Virtually True (16 page)

The roar of 20th century technology drives True, a 21st century man, to seek refuge in a 16th-century motel, to bury himself in the past in order to survive the now. True sits up. The parking lot is clovered in electric cars, a few gassers, too. The burning air stings his nose, and even this close to Tokyo’s nucleus lights are muffled—power hasn’t been restored in most sections yet. An oasis of gaudy, tawdry bulbs in the midst of the cracked, angry earth, kept in the dark, except for this, a yakuza tailgate party.

True serves first. “
Konbanwa
.”

A splash of grunts.

“Water?” True looks to the leader, the Ouroboros, greasy eyes, his body all tendon and gristle.

“
Mizu
?” More like a grunt.

True nods.

They volley suggestions among themselves. The Ouroboros says, “Money?”

The international word. In Japan just a few hours, True thinks, and already—

“Money?”

Reluctantly, True produces the debit card.

“Gold and onyx. OK.” The Ouroboros indicates the club with a sweeping hand.

“Go in?”

The Ouroboros, his sweaty arm necklacing True, walks him to the door. “Gold and onyx good at Ko Ko’s.” He speaks slowly, carefully.

“What?”

“Ko Ko’s Karaoke Kafé.” The Ouroboros hums a scratchy tune and points to the 3-D kanji sign over the door. The club teeters on the edge of an abyss; behind it is nothing except a sheer drop, lights washing away a meter over the edge. True hears a posse of chainsaw bike engines. True’s nemesis bringing reinforcements. The Ouroboros leaves to deal with them.

True doesn’t hesitate.

CHAPTER 13

Crinkly styrofoam music. Polka-dot lights pock True like some exotic disease. The walls are experiencing a serene sunset. And a virtual hostess—a 3-D hologram geisha—greets True. He recognizes the “Theme from Shaft,” the retro-70’s classic, but it’s not Isaac Hayes. The voice is tinged with too much reverb, modulating when there shouldn’t be modulations. More like Charles Ives than Isaac Hayes.

“Welcome to Ko Ko’s Karaoke Kafé. Come this way, please.” Parts of the hostess keep cutting out. Reception, it seems, is bad.

“Water. I just need some water and some food.”

“This”—the voice cuts mid-word—“this way.” The virtual geisha sashays into the main room, invisibility streaks creasing her kimono. Somehow the image manages to ride out the flickers. True wades through the club’s glitter. Onstage, a Japanese business-samurai sings, backed by an all black band. Their clothes are retro-70s, pink talc shoes and polyester shirts, and their hair is styled in sitcom-style afros. Patrons eye True, but he’s used to it. It’s a yakuza hangout, but most here don’t look yakuza, don’t sport the oily hair or gruff exteriors. He helixes around table after table, the room seeming to roll along with him. He’s brought to a table far from the stage.

“What a coincidence.” A smile creases Reiner’s lips. She holds True’s eyes with her own and toasts him with a sake cup.

Billions of pulses and impulses fire through True. Leave. Stay. Upend the table. Scald her with sake. Ask for another table. How could she have known he’d end up here? She’d sped on ahead after almost flattening him into roadkill. And yet, she ended up here, knew he’d appear, instructed the club software programmer to lead True here. He looks at the wrist-top, then at Reiner, knows he’s been tracked.

“You see that table over there?” Reiner indicates a table in the balcony radiating wealth. “Those are the mega-shakers of post-quake Japan.”

True’s not prepared for her calm demeanor. She acts as if their conversation had been interrupted and now they’re back to where they left off.

She kicks out a black velour-covered chair. “Sit down.”

True resists.

Her voice, softer now. “C’mon, True, I get a little abrasive sometimes. It’s my nature. Sit. Please.”

True wrestles with his urges. He sits, grabs a glass of ice water, downs it in percussive gulps, and stabs at a block of fried tofu with Reiner’s chopsticks.

“Your eyes got about this big”—Reiner pantomimes a cantaloupe—“when I drove at you.”

True pushes a button on the virtual menu. Although the writing is Japanese, there are pictures for the literacy-impaired. He pokes at a thimble-sized cup and vial icon framed in blue.

Reiner cancels his order. “Get the
atsukan
—the hot sake. It’s better than the cold stuff, and it’s on me.” Which means it’s on WWTV. She pokes at the atsukan icon, gilded in red.

“Cold is fine.”

“Trust me.”

“Trust you? It’ll probably be spiked with xylene. I’ll stick to my instincts.”

“Your instincts led you here, to me.”

“You tracked me.”

“I didn’t have to.”

“This is the only place around to get food and water. You knew I’d end up here.”

“If you survived.”

More retro-tunes. A waiter places the sake on the table. True scrolls the electric menu, selects assorted Japanese snacks—a few
maki
, raw soybeans, miso soup. When his order arrives, he eats quickly, efficiently. His taste buds burst in fireworks. Is it Reiner who brings out this change? Should he be so hasty to get away from her?

“For a weedy-looking guy, you certainly can munch. You know how many liposuction treatments or Fat Away tabs I’d need to be able eat like you?” Reiner’s way of bridging gaps.

“Here are the rules,” True says, after swallowing a sticky tuna roll. “Number one: You give me info, I’ll give you info. Tit for tat. Two: Don’t order me around. Three: I’ll check into Rush’s murder—with or without your help. It’s my piece, so I call the shots.”

“Okay.”

No telling when she’ll be this amenable again. “I noticed construction workers on the plane over here. Prostitutes, too. And drug dealers.”

“Oh?” Reiner in mock shock.

“What kind of construction’s been going on since the quake?”

“What do you think? Outside of patching up the city’s power plants and the usual attempt to get the hospitals up and running again, it’s been karaoke bars and whorehouses. Been a huge influx of construction workers—the yakuza are in black market heaven.”

“Who’s buying land now?” True asks.

Reiner snorts. “Who’d be that stupid?”

“Someone is buying up everything in sight. People are desperate to sell and somerichbody is grabbing their land.”

“Is this somehow related to Rush?”

“What’s the latest news from the States?”

“Geopolitical? Economic? Sports? Gossip?”

“Foreign aid.”

“No aid, not from Europe, not from the States. Governments are screaming about foreign investment draining to Japan.”

“Real estate markets, stocks and bonds are reeling?”

“That’s right.”

“Who here would have the muscle to buy land now?”

“You think someone’s selling their assets overseas and using the proceeds to buy here?”

True pauses. “I don’t know.”

Reiner shakes her head. “Unh-uh. The land’s worthless. That would mean someone’s planning long-term, but basing projections on mega-fucked up data.”

“What makes you say that? You yourself said that there would be massive rebuilding.”

“There will be, but not here. We’re talking about government plans to shift the population to other cities in Japan, to more evenly distribute resources. The only reason land was so dear was due to its scarcity. Japan is an island, dear, and the reason fifty million poor motherfuckers lived in this sitcom living room known as Old Edo was because it was the political and business capital. They’re not going to rebuild the capital here.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they know they shouldn’t have plopped it here in the first place. They’ve been expecting the big one for forty years. It finally came. Now they’ll move it. Before they couldn’t. Now that they’re starting at—pardon the pun—ground zero, they’ll move it.”

“You’re never wrong?”

“Not this time.”

“Where’ll they move the capital?”

“To Osaka. Kyoto—that’s the ancient capital. Nagoya. Some place like that. Not Sendai, though, after the tsunami and nuclear meltdown of 2011.”

“Indulge me. Who’d have the means to land grab now?”

“Before I tell you, let me ask you something. Did you come here to hide or to find out what happened to Rush?”

“Both.” Even he’s not convinced by the uneasiness clinging to his voice.

Reiner shakes her head, almost sadly. “You’re lying.”

True studies the swirly-curly Japanese neon blanketing the walls and cutting through the sludgy darkness. “What’s the deal with this place?”

“It’s a karaoke bar.”

“I
know
that. I mean, why’s it still open?”

“The rich need entertainment in times of crisis. Take away people’s food and jobs, they get pissed off. Take away their home entertainment systems and booze, they revolt.”

The band plays on. The lead singer is not from the audience but is a regular band member. She wears—no, she exudes red leather. Her mascara is visible from across the cavernous dining hall, hair spiked, neon tattoos affixed to her shoulders, arms, even her neck. She’s licorice-thin, sinewy, has a catlike face. Sings gruffly and tunelessly: “Killing me softly.” True thinks if Piña were to sing, she’d sound this way.

“You want to know who has the bucks to buy all the land? There.” Reiner indicates a table up in the balcony where a quartet of salary-execs play mahjongg. “Japan’s most powerful business leaders. Add up their combined wealth and you’re talking ten, twenty percent of Japan’s GDP.”

“Before the quake.”

“Right. Who the fuck knows now, right? The fat one in the gray houndstooth?”

“The pattern’s like taste buds.”

“That’s the one.” Reiner laughs. A first since they met. “Never known for sartorial splendor. That’s Hideaki Kyono. He was practically ruined by the quake; most of his money was in real estate, and you know what that’s worth now. Look at him sweat. Probably just dropped a pant load. The lady next to him, that’s Keiko Kibayashi. From Osaka. Rumors say she sexes with the Korean mob.”

“You think it’s true?”

“No question. They’re all dirty scum, although I’ve got to admit to a sneaking admiration for any woman who can make it in this place. The one in black—it’s his trademark—is Tsuyoshi Sato.”

True looks him over. Can sense fury in Sato, barely restrained by layers of wealth and power. It gives True’s intuition a kick.

Reiner leans closer. She talks softly, barely audible over the music. “They say he’s so smooth he could rip your liver out and make you pay him for the privilege. A martial arts sensei. You want to be the man in the corp, you gotta pass tests in weapons and hand-to-hand. Cra-a-zy?”

“Yeah?”

“A couple years ago there was a scandal? One of his initiation rites got out of hand. They tested out some new technology on some would-be corp chieftains, and they went lalalala.” She harmonizes with
Killing Me Softly
. Not badly either, True thinks.