The mirrored window scrolled down silently to reveal Harunoyama's face. "Get in," he said, jerking his head at Shiozawa, then turned away and continued barking into a portable phone. "...Not setting one foot outside the door without my permission! Do you think I'm a fool? If you so much as... Don't you dare take that tone with me! Misato!"
After a moment's hesitation Shiozawa circled the rear end of the Celsior and slid into the back passenger seat, beside his company president. The driver was pulling away from the curb before he'd completely secured the door.
The interior of the Celsior was another world from the humidity and bustle of the external city: dim, air-conditioned, quiet but for engine hum and Harunoyama's raised voice. It was a roomy car, but the bulk of its regular occupant rendered the rear seat cramped. Shiozawa wedged himself next to the door, laid the palms of his hands flat against his knees and waited. He was used to waiting.
Harunoyama's rant cut off in mid-syllable. He stared at the portable handset for a second before slamming it down in its dock with a curse.
"Kids," he said. "You have kids, Shiozawa?"
"No, sir."
"Good man. You don't know how lucky you are. My son's a little dipshit good for nothing but guzzling beer and wrecking cars, and my daughter opens her legs to the first passer-by who takes her fancy." Harunoyama pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped at his face. "I don't know what I'm doing this for."
Shiozawa said nothing. Harunoyama leant forward and tapped at the smoked plexiglass dividing them from the driver.
"Take us onto the highway," he said into the intercom. "Keep driving until I tell you to stop." The driver complied silently. Harunoyama sank back into the leather upholstery with a sigh.
"I have this car swept for bugs twice a week," he said. "Can't talk at home, can't talk in the office. My phone lines are tapped and I'll bet the shop it's those Miura fuckers. We can't trust anyone, Shiozawa. Not until this is over."
This, too, was old news. Shiozawa continued to wait.
Harunoyama reached into the side door compartment, retrieved a fat manila folder and dumped it in Shiozawa's lap. "Cost me a fortune," he said. "Look at that. Look at that and tell me what you think."
Shiozawa opened the folder. Surveillance transcripts formed the bulk of its contents; he scanned a few pages rapidly, then turned to the attached photographs. He flipped over one, then a second, then a third, checking names off a mental list.
It was not the record of a social event. Money had changed hands.
He turned the fourth photograph over and paused. The lurker – a cameraman of indubitably professional credentials – had caught his subject from the front, as the man lingered behind the others to light a cigarette. Dark suit, swept-back hair, sculptural profile. The grain was fine for the blow-up of a zoom shot, and Shiozawa had a sense (illusory, he qualified to himself a second later) that the man was gazing directly at the lens.
No. Through the lens, at him.
The eyes were feral. He may even have been smiling; it was difficult to tell.
"You know who that is?" said Harunoyama. He barely marked a pause before adding, "Asami Ryuuichi. The fucking king of fucking Shinjuku."
Shiozawa looked up quickly.
"Oh yes," said Harunoyama in response to the unspoken question. "The Miura ran, those shits. They handed it all over – routes, turf, themselves on a fucking platter with an apple in their mouths. We're in it with the Chinese to the end now." He slammed his hand down on the seat beside him. "Fuck! I could do with a drink."
Shiozawa took his glasses off and polished them against the cuff of his shirt, to give himself time to think.
"If the Chinese are committed," he said finally, "if we had any kind of material assurance—"
Harunoyama snorted. "That's the least of my problems," he said. "They always liked the colour of money but now they're falling over themselves to do business. Shit went down on their end, too, you mark my words. The last guy I talked to wasn't Leung."
"Sir, you mean—"
"Their orders are coming from the top now. The big laoban himself." Harunoyama fished cigarettes from his breast pocket, propped one in the corner of his mouth and spoke around it. "Even sent a man over with directives for their soldiers. Name of Shan. You'll meet him tomorrow night when the container comes in."
There was a pause. Harunoyama lit his cigarette, sucked on it as if it were an oxygen line, and exhaled blue smoke.
"I want you to watch this Shan," he said finally. "Keep him in check. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." Harunoyama tapped away ash. "He has 48 hours to get his people together. Then we move against the Miura. I want them uprooted from head honcho down to the last runner so Asami fucking Ryuuichi doesn't know who to sign a contract with. This city is ours and anyone who wants to do business does it our way. They try to fuck with me, they get what's coming to them."
He took another drag from his cigarette. Shiozawa was silent.
You were the one who began this, he wanted to say. Greed began this. Now you're like a cat calling in terriers to help you catch rats. Do you still think you'll be on top by the time this is done?
None of it passed his lips. "Then, sir," he said, "I'll get off here."
Outside the car the air was oppressive, promising rain. Shiozawa loosened his tie as he strode down the street, then with an abrupt gesture undid it altogether and pulled it off. He unfastened his top collar button, rolled back his cuffs.
The glasses were last to go.
Two blocks away he caught the first bus that passed. Ten minutes later it left him in front of a ramen restaurant by and large indistinguishable from any of the other cheap eateries that lined the street. Shiozawa slipped into the cramped interior, nodded at the owner in passing and ducked around a bamboo curtain.
A steep flight of stairs led down to washrooms and a pay phone. Shiozawa lifted the receiver, dropped in his coins and dialed a number from memory. He leant back against the wall and waited: two rings, three rings, then a clatter as the other side picked up.
"Speaking."
The voice was cool, like water. Shiozawa closed his eyes.
"Asami-san," he said, "it's time."