing. It's insecure."
    I nodded. "That seems sensible."
    "If one of the bouncers sees you with one, they'll work you over good.
    Just so you know."
    I nodded to show I understood, then moved off to one of the corners and
    watched as people began to arrive. Some I recognized from the club.
    Adonis was wearing sweatpants. I wondered if he was fighting.
    I stood in a corner and watched the place gradually fill up. After
    about an hour, I saw Murakami come in, flanked by two bodyguards, a
    different pair than I had seen in the dojo. He exchanged a few words
    with Washio, who looked around and then pointed at me.
    I had the sudden sense that this was more attention from Murakami than
    I really wanted.
    I watched him nudge his two men. The three of them started moving
    toward me.
    Adrenaline dumped into my veins. I felt the surge. I looked around
    casually, searching for a weapon of convenience. There was nothing
    handy.
    They walked up and stood in front of me, three abreast, Murakami
    slightly in front of the other two.
    "I wasn't sure you were going to come," he said. "Glad to see you
    did."
    "It's good to be here," I said, rubbing my palms in front of me as
    though in anticipation of the evening's entertainment. In fact it was
    an expedient defensive stance.
    "We do three fights or thirty minutes, whichever comes first. That way
    everyone gets his money's worth. I'll explain the rules."
    I didn't understand why he was telling me this. "Who's fighting?" I
    asked.
    He smiled. The bridged teeth were white. Predatory.
    "You are," he said.
    Oh shit.
    I looked at him and said, "I don't think so."
    The smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to waste
    time fucking around with you. Washio says you're good. Says you broke
    a guy's ankle inside thirty seconds. Now that guy's friend wants
    payback. You're going to fight