Hard Rain

government
    distributed it to soldiers and workers during World War II, and of
    which these chinpira were doubtless both purveyors and consumers. They
    were waiting for the drug-induced hum in their muscles and brains to
    hit the right pitch, for the hour to grow suitably late and the night
    more seductively dark, before emerging from their concrete lair and
    answering the neon call of Roppongi.
    I saw them take notice of me, a solitary figure approaching from the
    southern end of what was in effect a narrow tunnel. I considered
    crossing the street, but a metal divider made that maneuver unfeasible.
    I might simply have backed up and taken a different route. My failure
    to do so made it more difficult for me to deny that I was indeed
    heading toward the cemetery.
    When I was three or four meters away one of them stood up. The others
    continued to squat, watching, alert for whatever distraction was
    promised.
    I had already noted the absence of any of the security cameras that
    were growing more pervasive in the streets and subways with every
    passing year. Sometimes I have to fight the feeling that those cameras
    are looking specifically for me.
    "Oi ," the one who had stood called out. Hey.
    I stole a quick glance behind me to ensure that we were alone. It
    wouldn't pay to have anyone see what I would do if these idiots got in
    my way.
    Without altering my pace or direction, I looked into the chinpird%
    eyes, my expression obsidian flat. I let him know with this look that
    I was neither afraid nor looking for trouble, that I'd done this kind
    of thing many times before, that if he was in search of some excitement
    tonight the smart thing would be to find it elsewhere.
    Most people, especially those even loosely acquainted with violence,
    understand these signals, and can be relied on to respond in ways that
    increase their survival prospects. But apparently this guy was too
    stupid, or too jacked on kakuseizai. Or he might have misinterpreted
    my initial backward glance as a sign of fear. Regardless, he ignored
    the warning I had given him and started edging into my path.
    I recognized the procedure: I was being interviewed for my suitability
    as a victim. Would I allow myself to be forced out into the street and
    the oncoming traffic? Would I cringe and flinch in the process? If
    so, he would know I was a safe target, and he would men escalate,
    probably to real violence.
    But I prefer my violence sudden. Keeping him to my right, I stepped
    past him with my left leg, shooting my right leg through on the same
    side immediately afterward and then sweeping it backward to reap his
    legs out from under him in osoto-gari, one of the most basic and
    powerful judo throws. Simultaneously I twisted counterclockwise and
    blasted my right arm into his neck, taking his upper body in the
    opposite direction of his legs. For a split instant he was suspended
    horizontally over the spot where he had been standing. Then I drilled
    him into the sidewalk, jerking upward on his collar at the last instant
    so the back of his head wouldn't take excessive impact. I didn't want
    a fatality. Too much attention.
    The sequence had taken less than two seconds. I straightened and
    continued on my way as before, my eyes forward but my ears trained
    behind me for sounds of pursuit.
    There were none, and as the distance widened I indulged a small smile.
    I don't like bullies they formed too large a portion of my childhood on
    both sides of the Pacific and I had a feeling it would be a long time
    before these chinpira worked up a fresh appetite to dispute someone's
    passage along that sidewalk.
    I continued along, cutting left east of the cemetery, then right on
    Gaiennishi-dori, taking advantage of the turn as I always automatically
    do to monitor the area to my rear while ostensibly checking for
    traffic. The cemetery was now to my right, but there was no sidewalk
    on that side of the street, so I stayed on the left until I was
    opposite a long riser of stone steps, a byway between the green piazza
    of the dead and the living city without. I stood looking at those
    steps for a long time. Finally I decided that the urge to which I had
    almost succumbed was ridiculous, as I had decided so many times in the
    past. I turned and moved slowly down the street, back the way I had
    come.
    As always after finishing a job, I was aware of the need to be among
    other people, to find some comfort in the illusion that I am part of
    the society through which I