Rainfall

are.”

    I glanced back in the direction of Kinokuniya, weighing the risks and possible advantages.

    “He’ll have to meet me right now,” I said.

    “Impossible. He’s in a meeting. He can’t get free before tonight, at the earliest.”

    “I don’t care if he’s having open-heart surgery. You tell him this, Abe. If he wants to meet me, I’ll be waiting for him in Shinjuku in twenty minutes. If he’s one minute late, I’m gone.”

    There was a long pause. Then he asked, “Where in Shinjuku?”

    “Tell him to walk out the east exit of Shinjuku JR Station directly toward the Studio Alta sign. And tell him that if he’s wearing anything besides pants, shoes, and a short-sleeved T-shirt, he’ll never see me. Okay?” I wanted to make it as hard as possible for Holtzer to conceal a readily accessible weapon, if that’s what he was planning to do.

    “I understand.”

    “Exactly twenty minutes,” I said, and hung up.

    There were two possibilities. One, Holtzer might have something legitimate to say, the chances of which were remote. Two, this was just an attempt to reacquire me to finish the job they had botched outside my apartment. But either way, it was a chance for me to learn more. Not that I would count on Holtzer to be straight with me one way or the other, but I could read between the lines of his lies.

    I had to assume there would be cameras. I’d keep him moving, but the risk would still be there.
But what the hell
, I thought.
They know where you live, bastards have probably got a damn photo album by now. You don’t have a whole lot of anonymity to protect anymore
.

    I crossed back to Shinjuku-dori and walked to the front of the Studio Alta building, where several cabs were waiting for fares. I strolled over to one of the drivers, a younger guy who looked like he might be willing to overlook a strange situation if the price were right, and told him I wanted him to pick up a passenger who would be coming out the east exit in about fifteen or twenty minutes, a
gaijin
wearing a T-shirt.

    “Ask if he’s the chief,” I explained in Japanese, handing him a ten-thousand-yen note. “If he answers yes, I want you to drive him down Shinjuku-dori, then make a left on Meiji-dori, then go left again on Yasukuni-dori. Wait for me on the north side of Yasukuni-dori in front of the Daiwa Bank. I’ll get there right after you do.” I pulled out another ten-thousand-yen note and tore it in two pieces. I gave half to him, told him he would get the other half when he picked me up. He bowed in agreement.

    “Do you have a card?” I asked him.

    “Hai,”
he answered, and instantly produced a business card from his shirt pocket.

    I took the card and thanked him, then walked around to the back of the Studio Alta building, where I took the stairs to the fifth floor. From there I had a good view of the east exit. I checked my watch: fourteen minutes to go. I wrote down an address in Ikebukuro on the back of the card and slipped it into my breast pocket.

    Holtzer showed up one minute early. I watched him emerge from the east exit, then walk slowly toward the Studio Alta sign. Even from a distance I could recognize the fleshy lips, the prominent nose. For a brief, satisfying moment, I remembered breaking it. He still had all his hair, although now it was more steely gray than the dirty blond that I had known. I could tell from his carriage and build that he was keeping in shape. He looked cold in the short-sleeved shirt. Too bad.

    I saw the cab driver approach him and say something. Holtzer nodded, then followed him to the cab, glancing left and right as they walked. He looked the cab over suspiciously before getting in, and then they moved off down Shinjuku-dori.

    I hadn’t given Holtzer’s people time to set up a car or other mobile surveillance in the area, so anyone who was trying to keep up with him was going to have to scramble, most likely by hurrying to get a cab. I watched the area for four minutes, but there was no unusual activity. So far, so good.

    I turned and headed back to the stairs, taking them three at a time until I got to the first floor. Then I cut across Yasukuni-dori to the Daiwa Bank, getting there just as the cab pulled up. I walked over to the passenger side, watching Holtzer’s hands as I approached. The automatic door opened, and Holtzer leaned toward me.

    “John . . . ,” he started to say, in his reassuring voice.

    “Hands, Holtzer,” I said, cutting him