counting out the minutes. She watched as the bartender locked the place up and turned east to walk home.
It was raining even harder now, the sounds of traffic and sirens from a few blocks away drowned by the staccato thunder of the storm. When she was sure the car was out of earshot and the street was again empty, Sally stood and bellowed in rage-her voice a guttural cry of agony that echoed off the surrounding buildings. Had someone been watching, it would have looked as if a gargoyle had come to life-a demon from the underworld come to take its revenge.
Sally tore off her hood and let the rain wash over her, stepping back from the edge of the roof. Every night she fantasized about soaring across the night sky and tearing his heart out, and every night she forced herself to remain perched on the roof. Then she looked into the chasm and thought about jumping, thinking that would be easier than enduring the agony of waiting.
She had been in Tokyo for almost three weeks. The day she arrived, a young man not much older than Sally met her at the harbor, giving her some yen, keys, and an address printed on a slip of paper. Then he turned and ran away, as if terribly late for another appointment.
It had never occurred to Sally that he might be afraid of her.
At the apartment there were three fake IDs and a closet full of clothes suitable for any occasion. On a small desk she found more photographs and a map, along with a list of known haunts and addresses that Kano frequented.
Kano. Even saying his name made Sally want to retch. She was fluent enough in Japanese to know that the name meant masculine power.
We’ll see, she thought, clenching and unclenching her fists.
Kano was a thug, plain and simple. Sally had followed him as he visited local businesses and bars, sometimes stopping at a tall glass building that Sally soon identified as a drop-off point for yakuza muscle. Although the busy office building was filled with smartly dressed men and women, Sally also noticed rough-looking men like Kano coming and going. Most did a poor job hiding full-body tattoos under ill- fitting suits.
Sally was certain when she saw Kano stop outside and light a cigarette. As he cupped his left hand to shelter the flame, Sally saw that he was missing his little finger. Over the next few days she noticed several men with maimed hands running four fingers through their hair, holding a briefcase, or opening the door.
The yakuza believed mistakes should have consequences, and most members made at least one mistake on their way up. The offending clan member was required to sever his own finger, wrap it in a white cloth, and present it to his master. Always portrayed as a stoic ritual in books and movies, Sally had heard that many cried and screamed in agony, sometimes being held while their yakuza brothers did the cutting.
Sally smiled grimly as she thought of the ceremony, taking solace in the thought that Kano had already suffered once during his miserable life.
But I bet he knew his parents.
Each day in Tokyo peeled a layer of doubt from her heart.
On the sixth day, she followed Kano to a park, a small patch of green bordered by cherry trees with a stream running through it. A small wooden bridge arched over the water, allowing visitors to admire the koi swimming back and forth in their outdoor aquarium. It was a glimpse of nature, squeezed into a square plot of land and landscaped for observation, placed carefully in the heart of the financial district.
There were maybe a dozen people scattered around the park, including a few sitting on benches and several young professionals striding purposefully across the park on their way to their next appointment. Kano walked directly to the footbridge to stand alongside another man his age, at which point both men deliberately faced the water and assumed postures of men idly watching fish. Sally knew that Tokyo was just like Hong Kong, where no one did anything idly.
Straightening the pleats of her Japanese schoolgirl skirt, Sally casually removed the camera from her purse and started taking pictures of the park.
The other man looked Chinese. He had longish hair and hunched shoulders that jerked up and down while he talked. The two men clearly knew each other by sight, but their postures were slightly confrontational. Sally couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she had been trained to study body language since she was ten.
He belongs to a Triad.
The thought struck Sally as if it had always been there and just came to light. Why else would Master Xan know or care about someone meeting with a yakuza? The man moved aggressively, his gestures abrupt and impatient, so like the mannerisms of men Sally had followed before. She knew, just looking at him, what he did for a living.
He’s a gangster.
Sally walked lazily through the park, a young girl more interested in her new camera than getting to school on time. By the time the men finished their meeting, she had several pictures of the fish and the trees, and almost half a roll of the bridge and the men standing on it.
That night Sally started frequenting the club that was Kano’s last stop. In a short black dress with her hair down, she looked almost as old as her forged ID said she was. The bouncer didn’t care-a few choice words convinced him Sally was an underage prostitute working the neighborhood, willing to give him a cut of any tricks she picked up in the bar.
The world beyond the soundproofed doors was an assault on her senses. Neon and strobe lights sliced through air heavy with sweat and smoke. Sally felt like she was underwater, and it took a few minutes to adjust her breathing. A square bar ringed with blue neon sat along the inside wall, a tiny island of calm in the vast club, but even there the bass from the speakers rattled glasses and pounded against Sally’s chest like a sledgehammer. That first night she sat in a dark corner of the bar and listened while men and women shouted for drinks until they were hoarse.
Sally knew how she looked in her dress. She could feel the eyes of the men boldly crawl across her body as she turned her back, then dart away in cowardice as soon as she turned to face them. It took all her will to keep her features soft and her smile warm.
Kano usually arrived maybe an hour before closing time and then hung around until the club was empty. Her first night in the club, Sally left before he arrived-flirting a little with the bartender before saying goodnight. When she had walked a block north, turned right, and then doubled back to the building across the street, she changed her dress for the black cotton pants, shirt, and hood she had squeezed into her purse.
The next night she stayed in the shadows, watching.
It was well after midnight when Kano strode across the club like he owned it, heading straight for the bar. The bartender looked nervous as Kano slid next to a well-dressed young man and his date, nonchalantly putting his hand on the woman’s ass. Before the man could react, Kano shoved him backward over the barstool. The woman yelled something, but the pounding music drowned her out. Nearby patrons barely glanced over, either not hearing the commotion and thinking some drunk just fell off his stool or not wanting to get involved.
Kano grabbed the woman’s wrist as she threw her drink in his face, realizing too late that the hand clutching her only had four fingers. Her eyes went wide with fear as Kano punched her full in the nose, then strode away, laughing, toward the men’s room.
The whole incident had lasted maybe ten seconds.
The couple had fled by the time Kano returned to smile at the bartender as if nothing had happened. Pulling up a stool, he threw back a shot, slamming the empty glass onto the bar and gesturing for another.
Submerged in the darkness at the back of the club, Sally watched, uncertain if the deafening roar came from the pounding bass or the blood rushing through her ears. Her eyes were red from smoke and staring, and her hands were cold as the grave.
But as the white noise of music and rage devoured her, Sally devised a plan.
