Collector of Secrets (17 page)

The hostess spoke again. “It Japanese custom to drink to pretty girl. When you come to Japan?”

He took a sip, then set it back down.

“Keiko!”
From the back of the room a woman’s harsh voice rang out. The hostess excused herself and slunk away.

Relaxing slightly, Max turned to take in the room for the first time since he’d stepped through the doorway. It was a typical karaoke lounge—narrow and long. The bar sat near the back. Light from a sparse row of halogens glinted off the chrome bar stools and was being absorbed by the dark carpet and burgundy velvet walls. Three men in suits sat toward the far back corner. Two hostesses poured drinks into them and giggled while the fourth salary-man stood in front of a glowing monitor, warbling his way through “I reft my hard in Sun Frunsisco.”

Max had thought this to be an amusing cultural activity. But over time, it grew increasingly embarrassing: the same red-eyed employees and sweaty-faced patrons, with ties half undone, desperately trying to forget their self-appointed prisons—the “lifetime” jobs they hated so much.

Keiko returned and slid into the booth. A whiskey bottle was clutched in her hand. “Prease drink or
Momma-san
ask you to reave!”

Max grabbed his beer and shot-gunned the glass. The prospect of leaving wasn’t in his best interest. He had barely outrun the two mafia goons, and they were probably still out there searching for him at the train stations and taxi stands. No, he needed to kill some time before he could lose himself in the crowd. It would be suicide to try to move anywhere for a while. But they couldn’t check every bar in the area. There were thousands of places on a hundred identical streets. He would sit tight, wait for a while, try to call Tomoko again, and then figure out what to do next.

This is all my fault. Dear God, please let her be okay.

Keiko slid a full glass of whiskey onto the table and jostled him with her elbow. The imitation Tony Bennett had finished crooning, and Max clapped in half-hearted appreciation.

THROUGH THE blanket of his own cigarette smoke, Hiro could see the enormous glowing red numbers and the round multistory column of the 109 Department Store rising into the night sky over the Shibuya intersection. The floodlights at the bottom of the colossal silver silo illuminated the poster of an alluringly posed model. Her sexy fifty-foot legs were in perfect proportion with the rest of her lingerie-clad body.

Across the bustling road, he could occasionally make out Jun, who was leaning against a wall at the entrance to a pedestrian-only street. They had been waiting and watching for over two hours. The girlfriend was nowhere to be found, nor was there any sign of the American.

Hiro knew it was a stupid, useless effort. Seven streets intersected at Shibuya Crossing’s
Center-Gai
, making it the busiest intersection in the world. There were so many ways in and out of the area that it was impossible to ensure the American didn’t get past them. He could have taken a cab, but Oto’s other men were following up leads with the taxi companies. He could also have walked to another train station ten or fifteen blocks away and hopped onto one of a dozen trains. Hell, he could be halfway to Osaka by now.

The longer Hiro pondered these thoughts, the more agitated he became. What made him even angrier was the truth he knew about himself: that regardless of whether he agreed with the plan, he would stand under the blinking neon signs for as long as Oto told him to do it. What else was he supposed to do? This wasn’t America, where a man could be anything he chose. This was Japan, where fate set the path he was required to walk. No amount of anger or wishing could change that. He rubbed the filtered end of his cigarette against the missing digit on his left hand, a youthful attempt to leave the gang and a lesson learned the hard way.

Jun’s sudden movement from across the noisy road caught Hiro’s attention and snapped him from his thoughts. The no-brained oaf could move with startling speed, and before Hiro could see what was happening, Jun had disappeared around the corner.

Hiro charged into the headlights of the oncoming traffic with only the thought that an honorable death would be better than losing the prey. A van slammed on its brakes and skidded to an awkward stop. The van’s horn and its driver’s angry shouting were quickly followed by the crunch of metal as a white Camry slid into the van’s rear. The commotion increased with a chorus of squealing tires, accompanied by an irate symphony of horns as the crowded intersection transformed into a snarl of halted vehicles.

Hiro darted through the chaos and tumbled over a sedan’s hood before making it to the far side of the street in front of the giant Tsutaya music store. Glancing back over his shoulder, he could make out the officers who were already hurrying from the nearby police box. Hiro made a quick right turn, then disappeared down a side street.

Despite the glare of blinking signs, he could see Jun about seventy-five yards ahead—the massive shoulders bobbing and weaving through the throngs of people. Ten yards farther, a blond head rose above the crowd. Jun covered the distance in short order and, with a great leap, sent himself and the foreigner tumbling to the ground. Sharp screams erupted from a nearby group of teenage girls, who scattered and moved away like a school of frightened fish.

Hiro raced forward.

Jun stood over the curled-up foreigner—his cell dialing a waiting driver. Hiro arrived and in one swift movement he pulled the man’s hands away from his face, which was crimson and contorted in pain. Tears were rolling down his pale cheeks, and it was immediately clear that an awful mistake had been made. This
Gaijin
wore a nose ring and had an old scar on his forehead. The one they were looking for was conservative and bore no scars . . . yet.

The squeal of tires around the corner on Hands Street and the shouts of approaching foot police broke the momentary pause. Hiro grabbed Jun’s arm and dragged the confused idiot down the block. A black Mercedes appeared from nowhere. The door flew open and the two sailed in head first.

As the car sped away, the sirens and buzz of the chaos outside disappeared into the pounding sound of blood in Hiro’s ears. He would be lucky to keep his other nine fingers when Oto learned of this mistake.

MAX’S HEAD rose just far enough so that his eyes were flush with the sidewalk. He scanned through the metal railing in all directions around the Kawasaki subway exit. A pale yellow glow from a row of streetlights stretched the length of the block. The place seemed deserted. He limped up the remaining stairs and across the concourse before slipping into the shadows of a row of alpine fir trees along the west side of the open area.

He rubbed his throbbing ankle while crouching in the darkness for what seemed like hours. Finally, a slow-moving SUV appeared. It had to be her. The vehicle came to an abrupt halt as he stepped into its path. The driver’s door opened and Tomoko jumped out, dashing the dozen paces to his waiting embrace.

Max spoke first. “I’m so glad you got my message to meet here. I was worried those guys had caught you.

“No,” she said. “What’s happening?”

“I can explain, but not here.”

“I was so scared!” She let out a small yelp as he squeezed her hard. “I waited at the Starbucks, but my phone was out of power.”

Max pressed his cheek against the top of her head. “I’m sorry about the other night. I never mean to upset you.” Skittish, he glanced around the empty street, wary of any threatening movement, concerned over the ominous silence. “C’mon, we should go, just in case.”

“Okay . . . but where to?”

His mind was still racing. “They’re probably watching my house. We need to put some distance between them and us. Let’s go to that
onsen
—you know, the hot springs resort your mom’s friend owns on the Izu Peninsula. It’s not too far, right?”

“About three hours. But I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It only has a dozen rooms. What if it’s full?”

“Then we’ll find someplace else. Trust me. We need to go.”

Max limped on his way to the vehicle and Tomoko pointed. “What happened to your foot?”

The pain was stabbing now, shooting upward to his knee, but he didn’t want her to worry. “It’s nothing. I just twisted my ankle.”

“Then I’ll drive and you talk. We can take the Higashi Kanto Expressway. I’ll call the hotel right now.” Tomoko took the wheel and they headed southwest.

It took thirty minutes to reach the bright floodlights of the enormous Yokohama Bay Bridge, about the same amount of time as Max needed to explain about Kenji’s keys, the office break-in, the escape to Toshi’s house, and the surprise of Prince Takeda’s diary. They were almost halfway across the bridge’s 2,500-foot span when he paused the story. “Pull over here for a minute.”

Tomoko wore an incredulous stare. “I can’t stop in the middle.”

He unclipped his seatbelt. “I’m serious. Stop the car and give me your phone.”

“Did you only hurt your ankle?”

“Oh, you’re funny. No, really. Your cell phone has a GPS chip. I checked it out. Meaning that with the right technology, someone can find or follow you.”

The SUV slowed to a halt. Tomoko reached back for her handbag, eyeing him suspiciously. “This is stupid. Just because someone has tattoos doesn’t make them
Yakuza.
” She retrieved the compact silver bundle before handing it over with reluctance.

Cold air whistled into the vehicle’s interior, whipping Max’s hair around. His voice rose in order to be heard over the noise. “I’ll get you a new one.” He limped toward the edge of the bridge as several passing cars angrily blasted their horns.

Darkness soon swallowed the phone on its plunge toward the icy waters of the Pacific Ocean.

S
everal hours later, the SUV’s headlights swept over dense shrubs and a row of purple and pink azaleas as Tomoko turned into the U-shaped driveway of the Fairlady
onsen
. The familiar single-story building always reminded her of a Swiss mountain chalet, with a white Tudor exterior and dark wooden beams.

“My mom’s friend doesn’t speak English, so let me handle this,” Tomoko said.

Mrs. Kanazawa’s plump figure shuffled out of the hotel’s sliding front door. She was wearing her trademark grin. “
Konbanwa
!”

Exiting the vehicle and bowing politely, Tomoko replied, “Kanazawa-
san
. It’s so kind of you to make room on such short notice.”

“Your call was a surprise, but you know you’re always welcome.” Mrs. Kanazawa’s words ended abruptly, and a look of surprise crossed her face as Max slid out of the passenger’s door.

“This is . . . this is my boyfriend, but it’s not what you think. There’s been some trouble . . . ”

“Your boyfriend? A
Gaijin
? You know your parent’s opinions.” Mrs. Kanazawa wiped her hands on her apron. “And what kind of trouble?”

“I’m fine. Really. Please don’t say anything. I’ll tell my parents everything later.”

A painful silence lingered while Mrs. Kanazawa weighed the situation, looking Max up and down. “All right,” she blurted with a swipe of her finger in the air. “But separate rooms. If your mother found out I let you have a room together, it would never do.”

“Thank you so much,” Tomoko replied while bowing sharply. She looked at Max and motioned to him with a flick of her head.