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Like most local watering holes, Howard's Tavern didn't advertise the time of day. The lack of windows, the low lights, and the blue-gray haze of recreational smoke hovering among the rafters gave the impression it was always two AM. No clock mounted anywhere to argue otherwise. Julian, the lanky one-eyed barkeep, didn't bother enforcing the city's no-smoking regulations, and so far, local law enforcement had let him be. The place was one of the only mob-unrelated establishments in town where off-duty cops and your average citizen could grab a drink without the proceeds going to fund Ivan's machine. Neutral territory the Russian mob had yet to contaminate. I hoped to God it stayed that way for many years to come.
The tavern was mostly empty at half past eight in the morning. A couple dilapidated regulars sat alone at opposite ends of the bar, nursing their drinks like priceless elixirs, keeping their eyes to themselves and their own sorrows. From what I could tell, Julian got about four hours of sleep each night. Howard's was open from early in the morning until...early in the morning. Traffic was always slow this time of day, usually reserved for brain-splitting hangovers in the privacy of one's home.
I had my usual corner booth, shrouded in noise-cancelling shadows. Just me and my tattooed friend, sitting on the other side of the scarred table.
As a rule, I didn't like asking for favors, not even when the situation called for it. But Katsuo Sanitoro had made it clear a few years back that if I ever had need of him, all I had to do was call. He seemed to think he owed me a life debt or something. Once upon a time, he'd tasked me with locating his beautiful younger sibling, and I had. Unfortunately, she'd found herself tangled up in Ivan's human trafficking ring. Patrons at the Russian Devil's local whorehouses had grown tired of their usual fare, and they were demanding fresh meat: Japanese, instead of eastern European. One of Ivan's lieutenants took it upon himself to remedy the matter by kidnapping a few girls who'd strayed too far from Little Tokyo. Unlucky for him, Sanitoro's sister had been one of them.
Katsuo Sanitoro was not a forgiving man.
"You know where the detention center is." I got right to the point. Sanitoro always liked it better that way. We had that much in common.
He stared back at me without expression, his wraparound shades glinting with sparks of light from the bar's spare fluorescents. "Where it may be, yes. Educated conjecture only."
That was more than I had at the moment. Short of sifting the Wastes one acre of sand at a time, I was stymied. Agent Adams had been no help at all, and I was running low on contacts in high places. "So you haven't seen it."
He shook his head. "The Blackshirts head southeast, into the Wastes. Every time."
"After their...abductions."
"They have already entered Little Tokyo twice this week. Each time, they leave with one of our young people."
Glasses tumbled against one another at the bar. Julian apologized gruffly, seeming a bit flustered. The presence of yakuza did that to some people—set their teeth on edge. Two of Sanitoro's muscle stood just inside the tavern door like stone lions that could spring to life and wreak havoc at the slightest provocation. I'd have to make it up to Julian, leave him a fat tip next time. Bad enough that neither Sanitoro nor I had ordered anything; now we were making the man nervous in his own establishment.
"Southeast," I murmured. "Can you be more specific?"
"No. We have not followed them across the border."
Of course not. The House of the Emerald Tiger wasn't suicidal. A carload of yakuza trailing a vehicle on official government business? That wouldn't look good at all. Might appear to the Feds that Sanitoro was sniffing around for trouble. As a rule, Blackshirts threw their weight wherever they damn well pleased, and the rest of us, well, we just had to grin and bear it. Didn't matter if we were trained killers or your average non-criminal; the Feds were no respecters of persons.
They didn't usually involve themselves in local politics, and they seemed to have no problem with Ivan's mob running the city while the yakuza reigned over Little Tokyo. But if Sanitoro were to interfere with the detainment of designated subversives? Then the Feds might take a sudden interest in his racketeering and extortion practices, not to mention his habit of brutally making enemies disappear.
"Right. I can see why. But what about a lowly gumshoe...who happens to be on speaking terms with a certain Agent Adams?"
"You cannot be serious."
"Afraid so. But I'm going to need some help."
Sanitoro shifted forward with mild interest.
I caught him up to date regarding Junior's followers, that Wanda was attempting to track down as many of them as she could. Depending on what she turned up, I planned to stake out the home-sweet-homes of these young anarchists and be there when the Blackshirts came calling to haul them off.
Then I planned to tag along—from a safe distance, of course.
"The only problem is..."
"You do not own an automobile," Sanitoro said.
"Yeah, there's that." I preferred to take a cab or hoof it—even with the acid rain to battle. The polymer sealant I sprayed on my coat and hat did a good enough job of protecting me from the elements. Besides, it could be argued that the chemicals I was exposed to in the war had done all the damage anybody could take, and I was now impervious to whatever else this crumbling world had to throw at me. "But I also don't happen to speak much Japanese. Enough to get by, but not enough to question detainees."
"Assuming you reach that facility alive." His expression remained inscrutable. "When you asked me to look out for Okada-san, I agreed. His brother brought him into this country, and while his brother was in Little Tokyo, certain factions knew to leave the old man alone. But such is no longer the case."
Was he saying he couldn't help me? That he was already doing enough by keeping an eye on Okada—protecting him from scum-suckers looking for an easy mark? "Listen, you know I appreciate—"
"I like the sake he serves. And I like him. He is a man of honor." Sanitoro paused. "So I will join you on this stakeout. I believe we both want to help him find his nephew, but neither of us can do so alone."
No need to shake on it. Sanitoro's right hand was more accustomed to hurting people, anyway. He would provide the wheels and the home court advantage around Little Tokyo, and I would provide the Agent Adams name-droppage if we ran into any difficulties with the Feds. An Anglo private eye working with a member of the yakuza? That would confuse the hell out of them, maybe provide enough of a distraction before any pushing came to shoving.
Not that I planned on having an altercation with the Blackshirts. But in my experience, it's usually wise to hope for the best while planning for the worst.
I rode with Sanitoro in back of his obsidian sedan as his driver navigated a course through the congested streets, out of the city and across the border into Little Tokyo. Ever since the Great Diaspora when the Eastern Conglomerate had started expanding their borders, encroaching into what had once been the sovereign nations of Japan and Mother Russia, there had been a steady stream of immigrants flowing into the Unified States. Most came down through the Alaskan oil fields and were put to work there. Of course the government welcomed them with open arms, always in favor of increasing the population; when you were up against China and her allies in a global conflict, numbers sure as hell mattered.
Not all of the new citizens liked the idea of being assigned backbreaking work in order to fuel their mighty protector's war machine, so many filtered south. But due to prevailing anti-Asian sentiments, the Japanese were not welcomed in the same way as the Russians. They were forced to create their own townships—slums really, just outside the major cities. Most of the time, they minded their own business, and the rest of the city left them alone. A working arrangement of sorts. Even so, Little Tokyo was avoided by all but the most adventurous Anglo citizens.
The half dozen United World border patrollers in their bulky body armor looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen them. A few were actually smiling at each other, cracking jokes with their assault rifles at rest. The environment had palpably changed. No more riotous youth on the Little Tokyo side hurling rocks and insults with equal vehemence. All was quiet now on the Japanese front. Not a single resident to be seen, irate or otherwise.
"Barely recognize the place." I recalled what Agent Adams had said about the situation. Maybe she wasn't as out-of-touch as I'd assumed.
Take out the bad apples, and the rest of the bunch had no desire to make an ugly ruckus. I couldn't argue with the results, even if I deplored the methods.
"Remove the head of the snake..." Sanitoro left the phrase unfinished.
Had Junior been the cause of all the discord? If so, his absence had already made a real difference. Or was it the abduction of his friends that had sucked the air out of the other subversives' activities? Were there any young anarchists left in Little Tokyo?
If Wanda managed to locate Junior's remaining followers, they could end up being the sideline variety of activist. Not the kind to hurl Molotov cocktails at vehicles carrying Anglo citizens into Little Tokyo for a night of authentic sushi and sake. And if these kids weren't the overtly active type, would the Blackshirts bother rounding them up? Would the Feds even be interested in them?
Maybe. If they were gifted.
Few things did I hate more than an unfruitful stakeout. Wasted time. The job of a private eye is far from glamorous—nothing like those twentieth century detective films, I'll tell you that much. Most of my time was spent interviewing people and waiting around. The real action and adventure, if it ever came, wasn't the sort that would ever appear on the Link. Not nearly as exciting as Carnal Bludgeon 40 or one of the other more violent interactives. But all the waiting was usually worth the effort as long as I did my homework beforehand. This time, that's where Wanda came in. I hoped she'd be able to dig up somebody worth staking out.
As if on cue, the vidLink warbled on its rear-facing console. Sanitoro swept the palm of his hand across the blank screen, and it lit up with the face of my lovely assistant. I might have been mistaken, but it sure looked like Sanitoro paused, his usual tight-lipped expression loosening slightly with appreciation at the sight.
"Miss Wood," he said with a polite nod.
"Hello, Mr. Sanitoro," she said with an equally polite smile. All business. Not a glimmer to be seen of the distaste she felt for the man. "Is Char—Mr. Madison there with you?"
"Right here." I leaned toward Sanitoro so she could see my mug. I'd called her before leaving Howard's Tavern to let her know how to reach me, once she finished trawling the ether for Junior's associates. "Got something?"
"Not a whole lot," she apologized. "Most of Chimera's followers must have already been arrested. According to LinkCom, they haven't logged in for days."
"How'd you find that out?" I gave her a knowing look. As a rule, LinkCom didn't go around sharing the data they collected on their users. Nor did they admit to collecting such data.
"I might happen to know a zombie or two who work for them." She smiled. Wanda and her mysterious ways. "So anyhow, either they've gone dark, these friends of Okada's nephew, or they're away from their Linked devices. Either way, they won't be easy to track down." She paused. "But I've got a few places for you to check out, just in case."
She rattled off a few addresses in Little Tokyo without consulting notes of any kind. That was Wanda—she had what they called perfect memory. The only reason she ever typed up anything on that Underwood/Slate contraption of hers was for my benefit. Once Wanda saw something, she never forgot it.
"Hold on," I said, patting my pockets for a notepad.
But Sanitoro had already taken out his phone and was recording the locations Wanda recited.
"Only four?" I said.
Wanda shrugged, smacking her signature wad of gum. "Better than nothing."
Couldn't argue with that. "You did good."
"I know." She smiled, and then the screen went dark as she ended the call.
"Which one first?" Sanitoro held his wafer-thin phone toward me. On the translucent screen, the addresses Wanda had given us were neatly arranged in an easy-to-read black font. Gotta love Japanese technology.
"We'll go down the list. You recognize any of these places?"
He nodded. "Low income housing projects. Tenements for the working class."
"Nothing special?"
He shook his head slowly. "Nothing at all."