“Yeah?”
“A couple years ago there was a scandal? One of his initiation rites got out of hand. They tested out some new technology on some would-be corp chieftains, and they went lalalala.” She harmonizes with Killing Me Softly. Not badly either, True thinks.
“Dead?”
“If only those sad fucks had been so lucky.”
“Where’d you hear this?”
“Grapevine, gossip teleshows—you know, like Celebrity Stalker, and there was another piece on Weekly Global Newsmaker. You know what shit those raggy shows are. We’ll access the stories when we get back to my apartment. The legit press would have nothing to do with them.”
“They afraid?”
“That—and the story was impossible to substantiate. Run a piece like that without at least double confirmation, you’re not just looking at a mega-lawsuit, you’re looking at corp torpedo hits on your network. Global Fortune boycotts. Even the big media outlets wilt when faced with lost ad rev. Producers undoubtedly asked themselves, Who needs that shit?”
True looks back over. “Who’s the last guy? He looks harmless.”
“Kodera. Came up the hard way. Ex-yakuza.”
“Is there such thing as ex-yakuza?”
“Usually no. In his case: possibly. He was part of the Yamakita gang—started out as a kid money runner, depositing pachinko parlor profits. Apparently he was a natural computer stud. Showed gang members how to steal without leaving their homes. One of the gang’s lieutenants recruited him and they made a play for control of the gang’s finances. When the boss found out, war broke out. But no one could believe a kid could have been the culprit. The lieutenant was never found—Kodera turned him in, then covered his tracks. He covered them so well, the boss rewarded him for his loyalty. Two years later, Kodera wrestled away full control. Been on top ever since. Publicly he leads the political fight against them, too. Most yakuza hate him but can’t touch him. They know if they attack his holdings, he’ll sabotage their computer systems and bankrupt them. He’s done it before.”
“Isn’t he worried about getting blown away here?”
“Not here. Never here. The whole place is rigged for surveillance. It’s an agreed-upon neutral territory. Come near the place armed, you get smoked. They have missile defense systems, anti-aircraft, a force field, lasers, the place is a fucking fortified bunker.”
“A fortified karaoke bar.”
“You’re safer here than practically anywhere else in the country.”
“Unless Rush’s killers are playing mahjongg.”
Reiner pushes a button and the 3-D geisha flickers before them. “Thought we might splurge on the deluxe service. The easy-to-read menu bores me.”
“Konbanwa.” The image bows.
True reaches for his wrist-top translator but the virtua-geisha, recognizing English, says, “Good evening, sir. Would you care for a drink? We are proud to present the most extensive bar in Japan.”
“Sake, please. Atsukan.”
“We Japanese have a variety of different types of Japanese traditional rice wines. Perhaps I can recommend a dry, light rice wine. Many of our foreign guests find it most satisfying.”
“You see? That’s not an option with the literacy-impaired menu.” Reiner elbows True with a smile.
“I’ll take your recommendation.”
“Ditto,” Reiner says.
The plug is pulled; the virtua-geisha turns to static.
True pushes his hand into the TV snow. “Why are the holograms cutting out?”
“The yakuza might have access to power when others don’t, but that doesn’t mean everything works. You saw how it is outside.”
“Aren’t you worried about being bugged? If this place is so sophisticated, how can we talk? I mean, I’m so careful I type instead of verbalizing commands to my home computer. You know there’s technology that can pick up conversations from thousands of miles away.”
“There are two results of everyone being equally vulnerable. Prison, or labor camps, for example, where everybody’s belongings are accessible to everybody else. What happens there is that usually the meanest, toughest, ball-breakingest motherfucker wins. On a ship, however, where there’s a modicum of discipline, theft is almost unheard of—and for that same reason. Everyone is equally vulnerable.”
“You’re saying since everyone is equally vulnerable, no one would dream of bugging anyone else?”
“Yup.”
True stays pat at skeptical, reminds himself to watch what he says. He’s about to pick up his sake vial when Reiner stops him. He thinks he feels her thumb trace a light circle on the crook of his thumb. Continents away from the screaming fight on the expressway.
“Now that you’re here and going to stay a while, I hope, it’s time you learned a little about Japanese etiquette.” Pulls her hand away. “Pour your friend’s drink first, then your own. It forces you to be aware of the needs of whomever you’re with.”
“Now you’re concerned with my needs. Before you almost pounded me into roadkill.”
The moment the song ends so do a thousand conversations at once. People look around, don’t want to be the ones to break the spell. Then a virtua-geisha takes an order and the din rolls on. Like there was a glitch, a tear in the psychosocial behavioral matrix.
True swears Reiner’s appearance is changing; she’s softer, warmer. His own feelings toward her are metamorphosing as well. He may have been wrong.
“I fucked up, True. I was expecting an awesome journo. I know what you’ve accomplished in your life. But when I could trace you so easily, I said, ‘Who the fuck is this guy? He’s shit.’ I’m beginning to see I was wrong.”
Something not right, though. True’s guard’s still up.
She continues. “I know I can be a real solid platinum circuit-buster sometimes. I’m sorry. OK? Happy? So let me help. Tell me what you know of Rush’s death.”
“What do you get?”
“To be on the inside of a fucking juicy story.”
True picks up his sake. “Ouch!” He drops the vial on the table, dribbles a few drops.
“Traditional sake cups. And tradition can be a real killer.”
True sticks his thumb in his mouth. Cools the sting. “Not much to tell. I went to Rush’s apartment, cut my hand, then left. Then the place blew.”
“So you were the target.”
True doesn’t think it necessary to tell Reiner about the blood hologram, a vision he’d just as soon forget. “The missile must have keyed in on the DNA in my blood. Rush got in the way.”
“Why’d you cut your hand?”
“You make it sound like it wasn’t an accident.”
“Rush dying instead of you is an accident. Unless you purposely left your DNA lying around.”
“Why would I do that? Because he was sending me back to New York and I was pissed off? I didn’t even know before I got there.”
“What a coincidence.”
“You said you don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Why were you axed?”
“For doing my job.”
“Knowing Rush, if you really were doing your job, he would be anxious to get rid of you. He was not one to thrive on trouble.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike us. What were you on to?”
True shrugs. Uneasiness.
She clones his shrug. “Who’s Aslam Aziz?”
The sake coats True’s throat in dazzling lights. Aslam’s murder made it on the local newscast, so he’s not surprised. “What do you know about Aslam?”
“That he was killed and that you were with him when it happened. I know it was a genetic-coded missile that did him in. Coincidently—there’s that word again—the same kind of weapon that nuked our boy Rush.”
“You talked to Rush.”
“A couple hours before he died.”
“You saw Bong Bong’s interview?”
“Rush ran it for me.”
“And…?”
“…and said you couldn’t be trusted.”
“He told me you’d rather I came over here to work with you.”
“He felt threatened by you. And here you are.”
True glimpses Reiner holding her hands in a teepee. Out of the corner of his eye: the bass player, charred wood skin and haloing afro, answering her.
Back to Reiner, who’s sipping sake. “I’m going to order a beer chaser—you want one?”
“Sure.”
She pulls up the virtua-geisha and orders. “All I want is the chance to help, True. I want to get in on the scoop. We split the glory. You need me.”
“I don’t need you.”
“You do need me. And you know what? I should be the one who’s bug-eyed and shit. Your last partner ended up Jackson Pollocking a condo wall. Your friend, Mr. Aziz, fell apart after meeting with you. So, like, what’s your fucking problem?”
True weighs what he knows, accesses his intuition, but gets no read. “Let me think about it. If I think we can biz, I’ll fill you in. On an NTK basis.”
“On a need-to-know basis. Agreed.”
The band breaks. The bass player is making his way toward True’s table, with Sato at the mahjongg table tracking his strides. When Sato notices True, he turns away. The bassist becomes more familiar, and a few meters away, True places him.
Reiner doesn’t stand. Instead she yawns and stretches in her chair. “I have someone for you to meet. He’ll be working closely with us. His name’s Odessa. My hacker.”
Odessa pulls a lanky, insolent leg over a chair and squats. “What the fuck? I know you.” Odessa grasps True’s thumb with his hand, saws back and forth. “Finally get to hang in real-time. Last time I saw you, you were doing time in some cracker’s bullshit.”
“You’ve met?” Reiner’s turn to be surprised.
“Not officially.” True wonders why he didn’t recognize Odessa immediately. “Awesome spell you pulled.”
Reiner brushes hair from her eyes. “Another coincidence? You encounter a lot of them, True.”
“It’s a talent.”
“Yo, sorry about that. It was fucking immature. Though that shit was funny, watching you varoom around inside that corrupt pol’s speeches. But I found out it’s better to keep a low profile in this biz.”
The beer arrives, in a frosty mug gilded with liquid crystal ads. Taste The Rising Sun, it says. Odessa slides it away from Reiner, toward himself. Sculls a half-mug’s worth, which leaves a hops and barley moustache. Reiner shrugs. Orders another.
“What’s he here for?” Odessa asks Reiner.
“Same as you.”
“Saint Fu, man!”
Slang new to True. “What?”
“Means shut the fuck up. Who you running from?”
True’s eyebrows move almost imperceptibly.
“She-e-et. The world’s best hacker and a fucking idiot savant cyberoid both end up in this glitter hell. If the shit wasn’t so tragic, it’d be fucking funny.” Odessa lowers his voice. “I hacked the wrong motherfuckers. Leave it at that. You?”
“Similar.” Odessa could be a major asset. True hopes when it comes time to go data shoplifting—and that time, he knows, fast approaches—Odessa will be the one to go. A game of one-upsmanship True’s happy to lose.
“Safe here for a while, until computer systems are back on line. Then trouble may come in many forms.”
“How much time?”
“SWAG?” Hackerspeak for shitty wild-assed guess.
“Sure.”
“A month, maybe two.” Odessa drains the rest of the beer. “Then somebody’s going to try and get like the fucking Marquis de Sade on my ass.”
Reiner says, “Marquis de Sahd, not Shar-day.”
“What the fuck? I’ve only read the moniker myself.”
True sips ice water. “Why are you playing at a karaoke bar?”
Odessa’s shoulders graze his ears.
Reiner answers. “It’s a great cover.”
“Playing cover tunes is a great cover. ’Sides, I have a thing for retro-seventies. My daddy produced blaxploitation films back then. Collected residuals the rest of his Motown life, just like the white man.” Odessa peers at the stage, then shoots mobile in a huff. “No time for a break. One of them corp gangsta motherfuckers wants to sing. So I got to play. Before the quake they had themselves a virtual band. Now they got themselves the real deal. Later.” He clips True on the side of the head on his way to the stage.
Reiner looks almost sad. “He’s running out of time. I don’t think even he believes he’s going to be able to hide here, get himself an ID that can’t be traced. There are a lot of people looking for him—govs, corps, mafiosos. He fucked a lot of the wrong people.”
“There a bounty?”
“Big big big fucking bounty. Metahackers, CyberCops the globe over are tracking him, all for that one lotto pay day. I pay him shit next to what he used to get, but he can trust me.”
On the stage. Odessa plucks at his bass strings, the notes resonating less than they plod. Yet Odessa in most respects is as True pictured him: Someone who, though jalapeño-headed, is someone with whom he can biz. But he and Reiner will have to hurry. Neither Odessa nor True has much time before Tokyo is back online. Then he and Odessa will be like a virus under attack from corp hacker antigens.
Sato, meters away, closing fast. The kind of man who can frighten daylight. Reiner looks concerned. The first time he’s seen her thrown off guard. Sato places a hand on her shoulder and True notes the scarred knuckles. His suit fits snugly, tailored to bend to his will. He whispers into Reiner’s ear. At first, she denies what Sato says, then nods, holding out her hands as if trying to slow him down. Finally says, “OK. Fine. You win.”
“And who is this?” Sato’s sleet-y voice. A pursed smile.
“How do you know he doesn’t speak Japanese?”
Sato to True. “Nihongo ga dekiru?”
True swallows. Guesses. “I don’t speak well. I’m learning, though.”
“Good.” Sato holds out his hand and True shakes it. Can’t get over how damp and hard Sato’s hand is. “Japanese is not so difficult, I think, to learn to speak well enough to express oneself. But it is difficult to read.”
“I’m aware of that,” True says.
“What with all those kanji,” Reiner adds.
Sato’s measuring them. “Reading requires some two thousand characters. It is much simpler to read English. It’s also simpler to read Americans. Can you say the same about Japanese?”
True volleys back. “The inscrutable Japanese?”
“Precisely. We do not wear out hearts on our wrists like you.” Sato taps a finger on True’s wrist-top. Uneasy silence. Then, “I didn’t get your name.”
True can’t afford to lie, can’t afford to tell the truth. “The name, Mr. Sato, is True.”
Flashing gold molars. “How do you know my name?”
“Reiner pointed you out. I was curious as to the game you were playing.”
“Mahjongg. And what game is it that you are playing?”
“Cut the intrigue. He’s my assistant.” Reiner blurts this too quickly, True thinks. “He’s here to help me work on some stories. You know how messed up things are these days.”
Sato cracks his knuckles. “Well, we all can use help in these trying times. I must see to my guests.” To Reiner: “Please reflect on what I said.”
“Reflecting now, Sato.”
“That is all I ask.” Sato, mahjongg-bound.
True’s amazed at his own calm. “What’d he say to you?”
Reiner napkins away sweat. “He’s PO’d about my quake coverage. Says I paint a negative picture, exaggerating the extent of the damage.”
“Why does he care?”
“Think about it. He says if I tell people Japan is ruined, no investm
ent will flow in. He told me I have a responsibility to put a positive spin on things because it’ll make people’s lives better. Now you know the major difference between a free press and a Japanese press.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I’ve been doing. The real question is, What are you going to do?”
Sato is patting Kodera. True averts his eyes when Sato looks over; studies his cup, runs his fingers over the black kanji painted on the side, wondering what they symbolize. “I don’t know. You think he’s going to check up on me?”
Reiner can’t stop laughing.
CHAPTER 14
Reiner’s apartment is framed by a dead sign over the door that when pumped with ions and electrons glows WWTV Tokyo Bureau. Reiner lights gas lanterns that color the walls newsprint-gray. Marijuana plants near the window stand two meters tall, the tops coated with cinnamon dust, the buds bursting. Female plants, because male plants don’t flower. To cultivate, Reiner must have pursued the strategy Death To All Males. Reiner’s creed in a nut graph. True pretends not to notice the indoor forest of contraband under 300-watt sulfur light, nor the skunky odor.
Reiner at her computer console. “I don’t sell it, you know. I smoke it, sometimes entice sources with it.”
“It’s been decriminalized, so I don’t know why you’re bothering to explain.”
“Not here. The Js treat all contraband the same.”
True collapses on the couch, cornflower blue linen, delicate. No wonder Reiner left Dog outside.
Reiner’s home office is a study in contradictions. Although it’s well-ordered, it’s an order that masks the disorder percolating underneath: Everything is categorized, compartmentalized, stored and filed, put, placed, and parked in its proper niche; but True’s positive—just positive—that if he opens a kitchen drawer or closet door he’ll get bopped on his head, as if Reiner’s more concerned with appearance than substance. A lack of detail where it counts most. A dangerous trait for an investigative reporter.
Reiner’s typing, confusion prickling her forehead. “This is some weird shit.”
“What?”
“I can’t access Celebrity Stalker or Weekly Global Newsmaker.”