part0010

I toss the empty food container in a trash can and check my watch. I’m not meeting Santo until twelve, so I may as well grab a coffee. No sense in heading all the way back to the apartment only to come right back out again.

The effects of the hot noodles have worn off, and I’m becoming more aware of the low temperature with each step. I cross the bridge, back over into Chiyoda, and the wind’s stronger over the water, adding to the chill.

The noise of the city ahead rises slowly, as if someone’s turning the volume up a notch every couple of seconds. It’s welcoming. Helps me feel anonymous. Invisible to the world. My very heartbeat is drowned out in a sea of humanity and machines.

When I first moved out here, with little more to my name than my ill-gotten gains and my newly acquired freedom, I felt self-conscious. Like a celebrity. A spotlight constantly shining on me. Not in a vain or egotistical way, of course. But after everything this world had endured, coupled with some unfortunate and completely fictional PR, my face had become somewhat synonymous with bad news. Even President Schultz publicly clearing my name did little to change that. If anything, it made me even more recognizable.

But as with most things, the spotlight soon moved on. Fame, if you can call it that, is a notoriously fickle thing, and once the global dust had settled, I quickly became yesterday’s news. Ruby had asked how I felt about that, suggesting I liked the attention.

No idea what could’ve made her think that…

But I answered honestly and said I was glad to be just another face in the crowd again. In my line of work, it’s how things should be.

It takes me almost fifteen minutes to reach the coffee place. In much the same way that western civilization is fascinated by its eastern counterpart, the culture over here also pays tribute where it can to the westernized approach to things.

Take this café, for example. It looks like the type of place you would expect to see in a cultural U.S. city. Somewhere like San Francisco or New Orleans or Seattle. It has beads hanging just inside the door. The aroma of ground, roasted coffee beans greets me like an old friend as I step inside. Posters cover the walls, advertising music and events. A huge, complicated-looking machine sits behind the counter that, by some miracle, actually produces coffee—which isn’t half bad, if I’m honest.

Of course, it’s not perfect. After all, this is only Japan’s interpretation of a trendy café. Where you would expect to hear the acoustic guitar and dulcet tones of an aspiring singer, or the spoken angst of a troubled young poet coming from the corner, here you have giggling teenage girls screeching into a karaoke machine. As a professional killer, I can confidently say I have never witnessed anything be murdered quite so completely as Don McLean is being right now.

I come here often, and while I’m not on speaking terms with the staff beyond a polite greeting, they recognize me and wave as I enter. With the aid of my Pilot and Ili, I order a large black coffee, which they kindly offer to bring over to me when it’s ready. I nod a thank you and head over to a round table in the corner, next to the window. I sit with my back to the wall, which gives me a full view of the place, as well as the street outside, with the added bonus of being able to see anyone who approaches me.

A waitress brings my drink over after a few minutes. I take a grateful sip. The three girls committing verbal homicide in the corner finally relinquish the microphone and move over to a table on the opposite side of the café, where they each poke a straw into a large iced coffee and begin chatting animatedly.

The rest of the patrons are mostly individuals minding their own business. One elderly couple are reading newspapers. A handful of people call in for a coffee to go, but otherwise it’s a calm, subdued atmosphere.

Just under an hour until my meeting.

I’m worried I’m over-complicating the situation. I’m a firm believer that if something seems too good to be true, it usually is, but is this meeting with Santo really so difficult? He thinks I’m coming to see him to discuss the contract he has to offer. And I think it’s safe to assume that from his point of view, my acceptance of this offer is a foregone conclusion. A mid-level Yakuza boss like him would only get directly involved with a hit if the target was important. He’ll be desperate to impress those above him in his family’s hierarchy, which is likely why he asked for me personally. So, he has no reason to suspect I’m there for anything else.

Which means I’ll have the element of surprise.

I reckon he’ll still have some protection. He’ll bring muscle—maybe two or three guys, as a way of emphasizing his reputation and asserting his overall dominance of the meeting. That’s fine by me. Let him have his fun. It won’t change anything.

The only thing I need to worry about is taking him out without making it look like a hit. It needs to be scrappy, messy, rushed. It needs to look as amateurish as possible.

Ichiro was right—this isn’t the kind of job I could just pass up. Getting to someone like Santo would’ve been borderline impossible, but the fact he offered himself up on a plate is a stroke of good fortune rarely seen in my line of work. I get to take out a high-ranking piece of shit, remove the main obstacle of such a job while retaining the challenge, and do right by a struggling family. So long as I keep my name away from any of it, this should be a good day at the office.

I take another sip of my coffee.

I have a good feeling about this.

As I get to my feet, the door opens. The swish and the clack of the beads rises and settles as a young woman steps through. Her dark hair is tied up in a bun. Her clothes are casual and loose. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder. A student, maybe? As she turns to walk toward the counter, I catch a brief look at her face. Her skin is tanned, olive. She’s walking as if she’s on edge. Hunched, protected, but her eyes remain alert. She looks familiar, but I can’t immediately recall from where.

I head for the door. She snaps her gaze to me as I near her. I see her double-take. She steps toward the counter but hesitates, turning to look at me once more. As I draw level, she reaches out with her hand to stop me.

“Ah… hey. Hi.” She smiles. “Sorry, you… you probably don’t remember me.”

The moment she said that, I remembered where I knew her from. She’s the girl I helped in the bar last night. She looks very different without her make-up and party outfit on.

I hold up my hand. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was a subconscious gesture to keep her at bay. Maybe it was an attempt to shake her hand as a greeting. Whatever it was intended to be, it ended up being a weird, awkward wave.

“Hey. Yeah, of course I remember you. How are you?”

Her smile broadens. “I’m fine, thanks to you. I… I was hoping I would see you again. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for what you did.”

I shake my head. “No need to thank me. I’m just glad I was there to intervene. Looked to me like your night wasn’t about to get any better.”

She looks away, as if she’s ashamed. “Yeah, those guys were jerks. They bought me a couple of drinks, and they both seemed nice enough, y’know? Then they wanted me to leave with them, go back to their place. I said no. That’s when one of them got aggressive.”

“I saw. I wasn’t going to sit there and let some punk treat a woman like that.”

Her cheeks flush. “I’m really grateful. Could I… ah… maybe buy you a coffee?”

I’m pretty sure my cheeks just flushed too.

I smile as I take a small, involuntary step back. “That’s kind of you to offer, but I gotta be somewhere. Sorry. Maybe another time?”

She nods. “Sure. You come here often?” She bites her lip and looks away momentarily. “Oh my God, that sounded like such a bad line! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

I chuckle. “I know what you meant. It’s okay. And yeah, almost every day.”

“Okay. Okay, well, maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Bye… ah… sorry, I don’t even know your name…”

She extends her hand. “Mia.”

I shake it gently. “Nice to meet you.”

I leave without looking back and find myself hoping it didn’t appear I was running away from her. Seriously, what the hell was that ? Why was I acting like some pubescent teenager?

What? No, I didn’t!

We were in a café…

And young enough to be my daughter.

Hey, you’re here to help me kill people, not give me advice on the opposite sex, all right? Shut it.

I hate myself sometimes.

I turn the collar of my jacket up and hunch against the cold as I take in a deep breath. A faint plume of air forms in front of my face as I exhale.

So, I handled that badly. But what was I supposed to do? She’s more than half my age, easily. I can’t have a coffee with her… jeez.