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The ten-story apartment building had seen better days, I assumed. If not, then the concrete monstrosity had originally been designed to inspire despair. So many units crammed alongside each other, on top of each other, stretching into the sky and consuming close to a full city block. Laundry fluttered like flocks of ragged gulls, tethered on lines from balcony to balcony. The place squirmed with life, a rats' nest itching to burst forth.
Living out of my office didn't look half bad in comparison.
Sanitoro and I sat alone in his sedan with the dark tinted windows rolled up. None of the passersby on foot or bicycle gave us a second glance. These people were accustomed to seeing yakuza vehicles on their streets gleaming like polished marble under the midday haze. Symbols of wealth and power standing out statuesquely from among the poor and powerless.
"Daichi Takahashi." The first name from Wanda's list. My gaze roved across the unkempt grounds in front of the tenement. Just enough dead grass to justify the groundskeeper's measly salary. "Know him?"
What could have been the makings of a chuckle growled low in Sanitoro's throat, but his stoic expression didn't show a flicker of altering. "I do not know everyone who resides in Little Tokyo, Madison."
"Right." I opened my door and stepped out. "What's Junior's given name?" I couldn't go around calling him Junior in front of his friends. Or his online moniker Chimera, either. That would raise hackles of suspicion much too soon for my liking.
"Yoshiro." Sanitoro stared stone-faced out the windshield. "Yoshiro Okada." He turned his head to face me. "I thought this was a stakeout."
"Sure is." But I doubted the Blackshirts would take Takahashi in broad daylight—or what passed for it in this town. The churning clouds above looked about ready for a repeat performance of yesterday's downpour. I had time to kill before the Feds arrived. They always preferred darkness to cover their misdeeds. "Won't be long."
I shut the door and strode up the cracked, weed-flanked path toward the front gate. Weeds—bound to outlast us all. Sure, acid-rain resistant grass had been engineered for the wealthy and their well-manicured establishments, but weeds were the real deal. Endowed by their Creator with the ability to thrive without any special attention whatsoever. Sprouting up wherever they damn well pleased. Living in spite of the odds. Had to admire that.
Didn't take long to notice I wasn't alone. "Miss me?"
Sanitoro grunted in reply. As we reached the gate, he tapped the intercom button for unit 47. When an elderly woman answered in Japanese, Sanitoro politely introduced himself and asked if Daichi Takahashi was at home. Hate to admit it, but he presented himself a whole lot better than I would have, stumbling over my limited repertoire of Japanese phraseology.
The woman responded with obvious obeisance in her tone—I could imagine her bowing on the other end of the intercom. Sanitoro's name often had that effect on some people, but it had always struck me as being not quite Japanese. Sounded more like a hybrid, common enough these days. I'd never asked him about his heritage, whether there were any Italians climbing around his family tree. He didn't strike me as a man interested in opening up about his past. Fine by me.
Only shadows casting shadows back there anyway.
The gate buzzed and clicked open like a prison entrance.
"He is not at home," Sanitoro said, holding the gate open by one of its iron bars. "But his grandmother says he will be soon."
"You must've made quite the impression."
No response. I gave him half a grin as I stepped inside.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'll try not to embarrass you."
Grandma Takahashi greeted us warmly, bowing more than once as she ushered us into her tidy, spare unit on the fourth floor. She offered sencha in jade teacups, which we graciously accepted. Earthy-tasting stuff, but it would have been rude not to drink it down to the last drop. The cups looked older than ancient, fully intact without a single chipped edge.
Sanitoro introduced me as a friend of the Okada family, and she stared up at me with an immediate glint of recognition; everybody in the neighborhood knew Okada's sake bar, whether they frequented it or not. But maybe she also knew the nephew's reputation as a subversive. When Sanitoro mentioned that I had earned the respect of the Emerald Tiger clan, she started bowing again. I forced a smile and held up a hand, hoping she would stop. Instead, she refilled my cup.
"Ask about her grandson," I said. "When did she see him last?"
Sanitoro relayed the message. Grandma Takahashi said Daichi had left for work early that morning. He had a good job with a local fisherman, loading and unloading the boats. He always brought her fresh herring for the midday meal they shared together before he returned to the docks, often working until sundown.
"Has Daichi ever mentioned Yoshiro Okada?" I asked.
She looked confused by Sanitoro's translation. Her worried eyes darted side to side as she stared up at him, trying to penetrate his black shades. She wanted to know if her grandson was in some sort of trouble. She cast a careful glance in my direction.
"We'd like to keep Daichi out of any trouble," I said. But if he was the next target in the Blackshirts' snatch and relocate program, there was little we could do about it—except follow him out into the Wastes. "Ask her if there's anything...special about her grandson." That was a little on the nose, and Sanitoro's blank stare confirmed as much. "Fine. Ask her what he's good at, if he has any special talents or abilities."
Sanitoro translated, and she brightened instantly, telling us everything there was to know about her very special, very talented grandson who would, one day, meet his potential when the right opportunities presented themselves. Her expression dimmed as Sanitoro repeated in Common what she'd said. She knew as well as anybody that such opportunities were few and far between for the youth of Little Tokyo.
If Daichi was some kind of suprahuman, he was hiding it well from his grandmother. Nothing she'd said hinted at any unnatural skill sets.
"Could we take a look at his computer?" I said.
Sanitoro conveyed my request. With a concerned frown ensconced in the wrinkled parchment of her brow, Grandma Takahashi nodded and bowed, telling us she'd be right back.
"I am surprised," Sanitoro said once she'd left the front room. "I thought you did not get along well with computers."
Machines in general—the smarter they were, the more dangerous they were. In my experience, anyway. "I'm starting a collection."
A key rattled the lock on the front door, and it swung open with a short creak. A twenty-odd-year-old Japanese man stared at us, his eyes wide, his posture frozen awkwardly in the doorframe. He looked like he was coming and going at the same instant. One hand held what could have been the catch of the day, a fish wrapped in newspaper covered in Japanese characters. His other hand held a ring of keys and rested on the doorknob.
"Daichi." I rose slowly with my hands out to the sides. Unthreatening. That's what I was going for, anyway.
He dropped the fish and ran. His grandmother gasped as the fish hit the floor with a cold slap. She called after him, holding his Slate to her chest in bewilderment. I dashed after the youth.
"Get his Slate," I shouted over my shoulder as my shoes pounded down the narrow corridor.
Sanitoro thanked Grandma Takahashi for her help and followed close on my heels, tucking the computer into his belt as he ran.
"You scared him off," he said.
"You think?" The door to the stairwell at the end of the hall slammed shut. I plowed into it, throwing it open, and headed downstairs, following the sound of Daichi's frantic footsteps racing double time.
"Perhaps I should be the one to initiate first contact while we are in Little Tokyo."
"Deal," I said.
But I reached the kid first, so I was the one who threw him up against the wall at the bottom of the second stairwell and pinned him there by the shoulder blades. Real friendly, of course.
"Let me go!" Daichi grunted, his face planted into the cold plaster.
"You speak Common? Great. Then you'll understand me when I say we just want to talk."
"I will not talk to you, gaijin!" he spat. I'd received a similar reaction from Junior when we first met. These kids appreciated Anglos about as much as cold sores.
"Talk to me then." Sanitoro came around to one side, so the kid could see him well. "You know who I am."
Daichi actually tried to bow against the wall. "Yes, yes."
"Tell me about this." He held up the kid's Slate as though we'd already accessed his files and confiscated the device as evidence of some sort, even though the screen was dark. "You know the one called Chimera."
Daichi tensed a split second before his entire frame seemed to wilt. "I am ashamed, Sanitoro-san. I know you do not approve of the uprising. But we...we cannot allow them to take our people from us!"
"You risk being taken yourself," Sanitoro said. "The Blackshirts monitor your Link activity. If they arrest you, then who will care for your grandmother? Who will bring her fish?"
A tear glistened in the corner of Daichi's eye. I loosened my hold on him, but I didn't let go.
"You are right, of course," he said before lapsing into Japanese. I was surprised he'd spoken Common as long as he had. Just for my benefit? More likely, he'd forgotten to shift gears in all the excitement.
As he and Sanitoro continued their conversation, I caught a word or phrase here and there, and even that much took my undivided attention. I seriously needed to sign up for a Japanese course one of these days. Not on the Link; in person, in a classroom with real interaction. Assuming such things still existed.
"Go home now." Sanitoro handed the kid his Slate as I released him. "Thank your grandmother for her hospitality. Enjoy your meal together."
I stopped myself from adding, It may be your last good one for a while.