[Viewfinder fic] Traffic - Parts III-IV
Title: Traffic
Series:Viewfinder
Characters/Pairings: eventual Asami x Takaba, this part is mostly OCs
Rating: PG13 for drug references, language, and violence (eventual R)
Disclaimer: Feilong, Tao, Takaba, Kou, Asami's goons and Asami himself were created by and belong to Yamane Ayano. All the rest are OCs.
Spoilers: Set some months before the Naked Truth arc, immediately before the New Year's Eve one-shot.
Notes: The structure is loosely inspired by the Soderbergh film Traffic, hence the title. It's basically a straight-up attempt to fill in the seinen gangland thriller lurking in the background of the manga, where the foreground is the Asami-Takaba-Feilong triangle. This story is now complete in 7 parts; I'll be posting the rest at the rate of 1-2 chapters per day. Thanks to my betas, sub_divided and marej. ^_^
Previous Chapters: Parts I-II
***
Yip Hong-Yueh, age 19
Dock worker, Asia Container Terminals Ltd., Hong Kong S.A.R.
Ah Yueh arrived at the diner that was their agreed-upon meeting place to find Old Lam already ensconced in his usual booth, and a man he had never seen before occupying the seat opposite. He was rangy and narrow-featured, his hunched form all but buried in a bulky black leather jacket. At Ah Yueh's approach he lifted his head, pinning the younger man with an assessing stare. Ah Yueh stayed on his feet, warily.
"The others are outside," he said to Lam.
"His name is Shan," Lam said by way of introduction. "He's a cousin of Flower Mo, whom you know. He'll be working with us tonight."
Shan held his gaze for a moment longer, and at length smiled. He looked more Thai than Hokka, Ah Yueh thought, and disliked him immediately.
***
Ah Yueh knew as much about the job as any of Lam's jobs involving heavy lifting, which is to say next to nothing. Lam rarely mentioned names, and the Baishe were a wide umbrella - large enough that factions trod on each others' toes on a regular basis and had to appeal to yet a third group for arbitration. But Ah Yueh fancied his instinct to be true, and something about Shan made his knife hand itch. He didn't seem like the kind of man to be doing legwork for Lam. He was too quiet, and he moved like the shadow of a shadow.
Nevertheless the assignment went off smoothly, or at least at first. The pickup contact was a short, bespectacled fellow with the air of a beleaguered rabbit, not much older than Ah Yueh himself. Ah Yueh fancied he looked at Shan oddly, but he didn't say anything; just showed them the goods and took himself off. The behaviour did nothing to overcome Ah Yueh's reservations.
In the end he put his boys on lookout - Carlie at the perimeter and Little in the driver's seat - while he loaded the truck with Lam and Shan, and again when they were unloading and stacking the crates in the designated container. He wanted to keep an eye on the man.
He said as much to Lam when Shan got a call on his cellphone and went around the corner of the warehouse in order to take it.
"You're not getting paid tonight to ask questions," said Lam.
"I got my brothers to watch out for," said Ah Yueh. "How do you know we can trust him? Have you worked with him before? Who else is vouching for him besides Flower?"
"He's not a spy," said Lam. "Believe me on that one." But he gave Ah Yueh a strange look, as if he were about to say something but thought better of it.
Something there, Ah Yueh thought, but he'd worked with Old Lam for six months counting and there was no budging the man when he chose to clam up. "I'm going to go check on Carlie," he said instead.
"-Not going to get to the factory let alone us," he could hear Shan saying as he approached that side of the warehouse, quietly so as not to give away his presence. "I don't need backup, I need him to be called off, and for that we have to go above his head."
A pause. "Yes, I understand." Another pause, and Ah Yueh stopped short at the corner, listening hard.
"I'll call back in fifteen minutes," said Shan abruptly, turned the corner, and snapped his cellphone closed. "Need me for something?"
"Going to check on Carlie," Ah Yueh said, scowling.
"Tell him to come in closer to where we are," said Shan. "I'd like us to keep in sight of each other."
Ah Yueh brushed past him without answering.
***
Carlie wasn't where he expected him to be. "Hey," Ah Yueh hissed, glancing around. "Where-"
He stepped over something white. It was Carlie's running shoe.
He spun at the same time as something slammed into the back of his skull, hard, and the world went black.
***
"-Knew it was Mok behind it all. Fucking fat son of a bitch playing his little games."
Ah Yueh came to with his face against a cool surface that seemed to be spinning. His head throbbed like white strobes going off behind his eyes. It took some effort to lift his eyelids; when he did he had to fight the urge to roll over and vomit.
Instinct said moving was not such a good idea.
Yard lights pooled illumination like spotlights on a concrete stage. Ah Yueh was lying some feet away, in the shadows, his view half blocked by a crate dolly. He tried to count: eight men? Ten? They were unfamiliar, armed with steel pipes and bats. He couldn't see his brothers.
The light fell full on Old Lam's bloody and swollen face as he strained forward in the restraining grip of two men, still struggling despite the punch-drunk loll of his head. It fell on Shan as he stood with his back against a wall of containers, hands well in sight at his sides. It fell on Jonny Leung's handsome, vicious features as he stepped forward from the circle of his soldiers, smiling. One hand gripped the shoulder of the factory manager from earlier on, propelling him alongside. The man still looked like a rabbit: a scared, angry rabbit.
Shit, thought Ah Yueh. Shit.
"You think the Leung are going to bend over and take it and say thank you?" said Jonny. "You think that? This is our money, our deal, our drugs. We're taking back what's ours. Mok fucked with us and now he's going to regret it. Tell him I'm coming after him next." His mouth twisted. "That's if you can still talk after I'm through with you."
Shan didn't move; only his eyes flickered. "You're full of shit, Jonny," he said. "It fucking astonishes me."
Jonny hit him, a punch that slammed him backward into the container. The rabbity factory manager, released, stumbled back two steps and sat down suddenly on the ground, as if his legs had given out under him.
Shan pulled himself to his feet, slowly. He spat and drew a hand across his mouth, still bracing himself against the container with the other arm.
"You know who sentenced your uncle," he said. "It was Liu Fei Long himself."
"Mok was pulling the strings," said Jonny. "Mok is the one who profited. I know it. The proof is that his right-hand man is here."
Shan laughed. The sound was nearly a cough. "Watch what you say," he said, and there was something chilling in his voice. "Old fat Mok Ho-Kung, pulling the strings of the Liu? I didn't think you were such a fool."
A muscle in Jonny's jaw twitched.
"I'll tell you why I'm here," said Shan. "I'm here because the man I follow can't afford to see this deal go wrong. I'd like you to think about that for a second, Jonny. Tell me if you figure out why your uncle went down."
"The deal is ours."
"No. You had a deal. This deal is something else. Your deal is over because it interfered with something that's bigger than you, or your uncle, or Mok. This deal is the start of a fucking war. You know, don't you, how Liu Fei Long feels about Tokyo? Or you might not, but I'd be willing to believe Leung Kar-Sing does. Does your big brother know about tonight, Jonny?"
"Don't try to-"
"Tell me, Jonny. Where is Kar-Sing now?"
Silence. Several of the men glanced doubtfully at each other. Jonny saw; his lips peeled back against his teeth, and he lifted a hand to strike.
A cellphone rang, the trill painfully loud. Jonny froze.
No one moved. The phone rang again.
Slowly, Jonny dropped his hand. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved the phone, flipped it open and held it to his ear.
"It's me," he said. "Brother? Where are-"
He stopped short.
No one so much as breathed. The dock was hushed to the point that even Ah Yueh could hear the shouted invective emanating from the earpiece as bursts of static noise, words and sentences indistinguishable. Jonny grew noticeably paler with each passing second, shoulders stiffening against the verbal onslaught as if it were a high wind.
"I understand," he said finally, into a pause, and hung up. For a second or so he simply looked around, as if wondering who these people were and how he and they had arrived there. His soldiers shifted and looked uncomfortable.
One of them eventually said, "Boss-"
Jonny punched Shan again, in the stomach this time. As the other man doubled over he brought his hand down in a smart chop at the base of his neck. Shan crumpled to the concrete. Jonny kicked him several times in the ribs for good measure, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the exit.
"We're moving out," he snarled. "Leave those two. We're out of here."
The soldiers complied quickly, dropping Lam to the ground next to the factory manager, who had not budged in the interim. They disappeared into the darkness. Engines fired in the distance; that sound, too, died away.
Seconds passed. The factory manager got unsteadily to his feet.
"To hell with this," he said. "The start of a war? You're all crazy."
It broke the silence; scattered groans answered. Shan struggled to a seating position and turned his head in Ah Yueh's general direction.
"Hey," he said. "You still alive?"
In response Ah Yueh pulled himself upright, using the dolly as leverage. Behind him something shifted, then made a gagging noise. He turned his head and saw Carlie lifting himself on his elbows.
"Sunnuvabitch," he said. "Sunnuvabitch."
"Someone hit you over the head," Ah Yueh said. Carlie groaned.
Shiozawa Yukihiro, age 35
Secretary, Shunsan Construction Y.K., Yokohama
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. Yokohama is ours and anyone who wants to do business here 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."
Part V
Series:Viewfinder
Characters/Pairings: eventual Asami x Takaba, this part is mostly OCs
Rating: PG13 for drug references, language, and violence (eventual R)
Disclaimer: Feilong, Tao, Takaba, Kou, Asami's goons and Asami himself were created by and belong to Yamane Ayano. All the rest are OCs.
Spoilers: Set some months before the Naked Truth arc, immediately before the New Year's Eve one-shot.
Notes: The structure is loosely inspired by the Soderbergh film Traffic, hence the title. It's basically a straight-up attempt to fill in the seinen gangland thriller lurking in the background of the manga, where the foreground is the Asami-Takaba-Feilong triangle. This story is now complete in 7 parts; I'll be posting the rest at the rate of 1-2 chapters per day. Thanks to my betas, sub_divided and marej. ^_^
Previous Chapters: Parts I-II
***
Yip Hong-Yueh, age 19
Dock worker, Asia Container Terminals Ltd., Hong Kong S.A.R.
Ah Yueh arrived at the diner that was their agreed-upon meeting place to find Old Lam already ensconced in his usual booth, and a man he had never seen before occupying the seat opposite. He was rangy and narrow-featured, his hunched form all but buried in a bulky black leather jacket. At Ah Yueh's approach he lifted his head, pinning the younger man with an assessing stare. Ah Yueh stayed on his feet, warily.
"The others are outside," he said to Lam.
"His name is Shan," Lam said by way of introduction. "He's a cousin of Flower Mo, whom you know. He'll be working with us tonight."
Shan held his gaze for a moment longer, and at length smiled. He looked more Thai than Hokka, Ah Yueh thought, and disliked him immediately.
***
Ah Yueh knew as much about the job as any of Lam's jobs involving heavy lifting, which is to say next to nothing. Lam rarely mentioned names, and the Baishe were a wide umbrella - large enough that factions trod on each others' toes on a regular basis and had to appeal to yet a third group for arbitration. But Ah Yueh fancied his instinct to be true, and something about Shan made his knife hand itch. He didn't seem like the kind of man to be doing legwork for Lam. He was too quiet, and he moved like the shadow of a shadow.
Nevertheless the assignment went off smoothly, or at least at first. The pickup contact was a short, bespectacled fellow with the air of a beleaguered rabbit, not much older than Ah Yueh himself. Ah Yueh fancied he looked at Shan oddly, but he didn't say anything; just showed them the goods and took himself off. The behaviour did nothing to overcome Ah Yueh's reservations.
In the end he put his boys on lookout - Carlie at the perimeter and Little in the driver's seat - while he loaded the truck with Lam and Shan, and again when they were unloading and stacking the crates in the designated container. He wanted to keep an eye on the man.
He said as much to Lam when Shan got a call on his cellphone and went around the corner of the warehouse in order to take it.
"You're not getting paid tonight to ask questions," said Lam.
"I got my brothers to watch out for," said Ah Yueh. "How do you know we can trust him? Have you worked with him before? Who else is vouching for him besides Flower?"
"He's not a spy," said Lam. "Believe me on that one." But he gave Ah Yueh a strange look, as if he were about to say something but thought better of it.
Something there, Ah Yueh thought, but he'd worked with Old Lam for six months counting and there was no budging the man when he chose to clam up. "I'm going to go check on Carlie," he said instead.
"-Not going to get to the factory let alone us," he could hear Shan saying as he approached that side of the warehouse, quietly so as not to give away his presence. "I don't need backup, I need him to be called off, and for that we have to go above his head."
A pause. "Yes, I understand." Another pause, and Ah Yueh stopped short at the corner, listening hard.
"I'll call back in fifteen minutes," said Shan abruptly, turned the corner, and snapped his cellphone closed. "Need me for something?"
"Going to check on Carlie," Ah Yueh said, scowling.
"Tell him to come in closer to where we are," said Shan. "I'd like us to keep in sight of each other."
Ah Yueh brushed past him without answering.
***
Carlie wasn't where he expected him to be. "Hey," Ah Yueh hissed, glancing around. "Where-"
He stepped over something white. It was Carlie's running shoe.
He spun at the same time as something slammed into the back of his skull, hard, and the world went black.
***
"-Knew it was Mok behind it all. Fucking fat son of a bitch playing his little games."
Ah Yueh came to with his face against a cool surface that seemed to be spinning. His head throbbed like white strobes going off behind his eyes. It took some effort to lift his eyelids; when he did he had to fight the urge to roll over and vomit.
Instinct said moving was not such a good idea.
Yard lights pooled illumination like spotlights on a concrete stage. Ah Yueh was lying some feet away, in the shadows, his view half blocked by a crate dolly. He tried to count: eight men? Ten? They were unfamiliar, armed with steel pipes and bats. He couldn't see his brothers.
The light fell full on Old Lam's bloody and swollen face as he strained forward in the restraining grip of two men, still struggling despite the punch-drunk loll of his head. It fell on Shan as he stood with his back against a wall of containers, hands well in sight at his sides. It fell on Jonny Leung's handsome, vicious features as he stepped forward from the circle of his soldiers, smiling. One hand gripped the shoulder of the factory manager from earlier on, propelling him alongside. The man still looked like a rabbit: a scared, angry rabbit.
Shit, thought Ah Yueh. Shit.
"You think the Leung are going to bend over and take it and say thank you?" said Jonny. "You think that? This is our money, our deal, our drugs. We're taking back what's ours. Mok fucked with us and now he's going to regret it. Tell him I'm coming after him next." His mouth twisted. "That's if you can still talk after I'm through with you."
Shan didn't move; only his eyes flickered. "You're full of shit, Jonny," he said. "It fucking astonishes me."
Jonny hit him, a punch that slammed him backward into the container. The rabbity factory manager, released, stumbled back two steps and sat down suddenly on the ground, as if his legs had given out under him.
Shan pulled himself to his feet, slowly. He spat and drew a hand across his mouth, still bracing himself against the container with the other arm.
"You know who sentenced your uncle," he said. "It was Liu Fei Long himself."
"Mok was pulling the strings," said Jonny. "Mok is the one who profited. I know it. The proof is that his right-hand man is here."
Shan laughed. The sound was nearly a cough. "Watch what you say," he said, and there was something chilling in his voice. "Old fat Mok Ho-Kung, pulling the strings of the Liu? I didn't think you were such a fool."
A muscle in Jonny's jaw twitched.
"I'll tell you why I'm here," said Shan. "I'm here because the man I follow can't afford to see this deal go wrong. I'd like you to think about that for a second, Jonny. Tell me if you figure out why your uncle went down."
"The deal is ours."
"No. You had a deal. This deal is something else. Your deal is over because it interfered with something that's bigger than you, or your uncle, or Mok. This deal is the start of a fucking war. You know, don't you, how Liu Fei Long feels about Tokyo? Or you might not, but I'd be willing to believe Leung Kar-Sing does. Does your big brother know about tonight, Jonny?"
"Don't try to-"
"Tell me, Jonny. Where is Kar-Sing now?"
Silence. Several of the men glanced doubtfully at each other. Jonny saw; his lips peeled back against his teeth, and he lifted a hand to strike.
A cellphone rang, the trill painfully loud. Jonny froze.
No one moved. The phone rang again.
Slowly, Jonny dropped his hand. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved the phone, flipped it open and held it to his ear.
"It's me," he said. "Brother? Where are-"
He stopped short.
No one so much as breathed. The dock was hushed to the point that even Ah Yueh could hear the shouted invective emanating from the earpiece as bursts of static noise, words and sentences indistinguishable. Jonny grew noticeably paler with each passing second, shoulders stiffening against the verbal onslaught as if it were a high wind.
"I understand," he said finally, into a pause, and hung up. For a second or so he simply looked around, as if wondering who these people were and how he and they had arrived there. His soldiers shifted and looked uncomfortable.
One of them eventually said, "Boss-"
Jonny punched Shan again, in the stomach this time. As the other man doubled over he brought his hand down in a smart chop at the base of his neck. Shan crumpled to the concrete. Jonny kicked him several times in the ribs for good measure, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the exit.
"We're moving out," he snarled. "Leave those two. We're out of here."
The soldiers complied quickly, dropping Lam to the ground next to the factory manager, who had not budged in the interim. They disappeared into the darkness. Engines fired in the distance; that sound, too, died away.
Seconds passed. The factory manager got unsteadily to his feet.
"To hell with this," he said. "The start of a war? You're all crazy."
It broke the silence; scattered groans answered. Shan struggled to a seating position and turned his head in Ah Yueh's general direction.
"Hey," he said. "You still alive?"
In response Ah Yueh pulled himself upright, using the dolly as leverage. Behind him something shifted, then made a gagging noise. He turned his head and saw Carlie lifting himself on his elbows.
"Sunnuvabitch," he said. "Sunnuvabitch."
"Someone hit you over the head," Ah Yueh said. Carlie groaned.
Shiozawa Yukihiro, age 35
Secretary, Shunsan Construction Y.K., Yokohama
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. Yokohama is ours and anyone who wants to do business here 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."
Part V